I came home from Israel Friday night. My journals and a long letter to my husband contain my thoughts while "on the ground" there, and I hope to edit them into a blog entry soon. My camera's pictures are about half unloaded and edited. My heart is full. It was a journey that was beyond my expectations. I'd heard about the industrial-strength tourism that governs many of the holy sites in the Holy Land. I'd heard correctly. Yet the pilgrims themselves, over the centuries, from every continent in our own day, hallow these places. I'm reminded of lines from T.S. Eliot's poem, "Little Gidding:" "You have come to the place where prayer has been valid."
Yesterday was my first day back at the office. I drove in on the first sunny day after 4 days of nearly constant rain or drizzle. Trees sparkled. The late versions of daffodils bent over in the rain and you could almost see them slowly straightening up. Buds on the maple trees are about to burst into teeny crinkled leaves.
Four of us gathered for the daily office of Morning Prayer.
Afterwards I visited with two ladies who are creative with paint brushes were at church to bring some calm whimsy to the ladies' bathroom. They admitted that the robins'-egg color they'd rolled on last week was greener than they'd expected, but it didn't stop them from painting trees about the size of the dogwoods that are all over the understory of our woods, and birds of many colors in their branches.
Meanwhile a college professor who had been at morning prayer stopped before he left for work to set up 7 tables and 56 chairs for this evening's Lenten supper and lecture series.
I stopped on the way to the office to visit with our most active volunteer gardener and groundskeeper, who was consulting with our landscape architect (husband of a parishioner) about where to plant some juniper trees around the amphitheater in front of our outdoor stone altar. This is where we celebrate Easter at a sunrise service.
Right next to the worship area is the Memorial Garden. There is a new grave where the ashes of my beloved parishioner Jim are laid to rest. He did, indeed, make it to (the new) Jerusalem before I left for Israel. The day after my previous entry, he died suddenly. His last words, in the exhausting struggle of simply putting on fresh pajamas, were: "I just need a little rest." Spring is in the air. May Jim rest in peace and rise in glory. May his faithfulness inspire us who remain behind to follow Jesus faithfully.
I finally got to my office. There my secretary had a lovely card and a big new mug waiting for me to welcome me home. I gave her one of the mother-of-pearl crosses that the Palestinian Christians from the West Bank carve in Bethlehem, and that I bought in Jerusalem. We updated the parish calendar and caught up on all sorts of details.
I wrote personal letters to all the children of the parish between the ages of 3 and 8, inviting them to the Communion class a week from Saturday. I signed "welcome letters" for the newcomers who visited while I was gone.
I ran out for a late lunch and to return the rented carpet cleaner that had been necessary to clean up a BIG mess at home. The dogs had been very quiet Monday, it turns out, because they had managed to sneak into our youngest son's bedroom and coat the entire place with mud. I bet our son will remember to really check that the door to the back yard is latched. He worked several hours to bring things back to some kind of order.
Later in the day I met with a relatively new parishioner who has all sorts of gifts and talents in the areas of education and organization. She will be spearheading the gathering of a group to develop an after school arts program for children in the community.
I had an hour conference call with the executive team of our Community Service Board on which I serve.
It was 6:30--a full and good day with lots of creative energy, good fellowship, and plenty of moments to smell and see and hear spring unfolding.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Lent as pilgrimage, Lent as gardening
I am about to leave (in two days) on pilgrimage to Israel as part of a group of twenty Protestant clergy from all over the country and of all different denominations. We are all between 35 and 55, and all have been ordained at least ten years. The pilgrimage consists of about a week in Galilee, in Tiberias, and about a week in Jerusalem. I have been very busy trying to get all the parish ducks in a row before I leave.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and at both of our services we will process back out into the world singing a hymn that marks the beginning of Lent and restates its purposes. This year, the words of the hymn are particularly meaningful:
Eternal Lord of love, behold your Church
walking once more the pilgrim way of Lent,
led by your cloud by day, by night your fire,
moved by your love and towards your presence bent:
far off yet here--the goal of all desire.
So daily dying to the way of self,
so daily living to your way of love,
we walk the road, Lord Jesus, that you trod,
knowing ourselves baptized into your death,
so we are dead and live with you in God.
If dead in you, so in you we arise,
you the firstborn of all the faithful dead;
and as through stony ground the green shoots break
glorious in springtime dress of leaf and flower,
so in the Father's glory shall we wake.
I will literally walk the road that Jesus trod in Jerusalem. I expect that the experience will be very moving. But there is the journey of the feet and there is the journey of the heart. I am blessed to take the journey of the feet. But it will be useless if I do not also make the journey with my heart.
