The Right Time

That day at the end of July...

I was a mess--Boss was 1300 miles away and I couldn't control him or anything he was doing, SK had chosen to go back to school early, the babies were about to be a junior and senior in high school and I couldn't stop that. I was trying to embrace the letting go, oh, and Chris was traveling....

I had already cleaned every baseboard in the house; I had already thrown out more clothes and clutter and still I didn't feel better. In fact I felt worse. So, I decided to do yard work in the hot blistering sun. I was hoping the feelings of powerlessness, fear and anxiety that had taken up residence in my gut would flow out of me with the sweat that soaked my clothes within minutes.

I started in the front yard pulling weed after weed after weed--after 2 hours I stepped back to look at my "progress" and burst into tears. Despite the piles of weeds on the sidewalk and driveway waiting to be bagged, the beds looked the same. It felt just like my life--tons of effort and hard work and very little to show...yep, I was spiraling into a funk. I should have gone inside.

Instead I decided to go to the back bed and weed. It was smaller; the weeds were bigger; surely I would see the results I craved. AND I could uncover the peonies I so loved. I went to the back and started pulling brush out quickly and in huge heaps, and then through the tears that were stinging my eyes as they mixed with  sweat and dirt from my hands as I continually swiped at them with frustrated ungloved hands, I saw them--

When we moved in almost 7 years ago I was thrilled to learn I had 2 beautiful peony bushes. The downside was they were way in the back and not visible from anywhere except the far back fence. Every spring as I cleared out the bed I promised myself I would transplant them in the fall as this was the "right" time according to gardening experts (of which I am clearly not).

Every fall came and with it the frantic schedules, and so every fall went and the peonies never were transplanted. Spring came again and with it the "promise" of this year I would get them moved. As I was pulling back the weeds in July I was again making my mental promise...

I pulled back the last of the brush and there they were--brown, dry, and brittle. All my promises and dreams of beautiful peony bushes snapped and with it my self imposed pity party. I decided I would dig them up and transplant them right then. I fully recognized they were probably beyond the resuscitation stage, but I was going to try.

I tenderly dug around the plants and gently pulled them from the ground. I decided to put them in an also overgrown semi-dead planter where I could monitor them (read pray for a miracle). As I continued to work suddenly I was filled with a lightness and unexplained hope. Instead of total despair over those beautiful bushes I thought about the lesson they were teaching
me.

I waited every year for the "right" time and every year the "right" time came and went and now there was a very good chance they wouldn't survive. Now there was a very good chance the time had come and gone, and there was only loss. I thought about how so often in our lives and in our relationships we wait for the "right" time--the right time to apologize, the right time to reach out to loved ones, the right time to try something new, the right time to follow our dreams...

And in all that waiting, I thought, the right time sometimes just passes us by leaving us with regret, leaving us with visions of what could have been, just leaving us.

Sometimes waiting for the right time leaves us powerless, leaves us frozen in time--sometimes we do have to wait, but I wondered, "how many times do we allow waiting for the "right" time to keep us from living?" Sometimes the right time even means letting go.

(And then I took the clippers to the hydrangea bush--right time or not, at least I saw progress...)

Let the Senior Year Begin

I lay in the bed last night feeling like the worst mother ever. I read

post after post on facebook about parents dreading the start of the school year because it would be the "last first day" or other similar comments about dread and tears. I read about parents (let's be honest mostly mama's--daddy's are a little less transparent) asking how they were going to get through this year without crying every day, and I hid my head under a pillow and thought, "What has happened to me? How is it thinking about William being a senior this year and Caroline next year is not turning me into a puddle? How can I not relate to this?" (And I also worried about how much admitting this was going to cost me in therapy for them.)

I love my children; I adore my children; and when SK left for her last first day of high school I sobbed with the same intensity I sobbed when Caroline started kindergarten. I have loved nothing more than being a mama, but with two gone and two to go, I have learned that while I would have had a dozen children toddling around, I also love being a mama of young adults. I didn't know it in 2013 when SK left for her last first day of high school, but I know it now.

