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.....

Grace-Or Lack Thereof--in the Grocery Store

 Even before Covid world, I stopped going into the grocery store very often. It just was too darn easy to order my groceries, pull up, and have them loaded right into my trunk. I told myself this was saving money as I wasn't impulse buying, and perhaps that is true. It also, however, disconnected me from grocery store reality.

Several weeks ago I had to go into the store as both pick-up and delivery options weren't available until the next day, and I was in need of a few essentials. It was a cold rainy day late in the afternoon. I pulled up, put on my mask, and ran from the parking lot into the store. Immediately I was annoyed at the many people not wearing masks. Just being honest here...

There was a time several years ago when running into the store would take little time as I knew where everything was. But alas, over the years, things get moved around, and what I thought would be a quick trip in was already beginning to take more time. Music was playing overhead sometimes interrupted by "special announcements," and I could hear several children either whining, talking very loudly, or flat out having screaming tantrums. I huffed and puffed wishing I had my AirPods. I would like to claim I was in sensory overload, but really I was just being a selfish jerk.

I filled my cart with what I needed and headed to check out. There was only one cashier and four self-checkouts open. And there were long lines. I waited in the self-checkout line which really isn't a line but rather a gaggle of people all vying for the next open register. A young woman with three screaming children pulled her cart into the milieu. One child was sitting in the cart with snot running out of his nose and down his face. One child was swinging around the cart knocking into other customers, and the third was shrilling proclaiming every five seconds how hungry she was. The woman was on her cell phone it sounded like making some sort of appointment. Needless to say, she was getting nasty looks from other customers. Out of sheer desperation or complete resignation, she grabbed three bags of m&m's off the shelf and handed them out. The volume immediately lowered. (I was, I must admit, quite grossed out by the now snotty m&m snack.) With the lowered volume, I could hear several other customers whispering about "parenting" and "giving in." I'm sure the young woman heard it as well.

Over the next several days, I couldn't stop thinking about that woman. I had been that woman, sort of. At first, I thought these things

• What was she doing taking her children to the grocery store at the arsenic hour? (That's what I call the hours betweeen 4:30pm and bedtime--you either want to take it or give it.)
• Why was she trying to make an appointment while shopping and juggling three kids?
• Why didn't she just leave the cart and try again another day? (I distinctly remember walking out of the grocery store in Athens with four screaming children as I apologized to the clerk who would have to reshelve the entire cartful of groceries.)

I kept thinking and realized how incredibly judgemental and self-righteous, not to mention privileged my thoughts were. I didn't have to take my children to the grocery store during those hours because I didn't work outside of the home. I could go during their "best behaved" hours or while they were in pre-school/school. Maybe this woman goes to work early and rushes to pick up kids before the dreaded late-fee pick-up every day. I had all day to make phone calls and appointments--but let's be honest, I have also been on the phone while shopping...  Maybe she was trying to make a doctor's appointment to get that runny nose treated. I think the thought that gets to me the most is, I could leave that grocery cart full of groceries and just go home because I had food already there. Maybe she didn't.

I don't know this woman's story because I didn't bother to stop and help. I didn't let her move in front of me. I didn't help unload her cart. And I didn't wipe the little boy's nose. Maybe she is just a give-in to every whim parent who doesn't manage her time well, or maybe she's just trying to do the best she can and could have used a smile, a helping hand, and a little compassion.

The Danger of Saying "I'm Sorry"

My Ob/Gyn started talking about my need for a hysterectomy back in 2005. And let's be clear,

it's not the same one who operated on me last week--two countries, two states, and two cities later, I'd seen several...but really it goes even further back.

I had 4 c-sections. The doctor, let me change that, the amazing doctor (okay she might also be a friend) who delivered 3 of them told me at the time, "I'm using the same incision site for less scarring on the outside but it could down the road cause scar tissues issues if you need other abdominal surgery." Y'all I was 31--down the road? I couldn't think past down the hall where I had four children four and under sleeping...I'm sure in my best Scarlett O'Hara voice I thought, "I'll think about that tomorrow." 

