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.

The Elder Brother and Family Trauma

I've read many commentaries discussing the parable commonly called The Prodigal Son. I have heard many sermons, and I have discussed it with family, colleagues, and friends. There are still times, however, I think about it in a new way. This week is one of those....

I keep thinking about the elder son--not about his anger, well kind of about his anger. But I'm thinking about what he's angry about, what is it fueling his anger. I'm wondering if maybe there is more to his anger, maybe his anger is really fear or maybe it's defensive or maybe it's both.

Hear me out...(well, read me out!)

When the younger son left, I suspect the father was heartbroken. We know he saw his son from a long way off. I'm imagining the father (just to be totally honest, I put myself in the story and become the father, so I picture a mother...anyway) finishing each day, and perhaps starting each day, staring down the road dreaming of his son returning. I'm imagining the years his son was gone with no communication. He had no idea if his son was even still alive. And I keep picturing the elder son standing at a distance and watching his father's shoulders droop lower and lower. I picture the elder son watching his father age before his very eyes. 

I wonder if the elder son saw the sadness behind his father's eyes even when he tried to mask it. I wonder if instead of the house being filled with his father's booming laugh it became more and more silent as the father's grief slid out of the corners and crept across the floors. I wonder if there were nights the elder son fell asleep listening to his father's muffled sobs.

I wonder if the elder brother was exhausted--so exhausted from trying to be perfect so he didn't add to his father's grief? I wonder if he was tired of hiding his own feelings of brokenness? I wonder if he was tired of pretending his life was perfect so his father didn't worry about him? And I wonder if, in addition to resenting the amount of work he was now doing, he was also heartbroken because he was taking on more responsibility as a result of his father's crushing depression which led to a loss of interest in work, socializing, and even family. Heartbroken because he missed the father he knew, and maybe even his brother...

So I wonder, when the elder brother came out of the field and saw the happiness on his father's face, was he terrified? Was he thinking of all the days, weeks, months, and years when he saw the despair shrouding his father's entire body? Was he guarding his own heart and trying, and failing, to protect his father's? Was he already wondering if his brother would disappear again and he would have to watch his father shrivel for a second and maybe then a third and maybe a fourth time?

Brokeness in families is pervasive and complex. Maybe in addition to recognizing God's unconditional love and mercy and grace, we are also called to remember that we are all connected. Maybe we are to remember our connections are complicated, and as hard as it can be, we are to offer that same love and mercy and grace to each other--despite the risk and possible pain. 

Jesus did walk to the cross.....

If You Have to Ask the Question, "Was it me?" the Answer is Probably "yes"

Just about every time I write about our family’s journey with addiction I get a few calls, texts, or emails. I’m pretty sure I have never used anyone’s name specifically so usually,

the question is some version of this. "I hope I'm not the one/ones who hurt you, left you, judged you." or "Am I one of the ones who gave you unconditional support?" Okay, that's a lie--I've never gotten the second question, but I often get the first.

Today I have the courage given to me by one of the bravest people I know to answer that question in two parts. First, I've got to tilt my head the way she does, lower my voice, and virtually pat your hand as I say, "How do you expect me to answer that?" And secondly, "the most honest answer is, if you're asking the question you probably are." 

This is not the time for a mic drop....

This week I learned something else from another brave friend, or rather I would like to say her courage and then grace hit me upside the head like I am a beaten redheaded stepchild. This is quite frankly not true, because in the long-used phrase "beaten like a redheaded stepchild" the redheaded stepchild is a child treated worse than others, and actually this person treated me not worse than others but rather with grace--but I digress. The point is, her grace and bravery sloshed together with the wisdom of my other friend from above is letting me say this.

Yes, if you're asking you probably were/are one of those people, BUT, it's okay. Truly it is.

Is your head spinning around like the song, you spin me right round baby right round like a record baby right round right round? I am dead serious though, if you are one of those people, it's genuinely okay, and here's why.

Our family was going through something and literally building the ship while we were sailing it. It was chaotic and scary for us. I'm sure watching it wasn't pleasant either. What I realize now is there could be lots of reasons you "disappeared" or "semi-disappeared."

• The dark world of addiction is intense, maybe you just didn't have the bandwidth to go there with me because you were protecting yourself and your family and not using up your bandwidth on ours. I respect that.
• Maybe it hit too close to home for you. I understand.
• Maybe you didn't know what to say or do and then the longer you remained silent, the harder it was. I totally get that.
• Maybe you thought bringing it up would make it harder for me. The truth is some days it probably would have.
• Maybe I shut you out first. A very real possibility.
• Maybe I acted like I didn't need or want help. See above
• Maybe you thought our home, our "lifestyle", or what was currently happening was unsafe emotionally, physically, or mentally, to the point you had to back away. I always support people protecting themselves and those they love.
• Maybe our friendship was built on something else--being at our children's games, volunteer activities, or anything else, and when that no longer became my focus, through no fault of either of us we drifted apart. That doesn't mean our friendship wasn't real or genuine. It's just the commonalities that held us together no longer exist, but there were some fun days. Thank you for the memories.
• Maybe our friendship had just reached the end of its time. That happens. Thank you for the friendship we had. I am grateful you shared yourself with me.

And here are some other possibilities

• Maybe you did want to distance yourself for fear you or your child would be implicated.
• Maybe you did judge the decisions we made.

