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.

A Bad Sign

Tonight, I'm meeting with the committee that is supposed to be my support in the life of the church. They are supposed to be the group of people that is able to process with me what is happening in our ministry together in this community. However, after their direction of my recent review and the fallout afterward, I feel less than safe with them. I got triangulated and I let it happen. I got stuck between trying to have a better relationship with my colleague and trying to respond to the committee's desire to fix it, rather than just listen. I really needed them to listen. I don't want an answer. I want to be heard, perhaps not even understood but just heard.

However, that's not what happened. I was yelled at by a church member yesterday because I made a mistake. I've allowed the phrase "early in my ministry" to be used against me. I let it happen again yesterday. I got swallowed by this.

And so, this morning I woke up and opened the employment listings. I scanned the document and found nothing that really jumped out at me. I'm having that gnawing question about whether or not I should be in parish ministry at all. (Yes, I said it. It scares me, but I said it.) I thought I had calmed myself down enough to finally come into the office and halfway to work, I started crying. I rushed into the building to hide in the bathroom crying. This is a bad sign. It's not only that I know my cycle is about to begin and I'm all hopped up on hormones. It's just not a good sign when you don't want to go to work. And so, I feel awful.

Totally awful -- especially when I get an email from my collague telling me that he decided to do something on Sunday's worship after all. It didn't matter that he asked me and I said I didn't think it was time. He talked to a church member and she said she would do the crafty work to make this Children's Sermon happen. So, he called me grumpy and he's right. I'm very grumpy 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.

Because...

I am a spiritual leader because...
I am a spiritual leader because...
I am a spiritual leader because...

Week Two of the Alban Institute's A Spriritual Leader's Guide to Self Care lead me to the exercise that required writing this sentence on my page three times. I had to fill in the dot dot dot with the first words that came to my mind. And the first words that completed this sentence in my mind...

I am a spiritual leader because my mother died.

I'm grateful that I have a good companion on this journey that encouraged me past these words. She reminded me that this was not all my call was about -- even though I was stuck after creating a &%$&* life map. I think a lot about my childhood. Maybe other clergy don't but I'm aware that my childhood has formed who I am as an adult, as a minister and as a human being. Perhaps this is a setback in my ministry and my own personal development even though my colleague encouraged me that I must be wonderful at bedsides and other's anniversaries because I get it. And yet when this sentence appeared below my pen, I was disappointed and unsettled. Shouldn't there be more? Shouldn't it be something else? Am I just another one of the train wrecks that I loathed in seminary? Am I a spiritual leader because of this event? Or is there something else?

This is the dreaded week of my mother's anniversary. It is 21 years. I could drink the number of years that my mother has been dead. (It was a disgusting thought in my head too.) I may be thinking about this too much. I probably am but I can't help it. I remarked to an old friend today that I feel like I should be over it. I feel like it should get easier. But, it doesn't. Maybe my Nordic side kicks in with a little Seasonal Affective Disorder. Maybe that's an excuse to protect the seven year old within me that misses her mother and wonders how life can unfold in such a confusing way. Nonetheless, I feel like it should be over. It shouldn't hurt anymore.

I want all of those stupid things that people say at death to come true so that it no longer hurts. I don't know if that means that I would no longer be a spiritual leader. I can't really imagine that. I am a spiritual leader because this experience of loss has shaped me. I am a spiritual leader because I was saved by a community of faith. I am a spiritual leader because I believe that others can be offered the hope that I found -- even when I can't find it on the 21st anniversary of my mother's death. I still want to believe it's possible when I revert to my seven year old mindset. I still want to be offered that comfort. I have no idea how to share that right now. I just know that this is part of it. Maybe I should listen to my own pastoral wisdom.

Remember Me

When only one person appeared for Bible Study this afternoon, I announced that I would need to leave early. I needed to worship. I needed to run for the hills -- but the best thing that I could do at that moment was go to worship. I wondered if it would be wiser to go the beach and cry -- but I already knew that my prayers were paralyzed. I needed others. I needed a community that didn't know my problems but would sing the Spirit around me. So, I went to sing with the Episcopalians at their Wednesday night Taize service.