Two parishioners of mine are elderly and the husband is struggling with his health. He has some sort of auto immune disease that is attacking the nerves in his legs and feet. For him, the pilgrimage to the bathroom or the kitchen can be a via crucis. He has been known to crawl the distance, like a medieval penitent. This man is brilliantly intelligent and well educated. He has never been to Israel. I am taking him "in my back pocket" on this trip. I hope to see and hear and smell and taste and touch on his behalf. I hope to write about the experience and take pictures that I can share with him when I return.
My parishioner may have a heart pilgrimage that takes him greater distances than my journey to Israel takes me. May we both walk the road that Jesus trod, knowing ourselves baptized into his death.
But there is another very important Lenten metaphor, and that is the metaphor of gardening. In Lent the days lengthen (two words etymologically related in English thanks to the Norman conquest). The sun warms the late winter soil. God the Farmer comes and digs things up and turns them over, a process that may be painful, if refreshing. Then we are ready to be fruitful gardens that offer nourishment and refreshment to others.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and at both of our services we will process back out into the world singing a hymn that marks the beginning of Lent and restates its purposes. This year, the words of the hymn are particularly meaningful:
Eternal Lord of love, behold your Church
walking once more the pilgrim way of Lent,
led by your cloud by day, by night your fire,
moved by your love and towards your presence bent:
far off yet here--the goal of all desire.
So daily dying to the way of self,
so daily living to your way of love,
we walk the road, Lord Jesus, that you trod,
knowing ourselves baptized into your death,
so we are dead and live with you in God.
If dead in you, so in you we arise,
you the firstborn of all the faithful dead;
and as through stony ground the green shoots break
glorious in springtime dress of leaf and flower,
so in the Father's glory shall we wake.
I will literally walk the road that Jesus trod in Jerusalem. I expect that the experience will be very moving. But there is the journey of the feet and there is the journey of the heart. I am blessed to take the journey of the feet. But it will be useless if I do not also make the journey with my heart.
Two parishioners of mine are elderly and the husband is struggling with his health. He has some sort of auto immune disease that is attacking the nerves in his legs and feet. For him, the pilgrimage to the bathroom or the kitchen can be a via crucis. He has been known to crawl the distance, like a medieval penitent. This man is brilliantly intelligent and well educated. He has never been to Israel. I am taking him "in my back pocket" on this trip. I hope to see and hear and smell and taste and touch on his behalf. I hope to write about the experience and take pictures that I can share with him when I return.
My parishioner may have a heart pilgrimage that takes him greater distances than my journey to Israel takes me. May we both walk the road that Jesus trod, knowing ourselves baptized into his death.
But there is another very important Lenten metaphor, and that is the metaphor of gardening. In Lent the days lengthen (two words etymologically related in English thanks to the Norman conquest). The sun warms the late winter soil. God the Farmer comes and digs things up and turns them over, a process that may be painful, if refreshing. Then we are ready to be fruitful gardens that offer nourishment and refreshment to others.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Clergy and their parishes and --God (!!?!!)
As a "professional" religious person, I sometimes succumb to the temptation to put form before content, to put the daily workings of my parish before their purpose: all of us being in ever-deepening relationship with the God of the Universe and in "love and charity with our neighbors" for Christ's sake.
I was talking last night with a wise priest who said that if he could say just a couple of things to parishes about relating to their clergy this is what he'd say:
1) Come to church expecting to have a powerful encounter with God, ready to be blessed and to be a blessing.
2) Give your priest the benefit of the doubt. Every one comes with his or her own personality but each has a call from God to serve God's people in the church. Give them the benefit of the doubt that they are sincere in the desire to carry out this call.
I think my friend could take these two points on the road, and do a world of good in parishes that sometimes get at odds with their priests; and with priests that sometimes get frustrated with their parishes. He talked some sense into me last night, when I was frustrated enough to feel like packing it in with my congregation. I love these people. I love the place where we serve. I can't imagine another place being better. Not really. But I was beginning to lose hope that I would see changes and growth in my lifetime.
Today things don't look quite so bleak. I would like to know that I could stay here until I retire, that I could have an effective ministry here. But I seem, in my prayers, to be getting the message: "This is where I want you TODAY. You don't have a need to know further ahead." I suppose God, who created me with the personality I have, and who has been with me through all the "changes and chances" of my life, should be trustworthy in the promise that we may "rest in God's eternal changelessness" as the collect from our prayer book puts it.
