Bless Our Hearts

Bless her heart. My stepmother called twice today. She's eager to book my would-be trip to France this summer in which I'll watch a dear friend say her vows in wine country. I appreciate her generosity and attentiveness without any allusions to Southern snideness. It's actually her mother that taught me this phrase. Bless her heart, she says with all sincerity and love. Bless her heart, she says through spits of laughter. She means it and so do I. Bless her heart.

While I managed to rush her off the phone in the first phone call, she didn't let me hang up the phone this time without asking how I am. She's worried about me. I can hear it in the way that she asks -- tentatively, eagerly, lovingly. She really wants to know that I'm going to be OK.

My reply isn't what she wants to hear. Although, I'm not really sure what anyone wants to hear from me right now. On Thursday, I had coffee with a dear church member whom I invited to "talk" after the two year anniversary of his wife's suicide. To all outward appearances, he seems like he's doing just fine. I know that grief is private. Trust me. I know what it's like to put on a brave face and pretend like everything is peachy keen. I know what it's like to present that facade in order to avoid the frustrating comments from people that have never experienced grief of their own -- and certainly have never met my own particular form of grief. I know all of these things, but I was not certain that he would want talk to me. He did. Over half a cup of coffee, he poured his heart out. He told me all of the things that he's been holding in his heart that he doesn't know how to tell a soul. And then, he sighed. "This must be hard on you," he said. I looked perplexed. "It must cause you to relive your own grief."

He would never let me touch him but I wanted to hold his hand. I told him not to worry. My own story of grief has pulled me into this work. I told him that I know what it's like to not be able to really say how much it hurts. I told him that it's my deep honor to sip coffee with him and hear these stories. "Bless your heart," he said. He can hear it in the way that I ask -- tentatively, eagerly, lovingly. I really want to know that he's going to be OK.

Of course, the truth is that we're both broken. We're both hurting. There will be things that happen in both of our lives from now on that will heighten that sense of loss -- silly things like wondering if we can ever love again. His story is different than mine. I'm a young lady, in his words. He'll start receiving social security on Monday. And yet, the story is familiar. Another church member asked this debonair widower on a date. They're going to dinner, but it's not just a casual meal. It's loaded. It's filled with emotion that she can't possibly understand. Only he can know that array of emotion that explode with a simple dinner invitation. (I want to rip her to shreds, but that's another matter.) He cried into his coffee when he said this. He wiped away tears that a veteran of his age doesn't ever get to show and turned to his "young lady" pastor to ask if this meal was a betrayal to the woman that he couldn't save. Bless his heart.

This is what always surprises me about ministry because I heard my own story in this story. I heard that story of lost love. The story that reeks of rejection. The one that insists that you didn't love that person enough in the way that they needed to be loved -- even though there never would have been enough. I heard it. Clearly. And yet, even though I heard myself in his story, I told him something I wouldn't ever tell myself. I told him about the love of God. (Simple enough concept, right?) I told him that if we really believe that our knowledge of God is revealed in love, shouldn't we always seek more love in our lives? Isn't that what God would want for us? The monologue was longer than that, but you get the gist. When I was done, and finally caught my breath, he avoided my eye contact. "I guess," he muttered.

Damn it. I don't want to hear it either. God may be love but I don't feel very loved. Theology doesn't matter when the heart insists upon its own wisdom. Well, maybe the heart isn't wise but it certainly is stubborn. It doesn't want to be happy as I'm grateful to read in others words. It just wants to figure out a way to heal. Or at least, that's the best that I can really figure out about my broken heart.

30

More often than not, I feel like some version of a thirteen year old impersonating a soon-to-be 30 year old woman. That's right. I will turn 30 this year. It won't happen for a few months and I can't say that I'm that anxious about it. In fact, I'm not anxious.

That is, I wasn't anxious. A conversation started recently among the Young Clergy Women Project about turning 30. I commented in the online forum with confidence. I said that I accepted the challenge and was ready to live into this new chapter in my life.

