I Was/Am Self-Promoting

I suppose I'm always a bit self-promoting, but a recent post had a purpose...

Here's a well-kept secret that was never meant to be a secret--I am the reason we live in Louisville, KY. It was 2008 and we had already moved 5 times. Sarah Katherine was in middle school, and we decided it was time to find a place and settle.

Growing up I had moved multiple times--the final time in high school. We never lived near extended family, and I had a very romanticized view of what it would be like for our children to live in one place for the majority of their childhoods surrounded by extended family. Chris lived in Louisville for the majority of his life and his parents and both brothers live in Louisville. So I went to work convincing him this would be perfect.

Well, it hasn't been perfect--good yes? Sometimes even great.

But, what I wasn't prepared for was feeling like I am always the outsider. Always.

Let me explain.

One of Chris's brothers is married to a native Louisvillian and the other is married to a woman who graduated from  Centre College here in Kentucky, so she too has tons of long time friends here. Very quickly our children began identifying as being "from Louisville." I was 40 when I moved here--I would never be from here. That was very clear. Our family loves and accepts me; I have never doubted that. My sisters-in-law are not only in-laws, but they also are my friends, and yet there are still times when we are all together I feel it--I am the outsider. I am not from here.

Three of our four children went to the same school Chris did. I loved it AND it was a constant reminder. It is a wonderful school full of tradition. Traditions they all share. They even had some of the same teachers Chris did!!! I've got to tell you for many reasons I was so happy Sarah Katherine went to UVA but one is a bit selfish--I wanted to have that commonality with at least one of my children.

There is one (or only one I'm going to tell) painful story. I received a gift from someone who as I opened it said, "I was going to give you fleur de lis earrings, but you're not really from here." We had lived here for 6 years. (I told my dear friend Hope this and she promptly gave me a fleur de lis belt! I love you Hopie!!!)

Anyway, you get the point. Y'all, I also want to say, no one should feel sorry for me. We've had a mostly great life here in Louisville. I have a vocation and friends I love. But I can't lie and say there weren't times, are times, I am well aware I am the only Doyle not "from here."

Fast forward.

Earlier this week I was commissioned a Kentucky Colonel. I opened the envelope and sobbed in my office. It's not that I think I deserve it, or that I worked for it. But seeing Honorable Katherine Kanto Doyle commissioned a Kentucky Colonel, said to me that while I'm not from here, I belong.


*I will still ALWAYS cheer for UVA over Louisville....

The Kingdom of God is the Silver Lining

Most every morning I spend a few minutes looking at my Facebook

memories. I love looking at the pictures and reading the stories. Some mornings it brings me great joy; some mornings it breaks my heart with triggered memories; today it did both.

One year ago today I processed down the aisle of Washington National Cathedral. My dear friend Jenifer Gamber was ordained that day to the sacred order of the priesthood. It was a great day for the Church. Right before I left Jenifer blessed me--little did I know how much I was about to need that blessing.

My friend who's family, Pattie, drove me to the airport. I was full of joy and eager to get home as summer camp was starting the next day. I was looking forward to a relaxing, uplifting summer. Instead, I walked into our home and into what I can only describe as the beginning of a descent into hell, a journey that would last for months.

Over the next 5 weeks, 3 young adults would end their own lives. Two more followed in August. Our family plunged into the dark world of drugs. I buried my cousin; he was younger than me. What felt like rapid succession brought the deaths of some of the most important people in my formation as a person and as a priest. I had a cancer scare. I couldn't wait for 2019 to be over. Over and over I said, 2020 has to be better. Is it?

Before I left for my run this morning I scrolled through Facebook and Instagram. As I began to run I realized three things at almost the exact same time. I thought about the Instagram post my niece had posted, "Ask us about silver linings"; I realized I have not processed my grief from 2019 much less 2020; I am sick of hearing people explain what God is trying to teach us or saying, "God has a reason for this."

God does not have a reason for this if by that you mean God makes things happen or even use the word "allows" things to happen to teach us a lesson.

I can promise you this...

God did not allow me to lie in bed night after night wondering if my son would die that night either because of an overdose or in a drug deal gone wrong to teach me a lesson.

God did not allow Maddie to die so I could watch Maddie's family and the youth of All Saints I love dearly struggle with understanding and through that, I would learn something.

God was not trying to teach me something as I purchased book after book about grief to send to mothers who buried their children.

God was not trying to teach me something as I watched my aunt and uncle say goodbye to their son, or as I stood and watched my husband and my sons carry their cousin to his grave silently giving thanks it wasn't one of them.

God was not trying to teach me something as I struggled to find the words to describe a woman who was the mother I needed and loved deeply. I miss her every day.