Those are okay too. Here's the gosh honest to God unvarnished truth--I've done the same thing in other circumstances.

Here's something else that's okay. Our family's journey for better or worse moved us down a path we never expected nor ever wanted to walk. That walked changed our lives, changed our priorities, changed our relationships. If we're no longer "friends" or no longer friends in the way we once were, and you are trying to fix it. Stop, and give yourself a break. We can't go back. Know there are very few, actually, there are zero friendships, I have had in my life that I fully regret. In every one, I have learned and grown and loved and been loved. I take a part of each of them with me. If our friendship is continuing, you already know I'm different than I was 5 years ago. Call it trauma, call it therapy, call it growth.

So, yeah, if you are asking the question "was I one of them" the answer is probably yes. But, you don't need to apologize or defend yourself or fix it. We all do the best we can. Grace and peace to us all.

PS--in the interest of complete transparency, if you are someone who gossiped about us and spread false information--well I'm still working on that grace and forgiveness, but I know God already has it covered, so grace and peace to you too.

NEDA, Lent, and Forgiveness

As the Gospel procession began to return to the sanctuary I wondered why the priest was now holding the Gospel book and not the acolyte. I quickly figured it out--the acolyte (whom I have now learned is a seminarian) stepped into the pulpit.

"Shoot," I whispered to SK (she may not agree with my choice of the word "whispered"), "I really wanted to hear Mary preach." "Mooother!" she whispered back, "You can't say that." For the record, I have already admitted it to both Mary, the priest, and Roger, the seminarian.

For close to a week, no matter how many ways I try to distract them, thoughts have been battering the serenity of my mind. The thoughts started with a book and were quickly joined with knowledge of the approaching (now upon us) National Eating Disorder Awareness Week and the season of Lent right around the calendar corner. In the past, I have been fairly open about my eating disorder, and two years ago, I wrote about the difficult intersection of practices for Lent and body image; (2017 Lent Post) I had hoped, and I had believed, two years on I'd be better off. I mean isn't the fact I now go out in public without having to be put together (have you seen some of my outfits), doesn't that count?

Several weeks ago I started reading a book The Girls at 17 Swann Street by Yara Zgheib. The book is about a group of women struggling with various types of eating disorders living in a group home. I've read 41%; I had to stop. It's not that it's not well written--it's too well written--it's like the author is in my mind--except it's not the recovered author I want to be.

As I read I began berating myself because I no longer had the control over my eating (or not eating) that the girls at 17 Swann Street did. I started wondering what I could start doing to get back to that place. I started looking in the mirror to see how sharp my collar bones were and whether I could see my sternum. I stopped reading. I guess I'm recovered enough to know I was treading in dangerous waters.

But the thoughts haven't stopped....

And others have joined the party....

I'm angry. I'm angry I can't just read a book without being triggered. I'm angry I know these thoughts aren't okay so I hide them (well until today). I'm angry I still can't look at my body without feeling disgusted. I'm angry I take the smallest of things and turn it into something about my body--negative thoughts about my body. I mean the fact I'm not always freezing recently can't have anything to do with I'm now on iron for anemia and oh yeah I'm past 50--it has to be it's because I'm getting fat. And the new rage...I'm angry it has impacted how I talk to my own girls--or rather don't talk to them.

During these weeks I have thought a lot about how I wish I was as comfortable with my body as they are with theirs. But here's the thing, I don't actually know how comfortable they are or aren't because I won't talk about it! I'm so terrified of saying the wrong thing that I say nothing. I'm not off the hook--I know there are times they do feel judged, they've told me (perhaps shrieked at me), but I have lived their lives terrified of passing on this horrible addiction. I have lived their lives remembering all the negative things that were said to me and about me, and in my fear of doing that to my girls, I have done nothing. I have not given them a safe place to be open and honest with me about their bodies--the good and bad, the positive and negative. Oh the tension is there--I just pretend it's not. So this week I have found another reason to be angry and bitter; this week I realize not only has this horrid disease/addiction/weakness robbed me of goodness in my own life, it has also robbed me of open honest relationship with my girls and others.

I reached out to a friend (in an email--not brave enough to voice it).  I told her what was going on with the book, and I asked her to watch me, and I promised I'd talk to my therapist--still planning to keep that promise. There is too much shame for me to tell my family-shame disguised as I didn't want to worry them. Shame--addiction's favorite isolating feeling.

All of these thoughts had been bebopping in my head all weekend--no not bebopping, slam dancing, and it wasn't pretty or comfortable or fun. (Another reality of addiction--obsessive thoughts.)

Then Roger stood in the pulpit and began to preach.

He preached on Genesis and the story of Joseph and his brothers and on forgiveness and how hard it is. I can't remember it all (truth I don't want to remember it all) because the thought that hit me is enough. "I don't want to forgive her."

And there it is--the ugly truth. I'd rather stay angry and bitter, and here it is, I'd rather be "the not responsible for my own behaviors and recovery victim."

Lent approaches; people will start talking about what they're giving up--sweets, alcohol, snacks; I won't be giving those up--or at least not totally. That would be easy, plus it would be about restriction, control and losing weight.--triggers for my eating disorder I work very hard to keep at bay.

This Lent instead of standing in front of the mirror saying something positive about my body, each and every day, as often as I can (and I will set an alarm so it happens at least 3 times a day), I will ask God to soften my heart so that I want to forgive.

