"Hello, my name is Betty and I'm an alcoholic."
Courage. Honesty. Kindness. Spunk. Determination. Speech.
Betty Ford made it okay to talk about the untalkable. To speak about the unmentionable.
First, it was breast cancer. Women in my mother's generation felt shame at a cancer diagnosis. It was whispered but not spoken aloud. Not only breast cancer but any cancer, the name that shall not be spoken.
No more. No more. No more.
Betty spoke and all of us began to. Be honest. Speak out.
Addiction. An abyss from which there was almost no relief, no cure, no recovery.
We joke about celebrities checking into the Betty Ford Center. It is no joke. I know people whose lives were literally saved at the Betty Ford Center. Scared, broken, lonely.
Renewal, recovery, the rooms, meetings, group, healing, confidence, new life.
Can you even imagine a nation without the influence of these institutions, these words, these inspirations?
People ask me why I blather here about my injury, my experience. Why I write about the abuse of power, about the scourge of clergy sexual abuse.
I take power and confidence and inspiration from Betty, from women like Betty who dare to speak truth, the unmentionable, the damnable.
She changed the world. She changed the world. She changed the world.
This is not to idolize a woman, but to pay respect and to be clear that some of us spunky, uppity, courageous women are not going to stop speaking the truth. However inconvenient. It's gonna keep coming.
About all manner of important, unmentionable but essential issues.
Bless you, Betty. And thank you. For everything.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Memories, dreams, reflections: "Don't challenge the USA on July 10"
Memories, dreams, and reflections
Our hearts were so full, our minds on fire.
Kaia was the world's number one US Women's World Cup Soccer Fan. She knew all the players' statistics, their backgrounds, their strong points. She was one of the thousands of little girls who looked up to these young women and counted the hours until her own next soccer practice and the next televised game. She was good. Had a strong leg, a mean mid-field boot. She could score from there, and was a master at corner kicks.
Kaia and Annika both wore their autographed World Cup tee-shirts. They'd met Mia Hamm and Kristine Lilley and I forget who all else.The girls had watched the US Team practice at a field close to our house, fell in love with the whole phenomenon.
We'd gone to the teams' hotel, also nearby, collected more autographs, met Swedish and Brazilian players as they headed out to the bus; Annika -- at age 6 -- was interviewed on Brazilian TV. Marta impressed us then.
Dave and Kaia were at Soldier Field in Chicago when the US played a penultimate game. We scheduled our lives around tournament matches. We did not miss even part of one. There is still a special box of memorabilia -- programs, tickets, autographs, noise-makers, souvenir mini-balls -- in Kaia's closet. Her passion and joy were so infectious it could not help but capture and move us all.
July 10, 1999. The Finals. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena California. 90,000 in the crowd in Pasadena, millions of us completely enthralled at home. Even I remember all the names of all the starting players. We had finger foods to munch on while we watched in the family room but none of us could manage a bite. Too much excitement, tension, uncertainty. Each one of us had our spot. And I don't think we moved so much as a finger. The telephone went unanswered. A thief could have driven off in the car. We were there. In the zone. All in. Just the four of us. No distractions.
The game itself was a thrill, tight, tense. China seemed to have our number. Kaia was curled around a commemorative soccer ball of her own. Annika had her game face on.
Dave and I had our own reason for sweating bullets. We were as eager as anyone to see the US win. And, as parents, we couldn't imagine the heart and soul our daughters were pouring into this and their heartbreak if the US lost.
But we were down to the wire on another front. Today was T-Day. The day we had put off and off. The day we finally had to Tell the girls we were likely moving to Littleton. Kaia with her best friend, Jenna, would be crushed. She had such a wonderful, full life in Naperville. It was wrenching, awful to think of pulling her away from friends, her soccer team, her special school programs, church, piano lessons, oh, STOP! Jan. Really. I can go downhill fast when I think along that line. I felt guilty as all hell.
But moving felt right, overall. Annika seemed more flexible, I wasn't as worried about her transition as I should have been. Annika would be in 2nd grade that fall, Kaia in 6th. Oh, the whole thing felt unreal.
Today, that day, July 10, 1999, however, was the day we HAD to tell them. We were all making a trial, audition trip to Denver in two weeks. They needed time to get their heads around the idea and we had to make specific plans. So Dave and I had an extra reason for hoping and praying the US would win. A loss and bad news, both on the same day would be really bad news. We had our hearts in our throats. Or whatever it is we say about those moments. Sweating bullets seems to cover it.
And the US won. In the most dramatic way possible. The ecstasy. The whooping and hollering we let go on and on and on and on.
Then, later in the day, we told them. They were more sanguine than I expected. We talked about the details.
Today, July 10, 2011. We watched another miracle finish by the US. There is no big news looming. Kaia has graduated from college and is living in a lovely house in Minneapolis. She even had her grandparents over for lunch today. Annika is visiting her and the two girls are doing well. They watched the game together with Grandma and Grandpa and life goes on.
Moving to Littleton was a good thing and a bad thing for them, for us all. It took me a longer time than anyone else to get used to all the change. And then I got whomped. Who ever could have foreseen, or even imagined that? No Hollywood screenwriter would have accepted the script; too over the top.
In truth, it is a painful memory for me. All that followed. Too much pain, too much hate. Too many encounters with evil. As much as we protected the girls, it has had an impact on them both. But they are doing well. And they learned more than we ever bargained.
Despite Oprah's insistence on "moving on" and catharsis and just getting on with your life, the centuries before her wisdom hit the small screen suggest to us that there is a time for letting go, AND a time for holding. A time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to get over it and a time to linger with the grief long enough to learn its lessons.
My body woke up grieving today before my mind even had a clue what for. It took hours and an explicit reminder before my heart and mind caught up with my emotions and my guts. "Oh, that day." Some bodies have a mind of their own. Mine does. It told me to take time, for the memories, the dreams, and the reflections.
Nothing can excuse hateful, evil actions. It takes time to absorb the blows. But now, here we are. Not immobilized anymore. Not overcome by grief. But mindful, reflective. Sober. And, having counted the cost, all in all, grateful to still be here.
And ready for a nap. I'll go conquer the world tomorrow. You can be on duty today.
Our hearts were so full, our minds on fire.
Kaia was the world's number one US Women's World Cup Soccer Fan. She knew all the players' statistics, their backgrounds, their strong points. She was one of the thousands of little girls who looked up to these young women and counted the hours until her own next soccer practice and the next televised game. She was good. Had a strong leg, a mean mid-field boot. She could score from there, and was a master at corner kicks.
Kaia and Annika both wore their autographed World Cup tee-shirts. They'd met Mia Hamm and Kristine Lilley and I forget who all else.The girls had watched the US Team practice at a field close to our house, fell in love with the whole phenomenon.
We'd gone to the teams' hotel, also nearby, collected more autographs, met Swedish and Brazilian players as they headed out to the bus; Annika -- at age 6 -- was interviewed on Brazilian TV. Marta impressed us then.
Dave and Kaia were at Soldier Field in Chicago when the US played a penultimate game. We scheduled our lives around tournament matches. We did not miss even part of one. There is still a special box of memorabilia -- programs, tickets, autographs, noise-makers, souvenir mini-balls -- in Kaia's closet. Her passion and joy were so infectious it could not help but capture and move us all.
July 10, 1999. The Finals. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena California. 90,000 in the crowd in Pasadena, millions of us completely enthralled at home. Even I remember all the names of all the starting players. We had finger foods to munch on while we watched in the family room but none of us could manage a bite. Too much excitement, tension, uncertainty. Each one of us had our spot. And I don't think we moved so much as a finger. The telephone went unanswered. A thief could have driven off in the car. We were there. In the zone. All in. Just the four of us. No distractions.
The game itself was a thrill, tight, tense. China seemed to have our number. Kaia was curled around a commemorative soccer ball of her own. Annika had her game face on.
Dave and I had our own reason for sweating bullets. We were as eager as anyone to see the US win. And, as parents, we couldn't imagine the heart and soul our daughters were pouring into this and their heartbreak if the US lost.
But we were down to the wire on another front. Today was T-Day. The day we had put off and off. The day we finally had to Tell the girls we were likely moving to Littleton. Kaia with her best friend, Jenna, would be crushed. She had such a wonderful, full life in Naperville. It was wrenching, awful to think of pulling her away from friends, her soccer team, her special school programs, church, piano lessons, oh, STOP! Jan. Really. I can go downhill fast when I think along that line. I felt guilty as all hell.
But moving felt right, overall. Annika seemed more flexible, I wasn't as worried about her transition as I should have been. Annika would be in 2nd grade that fall, Kaia in 6th. Oh, the whole thing felt unreal.
Today, that day, July 10, 1999, however, was the day we HAD to tell them. We were all making a trial, audition trip to Denver in two weeks. They needed time to get their heads around the idea and we had to make specific plans. So Dave and I had an extra reason for hoping and praying the US would win. A loss and bad news, both on the same day would be really bad news. We had our hearts in our throats. Or whatever it is we say about those moments. Sweating bullets seems to cover it.
And the US won. In the most dramatic way possible. The ecstasy. The whooping and hollering we let go on and on and on and on.
Then, later in the day, we told them. They were more sanguine than I expected. We talked about the details.
Today, July 10, 2011. We watched another miracle finish by the US. There is no big news looming. Kaia has graduated from college and is living in a lovely house in Minneapolis. She even had her grandparents over for lunch today. Annika is visiting her and the two girls are doing well. They watched the game together with Grandma and Grandpa and life goes on.
Moving to Littleton was a good thing and a bad thing for them, for us all. It took me a longer time than anyone else to get used to all the change. And then I got whomped. Who ever could have foreseen, or even imagined that? No Hollywood screenwriter would have accepted the script; too over the top.
In truth, it is a painful memory for me. All that followed. Too much pain, too much hate. Too many encounters with evil. As much as we protected the girls, it has had an impact on them both. But they are doing well. And they learned more than we ever bargained.
Despite Oprah's insistence on "moving on" and catharsis and just getting on with your life, the centuries before her wisdom hit the small screen suggest to us that there is a time for letting go, AND a time for holding. A time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to get over it and a time to linger with the grief long enough to learn its lessons.
My body woke up grieving today before my mind even had a clue what for. It took hours and an explicit reminder before my heart and mind caught up with my emotions and my guts. "Oh, that day." Some bodies have a mind of their own. Mine does. It told me to take time, for the memories, the dreams, and the reflections.
Nothing can excuse hateful, evil actions. It takes time to absorb the blows. But now, here we are. Not immobilized anymore. Not overcome by grief. But mindful, reflective. Sober. And, having counted the cost, all in all, grateful to still be here.
And ready for a nap. I'll go conquer the world tomorrow. You can be on duty today.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Land of the Titans
"Lift off
Titan Road begins just three miles from our house. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are filled with engineers and project managers, inventors and technicians who work at Lockheed and, for the past decade or two have been at work to send space shuttles into space, create deep space vehicles (Mars), and prepare the Orion space capsule for eventual use to carry humans into deep space.
There is a bitter sweet feeling all around this morning. Pride in work well done and remarkable accomplishment. Concern for the future of a mission they believe in and, frankly, for their own jobs. Will we see more For Sale signs soon?
Consider me naive. Dumb, head in the ground naive. During the entire period of time that these same Titan missiles were developed and built a few miles away and being prepared to carry unfathomable nuclear destruction across the globe, when another generation was immersed in the Cold War mission of annihilation -- or Mutually Assured Destruction, as the official policy was called, or MAD -- I spent dozens of weekends here in Littleton and had no clue.
In the 1950's, the Martin Company of Baltimore, sent a man I met and really liked, a spunky soul, to find property in these foothills for a plant at which to create the Cold War hardware. Especially the Titan missiles. He nailed it. A perfect site so out of sight, tucked in behind the hogback in a pristine valley, before suburban sprawl encroached, that many of us had no idea it was here. You heard about Rocky Flats and their production of plutonium triggers but not as much about The Martin Company. Then it became Martin Marietta and word spread, and then eventually Lockheed and now we all see its signage as we drive past to favorite hiking spots.
The incongruity of the world. We don't, we can't separate danger zones, dare I say immoral zones from the rest of life. It is all mixed up together.
I had no idea Martin was nearby, no idea that Littleton was the source of the ICBM's I protested long and loud in the late 60's and 70's and 80's. Consider me naive. My cousins lived here. What I knew about Littleton then was Barbie dolls in their spacious basement, a model train set created by my cousin Bert, the Rexall Drug in the shopette on Orchard near University, and racing popsicle sticks down rain swollen gutters in front of my cousins' house.
I had no idea that their neighbors were living in homes built on paychecks that came from destructive creativity. Or that the church I would eventually come back to serve was full of men who made their living planning for the killing of millions on the other side of the world.
My uncle had no such job so I was oblivious to it all. Perhaps my cousins were too. But I've often wondered about what it does, did, to one's soul to spend all of one's creative energy on the minutiae of death. Delivery systems, guidance systems, triggers, all of it perfected in those years of the "hot" Cold War.
The shuttle is the happier outcome of their labors, and the Mars Lander, the Mars Rover, and other reaches into deep space. The generation at work now has had a much more constructive mission. I only imagine they sleep better at night.
Titan Road begins just three miles from our house. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are filled with engineers and project managers, inventors and technicians who work at Lockheed and, for the past decade or two have been at work to send space shuttles into space, create deep space vehicles (Mars), and prepare the Orion space capsule for eventual use to carry humans into deep space.
There is a bitter sweet feeling all around this morning. Pride in work well done and remarkable accomplishment. Concern for the future of a mission they believe in and, frankly, for their own jobs. Will we see more For Sale signs soon?
Consider me naive. Dumb, head in the ground naive. During the entire period of time that these same Titan missiles were developed and built a few miles away and being prepared to carry unfathomable nuclear destruction across the globe, when another generation was immersed in the Cold War mission of annihilation -- or Mutually Assured Destruction, as the official policy was called, or MAD -- I spent dozens of weekends here in Littleton and had no clue.
In the 1950's, the Martin Company of Baltimore, sent a man I met and really liked, a spunky soul, to find property in these foothills for a plant at which to create the Cold War hardware. Especially the Titan missiles. He nailed it. A perfect site so out of sight, tucked in behind the hogback in a pristine valley, before suburban sprawl encroached, that many of us had no idea it was here. You heard about Rocky Flats and their production of plutonium triggers but not as much about The Martin Company. Then it became Martin Marietta and word spread, and then eventually Lockheed and now we all see its signage as we drive past to favorite hiking spots.
The incongruity of the world. We don't, we can't separate danger zones, dare I say immoral zones from the rest of life. It is all mixed up together.
I had no idea Martin was nearby, no idea that Littleton was the source of the ICBM's I protested long and loud in the late 60's and 70's and 80's. Consider me naive. My cousins lived here. What I knew about Littleton then was Barbie dolls in their spacious basement, a model train set created by my cousin Bert, the Rexall Drug in the shopette on Orchard near University, and racing popsicle sticks down rain swollen gutters in front of my cousins' house.
I had no idea that their neighbors were living in homes built on paychecks that came from destructive creativity. Or that the church I would eventually come back to serve was full of men who made their living planning for the killing of millions on the other side of the world.
My uncle had no such job so I was oblivious to it all. Perhaps my cousins were too. But I've often wondered about what it does, did, to one's soul to spend all of one's creative energy on the minutiae of death. Delivery systems, guidance systems, triggers, all of it perfected in those years of the "hot" Cold War.
The shuttle is the happier outcome of their labors, and the Mars Lander, the Mars Rover, and other reaches into deep space. The generation at work now has had a much more constructive mission. I only imagine they sleep better at night.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Take all the lost home
Take All the Lost Home
One of these days I'll become proficient enough at this techie business to know how to link the song to this post: "Take All the Lost Home by Joe Wise
Why do I do this?
Blog. Write what and as I do?
At the recent Aspen Writers' Conference we talked of the variety of reasons for tweeting, blogging, and using other social media. It was easy for me to articulate my purpose. Let me say it again here.
You. You. You, any, all of you who have become victimized by the abuse of power.
Clergy sexual abuse is the particular area of my expertise. I have not myself experienced it but I speak at the request of, and on behalf of many who have known this shredding of their soul. I encountered those victimized over a period of fifteen years, directly, and realized in the meanwhile that I'd known victims of clergy sexual abuse all my life.
It is hidden. It is misunderstood. In Protestant, or non-Catholic churches, where most of the abuse occurs between a male pastor and an adult female parishioner, it is often 'simply' thought of as an affair. Women are most generally blamed. Pastors are viewed as the victims, seduced by the 'wiles' of manipulative, needy women.
Not true. Not true. Volumes of data, rooms of statistical evidence, acres of women could stand together and bear witness to the truth. They were manipulated. They were used. And then cast off. Blamed. Ignored. Thrown away.
"All the perpetrators ask of us is silence," says Judith Herman in "Trauma and Recovery."
I will not be silent.
These women and men, children and teens rarely get a voice. They get lost from our midst, frankly, by our own decision. We don't want them among us as a reminder of what, at some deep place, we know to be true. Or could be true. And so they are lost. From us. From the church. From their faith. From the joy of life.
My mission is expressed by Joe Wise in his beautiful simple song, "Take All the Lost Home." I won't be able to find all who are lost but I will be here, "a voice of the living God, calling them all to live," and calling the rest of us to repent. To welcome, to love, to care, to embrace.
"Their faces are grey 'til you call."
I speak of my own experiences as a victim of a different kind of abuse of power for one reason: what happened to me occurred to shut me up. It is not my own pain I express most deeply. It is yours, it is theirs. I speak not for myself but because I am called to use what voice I have to tell the truth of abusive power, to be a voice for the silenced, and to do whatever I can to reach out with strength and empowerment to those who are shattered and lost.
More of this to follow in the days following.
Meanwhile, will you be a partner, to take all the lost home?
One of these days I'll become proficient enough at this techie business to know how to link the song to this post: "Take All the Lost Home by Joe Wise
Why do I do this?
Blog. Write what and as I do?
At the recent Aspen Writers' Conference we talked of the variety of reasons for tweeting, blogging, and using other social media. It was easy for me to articulate my purpose. Let me say it again here.
You. You. You, any, all of you who have become victimized by the abuse of power.
Clergy sexual abuse is the particular area of my expertise. I have not myself experienced it but I speak at the request of, and on behalf of many who have known this shredding of their soul. I encountered those victimized over a period of fifteen years, directly, and realized in the meanwhile that I'd known victims of clergy sexual abuse all my life.
