Cleaning is Not Always the Answer

Have to be honest--today was a horrible, no good, very bad day--or at least it started that way. 

I woke up and my knee throbbed--the dogs didn't care. We have a routine from which they will not deviate. "Damn dogs," I mumbled, "Why do you have to be so obsessive in your routine?" Thank goodness they cannot answer--I do think they may have given me a look that was equivalent to a snarky toned, "You Miss Color Coding, only use certain mugs are really asking us that?" Anyway the routine involves multiple trips from the kitchen to the backdoor. I looked down at the clean dishwasher and thought, "I just can't stand here to unload this. I'll ask someone else to do it." (Progress right? Asking for help...truth--I never asked. BUT my not so obsessively routine husband did it anyway.)

I sat on the couch with my knee iced and elevated working on articles for work and planning this weekend's youth retreat, and then I remembered the laundry. So back up, down the stairs to the basement, up the stairs, then up the next set of stairs, then back down...you get the point. I did, however, sit back on the couch to begin folding. My knee was now hot and throbbing and all I could think about was the upcoming surgery.

Here's the honest part you may want to skip over--all that thinking (I choose not to call it obsessing) went straight to my gut and I spent the next 20 minutes in the bathroom. That was the first trip...

Meanwhile Chris went out to start his car only to discover someone had gone through it pulling everything out of the glove compartment and throwing stuff around. He came back in less than happy but then admitted he had left it unlocked and warned me to make sure I always locked mine.

On the second or third trip to the bathroom, the trip when my son stood on the outside of the door talking to me because he needed to go to class and whatever he needed to tell me was that important, I realized this all had to do with my upcoming surgery.  And this is where I had to sit (okay I was already sitting) and admit I am terrified.

I have had LOTS of surgery--8 on this particular knee plus many others. I have never been afraid. I mean I don't like having to sign all those consents about anesthesia and the risks. I always think about the warnings they say only 1-2% of people actually experience. But you know someone has to be that 1-2%. I realized it's not that causing my fear.

Another truth--I actually have no idea what all the fear is--I know part of it is how painful I know it will be. I've dealt with pain before....(I also know I am also VERY fearful, but not hours in the bathroom fearful, of anyone else doing our laundry....)

So what did I do? Sit and reflect, journal, pray--nope. I started cleaning. Every vent in this house has
now been vacuumed, and I hung pictures, and I started thinking about whether it was reasonable to clean the baseboards that I cleaned this past weekend again. I resisted in the moment but I reserve the right to fill that bucket up tomorrow...

I finally was able to leave the house only to discover my car had also been ransacked--a slight exaggeration, but I did feel violated and angry and creeped out someone was slinking around our house in the dark of night.

The day gradually got better--mainly because I did everything in my power to avoid thinking about the surgery which is a feat in and of itself since I'm hobbling around on crutches with an orange boa tied to them.

Tonight at our Lenten study I was teaching the process of lectio divina (lectio divina process). We were using the passage in the Gospel of Matthew chapter 5--the beatitudes. In the process of lectio divina the reader or listener of a passage listens for the phrase or word that stands out to that particular person. Clear as day as though it was a neon (hopefully orange and blue) flashing sign the words, "Jesus sat" hit me hard E.V.E.R.Y time. (part of the process is re-reading the passage multiple times)

Is this God telling me I need to take care of my knee by sitting down? Possibly, okay probably, but I think it's a lot more. When I listen with my heart, I believe God is encouraging me to sit down and take the time to think, to process, to acknowledge my fear, and to rest in the comfort of God's love. Frantic cleaning and laundry and ironing are simply bandaids to temporarily stop the "bleeding" but that is all.

The next step in the process is to respond...

This Morning I was Reminded

Yesterday was a really long day. I left the house before 6:30 am and

stumbled in just past 11:00 pm mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted. I stumbled in carrying others' anger, grief, sadness, fear, and yes joy. I stumbled in knowing it is a great honor and privilege to carry for others. I stumbled in after having a long talk with God, but I'll be honest, I didn't do a lot of listening. I was too spent.

I went to bed by passing Barbara Brown Taylor's new book Holy Envy that had just arrived--for those who know my obsession (possibly to the stalker level) with BBT, you know that means I was beyond exhausted. I went to bed and tossed fitfully most of the night. Between my heart and my knee I was feeling a great deal of pain. Every time I woke up I sent a prayer up to God--God got many many prayers from me last night--the dark circles under my eyes this morning are living proof.