My first step towards healing...it's going to be a long hard Lent.

And the Professor Keeps Teaching...

Two nights ago I saw on facebook that one of my dearest friend's father was nearing the end of his life. I deeply love my friend, and I deeply love her father. He is one of the most brilliant men I have ever known--an internationally known philosopher.

One of my favorite things about this man is his intellect (which is FAR superior to mine) but more importantly his skill at sharing that intellect with others in ways they can understand--not dumbing down but rather lifting up.

My body physically reacted to a surge of guilt--guilt I didn't know it was getting this close; guilt I haven't seen him very much recently; guilt I haven't talked to my friend. But I didn't stay there--I recognized I could wallow in that, and I was and am certain I will spend some time in that particular pen in the future, instead, all I knew was I  had to see him the next day. I had some things I needed to tell him.

And one of them was to apologize for not being there more. As I went through my day before I visited with him, I thought about why I hadn't visited more. I pass the retirement home where he lives EVERY DAY! The truth is, I didn't make the time for a variety of reasons--some even good--and then the more time that went between visits the harder it was to visit because of that damn guilt. I reflected on how that happens so often in my life and I'm certain in others lives.

I mentally hog tied that guilt up and went to have the conversation I needed to have...

I arrived to find a hallway full of visitors and a sign on the door that said, "please limit visits to 10-15 minutes." I was prepared to come back, but the other visitors said they needed to be going and so I entered the room. My friend left to walk a guest out; I pulled up a chair and took his hand giving thanks for this time and the others leaving.

Recognizing I only had a few minutes alone with him and also being a card carrying member of the rule followers I jumped right in;  I took his hand and said, "I need to tell you some things. First I need to apologize that I haven't visited more over the last year." He interrupted me, "No apology is necessary," then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "it's not necessary for me, but I see it's necessary for you. I accept your apology."

Tears streamed down my face as I received undeserved grace. I continued, "I want to thank you for the many conversations we have had over the years over a pint, a glass of wine or a cup of coffee. I will never again be able to talk about agape love without hearing your voice in my ear and in my heart." (He's written a great deal on agape love.) "I also want to thank you for holding space for me. For holding anger for me when I couldn't hold it or even acknowledge it myself because it would have broken me. I want to thank you for opening your home and your heart to me and providing me  a safe place to retreat." He looked at me and said, "I did that? Well I guess I did, but never underestimate your own strength. I always saw it."

He squeezed my hand and asked, "Are you happy?" A wave of peace washed over me as I realized I could honestly, and perhaps for the first time in a long time answer, "Yes,I am in a content nondramatic way." His eyes twinkled and he said, "Like the happiness Aristotle writes about." We went on to talk about Aristotle and happiness. "You know," he said, "No one really knows if he's lived a life of happiness until the end of his life." And so I asked him, "Was your life happy?" "Yes," he said, "I might not have been able to say that 10 or 15 years ago, but I now know it indeed was."

His eyes began to close and I knew he needed some rest. I told him I was going to go; I leaned down and kissed his head; he reached for my hand again and said, "Katherine, this right here. This is agape love."

The professor keeps on teaching....

I Am Mary Full of Shame

I've been accused of being too out there--too transparent, too unfiltered.  I suppose (I know) it's true, and I know it makes some people very uncomfortable.  I'll be honest, sometimes it makes me uncomfortable, and yet when I try to silence my voice, when I try to fit in, my stomach hurts, my mind races and I can't sleep.  So here I go again....

I preached this week; I wasn't supposed to, but late last week I was asked to fill in for a colleague.  (darn her) I opened the bible to read the gospel--"why did I agree to preach?",I thought.  (Mark 3:20-35) The gospel story was about Mary (and Jesus' siblings) trying to get to Jesus, her son, because she was afraid for him, afraid of what was happening to him, afraid of losing him--it hit too close to home.

Each week preachers come to the text and we try to be objective; we try to hear what God is saying to us through the text and what God wants us to proclaim.  We've been trained by seminaries to leave our own "stuff" out of it.  I so wish it were that easy.  Actually I've been reading David Lose's book Preaching at the Crossroads, and he says, "To put it another way, we preachers do not come to Scripture without a set of questions influenced by our own context and experience.  And we should not, as our questions are what bring us to the text in the first place." (Lose, David (2013) Preaching at the Crossroads. Minneapolis, MN, Fortress Press. p. 41) Perhaps we need to honor that--to own that--to be transparent about that.

As I read the gospel, my heart raced, my palms were sweaty.  I could feel Mary's panic, and I could feel her shame.  In the first century, family was everything--family was the social organizing unity, the family was how you were identified, how you were known--to leave family was to bring shame on the family--to be "out there," to be different was to bring shame on the family.  Life isn't really much different today.  (read at all)

I understood all too well trying to protect a child who others may not understand.  I understood all too well how it felt to not understand my own child.  I understood what it felt like to be kept from my child either physically or emotionally and the panic that takes over as you realize you are completely out of control--I understood what it felt like to be the mother of a child and to be powerless. And, I understood the shame that washes over a mother's body because a child's behavior doesn't fit the norm and the guilt that comes because of the feelings of shame.

I needed to preach the Good News; I needed to leave my "stuff" behind, and yet I couldn't.  I believe we all come to the gospel, to church, to community with our own shame, our own hidden hurts, our own secrets.  I believe there are so many people who show up each week in our church buildings putting on a good face, dressing up our outer selves while we dress down our inner selves, and I wonder why?