I have loved watching the big kids find their way in the world. I have been amazed at the paths they have taken--paths I would not have predicted all those years ago when they first started school. (And some of the paths I would not have chosen--but they're not my paths.) I have loved listening to them figure out who they think they are, then changing their minds, then figuring it out again. I have loved watching them take risks (some have been easier to stomach than others).

Yes, I miss the wonder in their faces and their bright eyes as they explored the world. But I love hearing the unabandoned ebullience in their voices as they share what they've decided to explore, what they want to experience, what they find amazing--I love hearing them say, "I can't wait to tell you more when I see you." And I count the days until that will happen--and it will.

Yes, I miss being in the kitchen when they walk in the door after school and being able to pester them about what they did that day, who they talked to and what's happening this weekend. But I love the calls and texts I get--the calls and texts they choose to initiate, the sharing of their lives they choose to make.

Yes, I miss having SK stand in the kitchen (leg extended above her head) telling me about her classes, but I love the "I've only got a minute but I have to tell you what just happened in class" and the "you've got to read this book" calls I get as she rushes from one class to another, one activity to another.


Yes, I miss Boss kissing the top of my head as he comes in or goes out, but there is nothing that makes my heart burst more than hearing his voice say "love you Mama" before he hangs up the phone or the random "love you" texts he sends.

Yes, I miss being there to help them, advise them (read nag them and tell them what to do) but I have also loved watching them figure life out on their own. I have loved listening to them and to being asked for advice--some which they take some they don't.

Yes, I miss their presence, their voices wafting down the stairs as they talk to each other, their smell after a shower, even their smell coming in from ballet and sports. I ache with missing them. I'm not admitting anything, but it could be that the night before Boss left for Montana I sat on the floor at the foot of his bed watching him sleep, and the night SK got home from Dublin and South Africa I might have lay next to her in her bed with my hand lightly touching her so as not to wake her but just needing to be close to tangibly know she was safely home.  As much as I miss their physical presence, I also love hearing about their adventures, the things they're learning and celebrating the people they are becoming sometimes in states and countries I have yet to see. But I get to see them through their eyes, through their stories, through their lives.

To be truthful and transparent, it hasn't been easy. There have been tears, there has been loneliness, and there has been fear. But it's been an exciting time. I fell in love with each of the children the moment they were put in my arms, and as they leave home and become the people they are created to be, I get to fall in love with them all over again.

And so as we approach William's last first day of high school, there is a part of me that feels a dread, but the larger part of me is excited for him and what lies ahead. I can't wait to see where he winds up next year and then to hear and see how he grows into the person he is meant to be--the person God calls him to be. I can't wait to share in his triumphs, his joy and even his challenges. It's his last first day, but it's also a springboard--the beginning of a whole new world, the beginning of the rest of his life.  And I can't wait to fall in love again.

I want to make a disclaimer right now--I feel quite certain there will be tears shed this year; let's be honest I shed tears over just about everything and I will savor every moment of this year and Caroline's senior year next year, but mostly I just feel light and joyful anticipation.

Let the year begin!

Train up a child

For the first time ever it rained throughout Cousins' Weekend. It

didn't stop the fun, but I didn't get to spend a lot of time on the river something I always look forward to-something my soul needs. Tuesday everyone except a few had left. It was a beautiful day (of course because everyone had left). The river was calm; the sun was shining; there was a silence that sang to my heart, so after my morning run I went inside and asked Caroline to kayak with me before we left. She said yes but then was dilly dallying around. Finally I asked, "Do you want to go?" She responded honestly, "Mama I don't love it like you do and I'm not as good at it as you are, but if you really want me to go I will."

In one of my better parenting moments (I have to brag on them; they're few and far between), I didn't try to guilt her; I didn't beg her; I just said, "Okay. I'll be back soon."

I paddled out and thought about Caroline's honest answer, my better than usual response, my sadness that only 1 of the 4 could be at Cousins' Weekend (a grief they all also felt), and how our lives are changing.  The other 3 were sad not to be with The Cousins, but they were also happy and thriving where they were, and where they were was so vastly different from one another.