God was not trying to teach me something as I waited for test results, and my results weren't negative because I prayed harder than others or because I'm such a good Christian. God doesn't use cancer to teach people lessons.

And God is not using Covid-19 or systemic racism to teach us, please for the love of God stop saying that.

So what about that silver lining? I believe that the silver lining is the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God was evident the first day I met Lisa and she said, "I've got your boy. He's a good one." The Kingdom of God was evident with every text, card, and call I have received over the months as people reached out and prayed for me. The Kingdom of God was evident when friends loved our family through the days of waiting. The Kingdom of God was evident last night when I gathered with high school classmates to talk about systemic racism and what we needed to learn and what we could do. The Kingdom of God indeed has come near and will continue to come near. That silver lining--it's a thin thread right now and God is calling us into creative participation as we seek to thicken the lining. God is calling us to live lives of compassion, to live lives seeking justice, to live lives standing with the marginalized and oppressed, and to live lives of love and mercy and forgiveness.

God does not break our hearts to teach us or punish us, but our broken hearts can and do release the power of love into this broken world. And that's the silver lining.

But First I Will Listen

After not sleeping much Saturday night, I got out of bed early

Sunday morning to again rewrite my sermon and to message my friend David Snardon.

David and I have been friends for over a decade. We met in seminary and bonded over our love/hate relationship with football. We both love it, and we were both secretly glad our sons chose other sports. (Okay and to be totally honest, I also had a little hero worship or some other words because David was a former college football player, and even though it was for UK, I was impressed.) David liked to talk about my two favorite topics—sports and theology, so he quickly became one of my favorite people.

In Our Younger Days

Our paths crossed again when our sons played lacrosse together at Collegiate. We would sit in the bleachers and talk about what we were preaching on that week. We talked about current events, the Gospel, and the Kingdom of God. Obviously, EVERYONE wanted to sit right next to us!

Friday and Saturday night as I sat at home worrying about my children who were down at the protest, I thought about David and his beautiful wife Alicia. I thought about how the fear I was feeling was a fear they probably felt every day when their son left the house. I realized we have talked about so many things over the years, but I could not remember a single conversation about race. And I was ashamed.

So I reached out to David early Sunday morning and he responded. We didn’t have a lot of time as we were both getting ready for worship, but he let me know about a protest that was going to happen that day and there were going to be clergy gathering in prayer and support. We agreed to meet that evening.

My plan was to stand with my brothers and sisters of color and to listen. I mostly did. Alicia and I stood talking. I could hear the deep anger and pain in her voice as she described what it was like for her when their son left the house. She described what it was like to walk around the mall. She described her son to another woman standing with us. “He’s a good boy,” she said, “Smart, kind, athletic” and here’s where I didn’t listen. I interrupted and said, “He is a great kid, but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t deserve to be targeted.” I meant what I said. I still mean it, but I interrupted HER story. I inserted myself into her narrative without being asked. And I am sorry.

I am going to continue to reach out to and work with David. I want to be part of a new narrative. Not a narrative to erase the past and ignore the narrative of people of color, but a new narrative that is written together. A narrative that seeks justice, and loves kindness, and walks humbly. I will continue to show up, to speak out, and to stand in solidarity.

But first I will listen.

That's Where All the Love Starts--and Uncle Seldon

My Uncle Seldon died suddenly on Sunday, and I’m having a

really hard time processing it. I realized why this morning.

I have never thought about the world without him in it. I have never thought about him dying, not being there for family celebrations, and particularly not being there for Cousins’ Weekend.

And that’s weird because his health wasn’t always good.

And not to be morbid—sorry Mother and Daddy—but I have thought about them dying and what life will be like without them. I have thought about how I will process my grief (which we all know is ridiculous because you don’t know what you’re going to do until it happens), but I have thought about it.

John Prine, another soul gone to soon, wrote a song entitled “When I Get to Heaven.” Last summer my son told me the line “I wanna see all my mama's sisters, 'cause that's where all the love starts. I miss 'em all like crazy, bless their little hearts” helped get him through some of his most difficult days. And I know he was talking not only about my sister Meredith and me, but also our cousin Beth.

Thinking about that this morning has been hard. I know about sister relationships starting with my Gangan and her sister Auntie (who Sarah Katherine is named for). They reared their children in close contact. Then my Aunt Donna and my mother made sure we all were reared as cousins but as more like siblings even though we lived in different states. Now Meredith, Beth and I have continued that tradition, and it looks like the next generation will too.