I was still late -- despite my best efforts. And even still, once I settled into the hard wooden pew of the chapel, I started to cry. And it just came in that way that tears come. I cried as I croaked lyrics. I sniffled as I sang. I needed to be in prayer today because I don't know what to do with the news that I recieved yesterday. With the mammograms and delayed travel, I was really beginning to feel pretty great -- until yesterday. Things were pretty fantastic until I learned what was happening at home. I wonder if it's even appropriate to post on my blog. I wonder if I should reserve my feelings and not share the deepest sorrow I have felt in a long time. And though I shall reserve my boundaries for my congregation, I need to share this truth somewhere. I need somewhere to say -- other than to God -- that I have no idea what to do with this. So, I sang this chant:

Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom
Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom

This is not a chant we commonly sing at this ecumenical gathering -- but it is my favorite. I understand the Scriptural reference and what this refrain for our vision of eternity. And yet, I have always thought this verse has more to do with calling to Jesus to coax us into what we believe to be possible. Make the kingdom (ahem, realm) possible in our hands. Show us how! Show us how! Remember us as you share your vision! This is how I have always sung this chant. This is how I have always understood it -- until today. The universalist theologian in me that believes that everyone will be remembered was forced to pause. And here is the crux of my fears: my brother attempted to take his life earlier this week. I don't know what to do with this reality. I don't know how to pray -- but I want him to be remembered. I want Jesus to be there even if that's the last person my brother wants to be there.

My chants were riddled with this plea. I want my brother to taste this grace -- even though I know it is so far outside of his realm. My chant was for hope and peace. I didn't find either in this moment of prayer. I want both peace and hope and yet I don't know how they might be realized. So, I pray for Jesus to remember us -- all of us.

More Glee

Several clergy in our association of the United Church of Christ gathered today in the center of the city. Inspired by the monks in Burma, we thought it was important to dress in our vestments and stand vigil for peace. It was a wonderful hour. We'll be there every week for one hour -- until the war ends. There were jokes about LL Bean making down robes for us (you know, because it's cold up here). Laughter in the midst of our fears is a wonderful release, isn't it?

Do you remember that song from Mary Poppins? An innocent tea party with Uncle Albert turns into quite the scene. Mary is obviously peeved (even though she sings a refrain). Bert gets into trouble with his heart's desire because he gets swept in the moment. And everyone sings:

The more I laugh
The more I fill with glee
And the more the glee
The more I'm a merrier me
It's embarrassing!
The more I'm a merrier me!

I want to be the merrier me. In the midst of my conversation about feminism with the New Girls, we talked about this desire. Did you hear this? The Wharton School of UPenn says that men are happier than women. It's because men play more than we do. I'm not so sure. I'm also not sure that I'm willing to accept the definitions of feminism that others claim. I'm not sure that my lack of happiness has to do with overwhelming obligation. Now, my clergy sisters, I know that our work is hard. I know that there is a lot that is demanded of us. I know. And yet, I believe in play. I don't want my work to define me (even though I struggle daily with this). I believe in friends and laughter and merriment. I require these things, don't you? And I'll admit it. Most of my friends, laughter and merriment does not come from church. Some of it. I find my work very, very rewarding -- but it is not what sends me to the ceiling giggling like Bert.

So I'm trying to glee in difficult moments. I'm trying to laugh at injustice -- not because I think it's funny but perhaps because that it part of making peace. I'm trying to be brave and laugh at the things that I don't think are the least bit funny. You know, like war and breast cancer. On Friday, I will try to laugh with Songbird as we make a fairy house on Mackworth Island. I will try to giggle and remember what it was like to be a child without focusing on the pain and loss. I will try to be filled with more glee.

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?