But I know why--it's because we're afraid; it's because we live in our own honor/shame culture; it's because we know people even and possibly mostly church leaders are judgmental.  It's because culture has taught us to admit weakness, vulnerability, brokenness is the worst thing we can do.  To admit our world is not perfect, that we are not in complete control is to admit that we are not enough. But we are enough--we are more than enough even with and possibly even more because of all the stuff we bring.

I love Karoline Lewis a professor at Luther Seminary.  I think she's amazing and most of the time I agree with everything she says; but, (you heard a but coming didn't you?) this week I vehemently disagree.  She writes, "I think this is one of the most difficult challenges of parish life for a pastor, for a preacher. You have a lot of family discord to negotiate -- your own, of course, which you can’t let anyone see or know about and which itself creates a loneliness unmatched by other professions." (Quoted here)  That is a lonely place to be, but I don't believe we have to be there--we have to navigate discretion, but not deny. It's a balancing act--a continual challenge.

This week alone I have been privileged to hear about colleagues challenges in their own personal lives--both lay and ordained--and I have heard them say (as I have) that we can't let people know, that we have to keep it secret because we know there are some (we can even name them) who will judge us, who will use our pain, our struggles against us.  I wonder, what would happen if we didn't?  What would happen if we admitted we were struggling--not necessarily spewing all our details, but what if we admitted there were things going on in our own lives that brought us challenges, that brought us to our knees, that brought us to a community where we wanted nothing more than unconditional love and acceptance?

I think what the gospel taught me this week is that I do carry shame and fear, and I am not alone. Mothers have lived with these feelings for centuries; people have lived with these truths for centuries. With all its brokenness, its humanness, I also believe the church in community (and sometimes within the actual walls) can be the place where we find unconditional love, grace, mercy, and acceptance.  I believe we can learn to leave our shame and fear at the door and enter into a community that opens wide its arms and loves us just as we are.  But I believe we all--clergy and laity--have to take that first step and shed our masks--I wonder if we can?

Disclaimer--This isn't the post I wanted to write-the one I'd constructed in my head.  That was all about Mary, but this is what came out.  

Whose Fault Is It?

When SK was two years old, she was SO GOOD!  She did whatever we asked; if we told her to sit in a chair and we forgot to tell her she could get up, well, 4 hours later she'd still be sitting there.  I almost broke my arm patting myself on the back telling myself what a good parent I was.  "Terrible twos," I thought, "Well that's what parents who aren't so involved, so consistent (yes I was delusional about my consistency), who don't put the effort in--that's what happens to them."  And then she turned three...

I think terrible two's is a misnomer or at the very least an expression parents who have gone through the 3's choose to continue to use so that others also get the shock we had and/or don't run for the hills in the weeks before their children's 3rd birthdays.  Anyway...

She turned 3 and suddenly my control was well if not non-existent much less.  I've been struggling with that ever since.  Or maybe I haven't; maybe I've assumed whenever SK or one of the others made a choice I didn't want them to make, said something I didn't want them to say, maybe I convinced myself it was just a blip...

In reality, what I did, what I do is try to figure out why and usually it involves asking myself, "What did I do wrong?"  "How have I failed them?"  It usually involves replaying every mistake I know I've made over the years and wondering if that was the moment...(and I do this with even the smallest of things they do).

(As parents, I think we also do this with our children's successes--like my broken arm when SK was 2.  I think sometimes we make their honors, their awards, their achievements about us and our good parenting, our solid home--we take their hard work and make it ours.)

Lately I've been thinking about this a lot.  If I'm honest I've been thinking about it both because my children are well into the teen years (please do not remind me SK will be 20 this summer) and I've been in therapy where I have explored some of my childhood to try to understand why I think in certain ways, why my emotional default is what it is.  What I recognize is that I both want to take all the responsibility for my children's thoughts, behaviors and choices AND I want to blame my parents for any painful emotional residue I have left over from my childhood, and I recognize that putting all my eggs (or ego) into that basket denies the personhood of myself and my children.

I am not denying that the environments we grow up in deeply impact us.  They do--for example, living in an alcoholic home you learn survival strategies that stick with you--become your default (things like making sure everything is okay for everyone all the time, staying quiet so as not to draw attention to yourself (yes sometimes I can be quiet), and trying to be perfect because maybe that will fix the problem).  Growing up in environments that our too permissive can breed entitlement; growing up in environments that are too controlling can breed rebellion; growing up in overly critical environments can breed low self-esteem, growing up in loving, stable, consistent homes can breed secure children all that and more is true.  But...

The other thing I'm beginning to think might be true is it is also somewhat narcissistic to believe that any choice our children make is because of us.  It's making it about us.  It appears we are being good parents by trying to find what we did wrong so we can fix it, but it's in some ways making us martyrs and it's definitely denying their free will, their personhood, their creation as a child of God independent of us--even if they were knit together in our wombs.
         
               "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise
                 you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know
                 that full well." (Psalm 139:13-14) (NIV)


On the other hand, I want to blame my parents--I want to find a reason why I am overly sensitive, hard on myself, always trying to please.  I want it to be someone else's fault because if it is totally someone else's fault that lets me off the hook; it gives me a "get out of jail free card"--and it might even keep me from doing the hard work I need to do to be healthy and whole--to live fully into the person God created me to be.