Somewhere over the arc of my afternoon, that confidence started to erode when I realized that 30 meant I was that much closer to 33. Tradition has it that Jesus died at 33. That's not what scares me. I'm scared that 33 will be the end of my days. You may have heard me say this before. And before you rush to concern, I know it's irrational. It's totally irrational. It's ridiculous. That doesn't mean that it doesn't scare me. My mom died at 33. She suffered a fate that no one should suffer then or now. She fell victim to cancer and her life was taken by disease. She was too young. And I'm just going to say it, I'm too young. There is still too much that I want to do. That's the challenge. I'm ready to be 30 and do all of those things that I've dreamed about -- like publishing a book or singing karaoke (that would be Musicman's idea) or writing a sermon I'm still proud of on Monday or getting married or even having children (my step-mother got all upset today when I said I might not be interested in having children. I think I may have dashed her hopes of grandchildren. Oops.) I want all of these things and yet my silly fear is that I won't get to because ... it's all over when I turn 33. Again, I know it's ridiculous. Fears are like that though.

Gulp!

The Budget Meeting is happening across the hall. I'm the only other person in the building. And the door just slammed shut. Doors tend to slam around here. It's something in the hinge.

I know this is going to be a tough year (as with every other church across our country), but it doesn't make me feel at all confident about my job security to hear that door slam. What was it Isaiah said on Sunday? Comfort! Comfort my people!

Sigh.

The Least Servant

"The greatest among you will be the least servant" reminds this week's Gospel Lesson. I'm re-reading this verse again and again this morning and trying to figure out what that means for my ministry.

Yesterday, at our regional minsitry meeting, a colleague in ministry lead us through a meditation on our vitality . She asked a question that we were to discuss in small groups. The question was simply: when did church change you? I could only think of stories from my youth. I certainly have those stories, but there haven't been any new stories. I had some of those moments in seminary. I had lots of them actually -- but it scares me that church isn't changing me now. I read this week's lesson and shudder at the thought that my leadership role assumes I'm somehow elevated above it. By Jesus' rationale in the text, this would make me the least. I'm not so sure.

This morning, I curled on Musicman's couch with a cup of coffee to watch the news. A report appeared about making your job recession proof. I've had this fear recently. I fear my job will be the first to go if the church has to do some restructuring of their budget. I admit. I'm scared. I don't know where that puts me in being least, greatest, exalted or humbled. I'm just anxious.

Homesick

Last night, I went to hear a certain songwriter from my hometown. Yes, she and I grew up in the same place. I've always wondered who she's singing about in this song because chances are I know the family (if not the actual person). Of course, she still lives in New York and sang about it. As I listened from the second row surrounded by friends from my new home, I couldn't quite escape this feeling of homesickness.

This is not something that happens often to me. I am the wandering soul. I have travel lust. I rarely want to be stuck at home. I want to explore as much as possible. This feeling of homesickness is not familiar. However, there it was.

As she sang about the Hudson, I got to thinking about my conversation earlier in the day. I was rather pleased with how the conversation went. I was able to model conflict management while speak honestly that I don't do this with my own parents (mostly because I don't need to do so). What hit me while listening to sweet lyrics was that familiar nagging that I don't get to have that mother-daughter relationship. I know. This is old news. No surprise to you. However, it was one of those strange moments where I grieved the fact that my baby sister is getting ready to go to college. My step-mother has that special relationship with her -- but I don't get it. We have a great relationship. Don't get me wrong. I love her dearly -- more than she knows probably. And yet, I can't help but wonder if I'm missing out on something because of a technicality. My mom isn't home. She's not somewhere that I can call her and say I miss her. I related to this woman in my office yesterday by talking about how it is to parent a child when your mother isn't around. I know this territory. I don't know (or not as well) how to be a daughter. I guess that's what I'm missing today (at least a little).