Far Away

This is how I feel today. Far away. In Maine, if you are not from here (meaning that your mother's mother was born in this state), you are from away. I will always be from away. But, today I just feel so far away. It really started yesterday when I was struggling to write my sermon for the funeral that I officiated at today. I didn't realize that my own grief about this day was getting in the way. I didn't realize that what was making this endeavor so diffcult might simply be that I'm far from NYC today.

There were no worship services in my area to memoralize the day. There were no churches open for prayer, including the one in which I serve. But, I wanted this. I desparately wanted an intentional space for this kind of prayer. Instead, I held the hands of four daughters who buried their father today while I tried not to convey my own grief. Instead, I stood in the rain and commended this 90 year old man into the earth. Instead, I read Ecclesiastes 3 and wondered what season this was.

I wasn't there when it happened. I was living in London at the time. At 3 PM, I was urged to turn on the TV to see the destruction of my home city. I spent the next several hours trying to assure the safety of my mother who worked in Midtown. She was with friends uptown. She was fine. But, I was scared. And I just wanted to go home. Instead, I went to Italy. On September 12, I wandered the streets of Florence (another home for me) as the reality of this disaster followed me through the streets. I was with my Italian family there. And for the most part, I felt safe and loved. Perhaps this is what I miss today. Perhaps this is what I miss for all of us -- for the Iraqis, Afghanis, Arabs and others who are mistreated because of our country's racist ignorance. Perhaps this is what grieves me today. It all seems so far away. New York is too far. Peace is too far. Understanding is too far. And though it grieves me to say it, hope seems too far away.

Prayers for the Dying

When Oscar curls up on a patient's bed and stays there, the staff knows it's time to call the family. It usually means the patient has less than four hours to live.

This is Oscar. I heard about his story on CNN this morning and then read more about it here.

I'm going to the hospital this morning to make my weekly rounds. I don't know that anyone is in the hospital this week. But, I wonder about that connection between us -- that connection that allows some of us to be with the grieving and dying in those times. I don't think of myself as serving like Oscar. My prayers have never allowed someone to make peace with dying. My presence at the bedside of the dying isn't as natural for me as it is for Oscar.

But, in these last few days where I am the only pastor before the Senior Pastor comes back to work, part of me wishes for this gift to minister like Oscar. There are members of our church family that are unwilling to talk about death -- even though it is coming soon. I wish that I could curl up by thier side and allow them to make peace. But instead, I will bury a man this afternoon who never got to make that peace. I will stand at the graveside at a private service with his angered and relieved family. And I will be thinking about Oscar.

High and Low

This youth group game annoys me -- though I often use it on mission trips. It seems to work in that context best. But then again, it works for today. My day was marked by my high and low. Actually, I'm not even sure I can limit my answer to the silly youth group question to one answer. But, here it goes.

HIGH: The confirmands (who became members today) lead us in worship this morning. This was a new thing for this church. They are not used to anyone leading worship other than the clergy, so to see youth in this role was a little earth shattering.

There were two highs in worship. The first was after three of our confirmand ladies lead the Children's Sermon. The shy girl among the trio handed me the mic after the sermon and said: "I rocked that prayer." And she did. I laughed aloud.

The other high during worship was when another confirmand preached on Revelation 21:1-6. He mumbled a bit, but he caught the groove in the end and cracked a joke that wasn't scripted. And the sermon was awesome. I'm so proud.

And though you are only supposed to offer one high and one low, I'm going to add a third high. I attended the surprise bridal shower of the young woman that just joined the church. She's been an active new member and has been helping out with the youth program. And I gathered today with others that love her to celebrate her new beginning in love. She and her partner will be blessed by the church (though not the state) in two weeks. Blessings upon them.

LOW: My well-intentioned conversation about the Will of God crashed and burned at youth group. It was awful. There was no redeeming it. It felt as though that hour was a complete waste of time -- though the kids caught up with each other. And when I attempted to try to plan for the summer, they were so resistant that I couldn't help feel hurt. Maybe I'm not hurt. Maybe I'm angry. Or perhaps frustrated. Sigh.