Now this is not to say our husbands aren’t a big part, and they don’t just do what we say. (Man, I wish that were true). But it is true we “Newell women” can all be a little bit bossy and controlling, and we definitely cling to tradition, the husbands go along until it gets “too much” and then they take a nap or find some manly thing to do—like drive to the dump. (I say all this with TOTAL LOVE and they knew what they were getting into before they married us. We’re pretty transparent.)

I don’t remember a world without Uncle Seldon, and I don’t want to. I can hear our children whispering upstairs, “Let’s get Poppa to take us out in the boat.” “Okay, who’s going to give him a rub (massage), so he’ll do it?” Words we said as children for similar reasons. And for the record, it always worked. Uncle Seldon did like his massages, but I think he also loved being with us and with our children, and I think he would have done just about anything we asked even without our bribes—he just didn’t want us to know he was a softie.

These last few days, memories are flooding my mind—some I haven’t thought of in a long time. Uncle Seldon was always up for a joke—loved to make us laugh. He loved to “get something started” with the younger generation. I’m going to miss hearing Aunt Donna say, “Seldon, stop. Do not let them do that.” I’m going to miss seeing that twinkle in his eye and the wink he would give us.

But there are even more memories that go way back.

Uncle Seldon loved a deal. One summer years ago when we were all at the beach he went out to get some groceries. He came home with a dozen fly swatters. “They were only .25 cents each.” He exclaimed, “One for everyone.” I love to tell that story, and I have never bought or used a fly swatter since when I haven’t thought of Uncle Seldon.

The first Episcopal church I ever attended was with my Aunt and Uncle. I was 8. Uncle

Seldon was an usher, and Aunt Donna taught me when to kneel and when to stand. “Just watch the priest and do what he does,” she whispered. Who knew one day I’d be a priest? Uncle Seldon was there the day I was priested. I will always treasure that.

During Cousins’ Weekend, Uncle Seldon and I were always the first up—or at least the first ones on the porch. He’d give me grief about the “too strong coffee” I’d made, ask me how far I was going to run, and share his paper. We also had some in-depth conversations. We didn’t agree on everything politically or about the Episcopal Church, but he cared what I thought, and he listened intently. I got to see a side of him all those mornings and to have conversations I’ll never forget. I’m going to miss that. He made me think; he made me practice expressing myself; he was proud of me.

In the summers I worshipped with Aunt Donna and Uncle Seldon at historic Christ Church in Kilmarnock, Va. Before we’d leave he would usually make some sort of comment like, “Can’t we just do this here? What good is having a niece for a priest if I still have to get dressed for church?” And then I’d get the wink. We would go to the early service before most people in the house were awake. It was always the Rite I service, and I loved it. As we sat in those pews that had been there for hundreds of years, I got to witness a man whose faith ran deep. I got to pray the ancient prayers with him—prayers he knew by heart—a liturgy that was a part of his mind, body, and soul. I’m going to miss that.

On Sunday when my cousin called me while she and my Aunt sat with Uncle Seldon just moments after he stopped breathing, I prayed the litany of death for him over facetime. It was an amazing honor, and I will never forget it. He looked at peace, but I did have to stifle a little giggle as I imagined him saying. “Make sure you get this right, Katherine. Definitely want to get into heaven.” And then he would have concluded with an “Amen.”

Uncle Seldon could be serious, but even when he was, he always had a lightheartedness that broke through. I often say the blessing, “Life is short and we have too little time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind.” That takes on a whole new meaning today. Life is definitely too short, but Uncle Seldon did gladden my heart.  I will never again say it without thinking of Uncle Seldon.

I had hoped writing this would help me process. It has a little, but it hasn’t stopped the grief. I leave now to celebrate the noon Eucharist wearing the cross he and Aunt Donna gave me for my ordination. I wish I had a picture of us together in the recent past.

Rest in peace Uncle Seldon and rise in glory. May your soul and the souls of all the departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

P. S. And I'm just going to say it--this SUCKS (and y'all know I hate that word). I want/need to be with my family. I know I'm not alone. Prayers for everyone who is going through this. You are not alone.

I Lost My Sh*t and Found Grace

So Tuesday night I sort of, might have, maybe had a flinging fit. 

Okay, that's not true. Tuesday night I totally lost my shit.

The back story....

It had been 10 days since my outpatient surgery from which I didn't recover as quickly as I thought I would or as quickly as I wanted. I had not cooked a meal; I had not vacuumed or dusted, and I had not exercised. In my world that is the trifecta of you are a failure as a wife and mother--or basically a human being in general.