It is hidden. It is misunderstood. In Protestant, or non-Catholic churches, where most of the abuse occurs between a male pastor and an adult female parishioner, it is often 'simply' thought of as an affair. Women are most generally blamed. Pastors are viewed as the victims, seduced by the 'wiles' of manipulative, needy women.
Not true. Not true. Volumes of data, rooms of statistical evidence, acres of women could stand together and bear witness to the truth. They were manipulated. They were used. And then cast off. Blamed. Ignored. Thrown away.
"All the perpetrators ask of us is silence," says Judith Herman in "Trauma and Recovery."
I will not be silent.
These women and men, children and teens rarely get a voice. They get lost from our midst, frankly, by our own decision. We don't want them among us as a reminder of what, at some deep place, we know to be true. Or could be true. And so they are lost. From us. From the church. From their faith. From the joy of life.
My mission is expressed by Joe Wise in his beautiful simple song, "Take All the Lost Home." I won't be able to find all who are lost but I will be here, "a voice of the living God, calling them all to live," and calling the rest of us to repent. To welcome, to love, to care, to embrace.
"Their faces are grey 'til you call."
I speak of my own experiences as a victim of a different kind of abuse of power for one reason: what happened to me occurred to shut me up. It is not my own pain I express most deeply. It is yours, it is theirs. I speak not for myself but because I am called to use what voice I have to tell the truth of abusive power, to be a voice for the silenced, and to do whatever I can to reach out with strength and empowerment to those who are shattered and lost.
More of this to follow in the days following.
Meanwhile, will you be a partner, to take all the lost home?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Chaos, in theory
I don't recommend getting hit in the head but it worked for me.
Seriously. That's how the light got in.
Don't bother looking up Clary, Colorado. I invented it, but not its view: a sweep of Rocky Mountains from Long's Peak to Pikes Peak, a good hundred miles. It's that long view, the big sky, and a hot winter sun that keeps me rooted.
I'm writing about Chaos, in Theory. It is about getting hit in the head and having your perfect offering broken in bits and then, crack, that's how the light gets in. (Thank you Leonard Cohen!)
I hope you find here some crackpot notions that stimulate your own thinking and your gracious, creative response to the world's chaos. Chaos is great, in theory. Living with it, not so much. Let's talk about how to be creative, gracious and constructive humans. Old-timers will see how this blog has morphed. Even as that funky palm tree in Poland still makes me smile, there is more weird and significant stuff to talk about. More places to embrace the chaos and let it teach us. So. Welcome to the even more new and cracked open Palm Tree in Poland.
Seriously. That's how the light got in.
Don't bother looking up Clary, Colorado. I invented it, but not its view: a sweep of Rocky Mountains from Long's Peak to Pikes Peak, a good hundred miles. It's that long view, the big sky, and a hot winter sun that keeps me rooted.
I'm writing about Chaos, in Theory. It is about getting hit in the head and having your perfect offering broken in bits and then, crack, that's how the light gets in. (Thank you Leonard Cohen!)
I hope you find here some crackpot notions that stimulate your own thinking and your gracious, creative response to the world's chaos. Chaos is great, in theory. Living with it, not so much. Let's talk about how to be creative, gracious and constructive humans. Old-timers will see how this blog has morphed. Even as that funky palm tree in Poland still makes me smile, there is more weird and significant stuff to talk about. More places to embrace the chaos and let it teach us. So. Welcome to the even more new and cracked open Palm Tree in Poland.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Butterflies and kittens:Lost in Bubbles
Lost in bubbles.
Don't try this at home. Not unless you happen to have a bath tub that is completely surrounded on three sides up to a height of about six feet.
Pour in a bottle of one of Victoria's Secret bubble bath. The entire bottle. And an ample supply of bath water. It's more fun if you are already in the tub as the cocoon develops. Allow bubbles to billow up as high and as full as possible.
You will become lost in bubbles. And it is pure delight. Lean back on a pillow and soak. And stay.
Lost in bubbles.
Of course, you can get lost in other bubbles.
Less worthy, not the least bit honorable. But even more tempting.
I torture myself periodically by reading the news from my old church. For the longest time they hadn't managed to join the modern era and have an actual web site with actual information on it. But now they do. And oh, my goodness, what a bubble.
I'm telling you, they are pooping butterflies and, like Dairy Queen, they not only blow bubbles, they blow bubbles with kittens inside (I actually find that rather creepy). It is peaches and marmalade. They are burping bunnies and farting feathers. What a place! Everything is wonderful!
Now. It might be viewed as churlish on my part to be disdainful of their delightfulness. It might be viewed as mean and short-sighted of me to not rejoice in their good works. A wet blanket. To be sure, it is wonderful whenever, and for whatever reason, people care for the poor and the refugees and the homeless and the sick and those in prison. It is impressive and blessed work. So of course, it's great to see all of these important ministries.
They write to each other about how wonderful and kind and caring they are, in thank you notes, for example. 'We are amazing, we are remarkable.'
And, one could add, "we are living in a bubble."
Judith Herman, whose book, Trauma and Recovery, is the seminal book about the topic, writes that all perpetrators require of the rest of us is silence. Silence.
As long as there is a tacit or explicit promise to say nothing about abuse and wrong, the bubble is sustained, billows up and grows.
One parish living in a bubble. A minority among them who felt a decade ago that they still depended upon silence, hated and attacked me because I made no such promise. I made no declaration to 'out' their secrets and blab either. But lacking a promise of silence, they put a target on my back. And shot.
Churchhill is famously known for exulting that "there is nothing more exhilarating than being shot at. And missed." (He wasn't the first to say it and I suspect he borrowed it from someone who was not actually shot at, either.) Because it is not exhilarating to be shot at. It is devastating. It is terrible.
It is traumatic. And, as I was reminded again today, again, again: trauma changes your brain.
The same people who are blasting rainbows out their ears today tried to kill me nine years ago. Because they were afraid. Of truth. Of a word. Of the unknown.
Jesus said, "you will know the truth and the truth will make you free."
Agreed. Just watch your back if you're the one called upon to announce it.
Don't try this at home. Not unless you happen to have a bath tub that is completely surrounded on three sides up to a height of about six feet.
Pour in a bottle of one of Victoria's Secret bubble bath. The entire bottle. And an ample supply of bath water. It's more fun if you are already in the tub as the cocoon develops. Allow bubbles to billow up as high and as full as possible.
You will become lost in bubbles. And it is pure delight. Lean back on a pillow and soak. And stay.
Lost in bubbles.
Of course, you can get lost in other bubbles.
Less worthy, not the least bit honorable. But even more tempting.
I torture myself periodically by reading the news from my old church. For the longest time they hadn't managed to join the modern era and have an actual web site with actual information on it. But now they do. And oh, my goodness, what a bubble.
I'm telling you, they are pooping butterflies and, like Dairy Queen, they not only blow bubbles, they blow bubbles with kittens inside (I actually find that rather creepy). It is peaches and marmalade. They are burping bunnies and farting feathers. What a place! Everything is wonderful!
Now. It might be viewed as churlish on my part to be disdainful of their delightfulness. It might be viewed as mean and short-sighted of me to not rejoice in their good works. A wet blanket. To be sure, it is wonderful whenever, and for whatever reason, people care for the poor and the refugees and the homeless and the sick and those in prison. It is impressive and blessed work. So of course, it's great to see all of these important ministries.
They write to each other about how wonderful and kind and caring they are, in thank you notes, for example. 'We are amazing, we are remarkable.'
And, one could add, "we are living in a bubble."
Judith Herman, whose book, Trauma and Recovery, is the seminal book about the topic, writes that all perpetrators require of the rest of us is silence. Silence.
As long as there is a tacit or explicit promise to say nothing about abuse and wrong, the bubble is sustained, billows up and grows.
One parish living in a bubble. A minority among them who felt a decade ago that they still depended upon silence, hated and attacked me because I made no such promise. I made no declaration to 'out' their secrets and blab either. But lacking a promise of silence, they put a target on my back. And shot.
Churchhill is famously known for exulting that "there is nothing more exhilarating than being shot at. And missed." (He wasn't the first to say it and I suspect he borrowed it from someone who was not actually shot at, either.) Because it is not exhilarating to be shot at. It is devastating. It is terrible.
It is traumatic. And, as I was reminded again today, again, again: trauma changes your brain.
The same people who are blasting rainbows out their ears today tried to kill me nine years ago. Because they were afraid. Of truth. Of a word. Of the unknown.
Jesus said, "you will know the truth and the truth will make you free."
Agreed. Just watch your back if you're the one called upon to announce it.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
"Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away"
Sail away, sail away, sail away...
And so ended the memorial service for Ty. I cherished the vision of him sailing on his way to a place free from suffering, wasting away, being drawn away from us on a quiet tide. Sail away, sail away, sail away. I hear it now in my heart and my head and it brings tears, as the song always does.
Thirty years ago this week five men were identified as "patient zero's" -- two of them had already died -- men suffering with a mysterious kind of pneumonia and others with an unusual cancer, origin unknown.
Thirty years. 1981. Young men were dying. Thirty years of grief and loss. I'm not even going to write about numbers of deaths, there are too too many. Young wonderful vital creative and loving men who were dentists and chefs and neuro-scientists and musicians and playwrights and football players and salesmen and physicians and engineers. They were sons and brothers and lovers and fathers and uncles and husbands.
And nothing they did made them deserve the excruciating deaths. Or their sickness.
Because of where I lived at the time and with whom I hung out, the nature of the church congregation I served, our location in the midst of the epidemic, and our choice to host support groups and information sessions my primary association with AIDS and HIV was with gay men.
Too many hospital visits - but they were better than the home visits only because by the time my friends were at home they were in a basically hospice, palliative mode, near death. It was a terrible death. Terrible.
And they are gone. Gone.
But we remember. We remember. We remember Ty, and Dan, and so many more.
And we remember their loving families. Frank and Elise and Mary and Colleen epitomize the extravagance of love that was given to brothers, uncles, sons as they died. They enacted the story of the woman who lavished her love, her perfume oil on Jesus as she washed his feet. I remember being there as Frank cared for his brother and feeling I was as near to the presence of God as I'd ever been. This was the heart of God.
So, blessedly washed, oiled, and dearly loved, Ty and too many of his peers sailed away from us to a far shore where, one so wants to believe, their bodies are free from sores and scars and lungs filled with fluid and painful, ugly lesions, from disease and hurt and isolating existential loneliness.
May they all be one, gathered together at feasts of abundance (think of the food!) and spectacular music and excellent wine, and at peace.
And may all who live with grief know how much they mattered, how they too are remembered for their lavish gifts of love upon their loved ones.
We live with loss. But we can remember. And be grateful for the time we had. The lives we shared.
And so ended the memorial service for Ty. I cherished the vision of him sailing on his way to a place free from suffering, wasting away, being drawn away from us on a quiet tide. Sail away, sail away, sail away. I hear it now in my heart and my head and it brings tears, as the song always does.
Thirty years ago this week five men were identified as "patient zero's" -- two of them had already died -- men suffering with a mysterious kind of pneumonia and others with an unusual cancer, origin unknown.
Thirty years. 1981. Young men were dying. Thirty years of grief and loss. I'm not even going to write about numbers of deaths, there are too too many. Young wonderful vital creative and loving men who were dentists and chefs and neuro-scientists and musicians and playwrights and football players and salesmen and physicians and engineers. They were sons and brothers and lovers and fathers and uncles and husbands.
And nothing they did made them deserve the excruciating deaths. Or their sickness.
Because of where I lived at the time and with whom I hung out, the nature of the church congregation I served, our location in the midst of the epidemic, and our choice to host support groups and information sessions my primary association with AIDS and HIV was with gay men.
Too many hospital visits - but they were better than the home visits only because by the time my friends were at home they were in a basically hospice, palliative mode, near death. It was a terrible death. Terrible.
And they are gone. Gone.
But we remember. We remember. We remember Ty, and Dan, and so many more.
And we remember their loving families. Frank and Elise and Mary and Colleen epitomize the extravagance of love that was given to brothers, uncles, sons as they died. They enacted the story of the woman who lavished her love, her perfume oil on Jesus as she washed his feet. I remember being there as Frank cared for his brother and feeling I was as near to the presence of God as I'd ever been. This was the heart of God.
So, blessedly washed, oiled, and dearly loved, Ty and too many of his peers sailed away from us to a far shore where, one so wants to believe, their bodies are free from sores and scars and lungs filled with fluid and painful, ugly lesions, from disease and hurt and isolating existential loneliness.
May they all be one, gathered together at feasts of abundance (think of the food!) and spectacular music and excellent wine, and at peace.
And may all who live with grief know how much they mattered, how they too are remembered for their lavish gifts of love upon their loved ones.
We live with loss. But we can remember. And be grateful for the time we had. The lives we shared.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
What makes it last?
R E S P E C T
Dave and I are celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and Barack Obama has just completed his first visit to Warsaw.
Tell me, how am I going to weave those two topics together?
Respect. Laughter. Intense interest. Listening. Kindness. Humility.
How do you sustain a relationship for 35 years that begins when two young adults, one of them barely 21 and a day away from her college graduation, take a big gulp and jump half-blind, mostly-blind, into a lifelong commitment?
How do you sustain a geopolitical partnership over long years when two parties, one with presumption and comfort with power and the other with a terminal inferiority complex that is masked by the pride of occasional churlish grandiosity, are thrown together to make common cause of causes that are only vaguely understood and agreed upon?
What in the heck did that mean? United States, still the superpower. Poland, still struggling to find its voice and its place in the modern configuration of power. Polish history has caused Poles to call themselves, without a shred of irony, "the suffering Christ" of Europe, devastated again and again, scapegoated and wiped so far off the map that we forget all about their brave and noble history.
Once more this week a significant step was taken, only coincidental with Obama's visit. Once again, the point was made emphatic: there were no Polish death camps. No Polish Concentration Camps. They were Nazi camps. They were established, controlled and determined by Nazi policies, personnel and ideology. Poles suffered along with Jews in those camps and were killed in almost equal numbers during World War II. Poles carry an inferiority complex from this and other misunderstandings and humiliations over long years of European history.
At the same time, Poles are rightly proud of their early establishment of universities and their wide access to education for all, their Constitution, the first democratic Constitution in Europe, following the U.S. Constitution by only a few years. They are rightly proud of their resilience and cunning and heroics. And, as you've read here before, they are justly proud of their Solidarity Trade Union Movement and their Pope, John Paul II, who together were as responsible for the withering away of communism than any other factor and far more than the last dramatic act that gets all the attention, in Berlin. They brought down the Berlin wall.
Now Obama shows up. And this noxious mix of traits within the Polish personna pops up. For the most part, it wsa productive meeting. Obama had no big toys to drop in their lap. He came to 'make nice,' if you will, to confirm the intentions for future collaboration. He was courting. He was respectful, he was kind: The ingrediants required for any long-term relationship. He made some concrete offers, meaningful offers and promises. But he did not tell the Poles they were the center of the universe. And one often gets the impression that that is exactly where they believe they deserve to be.
How to sustain a long relationship? Respect. Kindness. Humility. Intense interest and earnest listening. On both sides. And laughter.
I'm not sure the Poles could relax quite enough to engage Obama at that level. And, given the history of recent times, I'm sure the President was walking on egg shells. And then, of course, there was the ever churlish and, frankly, tiresome, Lech Walesa. Walesa snubbed Obama. Went to Italy and declined their meeting. The speculation runs that he was angry that it was not to be a private -- messiah to messiah -- meeting but only one that would include other leading Polish anti-communist activists and leaders.
So of course the big world headline, no, there is no big world headline --- you were hard-pressed to even find mention in the Times, the Post, of Obama's visit to Wawsaw --- but such as it was reported, it was reported that the big news was Walesa's churlish (my word) behavior. Too bad.
Because, there was a spirit of respect and kindness, there was as much good feeling as one could hope for between President Obama and the Polish leadership. There is a promise of future collaboration and growing respect. If Obama was there you know there was laughter, and he is a good listener.
Respect. Humility. Kindness. Listening, Intense interest. Laughter.
I am blessed to have enjoyed 35 years of partnership with a man who took me as I was -- talk about your leap of faith! -- a naive, raw twenty-one year old child bride, and has given me the gifts that enabled me to continue to grow, to thrive, to venture and fail and venture and fail better and accomplish, succeed, and keep on going. It is an alchemy of unknown ingrediants, as well as the common ones. We've created something, two wonderful daughters, and a life that just keeps pushing us to be better than we are. And yet with grace enough to accept us as we are.
One can only hope that, in some miraculous way, the geopolitical partnership of Poland and its presumptious partner, the U.S., can find their way to such a productive and fulfilling, and maybe even fun long-term run.
Dave and I are celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and Barack Obama has just completed his first visit to Warsaw.
Tell me, how am I going to weave those two topics together?
Respect. Laughter. Intense interest. Listening. Kindness. Humility.
How do you sustain a relationship for 35 years that begins when two young adults, one of them barely 21 and a day away from her college graduation, take a big gulp and jump half-blind, mostly-blind, into a lifelong commitment?
How do you sustain a geopolitical partnership over long years when two parties, one with presumption and comfort with power and the other with a terminal inferiority complex that is masked by the pride of occasional churlish grandiosity, are thrown together to make common cause of causes that are only vaguely understood and agreed upon?
What in the heck did that mean? United States, still the superpower. Poland, still struggling to find its voice and its place in the modern configuration of power. Polish history has caused Poles to call themselves, without a shred of irony, "the suffering Christ" of Europe, devastated again and again, scapegoated and wiped so far off the map that we forget all about their brave and noble history.
Once more this week a significant step was taken, only coincidental with Obama's visit. Once again, the point was made emphatic: there were no Polish death camps. No Polish Concentration Camps. They were Nazi camps. They were established, controlled and determined by Nazi policies, personnel and ideology. Poles suffered along with Jews in those camps and were killed in almost equal numbers during World War II. Poles carry an inferiority complex from this and other misunderstandings and humiliations over long years of European history.
At the same time, Poles are rightly proud of their early establishment of universities and their wide access to education for all, their Constitution, the first democratic Constitution in Europe, following the U.S. Constitution by only a few years. They are rightly proud of their resilience and cunning and heroics. And, as you've read here before, they are justly proud of their Solidarity Trade Union Movement and their Pope, John Paul II, who together were as responsible for the withering away of communism than any other factor and far more than the last dramatic act that gets all the attention, in Berlin. They brought down the Berlin wall.
