VOID

I checked and re-checked the list of documents I needed for two days before heading to the DMV to change my driver's license from Kentucky to Virginia. I know from many moves, and many children, it can be different from state to state and possibly from year to year. (When the baby was getting her learners just 17 months after her brother and within a few years of the Big Kids, I didn't remember all the things I needed which may or may not have caused a brief hormonal teen meltdown in a very long line. I was home and back with time to spare!) 

I felt confident as I drove of The Hill and headed to the DMV. I arrived and as luck would have it, there was no line. In fact, there was not another soul there. So I confidently and proudly swaggered up to the window and laid down my documents. She picked them up, studied them, and said, "I need to see your marriage license."  "Excuse me?" I asked pretty incredulously. "I said," she continued, "I need to see your marriage license and not just the one some clergy signed, the real one from the state." I must have looked completely befuddled, and possibly on the verge of having a hormonal teen meltdow. I mean, I haven't had to show anyone my marriage license in over 28 years. She continued, "Your birth certificate says Ann Katherine Kanto and your Kentucky drivers license says Ann Katherine Kanto Doyle. I need to verify you're the same person." 

Now fortunately, I knew exactly where the marriage license was as it was with all the other documents I had been looking at for the last 48 hours. She handed me the application and said I should also fill it out before I came back, you know to save time.

When I returned I handed back all the documents plus the marriage license and the application. She looked down, looked up and under hair color scratched off blonde and wrote gray. (Which for the record doesn't even show up on the completed license.....) Then she verified everything and passed me on to the next person. I guess that confusing adding one name was instantly cleared up--and yes, I know I'm being snarky and she was just doing her job--I've got to have some fun with this.

I again had to fill out forms (pretty much the same ones I already had, but I wasn't going to make a big deal about it. Teenage hormonal Ann Katherine Kanto would have). The second lady looked at me and said, "You pass." I'm not even sure what that means, but she reached down took my Kentucky license and with a hole punch punched the word VOID into it. I felt a punch in my gut and thought, "Void? Like I never existed there?" 

I decided not to overthink it as I'm proned to do, and instead turn the whole episode into somethng funny. I texted the story to several friends and we LOL'd about it.

But, for the last few weeks, every once in awhile I think about it, and I don't laugh.

This morning as I was walking on the beach and feeling all kinds of feels, I kept seeing my Kentucky license with the word VOID and my Virginia license (which came in the mail right after I left and Chris brought me and does NOT say one word about my hair color). 

Fourteen and a half years---that's how long we lived in Kentucky. I am aware I'm not from there (which has also occasionally been painfully pointed out to me). I mean when asked, I say I'm from Georgia as that's where I went to school until college (my formative years), but technically I was born in Virginia, so well, whatever. But for 14 1/2 years I have lived in Kentucky--it is the place where some of the most difficult things I have ever lived through happened. And it's also the place where I believe I have evolved into some of the best version of myself. Kentucky is where we mostly reared our children and definitely where they say they're from. It's where I finished my discernment and was ordained to the Diaconate and the Priesthood. It's where I learned I love working with youth and I could indeed be a leader. It's where I made and lost friends and found my voice--some of that was definitely all intertwined.

"VOID" it's just a word. And there is a reality to moving. Life moves on in the place you left. Others fill roles that used to be yours. New people move in who never knew you. Some people forget you. But my life in Kentucky? It happened. 

It's just a word, but it also can, during transition, feel like a razor blade that slices off the scab that had started to form from the pain of leaving. It also can force you to look deep into yourself and stare at who you are at the core and wonder/dream/imagine what you will evolve into being in this new place, this new time, and this new space.

It's just a word, and it's so much more. 

Oh, and for the record, I am both Ann Katherine Kanto and Ann Katherine Kanto Doyle--they both still exist....

(The new license also says Endorsements--NONE which I am trying, somewhat successfully, to ignore...)

Reverent and Joyful--Even a Little Fun

Over the years I have learned many lessons from my Bishop. This one I'll never forget. 

It was the first visit for the new Bishop. I was a postulate (in the process towards ordination) serving at my sending parish. To be honest, it wasn't my first time meeting the Bishop, but that visit well....let's just say he met the real unfiltered me complete with snot dripping out of my nose sobbing. A story for another time, or maybe, probably, never. Suffice it to say, I wanted to make sure I made a better or at least a different impression this time. 

Caroline was one of my acolytes...