In as short of a statement as this incredibly wordy person can make, let me just say this. Over the years, every doctor I talked to repeated the same information. I was not a candidate for a vaginal hysterectomy and the possibility of having to be completely opened was very real AND there was a lot of scar tissue that would make the surgery more complicated. I knew all that along with the length of time recovery would take because of the above which is a big part of the reason it took 15 years for me to say yes. Truthfully, I said yes now because the consequences of not saying yes were far worse--low iron, exhaustion, yadda yadda yadda. And let me say this, my doctor now and the nurse practitioner spent LOTS of time talking to me prior to the surgery--in the office, on the phone, and even at our local favorite "cheers." I guess the shorter way to say it was I went into this surgery with eyes wide open--obviously, they were closed during the actual surgery.

Surgery happened--it was laparoscopic and difficult, but it was over. Or so I thought. The first few hours after surgery was relatively pain-free--thank you for pain meds and the catheter--and then they took it out.

I don't need to nor do I want to re-live the next 24 hours. Let me just say within 3 or 4 hours I knew something wasn't right no matter how many times the nursing staff told me pain was normal after surgery. (I've been asked several times exactly what I said around 1 am for which I felt the need to apologize with flowers and homebaked goods--I said (read shrieked), "Jesus Christ, you've got to do something and do it right now. Stop standing there and move.")

Mid-day Thursday my doctor came in, sat down next to me, listened to me, and took action. She knows me. She knows my high level of pain. She knows I try not to complain. She made calls and put in orders and we quickly knew most likely my bladder had been damaged. (*If you're interested in the details, they are at the end.) Back into surgery I went, and this time my abdomen had to be opened completely.

The next day my doctor returned to my room, again sat down next to me, and said, "I am so sorry.  I really didn't want you to have to be opened completely. I am so sorry this has increased your recovery time and your pain. I am so sorry you have to go through this." She meant it, I knew she meant it--there may have been some shiny tear-filled eyes. At that moment there was the recognition that things didn't go the way either of us wanted and there was compassion, empathy, and humanity. She knows me; she knows I have young adult children at home; she knows I love my vocation and don't want to take time off; she knows I'm not good at asking for help. She connected with who I am, and it was a beautiful moment. I shared it with some others--I'm struggling with that decision now....

I'm not going to be dramatic (now there's a change) and say I have been inundated with calls, emails, and texts suggesting I should consider a lawsuit, but there have been enough--let me be clear there have been too many.** I knew at the time, and I know now. My doctor was not apologizing because she made a mistake. She was apologizing because another human being was suffering and she wished it wasn't so. In that moment we were both fully human in our vocations and as middle-aged women.

It is not uncommon to hear people say, "Doctors think they are gods and they would never admit to making mistakes or say they're sorry." Maybe that's true in some cases or even many cases, but after this experience, I have to say I don't blame them. I really wonder why any of us risk saying we're sorry about anything. I've been thinking about this for the past 48 hours and thinking about instances where my own apologies or apologies made by others have been used against them. It has become dangerous to express compassion using some words and that danger diminishes our ability to connect as human beings. 

And for that, I am deeply sorry.

*My bladder was attached to my uterus. During c-sections, the bladder is removed from the abdominal cavity (Chris and I both remember Ruth telling us it was sitting on the table next to me), and when it is returned, it often adheres to the uterus. During surgery to remove the uterus it is possible to nick the bladder. My doctor checked thoroughly for that and didn't see anything. There could have been a nick in the back she couldn't see OR it could be the wall of the bladder was so thin that once the uterus had been removed and the bladder filled up the wall was too thin to hold it and tore. Either way, the abdominal cavity then filled which caused the excruciating pain (a liter was siphoned off). I knew this was a risk, and it was a risk I was willing to take. The definition of "risk" is "a situation involving exposure to danger." I just didn't know the greater risk came because someone dared to express compassion.

