A reflection on Ordination

Sarah Katherine invoking the Holy Spirit

I was asked prior to Ordination if I would write about the experience for this edition of the CalvaryConnection.  I agreed having no idea what I would write but thinking somewhat arrogantly that I’d have plenty to say and would be able to say it easily and eloquently.  That has not been the case—so much so that I’m past deadline turning this article into the editorial board.  But I have tried to write it and have written it many times in my head and on paper, and yet none seem adequate or able to fully express what I felt that day and today.  And so I have trashed all those, and I ask to speak to you from the heart.  I want to be as honest and open about this experience as I possibly can whether or not it is poetic and elegant.  I won’t take you back to the day fifteen years ago when I first heard God call me into ordained ministry, but I would like to take you back to the week prior to Ordination.

            Beginning on Sunday, I started re-reading the vows that I would soon be making, and by Monday evening I was in a state of panic.  I was very ready to say I couldn’t do it.  I didn’t feel worthy or prepared.  And so I called the Bishop to set up an appointment and tell him so.  My mind kept saying, “Who do you think you are responding to these vows? You can never live into or up to them.”  Fortunately he didn’t call me back right away but rather I spent all week thinking, praying, and conversing with close clergy friends.

            Thursday morning the Bishop responded to my request, and truly God bless him; he sat with me for an hour and a half in his office as I wept and told him all the reasons I couldn’t do this.  I told him my fears of failure, of not living up to my call, and of becoming cynical and/or arrogant.  I told him I feared putting my family in the spotlight, and I told him I didn’t want to fail the church or the people I served.  It was truly one of the most pastoral times I have ever experienced.  Bishop White did not take my doubts lightly, nor did he feed into my anxiety.  Instead, he sat and he listened.  And then he offered me these words, “It is not about living into them 100% of the time.  It is about faithfully trying to live into them and when you don’t, asking forgiveness.”  And he prayed with me.

            Friday was a whirlwind.  There are few times in your life when those you love most in the world from all parts of your life gather in one place.  By Friday they were coming in, by car and plane.  I was and am eternally humbled and grateful that all these people came in the midst of the busyness of this month.  Thirty six family members and close friends descended upon Louisville.  Some of these people hadn’t seen one another in 19 years—since our wedding.  There was laughter, love and catching up (and a production of Beauty and the Beast in which Caroline played a role along with dinner out for 26.) 

           

Typical Caroline

Saturday morning felt so much like the morning of my wedding.  I knew it was a day that would change my life, and yet there seemed to be nothing to do.  So, I did laundry, made breakfast, and arrived at the church far too early—early enough to get in everyone else’s way.  As we lined up for the processional I held both my sons hands and shook like a leaf.  Right before we entered the

church the Bishop asked, “You holding up okay?”  To which I responded, “You know the day of my wedding on our way down the aisle Daddy said there was a limo waiting outside if I wanted to run.”  In his pastoral way, Bishop White just smiled and began singing.

            So what did it feel like?  It did in many ways feel like my wedding day.  I entered the church and saw so many people who I loved and who loved me.  People I knew would be there and people I didn’t.  My knees almost gave way when I saw a new friend smiling at me because I knew she was missing her son’s basketball tournament to be there and we’ve only been friends for a few short months.  I saw Calvary parishioners, St. Mark’s parishioners, friends from the past, my children’s friends, and my family.  And although my doubts did not dissipate, I was held up knowing that these people believed in me and believed in my call; their presence said so.  As a community of faith we are called to lift one another up, to carry one another’s burdens, and to love one another faithfully and unconditionally.  I am so proud, honored, and humbled to be part of this community of faith.

           

The service was phenomenal.  Honestly, I cannot wait to see the video because I was so affected by each and every part that I know I missed some things.  A highlight for me was receiving a high five from my son after I signed my declaration.  That act said so much—it said I love you, I accept you, I believe in you, and I believe in your call.  In that moment a high five was just as holy as receiving the Bible.  It’s a lesson to be remembered—the love of God and community comes in the grandiose, but it also comes in the simple, everyday acts.  The ordinary becomes holy in the presence of God. 

