Life is Not a Competition; Faith is Not a Competition

I woke up Tuesday morning and did not want to get out of bed. Nothing particular had happened—just felt like a gerbil in a habitrail—same ole thing day after day—or at least that’s how I felt that day. But the dogs were barking, so I got up, let them out, and laid down on the sofa in the den. Some time passed,

and wouldn’t you know it? Those darn dogs wanted to come back in (read above), so I let them back in and moved to the sofa in the living room.

 

So slight confession here—when Chris got up I pretended I was asleep so he would make the coffee. That seems to be the extent of our change in routine—who makes the coffee.

 

I started to get up and thought to myself, “I don’t want to get out of my pj’s today. I just want to lounge around doing what I want.” But then I remembered…

 

August 1^st I joined a Facebook group One for One Hundred. Actually, I joined the group in 2016, and that year I completed it, but I recommitted on August 1^st. Basically, you commit to walking or running at least one mile every day for 100 days straight no exceptions and I had done it—even the day I had an infection. I really didn’t want to do it on Tuesday AND I really didn’t want to be a failure AND I’m a little competitive with myself and others. Not a good combination.

 

I got up and moved to the basement (where there is not another sofa to lie down on). I looked over at the ironing and realized I could iron and be on the zoom calls I had scheduled for that day (truth y’all, ask the Bible study group). Two and half hours later after ironing 37 napkins, 9 pillowcases, 7 sheets, and 4 shirts, I was finished.

 

I was finished ironing and I was finished beating myself up because I didn’t want to and ultimately wasn’t going to complete my mile that day.

 

Here’s where I am—at least for today. Accountability groups are good, lifesaving even (think AA, NA, etc), they are meant to build up and support. Being a part of this accountability group was not doing that for me—it did once, but now instead of being encouraging and supportive, it made me grumpy, self-loathing, and competitive in an unhealthy way. It was standing in the way of me listening to the still small voice (what I consider the Holy Spirit) inside of me saying, “It’s okay. Take this day to do what you need to fill your soul.”

 

While ironing I thought about the upcoming readings for this Sunday. Romans 12:3-4says, “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all members have the same function.” Faith is not a competition. Life is not a competition. How we live our lives of faith is not a competition. We do not have a measuring stick or measuring cup that proves one person is “more Christian, more Christ-like, more holy, more worthy.”

 

Yes, we are to hold one another accountable, but that does not include making judgments. There is a difference. We each have a calling, a function God is calling us to. For some people it might be marching in protests, for others, it might be stocking food pantries, for others, it might be spending hours in prayer, for others, it might be extending hospitality to all, for others, it might be participating in studies, and the list goes on. There is no particular way that makes someone a “real” Christian.

 

Tuesday the meanie little voice in my head (I call her Darlin’ Devil) was telling me if I didn’t do that mile I wasn’t a “real” runner, a “real” competitor, a “real” athlete. It’s a good group, with good people, and there was a time it was a positive in my life, but not now, and that’s okay.

 

Let’s commit to not being the Darlin’ Devils voice in each other’s head. Let’s support where we are each called because we are all real people created in the image of God and loved unconditionally, no exceptions.

#wecandohardthings #bossgoals

So yeah, I have had a goal that was only semi-public--until now. I posted a little about it in vague fashion using hashtags such as #bossgoals #funrunfriends #icandohardthings and #runningwithegc --the last when a very dear friend who has been a part of my journey joined me in training (virtually).

Some time ago my son started his journey of addiction and recovery. When I joined his journey, I told him if he could stay sober for a year I would run a marathon. (That was pre-total knee replacement.)

The truth is I wanted to run a marathon, and I needed an incentive. He didn't. He didn't like to run, and he never really responded to my challenge (which is another lesson learned--getting into recovery is not about someone else and what that person considers incentive, an important consideration, but I digress from my particular point). Fast forward and I'll say it in a nutshell--I had total knee replacement; I believed I would never run again: I started running again but it was very slow going; Boss started running; Boss started liking to run; we started talking about running--we agreed to run the Derby Half Marathon together at the end of April.