It's about control or giving up control.  If I believe that my children make choices because of something I've done or said, then all I have to do is find that thing and I can make it better (or at least my definition of better) or I can teach other parents how to have the 'perfect' kids I have.  I can make certain they never make that choice again, or I can make certain they keep making the choices I deem best for them.  I can be back in control--I can put them back in their snug beds, tuck them in like tacos, and bring them hot chocolate in the mornings, and everything will be FINE.

Further, I not only find I do this with my own children, but I do it with others' children.  When a child misbehaves, even a child as young as a toddler, it is so easy to say, "If only their parents would..." It is easy to say, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."  Again, it is easy to deny the free will, the personhood of every child of God some whom sometimes (or all the time) make choices we don't like.

This isn't easy; it's not easy combining psychology and faith; yet, I believe that is what an integrated faith looks like--it's using our minds, our experience, and scripture.  But it is hard.  On the one hand, people use verses such as Exodus 20:5b-6 which says, "punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments." to blame parents--to say it's something you did.  But then you read Deuteronomy 24:16, "Parents are not to be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their parents; each will die for their own sin."  

Which is it?  It's hard to know.  I cling to Proverbs 22:6 "Train up a child in the way he should go, Even in old age he will not depart from it."  I also believe I don't know exactly what that way is except to do my best, to love God and to love my family, to be intentional and to be ready to extend forgiveness and grace to myself and to my children.

I believe God is not a puppet master; God does not pull strings and we behave in certain ways, so why in the world would I give myself that power over my children?  I am not God.  (I keep reminding myself, but sometimes I still forget.) I also believe God doesn't just throw us into this world and abandon us; God is with us through the good choices we make and through the bad. God is with us extending forgiveness and grace--holding us accountable but always loving us--each of us no exceptions.

If I'm honest, I don't have this all figured out (read figured out at all), but I'm trying.  I believe there are many people in this world trying.  Perhaps if we could extend grace to one another, perhaps if we could be less judgmental of others children, others parenting styles, others beliefs, others intentions, others personhood, perhaps then we could extend that grace to our children and to ourselves.  Perhaps we could stop trying to figure out whose fault it is and just love one another through.  Perhaps.

I Hunted You Down

Dear People in the Black Car,

You have no idea who I am--let me tell you. I am the Mama of the young girl you harassed on Sunday afternoon.  You may not even remember it; it very well could have been just a passing moment in your life, a moment where you got to laugh a little.  But let me tell you it was a big moment in our lives, we remember--you probably continued your afternoon going to a party, a pool or relaxing.  We didn't.

Let me remind you what happened--a young girl was out running and you drove up next to her and started clapping and laughing--and no, you were not trying to be encouraging.  She didn't look at you; if she had, you would have seen how beautiful she was despite the tears in her eyes.  Just so you know, she is equally beautiful on the inside.  Well she stopped running; she walked home with her sister, and she went to her room.

The rest of us seethed with anger; we shook with anger, and we (okay just me) cried hot angry tears. Not one of the six of us was left untouched by you because well, because We are the O'Doyles.  I decided to go out and look for you, my husband went with me.  (My 17 year old son wanted to go too--we couldn't let that happen.)  We didn't find you, but make no mistake, we tried to hunt you down.

Last night my anger returned, see, you've forgotten this incident but we haven't and last night my eldest daughter for the first time in weeks, went running by herself--our beautiful younger daughter opted out, and so my anger resurfaced with a vengeance.  But you don't win, she's going tonight. Anyway, as my anger coarsed through my veins I thought about writing this letter and what I wanted to tell you.

I would tell you how amazing this young girl is, how she has more strength, courage, and joy than most people ever experience.  I would tell you how this girl lost a pinky, was viciously attacked by a dog, and almost died having her tonsils removed.  I would tell you how this year she has suffered three concussions and has had to sit out most of the three seasons of sports she loves.  And I would tell you how she still went to every game to cheer on her teammates. I would tell you how she had to give up every form of exercise, how she had to give up trips with friends, and many other things that a 14 year old shouldn't have to give up and that she did it with humor and grace.  I would tell you that for the last 18, yes 18 days she has not missed one day of exercise with her sister as they laugh their way through getting in shape.  I would tell you that perhaps that is what you found so funny--that a young girl wasn't in "tip top shape."  I wonder if you are?

As I was washing my face I thought I would tell you you will not break this girl, this young girl, this girl whom I'm certain you have now forgotten, is a child of God, created in the image of God and she is fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).  And then it hit me, and it hit me hard.  So are you.  I didn't like thinking about you that way...

This isn't a letter about forgiveness; I'm not there yet.  I suspect that young girl you found so "amusing" will forgive you long before her daddy or I do--that's the kind of girl she is.  But this morning as I was thinking about you and composing this letter in my head I thought to myself, "If someone did something like this to you do you have someone who would want to hunt them down?"  I hope so--that's as close as I can get to forgiveness...


Working on forgiveness,
Mama Doyle

The Twelve Step Eucharist and Transformation

I had no idea what to expect.  Jamie and I really wanted to attend a service at Grace Episcopal in Charleston.  Bishop vonRosenberg had been Jamie's sister's, (and my sister by friend-in-law rules) The Rev. Taylor Dinsmore, Bishop years before.  Taylor had so much love, respect and admiration for this man.  She kept telling me, "You have to meet him."  The only weekly Eucharist we saw was on Friday evening--it was a Twelve Step Eucharist.