I knew Bishop White had arrived, but he had yet to make his way back to the sacristy to vest. I was running through the service with the acolytes. "Any questions?" I asked. Everyone was quiet until Caroline said something like (this was over 12 years ago can't remember the exact words), "All this fancy stuff for the Bish. I just want to wear that funny hat he has." At this exact moment, the door opened and in walked the Bishop. 

"Please please please let him be hard of hearing, or at the very least preoccupied," I prayed. "Surely he's thinking about the service and not listening...surely...." I turned to the acolytes and asked them to head on out to create space and to avoid any other irreverent inappropriate comments. As Caroline was moving towards the door, he stopped her, placed his mitre (the correct name for the funny hat) on her head and said, "Could you let everyone know the Bish will be ready in a few minutes?" I was mortified. Caroline, however, answered with a big smile (this part I remember), "Yes sir, Bish." Gonna be honest, I was speechless--not an easy thing to happen. Well, at least she said "yes sir."

During the service, I served as the Bishop's chaplain. I was determined to be very serious, very reverent, very anything but Caroline... We processed in and the Bishop handed me his crozier (staff). I placed it in its stand and sat down. A few seconds into the first reading Bishop White leaned over and whispered, "Could you please turn the crozier around? Right now you are indicating I'm dead. I'd like a few more years." I turned the crozier around thinking right now would be a great time for it to fall, hit me in the head, and knock me out. No such luck.

The service continued. As the table was being set for Eucharist, the choir was singing, and two of the acolytes (brothers in middle school) were hitting each other with their cinctures (ropes wrapped around their waists). I glared at them. They didn't stop. For the second time Bishop White leaned over and whispered, "You're giving them your best Mom stare." I nodded. "It's not working," he chuckled. Would this service never end!?!??!

When the service was FINALLY over my priest asked me to lead the Bishop back to the sacristy. My goal was to get him in the sacristy, unvest myself, and get out with little to no conversation--preferably the no. Thankfully I knew the acolytes were already out--doughnuts called!  The Bishop wears way more vestments than I did, so I thought the odds were good I could make a quick escape--I mean exit. I yanked my cincture and robe off throwing them on the hanger promising myself I would return to straighten them and repeating to myself, "this, this, this, is why I will NEVER work with children and youth." Bishop White, silently, slowly and I'll add reverently removed his vestments gently placing them on hangers. I moved towards the doorway. "Katherine," Bishop White said. I stopped, my. eyes looking longingly at the door--two feet, that's all that was left, two feet--so close.. "Remember," he continued, "they're kids. Church can be both reverent and joyful, sometimes even a little fun." 

When we got in the car to head home Caroline said, "I really like the Bish. He's pretty cool." "Yes he is," I answered. "And very human and very wise," I thought to myself, "I really hope I get to serve under him for a long time."

Last Sunday following a service, I headed back to the sacristy followed by three young boys. "Mama Doyle, can we put on those things? We want to be preachers like you." they said as they pointed to my stole and alb. "Sure," I replied. As I helped them put them on, a man said, "Are they allowed to do that?" I smiled and said, "You know, church can be both reverent and joyful, sometimes even a little fun."

It's Not About the Money

It's not about the money.                                       
Maybe it should be.      

But it's not about the money.      

It's about the investment in hopes and dreams.

It's not about the money.

It's about the broken hearts and broken relationships and trying to put them back together again.                                                                                                                                                              And again.

It's not about the money.

It's about the put back together broken hearts that now have shards of light shining through because every time they break there are slivers you can no longer find.

It's not about the money.  

Hopes and dreams cannot be bought. 

Broken hearts take time to mend--lots of time.                                                                                     And pain.

It's not about the money.

I wish it was about the money.

Choices, Consequences, and Unconditional Love

This week I am having what my sister calls, "a world's colliding" week. It's my last summer as Director for Youth and Young Adults in Kentucky, and there are several boys from Boys Home of Virginia on staff and here as campers. All Saints is a place of unconditional love and acceptance--no matter what. Read on...

It was Senior High week in the summer of 2018, and a young man made a poor decision. 

Let me give a little, probably oversharing information. This young man had been a camper for years.  And I'll be honest, he was/is one of my all time favorites. (I know, I know--we're not supposed to have favorites. But he's loud and funny and dances with me....appropriately of course). He was a leader around camp, and I fully expected him to be on staff one day. But he was 16, thought what he was doing was funny--it wasn't.

There were consequences--severe consequences that extended beyond camp. I'll just admit it. I was heartbroken. 

The young man owned his mistake and apologized, and learned that while forgiveness comes, consequences remain.