That was five weeks ago. At that point I had not even completed running a mile. I dug in and started training. There were days I really didn't think I would be able to continue training, and I was discouraged. I had to remind myself this was a mini marathon and not a sprint. People reached out to me and offered encouragement--people who didn't even know this story and why I was doing what I was doing. They just knew I was trying to reach a goal. It didn't matter what they knew or didn't know. How they responded, that's what mattered. Just like there have been people who have reached out and supported Boss on his journey that is a marathon and not a sprint. Last Friday I ran (with a few walks thrown in) 7 miles, and people celebrated with me. Today Boss celebrates an anniversary.

Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Today the world is living through unprecedented times brought on by a pandemic. Today I know the half marathon won't happen in April--it's been cancelled. Today I've had to rethink what that goal looks like. Today I have been sad and angry I won't get to run on April 25--or rather I won't get to run in the actual race--I mean I already had the instagram post planned in my head of Boss and I crossing the finish line (or him waiting for me to cross the finish line) with big smiles and a great big hug. And today, just a few minutes ago, all those things converged.

It's St. Patrick's Day--how many times have you heard or read, "Luck of the Irish?" Well I can tell you this--training to run a half marathon in a short time and more importantly living a life of recovery takes anything but luck. It takes hard work; it takes sacrifice; it takes commitment; and it takes a community of support.

Right now many of us are dealing with many disappointments and hardships resulting from this coronavirus pandemic. Events and schools and churches and businesses are closing. We are socially distancing. Anxiety rises and falls with no warning. This is all SO. FREAKING. HARD--just like training for a mini marathon less than a year after knee replacement or being in recovery. We don't know what we're doing from day to day or what we will be thinking or feeling. I believe it's okay to name and honor those things we have lost or are having to delay and the feelings we have around them. I believe we are going to be required to do really hard things and there will be times we feel defeated and discouraged. But I also believe we can do it. I believe we can come together to sacrifice, to challenge, to support, to encourage, and to love. I believe each day we will get better, we will be better and the way we respond and love each other will outlive this virus. I believe Boss and I will run a half marathon someday. We're still training.

But here's the other truth--there are people who will struggle more than others, who will face more hardships, more challenges, and that is a hard reality I don't want to face. I don't have an answer but I have to face it. And I what I can do is this. I can promise to love and respect and value others. I can promise I will treat others fairly and compassionately and recognize I don't know their story and that's okay--that's not important--THEY are important.

I believe there is nothing--not a virus, not addiction, not a challenge, there is absolutely nothing that can separate us from the love of God. I believe we won't get through because of luck, but rather because of God's love, mercy and forgiveness for us, because of our commitment, hard work, support of others, and lots and lots of love shared. Love shared all around--love for God, love for ourselves and love for others.

#wecandohardthings
#postedwithpermission

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.

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.

I'll Always Be the Little Sister, But...

I left for Charlotte determined not to be vulnerable--determined not to expose myself--determined not to share.  Seriously I have no idea why (therapist anyone?).  My sister and I have always been close--best friends in fact, but for whatever reason my defenses were up--perhaps that should read my insecurities were up.

I suppose I could psychoanalyze myself (as though I don't do that enough already)  I have been feeling vulnerable, insecure, and frankly somewhat (totally) like a failure.  While we have always been close, I have also always felt a bit inadequate.  There I've said it--admitting it is the first step right?

I suppose some of it comes from childhood.  I know it wasn't intentional, but it was always made clear that Meredith was the petite one (read the one whose body and therefore her worth just a tad bit better).  I guess that translated in my adolescent and then never quite grown up mind into she was "better" overall.  And I've spent years trying to measure up.  (I think my therapist may get to retire on me...)