Jamie mentioned the Eucharist; I must admit I paused a moment--unsure.  Did I want to go to a Twelve Step Eucharist?  I struggle with the 12 steps.  That's not entirely true--in that moment I realized I hated the 12 steps.  I hated I knew them; I hated they were part of my life; and I wasn't sure I wanted to let go of the anger at the person who brought them into my life.  I had no idea how much anger was still simmering under the surface of my daily life.  (To read part of the story Why I Gave Up Drinking Wine)  Wanting to meet Bishop vonRosenberg over powered my angry al anon self, and I agreed to go.

I arrived early (I was meeting Jamie).  As I sat in the pew, I was not only struck by the beauty of Grace Episcopal, I was overcome with the amount of joy surrounding me.  Every person who walked in seemed to exude peace and so much joy.  My carefully constructed angry armor began to come unhinged.

There is so much I can say about the Eucharist (and I will if you give me the time--but I won't give you my copy of the bulletin--I'll make you a copy--I always have it), but there were two parts that have stayed with me--two parts that particularly touched my soul--two parts that transformed me, two parts that reignited my love for and my belief in people and in the Church.

The Rev. John Zahl was the homilist.  He told his story eloquently, but more importantly, in my opinion, he told his story as part of The Story.  He told his story in connection with the Gospel.  I kept listening for pride or self promotion or the opportunity to puff himself up, to exult himself for "defeating this disease",  but all I heard was humility and mercy and compassion and love and grace.  I don't remember the entire sermon word for word (I very much want a copy), but one part continues to resonate.  He said (and I am taking liberty quoting), "He didn't beat him up about what he had done. He had beaten himself up enough for both of them.  He just offered him compassion and grace.  Just like Jesus didn't list every sinners sins; he was just present with mercy, love, forgiveness, compassion, and grace."

"I'm not there" I felt my heart say.  I still want to list every hurt I've experienced because of alcoholism, and I want Mama to take responsibility for each and every one.  (I do not, however, want to list the hurts I've caused because of my response to this disease...)  "Let go." my soul said, "You need to give to your mother the same love, compassion, and grace you extend to everyone else. The same love, compassion, forgiveness and grace you PREACH!"  I'm still working on it.

I was holding it together.  No tears yet (and y'all know that's a miracle)!  The offertory music began; I looked up at the altar, and it happened. The tears began to cascade down my face. Bishop vonRosenberg was setting the table. He was setting the table for himself!  A bishop at the altar with other clergy present was setting his own table; I couldn't believe my eyes; I froze (except for the tears pooling in my lap)--it was a powerful testimony of servant leadership.  In a church where hierarchy can reign, where hierarchy can be abused, in a world where privilege and elitism win more times than not, in that moment Love won--the Kingdom of God was fully and completely present.  In that moment, I experienced the Gospel in its entirety--in its total fullness--in humanity.

God was present in those moments and God continues to work in my life through the words and actions of these two men.  The transparency of The Rev. Zahl, the willingness to be real, to be open, to be honest and to be challenging has given me the strength to dig deep and to try each and every day to find that love, forgiveness, and compassion I so desperately need.  I wish I could write I've done it completely, that I've done it once and for all, but I can't.  I have less armor on and it's getting easier, there are more moments of peace, it's a process...

And at at time when I desperately needed to see the Church in a different way, at a time when I was somewhat (read very) jaded by the power dynamics, by the politics of Church, at a time when I was mired and wallowing in the negative, Bishop vonRosenberg quietly and humbly modeled the Church at its best.  I was transformed....

Addendum:  There are many people in the Church--clergy and lay alike--who are conduits of God's love, compassion, forgiveness, servanthood and grace.  Today's post is not to deny that but rather a personal narrative of how I was transformed by two particular people at a time in my life when I needed it most. Taylor was right--I had to meet him....

What I Wish I Could Tell You

Dear Family I Saw in the Kroger Parking Lot Tonight,

It was late--well kind of--8:15 and y'all were coming out with your dinner.  There were three of you. I saw you Mama and you middle school daughter exchange some difficult words (I couldn't hear them), but I heard you daughter say, "I hate you." and turn, rolling your eyes and running back to your daddy where you grabbed his hand and said, "She'll never understand."  And you Mama walked past me and I saw tears in your eyes.  This is what I wanted to say to you--to stop you and to tell you (although that might have been kind of creepy).

Daughter--You think she doesn't understand you, but here's the thing--she understands being a middle school girl all too well and she wants nothing more than to protect you from the pain of these years. Your mama wants to breathe all the courage and security into you that she didn't have, and she wants to suck out all the pain and insecurity that she had.  She wants you to know that regardless of what the world tells you, you are enough, more than enough.

When you walked away, her heart broke as it will break many times over the next few years. But she will put it back together again and again because you're worth it.  Tonight you will lay in bed texting your friends, checking social media, and listening to music.  She will lay in bed and wonder what she did wrong, how she is failing you, and terrified you will one day leave home and never come back. She's panic-stricken you won't ever want to talk to her like you used to, and she misses you.

And she will be there for you, I can promise you that, no matter how many times you say you hate her, roll your eyes or slam your door, she will always be your number one fan and love you unconditionally.

