Aunt Betty's Home

We spent the weekend in C'ville for Family Weekend.  I love C'ville, the Grounds, the corner everything--but I particularly love Aunt Betty's home.  It has become for me a symbol...it's a story that stretches decades.

Aunt Betty is my Daddy's step sister; she has been his step sister for 45 years, but he's known her much longer than that.  They both grew up in Norton, Virginia--their parents socialized--they were friends.  After Libby's, Aunt Betty's mother, second husband died and my grandparents divorced, they were married.  None of Libby's and my Pop's children lived in Norton anymore so while I knew and loved Libby, my contact with Aunt Betty, her brother and their families was minimal.

When I became an English major at UVA, my Uncle Irby, Aunt Betty's husband, became my advisor. Aunt Betty graciously accepted my panicked calls trying to track Uncle Irby down to sign my registration forms because once again I waited until the last minute. (This was long before online registration.)  I suspect she began to expect that call because each time she responded, "Yes he's here. Come on over and plan to stay for dinner."  I'd be there within minutes and the table was already set for three.  Over the years I spent time at their home particularly when Mother and Daddy were in town.  Both my graduation celebration and my sister's were held on their terrace.  They were always gracious and loving--genuine and open.  But as life happens our visits became more infrequent (okay I'll be honest I saw her 4-5 times over the last 20 years), and yet when I walked through her door early this fall, missing my Uncle Irby who's been gone for 20 years, she reached out her arms to me as though I had been there just the previous week.

Last weekend I went to Raleigh to bury my beloved Uncle Jimmy  As I wrote, life wasn't perfect for Uncle Jimmy or for me, but we loved each other unconditionally; we were family.  During the days I was there I spent hours talking to both my Daddy's sisters, my aunts.  We talked about the good times, and we also talked about the years of pain.  My grandparents marriage was unhappy, very unhappy.  While there were times of joy, there were more years of silence, confusion, and pain.  It took a toil on my Daddy and my aunts.  It affected their lives and their relationships.  Last weekend we talked about those painful years and times; we shed tears; but we also celebrated the healing and the strength that we all have found.  I got home from that time with my aunts and 24 hours later I left for Charlottesville.

The night before we left I was telling my children all about Aunt Betty and the family they might meet this weekend.  I was trying to explain the relationships; "Aunt Betty is Pop's step sister or bonus sister as we like to call our steps.  She's about 10 years older than Pop and her sons are a little bit older than me but they have children just a little bit older than you."  Caroline looked back at me and said, "Oh great--I'm going to go meet someone who is in our family, who is older than Pop.  I'll fall in love with her, and then she'll die in the next 10-15 years and then I'll be sad, really sad. Thanks Mama."  How do you answer that?!?!?!

We arrived in C'ville and just as she did with me early this fall, Aunt Betty reached out and embraced me, Chris, and each of our children as we walked through the door.  She was heading out to a parade; she stopped, turned around and said, "I'm going to cancel going out right now; I'll go later.  I'm just going to tell my friend my family just got here."  And my heart swelled.  Throughout the weekend we spent lots of time with Aunt Betty, her son Bruce and his partner Nancy.  (I'm just going to call them both cousins--because that's how I view them!) We laughed and told stories; we enjoyed being together; we enjoyed being a family.

As we left yesterday I thought of Romans 8:28 which says, "We know that all things work together for good, for those who love God according to his purpose."  Let me be clear, I don't believe for one minute that God makes bad things happen so that good can come.  But I do believe that God is present in the bad--in the pain and the isolation and the hurt, and I believe God can and does bring hope and reconciliation.  My grandparents divorce, my parents divorce, other divorces, other addictions have brought immense pain to our family, but as I left the house hugging my aunt and hearing her say, "Any time, you hear me.  Any time you are welcome, and I'll call and check on Sarah Katherine tomorrow.  Don't worry about her; I know she's not feeling well.  I'll check."
I saw and felt the good that has come--the good that God has brought from the pain of our family.  The good and the blessing that we have found in our extended bonus family.