Seven years ago when I was ordained, my daddy a life long devoted Roman Catholic gifted me, his daughter being ordained into The Episcopal Church, with a cassock, amice, surplice, and alb made specifically for me from J. Wippell & Co. The significance of this gift has so many levels.

Two years ago the dry cleaners burned and ripped the alb. (And took no responsibility)

I couldn't afford to replace it; I bought a cheaper cassock/alb; I continued to wear the burned ripped one. I refused to give it up. Most of the time you couldn't see it under my chasuble--sometimes you could.

February 3, Bishop White made his annual visitation to St. Thomas. Obviously I wore my alb without a chasuble. As I entered Robison Hall for the reception following the service, I was summoned to a table packed with women. They all began talking about my alb and the damage. One had even gone to the sacristy and retrieved it. As they studied it, the consensus quickly was it could not be fixed so that it wasn't obvious--the damage was too much.

Many suggestions of possible solutions were presented--the most logical was too take it apart and save the lace (which also had several holes) and remake it with other fabric. I love these women and the care they take of me, but I inwardly panicked a little bit. I couldn't give up this alb my daddy had given me. I knew it could be remade but I wasn't ready to not have it just like it was. I took a deep breath and said so.

They understood.

"May I take it home and see how I can patch it so it isn't damaged further?" one woman asked. I gratefully said yes. She along with her friends fell into deep conversation about the best way to do it and where to find fabric as fine as this for the patch. A second woman signaled me over...

"My husband and I would like to buy you another alb exactly like this one," she said. "I can't accept that," I quickly replied, "it's such a kind offer but this comes from England and it's just too much." We were both then distracted by the entrance of Bishop White (good timing for me--I'm not good at accepting compliments or gifts).

The next day I received an email. "We looked it up. We know how much it costs. You need to order it because it has to be specially made. Please order it this week. We're sending a check to the church."
I was speechless. (I know that doesn't happen often)

My original alb was returned to me. Yes if you look closely you can see the patches--I look at them as patches of love and care. I sew--I know the effort it took to fix it so beautifully. I'm not sure I will ever be able to give the alb up--it's significance is even more now. It was given and mended for me by people who love me and believe in my call. It was given and mended for me by people who want to care for me. It was given and mended for me by people who want to help carry my load in anyway they can.

This morning I stumbled (remember the knee) downstairs to make coffee. I tripped over a package I hadn't seen last night. After I made the coffee I opened it. It was my alb from England. Tears sprang to my eyes as I felt a warmth spread throughout my body.

Last night I didn't listen to God; this morning God made sure I did. This morning I was reminded of God's love and the love of others. This morning I was reminded that while I have to carry some things alone, others are carrying me. This morning I was reminded of God's timing. This morning I was reminded...

NEDA, Lent, and Forgiveness

As the Gospel procession began to return to the sanctuary I wondered why the priest was now holding the Gospel book and not the acolyte. I quickly figured it out--the acolyte (whom I have now learned is a seminarian) stepped into the pulpit.

"Shoot," I whispered to SK (she may not agree with my choice of the word "whispered"), "I really wanted to hear Mary preach." "Mooother!" she whispered back, "You can't say that." For the record, I have already admitted it to both Mary, the priest, and Roger, the seminarian.

For close to a week, no matter how many ways I try to distract them, thoughts have been battering the serenity of my mind. The thoughts started with a book and were quickly joined with knowledge of the approaching (now upon us) National Eating Disorder Awareness Week and the season of Lent right around the calendar corner. In the past, I have been fairly open about my eating disorder, and two years ago, I wrote about the difficult intersection of practices for Lent and body image; (2017 Lent Post) I had hoped, and I had believed, two years on I'd be better off. I mean isn't the fact I now go out in public without having to be put together (have you seen some of my outfits), doesn't that count?

Several weeks ago I started reading a book The Girls at 17 Swann Street by Yara Zgheib. The book is about a group of women struggling with various types of eating disorders living in a group home. I've read 41%; I had to stop. It's not that it's not well written--it's too well written--it's like the author is in my mind--except it's not the recovered author I want to be.

As I read I began berating myself because I no longer had the control over my eating (or not eating) that the girls at 17 Swann Street did. I started wondering what I could start doing to get back to that place. I started looking in the mirror to see how sharp my collar bones were and whether I could see my sternum. I stopped reading. I guess I'm recovered enough to know I was treading in dangerous waters.

But the thoughts haven't stopped....

And others have joined the party....