Mama--She doesn't really hate you.  It's been a long week, and she's had to keep it together.  She's had to pretend at school that she has it altogether but she doesn't believe for one minute she does. You are her safe spot, the one person she knows she can say anything to and you will still love her fiercely and unconditionally.  She is scared to death of wanting to be different from you and at the same time wanting you to be proud of her and not sure the two can co-exist.

She is insecure and scared and you remind her that she is expected to grow up into the competent loving woman she believes you are.  She doesn't know if she can measure up, and she doesn't understand that you already think she is more than you ever were or will be.  She doesn't know that she is the best thing you have ever done, and all the confidence she thinks you have is one big lie.

She'll give you more credit than you deserve

Tonight go into her room, sit on her bed and even if she's asleep or pretends to be asleep, tell her you love her and that you will always be there for her no matter what.  Or, if she climbs into your bed, take her hand (Holding Hands), do not make her say she's sorry.  Just listen to her; she has something to say and needs the safety of the dark and the comfort of your presence to let it out. Recognize she needs you and one day you won't have all the reminders of her presence--like Sweat Pants and Fuzzy Socks.

The next few years are going to be hard--an emotional roller coaster for you both.  But keep on loving, keep on forgiving, keep on offering grace--it does matter--she will remember, she needs you, and she will make you
more proud than you've ever been in your entire life only because she is going to become herself--the self God wants her to be, the self God created her to be.  You have no idea today how wonderful she is going to become; you have no idea that in a few short years you will be bursting with pride as you watch her grow and change.  She probably won't be the person that today you think she will become--she will be something even more spectacular.  It might happen when she gets to college, or it might happen later.  She's worth the wait.

One day you won't be in the middle

Daddy--You are stuck.  You are stuck between two women you love dearly.  Two women you would lay your life down to protect. You want to fix it; it tears you up seeing them fuss.  Here's a secret--you can't fix it, so do nothing.  It's not about you; don't take sides--keep loving them both, and keep your mouth shut.  (Don't let her be disrespectful--that's where you draw the line) I promise you, it's for the best.  One day you will hold them both, and it will be magic.

Love,
Someone who wishes she had known
Madre Doyle

Reflection on The Masters and Humility from an Augusta Girl

I am responsible for Jack Nicklaus winning his sixth Masters in  1986.  Okay, maybe I'm not responsible for him winning, but I'm responsible for him not losing.  That at least is our family's story...

Back in 1986 there were very few houses in our neighborhood.  At the top of our street was a stop sign--or so I'm told--I actually never really stopped there.  Thursday morning as I was heading somewhere (who knows it was Masters of my senior year), I approached the top of the street and, well, I didn't stop.

BEEEEEEEP--swerve; brakes screeching.  I slammed on brakes and my heart felt like it stopped. There was an official Masters car.  The back door opened and out stepped non other than my favorite golfer Jack Nicklaus.  "Darling," he said, "That right there is a stop sign."  Tears started down my now very red face (see I cried all the time even back then), he patted my arm and said, "No harm done; just be careful.  Now I've got to get going."  Pure class--pure grace and at that moment he became and will always remain my all time favorite golfer.  (So maybe I didn't really help him win, but had I hit the car, well who knows? That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

From that day forward I became a devoted, loyal possibly slightly obsessed Jack Nicklaus fan.  For those who didn't get to grow up in Augusta, it's not uncommon for teens to have their favorite golfers and to follow them year after year.  Friendships develop--I can never hear Fred Couples name or see his picture without thinking of my high school friend Lee Shields who died way too soon in a way too tragic way, and whose magnetic smile was always brighter as she followed him year after year--and they became friends.  I love remembering Lee especially every spring...  Anyway, fast forward to 1997...

Chris and I were driving to the beach--I remember exactly where we were in Orangeburg SC--we were listening to our favorite radio station--ESPN (Isn't my husband a lucky man?).  Tiger Woods was being interviewed and the interviewer asked him what it was like being paired up with the great Jack Nicklaus and would he ask him for any tips.  I don't remember his exact words but it was something to the effect of "I play my own game."

"Are you kidding me?!?!?!"  I shrieked to Chris (keep in mind I was also 7 months pregnant so hormones didn't help).  "What about respect for those that came before you?  What about humility? What about tradition?  What about this is JACK NICKLAUS!!!"  And I instantly became as my family would jokingly call me, "The Tiger Hater."

Oh I was so pompous when Tiger fell into his personal unpleasantness (that's southern talk for things we don't want to talk about).  I strutted around like a peacock in a parade, "I told y'all.  No humility--total arrogance.  I knew it from the beginning." (I chose to ignore the fact that my strutting might be arrogant....)

This past Sunday we were watching the final round of this years Tournament.  I started texting my daddy and my sister (we tend to do that during sporting events).  I had just heard that when an interviewer asked Jordan Spieth how he remained so humble,  he responded, "Me speaking about humility is very difficult because that wouldn't be humility."  I fell in love (no he won't replace Jack Nicklaus in my heart, but I have a new golfer to follow--and I think it is awesome that Jack is nicknamed "The Golden Bear" and Jordan "The Golden Child.")  I fell in love even more when I read an article about him writing thank you notes!