Last weekend both my cousin and my aunt asked me independently what I like about being a priest. Knowing how religion has hurt them in the past, I stuttered and spent more time saying what I was glad I didn't do--passing down judgment and being exclusive-than I did expressing what I did like about it.  Their question has haunted me.   This weekend the answer was crystal clear. As a priest, I am invited into people's lives in their most vulnerable times.  I am gifted with hearing people's stories, with journeying with them as they struggle to make meaning of their lives, and with offering myself as a bridge between God and themselves as they seek to mend broken relationships, to reconcile the pain of the world with God's unconditional love and grace.  I get to continually proclaim God's goodness and love.  I try to spend my days recognizing and pointing to God's redeeming love. I love so much what I am privileged to do, but the vow I took that I love the most is to "endeavor so to minister the Word of God and the sacraments of the New Covenant, that the reconciling love of Christ may be known and received."  (BCP, 532)  This weekend Aunt Betty was my priest.

This weekend I saw and felt Aunt Betty's home in a sacramental way.  Aunt Betty's home has become for me an outward and visible sign of God's goodness--of "proof" that all things can work together for good"--of God's love and God's hospitality.  It has become for me a sign of hope and reconciliation and grace and most importantly love--lots and lots of love.

As we left Boss said, "She is the best.  She said I can come back any time even without you.  When can I come back?"  And Caroline added, "Yep just like I said, I'll fall in love with her" and she paused, "but it's all worth it."

My Beloved Uncle Jimmy

Jimmy Jones was in my life from the time I was born--he started dating my aunt that year.  (Clearly 1968 was a very good year...)  He officially became my Uncle Jimmy in 1978, and I couldn't have been a happier 10 year old.  I was so proud he was my uncle and Aunt Susie was my aunt.  They were young and hip and cool, (they called each other by their last names--Jones and Kanto) and most importantly, they paid attention to me.  I wanted everyone to know they belonged to me and I to them, so even several years later when they said I could drop the aunt and uncle I didn't.  Those titles connected me; those titles assured me I belonged.

In the fall of 1980 my cousin Drew was born and Aunt Susie and Uncle Jimmy asked me to go to the beach the following summer to be a Mommy's helper.  That summer changed my life.  I was a basically good kid, made straight A's, worked hard at sports, went to church (two churches every Sunday--a whole other story), mostly got along with my siblings, and rarely talked back to my parents (at least not aloud), but I had a hole.  There was an emptiness in me that I tried to bury, and most of the time did.  That summer exposed that hole and then filled it up.

It's hard to explain that summer---they'll say they didn't do anything but they did.  They talked to me

Emerald Isle 1981

like I was an adult; they took an interest in me; they played cards with me, Uncle Jimmy told me stories (some may have even been true),  and then at night I would lie upstairs in the loft with Drew and listen to them talk and laugh, play the guitar and sing.  They trusted me with their son; they told me I was beautiful, and they made me believe they loved me just because I was me and not because they had to.  They made me believe I was worthy and good.  The previous spring I had an eating disorder--I felt ugly, broken, and unworthy.  That summer I learned there were some people who wouldn't accept that and wouldn't let me accept that either.  The next year was still hard, but remembering that summer and those lessons is part of how I survived.  That summer sealed our relationship; that summer I became their Elvira--Uncle Jimmy never called me anything else for the rest of his life.

Story telling

Over the years I spent time at their home sometimes with my family and sometimes just me.  I loved those evenings of Uncle Jimmy playing guitar and he and Aunt Susie singing.  They introduced me to jazz and blue grass.  At night Aunt Susie and I would lay blankets out on the floor while Uncle Jimmy sang, "Make me a pallet on the floor" with us joining in.  No one can sing Joni Mitchell's "The Circle Game" like my Aunt Susie and every child should have it sung to them accompanied by the guitar when their eyes are struggling to stay open but they want to hear it "just one more time."  They introduced me to many voices including John Prine--a love that would continue and be reignited when I met and fell in love with the next man who played the guitar and sang for me and loved John Prine--I got to marry him.  (And Uncle Jimmy sang Elvira to me at the reception...)

Gangan and Uncle Jimmy

Was Uncle Jimmy perfect?  No--he had his demons.  He had his struggles and his own inner pain.  Uncle Jimmy suffered his first stroke in 2005--far too early for a man with so much life to live.  Uncle Jimmy struggled with faith and in his last years declared himself an agnostic.  After I was ordained he would sometimes send me articles about faith and ask what I thought...he continued to believe in me and to believe I had something to offer.  He continued to love me, to trust me, and to be proud of me.