Now Obama shows up. And this noxious mix of traits within the Polish personna pops up. For the most part, it wsa productive meeting. Obama had no big toys to drop in their lap. He came to 'make nice,' if you will, to confirm the intentions for future collaboration. He was courting. He was respectful, he was kind: The ingrediants required for any long-term relationship. He made some concrete offers, meaningful offers and promises. But he did not tell the Poles they were the center of the universe. And one often gets the impression that that is exactly where they believe they deserve to be.
How to sustain a long relationship? Respect. Kindness. Humility. Intense interest and earnest listening. On both sides. And laughter.
I'm not sure the Poles could relax quite enough to engage Obama at that level. And, given the history of recent times, I'm sure the President was walking on egg shells. And then, of course, there was the ever churlish and, frankly, tiresome, Lech Walesa. Walesa snubbed Obama. Went to Italy and declined their meeting. The speculation runs that he was angry that it was not to be a private -- messiah to messiah -- meeting but only one that would include other leading Polish anti-communist activists and leaders.
So of course the big world headline, no, there is no big world headline --- you were hard-pressed to even find mention in the Times, the Post, of Obama's visit to Wawsaw --- but such as it was reported, it was reported that the big news was Walesa's churlish (my word) behavior. Too bad.
Because, there was a spirit of respect and kindness, there was as much good feeling as one could hope for between President Obama and the Polish leadership. There is a promise of future collaboration and growing respect. If Obama was there you know there was laughter, and he is a good listener.
Respect. Humility. Kindness. Listening, Intense interest. Laughter.
I am blessed to have enjoyed 35 years of partnership with a man who took me as I was -- talk about your leap of faith! -- a naive, raw twenty-one year old child bride, and has given me the gifts that enabled me to continue to grow, to thrive, to venture and fail and venture and fail better and accomplish, succeed, and keep on going. It is an alchemy of unknown ingrediants, as well as the common ones. We've created something, two wonderful daughters, and a life that just keeps pushing us to be better than we are. And yet with grace enough to accept us as we are.
One can only hope that, in some miraculous way, the geopolitical partnership of Poland and its presumptious partner, the U.S., can find their way to such a productive and fulfilling, and maybe even fun long-term run.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
POLAND! A Post About Poland Finally, and Obama
Talk about your boring state visit.
Barack Obama will not be drilling for shale oil on his visit to Poland this weekend. Talk about your bummer of a trip.
Presidents have such boring jobs. Meeting this, meeting that, speaking here, greeting there, policy speeches to joint sessions of Parliament. You can only hope the food and wine are worth the trip. And you be sure that in Warsaw it will be. Exceptional cuisine. Why am I not invited?
The thing is, all Presidents do is meet and talk and meet and talk and figure stuff out. Most of it is figured out already by their aides (or minions as we like to call them). So President Obama will tell the Poles that there are still no missile shields coming their way. But F-16's, perhaps. The news is already in print, the outcomes predetermined.
The Poles desperately want missile shields aimed at Russia. The Russians desperately don't want the Poles to have them. Guess who wins that tussle.
The Poles also want U.S. assistance with extracting oil shale. And the thought was, President Obama could do a bit of the work himself. But no, it's all meetings all the time. Why?
I don't know. If I were the President, I'd want one of those giant sized Tonka trucks with a steam shovel on the front end. And I would like to move some dirt around. Can't we give the guy a break?
Because I don't believe in shale mining, I'd prefer to give the whole group of Central and Eastern European Presidents meeting together with Obama this weekend a shot at a playground I have in mind, a very big one up in the Zoliborz District. They talk enough. I say let's let them do some digging for a change.
Barack Obama will not be drilling for shale oil on his visit to Poland this weekend. Talk about your bummer of a trip.
Presidents have such boring jobs. Meeting this, meeting that, speaking here, greeting there, policy speeches to joint sessions of Parliament. You can only hope the food and wine are worth the trip. And you be sure that in Warsaw it will be. Exceptional cuisine. Why am I not invited?
The thing is, all Presidents do is meet and talk and meet and talk and figure stuff out. Most of it is figured out already by their aides (or minions as we like to call them). So President Obama will tell the Poles that there are still no missile shields coming their way. But F-16's, perhaps. The news is already in print, the outcomes predetermined.
The Poles desperately want missile shields aimed at Russia. The Russians desperately don't want the Poles to have them. Guess who wins that tussle.
The Poles also want U.S. assistance with extracting oil shale. And the thought was, President Obama could do a bit of the work himself. But no, it's all meetings all the time. Why?
I don't know. If I were the President, I'd want one of those giant sized Tonka trucks with a steam shovel on the front end. And I would like to move some dirt around. Can't we give the guy a break?
Because I don't believe in shale mining, I'd prefer to give the whole group of Central and Eastern European Presidents meeting together with Obama this weekend a shot at a playground I have in mind, a very big one up in the Zoliborz District. They talk enough. I say let's let them do some digging for a change.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
"Dream On"
Dream on!
It is so quiet around here. Something is missing. What's gone?
Oh, that would be the 173 family and friends who came to Kaia and Annika's graduation parties a year ago. The watermelon fruit bowl. The five-foot long submarine sandwich. Bowls and bowls of chips. Paper plates and napkins that blew from kingdom come in a record windy afternoon. And confetti that filled the park and lodged in such odd spots that I'm guessing some soccer goalie chasing a ball found some yet this spring.
What a wonderful, noisy and loving celebration! A whole year ago.
And in that year, dreams have come true. Dreams have been deferred. Dreams have been dished, dumped, and alterred.
And some dreams have been dashed. I have nothing at all specific in mind but it is always inevitable. It happens to all of us. We don't see all of our dreams, large or small, exotic or common, profound or banal come true.
While I was whooping it up yesterday, poking back at the nightmares that had kept me up nights as a kid, the Rapture and that not all would be ready, others were feeling the devastating deflation that accompanies a dream that is dashed. Truth be told, a part of me wants to say, duh. Or, what fools you mortals be; presuming to predict a plan that is far beyond our designs.
And a small, compassionate corner of my heart has been claimed by a surprising sense of compassion. What do you do the day after you've been dumped? Defeated? Deflated? After you sold all you had to print pamphlets and put up billboards. There will be recalculations, the math was off, and recriminations -- we liquidated our kids' college funds for what? But somehow for all those whose hopes are turned to ash, life will go on. They will figure out a way. A way to go on. Rationalizations. New passions. Denial and numbness. Nose to grind stone.
We all know something about having our dreams dashed.
And that is yet another reason to be tender of one another, to be kind, gentle, patient, and, still again, hopeful.
What do we do when dreams die? We go on.
The dream has died. Long live the dream.
It is so quiet around here. Something is missing. What's gone?
Oh, that would be the 173 family and friends who came to Kaia and Annika's graduation parties a year ago. The watermelon fruit bowl. The five-foot long submarine sandwich. Bowls and bowls of chips. Paper plates and napkins that blew from kingdom come in a record windy afternoon. And confetti that filled the park and lodged in such odd spots that I'm guessing some soccer goalie chasing a ball found some yet this spring.
What a wonderful, noisy and loving celebration! A whole year ago.
And in that year, dreams have come true. Dreams have been deferred. Dreams have been dished, dumped, and alterred.
And some dreams have been dashed. I have nothing at all specific in mind but it is always inevitable. It happens to all of us. We don't see all of our dreams, large or small, exotic or common, profound or banal come true.
While I was whooping it up yesterday, poking back at the nightmares that had kept me up nights as a kid, the Rapture and that not all would be ready, others were feeling the devastating deflation that accompanies a dream that is dashed. Truth be told, a part of me wants to say, duh. Or, what fools you mortals be; presuming to predict a plan that is far beyond our designs.
And a small, compassionate corner of my heart has been claimed by a surprising sense of compassion. What do you do the day after you've been dumped? Defeated? Deflated? After you sold all you had to print pamphlets and put up billboards. There will be recalculations, the math was off, and recriminations -- we liquidated our kids' college funds for what? But somehow for all those whose hopes are turned to ash, life will go on. They will figure out a way. A way to go on. Rationalizations. New passions. Denial and numbness. Nose to grind stone.
We all know something about having our dreams dashed.
And that is yet another reason to be tender of one another, to be kind, gentle, patient, and, still again, hopeful.
What do we do when dreams die? We go on.
The dream has died. Long live the dream.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Carried Away
I have been carried away.
Not to heaven, heavens no. But I've been carried away about this craziness of the Rapture occuring today. A strict scientific study concluded that of all the users of social media, especially facebook, I have made a bigger to-do of this goofiness than anyone else with the possible exception of my friend who-shall-not-be-named Stuart. He posted the "Blondie" video; I passed.
One might wonder, reasonably wonder I would add, why I am so obsessed with this nonsense. I have a clue. Two of them, in fact.
First of all, from as early as I can remember, my mother told me about her love of hellfire and brimstone sermons. Seriously. She ate them up. I think they must have been the 1935 equivalent of Nightmare on Elm Street, The Omen, or Friday the 13th. She lived for that crap. She said she sat in the front row of the balcony at the Evangelical Free Church and was thrilled to her toes at the fright of burning and steaming and pokers with fiery embers.
My primary memory of hearing her tell these stories was thinking, 'what the hell is wrong with my mother?'
2) The Rapture was not a really big topic in my church but it sure was at camp. Before "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" (the song) and its accompanying movie came out in 1972, I saw another movie at a junior high retreat weekend with the same basic theme. Kid is left behind. Alone. Scared the living shit out of me. Didn't scare me straight, just scared me out of the church. I was smart enough to know manipulation when I got mowed down by it. It made me mad.
Then I went with friends to see the Late Great Hal Lindsay of the Late Great Planet Earth speak. And a host of other cool surfer dudes who made the Christian Youth group circuit in the 60's and 70's and to use their humor, virility, and implied sexuality to attract/terrify all God's children into the peculiar corral they were tending in the great Kingdom of God. What a pile. We sang some song in Sunday School about "one will be ready and the other left behind," and that always merited a sermonette to go along with it. We made a joke of it and someone always stepped behind the rest and made a sad dog face.
Anyone out there on the same page?
And of course, we sang, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" a million times around the campfire and watched that movie too. I loved camp because I got to spend my days there cleaning toilets and sweeping out the dining hall; I didn't love camp because of the mush-brained swarmy Jesus theology we heard.
I was SO ready for the reasonable study of theology and philosophy when I finally got to college. No more God the Puerto Rican laundry attendant indiscriminately, capriciously moving us around like toys. But God, a gracious giver of life, of love, of mercy.
No Rapture. No Tribulation. No manipulation. No more scare the shit out of 'em. I'd figured that out already; it was just good to be free from the crazy-making influences that tried to cram that stuff in my head.
So. This mock-the-Rapture obsession of mine. Maybe it's payback. Catharsis. Maybe it feels good to make fun of the devil -- because these scare tactics are devilish. Maybe I have a really warped sense of humor after all these years. Maybe it's yet another form of rebellion against my mother (added to, 1) be happy; and 2) make the most of life.)
At any rate, I apologize to anyone I've offended but I also stand by everything. I won't be played with. I will play with the plotter of the panic theories.
So, in case you notice my empty shoes on your front porch tonight around 6 MDT, dry ice steaming out of them, or a pile of my clothes left behind by the mailbox, I'm not making fun of God. I'm making fun of the mockery of God.
And just in case I am totally wrong about all this, and my mom was right, and Freddy Kruger is actually in charge, I don't know where I stand. If God is gracious, as I expect, then it's not to worry. I'll be hoovered up with the rest of y'all. Pie in the sky for dessert.
If all of the rules in Leviticus really count, God will need only a very small bus. Very small. A micro-mini. Just for Herself.
If I don't make the cut, I get your car. That's you, I mean, you with the sweet gold Jaguar convertible. But I won't take care of your pets. Sorry. Oh, wait, I want a horse.
Meanwhile, depending upon how this goes, I would like to thank all of you for being such great earthmates. It's been fun sharing the planet with (some/most of) you. Thanks so much for all your support and friendship and maybe we'll get assigned to the same dorm or whatever it is up there. At least I hope we can go out (well, not way out) for coffee sometime.
For those of you in earlier time zones, you're in big trouble if you don't save some chocolate mousse for us latecomers.
Dave mowed the lawn so it will look nice left behind for the (pagan) neighbors. And I'm getting highlights so I look good for eternity.
The other good tip I got was to wear loose-fitting clothes. You really don't want your pants to pinch for all eternity.
And Jennifer, just in case, since we'll miss your bridal shower, I got you a
__________THIS TRANSMISSION HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED____________________
Not to heaven, heavens no. But I've been carried away about this craziness of the Rapture occuring today. A strict scientific study concluded that of all the users of social media, especially facebook, I have made a bigger to-do of this goofiness than anyone else with the possible exception of my friend who-shall-not-be-named Stuart. He posted the "Blondie" video; I passed.
One might wonder, reasonably wonder I would add, why I am so obsessed with this nonsense. I have a clue. Two of them, in fact.
First of all, from as early as I can remember, my mother told me about her love of hellfire and brimstone sermons. Seriously. She ate them up. I think they must have been the 1935 equivalent of Nightmare on Elm Street, The Omen, or Friday the 13th. She lived for that crap. She said she sat in the front row of the balcony at the Evangelical Free Church and was thrilled to her toes at the fright of burning and steaming and pokers with fiery embers.
My primary memory of hearing her tell these stories was thinking, 'what the hell is wrong with my mother?'
2) The Rapture was not a really big topic in my church but it sure was at camp. Before "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" (the song) and its accompanying movie came out in 1972, I saw another movie at a junior high retreat weekend with the same basic theme. Kid is left behind. Alone. Scared the living shit out of me. Didn't scare me straight, just scared me out of the church. I was smart enough to know manipulation when I got mowed down by it. It made me mad.
Then I went with friends to see the Late Great Hal Lindsay of the Late Great Planet Earth speak. And a host of other cool surfer dudes who made the Christian Youth group circuit in the 60's and 70's and to use their humor, virility, and implied sexuality to attract/terrify all God's children into the peculiar corral they were tending in the great Kingdom of God. What a pile. We sang some song in Sunday School about "one will be ready and the other left behind," and that always merited a sermonette to go along with it. We made a joke of it and someone always stepped behind the rest and made a sad dog face.
Anyone out there on the same page?
And of course, we sang, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" a million times around the campfire and watched that movie too. I loved camp because I got to spend my days there cleaning toilets and sweeping out the dining hall; I didn't love camp because of the mush-brained swarmy Jesus theology we heard.
I was SO ready for the reasonable study of theology and philosophy when I finally got to college. No more God the Puerto Rican laundry attendant indiscriminately, capriciously moving us around like toys. But God, a gracious giver of life, of love, of mercy.
No Rapture. No Tribulation. No manipulation. No more scare the shit out of 'em. I'd figured that out already; it was just good to be free from the crazy-making influences that tried to cram that stuff in my head.
So. This mock-the-Rapture obsession of mine. Maybe it's payback. Catharsis. Maybe it feels good to make fun of the devil -- because these scare tactics are devilish. Maybe I have a really warped sense of humor after all these years. Maybe it's yet another form of rebellion against my mother (added to, 1) be happy; and 2) make the most of life.)
At any rate, I apologize to anyone I've offended but I also stand by everything. I won't be played with. I will play with the plotter of the panic theories.
So, in case you notice my empty shoes on your front porch tonight around 6 MDT, dry ice steaming out of them, or a pile of my clothes left behind by the mailbox, I'm not making fun of God. I'm making fun of the mockery of God.
And just in case I am totally wrong about all this, and my mom was right, and Freddy Kruger is actually in charge, I don't know where I stand. If God is gracious, as I expect, then it's not to worry. I'll be hoovered up with the rest of y'all. Pie in the sky for dessert.
If all of the rules in Leviticus really count, God will need only a very small bus. Very small. A micro-mini. Just for Herself.
If I don't make the cut, I get your car. That's you, I mean, you with the sweet gold Jaguar convertible. But I won't take care of your pets. Sorry. Oh, wait, I want a horse.
Meanwhile, depending upon how this goes, I would like to thank all of you for being such great earthmates. It's been fun sharing the planet with (some/most of) you. Thanks so much for all your support and friendship and maybe we'll get assigned to the same dorm or whatever it is up there. At least I hope we can go out (well, not way out) for coffee sometime.
For those of you in earlier time zones, you're in big trouble if you don't save some chocolate mousse for us latecomers.
Dave mowed the lawn so it will look nice left behind for the (pagan) neighbors. And I'm getting highlights so I look good for eternity.
The other good tip I got was to wear loose-fitting clothes. You really don't want your pants to pinch for all eternity.
And Jennifer, just in case, since we'll miss your bridal shower, I got you a
__________THIS TRANSMISSION HAS BEEN INTERRUPTED____________________
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Stories of the spotted brain
Take my word for it. Getting highlights are easier. Brain spots are more useful but a whole lot harder to come by.
I do not in anyway mean to make light of this process. It is life-giving, probably life-saving, and certainly a change-maker. Brain spotting. (See yesterday's blog.) A treatment for PTSD. Nobody knows quite why it works, or how, but it does. It clears out a safe spot in the brain for when the inevitable traumatic memories return.
I have one simple, disturbing and sad word from my work today.
Some violence is so intractible there is virtually no way to get free from it. I will be honest. It isn't good. Trying to visualize a resolution to a violent encounter I let my mind range over a variety of peaceful responses. Tried to be reasonable. Talk facts. Talk sense. Didn't matter. I visualized being in a blue dress and being told it was red. It was very frustrating. Exactly the situation itself back when it happened.
Finally, my therapist suggested I visualize bringing in a friend to help. That didn't sit well with me at first. I'm supposed to do this on my own, right? Back at the time of the actual events, I was terribly awfully alone. My therapist assured me that's one of the good things about life. We get to ask for help. And we can get help. So I called in a friend. Two of them in fact. Visualized them standing on either side of me.
They didn't waste time being nice. They just hauled off and yelled, swore, let their tempers fly and finally, after that had no impact to stop the violence, one of the guys socked her in the face.
That's terrible. To feel like it had to go that far. Violence. For violence. I don't believe in it.
So I'm going to say this was symbolic. The basic, sad, disturbing fact of the matter is sometimes violence has to be stopped. Just stopped. Stopped cold. No reasoning. No nice rationalizing. No explanations, facts are irrevelent. No trying to make sense. Just stop it. Bam. Bam. Not a punch in the face I hope. But something strong and compelling. And then go.
When I hear about pastors being bullied and mistreated, the only advice I can offer is to get the hell out. There is no point trying anything else. If it goes on and on and a critical mass of folk are involved, and you don't have support from the higher-ups, and you won't because they never have the balls to kick butt and take names, you are toast. Sad to say it. But it is true. Just get out. You won't win.