            I think I began crying at the beginning of the service and didn’t stop.  It has been a long journey—a journey filled with mountains and valleys.  And in these moments it all came together.  All the fear and the doubts united with the love and peace of God, and it was sacred and it was real. 

           

In true and complete transparency I will share with you one of my greatest fears.  Perhaps because I am “older” and have worked in churches for many years, I have seen the good, the bad, and the ugly.  As I told the Bishop, “If that’s what’s going to happen to me, I don’t want it.  I don’t want to change who I am as a person, a mother, a wife, and a friend.  I love being a Deacon and serving others-I never want to lose that.  But, I so strongly feel called to the celebration of the sacraments.  I need to do this.”  The Ordination service spoke to these fears—there are many churches who would

not have “allowed” the full participation of my family members, who would have balked at a preacher from outside the Diocese (much less the country), who would have ignored those from other denominations.  But this community not only welcomed everyone, but you also lifted us all in prayer, understood the importance for each of us, and most importantly you told us so.  The presence of the Holy Spirit was powerfully felt.

            One final aspect to highlight—that of the laying on of hands.  Was it heavy?  Yes. Over 20 priests laid their hands on my head at the same time—very heavy.  Another gift I have of being “older” is knowing so well the clergy in this Diocese.  I count them some of my best friends.  And so yes, their hands were heavy—

the heaviness said to me you are taking on a huge vocation that will not always be easy.  A vocation where you will sometimes feel weighed down by it all, and it will bring you to your knees.  But in those hands I also felt the caresses of friends who loved me and who would continue to love me.  Hands that said, “When you feel the weight, we are here your colleagues and your friends, and we will lift you up.” Hands that would be available to clasp mine in prayer.

            I’m never quite certain how to respond to “congratulations” or “do you feel different?”  I know that I alone did not do this; I alone in fact, did very little.  As my dear friend Father Christopher Halliday said in his sermon, in his Gospel, John writes, “you did not choose me, no I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit.”  Fr. Christopher said, “John is very clear that in our faith journeys it is God who calls us, it is God who chooses us for ministries; it is God who initiates the process and hopefully we recognize and respond.”  Congratulations do not belong to me—do I feel different?  Yes, how I cannot explain—not weighted but not weightless.  I feel different I think because I said yes to the identity that God called me to say yes to.  The Holy Spirit clothed me on Dec. 8 with the ministry to which I was called.  God called and I responded.  I ask for your continued prayers, support and friendship as I continue to try to live into this calling, and you will be in mine—my prayers and my heart.  I am truly blessed that Calvary is the church to which I have been called as I begin the ministry of my priesthood. 

             

Magic Hands

I'm sitting here this morning trying to write my sermon.  But after the shootings yesterday at Sandy Hook Elementary School, everything I had planned to say no longer seems, well, right.  I'm trying to figure out how to talk about what happened because it has to be talked about; it has to be named.  And yet I have no words.  Having no words is not easy for me--

This may seem simple and trite, but here's what keeps going through my mind.  I'm reflecting back over this week, my first week of being an ordained priest or as some call it "getting the magic hands."  My family has always asked when I would get the mojo (I know completely sacrilegious and inappropriate, perhaps my bishop will never see those words).  "Hands" that is the word that continues to resonate in my mind.

See this week I went on Mommy strike.  I felt that my children were becoming unappreciative and entitled, and so I stopped doing some of the things I normally do like waking them up by bringing a tray of hot chocolate and/or coffee to their bedside.  It was an act of love, an act of servant hood, an act I deeply loved doing.  I have hated not doing it this week.  I have missed doing it this week--each time I bring them their mugs, I gaze down at their sleeping heads and pictures of time fly through my head.  I see them at all stages of their lives sleeping peacefully in my home, under my roof--where I can see them, touch them and hear them breathe.  And I know all too soon they will begin one by one to not be here as they move onto the next phase of their lives.  And so in an attempt to "help them" develop into caring compassionate adults, I stopped my morning ritual.