The core of my theology--my die on the hill theology-- is God loves everyone no exceptions and ALL people regardless of age, sex, race, orientation or anything else are valuable, are worthwhile and deserve dignity and respect.  As I prepare to bury my beloved uncle I am reminded of how much he taught me that very theology when I was an awkward 13 year old with a hole in her heart--I am reminded of how much he lived that way and loved that way.  And I know that he has been granted eternal rest.

Give rest, O Christ, to Uncle Jimmy with your saints, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.  (BCP, 499)

I love you and miss you Uncle Jimmy,
Love, Elvira

Standing on Holy Ground

It was my first wedding I had ever officiated alone (shhh I don't think Luke and Sarah knew that).  I wasn't nervous--I was surprised I wasn't,,  but I realize I wasn't nervous because I believed deep into my heart and soul that these two people were meant to be married and that I was simply a conduit to help make that happen.  God had already blessed their union; God was very present in their individual lives and in their relationship--God, Sarah and Luke were the principal players; I was simply an extra.

It was an intimate gathering--family only.  We hiked into the woods to a clearing where the service was to be.  A small patch of moss was there and as Sarah and Luke stepped onto it, chills ran down my spine and a warmth took over my body.  There was no question; this was holy ground.

With the family gathered around, Sarah and Luke made their vows to one another and to God.  As I pronounced them husband and wife, the sun broke through the branches and a ray of light shone on the newly married couple.  There was no mistake; God was truly and completely present.  God blessed this marriage.

Sarah and Luke had decided they wanted Eucharist.  Not only did they want to have Eucharist, but they wanted to provide the bread and wine.  Eucharist means thanksgiving, and Sarah and Luke wanted to give the gifts in thanksgiving to God for bringing them together and as a gift of thanksgiving to those who had gathered to witness this day.

We hadn't rehearsed the wedding and suddenly as we were exchanging the peace I realized we had no table to use as an altar.  Oddly I didn't panic.  I walked over to the flower girls and whispered I had a very important job for them to do for their Uncle and new Aunt who they clearly loved very much.  These two beautiful girls held the bread and wine as I recited the Eucharistic Prayer.  Their mother, Luke and Sarah's sister-in-law stepped forward to hold my book for me.  As I invoked the Holy Spirit

Invoking the Holy Spirit

I have never been more certain of the power of the Eucharist and the real presence of Christ in the bread and wine.  The girls and I, not trained lay Eucharistic ministers, but two girls who loved their family, joined me as servants of God and we distributed the bread and wine to all those gathered.  I blessed the marriage and we hiked back out.

 I was transformed that day in many ways.  Chris and
 I have always told the children they had to be married in a church--it was non negotiable if we were going to pay for it.  Hypocritically  I often profess that the church is not a building but the people.  That day the hypocrisy evaporated and that profession became more powerful than it ever had before.  The church was gathered; God was present.  Scripture tells us "For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them." (NRSV, Matthew 18:20)  It does not tell us that is only in certain buildings behind certain altars using certain vessels.  Hypocrisy gone--our children can get married where ever they choose; God will be there.

Marriage is a sacrament--an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.  The Book of Common Prayer tells us that, "It signifies to us the mystery of the union between Christ and his Church, and Holy Scripture commends it to be honored among all people."  I have no doubt Sarah and Luke's will continue to be an outward and visible sign for the world.  It will continue to model what the Kingdom of God can and does look like.  Their marriage will transform them and all who they encounter.  It already has.

 I haven't been able to let go of the power of the gathering and I am struck by the idea that we intentionally or not put boundaries and boxes around where God is and where God isn't.  We declare specific places sacred and holy and forget that God created everything and that alone makes all of creation sacred and holy.  What would happen if we treated the world--all of creation including people as if they were sacred and holy?  How would the world be changed?  How would we be changed?  On October 5, 2014 I was changed and for that I give thanks.