They were born 4 in 4 1/2 years. It was exhausting, overwhelming and wonderful. And they moved as a pack--we moved as a pack. Over time we were dubbed "The O'Doyles." Perhaps I in part created that as I dressed them alike for what they would consider far too many years, if one had a doctor's appointment  or any appointment, we all went (4 kids this close does not allow for a lot of extra funds for babysitters), they went to each other's recitals, games and performances. And they loved fiercely and completely.

As I continued to paddle I thought about how much they love each other, how much I miss each of them, and how different they've become. One was in South Africa working towards race reconciliation, one was in Montana hiking and mountain biking and working as a bellhop, neither of them would choose to be where the other was or doing what the other was. Another one was a life guard at camp and Caroline was stuck with me. I thought about except for 2 colleges none of them were looking at the same schools (I tried not to think about the fact we were paying for those 4 college tuitions...), and this is so silly but I thought about how when SK, Caroline and I went to get pedicures the colors we chose were so different; I thought about how the way we dress has become more different than in years past (I suppose I should be glad they are no longer "borrowing" my clothes and shoes.)

Surprisingly, I wasn't overly sad but rather a little sad at the passing of time and at the same time immensely proud of who each of them was becoming. And the words I wrote 3 years ago about The Cousins leapt back into my mind, "But most of all we come with our hearts full of  love- and we come with and for the stories.  The stories we've told for years and the new stories we bring each year. And all these stories are tightly wound together; they are wound as if they were multiple colors of yarn. Yarn that is wound together into a tight ball; they are wound together so that all the stories combined become not your story or my story but part of our story.  The story of the Cousins.
As we drive away each year, each cousin takes a hold of a piece of that yarn and carries it in his/her heart back through the hedges at the end of the drive and into the world--back into our separate lives into our separate states, the ball unravels as we move out; we are each given the right amount of string to be ourselves, but it never breaks; we are  always connected at the core because we are "The Cousins.""  (The Full Post) 

I thought that's how we are becoming as a family too. Always connected, always loving, always caring but moving out and away..

I thought about the connection and (I guess because I always seem to think theologically--a good trait if you're a priest) I thought about Proverbs 22:6, "Train children in the right way and when they are old they will not stray." (NRSV) and I wondered if parents often misinterpret this--if I have misinterpreted this... What does "in the right way" mean? As I continued to paddle I thought in the right way in addition to respecting the honor and dignity of all humanity, in addition to loving all people and believing God loves everyone no exceptions, it also means training up children to be who God created them to be--not who I want them to be. Training up children to live fully into the call God makes on their lives even if it means they are thousands of miles away from me (and I can give you the exact mileage because I'm the creepy mama that tracks them), dress differently than me (why does no one like bright colors or want to wear smocking anymore?) and have different interests (Boss is convinced I'll love mountain biking--he tells me this as he's pointing out his cuts and bruises from his last "awesome" ride). They get to make choices I may not make, and I get to keep on loving them unconditionally.

Those are the things I thought on July 5, and I continue to think them. I continue to try to really let go, to not hover and offer my unsolicited opinion. I continue to try to not have my feelings hurt that I'm not a part of every aspect of their lives, and I continue to remind myself that is healthy and appropriate. Some days are better than others...but I also have started thinking it doesn't just pertain to them.  I too get to be and to live into who God has called me to be. 

Like any parent of teens and young adults I have heard the "don't do that, don't act like that, don't say that, you're embarrassing" comments over the years. Most of the time I try to honor them--ok sometimes I do everything in my power to embarrass them but that's one of the benefits of being a parent--most of the time I try to get it right, but sometimes I don't. Sometimes I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, make them uncomfortable when I don't mean to. As they are leaving home (too incredibly fast--thought about having another baby or getting a puppy just this morning) who I am also changes, and you know what, they may not like/value/endorse everything about me, but just like I am trying so hard to let them be who they are, I get to be me too.

They get to be themselves, Chris and I get to be ourselves, but we will always be connected because for better or worse, in whatever time zone we each live, work and play, whatever we choose to wear, we love one another and we are the O'Doyles.