Last night while watching the news I thought to myself, "how many of those parents would give anything to take a mug of hot chocolate to their sleeping babies, to gaze down on them and remember the past and look with anticipation to the future.  How many of them wouldn't care if their children acted spoiled as long as they were still in their homes and not slaughtered in a school."  And I wept.  I wept for the parents, for the children, and for all parents and children.  And I wept for how hard it is to parent, for how hard it is to say no to our children.  And I wept for parents who do their very best and either they don't feel good enough or society tells them their not.  I wept for those parents who have lost children and for people who have never had them, for parents who did everything they knew how to do, and still life for their children didn't turn out the way they wanted.  And I began to struggle--what is all this teaching me?  How can I learn from this, should I just forget my strike?  Should my hands once again bring my children their mugs no matter how they behave?  And then I thought and am still thinking about the consequences of that....

I want to be clear that I am making no judgments on parenting--shoot I think the idea of being on strike means not ironing their sheets when I change them--but I do wonder.  I wonder if we want our children to feel so loved and safe and good that we forget that our jobs are also to develop them into caring, compassionate, loving adults.  If we allow behaviors to begin to be fostered because we are afraid--afraid our children won't love us, afraid our children will reject us.  That fear is powerful.  That fear sometimes leads me to give in, to look the other way, to say, "it's not so bad." As one of my closest friends said to me yesterday, "do not give in, remember why you are doing this. Stand up for yourself and tell your kids the truth in love.  You deserve their respect and admiration. 

And so I'm back to "hands".  Yesterday I held my children a little tighter and a little longer even though they squirmed to get out.  And I know many other parents did as well.  I think about what we can do with our hands--we can make mugs of hot chocolate, We can hug our children and other children, we can hug and hold the hands of those that grieve, and we can hold up our hands and stay "stop".  But I think what makes all of our hands magic is that we can use them to pray.  And today I will do just that-as a priest and as a mother; I invite you to do it with me.   Tomorrow I'll think about the hot chocolate.  

Answering God's Call--It's not a choice

Second Sunday of Advent

Year C

2012 December 9

Malachi 3:1-4; Philippians 1:3-11; Luke 3:-16

          Yesterday was beautiful—breathtakingly beautiful.  And in this very place the presence of God was powerfully felt.  The Holy Spirit could be felt moving through the music, the liturgy and through the very people gathered.  I was overwhelmed and emotional (you might have noticed that), but I was also uplifted and energized—terrified but ready to say yes to my vows and ready to begin my ministry as a priest.  I was ready to answer the call God was making to me.  But let me for a moment take you back to where it all began---

          Picture this scene for me if you will—one very early hot and humid July morning in 1997, we were living in  Athens GA,   I was standing in my dining room at the side board changing my newborn son; yes in the dining room at the sideboard which had been converted into a changing table because I couldn’t go up the stairs due to the c-section.  Standing on the chair next to me “helping” was my not yet 2 year old daughter talking non-stop (wonder where she gets that).  My eyes were rimmed with dark circles, my feet were still swollen, I probably hadn’t showered in a day or two; I was covered with the results of a baby with reflux and surrounded by a collection of dirty sippy cups—and all of a sudden I very clearly heard God calling me into ordained ministry.  That night I decided to test this out—not that I had too much time during the day to think about this powerful moment, but occasionally it occurred to me that I might have been hallucinating due to lack of sleep—so that night I said to Chris, “I think I know what I’m supposed to do when the children are grown.”  And he looked at me and said, “Me too—you’re supposed to be a priest.”  And in that moment God was as powerfully present as He was here yesterday.  The Holy Spirit was working in the chaotic ordinariness of our lives just like the Holy Spirit was working yesterday in the extraordinariness of the ordination liturgy. 