The thing is she is amazing.  I know that, and I'm incredibly proud of her.  She's a dedicated athlete,

an amazing school counselor, an advocate for her children, a supporter of her husband, a true friend, a beautiful hostess, a great cook--anyone else feeling inadequate now?  Because of my past few months I felt, well inadequate--not enough,  and I didn't want her to see that--let's be honest, I don't want to see much less feel that, so up went the walls of protection--the barriers of my soul.

Monday afternoon and night was going so well.  We were having fun.  I was laughing, relaxing--turning into the cared for little sister.  The next morning she told me she was going to take off around 11 for sister time.  My heart was so full of love but my mind was screaming, "NO!!  You might have to tell her something." I even told her she didn't have to--she did anyway.

She came home; we went to lunch with my brother-in-law (who by the way is hysterical which also isn't good because I could feel myself relaxing and I didn't need to relax--had to keep my game on) but all seemed to be going fine.  While getting ready for a walk; I checked my email--big mistake.  I had an email about which I will not share, but an email that shook me to my core.  I debated telling her I was sick and couldn't go.  Nope that wouldn't work, so I promised myself I wouldn't say a word about it.  I would hold it together.

We started walking with Colonel (maybe that was the problem we had God's gift with us (Colonel--A Gift from God), but she kept asking about me!!  "Shut up," I was screaming in my mind, "Just tell me about you.  Let's talk about you.  I don't want to talk about me!!!"  I kept darting and trying to change the subject and she kept asking--she was like a dog with a bone....Suddenly before I could stop myself I spewed the whole email story and all the other parts of my life that feel so out of control. And she just listened..then she asked questions, she tried to understand.

We walked five miles sharing our lives--I tried to explain mine and what the future might hold for me.  (Hard to do when I don't really know...) She asked questions, offered her perspective and it was a good walk.  And I didn't cry-BONUS!!!  (See not crying proves I'm not vulnerable....how many appointments do I need?!?!?)

Home and hanging on the porch.  Chris called--and I began sobbing.  See it's all HIS fault!!!  I quickly left the porch and hid in my room with the sink running so she wouldn't hear me.  We talked, he tried to calm me down--I hated it for him.  I knew he felt powerless.  When I returned to the porch she HAD TO ASK, "You okay?"  I tried to pretend I was and then the walls like Jericho came tumbling down..."I'm wondering if I should revoke my vows.  I don't know if I'm worthy to be a priest, if I should be a priest."  There it was my deepest fear and my feelings of complete brokenness. I plopped myself on the couch completely fatigued and defeated and ready for her shock. "Well," she said as she casually walked by as though I had just told her I had a hangnail, "I don't think that's your choice.  Seems to me God called you.  We all know God called you, so I guess that's not an option." No drama, no shock just validation.  Validation as my sister and I believe in that moment validation from God. And with those words I knew, while I might feel less than that is not how she sees me. Beyond that I knew God didn't see me that way.

I'll always be the little sister, and honestly who am I kidding--I'll still have feelings of inadequacy; I'll still feel like I have to measure up, but I'm working on it.  Everything didn't heal immediately, the email is still haunting me; I am still terrified about the future; I still have doubts about my faith; I will still worry I'm not a good enough mother, a good enough wife, a good enough friend, but for that moment--actually for two days in Charlotte I felt more than enough.  Meredith believes I am enough and through her I was reminded that so God does too.

Sometimes walls are important but we all need places where there are no walls, where we can let ourselves be totally vulnerable, totally exposed, and totally loved--I found that one of my places is in Charlotte--where's yours?

*added disclaimer--I read a blog this morning from a dear friend who said play-by-play blogposts are usually boring.  My narcissistic side immediately went to, "She's talking about me." and then I panicked as I was writing this...I did it anyway--play-by-play.  I consider it a form of therapy--free therapy!  

Colonel--A Gift from God

It was definitely the beginning of a terrible week--you know the kind of week when you are on your therapist couch starting your session with, "Let me be clear, I am not suicidal but I just want to disappear." (Having been a therapist I'm well aware of the key words that can send a therapist to the phone dialing 911).  Anyway, it was the way my week started and by Wednesday it didn't seem to be getting better.