** I do not deny there are times there is medical malpractice that needs to be addressed. I am not saying lawsuits are not at times necessary. I do not deny there are times doctors unintentionally make life-altering mistakes and there must be compensation. But I do not believe a doctor's words of compassion should be used against them. If we want to say doctors need to stop acting like gods and show their humanity, we have to give them the room to do so.

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.

The Power of Voice

During a youth retreat when I was in 8th grade I became very emotional. No, I wasn’t having a mountaintop experience—that’s why I became emotional—because I wasn’t and everyone else seemed to be. I thought there was something wrong with me; being totally honest, I was sure there was something wrong with me. 

Things were really complicated. I went to church ALL. THE. TIME. Daddy was and is Roman Catholic; Mother was United Methodist; we were required to go to both churches every Sunday, Sunday School, CCD, youth group, and I went to Catholic school. So why wasn’t I feeling anything? Why wasn’t I experiencing anything? Why didn’t I feel close to God? What was wrong with me?

My minister approached me, put her arm around me, and asked what was wrong. I told her I didn’t feel close to God and I wasn’t sure why. I told her I didn’t know if I was living a Christian life. She told me to read Romans, confess my sins, and I would find the answers.

So I did.

I read it and nothing happened. So I re-read it, and then I read it in another translation. Still nothing. I was missing something. It didn’t give me a set of rules; I didn’t feel closer to God; but it impacted the way I viewed the BIble and faith well into my adult years.

I believed there was an answer—one specific way to understand the Bible and only one way to think about faithful living. Why did I believe that? Because a minister told me—clearly she would know—she was an authority. She also never asked me another question; she never again mentioned our conversation, and I never brought it up either. I was left feeling like I was on the outside of the group. I wasn’t good enough, holy enough, smart enough—I wasn’t enough.

I wonder how that experience would have changed me if my minister had said let’s read Romans together and talk about it. (Okay, still not really sure about the whole read Romans thing.) I wonder how it would have been different if she had asked me what I thought faithful living looked like. I wonder what would have happened if she said, “Let’s talk about this as a group.” But she didn’t, the conversation was closed, and I felt forgotten and alone.

I have never forgotten that day, her words, and my feelings. It shaped me, and it is a large part of the reason I believe so strongly in the ministry of all people. It is a large part of the reason I don’t believe a collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name means I have all the answers. And it also reminds me that the collar around my neck and The Reverend before my name has power, whether I want it to or not, to bring others closer into relationship with God or to push them away. That experience has helped to shape my voice and instilled within me a deep desire to never silence anyone else’s.

I have a strong and deep faith. I try to live my life from the core of that faith—specifically, I believe God loves everyone no exceptions. I believe God commands us to do the same. And I believe that means standing up for and standing with those on the margins—the poor, the oppressed, the hungry, the homeless—anyone who is on the outside. I believe injustice must be called out AND I believe the words we use are important. And I also believe it doesn’t help to silence other’s voices. 

I was called to ordination. I was called to preach the Gospel—to bring good news, “to declare God’s forgiveness to penitent sinners, to pronounce God’s blessing.” (BCP, p. 531) I was not called to separate people from knowing God’s love, to turn people away from faith, to leave others feeling less than.

Perhaps there are times my voice, my words, are not as strong as others believe it should be. I understand that, but it’s my voice. And others’ have their voices. I do believe whether the power of one’s voice comes from a title or familiarity or fame, it comes with responsibility. The power of voice can lift up or tear down; it can open conversation or shut the door, and it can bring healing or hurt.

I believe every voice deserves to be heard.

White Knuckling it Through Life

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No this is not my bike and there's no way I'm riding on the beach--but it's ORANGE!

I rode my bike for the first time yesterday morning. I know that doesn’t sound like a huge deal, but I haven’t ridden a moving bike in over a year and definitely not since my knee surgery. Chris encouraged me to try it—the breakfast burrito at the marina ½ mile away was also a good incentive. 

Here’s the truth. I was scared to death. I suspect Chris knew it. As we went into the garage and I led the bike (yes it sounds like I'm talking about leading a bucking bronco, but that's what that bike looked like to me, and I was pretty sure it could do as much danger) I didn't say a word. Actually I didn't say a word the whole way except once when I thought he was going to swerve into me and I shrieked, "What are you doing?" He was a good 8 feet away...back to that fear thing.