To See

Monday morning I put on my running shoes and with my mind

reeling from a testy conversation about the words "love vs. hate", I headed down the drive and out the hedges--out of the safety and security of The Cousin's and into the world-- feeling angry and alone...

My mind was spinning at the rate of a 78 not a 45 (those who understand that are especially loved)--love vs. hate, love vs. hate, love vs. hate--I had just sent an email out saying that as Christians we are called not to be against but to transform. I wrote, "God can transform all things even hate." and I do believe that, but at the same time I was struggling personally. Who am I to say we are to love those who target the least of these, love those who commit horrendous acts and yet I can't find the strength to love some in my own life who I believe have hurt me? I was thankful at the end of my run I would return to the safety of The Cousin's for another day...

I started to run despite how tired I felt in my body and soul. "But" I said to myself, "I'm just going to run to the circle and run around that for awhile. I don't have the energy to run to the end of the street where I will have to face the dogs. For 21 years I have been running this route and at the same house vicious dogs run out from under what seems to be a deserted home and chase me. I have not at this point been bitten, others have, and the terror remains...

I turned on a commentary about this upcoming Sunday's readings starting withThe Good Samaritan. I listened to the commentators and was reminded of the animosity between the Samaritans and the Jews. I was reminded it was much deeper than most of us realize.  This wasn't just a rivalry--Cats vs. Card; Dawgs vs. Gators. This was about life and death, destruction and fear. These groups had targeted one another and one another's most sacred spaces. I suppose someone who befriended someone from "the other side" could be disowned, ostracized and left completely alone not accepted by either group. They may have to leave the safety of the hedges alone forever.

A priest and a levite saw him and crossed the street. They saw him and kept going. They saw him. They saw him.

I wondered why? Were they really too busy as skits and stories often depict? Or were they afraid? Did they think those who had beaten the man might still be in the vicinity? Did they worry if they stopped to help the man someone might accuse them of being the robbers?

But the Samaritan--despite the danger, despite the risk, despite his possible own fear and uncertainty--he stopped. He saw the man, approached the man and cared for the man. Despite knowing the past, knowing the history of these two groups, knowing this very man could have been one who had destroyed property, one who had intentionally or unintentionally caused pain to Samaritans, despite knowing this man upon healing could accuse him, despite all that he saw and he stopped.

Saw him, saw him, saw him--these words took over the words love vs. hate mantra. The first two men saw the beaten man--one of their own and and crossed the street; they avoided; they distanced themselves. I wonder if later it haunted them? I wonder if they ever thought about it again? I wonder if they ever saw a man who looked like him and wondered what happened to him? I wonder if every time they passed that spot they remembered? I wonder if they ever found out who the man was or whether they had mutual friends?

As I ran around that circle for third time I thought about how for the past 4 months I have done that very thing. I have been hurt and angry by some who I know (or think I know) hurt one of my children with gossip and rumor. And for months when seeing one of these, I have crossed "the road." I have avoided places; I have avoided people; I have been in the same place, lowered my eyes and never crossed the space between us. I have let my hurt and anger fester. I have found others to help me justify my feelings and behavior. But I have seen....and I have chosen to walk on by.

Love vs. hate, transform vs. destroy, seeing vs. looking down, walking by vs. crossing over...

As I write this today with all the hate and violence of the last 48 hours, I realize this seems so minimal. Yes a lot has happened this year; yes my pain is real and deep; yes I even have some memories I wish I didn't have (and I great therapist who is helping) but I in no way want to equate it with the travesty and devastation others have had. But as I write I think how hard it has been (at this point impossible) to cross the deck of a party and engage because of my pain and yet as a priest I am praying for and calling for us to respond to these events in love, to stand with those who are hurt ALL those who are hurt even with those we blame, and I realize despite how trivial in comparison mine seems if I could find the strength to cross over it could be a start. We are all called to cross over, to see and to engage both in big and small ways. Every step is essential....

And on Tuesday I ran past the dogs and thought about my sermon for this week and I thought...maybe one day soon I'll be able to walk across a deck...

Public Service Announcement (at least for St. Thomas people and all those who want to join us)--there will be a different sermon this week. Hope to see you.