I continue to be intrigued by the Benedictine vow of stability. I may need the spiritual discipline and companionship of becoming an oblate of a Benedictine order, and the attendant guidance in understanding that concept as a married female Episcopal priest in the southern USA in the 21st century .
I was talking last night with a wise priest who said that if he could say just a couple of things to parishes about relating to their clergy this is what he'd say:
1) Come to church expecting to have a powerful encounter with God, ready to be blessed and to be a blessing.
2) Give your priest the benefit of the doubt. Every one comes with his or her own personality but each has a call from God to serve God's people in the church. Give them the benefit of the doubt that they are sincere in the desire to carry out this call.
I think my friend could take these two points on the road, and do a world of good in parishes that sometimes get at odds with their priests; and with priests that sometimes get frustrated with their parishes. He talked some sense into me last night, when I was frustrated enough to feel like packing it in with my congregation. I love these people. I love the place where we serve. I can't imagine another place being better. Not really. But I was beginning to lose hope that I would see changes and growth in my lifetime.
Today things don't look quite so bleak. I would like to know that I could stay here until I retire, that I could have an effective ministry here. But I seem, in my prayers, to be getting the message: "This is where I want you TODAY. You don't have a need to know further ahead." I suppose God, who created me with the personality I have, and who has been with me through all the "changes and chances" of my life, should be trustworthy in the promise that we may "rest in God's eternal changelessness" as the collect from our prayer book puts it.
I continue to be intrigued by the Benedictine vow of stability. I may need the spiritual discipline and companionship of becoming an oblate of a Benedictine order, and the attendant guidance in understanding that concept as a married female Episcopal priest in the southern USA in the 21st century .
Friday, December 26, 2008
Slacker Christmas
Four of our five children are home for Christmas. Today will be our big dinner, and the day for gathering the boyfriends into our weird family circle--a true test of their mettle!
The menu is leg of lamb, rice, sweet potatoes, asparagus, tossed salad, and caramel cheesecake with some white wine that the kids are picking up at the same time as the boyfriends.
Last night the girls and I played a silly game called MadGabs, a gift from our youngest son to our middle daughter. It's been a very long time since I've laughed so hard.
Yesterday morning I returned from the 9 am Christmas eucharist and at our house people were just getting started. The four kids and I were soon sitting around the living room, too lethargic even to get the stockings off the mantel. My husband, who loves his work, was (no kidding! on Christmas!) happily at work on his laptop in the dining room. Our youngest son cracked us up by commenting that we were having Slacker Christmas. I admit that I feel guilty about how minimalist our Christmases are. Our tree finally went up the night before Christmas Eve. There are four pathetic red bows tied on our front porch and --finally! as of Christmas Eve!--a wreath on the door. Slacker Son cut our tree down from our own vast collection of little pines, brought it in, and decorated it with lights and light-weight ornaments. We draw names and buy one gift for the person whose name we draw, with a $25 limit. So there's little to do in the way of wrapping gifts. (I send a few other gifts out to godchildren and a couple of dear friends, but that's it. ) So just before noon on Christmas, we dragged Daddy away from his computer, opened our gifts, and headed into the kitchen to make waffles. It was peaceful and happy.
I cried when I opened my gift, a collaborative effort on the part of all the children who had created a scrapbook of photos, letters, memorabilia from their childhood. They promise to expand it as more grandchildren join the family.
Christmas afternoon, seriously sleep-deprived Mama Priest was taking a long nap, when two of her youngsters bounded in and tickled her and attempted to drag her from the bed. They wanted her to join them and the dogs on a long walk. Ten years ago the kids used to do this. But they were smaller. Now they are taller than I am and most weigh more than I do. Fifteen or twenty years ago they used to do this, and my husband and I just laughed at our litter of human puppies wriggling all around us and called them "The Young of the Species." One of the kids, a toddler at the time, giggled and said, "We're NOT Young Peachies!" In 2008, the 17 year old baby and the 23 year old oldest daughter succeeded in wrestling Mom out of bed, and the two older girls and I and the two shelties headed out. The skies were freshly scrubbed after a lot of Christmas Eve rain. Everything smelled wonderfully damp. In the hour we walked, only two cars passed us. We also said "Merry Christmas!" to two neighbors sitting on their front porch with a banjo. This was definitely North Georgia Christmas. The temperature was around 60. (Eat your heart out, Chicago!)
We made and ate supper, played games, and called it a night.
Slacker Christmas!??