October 2018 we gathered again for our fall retreat. I was inside a building and got a text asking me to step outside. The young man was standing there. He looked at me and asked, "Am I welcome here? I don't have to stay if it makes people uncomfortable." Tears welled in both our eyes. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "you are always welcome here. God loves you unconditionally and so do I."

That night during community meeting he asked to speak to the group. He asked for forgiveness. 

Last night, the young man, now a college student who volunteers in a neighborhood ministry organizing and coaching a soccer team for refugees, working with blessing boxes and all kinds of other ministries, brought a couple of campers to Senior High week. "MAMA D!" he shouted. As soon as his Covid test was negative, he jumped out of the car and threw his arms around me. 

Whoever you are, whatever you've done God loves you no exceptions. Find your place that serves as that constant reminder in your life. I've found mine....

I'd also like to give a shout out to The Episcopal Church and our commitment to Safeguarding God's Children. When this incident occurred, there was a process already in place. There is a reason we do what we do. Health and healing for all God's children.

Is There a Month for Us?

Please know I don't mean to be selfish or to try to co-opt the pain those struggling with mental health and/or addiction face, and I celebrate mental health awareness month in May and national recovery month in September, but I also just wonder, is there a month for us?

Is there a month for those of us who love those who struggle? A month for those of us whose lives are turned upside down repeatedly? A month for those of us who live on hope, then it crashes, then we struggle to hope again?

Is there a month for those of us whose cars are wrecked? A month for those of us whose homes become places of carnage instead of havens? A month for those of us who clean up those messes and welcome our loved ones back?

Is there a month for those of us who don't sleep while we wait for the phone to ring? A month for those of us who leave work and social events to answer that phone call?

Is there a month for those of us who sacrifice time, energy, and dare I say it, yes money one more time, and then one more time, and then one more time?

Is there a month for those of us who have to choose between loving our person and being the source of endless gossip? Is there a month for us who are so lonely and afraid? Is there a month for us who want to climb into our beds, cover our heads and hide but instead have to keep on working, keep on living?

Is there a month for those of us whose family and friend relationships are damaged or at the very least changed due to no fault of our own? Or maybe it is our fault...

Maybe it's not fair to ask, but I do wonder, is there a month for us?

The Raw Truth

People who love someone struggling with mental health or addiction rip their fingers raw holding onto even the slimmest grain of hope. I've heard (and said) more times than I can count, "As long as he/she is breathing there is hope." And I've sat with family and friends of those who have died and held them as they cried, "I'd take all the chaos again just to have him/her back." That my friends is the real hard raw truth of these diseases. But there is another side of the story....

I drove up to the graveside where the family was gathering. As I approached the mother, the first thing I noticed was a lightness in her step I hadn't seen the last time I saw her. She greeted me with a smile and a warm hug. Over the next 45 minutes I heard stories, there was laughter, and yes there were many many tears. There were statements such as, "He's at peace" and that is true, but there is still a hole in all our hearts that will never be completely filled again. 

I walked over to hug his mama one more time. She held onto me, put her lips close to my ear and said, "At least I don't have to wait for the phone call anymore. It already came. It's over. I can sleep."

God help me, but as I turned away and began walking towards my car, for a split second, I was jealous.

The Rocky Road of Repentance

I messed up this weekend BIG TIME....

And so, I sit here this morning feeling completely sick to my stomach with a lump in my throat that hasn't left for over 24 hours. I really just want to disappear, but that's not the way. Let me backtrack, and yes I'm going to be a little vague. I said something that was inappropriate and hurtful. I'm not going to repeat it. Only a few people know what it was, and to repeat it would only be more hurtful to others--just trust me, it was bad. And I got, rightfully so, called out. I apologized, and not because I wanted to get out of it, but because I was and am truly sorry. But here's the reality...apologies don't make things go away.

Hear me out.

I'm not suggesting we shouldn't apologize when we make mistakes. And I'm not suggesting we shouldn't forgive. But an apology is not like a magic eraser. Words and actions have consequences. Words and actions damage relationships. It doesn't mean it can't be repaired; it doesn't mean growth won't come. It does mean I can't rationalize my way out or justify my way out or clean my way out or even write my way out. Trust me, I've tried all those ways. No, I have to sit in my discomfort and yes, shame. I have to feel the feelings and let others feel theirs. 

True apologies require repentance...and damn the road to repentance is rocky, steep, and hard to travel. I'll keep walking, and I trust I'll get there with a new way of being in the world.

Oh, and letting tears fall is okay too...