I don't want you to have to sit in a therapists' office in three years and visualize a woman getting knocked in the face in order to exorcise the demons. Just leave her behind and get out now.
I do not in anyway mean to make light of this process. It is life-giving, probably life-saving, and certainly a change-maker. Brain spotting. (See yesterday's blog.) A treatment for PTSD. Nobody knows quite why it works, or how, but it does. It clears out a safe spot in the brain for when the inevitable traumatic memories return.
I have one simple, disturbing and sad word from my work today.
Some violence is so intractible there is virtually no way to get free from it. I will be honest. It isn't good. Trying to visualize a resolution to a violent encounter I let my mind range over a variety of peaceful responses. Tried to be reasonable. Talk facts. Talk sense. Didn't matter. I visualized being in a blue dress and being told it was red. It was very frustrating. Exactly the situation itself back when it happened.
Finally, my therapist suggested I visualize bringing in a friend to help. That didn't sit well with me at first. I'm supposed to do this on my own, right? Back at the time of the actual events, I was terribly awfully alone. My therapist assured me that's one of the good things about life. We get to ask for help. And we can get help. So I called in a friend. Two of them in fact. Visualized them standing on either side of me.
They didn't waste time being nice. They just hauled off and yelled, swore, let their tempers fly and finally, after that had no impact to stop the violence, one of the guys socked her in the face.
That's terrible. To feel like it had to go that far. Violence. For violence. I don't believe in it.
So I'm going to say this was symbolic. The basic, sad, disturbing fact of the matter is sometimes violence has to be stopped. Just stopped. Stopped cold. No reasoning. No nice rationalizing. No explanations, facts are irrevelent. No trying to make sense. Just stop it. Bam. Bam. Not a punch in the face I hope. But something strong and compelling. And then go.
When I hear about pastors being bullied and mistreated, the only advice I can offer is to get the hell out. There is no point trying anything else. If it goes on and on and a critical mass of folk are involved, and you don't have support from the higher-ups, and you won't because they never have the balls to kick butt and take names, you are toast. Sad to say it. But it is true. Just get out. You won't win.
I don't want you to have to sit in a therapists' office in three years and visualize a woman getting knocked in the face in order to exorcise the demons. Just leave her behind and get out now.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Snow leopard? Dalmatian? Spotted giraffe? Lady bugs? Appaloosa?
What sort of spots should I get for my brain?
The next time you see me I will have a spotted brain!
It is hard, though, to decide what sort of spots to get. There are more spotted animals than you would imagine. Pigs, sheep, frogs, owls, horses, even giraffes. Cats and my new favorite, moiled cows.
I do believe I've written a bit about this before. It involves a wand, remember? Actually, it's just a long pointer and my therapist will not be wearing a pointy hat.
This is an ongoing aspect of my therapy for PTSD, a new means of neutralising the impact of traumatics incidents. I will visualize the event or experience, allow myself to feel its awfulness for a brief moment or two. And then we will look for a spot in my range of vision where the impact of the traumatic event is not so intense.
Like so much of the treatment for PTSD, nobody is exactly certain how, or why, it works but it beats the heck out of walking around the planet in a state of shell shock as the WWI veterans did for decades.
I really hope these new modalities of treatment (see, I can use big words, just not emotionally stand to be near anyone at the time) are helpful not so much for me but especially for all of the Iraqi and Afghani war veterans returning home. And I hope it is helpful for the victims of rape and abuse and other kinds of domestic violence.
We have to take these afflictions more seriously. Mental health issues must come out of the closet and be treated with the same respect we give to diabetes, leukemia, heart attacks. They are just that deadly.
Life is hard. And we make it harder on others when we're just shitty people and treat others like crap. It is normal to respond the way many of us do. The brain is resilient and clever but it wants to work. It doesn't want to be screwed up and blown up and completely mixed up.
I am so grateful for the patience and creativity of medical folks who are trying new means of helping to get our neural pathways moving along their natural courses again. If you know someone who is struggling, don't judge. Encourage. Be kind. Be gracious, generous, compassionate. Not patronizing. But friendly. And try, if you can, to encourage them to find help.
Help helps. It really does.
I'm partial to spotted snow leopards, so that is what I'm going for. But a spotted giraffe? That sounds way cool. I guess we'll find out which it is around this time tomorrow.
Next time I'm asking for some neon.
The next time you see me I will have a spotted brain!
It is hard, though, to decide what sort of spots to get. There are more spotted animals than you would imagine. Pigs, sheep, frogs, owls, horses, even giraffes. Cats and my new favorite, moiled cows.
I do believe I've written a bit about this before. It involves a wand, remember? Actually, it's just a long pointer and my therapist will not be wearing a pointy hat.
This is an ongoing aspect of my therapy for PTSD, a new means of neutralising the impact of traumatics incidents. I will visualize the event or experience, allow myself to feel its awfulness for a brief moment or two. And then we will look for a spot in my range of vision where the impact of the traumatic event is not so intense.
Like so much of the treatment for PTSD, nobody is exactly certain how, or why, it works but it beats the heck out of walking around the planet in a state of shell shock as the WWI veterans did for decades.
I really hope these new modalities of treatment (see, I can use big words, just not emotionally stand to be near anyone at the time) are helpful not so much for me but especially for all of the Iraqi and Afghani war veterans returning home. And I hope it is helpful for the victims of rape and abuse and other kinds of domestic violence.
We have to take these afflictions more seriously. Mental health issues must come out of the closet and be treated with the same respect we give to diabetes, leukemia, heart attacks. They are just that deadly.
Life is hard. And we make it harder on others when we're just shitty people and treat others like crap. It is normal to respond the way many of us do. The brain is resilient and clever but it wants to work. It doesn't want to be screwed up and blown up and completely mixed up.
I am so grateful for the patience and creativity of medical folks who are trying new means of helping to get our neural pathways moving along their natural courses again. If you know someone who is struggling, don't judge. Encourage. Be kind. Be gracious, generous, compassionate. Not patronizing. But friendly. And try, if you can, to encourage them to find help.
Help helps. It really does.
I'm partial to spotted snow leopards, so that is what I'm going for. But a spotted giraffe? That sounds way cool. I guess we'll find out which it is around this time tomorrow.
Next time I'm asking for some neon.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
"To the rescue: Kamchatka!"
"To the rescue, Kamchatka!"
What an amazing world we live in! I love it.
I'm reading Ian Frazier's wonderful "Travels in Siberia," and enjoy his wry humor and his very basic introduction for us to the basic concept of Siberia. Describing the goings on in a Russian grade school, the very back of the room was deemed, "Kamchatka," the back bench where the slowest learners sat.
When all else failed and none of the brighter children in the front of the classroom could come up with the right answer, the teacher would point to the back bench and, vainly, say, "To the rescue, Kamchatka." Even in Siberia, Siberia is Siberia.
To travel through Siberia has always been one of my life's goals. And I'm not giving it up yet. The whole sanitation/hygiene thing worries me -- to say it's not a pretty sight is to fail to even yet begin to describe the, well, disgusting yuck out there. So that will be a challenge. But, Siberia. My whole life, even before I knew about geopolitics, I wanted to travel in Siberia. Maybe it's the effect of growing up out here in the empty plains, steppes, of northern Colorado, no mountains yet, just vast space, like empty pages to be written on. What is out there?
So far I've been as close as a town several kilometers east of Moscow. I've got a ways to go.
This fascination with Siberia and the great unknown, new cultures and different people seems to connect with what I just noticed on my Facebook wall. Several people "like" a link I just posted. And these several people live in Japan, Germany, Finland, Estonia and Madision Wisconsin. And that's only so far. The woman from Japan is Japanese but she grew up in Beirut and studied at Harvard. The friend in Finland is from Rockford, IL but married and living in Finland for over a decade. Bill, in Berlin, is also an American but Heino is really from Estonia, a native Estonian who was pastor in the smallest village in the entire USSR and whose entire population was deported to Siberia during WWII. Heino studied at Princeton. Is this a great world or what?
What a mixed up mass of migrants we all are. Before it's done I expect friends from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, maybe Mexico and Milwaukee to also "Like" my link. A BBC headline tonight reads, "Obama Calls for Migrant Overhaul." I guess that means I'm going to get work done! And you too. Because we're all on the move.
And the link itself is grand news. The Presbyterians have (finally?) joined the ELCA in removing the barrier to gay clergy serving in active ministy. That is gay clergy who are in relationships, not celibate as was required before. So, from the front of the room, Finland, Berlin, Madison, Tokyo, Tartu, the globalized room that doesn't even consider Kamchatka remote anymore, friends are popping up to celebrate together this good news.
What a privilege. To be connected. Even to Siberia. I'll hear from Novosibirsk, I bet. Nobody is beyond the pale anymore. Nobody is in Siberia. Except of course the people actually in Siberia and that's not quite Siberia anymore, not like it used to be.
Amazing.
Who's up for the Trans-Siberian Railway with lots of side trips thrown in? Kamchatka is on the agenda.
What an amazing world we live in! I love it.
I'm reading Ian Frazier's wonderful "Travels in Siberia," and enjoy his wry humor and his very basic introduction for us to the basic concept of Siberia. Describing the goings on in a Russian grade school, the very back of the room was deemed, "Kamchatka," the back bench where the slowest learners sat.
When all else failed and none of the brighter children in the front of the classroom could come up with the right answer, the teacher would point to the back bench and, vainly, say, "To the rescue, Kamchatka." Even in Siberia, Siberia is Siberia.
To travel through Siberia has always been one of my life's goals. And I'm not giving it up yet. The whole sanitation/hygiene thing worries me -- to say it's not a pretty sight is to fail to even yet begin to describe the, well, disgusting yuck out there. So that will be a challenge. But, Siberia. My whole life, even before I knew about geopolitics, I wanted to travel in Siberia. Maybe it's the effect of growing up out here in the empty plains, steppes, of northern Colorado, no mountains yet, just vast space, like empty pages to be written on. What is out there?
So far I've been as close as a town several kilometers east of Moscow. I've got a ways to go.
This fascination with Siberia and the great unknown, new cultures and different people seems to connect with what I just noticed on my Facebook wall. Several people "like" a link I just posted. And these several people live in Japan, Germany, Finland, Estonia and Madision Wisconsin. And that's only so far. The woman from Japan is Japanese but she grew up in Beirut and studied at Harvard. The friend in Finland is from Rockford, IL but married and living in Finland for over a decade. Bill, in Berlin, is also an American but Heino is really from Estonia, a native Estonian who was pastor in the smallest village in the entire USSR and whose entire population was deported to Siberia during WWII. Heino studied at Princeton. Is this a great world or what?
What a mixed up mass of migrants we all are. Before it's done I expect friends from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, maybe Mexico and Milwaukee to also "Like" my link. A BBC headline tonight reads, "Obama Calls for Migrant Overhaul." I guess that means I'm going to get work done! And you too. Because we're all on the move.
And the link itself is grand news. The Presbyterians have (finally?) joined the ELCA in removing the barrier to gay clergy serving in active ministy. That is gay clergy who are in relationships, not celibate as was required before. So, from the front of the room, Finland, Berlin, Madison, Tokyo, Tartu, the globalized room that doesn't even consider Kamchatka remote anymore, friends are popping up to celebrate together this good news.
What a privilege. To be connected. Even to Siberia. I'll hear from Novosibirsk, I bet. Nobody is beyond the pale anymore. Nobody is in Siberia. Except of course the people actually in Siberia and that's not quite Siberia anymore, not like it used to be.
Amazing.
Who's up for the Trans-Siberian Railway with lots of side trips thrown in? Kamchatka is on the agenda.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Homage, tribute, bravo, viva! to my daughters
"There is pedagogy in our practice.
A fancy way of saying, we teach by example, we learn by watching the behavior of others. How we are is what we pass on. To our children, to a whole host of people, strangers and neighbors, family and friends.
Mother's Day. My first without having either of the girls at home. But they're here. They are here in heart and spirit, in laughter and looniness. I will know their presence. And it will be good.
I just made the mistake of reading the bishops's reflection in The Lutheran. "There is pedagogy in our practice." He is right. We've known this for years, those of us who read John Westerhoff, Fran Anderson, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer with our mother's milk. But it really struck me, reading this article.
Our daughters', Dave's and mine, did indeed learn from the behavior of others. There was pedagogy in their practice. When Annika was barely in 3rd grade, and Kaia in 7th, the girls began to learn about the life and witness of the church. And from this bishop's example they learned more than they could take in, more than they could believe and process of the duplicity, deceit, betrayal and indifference of the church. They learned about the power of evil to twist hearts and minds. They learned by watching this bishop and others around him of the faithless and ungracious behavior that tore down, broke apart, ruined communities and individuals. Pedagogy in their practice, all right.
"There is pedagogy in our practice." The girls saw and learned during those few years how NOT to be, how NOT to behave, how NOT to think about God and Jesus and church community, and how NOT to worship. They learned about hypocrisy and hardheartedness. They learned about faithlessness most of all. They too were used, manipulated, hurt, and betrayed. Lied to, mistreated, and broken. There was indeed pedagogy in the bishop's meanspirited practice and they learned so much about the dark side of the life and witness of the church that we despaired of their ever finding any use for it again. And even of their knowing a life of faith.
However, there is pedagogy in our practice too. HA! On this Mother's Day I am over the moon about my girls. Because of the pedagogy we practiced, the behavior and example of saints and strangers, neighbors, friends, and family, these two young adult women are gracious and generous of spirit. They are tender of heart. They are loving and compassionate, longsuffering, wise, honest, and have the will and intention to live lives of service.
It could have been different. I just need to say that. They could have learned and grown up to be bitter and indifferent, to be reclusive and rebellious. They could have grown up feeling angry and lacking in charity, kindness, and grace. But they didn't! Not even close.
"How we are, together, is a witness to what we believe to be the core of our life and faith," writes the bishop. So true. Pathetic witness, that.
But thanks to the pedagogy of our practice, and yours, my friends, our daughters saw an alternative vision to the one that surrounded them.
They have learned to be forgiving and merciful. They have learned to be honest and patient and true. They have become strong, bold examples of what the Creator intends for all of us, to live authentically, with integrity, and lovingkindness. They know about reverence, largesse, faithfulness and service. And they've even learned about vitality from two parents who were often weary and distressed. They learned that from you.
And of course, they learned to laugh. There was no getting around that. They learned that looniness is next to godliness and humility involves regular laughter at one's own (or anyway, mom's) expense. They have learned from us. By God, they have learned from us. Holy shit, can you believe it! They have learned from us! And from you. And you, and you, and all the you's out there that won't be reading this blog. Friends, family, teachers, roommates, those they admire from afar and those they have watched up close. Because, "how we are together is a witness" to life itself and how best to engage it.
And all this in spite of having a wounded healer for a mother, a woman who is herself unserious enough to have a magnet on the refrigerator that says,
"Somebody has to set the bad example."
Oh yeah, we're good. Even when we're good at being 'bad.'
Oh yeah, I am SO celebrating Mother's Day this year.
Thank you, Kaia, thank you, Annika. You are the best!
A fancy way of saying, we teach by example, we learn by watching the behavior of others. How we are is what we pass on. To our children, to a whole host of people, strangers and neighbors, family and friends.
Mother's Day. My first without having either of the girls at home. But they're here. They are here in heart and spirit, in laughter and looniness. I will know their presence. And it will be good.
I just made the mistake of reading the bishops's reflection in The Lutheran. "There is pedagogy in our practice." He is right. We've known this for years, those of us who read John Westerhoff, Fran Anderson, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer with our mother's milk. But it really struck me, reading this article.
Our daughters', Dave's and mine, did indeed learn from the behavior of others. There was pedagogy in their practice. When Annika was barely in 3rd grade, and Kaia in 7th, the girls began to learn about the life and witness of the church. And from this bishop's example they learned more than they could take in, more than they could believe and process of the duplicity, deceit, betrayal and indifference of the church. They learned about the power of evil to twist hearts and minds. They learned by watching this bishop and others around him of the faithless and ungracious behavior that tore down, broke apart, ruined communities and individuals. Pedagogy in their practice, all right.
"There is pedagogy in our practice." The girls saw and learned during those few years how NOT to be, how NOT to behave, how NOT to think about God and Jesus and church community, and how NOT to worship. They learned about hypocrisy and hardheartedness. They learned about faithlessness most of all. They too were used, manipulated, hurt, and betrayed. Lied to, mistreated, and broken. There was indeed pedagogy in the bishop's meanspirited practice and they learned so much about the dark side of the life and witness of the church that we despaired of their ever finding any use for it again. And even of their knowing a life of faith.
However, there is pedagogy in our practice too. HA! On this Mother's Day I am over the moon about my girls. Because of the pedagogy we practiced, the behavior and example of saints and strangers, neighbors, friends, and family, these two young adult women are gracious and generous of spirit. They are tender of heart. They are loving and compassionate, longsuffering, wise, honest, and have the will and intention to live lives of service.
It could have been different. I just need to say that. They could have learned and grown up to be bitter and indifferent, to be reclusive and rebellious. They could have grown up feeling angry and lacking in charity, kindness, and grace. But they didn't! Not even close.
"How we are, together, is a witness to what we believe to be the core of our life and faith," writes the bishop. So true. Pathetic witness, that.
But thanks to the pedagogy of our practice, and yours, my friends, our daughters saw an alternative vision to the one that surrounded them.
They have learned to be forgiving and merciful. They have learned to be honest and patient and true. They have become strong, bold examples of what the Creator intends for all of us, to live authentically, with integrity, and lovingkindness. They know about reverence, largesse, faithfulness and service. And they've even learned about vitality from two parents who were often weary and distressed. They learned that from you.
And of course, they learned to laugh. There was no getting around that. They learned that looniness is next to godliness and humility involves regular laughter at one's own (or anyway, mom's) expense. They have learned from us. By God, they have learned from us. Holy shit, can you believe it! They have learned from us! And from you. And you, and you, and all the you's out there that won't be reading this blog. Friends, family, teachers, roommates, those they admire from afar and those they have watched up close. Because, "how we are together is a witness" to life itself and how best to engage it.
And all this in spite of having a wounded healer for a mother, a woman who is herself unserious enough to have a magnet on the refrigerator that says,
"Somebody has to set the bad example."
Oh yeah, we're good. Even when we're good at being 'bad.'
Oh yeah, I am SO celebrating Mother's Day this year.
Thank you, Kaia, thank you, Annika. You are the best!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Guest blog at my invitation from Rick D. Bailey
The capture or killing of Bin Laden was a necessary and rational military response to 9/11 and the many other atrocities that he and al Qaeda have committed. But we let the chance slip in 2001 and it has taken 10 long years to finish that job.
