I Can't Put Myself in the Shoes of My Black and Brown Friends

This morning, as we do most Saturday mornings, Chris and I walked up to the farmer's market. As we approached the entrance Chris said, "I don't have my mask." Me, "Are you kidding me?" (I really thought he was because last time we walked up here neither of us brought our wallets...) Alas, he was not.

Fear not! Caroline was a block away getting an oil change (a whole other story which I'll post on Growing Up Doyle). I called her SURE she would have an extra in the car and we could scoot over and get it. Dadgumit, my problem-solving effort was foiled! Chris looked up and said, "Maybe the Dollar General will have masks or at least a bandana." I hate when he's the better problem-solver, but I also didn't want to walk around the farmer's market by myself. So I donned my mask, took his wallet (at least there was that), and went in search.

It was a quick find, and I lined up to check-out. I could see Chris standing under the trees in the parking lot. Apparently, others could too.

A customer three in front of me exited into the parking lot. She and Chris began to have a conversation. He walked closer to her but still kept the appropriate distance. Suddenly I heard the cashier call for security. "There's a man in the parking lot who looks like he's harassing people." I looked back out the window wondering what was going on. It quickly dawned on me--they meant Chris!!

"M'am," I said, "That's my husband. He's just waiting on me to buy these bandanas so we can go to the farmer's market." I was laughing hysterically as I said it. My husband is the kindest, most gentle person in the world. I couldn't wait to text the children and tell them someone thought he was a threat. It was a big joke to me--until it wasn't.

The cashier immediately apologized to me and canceled the security call. "Sometimes we get crazy people out there," she explained. "Oh I'm sure," I answered not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, "I think it's good you're paying attention." I checked out and came outside still laughing. I relayed the story to Chris. "I was just talking to her about homegrown tomatoes," he responded, "Look there she is going to the farmer's market. We're buddies." (FYI-Chris thinks everyone is his buddy--and he's probably right. See above.) We both laughed some more, and then I said, "I bet this is what happens to African Americans all the time." We stopped laughing. "You're right," Chris agreed. Suddenly it didn't seem quite so funny--or funny at all.

I can't stop thinking about it. I wonder if Chris had been African American if they would have so quickly canceled security? I wonder if I was African American instead of a white woman wearing pearls, a fashionable (at least I think so) hat, and a Kentucky Colonels mask, if they would have believed me and canceled security? But mostly I think this. I said to myself, "For a brief moment I understood what it felt like to be an African American minding his/her own business and others thinking you were up to no good." Except I didn't.

Is he less scary like this?

I thought I could use it as an example of how I now understood. I was already thinking about how to work it into my sermon tomorrow. But see I don't really understand because ultimately, it was a joke for us or at least for me. (I try not to speak for Chris.) I thought it would make a funny post, a funny story. I imagined calling the children and all of us laughing at the UNUSUAL assumption made about Chris.

I think about my friends who are African American and how they would have responded. It wouldn't be a funny post; it would be yet another example to add to the thousands of examples of when they had been misidentified, questioned, and made to feel less than. There would be absolutely nothing funny about it. I wonder what would have happened if security had gone out there and how it might be different.

I learned something very important today, and it wasn't that for a brief moment I could put myself in the shoes of black and brown people. I learned I can never do that. But that doesn't mean I can't do something. That doesn't mean I can't recognize the injustice, the difference in treatment, and the different lenses I have had the privilege of using all of my life.

It taught me, I can walk alongside, but I can never truly put on the shoes of a black or brown person, I can only try to help to make sure their shoes are used for progress, for moving forward, for equity, and not for running from injustice they don't deserve.

That Darn Holy Spirit

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

What Makes Someone Real?

Several weeks ago someone asked me, “Was that uncle of yours who died your real uncle?” I thought the person was asking whether he was my family uncle or a close friend we call “uncle”, so I answered yes. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the person continued, “Was he your mother’s brother or your father’s brother?” “No,” I answered still not catching on, “he was my mother’s sister’s husband.” “So not your real uncle,” the person concluded.

