The Raw Truth

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

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

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

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

Remembering Hope

Yesterday I was walking and listening to the podcast Unlocking It. Brene Brown and Presiding

Bishop Curry were talking about his latest book (which I just ordered). One of the things they talked about was the importance of community and the pain of not being able to be together for in-person worship. Brown gave these three reasons for why she goes to church (and I am not quoting them exactly just as I remember them so please no one report me). She said she goes to church to sing with strangers, pass the peace with people she'd rather punch in the throat (sounds like a Caroline saying right there), and kneel at the altar to break bread with people she'd never have dinner with. It was like a gut punch...

I miss being in in-person worship with every fiber of my being and for all those reasons--except for me singing with strangers is because I love to sing and I'm terrible at singing, but in-person worship allows me to sing and have it drowned out by beauty. I miss passing the peace, and I miss sharing Eucharist. I know, I know--I do get to receive Eucharist each week and share it with one or two other people. I am not denying that, and I recognize it is a privilege not everyone has. My heart broke when I heard someone say, "It's sad I have to go to a funeral to receive communion." It is sad and unfair and frustrating and so many other emotions. But I was called to preach the Gospel and to administer the sacraments, it is part of who I am. It is in my heart, body, and soul. 

I kept walking increasing my pace as though I could outwalk my pain. The pain comes from not only not being able to administer the sacraments to all but also with the exhaustion of trying to preach hope week after week after week after week. 

Please hear me, I do have hope--and on my good days, it holds me tightly. But sometimes, well sometimes, I hear one more heartbreaking story of trauma and loss and pain and suffering, and it's JUST. SO. DAMN. HARD! 

During the fall of 2016, I was 7 or 8 months into being priest-in-charge at St.Thomas. I had already fallen in love with the parish, but one of the things that sealed the deal was during the month of October. Every week there were two people who would kneel next to one another at the altar to receive. One wore a Trump button and one wore a Clinton. Y'all it was every week. And then these two sat together at coffee hour, shared stories from their decades-old friendship, and every week I left marveling and basking in this visible display of the Kingdom of God. And every week my hope in the in-breaking of the Kingdom was restored. 

Four years later I know those weren't the only two on different political sides who knelt and will kneel again next to one another (they were just the most obvious--you know those great big buttons). I ache to see that visible manifestation of unity. I need to see it. I need to be reminded.

Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! THIS IS WHY!!!!! This is why we tell the stories from the Bible over and over. This is why we tell our own stories over and over. They become connected, and they remind us. They remind us during the dark times when we can't see the light that we've seen it before even when there was darkness. They remind us that we are not alone--there are generations of people who have struggled and have gotten through. They give us the knot to hold onto when we want to let go and fall into the abyss of despair. 

It hasn't changed my ache to have a full church--to sing at the top of my lungs (okay I promise I really won't do that), to pass the peace even with Kentucky fans, and to administer the sacrament to those with whom I agree and to those with whom I don't. But it reminds me the Church is more than just a gathering of people in a building one day a week. It is people in life, daily life, who share their stories and hold each other through waves of life--the hard times and the good times. It is people who hold each other accountable, encourage one another, love one another, forgive one another, and let all of that ooze out into the world. It is a people of hope.

I just needed to remember so I could re-member. 

Leave Room for the Holy Spirit (and not just at dances)

Last Sunday after church I came home and sent a text to one of my best friends and a clergy

colleague. "Preaching is getting harder and harder to preach hope."

I love preaching. My call to ordination came with these words which popped into my head as I crossed over Broad Street in Athens, Georgia July 1997. "Make faith matter to people's ordinary everyday lives." But right now, right now, like so many other people, I'm tired. I'm tired, and I feel like I say the same thing over and over, and I can't remember what I said, and....let me back up a minute.

Two weeks ago I went in for a routine appointment. My lab work came back with extremely low iron levels. I've been anemic before, but this was different. I did a little research (love me some web MD!) and discovered in addition to exhaustion low

iron causes brittle nails (my nails were breaking daily), hair falling out (clogged sink anyone?), cold hands and feet (well that's nothing new), heart palpitations (which are keeping me from sleeping despite the exhaustion), feeling anxious (ding ding we have a winner!), and get ready, confusion (the gold medal).  Surgery has been scheduled but in the meantime...

Back to the preaching---I don't preach with a script or any notes (which doesn't mean I don't spend hours on it). By the time I deliver a sermon I have "rehearsed" it many many times in my head. Truth is there are some mornings I go for a run or iron before service and the Holy Spirit decides some of it needs to change. I respect that, and 99% of the time give into her. But last Sunday....