In the meantime, Bin Laden achieved his objective of sowing the seeds of hatred, mass psychosis and endless war.
Pinpoint military action to break up the terrorist network was the rational response.
Instead, we invaded and occupied Iraq and thousands of innocents died in the process.
Quiet, persistent intelligence, interrogation, police work and prosecution was the rational response.
Instead, we resorted to torture and the suspension of civil liberties.
Our children, who are now young adults, watched their illusions of safety disintegrate with the towers of the World Trade Center. Then they watched their country go crazy with "shock and awe". They have watched a radical right-wing arise that is foaming at the mouth to persecute all Muslims for the evil fomented by this man and his jihadist friends.
Can we blame Americans for celebrating that the United States at long last prevented Bin Laden from doing more harm? Can we blame Americans for celebrating that finally we gave a rational mission to our intelligence and military professionals, a mission that was possible for them to fulfill with honor? Can we blame Americans for taking pride in the spectacular professionalism, diligence and bravery shown by those who found Bin Laden and carried out the mission and the strong leadership provided by President Obama?
We took the long overdue pinpoint military action, with no innocent casualties, rather than carpet-bombing Abbottabad. I say hurrah -- and I hope this is the beginning of the end of our mass-psychosis.
Like Bonhoeffer could not live in a world with Hitler, we could not live in a world with Bin Laden.God forgive me.
Rick D. Bailey
Radio Open Source on Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Martin Marty
www.brown.edu
Share
(This was a comment Rick posted after my blog from the other evening. I found it to be a compelling perspective and worthy of wider consideration. Given that we often don't see the comments, I asked his permission to reprint it here as a "guest blog." Thanks, very much, Rick. And for the Bonhoeffer link (assuming I get it to link).
In the meantime, Bin Laden achieved his objective of sowing the seeds of hatred, mass psychosis and endless war.
Pinpoint military action to break up the terrorist network was the rational response.
Instead, we invaded and occupied Iraq and thousands of innocents died in the process.
Quiet, persistent intelligence, interrogation, police work and prosecution was the rational response.
Instead, we resorted to torture and the suspension of civil liberties.
Our children, who are now young adults, watched their illusions of safety disintegrate with the towers of the World Trade Center. Then they watched their country go crazy with "shock and awe". They have watched a radical right-wing arise that is foaming at the mouth to persecute all Muslims for the evil fomented by this man and his jihadist friends.
Can we blame Americans for celebrating that the United States at long last prevented Bin Laden from doing more harm? Can we blame Americans for celebrating that finally we gave a rational mission to our intelligence and military professionals, a mission that was possible for them to fulfill with honor? Can we blame Americans for taking pride in the spectacular professionalism, diligence and bravery shown by those who found Bin Laden and carried out the mission and the strong leadership provided by President Obama?
We took the long overdue pinpoint military action, with no innocent casualties, rather than carpet-bombing Abbottabad. I say hurrah -- and I hope this is the beginning of the end of our mass-psychosis.
Like Bonhoeffer could not live in a world with Hitler, we could not live in a world with Bin Laden.God forgive me.
Rick D. Bailey
Radio Open Source on Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Martin Marty
www.brown.edu
Share
(This was a comment Rick posted after my blog from the other evening. I found it to be a compelling perspective and worthy of wider consideration. Given that we often don't see the comments, I asked his permission to reprint it here as a "guest blog." Thanks, very much, Rick. And for the Bonhoeffer link (assuming I get it to link).
Monday, May 2, 2011
Transference
The first I heard of Osama bin Laden was from a fourteen year old boy.
bin Laden had just murdered his father. Not directly but by directing, funding, inspiring and organizing the action of others.
As I took in the flood of news last night I was myself flooded with the memories. A dark room on a bright morning, a television quietly slipping details into our midst but no one paying attention. People coming and going, airline officials, neighbors, friends, phone calls, sheriff's deputies. I remember late in the afternoon answering the front door to a deputy who shyly asked if he might come in and use the restroom.
Osama bin Laden. An overwhelming flood of data that could barely be attended to. I remember a young teen saying, "we'd better not go to war over this! Find another way."
Darkness. A darkened house. To a darkened house. By the time I got home late at night, my house was dark too. It went on this way for days, weeks. I went from darkness to darkness. My own fault. I got sucked in. Pastors sometimes do. I have no regrets. It's just the way it was.
I commend to you the logical, compelling, lucid comment to my previous blog post. Of course this day had to come. And it should have come 9 and a half years ago, before and without the "national psychosis" stirred up resulting in two wars and mass craziness. I agree with the comment.
This is where my own thinking went off the rails: terrorists are domestic as well as international, familiar as well as strangers, right under our noses and in caves half a world away.
At the time of 9/11 when I became immersed in the pastoral care of two families who lost father, brother, former spouse, I was already dealing with terrorists close at hand. In our church. Someone even commented at the time. "Wow, this is just like...." Crawling out from under a rock to lob their bombshells, to crash their planes, to wreak devastation and then scurry back under into the murky darkness where they regrouped and emerged only to attack again. I already knew more about terrorism on 9/11 than I ever expected, or certainly wanted. And it went on and on and on.
It was MY story I was writing last night. Not America's. It was not my privilege to exercise vengeance on the terrorists who created a catastrophic situation under which I collapsed. But I can't transfer that situation automatically to this national/macro one.
The weeping, I have realized, was my natural regression back to the beginning of that 9/11 experience. Pastors can relate easily to this: I didn't cry for two weeks. I saw the experience almost exclusively through the eyes of people for whom I cared deeply. I saw 9/11 entirely through the experience -- empathy -- of a 14 year old boy. A 40-something mother. A 60-something sister. Especially the boy. Who is now a man! It took the easing of the first phase of the pastoral care process for me to step back and feel for myself. And finally to cry.
Every night I would come home late and sit in a dark family room, the family having gone to bed. Sit. But not think. I was too tired to think. I was, in fact, numb.
Finally, two weeks later, after the funeral - or memorial service, the TV news cameras gone away, a quiet evening, when Saturday Night Live returned to the screen, Paul Simon began to sing "The Boxer." And I began sobbing and didn't stop.
That's my story. Not everybody's. Transference. In the passing years I have railed against the waste of the wars, the terrible injuries to our military, the losses upon losses that have screwed with the hopes and minds and money that is now our legacy to our children.
Discernment. Discretion. Perhaps as we move through this new period in our history, we can teach those lessons to our children. Oh, I hope so.
bin Laden had just murdered his father. Not directly but by directing, funding, inspiring and organizing the action of others.
As I took in the flood of news last night I was myself flooded with the memories. A dark room on a bright morning, a television quietly slipping details into our midst but no one paying attention. People coming and going, airline officials, neighbors, friends, phone calls, sheriff's deputies. I remember late in the afternoon answering the front door to a deputy who shyly asked if he might come in and use the restroom.
Osama bin Laden. An overwhelming flood of data that could barely be attended to. I remember a young teen saying, "we'd better not go to war over this! Find another way."
Darkness. A darkened house. To a darkened house. By the time I got home late at night, my house was dark too. It went on this way for days, weeks. I went from darkness to darkness. My own fault. I got sucked in. Pastors sometimes do. I have no regrets. It's just the way it was.
I commend to you the logical, compelling, lucid comment to my previous blog post. Of course this day had to come. And it should have come 9 and a half years ago, before and without the "national psychosis" stirred up resulting in two wars and mass craziness. I agree with the comment.
This is where my own thinking went off the rails: terrorists are domestic as well as international, familiar as well as strangers, right under our noses and in caves half a world away.
At the time of 9/11 when I became immersed in the pastoral care of two families who lost father, brother, former spouse, I was already dealing with terrorists close at hand. In our church. Someone even commented at the time. "Wow, this is just like...." Crawling out from under a rock to lob their bombshells, to crash their planes, to wreak devastation and then scurry back under into the murky darkness where they regrouped and emerged only to attack again. I already knew more about terrorism on 9/11 than I ever expected, or certainly wanted. And it went on and on and on.
It was MY story I was writing last night. Not America's. It was not my privilege to exercise vengeance on the terrorists who created a catastrophic situation under which I collapsed. But I can't transfer that situation automatically to this national/macro one.
The weeping, I have realized, was my natural regression back to the beginning of that 9/11 experience. Pastors can relate easily to this: I didn't cry for two weeks. I saw the experience almost exclusively through the eyes of people for whom I cared deeply. I saw 9/11 entirely through the experience -- empathy -- of a 14 year old boy. A 40-something mother. A 60-something sister. Especially the boy. Who is now a man! It took the easing of the first phase of the pastoral care process for me to step back and feel for myself. And finally to cry.
Every night I would come home late and sit in a dark family room, the family having gone to bed. Sit. But not think. I was too tired to think. I was, in fact, numb.
Finally, two weeks later, after the funeral - or memorial service, the TV news cameras gone away, a quiet evening, when Saturday Night Live returned to the screen, Paul Simon began to sing "The Boxer." And I began sobbing and didn't stop.
That's my story. Not everybody's. Transference. In the passing years I have railed against the waste of the wars, the terrible injuries to our military, the losses upon losses that have screwed with the hopes and minds and money that is now our legacy to our children.
Discernment. Discretion. Perhaps as we move through this new period in our history, we can teach those lessons to our children. Oh, I hope so.
"Here am I. Send me."
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. I will repay.
In the days after 9/11, as we ramped up for war, I was haunted by these words from Scripture. Stopping evil, one thing. But revenge? No deal. Not our prerogative. But this led to a slippery slope of questions and dilemmas. How to discern what is what?
Then, of course, the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who did not condone violence or vengeance but did participate in a plot to assassinate Hitler - and was hung for it. He said he could not justify his actions morally but was obliged to stop a madman from killing others. Moral purity was a luxury he determined he could not afford.
That is a far reach, however, from the blood lust and hatred and gloating over the death of an enemy. Reading the wide range of reactions on the social media last night, and watching the celebrations, "We are the champions!" on television, I was troubled by the spirit of "Nah na na nah, hey, hey, good bye." This wasn't a game that ended, as one sign said, "Obama 1, Osama 0."
I can't even begin to tell you how powerful is the urge for revenge. In the days after I was violently attacked and left broken, and there was no recompense, no justice, not even a word of acknowledgement or regret --- from the bishop of the church, for god's sake, I was furious. The furies ruled.
And I kept these two Scripture texts together in my mind, "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay." (Romans 12: 19-20) along with a second one, that I put right after, "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?' 'And I said, 'Here I am, send me!'"
I'll do it! I'll do it! Vengeance, you need help with that, Lord? I'm your girl. Let me at 'em. I'll take care of it. Like you've never seen. It will be done.
That was my joke, but I wasn't being entirely funny. I'd have done it. Well, the bravado said I'd do it.
Not an admission I'm particularly proud of. But there you are.
Taking matters into our own hands when they are best entrusted to wiser ones. I'm glad I've taken that route.
And now here we are with mucho mongo blood on our hands. Repaying evil for evil. One government analyst/official admitted as much this morning, "there was never any plan to take Osama alive. It was, from day one, to bring his head home in a box."
And we are the Christian nation.
When it suits us.
My daughter Annika went to Ground Zero last night, just a short distance from her dorm room at NYU. She went to pray, to reflect. She took the photo of all the kids flashing the peace signs. And she posted this,
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble do not let your heart rejoice" Proverbs 24:17 BUT there is much respect to be paid for those that unfairly lost their lives. It's a hard position to judge. Myself? I didn't go to ground zero to celebrate the death of one, but to observe perhaps what could be the beginning of peace.
11 hours ago · Like · 5 people
Vengeance is not safe in human hands. Ever. Ever.
Grief is, though. And so I'm sticking with that. Like many with personal connections to 9/11, who were too numb to cry for days and weeks after the actual loss, last night began and ended with weeping. And it goes on.
Grieving and comforting. I can do that. We can all do that.
http://nyulocal.com/city/2011/05/02/
we-were-there-photos-from-the-celebration-at-ground-zero/
We Were There: Photos from the Celebration at Ground Zero
nyulocal.com
For many, as students and Americans and New Yorkers, there was only one appropriate response to the news of Bin Laden's death-- a return to where it began
In the days after 9/11, as we ramped up for war, I was haunted by these words from Scripture. Stopping evil, one thing. But revenge? No deal. Not our prerogative. But this led to a slippery slope of questions and dilemmas. How to discern what is what?
Then, of course, the example of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who did not condone violence or vengeance but did participate in a plot to assassinate Hitler - and was hung for it. He said he could not justify his actions morally but was obliged to stop a madman from killing others. Moral purity was a luxury he determined he could not afford.
That is a far reach, however, from the blood lust and hatred and gloating over the death of an enemy. Reading the wide range of reactions on the social media last night, and watching the celebrations, "We are the champions!" on television, I was troubled by the spirit of "Nah na na nah, hey, hey, good bye." This wasn't a game that ended, as one sign said, "Obama 1, Osama 0."
I can't even begin to tell you how powerful is the urge for revenge. In the days after I was violently attacked and left broken, and there was no recompense, no justice, not even a word of acknowledgement or regret --- from the bishop of the church, for god's sake, I was furious. The furies ruled.
And I kept these two Scripture texts together in my mind, "Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, I will repay." (Romans 12: 19-20) along with a second one, that I put right after, "Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?' 'And I said, 'Here I am, send me!'"
I'll do it! I'll do it! Vengeance, you need help with that, Lord? I'm your girl. Let me at 'em. I'll take care of it. Like you've never seen. It will be done.
That was my joke, but I wasn't being entirely funny. I'd have done it. Well, the bravado said I'd do it.
Not an admission I'm particularly proud of. But there you are.
Taking matters into our own hands when they are best entrusted to wiser ones. I'm glad I've taken that route.
And now here we are with mucho mongo blood on our hands. Repaying evil for evil. One government analyst/official admitted as much this morning, "there was never any plan to take Osama alive. It was, from day one, to bring his head home in a box."
And we are the Christian nation.
When it suits us.
My daughter Annika went to Ground Zero last night, just a short distance from her dorm room at NYU. She went to pray, to reflect. She took the photo of all the kids flashing the peace signs. And she posted this,
"Do not gloat when your enemy falls; when they stumble do not let your heart rejoice" Proverbs 24:17 BUT there is much respect to be paid for those that unfairly lost their lives. It's a hard position to judge. Myself? I didn't go to ground zero to celebrate the death of one, but to observe perhaps what could be the beginning of peace.
11 hours ago · Like · 5 people
Vengeance is not safe in human hands. Ever. Ever.
Grief is, though. And so I'm sticking with that. Like many with personal connections to 9/11, who were too numb to cry for days and weeks after the actual loss, last night began and ended with weeping. And it goes on.
Grieving and comforting. I can do that. We can all do that.
http://nyulocal.com/city/2011/05/02/
we-were-there-photos-from-the-celebration-at-ground-zero/
We Were There: Photos from the Celebration at Ground Zero
nyulocal.com
For many, as students and Americans and New Yorkers, there was only one appropriate response to the news of Bin Laden's death-- a return to where it began
Friday, April 29, 2011
"It Was White."
"White," I wrote. "The dress was white."
I have changed in 35 years.
I was loving all those hats. The wedding guests' hats. Victoria Beckham. Princess Mathilde of Belgium. Tara Parker Tomlinson (socialite and TV presenter). Her brilliant blue was a knock out. Carole Middleton. Even the Queen in lemon lemon lemon yellow. Zara Phillips. Princess Letizia of Spain. Lady Frederick Windsor. Sophie, Countess of Windsor. I was all over those hats. In fact, I have a fun little "fascinator" myself. I planned to wear it while sitting up here in bed watching the wedding in my pajamas, but really, it felt ridiculous. The cowboy hat seemed a better choice. Or the NYU Mom cap. Or bed head.
Some things have changed. I now officially enjoy fashion. Not always so.
When the wedding program was provided to the public yesterday, my fascination was with the music. Rhosymedre. Bach. Vaughn Williams. Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. Ubi Caritas. I was excited. The thing was, we didn't get to hear most of it. I would have traded a half hour of chats with the crowd in the park for the chance to hear the prelude. All of it. Oh well.
It feels good to know that I've grown, expanded my senses, my sights. I like music and hats!
When I was married 35 years ago next month, the town my parents still lived in, where I had grown up, printed elaborate wedding stories in the local newspaper. They had a form I was to fill out, describing the details. There were several lines for a description of the wedding dress, the attendants' dresses (God-awful would have covered it), my mother's dress (yellow), and other details of the cake and reception.
I didn't care about any of that. Requested to describe my own wedding dress, I wrote, "White." That's it. "White." It was a beautiful dress. Lace empire style with cap sleeves, a flowing skirt with a short train. Lovely. I wrote, "white."
What I did write about in detail, however, was the music. Every piece of the prelude, the anthems, the congregational hymns, the postlude. That's what I cared about. It was the substance, not the style that mattered.
Well enough. But what I have come to understand over these years is that both -- or all -- have their place. And that style can represent substance. And vice versa. All the senses. I would wear a brilliant blue hat. And describe it gladly. And I'd tell about my dress. And every piece of music. And the liturgy (as in, no "Man and wife!). It all matters.
We are created to delight in all of it! Every bit of it! It feels so good to know that now.
I especially loved the trees! The trees were green. "Leafing greenly spirits of trees."
_____(e.e.cummings)
I have changed in 35 years.
I was loving all those hats. The wedding guests' hats. Victoria Beckham. Princess Mathilde of Belgium. Tara Parker Tomlinson (socialite and TV presenter). Her brilliant blue was a knock out. Carole Middleton. Even the Queen in lemon lemon lemon yellow. Zara Phillips. Princess Letizia of Spain. Lady Frederick Windsor. Sophie, Countess of Windsor. I was all over those hats. In fact, I have a fun little "fascinator" myself. I planned to wear it while sitting up here in bed watching the wedding in my pajamas, but really, it felt ridiculous. The cowboy hat seemed a better choice. Or the NYU Mom cap. Or bed head.
Some things have changed. I now officially enjoy fashion. Not always so.
When the wedding program was provided to the public yesterday, my fascination was with the music. Rhosymedre. Bach. Vaughn Williams. Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. Ubi Caritas. I was excited. The thing was, we didn't get to hear most of it. I would have traded a half hour of chats with the crowd in the park for the chance to hear the prelude. All of it. Oh well.
It feels good to know that I've grown, expanded my senses, my sights. I like music and hats!