I'm angry. I'm angry I can't just read a book without being triggered. I'm angry I know these thoughts aren't okay so I hide them (well until today). I'm angry I still can't look at my body without feeling disgusted. I'm angry I take the smallest of things and turn it into something about my body--negative thoughts about my body. I mean the fact I'm not always freezing recently can't have anything to do with I'm now on iron for anemia and oh yeah I'm past 50--it has to be it's because I'm getting fat. And the new rage...I'm angry it has impacted how I talk to my own girls--or rather don't talk to them.

During these weeks I have thought a lot about how I wish I was as comfortable with my body as they are with theirs. But here's the thing, I don't actually know how comfortable they are or aren't because I won't talk about it! I'm so terrified of saying the wrong thing that I say nothing. I'm not off the hook--I know there are times they do feel judged, they've told me (perhaps shrieked at me), but I have lived their lives terrified of passing on this horrible addiction. I have lived their lives remembering all the negative things that were said to me and about me, and in my fear of doing that to my girls, I have done nothing. I have not given them a safe place to be open and honest with me about their bodies--the good and bad, the positive and negative. Oh the tension is there--I just pretend it's not. So this week I have found another reason to be angry and bitter; this week I realize not only has this horrid disease/addiction/weakness robbed me of goodness in my own life, it has also robbed me of open honest relationship with my girls and others.

I reached out to a friend (in an email--not brave enough to voice it).  I told her what was going on with the book, and I asked her to watch me, and I promised I'd talk to my therapist--still planning to keep that promise. There is too much shame for me to tell my family-shame disguised as I didn't want to worry them. Shame--addiction's favorite isolating feeling.

All of these thoughts had been bebopping in my head all weekend--no not bebopping, slam dancing, and it wasn't pretty or comfortable or fun. (Another reality of addiction--obsessive thoughts.)

Then Roger stood in the pulpit and began to preach.

He preached on Genesis and the story of Joseph and his brothers and on forgiveness and how hard it is. I can't remember it all (truth I don't want to remember it all) because the thought that hit me is enough. "I don't want to forgive her."

And there it is--the ugly truth. I'd rather stay angry and bitter, and here it is, I'd rather be "the not responsible for my own behaviors and recovery victim."

Lent approaches; people will start talking about what they're giving up--sweets, alcohol, snacks; I won't be giving those up--or at least not totally. That would be easy, plus it would be about restriction, control and losing weight.--triggers for my eating disorder I work very hard to keep at bay.

This Lent instead of standing in front of the mirror saying something positive about my body, each and every day, as often as I can (and I will set an alarm so it happens at least 3 times a day), I will ask God to soften my heart so that I want to forgive.

My first step towards healing...it's going to be a long hard Lent.

Wear Pearls

Let's take a true/false quiz on the answers to the following questions....

"What do you want to do for your birthday?"
"I don't care."  True_____ False______

"What do you want for your birthday?"
"You don't have to give me anything." True____False_____

How'd you do?

Those are indeed the answers I gave in the days and weeks leading up to my birthday.

I remember when the children were small and people would ask me what I was doing for my birthday. My response would always be, "Well, I guess I'll change some diapers, fix some snacks, kiss some boo-boo's; you know just another day." The truth (and I do mean this) was it really was what I wanted to do. I loved my life on Muscat Ct (and Williamsburg Rd. and Heron Hill Ct. and Dog Lane--you get the picture.) I remember thinking at the time, that's just the way adult birthdays are.

And then yesterday/the day came...

I was and am overwhelmed by the number of facebook messages, texts, calls, cards (which had a common theme) and emails I received. I haven't responded to them all yet but I will.

But it wasn't just yesterday.

Sunday morning I woke up feeling really yucky--I have been struggling with the beginnings of a bad cold and

Sunday morning I knew I was losing. (Not good when you're clergy). I arrived at church and found a gorgeous arrangement on the altar given by Chris and the children--and it was orange and blue! As opposed to last year when I was counting down the 50 for 50 I really didn't know if anyone at church knew it was my birthday. "Guess they will now." I thought.

Between services I laid on my couch wrapped in a blanket waiting for the advil to kick in. As people passed the office they poked their head in and poked fun at me (it was a Southern Comfort blanket), but no one said a word about my birthday. The truth (and again I do mean it) was I didn't even think about it.

During the 10 am service I was a bit fuzzy and definitely worried about getting someone sick, so I asked one of my lay eucharistic ministers to administer the paten and I would take the chalice. During this time there were two or three women I distinctly remember thinking, "Those are really pretty pearls. I don't think I've ever seen her wear them." Just a passing thought.