Maybe, but it was one of the most wonderful days we've had together as a family in years, with no agenda but enjoying one another's company. I'm not normally a weepy person. But I had to excuse myself in the middle of the MadGabs game to run off and shed tears again. It's been so long since we've been all together like this. I think it was the combination of missing our oldest child and my beloved granddaughter, and remembering all the years of raising these amazing children who have become wonderful adults.
"Those who go out weeping, carryng the seedd,
will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves." (Ps. 126:7)
The menu is leg of lamb, rice, sweet potatoes, asparagus, tossed salad, and caramel cheesecake with some white wine that the kids are picking up at the same time as the boyfriends.
Last night the girls and I played a silly game called MadGabs, a gift from our youngest son to our middle daughter. It's been a very long time since I've laughed so hard.
Yesterday morning I returned from the 9 am Christmas eucharist and at our house people were just getting started. The four kids and I were soon sitting around the living room, too lethargic even to get the stockings off the mantel. My husband, who loves his work, was (no kidding! on Christmas!) happily at work on his laptop in the dining room. Our youngest son cracked us up by commenting that we were having Slacker Christmas. I admit that I feel guilty about how minimalist our Christmases are. Our tree finally went up the night before Christmas Eve. There are four pathetic red bows tied on our front porch and --finally! as of Christmas Eve!--a wreath on the door. Slacker Son cut our tree down from our own vast collection of little pines, brought it in, and decorated it with lights and light-weight ornaments. We draw names and buy one gift for the person whose name we draw, with a $25 limit. So there's little to do in the way of wrapping gifts. (I send a few other gifts out to godchildren and a couple of dear friends, but that's it. ) So just before noon on Christmas, we dragged Daddy away from his computer, opened our gifts, and headed into the kitchen to make waffles. It was peaceful and happy.
I cried when I opened my gift, a collaborative effort on the part of all the children who had created a scrapbook of photos, letters, memorabilia from their childhood. They promise to expand it as more grandchildren join the family.
Christmas afternoon, seriously sleep-deprived Mama Priest was taking a long nap, when two of her youngsters bounded in and tickled her and attempted to drag her from the bed. They wanted her to join them and the dogs on a long walk. Ten years ago the kids used to do this. But they were smaller. Now they are taller than I am and most weigh more than I do. Fifteen or twenty years ago they used to do this, and my husband and I just laughed at our litter of human puppies wriggling all around us and called them "The Young of the Species." One of the kids, a toddler at the time, giggled and said, "We're NOT Young Peachies!" In 2008, the 17 year old baby and the 23 year old oldest daughter succeeded in wrestling Mom out of bed, and the two older girls and I and the two shelties headed out. The skies were freshly scrubbed after a lot of Christmas Eve rain. Everything smelled wonderfully damp. In the hour we walked, only two cars passed us. We also said "Merry Christmas!" to two neighbors sitting on their front porch with a banjo. This was definitely North Georgia Christmas. The temperature was around 60. (Eat your heart out, Chicago!)
We made and ate supper, played games, and called it a night.
Slacker Christmas!??
Maybe, but it was one of the most wonderful days we've had together as a family in years, with no agenda but enjoying one another's company. I'm not normally a weepy person. But I had to excuse myself in the middle of the MadGabs game to run off and shed tears again. It's been so long since we've been all together like this. I think it was the combination of missing our oldest child and my beloved granddaughter, and remembering all the years of raising these amazing children who have become wonderful adults.
"Those who go out weeping, carryng the seedd,
will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves." (Ps. 126:7)
Monday, November 17, 2008
"Oooh, Child, things are gonna get easier..."
I'm listening to Beth Orton singing: "You just wait and see how things are gonna be..." It's a beautiful song that is somewhere between a lullaby and a spiritual, offering the kind of hope that gives a person the courage to get up again after being beaten down, and not give up in the face of adversity. It is exactly what I needed to hear. It reached just the right spot in my heart. I'd order it from itunes, but we had a little scare with a missing pocketbook over the weekend, and cancelled both our credit cards. The replacements haven't yet arrived. It's weird being without plastic. But that's another story...
Here's why I need that encouragement.
Today our youngest son, who is a senior in a high school for kids with learning disabilities and emotional issues, was suspended for a fight he had with a classmate when they were spending the night at the home of a third boy. Our son struggles with learning disabilities and bipolar disorder, as do a number of members of my husband's family tree. He had significant absences for psychiatric reasons in grades 6,7,8, and 9. He was hospitalized more than once. He tried to kill himself more than once. He and his doctors tried many different medications. Lithium was what we finally thought of as the "magic bullet."