That stung. And it stung more this weekend. As I went running the first morning after arriving at Cousins Weekend, I couldn’t get those words out of my head. And I started thinking about what makes someone or rather a relationship “real?” (And yes, The Velveteen Rabbit did come to mind.)

Real is when a person’s eyes light up when you walk into a room and so do yours.

Real is when you ask about each other’s lives and really listen and care about the answers.

Real is when days, weeks or even months go by without seeing each other, and when you’re back together it’s like no time has passed.

Real is when you know the good, the bad, and the ugly and you love anyway.

Real is when you are disappointed by the other, and you disappoint the other, and you love anyway.

Real is when you disagree, sometimes even on big issues, and you love anyway.

Real is when you don’t understand why someone does or says something, and you love anyway.

Real is when you share your darkest days, fears, and failures, and you are loved anyway.

Real is when your world is just a little dimmer when someone dies, but you know the person wants you to continue to live, and to laugh, and to love.

So yeah, he was my “real” Uncle, and I think I was his “real” niece.

And this picture—this is me and two of my real cousins. Couldn’t do life without either!

Living as a Paradox

Didn't take a picture of the house.
Even I know that's creepy!

There's a house in our neighborhood that always makes Chris and I laugh. It's a very cute house with a white picket fence around a backyard filled with children's toys and a big porch across the front. In the windows are drawings of hearts and flowers and rainbows. Posted about every six feet around the entire house are signs that either say "No Trespassing" or "Beware of Dog." (Note-I have never seen a dog...just sayin')

I call it "The Paradox House" and usually with a superior, judgemental tone. Today as I ran by it I thought about it a little bit differently...

Last week I posted on Facebook, "I want to say it's been a really shitty day." One person commented, "I can't believe that an ordained priest would use shitty in a post. Poor form Katherine. Hopefully the Bishop can give you guidance." At first, I was amused, then I got annoyed, and then I got downright indignant. I texted and called people who would join me in my outrage, and I refused to take it down. After I calmed down I posted this reply, "I appreciate your feedback and I apologize if I offended you. I am always aware when I speak on social media I bring my whole self--wife, mother, daughter, sister, cousin, friend and yes priest. Yesterday several of those roles collided in a difficult way. I understand if you would like to block or unfriend me. I cannot speak for Bishop Terry White and what he may or may not think about my choice of words. He does, however, know what a difficult day I had and was very supportive as he always is."

Okay--just going to say it. On the one hand, I did want to respond in a calm way, but I was also acting out of self-righteousness, and I also am a teensy tinsy bit embarrassed and ashamed for being publicly called out.

Today when I ran past the house I thought about the Facebook exchange which obviously has bothered me more than I let on as that was six days ago and I'm still thinking about it. Aren't we all a little bit (or more likely a lot of bits) a paradox? It's not so easy to see when we are playing our roles in their proper places--home, work etc, but when the roles collide it definitely becomes a little more apparent.

One of my favorite Dr. Seuss quotes is, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." I'm not ready to throw the quote out, but I do wonder. Maybe those who mind do matter. Maybe we grow as people and as people growing into the image of God more when we hear from those who do mind. Maybe hearing why it matters to some people gives us an opportunity to expand and stretch and define. Maybe it brings about change in us or maybe it solidifies who we are.

It's worth thinking about....

I had a colleague with whom I disagreed on what seemed like almost everything. We are both priests, and we both take our calling very seriously. I can honestly say that is true for both of us. The years we worked together were stressful and painful and eventually, we had to part ways. But during those years and in all the years since, I have had to really think about what I believe, how I see myself as a person and a priest, and what my die on the hills are. Despite how hard it was, I can now look back and give thanks to God for that time of growth.

I guess what I realized today is we're all living paradoxes. I also believe we're all (mostly) doing the best we can.

Oh, and I'm still not taking the post down, and I still stand by I had a shitty day. I love Jesus, I love being a priest, and I cuss a little!

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.