Following the service, I went down the stairs from the nave (Episcospeak for the main part of the

She's so clever!

church) into the narthex (lobby), very few people followed. Actually now that I think about it, only some men came down. I was busy talking (shocking) when suddenly I heard a hum. I looked up and there were oodles of people gathered on the stairs, they began singing, I tried to get them to stop (I know it's hard to believe but I really don't like attention). They didn't stop, and as I watched them with tears in my eyes, I noticed all the women had on pearls. They finished and one lady said, 'We've been planning this. I even put a cryptic facebook post on this weekend to remind people." I laughed and cried and felt not only loved but understood and accepted.

As I walked into Robison Hall for coffee hour I heard a beautiful bass voice bellow, "The Lord be with you." I stopped and responded with everyone else, "And also with you." I was pretty sure he was going to announce one of the announcements I had forgotten--remember that fuzzy mind. Instead he walked over to me with another beautiful soul. He put his arm around me and she put her hand on my back. "Katherine," he said, "You pray this for us all the time and now we are going to pray for you."

O God, our times are in your hand: Look with favor, we

pray, on your servant Katherine as she begins another year. Grant

that she may grow in wisdom and grace, and strengthen her

trust in your goodness all the days of her life; through Jesus

Christ our Lord. Amen. (BCP p. 830)

Again I was overwhelmed and again didn't want the attention, but I was filled with love.

So, here's how I would have answered the quiz, and I was serious--not a martyr. I fully believed my answers.

"What do you want to do for your birthday?"

"I don't care."  True___X__ False______

"What do you want for your birthday?" 

"You don't have to give me anything." True__X__False_____

I didn't know what I wanted for my birthday; I didn't think I cared. But others did. I received beautiful gifts, cards, and messages. But most importantly, through these messages and in many other ways, I was given the gift of being reminded that I matter, that I'm loved, and that I belong.

And those diapers I changed, those snacks I fixed, those boo-boo's I kissed--they reminded me too.

My Midlife Crisis

I messed up...well I possibly messed up....I could have messed up....some people thought I messed up.....I didn't mean to mess up....

Basically, without going into the details that caused the "mess up", I defended one of my children, publicly, and by that I mean on social media. Well my intention had been to defend or rather "set the record straight" about said child. I might have done it in a snarky, possibly passive aggressive way, but I'll be honest I was furious and so I acted or some might say reacted.

Confused yet? Don't worry it's not really what this is about....

Anyway the child I was trying to defend did not like it AT ALL. There is the very real possibility that she (obviously that pronoun just narrowed down the choices of which child) is far more strong and resilient than I am. She definitely doesn't care what people think as much as I do. Man I want to be her when I grow up, but back to the story. She was mad and /or hurt by what I did. I got defensive. Another child got involved. I got more defensive. For crying out loud (and yes I was crying) I was just trying to be a good mother, a loving mother, a supportive mother--basically a Hallmark movie mother and instead they were treating me (I told myself) like the mother from the movie Psycho.

We all went to bed; we weren't speaking.

I got up in the morning still nursing my wounds as I sat down for my morning prayer time. One of the books I read every morning is Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening (I highly recommend it although I may have thrown it down last Monday). He writes, "In my own life, it is not by chance that struggling to adulthood with a domineering and critical mother, I have been thrust again and again into situations with dominant men and women, struggling painfully for their approval and fearing their rejection." (p. 42) Parts of it rang all too true. As I read it over and over I also remembered years ago when SK was around 12 she said to me, "I need you to be the mother I need, not the mother you needed." (Damn it stinks having such insightful children....)


My mind began swirling like the tornado in The Wizard of Oz going from black and white to technicolor and back again and again. Lots went through my mind including understanding why I was so hurt by my children's response the night before. I was struggling painfully for their approval and fearing their rejection AND I was trying to be a good mother AND I was trying to be my authentic self. Somehow the three collided and it wasn't pretty--for anyone.

Later that morning as I was sitting in the dentist's chair (which is a whole other blog yet to come), I decided I was going to get back in touch with me. I was going to claim my own identity. My very very wise therapist often says the process of children and parents differentiating during the teen and young adult years is never pretty. As I sat in the chair holding my mouth open perfectly (stay tuned for that blog), I realized her statement a) is true and b) it goes both ways. Children are figuring out their own identities and parents have to either remember who they were pre-children or who they are now as their children leave home. So I decided I was going to have my very own midlife crisis and I'm not going to care what anyone says (well the first part of that statement is true...)