When I was married 35 years ago next month, the town my parents still lived in, where I had grown up, printed elaborate wedding stories in the local newspaper. They had a form I was to fill out, describing the details. There were several lines for a description of the wedding dress, the attendants' dresses (God-awful would have covered it), my mother's dress (yellow), and other details of the cake and reception.
I didn't care about any of that. Requested to describe my own wedding dress, I wrote, "White." That's it. "White." It was a beautiful dress. Lace empire style with cap sleeves, a flowing skirt with a short train. Lovely. I wrote, "white."
What I did write about in detail, however, was the music. Every piece of the prelude, the anthems, the congregational hymns, the postlude. That's what I cared about. It was the substance, not the style that mattered.
Well enough. But what I have come to understand over these years is that both -- or all -- have their place. And that style can represent substance. And vice versa. All the senses. I would wear a brilliant blue hat. And describe it gladly. And I'd tell about my dress. And every piece of music. And the liturgy (as in, no "Man and wife!). It all matters.
We are created to delight in all of it! Every bit of it! It feels so good to know that now.
I especially loved the trees! The trees were green. "Leafing greenly spirits of trees."
_____(e.e.cummings)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
"Out of the rot and the ruin comes a rumor of resurrection"
Christ is risen from the dead trampling down death by death and upon those in the tombs bestowing life. Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen Indeed!
There is no other story.
This story of death as the door to new life is the paradigmatic human story. We can't get 'round it. This is the way it is done. New life.
Choosing death, choosing one's own death as distinct from insisting on pimping off the death of others. The gate, the way, the door. Dying to death, to deadly half-life and allowing oneself to be swept under. Only to be risen, to be in the flow of rising and lifting and, my favorite way of putting it, "auferstanden." Does that not sound like it is, standing up again.
I believe I've written it here before, I'm pissed at Jesus for making it look so easy. Not the dying. That is pure hell. But the rising. An angel, so the story goes, rolls away a big rock trapping him in a tomb and by some divine power, tada, he's up.
Not always how it works for us. Not often how it works with us. Slow, up and down, in and out, back and forth. But it is, nevertheless, relentless.
Relentless. The trajectory of our lives is resurrection. That is the way we're moving. It's the road we're on. Some days we run, some days we may sit on a bench and simply trust that the next steps we're ready to take are headed that way. Resurrection. Auferstanden. Getting up. New. Life.
Whomever we are, however we walk, we are connected to this paradigmatic way of being. It has claimed us. Set our feet on the path. Or set our butts on the bench along the path. But in any case, it's a gravitational pull.
"Out of the rot and ruin comes a rumor of resurrection." That's us.
There is no other story.
This story of death as the door to new life is the paradigmatic human story. We can't get 'round it. This is the way it is done. New life.
Choosing death, choosing one's own death as distinct from insisting on pimping off the death of others. The gate, the way, the door. Dying to death, to deadly half-life and allowing oneself to be swept under. Only to be risen, to be in the flow of rising and lifting and, my favorite way of putting it, "auferstanden." Does that not sound like it is, standing up again.
I believe I've written it here before, I'm pissed at Jesus for making it look so easy. Not the dying. That is pure hell. But the rising. An angel, so the story goes, rolls away a big rock trapping him in a tomb and by some divine power, tada, he's up.
Not always how it works for us. Not often how it works with us. Slow, up and down, in and out, back and forth. But it is, nevertheless, relentless.
Relentless. The trajectory of our lives is resurrection. That is the way we're moving. It's the road we're on. Some days we run, some days we may sit on a bench and simply trust that the next steps we're ready to take are headed that way. Resurrection. Auferstanden. Getting up. New. Life.
Whomever we are, however we walk, we are connected to this paradigmatic way of being. It has claimed us. Set our feet on the path. Or set our butts on the bench along the path. But in any case, it's a gravitational pull.
"Out of the rot and ruin comes a rumor of resurrection." That's us.
Friday, April 22, 2011
No signs of trouble here
The people all look so normal.
Kids are laughing as they flirt and wander home from school. They stop at the corner store and get a snack, joking and boasting as kids do. David lingers a little to walk with Rachel. He's clearly hoping for more.
The Schmlzers are dropping off a casserole at the neighbor's, helping out while Amos is laid up. Old Joe offers to fix the Meyers' fence. Eunice and Eva are over cleaning things up getting ready for the weekly services.
You ride through town. Everything looks just right, as it should. Tidy, even clean. Well manicured, the people and the houses. Nothing menacing or scruffy. On this lovely spring day people are out sprucing up their yards and weeding their gardens.
You go to the market, mill around, everyone is polite. Nothing seems amiss. Even the fruits are perfectly ripe and the vegetables firm and crispy. The meat is fresh and the butcher, Ruben, has a big smile and an extra bone for your dog. The day is feeling mighty good.
Traffic moves right along. Nobody gets cut off, nobody flips the finger. No one is being too noisy. The sun is out, the sky is clear. The wind is a pleasant breeze, no more, no less. Idyllic, really.
No one acts rude or impatient, life moves along smoothly. Men go to work. Women share their news. The children are in school or out kicking a ball down the street.
To drive through, to be part of it, you think, no signs of trouble here. All is well.
But the day goes on. Stories circulate. Not many, certainly not most, but a small crowd gathers. They're easily stirred up. At least today they are. And before you know it, a larger mob is shouting, "Give us Barrabas."
But looking at it all, before, you would never have guessed. No sign of trouble here.
And so it goes.
"And the crowd cried, 'Crucify him!'"
Kids are laughing as they flirt and wander home from school. They stop at the corner store and get a snack, joking and boasting as kids do. David lingers a little to walk with Rachel. He's clearly hoping for more.
The Schmlzers are dropping off a casserole at the neighbor's, helping out while Amos is laid up. Old Joe offers to fix the Meyers' fence. Eunice and Eva are over cleaning things up getting ready for the weekly services.
You ride through town. Everything looks just right, as it should. Tidy, even clean. Well manicured, the people and the houses. Nothing menacing or scruffy. On this lovely spring day people are out sprucing up their yards and weeding their gardens.
You go to the market, mill around, everyone is polite. Nothing seems amiss. Even the fruits are perfectly ripe and the vegetables firm and crispy. The meat is fresh and the butcher, Ruben, has a big smile and an extra bone for your dog. The day is feeling mighty good.
Traffic moves right along. Nobody gets cut off, nobody flips the finger. No one is being too noisy. The sun is out, the sky is clear. The wind is a pleasant breeze, no more, no less. Idyllic, really.
No one acts rude or impatient, life moves along smoothly. Men go to work. Women share their news. The children are in school or out kicking a ball down the street.
To drive through, to be part of it, you think, no signs of trouble here. All is well.
But the day goes on. Stories circulate. Not many, certainly not most, but a small crowd gathers. They're easily stirred up. At least today they are. And before you know it, a larger mob is shouting, "Give us Barrabas."
But looking at it all, before, you would never have guessed. No sign of trouble here.
And so it goes.
"And the crowd cried, 'Crucify him!'"
Thursday, April 21, 2011
"Love me tender, love me true"
"Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go.
You have made my life complete and I love you so."
Maundy Thursday. From the Latin: commandment. And that commandment is,
Love each other. That's all, That's it, That's enough. That is everything:
Love each other.
"Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you and I always will."
Love. And imagine this. Sing this softly and imagine the Spirit of Life,
the Love of the Universe, G-D, Life itself, singing this to you:
"Love me tender, love me long, take me to your heart.
For it's there that I belong, and we'll never part."
You. At the center of God's heart. At the heart of God's love. Hear
the lullaby, drift off knowing that the One who is all is all about you.
"Love me tender, love me dear, Tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years, 'til the end of time."
Not sure Elvis ever had this quite in mind, nor Vera Matson as she wrote the text, but it works, it carries the message we all need.
"Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you and I always will."
May you know deep in your bones the lovely sense of being loved, of being the one who fulfills God's dreams, makes God's life complete.
You have made my life complete and I love you so."
Maundy Thursday. From the Latin: commandment. And that commandment is,
Love each other. That's all, That's it, That's enough. That is everything:
Love each other.
"Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you and I always will."
Love. And imagine this. Sing this softly and imagine the Spirit of Life,
the Love of the Universe, G-D, Life itself, singing this to you:
"Love me tender, love me long, take me to your heart.
For it's there that I belong, and we'll never part."
You. At the center of God's heart. At the heart of God's love. Hear
the lullaby, drift off knowing that the One who is all is all about you.
"Love me tender, love me dear, Tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years, 'til the end of time."
Not sure Elvis ever had this quite in mind, nor Vera Matson as she wrote the text, but it works, it carries the message we all need.
"Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you and I always will."
May you know deep in your bones the lovely sense of being loved, of being the one who fulfills God's dreams, makes God's life complete.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Southern Exposure
It comes without warning. No alarm bells, no whisper in the ear. Just boom! And there it is.
I am writing to you from inside a full-blown post-traumatic attack. If you can imagine a person writing from inside the fetal position, circled around a laptop, on her bed, under the covers, subsiding bursts of sobbing, aqua towel at hand to dry the tears, you've got the picture.
I blew it, actually. I talked about my trauma. What happened. How it felt, feels, some consequences. To the safest group of friends I could imagine. Implicit trust. So what's the problem?
At first, driving home, yes, I did drive the four blocks home, I thought it was the awkwardness of exposure. Period. We all feel awkward and uncomfortable letting pieces of our stories out into the ether of conversation from time to time. You don't have to be drunk or have PTSD to come to your senses after and think, "Geez, did I tell them that?"
Even with people we know well, or have known a long time, we withhold significant bits of information, whole chunks, whole continents even. And a time comes when it seems right to reel ourselves out slowly, revealing more and more. As I did tonight. And it felt safe. I felt heard, respected and caringly received. I didn't wallow in my stuff any more than anyone else did. In fact, I spoke less than most. But what I said was significant. Exposure. What it's like to be me.
The thing is, our book group read two rather different books about Alzheimer's Disease. And tonight we discussed them. And that led to lots of rather personal conversation about end of life decisions, living with a terminal disease, living with awareness that you aren't yourself anymore, "I miss me," one of the women in the story said about living with her Alzheimer's shredding more of herself everyday.
I said I could really identify with her comment.
And here and there, popped in and out among others' comments I said a few more things. About brain injuries. About dignity. I don't even remember what I said. Simple things, though. No details about an attack, no images of bloated raging red faces in mine. Just a few comments about being totally "out of it, not knowing who I was," for awhile.
Turns out there are a few things about PTSD that might raise the matter of Alzheimer's to mind. For example, just a few,
Cognitive and conceptual gaps, holes, failures. For the life of me I couldn't process the concept of what a number was for months. Numbers are abstractions, symbols. They meant nothing to me. And tonight, back in the heart of the beast, they are impossible to connect to anything real.
You think your computer processes material slowly sometimes? Let me tell you, I could take an hour to get from "In" to "the" and by then forget all about "cabinet." It took an age to reboot, if rebooting was possible at all.
Continuing the computer analogy (see, now I'm capable of some sort of complex thinking!), files were scrambled and lost, wires were all haywire, going in the wrong directions, or no directions at all (oops, mixed metaphors). My memory was shot. Did I already say that for periods of time I didn't know who I was?
Scary stuff. And that's in addition to the basics: feelings of constant panic, anxiety, the sensation of cortisol or adrenaline filling up my limbs to the point of bursting, inability to tolerate light, sound -- including voices of my family talking, noise, inability to concentrate, failing muscle strength, lack of coordination -- how many times did I fall down the stairs? and this, the worst, no trust.
Beyond the narrowest circle, of three, Dave, Kaia, and Annika, I trusted no one. No one. Including myself. Isolation was my goal as much as possible. And I was in a constant state of terror. Of another attack. Of bad people, bad behaviors, danger, threats, death.
The only thing that survived intact was my sense of humor, though it warped severely. But that surviving sense of humor is the reason I survived at all. To somehow laugh at the absurdity of what I had become, what had happened, was my salvation.
Good Friday fell on April Fool's Day one year and I thought that was perfect, the ultimate God's "gotcha" on the devil. "You think you be winning, kid? No way in hell."
I'm writing through this tonight for one specific reason. Our book club, these witty wonderful women, every one of them a diamond of wisdom, decided that people really need to talk about the hard things more often. Tell the truth about ugly realities like Alzheimer's and ALS and strokes and how it breaks your breast bone when they use the paddles on your heart to restart it after you code, about living for days or weeks or months intubated so you can breath, when the diagnosis is terminal and the patient is begging to be let go, about the noxious awfulness of chemo, about death, and dignity, and decisions that create space for truth and intimacy and, yes, dignity, even in the most dire situation.
This is but one example of the hard things we need to talk about. So we can understand each other better, respect one another more, care more tenderly.
My arms are pulsing so strongly right now that I have to stop writing and let them calm down. Dave has made me some tea and that helps. I am back in my safe place. There is classical music, barely audible and lights that are dim. I am beginning to calm down. I might be able to add up 4+6 before the hour is up.
I had another reason for wanting to write this now and I'm forgetting what it is. Hold on, it was important. I'm not looking for pity, god forbid that, or sympathy. I'll be glad to be empathic with those who know from the inside just what I'm talking about. Oh, it's coming, this other reason, had it close a second ago.
Oh, this. I am learning from my highly skilled, expert new therapist that it is actually not good for someone who has been traumatized to talk about the trauma. Just talking about it is retraumatizing.
Here, I thought the cure for everything was to blah blah blah. Get it out, get it out, get it out. Well, there is a way to get it out but it is not the casual blah blah blah. Or even the well-intentioned blah blah blah.
The way I'm learning to process (god, I hate that word) the trauma I experienced is in structured settings where talking about it is done within safe perameters (therapist, doctor) and with these wonderfully magic tools, like EMDR and the one I mentioned weeks ago, with the wand. Brain spotting.
So, however tempting it seems to be honest and forth-coming and help others to understand what this life is like from the inside so you might be empathic to those who would like your caring attention, I need to just shut up.
And wish you peace.
I am writing to you from inside a full-blown post-traumatic attack. If you can imagine a person writing from inside the fetal position, circled around a laptop, on her bed, under the covers, subsiding bursts of sobbing, aqua towel at hand to dry the tears, you've got the picture.
I blew it, actually. I talked about my trauma. What happened. How it felt, feels, some consequences. To the safest group of friends I could imagine. Implicit trust. So what's the problem?
At first, driving home, yes, I did drive the four blocks home, I thought it was the awkwardness of exposure. Period. We all feel awkward and uncomfortable letting pieces of our stories out into the ether of conversation from time to time. You don't have to be drunk or have PTSD to come to your senses after and think, "Geez, did I tell them that?"
Even with people we know well, or have known a long time, we withhold significant bits of information, whole chunks, whole continents even. And a time comes when it seems right to reel ourselves out slowly, revealing more and more. As I did tonight. And it felt safe. I felt heard, respected and caringly received. I didn't wallow in my stuff any more than anyone else did. In fact, I spoke less than most. But what I said was significant. Exposure. What it's like to be me.
The thing is, our book group read two rather different books about Alzheimer's Disease. And tonight we discussed them. And that led to lots of rather personal conversation about end of life decisions, living with a terminal disease, living with awareness that you aren't yourself anymore, "I miss me," one of the women in the story said about living with her Alzheimer's shredding more of herself everyday.
I said I could really identify with her comment.
And here and there, popped in and out among others' comments I said a few more things. About brain injuries. About dignity. I don't even remember what I said. Simple things, though. No details about an attack, no images of bloated raging red faces in mine. Just a few comments about being totally "out of it, not knowing who I was," for awhile.
Turns out there are a few things about PTSD that might raise the matter of Alzheimer's to mind. For example, just a few,
Cognitive and conceptual gaps, holes, failures. For the life of me I couldn't process the concept of what a number was for months. Numbers are abstractions, symbols. They meant nothing to me. And tonight, back in the heart of the beast, they are impossible to connect to anything real.
You think your computer processes material slowly sometimes? Let me tell you, I could take an hour to get from "In" to "the" and by then forget all about "cabinet." It took an age to reboot, if rebooting was possible at all.
Continuing the computer analogy (see, now I'm capable of some sort of complex thinking!), files were scrambled and lost, wires were all haywire, going in the wrong directions, or no directions at all (oops, mixed metaphors). My memory was shot. Did I already say that for periods of time I didn't know who I was?
Scary stuff. And that's in addition to the basics: feelings of constant panic, anxiety, the sensation of cortisol or adrenaline filling up my limbs to the point of bursting, inability to tolerate light, sound -- including voices of my family talking, noise, inability to concentrate, failing muscle strength, lack of coordination -- how many times did I fall down the stairs? and this, the worst, no trust.
Beyond the narrowest circle, of three, Dave, Kaia, and Annika, I trusted no one. No one. Including myself. Isolation was my goal as much as possible. And I was in a constant state of terror. Of another attack. Of bad people, bad behaviors, danger, threats, death.
The only thing that survived intact was my sense of humor, though it warped severely. But that surviving sense of humor is the reason I survived at all. To somehow laugh at the absurdity of what I had become, what had happened, was my salvation.
Good Friday fell on April Fool's Day one year and I thought that was perfect, the ultimate God's "gotcha" on the devil. "You think you be winning, kid? No way in hell."
I'm writing through this tonight for one specific reason. Our book club, these witty wonderful women, every one of them a diamond of wisdom, decided that people really need to talk about the hard things more often. Tell the truth about ugly realities like Alzheimer's and ALS and strokes and how it breaks your breast bone when they use the paddles on your heart to restart it after you code, about living for days or weeks or months intubated so you can breath, when the diagnosis is terminal and the patient is begging to be let go, about the noxious awfulness of chemo, about death, and dignity, and decisions that create space for truth and intimacy and, yes, dignity, even in the most dire situation.
This is but one example of the hard things we need to talk about. So we can understand each other better, respect one another more, care more tenderly.
My arms are pulsing so strongly right now that I have to stop writing and let them calm down. Dave has made me some tea and that helps. I am back in my safe place. There is classical music, barely audible and lights that are dim. I am beginning to calm down. I might be able to add up 4+6 before the hour is up.
I had another reason for wanting to write this now and I'm forgetting what it is. Hold on, it was important. I'm not looking for pity, god forbid that, or sympathy. I'll be glad to be empathic with those who know from the inside just what I'm talking about. Oh, it's coming, this other reason, had it close a second ago.
Oh, this. I am learning from my highly skilled, expert new therapist that it is actually not good for someone who has been traumatized to talk about the trauma. Just talking about it is retraumatizing.