A Grandfather's Faith

Last week I had one of the most if not the most profound, transforming experiences since being ordained.

Thursday afternoon I arrived at the home of an amazing couple to bless their newborn son. But this, for me, wasn't just any newborn, this was the grandson of one of the greatest men I have ever known--a man who was gone far too soon--a man who would never hold this precious child--a child named for him.

Just to be clear, (and to keep this from being a Hallmark movie post) this man wasn't perfect. In fact, when I first met him I would have described him as grumpy. But over the years I got to know him--as we argued (and I do mean argued) sports and theology, as he let down his tough guy demeanor and I got to know a man who was always a champion for the underdog (except in sports unless of course it was his beloved Cards), who had a fierce love and devotion to his family and who knew and practiced the importance of and precision of the use of words, my love and respect for him deepened. I learned a great deal from him, and I am proud to this day he called me "friend."

I walked through the door and within 30 seconds I had that baby in my arms--this of course is not unusual for me--I'm sort of known as "the baby stealer." Anyway, as I held him and talked to his parents about any and everything, but nothing seemingly important--in the back of my mind, just under the surface I remembered the words I spoke at the beginning of my sermon for his grandfather's funeral.

“I don’t understand why..”  When ____ approached me with those words, I quickly learned that whatever it was that was going to follow wasn’t simply something confusing, but rather something about which_____was angry or highly annoyed.  

We sat in their living room and talked about the usual--how much sleep they were getting (or not getting), going back to work, and of course with this family--sports. (Have I mentioned I love this family?!?!) I was having a wonderful time and yet almost but not quite completely unconsciously in the back of my mind I was asking that very question--over and over. I don't understand why. I don't understand why I get to be here holding this precious child and you never will; I don't understand why I will get to see him grow up and you won't; I don't understand why I get to see him in his mother's arms--his mother your little girl whom you both adored and of whom you were immensely proud; I don't understand why I will get to see him play with his cousins and you won't; I don't understand why I will see him hold his grandmother's hand, a hand you held for so many years and are no longer here to hold; I don't understand why I will get to see him fall in love with the Cards, see pictures of him going to his first games--games to which you won't be taking him.

Let's be clear, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was thrilled to be there and to spend time with this young family, but just under the surface.... It was a paradox in my mind.  I wanted to be there, I wanted to be holding that sweet boy, I wanted to be given the privilege of blessing him, I just wanted my friend to be there too.

As the visit came to an end, it was time to anoint this precious child--this child of God. I held him in my arms, anointed his head and had a quick but intense flashback of anointing his grandfather at the time of his death. In that moment, I understood and believed as I never have before that God has "by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ" destroyed death.

My friend knew and believed that to his very core.  I concluded my sermon at his funeral with these words, 

It is no accident that ___ chose The strife is O’er.  It’s an Easter hymn, a hymn of Resurrection.  ___ believed strongly in the resurrection and that despite the suffering he endured the victory would be won.  Death did not defeat ____; he didn’t sign with the Cubs—____ has won the World Series, and the Super Bowl, and the National Championship and is decorating his dwelling place in red and black.

As I got in my car I said another little prayer-- I prayed that this tiny precious baby would grow not only into the man God intends for him to be but will also grow into the faith of his grandfather--a faith that sustains when nothing else will. Death has been destroyed and love does win.

Harambe and What I Know

I have known for weeks I have to write about all this anger I have

welling inside of me.  I've avoided it--then I started thinking about seeing with different people's eyes and how that could help me, and the VERY NEXT DAY the daily reading from Mark Nepo's book The Book of Awakening  started with this quote, "Now, I have no choice but to see with your eyes, So I am not alone, so you are not alone." --Yannis Ratsos and it was solidified I had to write, but I'm really good at avoiding....