          Our Gospel today brings these two together—the ordinary and the extraordinary, the holy and the ordinary—the reading begins by setting the particular time and place; it names 7 very important, very powerful, very well-known political and religious leaders, but it is not these people to whom the word of God came.  No, the word of God came to a simple eccentric nobody, according to world’s standards—to a man living in the wilderness with wild hair and wild looking clothes made of camel’s hair (probably looked a lot like I did on that July morning)—a man subsisting on wild honey and locust—a humble ordinary every man.  The word of God did not come to those who “deserved” it—to those who thought they deserved it, and it did not come to those who had the most power and influence—but rather to John the son of Zechariah, an unassuming man living in the wilderness.  And he responded.

          John responded to his call right where he was in the region around Jordan.  John’s ministry was to a particular place at a particular time and yet that ministry—John’s answering yes to God’s call—changed the world. 

          Now before you sit back and think “whew” I know for a fact I’m not called to live in the wilderness and I’m sure I’m not called into ordained ministry, read the final lines—all flesh.  Yes, that means you.  God is calling each and every one of us—everyone here is called into a ministry at your particular place and at this particular time.  God is calling us all to prepare, to prepare ourselves and to prepare the world.  Today’s passage reminds us that the Kingdom of God is here and yet it is all still to come.  God is still in the process of redemption, and God is calling all of us to participate—God is confronting us, commanding our attention, and demanding our response.

          God is coming to us in the our own wildernesses; in the messiness of our everyday chaotic ordinary lives and challenging us to evaluate our lives, our values and our priorities.  To look at our lives and to see how we are living into our ministries wherever they may be—the office, the home, or school.  How are we living that proclaims the presence of and the coming of the Kingdom of God?  Our first reading talks about refining and purifying—what in our lives needs to be refined so that we are prepared to answer and live into God’s call?

          It is not easy—in our lives there have been, there are and there will be challenges.  The path is not straight; there are valleys to go through and mountains to climb.  There are days we won’t feel like it or days that we will be challenged and feel like the whole world is against us and that God has abandoned us.  Days where we are certain there God has no purpose for our particular life in this particular time.  There may even be days we want to give up—throw in the towel and let the others, those important people do the work.  And in those days, in those wildernesses God is right there with us.  God is with us and pushing us forward.  In the messiness of our every day ordinary lives where bills have to be paid, lunches have to be made, baseboards have to be cleaned, and laundry has to be done, God is demanding that we pay attention and that even in those mundane things we do we remember that we are to be constantly preparing for and living into the Kingdom of God.

          Fifteen years—fifteen years ago I heard God’s call into ordained ministry; fifteen years ago and through mountains of dirty diapers, endless trips to hospitals, thousands upon thousands of lunches made, multiple moves and adjustments, God continued to work.   I can promise you (and there are people here today who can attest to this) that there were many days I wanted to say never mind.  I’ve said it before here, I was perfectly happy being a stay at home mom.  It’s the greatest job in the world.  There were days I was certain that yesterday would never come—the road blocks seemed too many, the work too hard, the challenges too great, but God doesn’t let us say no when He calls.  There is no choice.  And God has chosen each and every one of us into a particular ministry in our own particular places and at our own particular times.  Hear God’s call to you, live into God’s call for you—prepare yourselves, prepare your heart and in that way we will all together prepare the world to receive the love of and the salvation of God.  Amen.

          

The Apocalypse

Year B

Proper 28

Daniel 12:1-3;

Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25;

Mark 13:1-8

To really engage with today’s readings, there is a need to understand the type of literature they are, and more importantly to understand how this genre of literature was used during the time they were written.  You see, these are all apocalyptic literature.  To make sense of today’s readings, we must reclaim the definition and understanding of what apocalyptic literature is and how these passages were understood when they were written, to understand why they were even written.  Tragically these readings and many others along with the term have been high jacked and manipulated—they have been used and abused to breed fear; to teach about a God of judgment and vengeance; a God of exclusion.  These writings, however, were not meant to be that then and they are not meant to be understood that way now.  As difficult as it may be to get our heads around; apocalyptic writing was meant to be comforting, to be revelatory—to reveal an ever present, ever loving God who is working with and through us, who is intimately involved in our lives, in our suffering, and in our joys.  Yes, these writings and other apocalyptic literature are hard, they name hard things, but what they are trying to do is to give meaning to that which seems—meaningless--, to give voice to the anxiety and to remind us—to remind us that God has not abandoned us even when we feel abandoned.  They were written to be a witness to the people then and to us now --a witness of God’s presence in the face of loss and destruction; of anxiety and uncertainty.