Here, I thought the cure for everything was to blah blah blah. Get it out, get it out, get it out. Well, there is a way to get it out but it is not the casual blah blah blah. Or even the well-intentioned blah blah blah.
The way I'm learning to process (god, I hate that word) the trauma I experienced is in structured settings where talking about it is done within safe perameters (therapist, doctor) and with these wonderfully magic tools, like EMDR and the one I mentioned weeks ago, with the wand. Brain spotting.
So, however tempting it seems to be honest and forth-coming and help others to understand what this life is like from the inside so you might be empathic to those who would like your caring attention, I need to just shut up.
And wish you peace.
Monday, April 18, 2011
"Pass me not"
There were no leeches.
It always seems like there should be leeches. Is there anything worse?
Do you remember all of the pestilences that plagued the Egyptians as the Hebrew people were liberated from slavery?
Boils. Frogs, the frogs that "shall come upon thee and thy people and thy servants." Frogs. Do you know how slimey creepy awful that would be? And more. Water turned to blood. Lice, for god's sake. Swarms of flies, worse than Maine or Minnesota in June. Disease ruined the cattle and the camels and the asses and the oxen and the sheep. Thunder and hail, sadly familiar around here. Locusts. Locusts are disgusting, and, as I did once before, locusts would cause me to drive my chariot off the road. Darkness: it's only upside being to hide the locusts and the ugly boils but it would make me shiver out of my skin knowing about all those frogs everywhere.
And finally, the death of the firstborn child.
Tonight our Jewish friends celebrate this passover, and we wish them the blessings and fruitfulness and peace that were clearly meant for them as they escaped into a new land, one of "milk and honey," of freedom. An exodus from awful to, as it turns out, initially perplexing,then annoying, and really really long.
It is impossible for me, who did not grow up within Jewish culture, to know emotionally what that means. Exodus. Christians have been stealing the Jewish passover seder for years, trying to truncate it into something about Jesus who, in fact, was Jewish and did celebrate Passover but not the passover that his followers have invented to feed their own theology. Passover is a Jewish cultural and theological event, a celebration that comes from the inside. And the fact is, I'm not inside that culture.
But it always does make me think. And every year it is about something different.
This year I am struck by the reality that none of us gets passed over, not finally, entirely, completely. Not even Jews. We all end up suffering from boils or frogs or lice and gnats or swarms of flies or locusts and most certainly darkness. And some of us suffer the death of the one most close, our firstborn or first-loved or most beloved parent.
None of us get out of this unscathed. (None of us get out of this alive either but that's a story for Sunday.) Egyptian or not, there are lice in our forecast.
Tonight I'm identifying with the Egyptians. And the Jews who later again had to suffer. We all do. We create suffering for others, we watch and feel helpless, we cause conditions that make others suffer. We're in it up to our necks. There are not enough bitter herbs to cover the bad taste.
But, as we suffer, we do so not without hope. We are freed to make our suffering redemptive, to make it count, to make it benefit others, and to work for others to make it go away.
We face suffering with hope. Why? Because that is the way it is. Suffering brings us to the heart of the ultimate, or Ultimate life, where we are healed, freed and made new.
When I was a child we sang a song at church, especially on Wednesday nights, at prayer meeting, that went something like this, "Pass me not O gentle Savior. Hear my humble cry. While on others thou art calling, do not pass me by." A different kind of passing over. A prayer for healing, for courage and strength. Stop here. Heal me, too. Give me the gifts of life, too.
I don't think that really has much to do with Passover but it is authentic to my culture, my tradition, and it is my prayer this night for you and all whom you love, all who suffer. Peace.
It always seems like there should be leeches. Is there anything worse?
Do you remember all of the pestilences that plagued the Egyptians as the Hebrew people were liberated from slavery?
Boils. Frogs, the frogs that "shall come upon thee and thy people and thy servants." Frogs. Do you know how slimey creepy awful that would be? And more. Water turned to blood. Lice, for god's sake. Swarms of flies, worse than Maine or Minnesota in June. Disease ruined the cattle and the camels and the asses and the oxen and the sheep. Thunder and hail, sadly familiar around here. Locusts. Locusts are disgusting, and, as I did once before, locusts would cause me to drive my chariot off the road. Darkness: it's only upside being to hide the locusts and the ugly boils but it would make me shiver out of my skin knowing about all those frogs everywhere.
And finally, the death of the firstborn child.
Tonight our Jewish friends celebrate this passover, and we wish them the blessings and fruitfulness and peace that were clearly meant for them as they escaped into a new land, one of "milk and honey," of freedom. An exodus from awful to, as it turns out, initially perplexing,then annoying, and really really long.
It is impossible for me, who did not grow up within Jewish culture, to know emotionally what that means. Exodus. Christians have been stealing the Jewish passover seder for years, trying to truncate it into something about Jesus who, in fact, was Jewish and did celebrate Passover but not the passover that his followers have invented to feed their own theology. Passover is a Jewish cultural and theological event, a celebration that comes from the inside. And the fact is, I'm not inside that culture.
But it always does make me think. And every year it is about something different.
This year I am struck by the reality that none of us gets passed over, not finally, entirely, completely. Not even Jews. We all end up suffering from boils or frogs or lice and gnats or swarms of flies or locusts and most certainly darkness. And some of us suffer the death of the one most close, our firstborn or first-loved or most beloved parent.
None of us get out of this unscathed. (None of us get out of this alive either but that's a story for Sunday.) Egyptian or not, there are lice in our forecast.
Tonight I'm identifying with the Egyptians. And the Jews who later again had to suffer. We all do. We create suffering for others, we watch and feel helpless, we cause conditions that make others suffer. We're in it up to our necks. There are not enough bitter herbs to cover the bad taste.
But, as we suffer, we do so not without hope. We are freed to make our suffering redemptive, to make it count, to make it benefit others, and to work for others to make it go away.
We face suffering with hope. Why? Because that is the way it is. Suffering brings us to the heart of the ultimate, or Ultimate life, where we are healed, freed and made new.
When I was a child we sang a song at church, especially on Wednesday nights, at prayer meeting, that went something like this, "Pass me not O gentle Savior. Hear my humble cry. While on others thou art calling, do not pass me by." A different kind of passing over. A prayer for healing, for courage and strength. Stop here. Heal me, too. Give me the gifts of life, too.
I don't think that really has much to do with Passover but it is authentic to my culture, my tradition, and it is my prayer this night for you and all whom you love, all who suffer. Peace.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
"Don't be so humble; you're not that great"
"Don't be so humble, you're not that great," Golda Meir once told one of her government ministers, or a visiting diplomat (sources disagree).
It is another disappointing Palm Sunday. No pastor on a donkey. Yet another year has gone by and I missed seeing it.*
Now, this could be because no self-respecting pastor would have the cajones to get up on a donkey and be Jesus.
Or it could be that I just didn't go to an egoist's church.
If it happened once, and it did, in the congregation I served, about 20 years before I got there, I have to think it has happened again. Somewhere out there in Christendom is a pastor who not only believes that "in order to be like Jesus you have to pee like Jesus," (with a penis, standing up, ergo, no women allowed), but that if you're going to represent Jesus you get to copy his most glorious moment. The adoring crowd, "blessed be the Son of David, the Messiah, the One who comes in the name of God! Hosanna to you!" Yes, I followed a pastor who abrogated to himself that kind of power and glory.
And abused it every chance he got.
There are a lot of pastors who spend time riding around on asses. Or as asses.
But.
BUT there are a lot of pastors who don't. Most don't. In fact, most pastors are humble (but not that humble, they know they're not that great), hard-working, loving, kind, tender-hearted, generous, forgiving and forbearing women and men who work 80 hours a week and never stop thinking about their parishioners' problems and spend extra hours every week thinking and praying and pondering how to be helpful.
Most of us know that given everything we are way out of our league. We know how much is at stake in people's lives, how much death there is stalking them, stalking us all, how much anxiety, avarice, usury folks are suffering. Most of us clergy do not serve the top 1% of U.S. society, the 400 richest people in America who collectively earn more than the bottom 150 million altogether. We serve the unemployed and the sick and the starving. We serve the recipients of Medicare and Medicaid and food stamps and subsidized housing. We serve the middle class, squeezed, insecure who live paycheck to paycheck and wonder if their job will be there next week.
Most of us, pastors, clergy, priests, ministers -- whatever you call us know that life is way beyond us, beyond our controlling, even beyond our knowing. Most of us would identify with Karl Barth, a famous theologian, who described himself simply as one beggar showing another beggar where to find bread.
That's most of us. Just paddling our little duck feet under water as fast as we can to keep up. Trying to do, be, accomplish, serve far more than we have the capacity to do. Yet, we try. We work our asses off. And we are humble.
As you know, my speciality within the realm of churchly life is the abuse of pastoral power. Stopping it. Preventing it. Responding to it. Not a vocation I chose. I don't jump up and down for joy that 'it' (or God, I suppose) chose me. But there you are.
I see and tell you about the seedy side of ministry. One we all know too well. It does happen too often.
But not every pastor or minister is an ass. Or rides one. Pretending to be Jesus.
My sense of outrage at the story of one man and an ass, and a penis kept busier than the beer spigot at a baseball game is what it is: Righteous anger about the abuse of power, the abuse of God's people who came for one thing (Jesus) and got a very cheap imitation instead. But. But.
But.
For this week, a Holy Week throughout the Church, I invite you to remember and give thanks for those pastors who are working triple overtime to help see to it that you feel and see and hear and touch and know the power of new life, of Jesus, really Jesus, of life abundant and free, of rising and renewal: Of resurrection. Of Easter. They really want that life for you. They really hope and pray and will give all they have this week to help you see Jesus, see the Life of Life. And be risen with him to new life.
# # #
*Please, please, please tell me you get my wry, sarcastic sense of humor!
It is another disappointing Palm Sunday. No pastor on a donkey. Yet another year has gone by and I missed seeing it.*
Now, this could be because no self-respecting pastor would have the cajones to get up on a donkey and be Jesus.
Or it could be that I just didn't go to an egoist's church.
If it happened once, and it did, in the congregation I served, about 20 years before I got there, I have to think it has happened again. Somewhere out there in Christendom is a pastor who not only believes that "in order to be like Jesus you have to pee like Jesus," (with a penis, standing up, ergo, no women allowed), but that if you're going to represent Jesus you get to copy his most glorious moment. The adoring crowd, "blessed be the Son of David, the Messiah, the One who comes in the name of God! Hosanna to you!" Yes, I followed a pastor who abrogated to himself that kind of power and glory.
And abused it every chance he got.
There are a lot of pastors who spend time riding around on asses. Or as asses.
But.
BUT there are a lot of pastors who don't. Most don't. In fact, most pastors are humble (but not that humble, they know they're not that great), hard-working, loving, kind, tender-hearted, generous, forgiving and forbearing women and men who work 80 hours a week and never stop thinking about their parishioners' problems and spend extra hours every week thinking and praying and pondering how to be helpful.
Most of us know that given everything we are way out of our league. We know how much is at stake in people's lives, how much death there is stalking them, stalking us all, how much anxiety, avarice, usury folks are suffering. Most of us clergy do not serve the top 1% of U.S. society, the 400 richest people in America who collectively earn more than the bottom 150 million altogether. We serve the unemployed and the sick and the starving. We serve the recipients of Medicare and Medicaid and food stamps and subsidized housing. We serve the middle class, squeezed, insecure who live paycheck to paycheck and wonder if their job will be there next week.
Most of us, pastors, clergy, priests, ministers -- whatever you call us know that life is way beyond us, beyond our controlling, even beyond our knowing. Most of us would identify with Karl Barth, a famous theologian, who described himself simply as one beggar showing another beggar where to find bread.
That's most of us. Just paddling our little duck feet under water as fast as we can to keep up. Trying to do, be, accomplish, serve far more than we have the capacity to do. Yet, we try. We work our asses off. And we are humble.
As you know, my speciality within the realm of churchly life is the abuse of pastoral power. Stopping it. Preventing it. Responding to it. Not a vocation I chose. I don't jump up and down for joy that 'it' (or God, I suppose) chose me. But there you are.
I see and tell you about the seedy side of ministry. One we all know too well. It does happen too often.
But not every pastor or minister is an ass. Or rides one. Pretending to be Jesus.
My sense of outrage at the story of one man and an ass, and a penis kept busier than the beer spigot at a baseball game is what it is: Righteous anger about the abuse of power, the abuse of God's people who came for one thing (Jesus) and got a very cheap imitation instead. But. But.
But.
For this week, a Holy Week throughout the Church, I invite you to remember and give thanks for those pastors who are working triple overtime to help see to it that you feel and see and hear and touch and know the power of new life, of Jesus, really Jesus, of life abundant and free, of rising and renewal: Of resurrection. Of Easter. They really want that life for you. They really hope and pray and will give all they have this week to help you see Jesus, see the Life of Life. And be risen with him to new life.
# # #
*Please, please, please tell me you get my wry, sarcastic sense of humor!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
On NOT Being A Squid
I am not a squid.
I'm not often confused for one of these odd little creatures. There is not much of a physical resemblance. And if you have noticed one, I don't want to know. Likewise, I don't act much like a squid. And I rarely think of squid.
Squid have this thing they do. They squirt ink. Offensive, defensive, nervous, anxious, angry.
Today I had an squidly impulse.
Deeply hurt, I had an urge to do the squid thing.
I didn't, of course, but that the thought even occurred to me was disturbing. The temptations we face to be vindictive, to return evil for evil, to strike back, to squirt ink into an unspoiled pool are a part of our nature, our brokenness.
The art of being human is managing those impulses.
And this: giving other people the space to be themselves.
Why is that so hard? To simply let other people be who they are.
Barring behavior that is harmful and hurtful and, oh dear, here we go, I'm sliding down the slippery slope right along with you. Where is the line? Who decides? When is it crossed?
I have an idea. How about we tell people.
I'm not talking about the big big things -- although we can talk about that tomorrow -- but about our life together, daily life among friends, colleagues, neighbors, just folks. How about we tell folks what we need, or when they are standing on our feet. Directly. Kindly. Professionally.
I've been thinking about this a bunch. Be passive. Or be aggressive. But not both at the same time.
Passive-aggressive behavior is the biggest block to positive relationships I can think of. If you're annoyed but you can stand whatever it is, keep quiet. And cope with it. If you're annoyed and you can't stand it, for god's sake, speak up. Say something. In a timely fashion. Honestly, kindly, professionally.
Don't be a squid. Don't be passive-aggressive. (Have I ever written so directly?) It ruins so much.
At the same time, passive-aggressive behavior brings out the squid in us. In me. Squids beget squids. I kept my ink to myself.
Until now. A different kind of ink. I'm being direct: Let's live in forebearance, patience, kindness, and grace. That's the ink I have to spill today. Enough.
I'm not often confused for one of these odd little creatures. There is not much of a physical resemblance. And if you have noticed one, I don't want to know. Likewise, I don't act much like a squid. And I rarely think of squid.
Squid have this thing they do. They squirt ink. Offensive, defensive, nervous, anxious, angry.
Today I had an squidly impulse.
Deeply hurt, I had an urge to do the squid thing.
I didn't, of course, but that the thought even occurred to me was disturbing. The temptations we face to be vindictive, to return evil for evil, to strike back, to squirt ink into an unspoiled pool are a part of our nature, our brokenness.
The art of being human is managing those impulses.
And this: giving other people the space to be themselves.
Why is that so hard? To simply let other people be who they are.
Barring behavior that is harmful and hurtful and, oh dear, here we go, I'm sliding down the slippery slope right along with you. Where is the line? Who decides? When is it crossed?
I have an idea. How about we tell people.
I'm not talking about the big big things -- although we can talk about that tomorrow -- but about our life together, daily life among friends, colleagues, neighbors, just folks. How about we tell folks what we need, or when they are standing on our feet. Directly. Kindly. Professionally.
I've been thinking about this a bunch. Be passive. Or be aggressive. But not both at the same time.
Passive-aggressive behavior is the biggest block to positive relationships I can think of. If you're annoyed but you can stand whatever it is, keep quiet. And cope with it. If you're annoyed and you can't stand it, for god's sake, speak up. Say something. In a timely fashion. Honestly, kindly, professionally.
Don't be a squid. Don't be passive-aggressive. (Have I ever written so directly?) It ruins so much.
At the same time, passive-aggressive behavior brings out the squid in us. In me. Squids beget squids. I kept my ink to myself.
Until now. A different kind of ink. I'm being direct: Let's live in forebearance, patience, kindness, and grace. That's the ink I have to spill today. Enough.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
"God is in the details"
"God is in the details." ___Mies van der Rohe
This is one of those days.
Nothing but gratitude. I'm thinking about all the little things, those parts of life that can be a royal nuisance and irritating and downright disgusting. I feel very lucky.
The drive between my home and the Tattered Cover Bookstore where I sometimes sit with writer friends and talk (or write, but mostly talk) is spectacular. Long's Peak. Snow-covered Mount Evans. The snowy Indian Peaks. The streets are wide, well cared for, with lovely lawn banking the whole long curve through the Ranch.
Absolutely amazing friends. Patient, wise, kind, generous, healthy, inspiring, funny. What else? What more could one say?
Now, to clarify why this exercise seems important to me, consider this. I could have an ugly view, even in Denver, but we are lucky to be up high and enjoy the best. The Tattered Cover is an indie bookstore; who knows how long we can keep it afloat. Then what, we write at Denny's? Or Starbucks?
And friends. Wow. I am the whistle-blower persona non grata in my local professional community. One, count her, one pastor has the nerve to keep in touch with me. The rest, dozens, including several who were 'friends' up until they had to choose between standing with me or falling over when the bishop farted, feel the radioactivity still and not one of them, that would be zero, has made any overture of support or friendship in eight years. But I don't miss them. Honest. Why would I.
A wonderful community of writing friends has grown up around my ears and is the healthiest, sanest, kindest, most generous group of people I've ever been part of. Not perfect, but damn damn good. Not a practicing Christian in the bunch, save one. Interesting. For an introvert who has a penchant to need to hibernate, I feel very blessed by this remarkable abundance.
And bless its heart, the Social Networking community, old friends, long ago friends, shirt-tail friends, shirt-tail relatives, far-away friends, wise professors, people I've just 'met' and people who are friends of friends whom I'm friends with now because we got interested in what one another had to say. If not for Facebook, I would still be an isolated freak. And a blog. And the conversations and comments it generates. And even the folks who follow me, and whom I follow on Twitter. I haven't quite figured out what to do with that yet but it's a connection.