So I'm texting and Daddy is responding egging me on as my family likes to do whenever Tiger Woods comes up.  Every time Tiger was on TV or won a tournament someone in my family would mention it to me to get a reaction.  My children learned it was a great way to get a reaction (one of them put a Sports Illustrated on my bed when he was on the cover--no one has confessed).  It became a joke--it was something we all laughed about. Suddenly it hit me--while this may be "funny" in our family, it's not funny--not even a little bit. My behavior shows no humility; my behavior has taught my children it's okay to make jokes at someone else's expense--someone we don't even know. I liked that I was "right."  Right as compared to?  I am so right that my behavior flies in the face of grace and redemption and God loves everyone no exceptions and we are all created in the image of God--things I preach every Sunday. But do I have to admit it, I mean publicly admit it?  It really was meant in jest...(sort of)

My behavior, my words, show no compassion, no mercy, no forgiveness.  My words only perpetuate judgement--everything I profess to detest.  I had a conversation last night with my dear, wise, mother of the toddler friend.  We were talking about racism and racist jokes.  She said, "Even when I hear them and I know the person telling them doesn't really believe it, it's offensive.  It's just wrong." Well slap my head and call me silly--or worse--call me a hypocrite.

It's not funny--it's not funny to cheer for someone else's pain--it's not right to judge--that's not our job. I don't have to like Tiger Woods; I suspect I won't begin to be a Tiger fan, but I can say I'll do my best to keep my mouth shut and to try to live into what I preach.  To try to live into the grace Jack Nicklaus showed me, the humility Jordan Spieth practices, and the truths that Emily Crouch lives. And you know the really humbling thing? I know people will grant me grace, forgiveness, and redemption as I change this behavior. Now if I can just learn to do the same.....

The Dress and Resurrection

My parents and the dress

I was packing to head to North Carolina and then the beach.  For the first time in years I hadn't bought an Easter dress.  What to wear?  I went through my closets pushing dresses back and forth and my hand kept settling on one and something in my heart kept saying, "wear that one."  I argued with myself, "It's really too dressy for the beach--even for Easter."  "Wear that one." I kept hearing.

I've worn that dress one time--April 2010 to my Daddy's and Marguerite's wedding.  It was not a happy event for me at the time; it was not a night I'm proud of or a night I want to remember.  I've written about it--that too was painful.  (The Death and Resurrection of My Family) Oh we've come so far beyond that night, but that dress just reminded me of the grief and pain.  I don't know why I have never gotten rid of it.  I

The Wedding

really didn't want to wear it again.  It took me back, and I didn't want to go back. We had all moved forward--I didn't want to remember that night.  That was my Good Friday--I just want Easter.  "Wear that one."  I heard again.

Oops--as I drove into Charlotte I realized I had forgotten The Dress.  Oh well..."Wear that one."  I was beginning to think I was losing it.  Why wouldn't this voice shut up!?!?!?!  Fine, I'll call Chris and ask him to bring it.  If he forgets, well oh well..... guess what?  He remembered.

Last night I realized why I had to wear that dress--it needed, I needed, something tangible that reminded me of resurrection.  I hadn't gotten rid of the dress--it was a symbol of some sorts.  For me it was a reminder of pain--but it was just a dress, actually a nice dress, but I just looked at it and saw grief, and pain and figurative death.  I mentioned I was wearing it today for the first time since their wedding.  And I told my dear friend Jamie that Marguerite and I had fought that night.  She was shocked.  "Really?  You two?  I can't imagine that." "Yeah," I said, "It wasn't a good night.  We had words."--Marguerite looked at me and quietly said, "It was my wedding."

It stung; it stung because I knew that I had hurt her and she hadn't forgotten.  It hurt because I knew I had hurt her that night and despite that she has been nothing but good and kind to me ever since.  She had been hurt and she had never said, she had just loved me at my pace--on my terms. Now I was panicked--do I wear the dress?  Will it hurt her?  I do have something else I can wear.  "Wear the dress."  (Seriously voice--SHUT UP!!!)

I got up and put on the dress.  We took pictures--my parents and I--my daddy and my bonus mama. (I also realized this was the first weekend I introduced them to people as my parents--it doesn't change I still have two living parents, but some of us need more than two....) During church we passed the peace; I hugged and kissed Daddy and Marguerite.  After I kissed Marguerite a woman shook my hand and said, "I love your dress." and she concluded with, "I'm glad you and your parents are here today."  "Me too," I thought, "Me too."

This afternoon I've been thinking about Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter.  I've been thinking about the cross and all the beautiful crosses I have and I wear.  I thought about how in the first century the cross was just a symbol of cruelty, punishment, violence and death, and how we now adorn our churches, our homes, and our bodies with them.  That Easter morning over 2000 years ago, Jesus transformed the cross and the world.  Because of God's unconditional love, acceptance, inclusion, and grace the cross is no longer a reminder of pure violence--of grief and pain--but is also a reminder of God's redeeming unconditional love.  We don't have to live in Good Friday, but we do go back and we do intentionally remember--every year.  We remember so that we never forget how our lives, how the world, have been transformed because of the first Good Friday and Easter morning. Remembering doesn't mean we are living in the past, but it reminds us to give thanks for the reconciling love of God and it gives us the hope that the whole world will someday live into Easter morning.

It's a pretty dress; it's fine, but it's just a dress.  We--Marguerite and I-- have a beautiful relationship, a relationship transformed because of love and forgiveness and grace.