I got on the bike and gripped the handlebars. I stared straight ahead and used all my energy to concentrate on keeping the bike steady and upright. Immediately after turning off our street I saw 2 bikes coming towards me. In my head I was panicking. I didn’t want to move over into the grass and ride on unsteady ground. They did it for me passing me on the grass, smiling, waving (who lets go of their handlebars--they were clearly senior citizen stunt people. She even had a bag of groceries in her basket!) and saying, "Good morning." I was as grateful to them as I was for the spinal block after 36 hours of hard labor.

Just as they passed I realized I wasn't smiling, I didn't wave,  and I didn't say thank you. I was too scared; I was concentrating too hard. “I’m sure they think I’m rude.” I thought to myself and kept thinking to myself deciding over and over and over completely convinced the rude, crazy lady on the bike was going to be the topic of their conversation all morning.

A short while later I crossed the street. I knew this perilous act was coming; I'd been dreading it from the beginning. I knew the cars had the right away and I'd have to brake without falling and then restart again without falling. But instead a car stopped to let me pass. I was white knuckling those handlebars and didn’t wave thanks. More Miss Manners shame washed over me. 

Seriously y'all I couldn't stop thinking about all this. (My therapist already knows I need to see her when I get back...) But you've got to keep in mind we are in South Carolina, in the SOUTH—everyone waves and smiles and says hey to EVERYONE!!! It's so ingrained in us we don't even realize we're doing it. I had a boyfriend in college from Baltimore that just couldn't understand how I knew so many people when we walked on the inner harbor. When I told him I didn't know them he was completely befuddled. "Why would you speak to them then?" "Well duh", I thought, "because that's just what you do...obviously not the man for me to marry."

Returning home I tried to be better. I thought I was smiling even though I knew there was now way in tarnation I was going to wave to anyone.  I suspect, however, my strained smile looked more like I had some Carolina gnats stuck in my teeth and nary a toothpick in sight.

But here's the thing I can think about now that I'm safely back with not a scratch on me. I wonder how many times we judge someone based on their facial expressions or the way they respond or don't respond? I wonder how many times we place our expectations for relationship on others? I wonder how many times we don’t give each other the benefit of the doubt? And really, let's just put this out there, how many times do we think we're so important that we are the subject of other's conversations?

People are complicated and living complicated lives. Some lives are full of pain and fear. Sometimes people are doing everything they can to just stay upright, to just keep moving, to just stay on track. Sometimes people are white knuckling it through life holding onto what they can. 

So, what if instead of judging when someone didn’t respond the way we wanted we sent up a prayer, “God be with that person in whatever place that person is?” What if we gave people the benefit of the doubt--assumed good intentions? What if we noticed, acknowledged, and gave thanks for the people that move over to give us the space we need, gave thanks for the people who let us have the right away even if it's not what the world says is the "right" way?

What if we extended a little more grace?

Oh by the way, I made it there and back—and breakfast was awesome! Might even try another ride today....

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.

Depression, Death and Resurrection

Years ago I was in a deep dark place--looking back I realize I was

in the midst of major depression--situational major depression, but major nonetheless. My boyfriend, who I truly believed I would marry, and I had just broken up; I had a misunderstanding that I didn't understand with close friends, and I lost those friendships with no closure; I was living in a town I didn't want to be in; I was in graduate school, working, and trying to figure out who I was because everything I thought I knew about myself seemed to be changing; and I was struggling with faith and where I belonged in church. (That struggle ultimately brought me to the Episcopal Church--)

Having major depression while trying to maintain both graduate school and a job is, well let's just say, it's not very easy.  I lost motivation; I lost self direction--I wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over my head every morning and simply disappear into the world of oblivion.  This was over 20 years ago and like many other things (eating disorders for example--My Struggle with an Eating Disorder) people didn't talk about depression or any mental illness, or if they did, it was negative and judgmental, and so in addition to struggling with depression, I was full of shame.