I had a board meeting for Central Louisville Community Ministries--a board I love serving, a ministry about which I am passionate, and made up of board members I have grown to love. Surprisingly I didn't want to go, but I put on my big girl panties and a smile and headed downtown.  I walked into the library and was greeted by a precious puppy.  "Who's is he?" I think I shrieked like a preteen girl at a boy band concert.  "He can be yours." Linette said in a joking manner, "I found him at a gas station this morning.  He'd been there 3 days and I think he was abandoned.  I have to find a home for him."  I have no idea what came over me, we have two dogs, but I took his picture and sent it to the children, "Should I bring him home?" All responded "YES!" (Boss did say, "I don't think Daddy is going to like this." Did I mention Chris was out of town?)  I think I conducted the board meeting okay, but my mind was elsewhere--I kept being drawn to the puppy--I needed this puppy.

After the meeting I offered to take him outside.  As I was walking him around the parking lot I ran into a man I had served in my previous position, "Preacher Lady," he said (I'll admit it, I LOVE the group of men who call me Preacher Lady and I really love the title) "Who's dog is that?" "I'm trying to decide if my husband will divorce me if I bring him home.  He was abandoned." I answered. "Preacher Lady, you have to take him home.  You have to help him like you helped me."  And that sealed the deal.

As Linette was getting his stuff out of her office, she told me how she'd been having a grumpy morning and this puppy changed her day.  He's been a gift from God.  I knew how she felt.

I took him home and we all immediately fell head over heels in love with him.  He was incredibly sweet and loving.  After a flurry of texts between the children they agreed to name him Ralphie.  For the first time in days I felt light, happy, and hopeful.  He followed me everywhere but he especially loved Caroline.  He slept in her room and if her door was closed he laid outside of it until she came
out or I let him in.

I took him to the vet silently praying he wasn't chipped (he wasn't).  I looked at Craig's list and in the paper to see if anyone was looking for him.  The vet assured me she thought he was abandoned and had been for some time--he was slightly emaciated.  She estimated he was 5 or 6 months old.  

Chris got home and reality set in.  "We simply cannot have four teenagers and three dogs."  I knew he was right but my heart didn't.  "Can we keep him until I find him a good home?" (I didn't define what I considered a "good home."  I'm sneaky like that!)  "Yes," but he has to go, "Or we can get rid of Bobby."  (Bobby is Caroline's dog and definitely not Chris' favorite.)

I texted my sister-in-law who had been considering getting a dog.  She was out of town but said she'd

bring the boys over when she got home and maybe she'd take him if he was good with them.  (I knew he would be--he was so gentle with the toddler.  He even let her boss him around--kind of like Boss--that girl wraps people around her finger....)

That weekend my sister called.  Sanders, her dog of 13 1/2 years was dying and she was incredibly sad.  She was home alone with him for the weekend.  She took him to the vet and they told her it was time--she set the appointment, went home and cried.  "I don't know why I'm asking you this and I haven't even asked Bob, but can I please have the dog you found?"  (We Kanto girls have this habit of not asking our husbands...)  I told her I had already offered him to my sister in law but if she decided no he was hers.

I texted Jenn and told her if they didn't want him I had a second option and I told her the story.  She responded, "I think it's clear; he needs to go there."  (Have a I mentioned I have the most loving, compassionate, wonderful sister-in-laws in the world?  I hit the sister-in-law jackpot!) It was settled and the Sherrills began fighting over names--their story but they settled on Colonel in honor of Sanders who had been named for Colonel Sanders.

My children, however, were not happy.  Boss, "How much more work can it be for you to have another dog?"  Well he did get it right who would be doing the work--but I knew in my heart we had to let him go, and I knew that the joy he brought me he would bring to them.  We made a plan for me to drive him to Charlotte a couple of weeks later.