          During this time, the people faced a great deal of oppression both from the political forces of the world as well as from division within the church—sounds kind of familiar doesn’t it?  These words were written to bring comfort—it sort of feels like “with friends like this who needs enemies”, but truly they were.  During this time there was a lot going on and the people were filled with anxiety, with dread and with fear.  Cherished institutions ceased to function in meaningful ways, it didn’t make sense—it was the end of the world as they knew it.  And instead of increasing fear as some people would like to do today, these words were written to bring hope—to bring hope in the new beginning that was coming and that we now know did come.

          Hope is another difficult word to fully grasp.  The kind of hope God speaks of is not wishful thinking; it’s not the kind of hope like “I hope I get a nap today.”  No this hope is belief—100% belief that things will be different; it is pure and total faith.  It is the kind of hope Martin Luther King Jr embodied and expressed when he said, “I have a dream”—he didn’t say I have a dream and I hope ya’ll are up to the challenge, I hope it will come true.  That’s the worldly view of hope.  If King had that kind of hope, I’m not sure he would have been able to continue in his fight for justice and equality; to continue to persevere when it seemed so immense and often futile.  But he did have hope.  The hope he had believed that the world could be and should be different even though all the evidence proved otherwise.  King then was the voice, the hope against the violence and oppression that existed then and we as the church can be the hope, the voice who declares another way now.  A way that seems impossible, but we know that with God all things are possible.  We can be the voice that shines the light on-that reveals a new way; a new world—the world that is and is still yet to come.  We can be and must be the voice of that hope; we must be the incarnate here and now pointing to the in breakings of the Kingdom of God—not focusing on the end of the world as some want us to do.  Not focusing on trying to figure out; to calculate when the world will end and who will be in and who will be out.  No, as the church we are called to focus on and to name not the what ifs but rather the what nows.  We are called to stand up and say there can be and is a new world that has arrived and is arriving—a world of mercy and righteousness and equality. 

          We are called to give voice to the voiceless and hope to those who feel hopeless even to and among ourselves.  We must proclaim a hope for and in the Kingdom of God—a time when justice and righteousness will reign completely—a time when disease, cancer, depression, grief and isolation, economic and environmental anxieties, oppression and destruction are no more.  This apocalyptic language is speaking to give us comfort and reminding us that God is faithful—it is not to minimize the truth of the times, but it is to maximize the understanding that God’s activity in the world has been, is and will continue to be present working with and through us.

          I’m going to let ya’ll in on a secret—and I know this will be hard for you to believe, but my children do not always get along.  Sometimes, they fuss and fight, and sometimes they even provoke each other purposefully.  One of my children can just look at the others and gently shake his head in a way that sends the others into orbit.  He knows how to get them, and it works.  I am not advocating sibling conflict, but there is something to be learned from it; how does this child of mine know exactly what will provoke his brother and sisters?  How does he know what will get them going; will get them heated up?  It is simply because he has paid attention; he has noticed that which will aggravate; that which will stir up a frenzy of emotion—that which will get the others actively involved.

          Our epistle today tells us to do just that—to provoke one another to love and good deeds.  Provoking one another does not have to be negative.  To provoke is defined as “stimulate or give rise to; stimulate or incite someone to feel or do something” and that is what we are meant to do as a community of faith.  As a community of faith that gathers; that must gather not only here on Sunday morning, but also throughout the week and throughout the world—the physical and the virtual world  (Giving you permission to access all of your social media),        in our world we are to provoke one another to love and good deeds.  To pay attention and to draw attention to those things in the world that are unjust, destructive, and tragic—our love and good deeds could be as simple as bringing a casserole to a someone facing a time of crisis; it could be handing out hundreds of turkeys, visiting the lonely, or it could be speaking out publically, marching in rallies, questioning the institutions.  But all that we do, that we provoke one another to do must point to the Kingdom of God here and now and the Kingdom yet to come.  It must point to the God of love and compassion and mercy and inclusion.  Our words and actions must say there is another way to live and to be and it is the way of Jesus Christ.  All these people trying to figure out when the world will end and judgment will come don’t seem to understand that through the life and death of Jesus that has already happened.  It has already been the end of the world as we know it, and gradually step by step, bit by bit, the new world is awakening.  Amen