Enter my daddy--several times a week as he drove past my neighborhood towards the hospital he would knock on the door, wait until I got out of bed and answered and say "I just thought I'd stop by to have a cup of coffee."  He would sit on my couch and read the paper while I showered and got dressed.  We didn't talk about why he was really there; I suppose I even let myself believe he really was just stopping by.  We didn't talk about the fact that were he not to stop, I may very well have just stayed in bed and let my world fall apart.  We didn't talk about it; we've never talked about it, but it happened.

This morning on my run I thought about those months.  I thought about how much grace and unconditional love Daddy showed me, and I thought about how hard it must have been for him to watch me suffer. I know I would go back to those dark dark months and live them over and over rather than watch one of my children suffer as I did.  And I shuddered because I knew as much as that's something I would willingly do, I couldn't. But what I could do is hold onto the hope that I believe in--the resurrection that I know comes, and then I thought about a conversation from last night...

A close friend and colleague was over yesterday--we were talking about our sermons for this week (okay, truthfully we were planning her wedding, but we did spend a few minutes talking about our sermons--a well spent few minutes).  It's Pentecost this week--you know the Sunday everyone wears red and we have to talk about the Holy Spirit--

We talked about how hard it is to preach this Sunday and yet how important it is.  We can't harness the Holy Spirit; we can't harness God.  God alone brings resurrection--what is so hard is that as people called to preach the Gospel, as my wise, faithful friend said, "we are called to help people walk to the cross; to help people let go and to die because we know the good news; we know resurrection will come."  "Yeah," I agreed, "We know it will come but not through us; all we can do is take the walk together and sit at the foot of the cross with each other knowing it will come because we have faith; we have hope." (Hebrews 11:1 "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." NRSV)

"It's the Paschal Mystery." Rachel named.  "And I believe," I piggybacked on her, "That we are called to name all the death and resurrection we see in the world--even the little things."  We talked about a recent incident in her life (but that's her story) and how it was clearly an example of death and resurrection.  We talked about how new life after death looks different, but that we are called to help people see that the new life although different, can and will be better--more life giving--a gift from God who loves sacrificially, unconditionally--God who loves everyone no exceptions.

This morning I thought about that conversation as I thought about those months of desolation all those years ago, and it struck me that clergy are called to preach the Gospel but we are ALL called, each and every person, as the priesthood of all believers to walk together to the cross, through the cross and into resurrection. And I believe we are all called to share our stories of death and resurrection because it is in sharing our stories that another finds hope; it is in sharing our stories that another can take the walk to the cross knowing that resurrection can and will come--that it has come for others and it will come for them.  My life was different after that time (during one of those mornings Daddy suggested to me I might want to talk to one of his good friends, an Episcopal priest, The Rev. Donald Fishbourne--look where that led.) Resurrection may look different for different people, but resurrection is available for ALL, no exceptions.

We are called to love as God loves, sacrificially and unconditionally. We are God's hands and feet working in the world--hands holding a newspaper, and feet walking up to a front door and rear ends sitting on a couch and lips drinking a cup of coffee--we can be God's instruments of grace and hope and love--someone's path to resurrection.  Guess my daddy knew that...

We Had Church

This morning I came downstairs, walked into the kitchen and found the counters covered with empty

ice cream containers, empty popcorn bags, dirty dishes and crumb covered counters.  (I wasn't surprised except by the ice cream containers; it looked like that when I went to bed last night.  I had to run the dishwasher with the other dishes before these could be loaded.)  I made the coffee (first things first) and then began the process of cleaning up...

But I wasn't irritated; I wasn't angry; tears welled in my eyes but not tears of frustration or sadness but rather tears of gratitude and joy--sacred tears, holy tears.

I thought about the last afternoon and evening and said a silent prayer of thanks. All four of our children were home, our foreign exchange student was home, and the toddler was spending the night. It was good, and it was holy; it was church.