Later that week Caroline was sent home from school with concussion symptoms.  She was miserable and lonely--Ralphie/Colonel remained by her side.  I really began believing he was and is a gift from God--he was right where he needed to be for all these people who needed to feel unconditional love, who needed to be uplifted, who needed hope.

I drove him to Charlotte--they were in love.  I got to watch my beautiful athletic niece play lacrosse which I loved--they lost, which I hated.  She was so upset-- Colonel loved her through it.  He now sleeps with her. It may sound corny but I see Colonel as a connection between cousins.  And y'all know how I feel about cousins.  (A Letter to Gangan After Cousin's Weekend, Cousin's Weekend--Where Wearing Lipstick and Mascara at the Same Time Means You're Overdressed, Cousin's of the Heart--to name a few!)

Last night at dinner we were telling Bob about the vet visit--(the vet had also fallen in love with him and offered to take him home) he's closer to 8 months which means puppy chewing stage is over; he's springer spaniel/australian shepherd mix which means no shedding; he's mostly housebroken.  Bob, "I just can't believe how lucky we are with this dog--it's like it is..." "A gift from God," Meredith interrupted.

I'm sitting here alone in their kitchen Colonel curled up at my feet.  I'll be leaving in a couple of hours--leaving without Colonel.  I have to admit, I'm glad no one is home.  I'm pretty sure I'll shed a few tears. He brought comfort and love to me when I needed it; he brought comfort and love to Linette when she needed it; he brought comfort and love to Caroline when she needed it; and now he is bringing love and comfort to my sister's family right now when they need it most and for years to come; I truly believe he is a gift from God.  I'll shed a few tears, my heart will hurt a bit, and I'll give thanks to God for the gift of Colonel--a gift I needed.  I'll also give thanks for the gift God has given to my sister and her family.  And then I'll drive away leaving Colonel to love them for me knowing he is right where he needs to be.  He's home--Colonel is home.

Palm Sunday at Big Boy

I'd say this post is a confession except that Merriam-Webster defines confession as:

1. a written or spoken statement in which you say that you have done something wrong or committed a crime 
2. the act of telling people something that makes you embarrassed, ashamed, etc.
3. the act of telling your sins to God or to a priest

I committed no crime; I perhaps should be embarrassed and there is a slight tinge of it but not enough for the full definition, I don't believe I committed a sin even though I am a priest.  But here it is, our family didn't go to church today--we had Palm Sunday at Big Boy.

Truth is, we planned to go to church.  But this morning when I got up and started waking the children, it wasn't going well.  Caroline really couldn't go because of the stimulation (concussion regulations), Boss has been working so hard and late and has to work again today--he was beat, and William, well he's just tired from long days of lacrosse and late nights studying.  Perhaps those aren't good reasons.  They are certainly not reasons I ever thought I would allow to be used in our home, but I did.  

Chris has been traveling non-stop; Boss has been working non-stop; and I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my sister and then my mother (where I am looking forward to going to Tenebrae and Maundy Thursday service) before being joined at the beach by Chris and only 2 of our children for Easter. (Boss is going to the beach with his girlfriend's family--developmentally appropriate but heartbreaking for a Mama; and Caroline is going to New York with a friend--again appropriate but sad.)  We haven't all been together as a family for weeks, and it won't happen again for weeks.  (Don't remind me SK wasn't here, I try to forget that and just live in Katherineland during these memories when all four children are around the table preferably in matching smocked jon-jon's and bishop dresses--instead we were all in sweatpants, sweat shirts and baseball caps.)

So we decided to go to Big Boy.  I will admit I pouted for a few minutes and said I wasn't going. Truth, yes I missed Palm Sunday.  I love the liturgy, and I love our community of faith.  I miss sitting with my family in the pew something we cannot often do anymore; we could have today.  But I also believe that while churches everywhere were re-enacting Jesus riding into Jerusalem, waving palms and chanting "Hosanna", Jesus was also present around our table at Big Boy.  This was one of those times spending time in relationship was more important than the "rule" of going to church.  Chris and I will spend many Palm Sundays over the next decades going to church, more Sundays than we will spend sitting around a breakfast table with our children sharing our lives, laughing and loving.