Also, we found this amazing school that he attends. My husband has an apartment in Roswell (an Atlanta suburb about 45 miles from our home) so that our son can go to this school. It has very literally saved his life, we believe. In the last 2 years, our son has missed no more school for psychiatric reasons. His grades moved into the "A" category. His teachers' comments made us proud to be his parents. He was recognized for his leadership. He played on a varsity sports team each season where before he had never been able to focus or get along with other kids well enough to complete a season on a school team. He was wondering about a career in the military, after seeing how his older brother loved his work in the Navy. He needed to be off his meds for that to be an option. Last spring, with his psychiatrist's supervision, he was weaned off them, and he had a pretty decent summer. But about a month after school started, he began to have a lot of trouble focusing and staying out of trouble at school. He came to us and admitted that he was feeling depressed. We got him to his psychiatrist right away. He was able to participate in a clinical trial for a mood stabilizer in addition to his lithium. Due to his depression which has always been made worse by stimulant medications, he was taken off his Focalin. (I think he needed to be off also to be on the clinical trial.)
Our son's impulse control and ability to regulate his behavior has been a problem that we'd figured he was handling pretty well, until this fall. Even at home, my husband became aware that our son was on about a two-minute "interrupt cycle." It was hard for Dad to get work done (he works from home), and it was hard for Son not to feel constantly squelched as he was rebuffed for his unwelcome interruptions and random brain core-dumps.
He wasn't supposed to do overnights. My husband was up in Jasper for the weekend with me when the friends called and convinced him to come over and spend the night. Our son is a year ahead of the other two boys, though they are more skilled at sports, more popular, and more physically skilled. Our son can drive other kids around (in Georgia you have to have had a drivers license for a while before it's legal to carry passengers), so he is wanted for his driving skills, even though he doesn't have a car of his own. He also has virtually no pocket money, because we simply have put all our resources into his school expenses. He talked his 21 year old sister into driving him over, convincing her that we had given our permission. (We hadn't.) I guess both the other boys and our son were feeling annoyed an used by the other. Our son said he'd drive the other boys for food (in the car of his host friend's mother) only if they would buy him some food, too. They thought our soon was being a mooch. Our son was imagining sitting at a Waffle House with a glass of water while his friends ate eggs and hash browns. Names were called, words were exchanged, and all of a sudden one of the boys punched our son in the face. He grabbed the kid and shoved him across the room. The host boy separated them. Our son called his sister and left. He was very upset. He felt hurt, embarrassed, angry, disappointed in his friends and in himself. He thought that the "trash talking" that he alleges happened constantly on the basketball team behind the back of the coach probably needed to be brought out into the open.
So this morning he went to school and reported it to the coach, who immediately involved the principal. I don't think our son knew how serious this behavior was in the eyes of the administration, or he might not have brought it up. The upshot was that he was informed of the zero-tolerance policy that had been articulated in the behavior contract all students of the school sign each year. The three boys were all brought together. The two boys who fought are both suspended for 3 to 5 days and it would be within the rights of the school to expell them. The third boy is not suspended. My husband went to the school to pick up our son and heard from the authorities. The principal said it just about broke her heart to apply those rules, but she had to adhere to policy.
My husband emailed me sounding totally disheartened. He reminded me of a time I'd said that parenting kids with mental illness means always wondering when the rug is going to be pulled out from under us. (I think I'd said it was like waiting for the next shoe to drop--same idea.)
It is my hope that the school will remember its mission, see how phenomenally effective it has been in bringing hope and focus to our son't life, and provide him with a chance to try again. Indeed, the principal just called me and told me that that is their plan. She told our son, "You let things pile up until they reach a point where you are no longer able to be in control. You need to step in and change things sooner." What a wonderful, supportive place that school is to learn life's difficult and important lessons.
Here's why I need that encouragement.
Today our youngest son, who is a senior in a high school for kids with learning disabilities and emotional issues, was suspended for a fight he had with a classmate when they were spending the night at the home of a third boy. Our son struggles with learning disabilities and bipolar disorder, as do a number of members of my husband's family tree. He had significant absences for psychiatric reasons in grades 6,7,8, and 9. He was hospitalized more than once. He tried to kill himself more than once. He and his doctors tried many different medications. Lithium was what we finally thought of as the "magic bullet."