Why I Write

When the children were little, I used to tell them stories of when they were even littler.  Then as life went along we had so many things happen to our family that people would often say, "You should write a book, but no one would believe it was real." The children would hear those comments and they joined the chorus of "you should write a book."  So I told them I would someday.  Lesson--do not tell children under the age of 8 that you will do something one day unless you want to be asked EVERY day if today is the day.

Anyway, I started keeping a list of incidents that could perhaps go into a book.  One of the things I love about our family is that we can make even the most serious things humorous.  I was gifted with children who roll with things and make life an adventure of fun even during those times we could drown in despair.  (Like the time Caroline was in the hospital with a dog bite, they wanted to see how high they could raise the bed and then lift the head and fee to see if they could fold her in.  Yes maintenance had to be called.  Or when SK broke her arm and Boss decided to pull the fire alarm at the orthopedist office--yep everyone evacuated into the rain...And just so it doesn't sound like they are always the culprits--the time I forgot to pay the water bill; we went to the beach for 10 days and came home to no water (on a Saturday)  So Chris and I loaded them back into the car and told them we were going on a destination unknown adventure.  We drove to Atlanta, stayed in a hotel with an indoor pool, and explored Fernbank.  And so began the tradition of Doyle's Destination Unknown Adventures.)  And they kept asking about the book....

When blogging began I had a brilliant idea--or so I thought.  I really knew they just wanted to see they're name in print; I knew I would forget all these adventures if I didn't record them better, and thus  Growing Up Doyle was birthed.

When I was called into ministry in August of 1997 (God was very patient with timing) I really felt that my calling was to help people find the Holy in the ordinary.  I have always journal ed and I started writing on the computer which led me to consider adding it to my blog.  The trouble was the subjects overlap but there is a definite difference in tone.  SK began calling me Madre; I decided to write a different kind of blog; and the first entry back in 2008 was written---What's in a Name?  Over the years I have blogged sometimes regularly, sometimes not so much, but it has become part of my life--part of my spiritual and my "ordinary every day" life.

There are times I feel insecure and arrogant.  Posting them on facebook took courage--hard to believe I'm sure.  But I felt like who was I that anyone would care about what I wrote?  Who would criticize what I wrote?  Who would think I thought I was holier than thou?  I resisted, but eventually I did it--that still small voice commanded it.  I'm glad I did.  I have been so gifted from so many people.  People have entered or reentered my life and shared their stories with me--stories of joy, of pain, of broken hearts, and of reconciliation.  Some people I know in "real" life and some I only know in the virtual world, but all have touched me and honored me with allowing me to be one of the keepers of their stories.  I hold them all in prayer and give thanks for the blessings they have bestowed upon me.

And so I continue to write--for me and for anyone whose life may be touched, for anyone who may need a place to know they aren't alone.  I'm still worried I'll be considered arrogant; I'm still insecure about what I have to offer, despite all that, I'll continue to write.

I believe God's image is in everyone, I think....

I believe we are all, every single person, created in the image of God.  I say I believe that; I think I believe that; I want to believe that; and yet there are more times than I'd like to admit that I don't act like I believe that.  And that's just with people in my everyday life....

Last night during our 5 o'clock service I was reflecting on part of the Baptismal Covenant.  "Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?" (BCP, 305)  ALL persons it says-not just those people in whom God's image is easy to see.  Not just in those people where I want to see it.  Further, the question asks us to seek and serve--to make the effort, to work to see Christ in all persons.  I'm not sure I want to do that; I don't know that I want to admit God's image is in all of us.  And I certainly don't want to have to put any effort into finding it in those people who hurt me or those I love or anyone else.  But, if I truly believe God's image is in all of us than that means it is also in people who do evil things and I am called to try to find it--that means God's image is in Jesse Matthews or whoever killed Hannah Elizabeth Graham, and I'm not sure I want to believe that; it's easier to just see evil and to hate.  And yet my faith that I hold so dear is telling me differently; I admit I don't like it.

As I try to wrap my mind around this I recall a conversation I had with a parent in Caroline's class.  Her husband is an attorney and one of their new associates went to high school with Jesse Matthews.  She told my friend that in high school he was good and gentle and kind and she was having a hard time believing he could hurt anyone.  My first thought was, "I guess some people can fool anyone."  But last night preaching on the Baptismal Covenant I had to confront the hypocrisy in front of me.  If I really believe what I profess than just perhaps regardless of what he may have done, God's image is a part of him....