Monday evening Chris said, "I'm so tired of planning menus." I heard, "Why aren't you doing what you should do?" So, I stayed up until 2 am planning meals for the next week and ordering groceries. Tuesday morning I started dusting and vacuuming. I had to empty the vacuum several times there was so much dog hair. I heard the voice from the past, "You're just not the homemaker I am/was. I would never have allowed my house to get this dirty, but I guess we're just different. It mattered to me." After cleaning I decided to go for a run/walk where I heard, "Those clothes you bought recently aren't going to fit and once again you are not responsible with your money you'll never keep your weight off. You're just big-boned." And the absolute worst, "You are not enough."

Fast forward 10 hours....

I was cooking dinner and simmering--me and the dinner. With little warning, my simmer turned into a boil--me not the dinner. I started spewing at anyone who walked into the room. "Why don't y'all clean up your rooms?" "You haven't unloaded your cars. Do that now." "I'm sick of you just sitting around." To which one child who had not taken cover when the onslaught started was looking at his phone. Me, "What are you doing?" Child, "I am looking for pizza delivery jobs." Me, "You can't get a job now; you're about to go to the beach house." Said child looked at me and said very calmly, "Mama, I don't know what you want. Just be clear about whatever it is and I'll do it."

Grace

I stopped, walked outside, and breathed deeply a prayer of gratitude for a family that extends grace.

Because here's the truth--it wasn't about the dinners, or the dirty floors, or the exercise, or the clean rooms (although it would be nice for a little help). It was about the loss of control. Loss of control because of the pandemic and loss of control because of the surgery. And the absolute worse, loss of control of my coping mechanisms that keep my deepest insecurities at bay.

And I was met with grace.

Five days later here is my take away. We have no idea what other people are going through. We have no idea what scabs are being ripped off because of this pandemic or life in general. We can extend one another grace.

Mostly I'm trying to extend myself grace. Grace to accept just because I've buried those demons doesn't mean they don't exist and that doesn't make me a failure. But they don't have to continue to exist. Now that they are unearthed, I can choose. I can choose to put on my big girl panties (regardless of their size) and face the hard work it will take to defeat them, or I can have gourmet meals every night, a spotless house, and a warped body image.

My choice....what choices do you need to make?

Hope, Fear, Addiction, Recovery, and Truth

Saturday night, the night that should have been the conclusion of a funfilled day of Derby festivities, our entire family sat outside around our patio table. We were laughing and telling stories, poking fun at one another, and just enjoying being together which would not have been the case if this pandemic had not erupted. I am grateful for this time to be family. But, suddenly, I felt myself beginning to lose my breath; I felt my body tensing up and I knew I had to go. I couldn't explain to anyone what was happening because my mind wasn't entirely sure, but my body knew.

Chris followed me and kept asking what was wrong, what had happened. What my body knew was happening was only beginning to be understood by my mind--it took another 24 hours for it to become clear--well as clear as it could.

The day before I saw a picture that was in my Facebook memories. I couldn't stop seeing the picture.

2015

The picture I once thought I loved was now haunting me. It was from an Oaks Party in 2015. It was a picture of my son and me. My body shuddered as I looked at it and my mind said judgemental things to me over and over. It tortured me with thoughts of, "How could you not have seen? You failed. You looked away. Everything that happened is your fault."

Here's the truth. I didn't look away, or I didn't always look away. Sometimes I saw and sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I failed and sometimes I didn't. And sometimes I believe all that and sometimes I don't.

May is the month that for the last five years has been the beginning of a spiral over which I had little to no control. I hate that. I mean I really hate that. I don't trust May because my truth is that no matter how glorious it has started, every year since 2015 by the time we were well into June and July, May was only a memory of the beginning of heartache and pain again and again and again. I didn't know on the day of that picture in 2015, but I was about to begin a journey into a world I didn't know existed.

And here is where that world took me.

I lost friends and I gained friends. I was shocked and hurt by people who disappeared, and I was surprised by some who didn't. I spent some days laughing and many days crying. I buried my feelings and I let my feelings rule my world. I saw some of the darkest parts of humanity and I saw bright lights of goodness. I blamed myself and I blamed others.  I hid my truth from people and I overshared. I was lied to repeatedly and I lied. I doubted and I trusted. I was there for people and I let people down. I relied on God turning to scripture and prayer over and over, and my bible sat covered in books and papers and dust and my heart turned to stone for days on end. I made mistakes and I did some things right. I felt like a coward, and I did some of the most brave and courageous things I have ever done. I put up walls and I opened doors. I went some days without fear and I spent many terrified. I was lifted up and I was ground down. I succeeded at some things and I failed at others. I pushed people away and I wore people out. I held grudges and I forgave. I loved and I hated. I dreamed dreams and I lived nightmares.  I felt weak and I felt strong. I felt like I was dying but I survived.