Also, we found this amazing school that he attends. My husband has an apartment in Roswell (an Atlanta suburb about 45 miles from our home) so that our son can go to this school. It has very literally saved his life, we believe. In the last 2 years, our son has missed no more school for psychiatric reasons. His grades moved into the "A" category. His teachers' comments made us proud to be his parents. He was recognized for his leadership. He played on a varsity sports team each season where before he had never been able to focus or get along with other kids well enough to complete a season on a school team. He was wondering about a career in the military, after seeing how his older brother loved his work in the Navy. He needed to be off his meds for that to be an option. Last spring, with his psychiatrist's supervision, he was weaned off them, and he had a pretty decent summer. But about a month after school started, he began to have a lot of trouble focusing and staying out of trouble at school. He came to us and admitted that he was feeling depressed. We got him to his psychiatrist right away. He was able to participate in a clinical trial for a mood stabilizer in addition to his lithium. Due to his depression which has always been made worse by stimulant medications, he was taken off his Focalin. (I think he needed to be off also to be on the clinical trial.)
Our son's impulse control and ability to regulate his behavior has been a problem that we'd figured he was handling pretty well, until this fall. Even at home, my husband became aware that our son was on about a two-minute "interrupt cycle." It was hard for Dad to get work done (he works from home), and it was hard for Son not to feel constantly squelched as he was rebuffed for his unwelcome interruptions and random brain core-dumps.
He wasn't supposed to do overnights. My husband was up in Jasper for the weekend with me when the friends called and convinced him to come over and spend the night. Our son is a year ahead of the other two boys, though they are more skilled at sports, more popular, and more physically skilled. Our son can drive other kids around (in Georgia you have to have had a drivers license for a while before it's legal to carry passengers), so he is wanted for his driving skills, even though he doesn't have a car of his own. He also has virtually no pocket money, because we simply have put all our resources into his school expenses. He talked his 21 year old sister into driving him over, convincing her that we had given our permission. (We hadn't.) I guess both the other boys and our son were feeling annoyed an used by the other. Our son said he'd drive the other boys for food (in the car of his host friend's mother) only if they would buy him some food, too. They thought our soon was being a mooch. Our son was imagining sitting at a Waffle House with a glass of water while his friends ate eggs and hash browns. Names were called, words were exchanged, and all of a sudden one of the boys punched our son in the face. He grabbed the kid and shoved him across the room. The host boy separated them. Our son called his sister and left. He was very upset. He felt hurt, embarrassed, angry, disappointed in his friends and in himself. He thought that the "trash talking" that he alleges happened constantly on the basketball team behind the back of the coach probably needed to be brought out into the open.
So this morning he went to school and reported it to the coach, who immediately involved the principal. I don't think our son knew how serious this behavior was in the eyes of the administration, or he might not have brought it up. The upshot was that he was informed of the zero-tolerance policy that had been articulated in the behavior contract all students of the school sign each year. The three boys were all brought together. The two boys who fought are both suspended for 3 to 5 days and it would be within the rights of the school to expell them. The third boy is not suspended. My husband went to the school to pick up our son and heard from the authorities. The principal said it just about broke her heart to apply those rules, but she had to adhere to policy.
My husband emailed me sounding totally disheartened. He reminded me of a time I'd said that parenting kids with mental illness means always wondering when the rug is going to be pulled out from under us. (I think I'd said it was like waiting for the next shoe to drop--same idea.)
It is my hope that the school will remember its mission, see how phenomenally effective it has been in bringing hope and focus to our son't life, and provide him with a chance to try again. Indeed, the principal just called me and told me that that is their plan. She told our son, "You let things pile up until they reach a point where you are no longer able to be in control. You need to step in and change things sooner." What a wonderful, supportive place that school is to learn life's difficult and important lessons.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Election
Yesterday's election was the most exciting one of my lifetime.
Just after 11 last night it became clear that Obama had won.
We were at the home of some Democratic parishioners, about 15 of us, in our small rural county that voted about 80% for McCain.
I brought champagne to the party in an act of faith.
We'd been switching from station to station on two televisions since about 8 pm. The big screen in the Great Room toggled between CNN and MSNBC, with a single foray into FOX territory to see what the conservative spin would be. The smaller screen in the sunroom had BBCAmerica and then, in a stroke of brilliance, someone switched to Comedy Central. The news we got was based on the same numbers, but we were hooting with laughter and (occasionally) scooping the official news in the other room. "Wooohooo!!! Obama got Ohio!!!" The comedy station was somehow cathartic. All the vitriol that the Other Side had poured on Our Candidate somehow poured out of even the gentlest of our group as it became increasingly apparent that the last 8 years were nearly over.