Why I Love All Saints

I love All Saints Sunday although I must admit the love was not immediate--no my love for All Saints grew out of sheer terror.  See, 17 years ago my eldest, Sarah Katherine, was baptized on All Saints Sunday.  The day before, Chris and I sat in on an incredible baptismal preparation class, and I was already overwhelmed by the promises I was about to make on behalf of my child.  That compounded with the All Saints hymns, readings, and sermon about did me in.  Tears streamed down my face as I thought about the enormous responsibility of rearing a child in the faith.  I just wanted a full night's sleep and yet here I was making promises about how I was going to live my life and how I was going to help my child grow in faith.  Two months before when leaving the hospital, Chris and I were laughing that the hospital staff was actually letting us leave with a baby--that's how prepared we felt.  On that Sunday 17 years ago, I was not laughing.

What I missed that day, and what I have learned more and more since helps me to understand why we even celebrate All Saints.  Simply, I didn't need to live in fear that day because we are all a part of the community of saints  Yes I was making some profound promises, but I was making them surrounded by a witness of  many Saints who had gone before, and I was making them within a community of faith that would continue to nurture our family and be our present day saints.

That lesson first became apparent in Athens, GA.  Wednesday morning women's Bible study became my source of community, my place of hope and love.  All the women were wonderful, but two in particular nurtured me, challenged me and loved me through some of the most difficult days of rearing children and coming to grips with an alcoholic mother.  They loved me in spite of my flaws; they loved my children; they encouraged me by sharing their stories of pain and joy as they reared their own children; and they have not left me--both women are still very much a part of my life Saint Betsy and Saint Fran.

I left the womb of Athens and moved onto Pittsburgh where I was again surrounded by a community of saints.  One woman in particular cared for me and loved me again with all my flaws, my youthful arrogance, and my loneliness and pain.  She was rearing three fabulous children who became family to mine.  So many times in the years which have passed, when I was faced with a difficult situation with the children or with friends, I would think "What would Janie do?"  And I was blessed last spring to spend time with my Saint Janie.

Fast forward a few years, and a move to England.  I truly did love living there.  There were challenges (it's very cold); and there was loneliness, but I grew in ways I never imagined I could.  I began the discernment process in England and that process forced me to really look at myself, who I was not only as a wife and mother but as  person called by God into ministry.  There were (and still are) many times, I nostalgically crave those days of being home all day, baking and ironing and volunteering, but this saint never let me stay in the past.  She pushed me, challenged me, and sometimes straight out nagged me to "just get on with it."  When Chris was offered a job back in his hometown of Louisville, I was ready to give up on the process and return to a role I loved, but she wouldn't let me.  She sided with Chris and said that I was not to move back if my process was to stop.  Saint Helena saw me as a loving wife and mother, but more importantly she saw me and forced me to see myself as a child of God.

For these women and so many more, I give thanks.  And that is why I fell in love with All Saints Sunday--it is a day I remember them; I honor them, and I thank them.