Then, we move on. It occurred to me the other day, that fifteen years ago I didn't even have a doctor. When I had to fill out that blank on a work emergency card I had no name to write down. I didn't need one. Ha! That was before Littleton. But this is the very cool cool thing:
I have exactly the right doctors for me. You have no idea how much I respect and enjoy my primary care physician. She's had a heck of a job and she has done it amazingly well. And then there is the phlebotomist. I get to speak Russian (what's left) with the woman who draws my blood because she is from Tadzikistan. Bonus!
And the dentist: I love going to the dentist. First, I've already mentioned the nitrous oxide, even for cleanings. And they are the best people, competent, kind, professional, and look for ways to help save me money. My therapists are the best. And now I get to drive up my very favorite road in all of the Denver area to her house. And she gets Simple Life magazine. I mean, how good is that.
The library is gorgeous and in a lovely location. The grocery store is even really nice. My friend gave me a whole bag of my favorite Danish cheese last week, Danish cheese!
I could go on and on. Perhaps I will. No, I feel so grateful. All of the daily errands, routines, caregivers, neighbors, the barrista's, the booksellers, the check-out woman at Target and the pflebotomist! It could all be a grind, unpleasant, stressful. And none of it is.
Details. Just the details. And all filled with grace. Either this is karma, payback for the hell I went through, luck, providence, or the grace of engaging people and places who make life sing. I'll take it.
And not for granted.
Posted by Jan Erickson at 4:55 PM
This is one of those days.
Nothing but gratitude. I'm thinking about all the little things, those parts of life that can be a royal nuisance and irritating and downright disgusting. I feel very lucky.
The drive between my home and the Tattered Cover Bookstore where I sometimes sit with writer friends and talk (or write, but mostly talk) is spectacular. Long's Peak. Snow-covered Mount Evans. The snowy Indian Peaks. The streets are wide, well cared for, with lovely lawn banking the whole long curve through the Ranch.
Absolutely amazing friends. Patient, wise, kind, generous, healthy, inspiring, funny. What else? What more could one say?
Now, to clarify why this exercise seems important to me, consider this. I could have an ugly view, even in Denver, but we are lucky to be up high and enjoy the best. The Tattered Cover is an indie bookstore; who knows how long we can keep it afloat. Then what, we write at Denny's? Or Starbucks?
And friends. Wow. I am the whistle-blower persona non grata in my local professional community. One, count her, one pastor has the nerve to keep in touch with me. The rest, dozens, including several who were 'friends' up until they had to choose between standing with me or falling over when the bishop farted, feel the radioactivity still and not one of them, that would be zero, has made any overture of support or friendship in eight years. But I don't miss them. Honest. Why would I.
A wonderful community of writing friends has grown up around my ears and is the healthiest, sanest, kindest, most generous group of people I've ever been part of. Not perfect, but damn damn good. Not a practicing Christian in the bunch, save one. Interesting. For an introvert who has a penchant to need to hibernate, I feel very blessed by this remarkable abundance.
And bless its heart, the Social Networking community, old friends, long ago friends, shirt-tail friends, shirt-tail relatives, far-away friends, wise professors, people I've just 'met' and people who are friends of friends whom I'm friends with now because we got interested in what one another had to say. If not for Facebook, I would still be an isolated freak. And a blog. And the conversations and comments it generates. And even the folks who follow me, and whom I follow on Twitter. I haven't quite figured out what to do with that yet but it's a connection.
Then, we move on. It occurred to me the other day, that fifteen years ago I didn't even have a doctor. When I had to fill out that blank on a work emergency card I had no name to write down. I didn't need one. Ha! That was before Littleton. But this is the very cool cool thing:
I have exactly the right doctors for me. You have no idea how much I respect and enjoy my primary care physician. She's had a heck of a job and she has done it amazingly well. And then there is the phlebotomist. I get to speak Russian (what's left) with the woman who draws my blood because she is from Tadzikistan. Bonus!
And the dentist: I love going to the dentist. First, I've already mentioned the nitrous oxide, even for cleanings. And they are the best people, competent, kind, professional, and look for ways to help save me money. My therapists are the best. And now I get to drive up my very favorite road in all of the Denver area to her house. And she gets Simple Life magazine. I mean, how good is that.
The library is gorgeous and in a lovely location. The grocery store is even really nice. My friend gave me a whole bag of my favorite Danish cheese last week, Danish cheese!
I could go on and on. Perhaps I will. No, I feel so grateful. All of the daily errands, routines, caregivers, neighbors, the barrista's, the booksellers, the check-out woman at Target and the pflebotomist! It could all be a grind, unpleasant, stressful. And none of it is.
Details. Just the details. And all filled with grace. Either this is karma, payback for the hell I went through, luck, providence, or the grace of engaging people and places who make life sing. I'll take it.
And not for granted.
Posted by Jan Erickson at 4:55 PM
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
"I would like to thank the Academy"
There's a controvery raging on one of the blogs I read.
To acknowledge or not to acknowledge. If you published a book, did you include a page of acknowledgements? Or would you?
Who is on your list? Was/would it be short or long? How expansive is it? "I would like to thank my Freshman English Professor for being such an asshat because I knew I could prove him wrong, and I did." "I would like to thank my brother, Charlie, for stealing my bike so I stayed home and read instead." "I would like to thank my third wife for all the great material." "I would like to thank my faithful '75 Volvo for taking me to all the places I so eloquently describe."
I work with a number of creative writing textbooks everyday as I am at work writing a novel. They offer great instruction and information and I enjoy some of the exercises they recommend. "Try changing the gender of your lead character. What would that do to your story?" "Add a character who complicates the lead character's life in a way you hadn't planned for." "Reverse the positions of the antagonist and the protagonist." Some are more simple, "change your lead character's occupation, or age, or geographical locale." "Instead of your characters meeting at a restaurant, have them meet in an unusual place, a forest trail, a storage facility, a morgue. What does that do to your story?" In other words, mess things up. Create problems. Make the thing more interesting. I've made some fun changes in my story thanks to these prompts.
What I really enjoy, though, are the motivational ideas. "Buy yourself new shoes when you finish a chapter." (Not really.) "Take turns buying coffee, or a drink, for anyone in your writing group who finishes a chapter." "Write 1000 words and treat yourself to a five mile run." Maybe not. We all respond to different motivations!
This is the one that just caught my eye. To pump yourself up, design your novel's book jacket, write the acknowledgements page, write the NYT Bestseller list positive review. Or, in the spirit of "go big or stay home," this is my favorite. Imagine your Academy Award acceptance speech -- for best adapted screenplay.
I like this one best because it would give me the biggest platform to say what needs to be said, finally. "This is for all of the women and children whose trust has been violated by the church, for all victims of clergy sexual abuse, and for those who discovered afterward that they would be treated worse by the church hierarchy -- ignored, mistreated, scapegoated, even physically attacked -- as the powers that be sought to close ranks and protect their own. This is your story and it is one of your power, your getting a voice, and having the abuse of power stopped. " One day.
To acknowledge or not to acknowledge. If you published a book, did you include a page of acknowledgements? Or would you?
Who is on your list? Was/would it be short or long? How expansive is it? "I would like to thank my Freshman English Professor for being such an asshat because I knew I could prove him wrong, and I did." "I would like to thank my brother, Charlie, for stealing my bike so I stayed home and read instead." "I would like to thank my third wife for all the great material." "I would like to thank my faithful '75 Volvo for taking me to all the places I so eloquently describe."
I work with a number of creative writing textbooks everyday as I am at work writing a novel. They offer great instruction and information and I enjoy some of the exercises they recommend. "Try changing the gender of your lead character. What would that do to your story?" "Add a character who complicates the lead character's life in a way you hadn't planned for." "Reverse the positions of the antagonist and the protagonist." Some are more simple, "change your lead character's occupation, or age, or geographical locale." "Instead of your characters meeting at a restaurant, have them meet in an unusual place, a forest trail, a storage facility, a morgue. What does that do to your story?" In other words, mess things up. Create problems. Make the thing more interesting. I've made some fun changes in my story thanks to these prompts.
What I really enjoy, though, are the motivational ideas. "Buy yourself new shoes when you finish a chapter." (Not really.) "Take turns buying coffee, or a drink, for anyone in your writing group who finishes a chapter." "Write 1000 words and treat yourself to a five mile run." Maybe not. We all respond to different motivations!
This is the one that just caught my eye. To pump yourself up, design your novel's book jacket, write the acknowledgements page, write the NYT Bestseller list positive review. Or, in the spirit of "go big or stay home," this is my favorite. Imagine your Academy Award acceptance speech -- for best adapted screenplay.
I like this one best because it would give me the biggest platform to say what needs to be said, finally. "This is for all of the women and children whose trust has been violated by the church, for all victims of clergy sexual abuse, and for those who discovered afterward that they would be treated worse by the church hierarchy -- ignored, mistreated, scapegoated, even physically attacked -- as the powers that be sought to close ranks and protect their own. This is your story and it is one of your power, your getting a voice, and having the abuse of power stopped. " One day.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
"Accompanimento"
31 years.
31 years ago American-trained El Salvadoran rebels killed Archbishop Oscar Romero in the sanctuary of his church.
Why? For opposing the American backed fascist dictatorship at war with El Salvadoran rebels whom we lumped together with "the worst people in the world," Soviet-style communists. It was complicated. But not really that complicated.
We were on the wrong side. Our objectives were not in the least bit noble. We trained the El Salvadoran fascist army at the School of the Americas near Atlanta. We trained them to kill their own people for reasons that were ours, not theirs.
Perhaps you remember, it is such a long time ago, the four Roman Catholic nuns who were slaughtered too. For caring for the poor. Sounds sentimental in our day. But true.
Susan Brooks -- where are you? -- was a member of the congregation I served as pastor in the (downtown) Loop of Chicago. We had a reputation for doing things like this but Susan's decision was, to me, a supreme commitment and literally laid her life on the line.
After Romero was assassinated, the Lutheran Bishop, Medardo Gomez, was increasingly in danger. The Lutheran church devised a plan to help to keep him safe.
Accompaniment. The ministry of accompaniment. Being there. Walking along with. Susan went to El Salvador after a very moving service of commissioning at our congregation. Susan, you understand, was a beautiful inside and out, humble, quiet, lovely young woman from South Dakota. And she chose to move for a time to El Salvador and basically shadow Bishop Gomez. The premise was that the soldiers were not likely to risk killing an American civilian, so if Gomez was with Susan, he was safer. The ministry of accompaniment.
I think of it often. I have over the years. The work of walking alongside another who needs not to be alone, or vulnerable, or exposed. What a gift! I thought about that during my work with victims of clergy sexual abuse in the 1990's: if someone would walk with them. It was certainly a part of the civil rights movement in this country. It was important in the fight for equal rights for gay and lesbians, in claiming the rightful dignity for those with HIV/AIDS.
I think of Ann Hafften and her accompaniment of Palestinians on the West Bank, Gaza and Jerusalem. I think of friends with cancer, depression, no jobs. We can accompany them. And now I am thinking of my old (well, from eons ago) friend, Andy or Andrew Larson, whom you can find here on facebook if you haven't already. He is engaged in a very important ministry of accompaniment. Andy walks along with Muslims. He is learning and then teaching about Islam. He is helping me, and others, to understand, respect, safeguard and love Muslims and their faith. He is building bridges, as we say, but as I read his blog and other reports, most of all I see him in the ministry of accompaniment.
It is no small thing. It is no small thing at all.
Susan on the dusty roads of El Salvador in the 1980's, bouncing, jostled, certainly uncomfortable, sometimes scared. But I remember she said afterward, "I received so much more than I gave." Which prompts me to wonder then, who is accompanying who?
=======
Let's shut down the School of the Americas so Jean Martensen doesn't have to chain herself to the fence on Thanksgiving weekend and get arrested for the umpteenth time, to protest. There's a petition posted to my (open) facebook page you can sign. Write a letter to the President. Contact - SOAW Media Updates salsa.democracyinaction.org SOA Watch is a nonviolent grassroots movement that works through creative protest and resistance, legislative and media work to stand in solidarity with the people of Latin America and the Caribbean, to close the SOA/WHINSEC and to change oppressive U.S. foreign policy that institutions like the SOA And pray for the Susan's and the Bishop's still out there, being hunted, risking it all, to try and stop the violence. Accompany them with your spirit, as they accompany the vulnerable, exposed, and generous people in creation. Peace.
31 years ago American-trained El Salvadoran rebels killed Archbishop Oscar Romero in the sanctuary of his church.
Why? For opposing the American backed fascist dictatorship at war with El Salvadoran rebels whom we lumped together with "the worst people in the world," Soviet-style communists. It was complicated. But not really that complicated.
We were on the wrong side. Our objectives were not in the least bit noble. We trained the El Salvadoran fascist army at the School of the Americas near Atlanta. We trained them to kill their own people for reasons that were ours, not theirs.
Perhaps you remember, it is such a long time ago, the four Roman Catholic nuns who were slaughtered too. For caring for the poor. Sounds sentimental in our day. But true.
Susan Brooks -- where are you? -- was a member of the congregation I served as pastor in the (downtown) Loop of Chicago. We had a reputation for doing things like this but Susan's decision was, to me, a supreme commitment and literally laid her life on the line.
After Romero was assassinated, the Lutheran Bishop, Medardo Gomez, was increasingly in danger. The Lutheran church devised a plan to help to keep him safe.
Accompaniment. The ministry of accompaniment. Being there. Walking along with. Susan went to El Salvador after a very moving service of commissioning at our congregation. Susan, you understand, was a beautiful inside and out, humble, quiet, lovely young woman from South Dakota. And she chose to move for a time to El Salvador and basically shadow Bishop Gomez. The premise was that the soldiers were not likely to risk killing an American civilian, so if Gomez was with Susan, he was safer. The ministry of accompaniment.
I think of it often. I have over the years. The work of walking alongside another who needs not to be alone, or vulnerable, or exposed. What a gift! I thought about that during my work with victims of clergy sexual abuse in the 1990's: if someone would walk with them. It was certainly a part of the civil rights movement in this country. It was important in the fight for equal rights for gay and lesbians, in claiming the rightful dignity for those with HIV/AIDS.
I think of Ann Hafften and her accompaniment of Palestinians on the West Bank, Gaza and Jerusalem. I think of friends with cancer, depression, no jobs. We can accompany them. And now I am thinking of my old (well, from eons ago) friend, Andy or Andrew Larson, whom you can find here on facebook if you haven't already. He is engaged in a very important ministry of accompaniment. Andy walks along with Muslims. He is learning and then teaching about Islam. He is helping me, and others, to understand, respect, safeguard and love Muslims and their faith. He is building bridges, as we say, but as I read his blog and other reports, most of all I see him in the ministry of accompaniment.
It is no small thing. It is no small thing at all.
Susan on the dusty roads of El Salvador in the 1980's, bouncing, jostled, certainly uncomfortable, sometimes scared. But I remember she said afterward, "I received so much more than I gave." Which prompts me to wonder then, who is accompanying who?
=======
Let's shut down the School of the Americas so Jean Martensen doesn't have to chain herself to the fence on Thanksgiving weekend and get arrested for the umpteenth time, to protest. There's a petition posted to my (open) facebook page you can sign. Write a letter to the President. Contact - SOAW Media Updates salsa.democracyinaction.org SOA Watch is a nonviolent grassroots movement that works through creative protest and resistance, legislative and media work to stand in solidarity with the people of Latin America and the Caribbean, to close the SOA/WHINSEC and to change oppressive U.S. foreign policy that institutions like the SOA And pray for the Susan's and the Bishop's still out there, being hunted, risking it all, to try and stop the violence. Accompany them with your spirit, as they accompany the vulnerable, exposed, and generous people in creation. Peace.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Liar, Liar!
I am such a liar.
How many days has it been? Two?
I left the house. I swore I wouldn't. The Tennis Channel, if you remember, has come to live in my house.
It is true that I have watched -- or fallen asleep watching -- hours of tennis over the past few days. In fact, I kept trying to watch the Indian Wells men's final and either had to leave or fell asleep (at 5:37 a.m.) several times and now, tonight, it was on again and I saw almost all of it -- but looked away at the last second. I missed the last point.
So isn't that the way it is. We miss the last point. Or the best point. Or the point, period.
What is the point?
Now there's a question for you. What is the point?
Pick one, you say. Well, how about this.
Life is hard. Life is breast cancer and leukemia and babies born with half a heart. Life is lung cancer and getting laid off and being hit in the head. Life is tsunami's and wars and murder. Life is also Glee and floating on your back in the warm pool and exquisite prose and welcome praise. Life is restitution and reconciliation. Life is right and wrong. Life is loss and gift. Life is all of these things. Disappointment, change, reward, perfect tiny toes, brilliant new ideas, chaos, rescued Clydesdale horses who foundered are recovered and running in a green pasture.
Life is it all. That's the point. And it's all one. We live within all of it.
And one way or another, this is the real point: it's all grace.
You have got to be kidding.
Nope.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
There Is A Monster In My Bedroom
There's a monster in my room.
It's not under the bed. It's not hiding in the closet. Or behind a door.
There is a monster that appeared in my bedroom during the days I was on my Spring Spa Vacation in Minneapolis.
It has a number as well as a name. It's number is 217. The name of my monster is The Tennis Channel.
Just so it's clear, I'll not be leaving the house from now on.
I have The Tennis Channel.
This is now the third time I've seen Rafa beat Del Potro and next up, again, is the riveting match between Roger and Djokovic. It's after midnight. My monster stays up late and doesn't scare me a bit.
I wonder how much more my novel characters are going to obsesss about tennis now. One of them is already a part-time tennis teacher, I hardly dare say pro because her students are not at a country club but show up in the local park. But, oh, the details I could include. Intricacies of racquet stringing. Having models made in plastic for custom orthotics. I'm missing a whole world of tennis paraphanalia.
Let's be honest. I still bring my wood, Davis racquet along to the court.
Tomorrow is the day before the first day of the rest of my life. The day before Spring. Or sometimes it is Spring. I haven't seen a daffodil yet so I can't be sure.
But what I do know is that Spring means spring. I could just write about tennis and bore you all to tears. Or I could go out and play tennis and, so it goes, lose a lot of yellow balls in the dusty field beyond the courts. Time to tone up, tune up, get ready to move some more.
I've been challenged by a 23 year old who thinks she can beat me. This monster is starting to get to me, though. It is helping me breathe in and breathe out, tennis, tennis, tennis.
My high school ambition was to become a tennis pro. Funny how that turned out. But you're hearing it here first -- or second or third. It is never too late.
The monster can stay here and inspire me when I want it but I AM going to get out there and beat the fuzz off those balls.
And you can take that however you want.
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