This morning out of the blue I decided to start praying the Daily Office again; (don't judge, it's been a long couple of months...) and the Psalms appointed for the day had these verses, "The arrogant smear me with lies, but with my whole heart I keep your precepts." (Psalm 119:69) and I thought, "YES!!" and I wrote in the margin (in red pen of course because that's this years color), "smear Christopher" and the next Psalm had this verse, "they will go to the company of their ancestors, who will never again see the light."  Seriously y'all I about did the happy dance.  Surely this was God talking to me and telling me what was going to happen to all those awful people--I mean why today did I pray the office and why today were these the verses?  Vengeance--punishment now there's something I can get my head around.

And then I went running and knew I couldn't write that--God wasn't damning anyone any more than God was damning me; furthermore, I knew to my core that this anger was and is eating me alive--I didn't say I did anything about it--I just knew (they say recognition is the first step).

And then I had to walk to cool off so I read my sister-in-law's blog (which y'all should all follow of course) (Sister-in-law's blog, "In the Messy") So I started thinking about the gorilla Harambe about which I have really not spent a huge amount of time thinking. I remembered how another dear friend posted a story in response to Harambe's story of how she lost one of her children and encouraged others to share their stories; although, I could have--I have many mostly involving Caroline (I know shocking..). I loved Shannon the sister-in-law's blog but one sentence stuck out and taken out of context made me a little mad (please read taken out of context). She writes, "Yes, I have wished the parents of that child seemed as remorseful over that innocent gorilla's preventable death as they have been grateful over the child being saved through it." And now I really started thinking--metaphorically 

As I've said I don't know much about the whole story--just bits and pieces (remember I've been too busy sending children to far away lands not to mention marinating in my anger). But this is what I do know

I know there are countless people sitting around tables judging those parents and what they should have done--our extended family was one of those on Memorial day.

I know some of those people know them and some have never laid eyes on them nor likely ever will, but still they talk and judge.

And this is what I know about the mother...

I know there will be lots people telling her what she should or shouldn't do and most of those people will have never had a son in a gorilla cage (because really how many people have....) but those people will continue to be the "experts" and their judgement will slowly pick away at any confidence in her parenting--the confidence she is barely holding together.

I know there will be one or two people who will step up and ask the parents about what happened and how they are--and most likely it will be people they least expect.

I know there will be other family and friends who remain silent and aloof and she will feel that loneliness and loss to her very core.

I know she will lose friends over their actions, and I know she will gain others, but her trust in people will suffer--I hope it's not forever.

I know that mother will lie in her bed night after night and relive that moment and then over time relive the moments where she hears people gossiping as she walks in a room that suddenly becomes deathly silent.

I know she will begin to avoid people and places.

I know she may wish one of those critical people's son was in that cage; she may create stories in her mind about how that will happen, and then she will feel like a reprehensible person for even thinking those thoughts.

I know she will question her ability to be a good mother.

I know that mother will rehearse every scenario that could have happened and know that while the end result was best for her son's life, there were tragedies along the way. And I know she will feel guilty about it, but she will also be so relieved her son is still alive she will try to quiet those relentless voices--from herself and others.

I know she will talk about it endlessly with her husband (or as often as he'll listen) and sometimes it will bring them closer and sometimes it won't. And she'll be thankful and relieved and sad and scared.

If that young boy has siblings, I know they will be affected--first relieved, perhaps later jealous of all the time and attention spent given to the one--because there will be an inordinate amount of time spent on him. And I know they may feel like they have to claw at her for any comfort of their own.

I know that mother might walk into her son's room and just touch him while he sleeps or perhaps even lie down next to him and send up a prayer of thanksgiving that he is there breathing deeply, sleeping peacefully in her home.

I know that mother will hug her son sometime and the tears will begin to fall for no reason, and I hope he holds on just a little bit tighter for just another second or two. But I know he will be the first to let go, and she will be glad because it means he's healing.

I know that mother will worry she hasn't done enough for any of her children and she will panic when any of them are out of her sight, not responding to texts or phone calls--it will all come rushing back.

I know that young boy will move on and forget long before his mother does. She will see a shirt or perhaps even one day fold the shirt he was wearing that fateful day or one of the horrific ones following and her hands will begin to tremble as the whole incident comes flooding back and she again can't breathe.