2020

It is May. I thought I was in one place, my body says I'm in another. I thought I could talk myself out of or write myself out of my fear, my body said no can do. But here's what I do know. I can live in the paradox of hope and fear. Some days hope will be the conquerer and some days fear will give her a run for her money. I don't have to like May. I may never like May again. May may always bring forth beautiful flowers that I cannot fully appreciate because I remember the weeds of life and pain and addiction and recovery. But that's okay.

I may still be triggered for days, months, or even years by memories, pictures, places, or sounds, but I can tell my truth. Triggers hit me at the strangest times and often out of the blue. But I do believe one day my words and the Word, my truth and the Truth together will set me free.


Disclaimer: This is my story; this is my truth. My son's story of addiction and recovery is his to tell, but I share mine and the part he played in my story with his permission. 

The Electronics and The Outside Toys

Computer and video game heard the squeals of laughter through the open window. They peered

through the blinds and saw the children running and playing and being happy.

"Look," said Computer, "Even the big boy is playing on that standing thing and his feet are almost touching the grass as he hangs on that bar. It doesn't even make any noise. It doesn't do anything except stand there while they climb all over it and slide down. But they are smiling and happy. I miss them smiling and being happy around me."

"I can't look at that." whined video game, "I'm looking at the driveway where the girl is racing around on that metal thing. I don't understand why she is smiling so much; that metal thing is covered in rust! It's not shiny. It doesn't have lights and sounds."

Computer sadly nodded, "I know and I don't get it. They're sweating and smiling. How does that happen? Don't look over there, but the parents are CLAPPING and cheering them on. They are smiling. They never did that when the children played on me no matter how many hours went by."

They continued watching alternating between feeling sad and feeling angry. Why was it that suddenly they were unimportant and forgotten? Why were they no longer the most important things in the children's lives? It just wasn't fair.

They sat and stared as the sun started to slowly descend behind the backyard fence. "It's time to go in," they heard the mother say. "NOOOOOO!" shrieked the little girl, "I don't want to go in. I'm not finished playing." The little boy climbed to the top of the standing thing. "Y'all can play tomorrow. Come on in now; it's getting dark out here." "You never let us play as long as we want," whined the little girl as she sleepily followed her mother inside.

"I remember when they used to cry when the mother made them stop playing on me. But this

morning when she told the boy to power me up, he slammed my screen down." computer sadly said.

Video responded, "You know what big boy did to one of my controllers? He hid it and not under his pillow like he used to so he could play when the parents weren't looking. He hid it at the back of something they call the coat closet. The parents won't find it for months and months."

Suddenly Switch yelled from another room, "You know what the girl did with me? She put me on her MOTHER'S bed with a note that says you can play animal crossing on this now with your friends. I'm sick of it."

Woah! That was bad. They all sat and thought about how this all started with the sickness everyone keeps talking about. Almost overnight everything changed. They went from being the most important to barely being noticed. The children didn't want to use them even when the parents encouraged it.

Computer and Video glared out the window. The standing thing and the metal thing looked up and waved. "Hi," the standing thing said, "I'm Playground and this is Bicycle. Scooter is over there. We are outside toys." They all smiled and waved. Computer and Video looked at each other very confused. "Why are you talking to us?" Video asked. "We are the inside electronics. We aren't supposed to like each other." Playground just smiled waved one of her swings. Bicycle answered, "We're sorry you're sad. We know how awful it feels to be forgotten. We know how much it hurts to have the children just walk by you day in and day out. We remember hearing the children telling the parents they didn't want to play with us, and it made us sad. We don't want you to be sad."

Computer and Video looked at each other with their buttons lighting up in surprise. "Did they just say what I think they said?" whispered Switch from the other room. "Yes," she heard back. "Do you think they really mean it?" she continued.

"We do," Scooter piped up, "We want the children to love us all. We want the children to think we're all important. We don't want anyone to feel forgotten, useless, and alone. We think everyone should be important no matter who seems fancier."

"I wonder if that can really happen?" Computer said, "I wonder if when this sickness is over it will be different. I wonder if they'll see we are all important and we all deserve to be useful and loved. I wonder..."

They stopped talking as they heard the littles putting on their pajamas and the big boy digging deep in the coat closet. "Let's play one computer game and do one assignment before we go to bed," said the little girl. "And I'll play video games until it's time for lights out," added the big boy, "but then I'm really going to go to sleep so I'll have energy to play outside tomorrow."

"Sounds like a good plan," the mother mumbled without looking up from Animal Crossing.

"I hope so." whispered Playground as she shut her eyes to get ready for another day.