But, really, only a little. As you know, there is this boy in my life. There is a boy who's friends invited me over to watch the debate tonight. I consider this a big deal since I've met them twice. And really, I can't be all homesick and whiny because there is this boy in my life that makes me smile radiantly. That's right. Radiantly. It took me until last week to tell him my family story and he keeps asking questions. He's really close to his family and my story just isn't the same. The way I relate to my family just isn't the same. However, there is something unique about sharing this with him. He makes it safe. And really, who can complain about being homesick when you feel that safe? Right. I'll shut up then.

When Crazy People Come to Church

How wide do we open the door?
Do we dare to let these children of God in?

Yesterday, my colleague received an email from a marginal member who every so often lashes out for something desperate. She needs grocery money or her car is broken. She calls the SP and begs. This has happened twice now. He makes a phone call on her behalf and apologizes that he can't do anymore. Neither of these phone calls have worked out -- but both times she has sent an email to announce joyously that God is protecting her and sent her angels that took care of her. This time, it was a whole family of 5 that showed up and played badminton with her in the backyard. For those of you that have children, is this something you do with your three children? Really? I don't think so. I asked the SP if he thought she was making the rounds among the churches. I pegged this family as Baptist from the other side of town. They're nicer than we are.

This is actually what bugs me. It's one thing to invite the "crazy people" into worship and welcome them "no matter where they are on life's journey" -- but it's totally another when these people are calling the pastors at home. It's the pastors that have to decide how to negotiate these relationships so that all parties are safe, healthy and well.

I admit that I have no idea how to do this. This is a little too close to home for me. I don't know how to relate to my brother -- and he's family! How can I possibly know what is fair both for me and these children of God that wander through the church doors? I fear that this will be one of the greater challenges to face the church in the future. And yet, I don't know what to do with it today.

Bad Chaplain

This has been one of those great weekends of unexpected wonder. I spent all day at the beach. I went to bookstores. I saw old friends. It was just wonderful. And I have the sunburn to prove it. And the boy is out of town -- but there have been some very cute text messages. It goes without saying that he's cute.

And then, I arrive in church today. Early as I still had to do the list of prayers. Or at least, print the list of prayers. I wasn't the slightest bit excited about my sermon -- but oh well. We sing. We call ourselves to worship. The list of prayers from the narthex arrives in my lap. I let out some unexpected inappropriate noise as I read that one of our newer members is in the hospital after her water broke at 6 months. Obviously, I left church and went to her side. (After worship, don't worry.) She was in labor. Might I add, I've never been remotely near a woman while in labor. I was clumsy. I felt awkward, but I wanted to be there. i wanted to know that she had support -- that God was with her even though this didn't make any sense. She was going to be operated on. I was overcome and left. This was something I learned to do well in CPE. I could always leave. Getting there was harder. I had promised I would come back, but the more I thought about it today, the more I talked myself out of it. They weren't ready to talk. They didn't need me yet. So, I'm going in the morning. I don't want to smother them -- but I admit I have no idea what to say. Do premature babies survive? Is this dire? Am I too optimistic that their first wedding anniversary might be their son's birthday? I don't know how to prepare myself for this visit. I don't even know what to think.

Saturday Night Fever

It's not a fever exactly but a ball of nerves that set into the pit of my stomach about 30 minutes ago when my dear friend asked me, "So are you nervous?" Dear Friend had read my sermon manuscript earlier this week (the one that I will preach tomorrow). I asked him to do so because I was nervous even then. See, I'm preaching about gay marriage. Not exactly. I'm talking about love -- particularly love that doesn't fit into the one mother and one father stereotypical family -- based in Genesis 12. Dear Friend has been a great cheerleader this week (himself a gay man eager to be wed).