Everybody moved into the same room once the race was called for Barack. We listened with amazement to the irenic and generous words of McCain's concession speech, and several of our number commented that, had he run his whole campaign in that spirit, the race would have been far, far closer. (And, okay...if he hadn't made the monumentally stupid choice of a running mate.) When some McCain supporters booed, McCain's rebuke was sincere, and his statements about how he valued being American more than a member of any party rang true. Then we waited, almost afraid to believe the good news, for Obama's speech.
When it came, it was worth waiting for. Finally, we have a president-elect who may be able to use his breathtaking eloquence to lead our country through the difficult times ahead. There was no place in our little group for cynicism. My desire to disparage the Other Side simply evaporated. It was as if I'd realized I was full and no longer felt compelled to stuff my mouth with handful after automatic handful of potato chips.
We departed in what could almost be characterized as solemn joy.
Then this morning on the news I heard comments from several folks leaving the gathering for Senator Saxby Chambliss. Not just one of them said that the news of Barack Obama's election was as devastating (yes, that was the word they used) as 9-11.
I was thunderstruck.
Then I felt physically sick.
Then I got angry.
Then I decided to let it go.
There is important work to do reunifying the country. I am blessed to have lived to see this day, and I pray to be effective in whatever part I am to play.
Just after 11 last night it became clear that Obama had won.
We were at the home of some Democratic parishioners, about 15 of us, in our small rural county that voted about 80% for McCain.
I brought champagne to the party in an act of faith.
We'd been switching from station to station on two televisions since about 8 pm. The big screen in the Great Room toggled between CNN and MSNBC, with a single foray into FOX territory to see what the conservative spin would be. The smaller screen in the sunroom had BBCAmerica and then, in a stroke of brilliance, someone switched to Comedy Central. The news we got was based on the same numbers, but we were hooting with laughter and (occasionally) scooping the official news in the other room. "Wooohooo!!! Obama got Ohio!!!" The comedy station was somehow cathartic. All the vitriol that the Other Side had poured on Our Candidate somehow poured out of even the gentlest of our group as it became increasingly apparent that the last 8 years were nearly over.
Everybody moved into the same room once the race was called for Barack. We listened with amazement to the irenic and generous words of McCain's concession speech, and several of our number commented that, had he run his whole campaign in that spirit, the race would have been far, far closer. (And, okay...if he hadn't made the monumentally stupid choice of a running mate.) When some McCain supporters booed, McCain's rebuke was sincere, and his statements about how he valued being American more than a member of any party rang true. Then we waited, almost afraid to believe the good news, for Obama's speech.
When it came, it was worth waiting for. Finally, we have a president-elect who may be able to use his breathtaking eloquence to lead our country through the difficult times ahead. There was no place in our little group for cynicism. My desire to disparage the Other Side simply evaporated. It was as if I'd realized I was full and no longer felt compelled to stuff my mouth with handful after automatic handful of potato chips.
We departed in what could almost be characterized as solemn joy.
Then this morning on the news I heard comments from several folks leaving the gathering for Senator Saxby Chambliss. Not just one of them said that the news of Barack Obama's election was as devastating (yes, that was the word they used) as 9-11.
I was thunderstruck.
Then I felt physically sick.
Then I got angry.
Then I decided to let it go.
There is important work to do reunifying the country. I am blessed to have lived to see this day, and I pray to be effective in whatever part I am to play.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Saints and the (not-so) Faithful Departed
Warning: what follows really rambles and may never settle down in a reasoned direction!!
Well, Saturday I did get going on tidying my bedroom and kitchen, and finished doing laundry. It was truly satisfying.
Saturday was the feast of All Saints. In the more traditional churches, there's a distinction between All Saints and All Souls. I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with such a distinction. I guess I think that God's grace is for all, and who cares whether other human beings notice the work of grace in a person's life or not?
I mention All Saints because, in the Communion of Saints are my two grandmothers and my mother, all of whom had in this life gifts of organizing and perseverance that I may never have, unless the "continual growth in [God's] love and service" that our Anglican prayer asks for those who have died results in my acquiring them for some heavenly purpose. I felt like those august ladies prayed for and encouraged me Saturday. Each had enormous flaws. But what formidable saints they are?/will be?? when Christ's transforming power is fully evident in their lives!
So today as I am preparing to preach next Sunday I find myself continuing to think about two ends of an important spectrum along whose entirety, I expect, God is present. That is the spectrum that has "Grace showered on the undeserving" on one end, and, perhaps, "The intrinsic rewards of becoming the good person God intends" on the other. (Note: Good beyond our imagining on each end of the spectrum!)