I believe the Baptismal Covenant is what we strive for, what we use to order our lives, to try to again and again live into the image of God that is within us.  But it's not easy and we have to admit that and confess that.  The confession in Enriching Our Worship (p. 56) says,

God of all mercy,
we confess that we have sinned against you,
opposing your will in our lives.
We have denied your goodness in each other,
in ourselves, and in the world you have created.
We repent of the evil that enslaves us,
the evil we have done,
and the evil done on our behalf.
Forgive, restore, and strengthen us
through our Savior Jesus Christ,
that we may abide in your love
and serve only your will. Amen.

This is hard; really really hard.  People do have to be held accountable for their actions; justice does have to be served--I want to leave it there.  I want to hate the actions so much that I can hate the person, disregard the person, cast the person off as pure evil, deny the goodness, even the smallest amount of goodness that can be in someone.  I want it to be easy, but it's not.  I know I need my community of faith and God's help to believe.  I know I cannot do it on my own.  Right now my core convictions, my faith is being challenged--do I really believe what I profess?  Can I really believe it?
I'm trying....

Mrs Hardwick's Kitchen

(Patrick--look colors on an ipad!  No paper!)

This week I was in a wonderful, eye-opening Appreciative Inquiry workshop.  I'm looking forward to sitting down, organizing and processing all I learned--beware there may be more blogs--but there is one thing I don't need to process, I already know it in my heart and soul.

Yesterday morning we were talking about children and youth not regularly attending Christian formation.  We began to talk about judgment (because let's face it we were a bunch of clergy and lay leaders of the church in the room, and there was plenty of judgment if not being overtly said definitely under the surface); one person recognized we were judging and expressed we shouldn't be judgmental.  The question was presented, "Is judgment good or bad?"  It was decided that judgment is on its own neither good nor bad. In fact, to say that we don't ever judge is completely false.  What's "bad" is that which results from our judgment.  Judgment that leads to alienation instead of acceptance--that's wrong.  Acceptance is what one person expressed that she found as a child in the church and that's what she wanted for the youth of her congregation. The question was then asked, "Where was your best place of being accepted as a child?"  Immediately my pen wrote, "Mrs. Hardwick's kitchen."  I had a tinge of unease wondering if I had written the wrong answer--I am a priest in charge of Christian formation at a workshop given by the church, shouldn't my answer be more churchy? But right or wrong, I couldn't change my response--just thinking about Mrs. Hardwick's kitchen made my heart swell with warmth, body relax, and the feeling of total unconditional love and acceptance enveloped me.

Mrs. Hardwick is Katie's mother.  Katie was truly my best friend in junior high, and I am blessed we are still friends. For two years I virtually lived at the Hardwick's home.  After those two years I moved to Augusta, but I was always welcome to return, and I did--over and over.  My last time sitting in that kitchen was with my oldest two children and pregnant with my third.  It was still perfect. (And then they went and moved!)

I cannot remember what was on the walls; perhaps over the years that changed.  I do remember sitting on the bar stools at the kitchen counter, Mrs. Hardwick on the other side, and just talking.  I remember having her full attention, and I felt I could tell her anything.  I remember Katie and I experimenting with different pens (yes even back then I color coded everything and was always trying to find the perfect pen), and Mrs. Hardwick writing with us.  She didn't tell us it was silly or we were wasting time.  She engaged with us where we were (we even talked her into driving us to various stationary stores to find new pens).  Occasionally she would walk to the refrigerator and hand us spoonfuls of maple butter brought back from their summer home in upstate New York.  No comment about it being too sweet or making us fat--just a spoonful.  I think of those spoonfuls as spoonfuls of love.  I remember her fixing dinner without saying, "Y'all need to be doing something." She simply allowed us to be and she was with us--100% present.  In Mrs. Hardwick's kitchen I felt loved and accepted and feeling that love and acceptance made me want to be a better person.  I wanted to be a person Mrs. Hardwick could be proud of--I wanted to be the kind of person Mrs. Hardwick was (and is)--loving, accepting, kind and good.  Mrs. Hardwick's kitchen--for me that is the only answer I could give to the question, "Where was your best place of being accepted as a child?"