Moving Toward Grace

I said something aloud this weekend that scared me. And continues to scare me. I said to a friend -- two friends actually -- that I have started to entertain the thought of moving. It started as a semi-innocent thought last week or so as I wondered about the typical tenure of associate pastors. Last week, the two year blip suddenly made sense to me. I thought I would be here longer. I thought that this would last "forever" (that's not actually my word, but a member of the search commitee did actually use that word as I grimaced). And then this weekend, I told my friends that I was thinking about moving. Of course, I won't actually move. I won't quit that easily, but I am finding this first year to be harder than I thought.

Is it because I am single? Is this mantle of suddenly becoming revered too much? Is it the church? No. Well, perhaps it is some of these things, but not really. It's really just that I'm lonely and I haven't the foggiest idea what to do about it. Today is my six month anniversary in my new city. It may be delightful ironic that it is April Fool's Day. Or it might just be mean. I'm not sure.

It was also my birthday yesterday. I can safely and honestly admit that it was the worst birthday of my entire life. As friends and loved ones called to wish me birthday cheer, I sank deeper and deeper. On the eve of my birthday, I cried myself to sleep because I miss my friends. For several years, I have had my own tradition of gathering my favorite people around one table for food and wine. Last year, it was Italian food. A fabulous relatively cheap spot in New York with 12 of my favorite people. It was wonderful. I spoke with one of these friends yesterday as I weighed the pros and cons of having dinner at a restaurant alone or eating at home. Treating myself sounded like a nice idea, but this was after the third phone call and my eyes had become red and puffy.

It's too embarassing. It's too honest. It's too true. And as I start my Holy Week journey, I find myself tear-stained -- longing for grace. And I hope it will come eventually, as Anne Lamott seems to want me to believe. Right now, I feel stubborn. Even though I just started her new book (and I'm so excited she has a new book), I don't feel ready for grace. How's that for irony? I don't want to see it. I won't allow those strange moments in -- like the congregant who lunged into a hug after worship today. She patted my back as she pulled me a little closer. "I'm so, so, so glad you are here" she whispered loudly into my ear. "I just love your energy and enthusiasm. I don't know what I did without it." Grace, Anne Lamott would remind me. God might even point to that moment as well. See? See? I love you and I'm still looking out for you, rings the voice of Sophia. But, I'm not ready. I would love to move toward grace as readily as I'm able to admit that I'm thinking about physically moving my location. But, I'm not moving. Not really. I'm stuck. And I just want to move just a little closer toward grace.

Chasing Tears

Since I moved to Maine, I have been crying a lot. It's one of those things that you are not supposed to admit. And I hesitate to tell most people because then I end up with a pity party on the other end of the phone, which doesn't help either. But, it's true. I have been crying a lot. I have shed many tears simply from being lonely. As one of my friends reminded me via email this week, it takes 2 years to form real friendships in a new place. I couldn't help but think about the number of associates that feel God pulling them elsewhere after two years. Is that ironic?

This week, my tears have not been as much about being lonely. Instead, I was surprised by a spurt of tears on my way to church on Wednesday morning. I had been at the hospital the night before ministering to a family. Their father and husband is dying. He collapsed of a heart attack on Monday and has been undergoing various treatments until Tuesday night, when he was put on life support. I went to visit with the family.

Obviously, it was an emotional experience. And I thought that I might cry for sadness, but that's not what happened on Wednesday morning. I cried out of the joy that this is my calling. I am called to be by bedsides. No matter how many tears I might shed. No matter how lonely I am. I am called to be right there. And now, my mind races wondering how the family is. He was taken off life support on Thursday afternoon. I know. I was there. But, he was still alive on Friday morning. I am having a tough time enjoying my weekend as I wonder how this family is doing. As I busy myself with errands, I wonder if they are beginning to make funerary plans. I suppose it is the burden and the joy of our work. But, it's hard to focus. It's hard not to curse my laundry and race to the ICU to see how they are. It's hard when you are called to be by bedsides.