What would make me happy? What was making me unhappy?  THE BATHROOM!!!

It is always a mess no matter how many times I beg, plead, yell or cry. Granted it's not large and currently four adults are all using the same one,
but it still made me crazy. "But alas", I thought "we have another full bathroom in the basement." The basement bathroom used to be designated "the male bathroom." (Inch by inch and step by step those sneaky males crept up to the "girls' bathroom" and took root.) I came home from the dentist and began moving MY things to the basement. Then I went out and bought new towels (orange of course); I organized and made it my own. It felt so good and peaceful and a little bit selfish and extravagant (clearly I don't get out enough...)

I didn't stop with the bathroom....

What else would make me happy? BAKING BREAD!!!!

For years every week I baked sourdough bread. We ate it but I also gave it away. It was my way of expressing love and care for others. Several years ago the family asked me to stop. They said they liked it too much and they were trying not to eat so many carbs. They had a point (or so I thought then) and so I threw out my starter and stopped baking.

After the bathroom was the way I wanted it, I rushed up the steps to my recipe file and found my starter recipe and raced to the grocery store for the ingredients. I realized the family may not be happy about this, and I began having conversations in my head. I settled with, "Just because they have no self control doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to do what I want." A rather dramatic and not entirely true statement, but it felt good....

Looking back the whole story is kind of ridiculous--not the part about my child hurting, but my response to the criticism. (although I still love my new bathroom)Yesterday's reading in the Nepo book said, "Like many of us, I seem to be continually challenged not to hide who I am. Over and over, I keep finding myself in situations that require me to be all of who I am in order to make my way through. (p.49)

r 

I think the hardest part of this whole being authentic thing is realizing not everyone will like you (oh boy another blog I've been refusing to write) and that even those who like or love you may not always like or love what you say or do. BUT that doesn't mean they will reject you.

I'm on my third year with this book. I read it each morning along with saying morning prayer. The two continually coincide with themes. Last week the Isaiah reading said, "For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you." Do I really believe that? Most days...and really that's the problem or rather the way to the solution. If we can't truly and completely trust that God will never leave us or stop loving us no matter what we do, then how can we trust humans to do the same?

It's a process...

(And the other positive about my new bathroom is the number of steps I get going up and down two flights from our bedroom...)

Stuff is Just Stuff--But Sometimes It's More

I'd like to believe I'm not materialistic--of course I'd also like to

believe in unicorns and garden fairies....

I will, however, proudly say, as I break my arm patting myself on the back, that I am far less materialistic than I used to be--for three years I have successfully done the whole 40 bags for 40 days in Lent thing, and I have attempted to join the whole Maria Kondo cultural phenomena--not very successfully, or maybe it's just because with four children the amount of stuff we have expands but the size of our home does not and so I purge...

Last week I was gone all week arriving home late Saturday night. Monday morning I sat down to go through the mail. I reached for my letter opener (my new letter opener--stay tuned it's the main character in this story), and it wasn't there. I got a little crazy--it didn't take long. I pulled everything

Confession; not all of it is put away

off my desk; I searched every drawer in the house; I dug through Christmas boxes in the living room that had recently been packed (don't judge it wasn't yet Feb. 1--they're gone now...), but I couldn't find it. (I have to admit/confess I do have another letter opener we received as a wedding gift--it was also lost for MONTHS! I loved it too, and it was special, but I accepted it was lost with very little fanfare.)

I walked into the kitchen and tried to tell Chris I couldn't find the letter opener, without bursting into tears--I was also deluding myself believing he didn't know I was in a state of panic as he had watched me race around the house for the last 30 minutes. He put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said in his very calm voice (the voice he still, after 25 years, believes will actually calm me--God love him), "We will find it. It's got to be here somewhere. Don't worry. It will turn up." It actually did work for about an hour--I might be stretching the time a bit....

As I sat at my grandmother's desk attempting to concentrate on Morning Prayer I remembered one day several weeks ago when the letter opener was close to the edge and could have slipped down in a space on the desk. I quickly grabbed the other letter opener and began to dig around and sure enough I could feel something; it had to be my missing letter opener. I pried and pried and couldn't get it out, so I decided the letter opener wasn't strong enough. I raced (seriously) over to the silver drawer and grabbed a knife. I dug around and the knife broke and yes it was one of my sterling silver knives--have I mentioned I love sterling silver and find polishing it close to a spiritual exercise---definitely materialism at its finest with a feeble attempt to justify it, well there is a little justification (Polishing Silver)--this time, I didn't care. I just wanted/needed to get to my letter opener. I unscrewed portions of the desk--it didn't work. I may have started to cry tears of frustration. I slammed the desk shut and shazam--the drawer! I took it all the way out and yep there was my letter opener--safe and sound and now back in my hands.