I know she might walk somewhere and smell a scent that reminds her of that day or the days that have followed or hear a song and will be so overcome with emotion that she has to sit and regain her composure all the while trying to make those around her think she has it altogether.

I know she will wish she had been the one in the cage and she will worry about the long term effects for her son and the family.

And that sentence--I know that mother may feel remorseful, may feel intense guilt and pain over Harambe but she could be trying so hard not to fall into a million pieces with the judgement, the criticism, the unwanted attention gnawing at her soul that she just can't express it. 

I know that mother will have to wake up every morning and face the day knowing there could be another attack on her character or her son's character and behavior and while she will know many of them are untrue she will have to decide whether to say anything. I suspect she'll say nothing, but inside she'll be screaming, "That's my son--my little boy. Please stop!"

I know that mother might sometimes look at her son and be so angry at what he did that has brought all this chaos into their family that she will want to shake him, and she will wonder what words she could have said that would have guaranteed this would never have happened. And she will also look at him and feel so much love for him and she will tell herself it is all worth it for him to be here and to be her son.

I know that mother will one day have to let her son go physically whether to a friend's house, to school or across the country, and it will break her heart but she will do it because she knows he has to move on even if she's not sure she ever will.

And I know that mother will pray over and over for God to take her pain and anger and bitterness at others away while at the same time giving thanks for her son's life and wanting to mutilate those who won't let them move on and put the past behind. 

I know that mother will want all those people to put their stones down and she will want to put hers down too.

What I don't yet know is how long that will take...

Just Katherine

I have a love/hate relationship with titles. But, I love names and nicknames (Names and Nicknames)--most of the time I do. Nicknames are often bestowed on us by those who love us--I adore being Mama Doyle to the youth of this Diocese. The truth is, reflecting on names is what encouraged me (read forced me because I couldn't keep my thoughts inside me anymore--it was like an alien trying to get out) to start this blog.  The very first entry 11June 2008 was What's in a Name? But titles--titles, well lately, I've been thinking more and more about titles....

Titles are earned--I get that; titles show respect--I get that too; titles help define who we are, but titles are sometimes used for less than benevolent reasons. I have personally witnessed people using titles to exert power and influence. I have seen people use titles to separate themselves and not for altruistic reasons. (Kind of like reasons for wearing a collar or not which I have also spent countless hours thinking about--To Collar or Not to Collar) And I suppose if I'm fair I have seen people use titles to hide behind sometimes because of insecurity, sometimes for other reasons, and while I suppose I should be sympathetic, if I'm truly honest (which I try to be for better or worse) it just makes me furious. (I'll never forget taking Caroline to a doctor who I had BABYSAT when he was in elementary school--he kept referring to himself as Dr.____ while calling me Katherine.  I wanted to say, "______ I put your scrawny hiney (which by the way I have seen in the buff) in time out more times than I can count.  Get over yourself!")

And so for all these jumbled reasons that I can't seem to figure out, it sends me into a panic when people ask me, "What do you want to be called?" I always feel like there must be a "right answer" that I don't know--an expectation of some sort that I've missed. Not to mention clergy women seem to have so many "choices" Mother, Rev., Pastor etc--and all can be loaded for others...I've heard the stories. So it's a dreaded question for me....

This past spring I answered a call to be Priest in Charge and I knew the send me into a panic heart racing  question would come. And it did--at a ladies retreat with them all LOOKING AT ME! "What do you want us to call you?" My hands started shaking, my mind started racing (seriously y'all this is a HUGE phobia for me) and I stammered around for a few minutes before I finally said, "Here's the thing. I understand that for children and youth a title may be important. I don't want my children calling adults by their first names." And I went on to explain all the different titles my children use for different people.  (I swear these women were probably thinking, "we don't need a dissertation on etiquette just an answer....and maybe we should reconsider this call....) But I continued.....

Finally one woman, either trying to save me from myself or just trying to get the ongoing, irrelevant, mind numbing monologue to stop, said, "But what do you want us to call you?" I took a deep breath and tentatively said, "How about just Katherine?"

And so that's what they started calling me "Just Katherine" and I love it!

I love it so much I've even adjusted this blog title...