People who make a sharp distinction between All Saints and All Souls recognize that there are, for our learning and encouragement, people whose lives were lived with such profound integrity and courage and joy and goodness that they are rightly examples for the rest of us.
People who resist the distinction between All Saints and All Souls recognize that there are dangers to imagining that anyone deserves God's grace, that it is always given freely and fully; and that we all are so utterly dependent upon the reconciling power of God's forgiveness that any distinction between a "good" person and a "bad" person is really rather trivial. For them the great divide is between "Redeemer" and "Redeemed".
This may sound like a line of thought that pertains to last Sunday's lessons. But I think that the reading for next Sunday, about the Sensible and Silly Girls, begs for us to consider that same spectrum. One the one hand, there are behaviors that amount to ignoring what's inevitably coming; and those behaviors are foolish or silly. And there are behaviors that amount to being sensibly prepared. There are three parables in Matthew 25, and I think they're mutually reinforcing. The third parable, the one about the sheep and the goats, makes it clear that there are behaviors resulting from compassion and a vision of being able change the plight of the hungry, thirsty, sick, and imprisoned. These behaviors are praiseworthy. Yet People don't do it because they think God will like it and praise them. They do it because it is the right thing.
What troubles me about each of these parables of judgment is the possibility of exclusion. The door is shut and the Silly Girls are on the outside; the buried talent is taken away and given to someone more deserving; the clueless and self-centered are not harmless, but are confined to "eternal punishment." Perhaps the possibility has to be there (even if, please God! the set of those on the outside is the null set) in order for the loveliness of grace to be apparent.
I wish we were reading these parables in the context of St. Paul's ruminations on grace in his letter to the Romans.
Well, Saturday I did get going on tidying my bedroom and kitchen, and finished doing laundry. It was truly satisfying.
Saturday was the feast of All Saints. In the more traditional churches, there's a distinction between All Saints and All Souls. I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable with such a distinction. I guess I think that God's grace is for all, and who cares whether other human beings notice the work of grace in a person's life or not?
I mention All Saints because, in the Communion of Saints are my two grandmothers and my mother, all of whom had in this life gifts of organizing and perseverance that I may never have, unless the "continual growth in [God's] love and service" that our Anglican prayer asks for those who have died results in my acquiring them for some heavenly purpose. I felt like those august ladies prayed for and encouraged me Saturday. Each had enormous flaws. But what formidable saints they are?/will be?? when Christ's transforming power is fully evident in their lives!
So today as I am preparing to preach next Sunday I find myself continuing to think about two ends of an important spectrum along whose entirety, I expect, God is present. That is the spectrum that has "Grace showered on the undeserving" on one end, and, perhaps, "The intrinsic rewards of becoming the good person God intends" on the other. (Note: Good beyond our imagining on each end of the spectrum!)
People who make a sharp distinction between All Saints and All Souls recognize that there are, for our learning and encouragement, people whose lives were lived with such profound integrity and courage and joy and goodness that they are rightly examples for the rest of us.
People who resist the distinction between All Saints and All Souls recognize that there are dangers to imagining that anyone deserves God's grace, that it is always given freely and fully; and that we all are so utterly dependent upon the reconciling power of God's forgiveness that any distinction between a "good" person and a "bad" person is really rather trivial. For them the great divide is between "Redeemer" and "Redeemed".
This may sound like a line of thought that pertains to last Sunday's lessons. But I think that the reading for next Sunday, about the Sensible and Silly Girls, begs for us to consider that same spectrum. One the one hand, there are behaviors that amount to ignoring what's inevitably coming; and those behaviors are foolish or silly. And there are behaviors that amount to being sensibly prepared. There are three parables in Matthew 25, and I think they're mutually reinforcing. The third parable, the one about the sheep and the goats, makes it clear that there are behaviors resulting from compassion and a vision of being able change the plight of the hungry, thirsty, sick, and imprisoned. These behaviors are praiseworthy. Yet People don't do it because they think God will like it and praise them. They do it because it is the right thing.
What troubles me about each of these parables of judgment is the possibility of exclusion. The door is shut and the Silly Girls are on the outside; the buried talent is taken away and given to someone more deserving; the clueless and self-centered are not harmless, but are confined to "eternal punishment." Perhaps the possibility has to be there (even if, please God! the set of those on the outside is the null set) in order for the loveliness of grace to be apparent.
I wish we were reading these parables in the context of St. Paul's ruminations on grace in his letter to the Romans.
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