So, no, this isn't a confession.  This is just the truth of how we spent our day.  I suspect this will become one of those stories our family tells for years to come, probably every time we are getting ready for Palm Sunday services (and perhaps one our children will swear us to secrecy about so their children don't use it against them) "Remember that Palm Sunday Mama and Daddy let us skip church and just go to Big Boy?" We'll all smile remembering that day and the love around the table.  

Sometimes I Make Grammar Mistakes

Yesterday morning Boss stood in the doorway sharing with me a personal story about a good friend.  He was asking about having the friend over and explaining to me, "Him and I have been talking.." I interrupted, "You mean he and I," Boss's eyes glazed over his face fell.   "Never mind," he said as he began to walk away. "I'm sorry," I quickly said hoping I hadn't ruined the moment but recognizing there was a good chance I had, "please finish telling me."  I guess he took my apology because he did finish, but when he left for school my heart hurt.  I had just done to him exactly what had recently been done to me, and the pain and anger that had pulsated through my veins the night before resurfaced, but this time shame was added to the mix.

I had written a post, very emotional hard to write post (Who Cares if You're in a Sorority? ).  It was a post that stirred up deep pain for me on many levels and for many reasons.  I also wasn't sure it wouldn't also stir up pain for SK, and I would rather drive across a bridge with the windows rolled up and the car full of birds (two of my huge phobias) than cause my children pain. And, I made a typo--"Your" instead of "You're".

Not long after posting the blog I received a text from a good friend.  She was outraged someone had called me out on my grammar on facebook instead of sending me a private message.  I went back and looked and yep, it was there.  I admit, at first I wasn't hurt or angry--just numb.  I wish that had lasted, but the emotion that writing had created could not be contained and this pain mixed with that and hit me with an intensity I didn't understand. Added to the already potent concoction of pain was embarrassment and worse shame.  I did know the difference; I had made a mistake; and I was publicly called our for that mistake.  Was correcting my grammar really more important than what I had to say?  I understand that just because I think what I had to say was important doesn't mean it was to others, but what happened to saying nothing? Was correcting my grammar really more important than me?

I was an English major from one of the top English departments in the country.  I know my grammar--I have been accused of being a grammar natzi.  My daughter, who's in the same English department and ten times the student I was, still sends me her papers to edit.  I spend good hard earned money having William tutored in grammar--I get it's important.  But...sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes are made in a moment of passionate writing or story telling and sometimes they are made because my typing is not as good as my grammar. Sometimes they might even be made because I don't know.

I do believe the comment to me was in some way meant to be funny--or maybe not.  I deleted it (per the advice of my therapist--yep I was so upset  I texted her).  I can't, however, stop thinking. What if I really didn't know the difference between "you're" and "your"?  What if Boss really didn't know he should say "he and I" instead of "him and I"?  There are people, good people who don't.  I know some of these people, and some are the wisest and the kindest people I have ever met.  Would I really want to correct their grammar?

I believe there is a time and place to correct grammar.  I believe there is a time and place to correct a lot of things.  I believe in rules and following them.  But I also believe in loving people despite their mistakes.  I believe that sometimes our choice of times for corrections seems to glorify rules over relationships.  And I don't believe public humiliation for mistakes is ever the right way to make corrections.  (I also recognize that sometimes disagreement can be interpreted as humiliation and that is not what I am referring to here. Disagreement can be transformative.)

As we head into Holy Week I am reminded that Jesus always placed relationship over rules.  Yes Jesus made corrections (John 8:1-11), but never causing embarrassment or using shame. He also did not say rules weren't important or should be completely ignored (Matthew 5:17), but caring for others, loving others--loving those people others saw as less than, not as smart as, or weak--that is what he did--regardless of the rules.   (Mark 3:1-6; Matthew 12:10)