I am not so nervous that I will be kicked out of the church. I don't really think our covenant is that weak. I think we can say truth in love to each other -- and it helps that I really haven't rocked the boat in the pulpit. I've taught classes on torture and fair trade, but for some reason, I talk more about Jesus in the pulpit. Go figure. (And, yes, I know Jesus is an advocate for justice. I hint at this often. But, I rarely go for a hot topic.) Tomorrow, I will talk about something that will make one-third of our body of Christ wince. The rest of them might have an experience of the Holy Spirit. I don't know -- but this isn't what makes me nervous.

The subtext of my sermon is my own hunger for love. I get to be the minister and offer words of blessing upon new love and dance when one of my favorite lesbian couples gets pregnant (I warned her she's in my sermon) -- but somehow, I'm still the single girl. Indulge me in a little whining -- because I'm so happy that you (not you, but you) have found love, but there is this little voice in me that fears that love will not be part of my call. It was part of Abram's call -- assuming it wasn't an arranged marriage -- but I wonder if it will be part of mine. This is what scares me. Tomorrow, without speaking a word, I will put this fear into the pulpit. I will offer it as my barren place -- and this makes me want to stay in bed with a fever.

Losing Control

My meditation in discovering my own practice of self care is focused this week on control. After making lists last night about the the possibility of change (and the pros and cons of each decision), I was invited to explore an opportunity in my own life in which I could acknowledge a situation in which I was not in control. A committee meeting seemed like a good suggestion -- though I don't have one until Thursday. I wasn't sure what opportunity would allow me to meditate on control -- until I found myself in tears in my car only 30 minutes ago.

I can't control this. I really can't. I know I can't. I have to let this be in God's hands because there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it. But O Jesus, could you allow me to take care of my body without getting the third degree of why I need to have this done?

She's only 28. This was what the technician said to my new Advocate at the Medical Center. She rose to the occasion when I last felt defeated. She was there again. Thank you for this saint, God.

And yet, God, I'd really like some explanation about why I need to go through the wringer on this every time I try to care for myself. My tone is not gentle. I'm not nice about this. I just want to get this stupid mammogram over with so that I don't have to worry about it again for another year. But, no, I'm not in control. Clearly, I'm not in control. Former Medical Center never sent the films of my last mammogram -- so I was made to feel like a drug addict demanding something I didn't need. They don't want to do the procedure until they can compare it with the old films. It's for the best care, I'm assured. They want to know if a mammogram is really the right action for me to best care for myself.

And yet, I wonder why this couldn't have been solved before I went to the Medical Center. If this was a question, couldn't you confirm? Couldn't you demand these forms yourself when clearly my request didn't suffice? Did this have to wait until today when I'm sitting in the oversized gown with my breasts practically exposed? And is it really necessary for you to speak down to me when I look upset? Is it really so shocking to you that I look like I'm near tears? All I want is to get this done. All I want is to release control of this.

O God, why can't I just let this go? Why can't it be taken care of for me? Why do I feel responsible? I just don't want to fucking deal with this. I want my fantastic advocate to take care of all of these ridiculous details so that I don't control them anymore. I want someone else to have this because I can't take it. This is not worth my would-be shiny new pair of big girl underpants.

Prophetic Words of Hope

I admit that I have not chosen my desired candidate from the various primaries of way-too-many candidates. It has just seemed too much -- even though I have had my eye on a select few. I haven't chosen. I have attempted to not be swept up in the political glory of what is happening in Iowa right now. I'm trying not to pay attention because most of it is just silly name calling and pointing fingers. (Honestly, it's childish).

And then, I opened my browser and the New York Times annouced Obama Triumphs in Iowa Contest as Clinton Falters; Huckabee Rolls. So I started to read this lead article and found these words:

“They said this day would never come. They said our sights were set too high. They said this country was too divided, too disillusioned, to come together over a common purpose...You have done what the cynics said you couldn’t do. You have done what the state of New Hampshire can do in five days. You have done what america can do in this new year, 2008. We are one nation, we are one people, and the time for change has come.”

My heart swoons.