Muscat Court

The beginning of my children's lives and the first formation of our family occurred on Muscat Court.  On this small court in a neighborhood on the outskirts of Athens sat four houses, make that homes.  Inside the walls of these homes lived 9 children all within a four year spread.  On this court these children learned to ride their bikes, learned to climb trees, learned to get along, and learned conflict resolution.  On this court these children learned what it meant to share--juice boxes for everyone from anyone's home.  On this court these children learned that to be a neighbor means answering the phone and picking up someone else's child because a parent is tied up at another child's doctor appointment.  On this court these children learned that to have a friend you have to be a friend.  On this court these children learned that sometimes you had to have the hard conversations, but they were done with love and respect, and the friendships continue.  On this court these children learned that the best dinners were those that included everyone contributing and grills in the center of the court.  On this court these children learned that Mommys shared their days and their dreams, reminded each other who they were before and encouraged each other to continue to grow.  On this court these children learned that Mommys and Daddys have good days and bad days but that they continue to live and laugh and love. On this court these children learned to celebrate each others successes and to be a shoulder and a friend for the disappointments that come to us all.  On this court these children learned that you have to be accountable not only to your own family but to those around you, and on this court these children learned that there are many people who will love you AND hold you accountable.  On this court these children learned that one more hour of being together outside was worth the late night bath or even going to bed dirty because you can't recapture this day or these times.  On this court these children learned what it means to respect themselves and others.  On this court these children learned that faith matters and that living your faith matters even more.  This court was empty on Sunday mornings as all four households left to attend four different churches but worshiping one God.  On this court these children learned that not everyone is blessed with the neighbors that become life long friends, and so they opened their hearts and doors to numerous other children who drove to become part of the Muscat Court gang.

From this court I have learned that foundations of faith and family and friendships matter and that even after being gone for 10 years, the lessons I learned on this court continue to resonate.  From this court I have learned that those early foundations of faith and family and friends never leave you; I have learned that these foundations are deep and lasting and that every person who lived and loved and laughed on this court helped to shape who I am and who my children are today.  Foundations matter, friendships matter, family matters, faith matters, and all this I learned from this court.

A Lesson in Living Your Faith

Caroline started a new school this year.  Because of our numerous moves as well as moving schools within Louisville, my children have been the "new kid" 12 times.  They are pretty savvy on how it plays out--in their words, "you're interesting for the first few weeks, and then people either decide they don't like you, they forget you're there and settle into the old and familiar, or they identify you with one group.  Basically it stinks."  So after 12 times, I have also become fairly adept at countering problems.  We host a lot of large get togethers--we've learned if you want to be included you have to stick your neck out there.  It's not easy. We have also tried to instill in our children that you don't exclude anyone; we'd rather have extra people than feelings hurt.  We've tried to instill it in our children, and we even try to live it; we definitely do believe it.  Sometimes I worry because it leaves them feeling confused when others don't respond in the same way.  They don't always understand what I term "playground politics" and I wonder if it leaves them vulnerable.  But we've made a choice, for better or worse.

Thursday Caroline came home from school and told me there were two parties this weekend and she hadn't been invited to either.  In a very matter-of-fact way she said she just didn't understand.  Her understanding (and I do realize she's 12) is that one of the parties included "everyone at the lunch table except her."  I first tried the, "maybe her parents put a limit on the number" angle.  (And of course this could be completely accurate.)  Caroline, "Why would you do that?  You always say if it's going to hurt someone's feelings, what's one more.  Remember when you added 3 people to Christopher's party because they found out? It's just not nice."  How do you explain to a 12 year old that not everyone operates the same way?  Not everyone believes the same thing, and quite possibly they just didn't think about it.  So instead, I sprang into fix it mode and told her to invite people over here.  Stick your neck out there; don't wallow--that's our motive.  Think about who you'd like to be friends with and invite them over; some friendships will stick and some won't, but at least you tried.

So Caroline made a list of girls to invite over, go to the mall and spend the night. Nine seventh grade girls.  I must say as the parent I held my breath as texts were sent out.  What if  no one will come?  What if no one responds?  But they did, and only one couldn't come because she was sick.  When we looked down the list I saw the name of the girl having a party (today actually).  I must have had a look on my face because Caroline said, "I like her even if she doesn't like me, and I don't want her to feel like I do about her party.  It'll be fine Mama."

And that's how I was reminded that living what you believe, living your faith, means doing it it even when it's counter-cultural; even when it means putting your hurt and pain aside to love and accept the other.  Thank you Caroline--