Early last fall I sent a text in the family group text, "For Christmas I would like a weighted blanket and a letter opener" no one responded (welcome to my world--maybe it's because I'm an over achieving texter...) I didn't mention it again.

Christmas morning I received a beautiful blanket from SK that she knit--I take it with me everywhere. Boss gave me a large electric blanket I keep on the couch in our very cold den; William and Caroline gave me a letter opener.

This wasn't an ordinary letter opener. This was an extra special, my heart is bursting letter opener. They didn't just give me a letter opener, they gave me a letter opener they had engraved with "Love The Babies."

When the children were small we differentiated them as "The Big Kids" and "The Babies". I know I know it doesn't make much sense, the same age difference (17 months)  between the last 3 and only 22 months between Boss and SK, so really no one was "big" they were ALL BABIES, but that is beside the point...

For 18 years they have been "the big kids" and "the babies" and yes even in public. (I'm very good at giving them things to tell a therapist....) They are all young adults now--they are all moving on with their lives. I am fully aware the days and months of them being home for long stretches of time is rapidly coming to an end. I understand and I even celebrate that (most days). I am incredibly proud of the people they are becoming even as my heart misses the little ones they were. This Christmas their gifts told me they understood. Their gifts to me said more than they paid attention to my text. Their gifts said I mattered. Their gifts said they wanted to take care of me too. Their gifts said they loved me. And the engraving said, "We are growing up; we are leaving home for our own lives, but part of us will always be 'The Babies'; part of us will always stay connected to you."

So yeah, stuff is just stuff, but sometimes it's more....

Never Let the Truth Get in the Way of a Good Story

I have been very productive this morning--written all my articles, worked on my sermon, folded laundry, unloaded the dishwasher, made biscuits--not because I wanted to get all that done (although it does feel good, I smugly say). I've been "busy" because I didn't want to write, and yet I knew I had to. I didn't want to write because I don't want to appear judgmental; I didn't want to write because it might make people mad including my children; I didn't want to write because it's painful. But, I've challenged St. Thomas to be not only a safe space but also a brave space, so I guess I need to venture into a brave space even though I'm going kicking and screaming--and crying....

Mark Twain said, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story." I'm tired of being and my family being the good story.

Yesterday the psalm for morning prayer was 119:49-72. For years I choose a different color every

year (this year is pink). I also use the same prayer book for morning prayer underlining and writing notes in the margins. Verse 69 has several colors "The proud have smeared me with lies, but I will keep your commandments with my whole heart." I'm not so good at that....

I have several core beliefs about humanity. I believe most people want to be good and kind and care for others. I truly do, but I also believe we don't spend enough time thinking about what that means or how to live that out in our daily lives. I also think many of us have an insatiable need to be "in the know." Unfortunately that need, it seems, often trumps the desire to be good and kind and care for others. Often being good and kind and caring for others means keeping our mouths shut or even better using our mouths to reach out to others, TO the person not ABOUT the person.

Some things are freaking hard to do. When someone dies or diagnosed with an illness, it's hard, to reach out, but very often we find a way--a note, a call, a visit, a meal. There are other times it is so much harder, a miscarriage, infertility, addiction, divorce to name a few. So instead of talking TO the person we talk ABOUT the person. Sometimes we even convince ourselves we're doing it "because we care and we need to know the details before we can do or say anything." Then just like in the telephone game, or the need for a good story, the TRUTH disappears. When truth disappears anger, make that rage, and deep hurt takes its place.

When people are going through difficult things the last thing they need is to be the main characters in stories others have created for them. What they need is compassion and grace--sometimes space, sometimes a kind note, sometimes a phone call, ALWAYS dignity and respect and tons and tons of love.

Leaving the third person, what I need is the strength to forgive--to follow the commandments of God that require me to love everyone even those who hurt me (hard) and those who hurt my children (damn near impossible) and to forgive. I'm working on it; I'm trying really hard; I'm also admitting to myself sometimes I'm the author of other's stories, and I am terribly sorry for that. I'm tired of holding grudges but I'm still so angry and hurt I can't seem to forgive. But I'm trying...

So today I'll cling to the closing verses of Morning Prayer, "Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine." (Ephesians 3:20)