It's a little Don Quixote -- and yet, it's that impossible hope that gives me hope. We can overcome. There will be change. There is more to come. Hope is not impossible. Dream the imposible dream. Sing, if you like. (I learned this entire score in high school Spanish, so I'll sing in Spanish.) I'm not sure if I can get that swept up when the man only got 37.5 percent of the 97 percent of tallied votes. It's the majority -- but can I really allow myself to fall in love with Barack Obama?

And then, God showed up.

On New Years Eve, my good friend and I sipped champagne and created our own personal bucket lists. I couldn't think of a better way to spend the new year -- as we prepare for better things to come into our lives. As we bid farewells to the hopes and fears of the past year, we prepared for what will come.

Last night, after returning from a traditional German dinner at her mother's (did you know that it's good luck to eat pork and saurkraut on New Years), we finished the bottle of champagne and chatted. And then, God showed up. I'm not talking about anything spectcularly metaphysical -- but my dear friend informed me that she felt God was pushing her to tell me to do this one thing (something that appears on my bucket list, mind you). I'm not sure I'm ready. Then again, it would be the perfect time in my life to do this. I would have to bid farewell to comfort and step out in faith. And I must admit, I'm not sure if I'm ready for that. Even if it won't happen until 2009 or 2010. It still scares me. And yet, isn't when things scare us that when we are supposed to go ahead?

Parking Garages & Boobs

On my way to protest for peace, I pulled into a parking garage -- as I have every Wednesday for a month. It was the second time this week that I had ventured into a parking gargage. I had been forced to park in one the night before because I was late. As I pulled into the garage this second time, I breathed deeply. Parking garages have become scary places for me. I have forced myself to imagine the things that transpired with my brother a few weeks ago. It was in a parking garage -- a deserted parking garage -- where he affixed a hose into the interior of his car. It was here that we was found suffocating himself of carbon monoxide. Each week, as I have parked in this garage, I have thought of my brother. I have gazed at the view from the top floor of this garage and wondered what my brother saw. I wonder what music he was listening to and what he was thinking about.

Perhaps it is morbid to have these thoughts. Perhaps I should be concentrating on his safety and the fact that he is home rebuilding his life. Perhaps I should rejoice -- and yet, I'm struck by the fact that I'm called to understand how anyone could feel at a given moment. I'm called to listen (even when I'm not able). I'm called to be attentive to those things that others might not want to hear. And in listening, I believe my call is to celebrate both the highs and lows of the human experience. So, my mind wanders in the parking garage. And I try not to cry.

Next Sunday, I will be preaching on Psalm 137. This familiar Psalm that reminds me of the aftermath of 9/11 has an ending that the Lectionary and my own mind omit. This lamentation for the little ones heads to be dashed among the rocks. Not a pretty picture. Not Christian, one commentator says -- but I wonder if it's part of the human experience. This is a text that laments grief. It's a song of displacement and longing. And anyone that has lost someone they love knows that grief is an experience of displacement. It hurts. You feel like an alien in a strange land -- where there are emotions you are supposed to have but somehow can't claim. You want to hang up your harp. You can't find a song. You just want to weep by the river.

This is where I wonder about those little ones. Couldn't this also be an expression of grief? Perhaps not the healthiest of emotions to express -- but isn't it true that it happens? Could dashing the little ones heads against the rocks be like my brother's plight on the top floor of a parking garage? Could it be the same pain that I felt only a few weeks ago as I took the steps toward getting a mammogram? I wonder if this pain is part of the human experience. Excuse me. I know it is. I know that this is part of the story too. And yet, I wonder if I can share my part of the story. Do I dare preach about my own fears of cancer and what this means for my grief? I wonder.

Squish My Boob

Or in my case, slap a lot of gel on 'em and ultrasound 'em. That's right. A mammogram is on the horizon. It's officially been scheduled for a week from Friday. I've decided how I'm going to handle the whole health insurance thing (thanks to some great wisdom). I called and ordered my slides from the previous doctor. I've opted out of the MRI (at least, for now) and I get to have a serious conversation about DNA testing. It will be an important day for me.