I was preaching. Preaching during this time is hard any time--I hate not seeing people. I'm an extrovert and get energy from people, seeing faces. I like seeing expressions on people's faces even if it's boredom, disagreement, or in the case of my children making the "cut" sign. This week, I couldn't remember what I had said when I started the sermon, and by the time I sat down, I had no idea what I'd said throughout. I was 100% sure it was disjointed and all over the board. I was both embarrassed and exhausted, and thus my text to my friend.

It's been a few days. I actually heard from a few people who said it resonated with them--I have no clue what that was because I can't remember it and I'm still too intimidated to listen to the recording. (Okay y'all, seriously! How messed up is that?!!?!? I'm intimidated by myself....Becky?) Today during yet another zoom call we prayed a prayer written by Bishop Ken Untener but often credited to Oscar Romero. These words resonated with me, "It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter in and do the rest. We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are the workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs." Basically, step aside, do your best, and leave room for the Holy Spirit.

What are you trying desperately to control? Where do you believe you are at best, mediocre? These are hard times, give yourself a break, trust, and leave room for the Holy Spirit. Maybe today was a mediocre day for you. That's okay. You are a beloved child of God, and you're enough--the Holy Spirit will fill in the rest.

 

That Darn Holy Spirit

I was all set to write a really fun Thursday letter today. I was going to tell y’all all about Cousins and Sibling Weekend and how much fun we had and how much fun we are. (Just ask us and we’ll tell you—we are SUPER fun!) But the Holy Spirit seemed to have other ideas…

I didn’t like her ideas so I went running. Guess what? You can’t outrun the Holy Spirit.

Here’s the thing. I am one of those people who remember things vividly. Dates, times, places, what people were wearing, what music was playing, sounds, the whole nine yards. It is both a blessing and a curse. I get to relive in my mind some of the most wonderful memories, and I “get” to re-experience things I would rather bury deep deep down. Oh, and it also settles physically in my body—great fun! (said very sarcastically)

I ran; I argued; the Holy Spirit won. Reluctantly, here’s what She says I need to write.

Many of you know about our family’s journey with addiction and recovery. I am pretty transparent about most things, including this, but I can also say, very few people (possibly none) know all the details of what can only be described as the nightmare we lived for 5 years. We, I, pretended and pretended pretty well. Compartmentalizing became such a part of my life, I had to redecorate all the rooms over and over. Some of the stories I may never share. Unfortunately, I have the pleasure of remembering them in vivid detail. Sometimes I know the memories are coming…it’s like standing on a train track, knowing the train is coming and being frozen. You know it’s going to hit you, so you just brace yourself and get ready for the impact.  Today was one of those days.

July 16, 2019,  I was serving as chaplain for Junior High camp. Beginning at around 4 pm, I started receiving multiple calls from my son as well as other people. Things were falling apart in Louisville faster than a 14 story jenga puzzle. I was in Leitchfield, Ky trying to be present to the staff and campers while at the same time feeling like I was descending into hell. I snuck away to make and answer phone calls. Around 7:30 pm, while the campers and staff were getting ready for messy games, I was hiding in a building talking to my son. When we hung up, I knew with 100% certainty there was a very real possibility it might be the last conversation I had with him for a very long time, possibly forever. I felt both strong and resolute, and also completely broken. My heart was shattering into thousands of pieces, but I had to go outside. I had to be present for those to whom I was ministering, and I had to be strong for The Babies who were there on staff. And let’s be honest, I had to find a way to distract myself.

 

I walked out of the building, looked across the field, and saw a teensy tiny rainbow. I took a picture and posted it on FaceBook. This morning scrolling through my FaceBook memories I saw it, and I gave thanks to God for being present with me through those five years, on that night, and today. I gave thanks for my son who is still sleeping upstairs in our home. I remembered holding onto the smallest shred of hope. And I realized, again God is so much bigger and more powerful than we are. And it again gave me hope.

It gave me hope not just for my son, me, and our family. It gave me hope because it reminded me that God is ALWAYS present. God is present in this pandemic; God is present in this political divisiveness; God is present in the protests; God is present in hospitals; God is present in our homes full of isolation and pain; God is present in our joys and in our heartbreaks. God is present. Our faith, our faith which is defined as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) is what we can cling to as we navigate the days, weeks, and months ahead.

That phone call could very well have been the last with my son, and I know there are many people who have had that last phone call with a loved one, and it truly was the last. I can’t answer the why of that, but I know with all my heart, God is present in all of it.

I kept scrolling through FaceBook memories and saw that on this day 8 years ago, the Junior High campers and staff gave me the name Mama Doyle. My son was at camp that week…coincidence? Hmmm….

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...