I thought about the morning and how I had shared tears with dear friends as we talked about hurts in our children; I thought about a lunch with women who give me courage and extend me grace; I thought about a difficult conference that proved to be better than I anticipated (perhaps a reason to maintain low expectations), and then I thought about the evening.

It was a "normal" evening. (What does that mean in the O'Doyle house anyway?) But it was so much more; as I washed the dishes it occurred to me, we had church.

We gathered; we came together with our individual days, our individual lives, our differences in age, our differences in culture, and we were one.  We came together as people at different places in our spiritual journeys and with some very different beliefs, and we were one.  We brought our hurts, our woundedness, our disappointments, our fears; our successes, our joys--we brought all of ourselves. And together we were one.  We loved one another simply and wholly--we laughed, we danced, we colored, we extended grace and mercy, inclusion and love, and we shared our stories and they became one.

Cultures coloring

We gathered around a table (okay not really--we held our plates as we gathered around the toddler) and it wasn't bread and wine but rather macaroni and cheese, popcorn, and Curious George fruit chews thrown in with a little milk, but it was good and it was holy, (even if it wasn't nutritious) and we were one.

I remembered the words Rachel Held Evans wrote in her new book Searching for Sunday, Loving, Leaving and Finding Church, "They remembered Jesus with food, stories, laughter, tears, debate, discussion and cleanup." (Clean-up--hmmm should we be doing that together?)  I learned from Barbara Brown Taylor (and I think RHE did too) that it was important to remember that Jesus told his disciples to "do this" not believe this, and that he gave them literal, concrete things to do in eating and being together.  I thought about how one of my children argues with me about infant baptism (he thinks I shouldn't have had him baptized--so that narrows your guessing as to which child) and that our exchange student isn't Christian but that we were together and it was chaotic and confusing, and it was good and holy,  and it was full of grace and of love, and it was church.

I wasn't there for the whole evening--I was gone talking to other women about what it means to be church--this morning, I realize, I had my answer.

Waiting for Mother's Day

I woke up this morning and headed downstairs to make coffee.  I could hear the TV still on from the night before which didn't make me happy, but making coffee was my priority, so I turned on the kitchen light and there was the refrigerator WIDE open! I could feel myself winding up--headed into the den and there's Boss asleep on the coach with his dinner dishes still around him.  I may have lost it....

After I got finished fussing at Boss and he retreated to the living room and a quieter couch (because the stupid TV was STILL ON), I went downstairs to start my 10th load of laundry in less than 24 hours.  (Do not remind me that I love doing laundry--I am on a rant and would like to stay on it thank you very much.)

I walked around the corner  to the drying rack to hang SK's "nice shirts" as she directed me to do yesterday as though I haven't been doing laundry for over 20 years--(again do not remind me I like doing laundry) where I see William silently asleep with the clean clothes I asked him to put away STILL ON the floor.  But it was the silently that got me--the dehumidifier was clearly not running--the dehumidifier I had asked him to empty three times yesterday.  I was seething.

I woke him up--maybe with not the nicest tone of voice--"Get up and empty the dehumidifier that I asked you to empty three times yesterday."  Groggily William replied, "I thought I did."  Okay, so now my voice became fairly close to shrill level, "How in the world can you THINK you did?  You either did or you didn't.  Period.  Now get up!"

I stormed back upstairs and started folding laundry determined to ignore everyone--it didn't work, but it wasn't like I was suddenly pleasant either--fill in the blanks anyway you want as to how the rest of the morning went...they finally left and the tears started flowing.  I felt like a totally inadequate mother and overall human being.

Chris came down and I started in about how no one listens to me; they have no respect for anything I say and I'm a complete failure as a mother.  Right as he was going to open his mouth I kept going, "I'm just going to apply for a job out of state somewhere; as long as you find someone to do the laundry y'all will be fine."  Picture my not-a-morning person husband standing with his first cup of coffee in his hand trying to figure out the best way to deal with my tirade--he took too long to decide (yes I think 5 seconds is too long) so I continued.  "You're not even saying anything. You don't care they don't listen."