Yes I do want children and youth to be in church.  But I have to ask what is "church"?  Church is not a building; church is a community of faith--a loving accepting community of faith.  A community that allows us to be where we are and then takes us further.  A community that challenges us to be different, to be better.  Sometimes that community gathers in a building to worship, and I do think that is important, but sometimes that community permeates the world in which we live, and I believe that is essential.

Br. Curtis Almquist of the SSJE says this about sanctuary, "Sometimes we need to be enshrouded by light; sometimes we need to be enwombed by darkness.  A sanctuary--a place of safety and holiness--will have an intermingling of light and darkness, enough of both."

 That was Mrs. Hardwick's kitchen.

The Man Behind My Cape

Recently I was talking to a young couple--the woman said, "You really loved being home and doing all those things for and with your children didn't you? You love being super mom, and I mean that in a good way."   I paused and swallowed the lump in my throat and said, "Yes.  Yes I did.  To say I loved every minute of it would be a lie.  There were definitely some LOOOOOONG days.  But yes," I said as a tear escaped, "I did and do."  Later I sat reflecting on that conversation remembering all the fun parts of being home with my four children born in 4 1/2 years--they were some of the best years.  But, it also came with a cost....

When I was pregnant with Sarah Katherine I told everyone I was going to continue working.  I loved my job, SK could be in the daycare right below me, and my boss was flexible about my hours.  It was a perfect situation, and I did go back--for three weeks.  I remember clearly the night  I tossed and turned trying to figure out how to tell Chris I didn't want to go back to work.  I woke him, told him, and with the weight off my shoulder went to sleep.  Not sure he did--but the next morning as he left for work, he kissed my cheek, kissed the top of SK's head and said, "Turn in your notice."  He had a plan; he had had a plan because he knew me....

We bought a business, moved to Athens (best decision EVER) and rapidly had three more children.  I was going to work with him some but he kept firing me with the statement, "You keep getting pregnant I need someone I can rely on."  And so he worked long 12+ hour days successfully building the business.  Most nights he wasn't home until 9 pm--long after the children were in bed.  He never complained--he knew I needed them to have that structure and routine.  As hard as he worked, Sunday afternoon naps were for me while he took care of the children.  Only after I resigned from the Junior League (for the first time) did he say, "You know I could write a check and get a tax write off for the amount of money we're spending on babysitting for you to volunteer."  But when I reactivated, he said nothing; he knew I needed an outlet.

After we sold the business and Chris finished his MBA we moved--a lot.  I did have people question why I would do that--the answer--because that's the deal we had.  Together we were building a life.  Chris was supporting us, and I was holding down the home front.  My job was easily transferable, and so I followed him where ever he believed we needed to go.  Was moving hard?  Yes, but the lifelong friends we have made in all those places make it all worth it.  During those summers, spring breaks and other random times, I would pile the children into the car and take off for the beach or to visit friends while Chris stayed home and worked sometimes being able to join us on the weekends.  He never complained but I now know that he enjoyed the first few days of alone time and then he was just lonely.

Chris knows how important it is to me to volunteer in the children's schools, and he eats take out or leftovers continually during those busy times; he graciously allows me to be the face the school mostly sees.  (He has told me if I chair one more fall festival he will ask for a divorce--I told him I do it because no one else will.  His response, "maybe you should consider why.")

Yesterday as Christopher left church kissing me on the head someone remarked, "You're children are really connected to you, aren't they?"  They are--I was able because of Chris' sacrifices and hard work to always be present, to be available, to be attentive, to be there.  Chris made it possible for our children to learn that if they need us--no matter where,  no matter when we'd be there.

Chris and I are a team; we've both made sacrifices.  It isn't always easy--sometimes it isn't easy to remember we're on the same team, but we are.  We've done this together--the good, the bad, and the ugly, and for that I am eternally thankful. Thankful that I have a husband and the children have a daddy who puts our needs first--who loves us enough to sometimes miss out on those things he loves most so he can work and travel to care for us.

So yes I did and do like being Mama--not sure I would consider myself Super Mama, but if I am it's only because I have Chris behind my cape.