All seems to be set.

Everything is in place. And well, I'm still not certain. What I mean is: I'm scared. I had a flashback last time I went to have a mammogram. It's one of those eerie parts of my grief. I don't remember certain events -- and then things come rushing back too quickly when I don't want them. This is what happened to me when I last got a mammogram. I cried hysterically. Not because of getting my breasts squished (get over it ladies), but because I suddenly remembered going to these appointments with my mother.

Of course, it was too late for her to have a mammogram. When she was my age, my mother woke up one morning and could not raise her arm. My father rushed her to the emergency room. Sometime later, they found out that she had breast cancer. Four years later, my mother lost the battle to this disease. The math is imperfect. I'm 28. She was 33 when she died. Whatever. There are parts that I remember very, very vividly about her illness. No one should remember their mother like I remember my mom. I hope no child does. Perhaps this is what motivates my heart toward justice -- but I don't remember the doctor visits. I know that I went. I remember her doctor and lollipops. I remember when she showed me the jagged scar under her right breast in our bathroom at home. But, I hadn't remembered the doctor visits until I was wearing a paper gown and my own breasts were poked and squished.

I wish that I didn't worry so much about my reactions. But, fuck it. I'm worried about how I will handle this for the second time. I've done it before. I will probably cry. I will definitely cry. But, it should be fine, right? Right. So, if you were me and you had a whole afternoon by yourself after getting a mammogram, what would you do? Go to the beach? Drink coffee? Read a book? Get a massage? Sometimes I wish my mom was here to talk to her about these things, ya know?

The Boob Update

I know that you are all dying to know what's going on with my boobs. Needless to say, they are still small and nothing has really happened. My complusive screening has shown no signs (I wonder if psychology factors into my self-exams sometimes).

Too much information? Tough. Do a self-breast exam. Once a week. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. Talk about it in church -- if you don't cry when you start talking about it like I do. Then again, Katherine reminds me that it's ok to be vulnerable and cry. She wrote a great story on Fidelia's Sisters.

So, anyhow, I just got the call from the nice lady at the Breast Health Center. She wanted to the background information on my family history. I got to explain once again that it is possible that my Norwergian relatives carried the gene. They were cousins and aunts of my grandfather. Did you know that men can carry the gene? Did you know that men can even develop breast cancer? It's true. Bestafar might have had it. (Bestafar is Grandfather in Norwegian.) Though I don't know for certain, I'm left to speculate and worry. I could hear her nod encouragingly through the phone. She understood. She even understood that my family doesn't talk about it and I feel like a sleuth when I ask. But, with the recommendation of my doctor, Nancy is going to call me to make an appointment. I'm going to have a mammogram. I have to consider if I'm going to get an MRI and we'll talk more about DNA testing. I still don't know what I think. But, I feel enough peace now that at least I have been heard and an appointment will soon come.

Why NOW?

Or perhaps the question is really: Why EVER?

I'm about to go to an event for church --- one that I'm running and then I read this article. This has been on my mind for weeks. I do self exams almost daily. I monitor what new pimples or marks appear on my breasts. You might think I keep a diary, but I'm not that compulsive. See, this is what beat my mother. This is what I watched as a child -- the scar, the silicone breast, the chemo, the radiation, the pain and death.

I recently learned that the hospital in my new town does these DNA tests. They have a whole unit. So, I'm wondering again if I should take the test. Is it better to know if I carry BRCA1 or BRCA2? Or is it better to not know? I assume the worst in these results, you must understand. And the woman in the article is 33. Why 33? That's how old mom was when she died. She was my age when she found the lump. So, I've been thinking about this a lot -- in that frozen, frightened kind of way where you don't actually do anything but quietly panic.

And I'm single and childless. So, then I have to decide if I could ever breastfeed my child. Which only brings tears to my eyes. But, I can't cry. I have to go to church. Fuck. I think I can curse here. FUCK.