He'd now had a sip of coffee so he was a little faster on the draw, "I most certainly do care and we will talk to them tonight.  But I think part of the problem is we have to have natural consequences and follow through."  HOW DARE HE BE RATIONAL!?!?!  (and by that I mean perhaps telling rational Boss he was probably going to be grounded and not allowed to take his girlfriend to her senior prom because he left his coffee cup out in my mind was rational).  I was having no rationality--"And now I have to run to school to pick up my car because they took it and my stomach is killing me."  Chris quietly and calmly, "I can take you."  I stormed out of the house my mind completely out of control.

As I started running I thought of what a fake I am--within the first 30 seconds of my run I decided to delete my blog and tell them I didn't want them to come to church with me on Sunday.  I told myself I write this blog and it looks like my children are so great--but they don't listen to me--I'm a fraud, no one should read it--"but," my gentle very small sane part of the brain said, "you don't lie in the blog so it's not fake."  Well they shouldn't come to church with me as though they like me--I continued to argue. I ran faster; even a part of me was trying to be sensible; I just wanted to get away.

My thoughts continued--I can't believe it's Mother's Day weekend and this is how it's starting.  I started thinking about all the other mothers in my life who have loved me and who I should call right this very minute to hear them tell me I'm not a complete failure, but that would have robbed me of the opportunity to wallow...so instead I raged ran on. (But y'all know who you are!) This will probably be the last Mother's Day they will all be here; why would they want to be with me? And they won't ever want to come home when they're adults--I bet they won't even send me a card or if they do it will be out of loyalty.  I bet they will find or probably already have found other women who they think of more as mothers.   I decided I hated Mother's Day--

How they really are

How they are with threats

Maybe what bothers me is that the people all over the world will send and receive sappy cards that extol the virtues of mother's elevating them to almost deity status.  Maybe some people really mean the cards they send--maybe some people really believe they are all those things.  But I suspect there are many of us who search for the right card and can never find it because we're not sure we believe all those things.  And there are many of us who receive cards that speak about how selfless we are and we cringe (for example, maybe running to school to get the car with a stomach ache was more about being a martyr--and getting more steps than Todd Kunze, than it was about being selfless and serving the children), or cards that say we are the best mother ever and all we can do is think about how many ways we have been failed or how many ways we have failed or worse how many ways we still have to fail.

I didn't want it to be Mother's Day weekend and I sure didn't want to think anymore so I turned on my

audible book to drown out my voice.  MISTAKE!!!  Anne Lamott was reading, "You forgive your mother, for having had such terrible self-esteem, dependent on being of value to all men, everywhere, in every way. You forgive her for not having risen up, for not teaching you how to be an autonomous, beautiful woman..."(p. 106)  "AMEN!" I wanted to shout fully recognizing that while I actually haven't gotten to the total forgiveness point I know I want to and at least someone else understands (even if she wasn't specifically talking about Mother's Day), but then I kept listening (I never stop when I'm ahead....) "You mostly forgive life for being so unfair, for having stolen away from and saddled us with so much, for being so excruciating to most of the world. You even semi-sort-of mostly forgive yourself, for being so ridiculous, such a con, a nervous case, a loser."  So I'm working on that too....  (She's older than me she should be ahead!!!)

I went back to thinking about this morning and about Mother's Day--and it dawned on me.  I preach, I write about, I try to live that the Kingdom of God is both here and yet to come.  I believe that we see glimpses of that kingdom through the world around us--through fallible, unforgiven, unforgiving people. I believe we see glimpses of how things are supposed to be, how God wants them to be, and we wait with joyful anticipation for the day when it will be that way always.  And when those glimpses disappear we are left with memories, with longing, with grace and with yes with hope. But we are left waiting... Maybe that's what Mother's Day is about--it's a glimpse into the world we want--a world where our relationships are healthy, life giving and whole.  Maybe instead of seeing it as a trumped up holiday for florists and card shops to make a ton of money we could see it as part of the waiting, we could see it as a chance to glimpse another world or as an example of remembering the both here and yet to come.


Lamott, Anne. Small Victories. New York:  Riverhead Books, 2014.