The Space between Dreams and Reality.

I find myself in the tense space between dreams and practicality.  I am wrestling with living out a “calling” and doing what is necessary for my family.

I often asked others, “If money were a non-factor, what would you do with your life?”  This question is aimed to help in searching out one’s calling, giftedness, and identity.  My answer:  write, have deep conversations about things that really matter, help people heal, and tend a few acres of land.  Of course, my dream includes having my family around me, hiking in the woods, and helping my children grow into mature, compassionate, and thoughtful adults.  In my mind, it sounds like a perfect life.

My husband also has a dream of having some land around him.  We contacted a realtor and started looking at some options.  There are land and houses to be had within our budget, but we started assessing what we would trade off.  We have a great house, and we have put a lot of work into it – planted trees, dug a large garden, built on a porch that has led to quiet times of coffee drinking and intimate conversations.  We have painted the walls, hung the art.  We have made it more than a house, it is our home.  And we have neighbors (really nice neighbors who catch salmon in Lake Michigan and then share it with us!)  We have community around us.  We can walk to several parks and the local Farmer’s Market.  We are seven minutes from church and the kids’ school.  In the end, we have decided to love what we have and put the dream of land on hold.  And with this decision, I have let go of the perceived bliss I would experience out on a tractor and collecting eggs from the hen house.

My other dreams – to write, have deep conversations, and helping people heal, they are still with me.  I continue to feel called to find a way to use my gifts and talents, to share my rambling thoughts and insights with the world around me, but I struggle with the practicality of it.  I lack the self-discipline to enforce my own deadlines and to follow-through on the less pleasant aspects of work.  Mix that with tendencies toward dysthymia, and we have a perfect set up for procrastination and avoidance.  So marketing and self-promotion fall to the bottom or the list.  I would rather scrub 1000 toilets.  Give me the job, and I will give it 110%; ask me to sell my skills and I will fail miserably.  It is hard to grow a business if I remain a wallflower.

There is a lot of insecurity in private practice.  It typically slows in the summer – for me, it is even slower because much of my work is working a school contract and with families who go on vacations.  The insecurity wears on me – I get cranky and irritable.  My grumps are really a covering of my fears about money and my self-doubt that my writing is worth reading and therapy skills are actually useful.  We live in a utilitarian culture.  I see what I do as an art; myself as an artist.  We are the first to be cut from the budget.  Forbes listed us as the worst paying Master’s degrees.  My advisor in my doctoral program referred to me as a dying breed.  When what I want to do is really about a state of being, well, quite frankly it does not pay.  We tend not to value aesthetics and deep thinking.  We are content to wade in the shallow water, talk about Tom and Katie’s divorce, and escape into entertainment rather than tread in the deep waters of the unknown.   

There are those of us who are artists, philosophers, mystics, and contemplatives.  There are others I know who also find companionships reading great literature, listening to the poetic sounds of Joni Mitchell, and meditating on the Psalms and teachings of the Saints.   We exist, but this is not a day job for most.

I am a terrible singer – my kids are young enough not to notice how bad I butcher “You are my Sunshine,” but they will soon figure out that mommy cannot carry a tune too far in a bucket.  One of my suitemates in college, who happened to be a music major, would tell me “Don’t quit your day job.”  I find myself wondering if my artist life is equivalent to my singing – it is fun, I like it, but I shouldn’t risk quitting my day job for it.

I find myself pondering my current “day job.”  It is living out my dreams and in line with what I believe to be my calling, but I wonder just how “practical” it really is.  Don’t worry, I have no plans to quit being a therapist, or to cease writing, or to stop having meaningful conversations.  But I am wrestling with loosening up my grip on them -- to open myself up to new possibilities of integrating something more practical with the dreamer and artist within me.    And a part of me wonders if this is a lack of faith in God’s provision and a lack of confidence that I can make my dreams come true.  At what point do we really know?  Where is that balance between trusting that what we cannot see and doing what we need to do to have stronger sense of security and sustainability?   

Since I have shared this much, I will share the rest.  While I still wrestle with the question, I have started having conversations with a University to start an accelerated Bachelor’s in Nursing.  It is health and healing; it is taking care of people; it is a practical skill and useful trade.  I love school and come from a long line of medical professionals.  I have the support of my family to take this step.  I keep trying to come up with a good reason why I should not take this leap, and from a practical standpoint, I find none.  The dreamer in me wonders if I am doing the artist in me a disservice by getting a “day job.”  Doors are opening, and I continue to press forward – and I am excited at the thought of being back in school.  Yes, for those who know me, I am a professional student.  These last three years are the longest I have been out of the classroom.

As always, I am curious about your thoughts.  How do you balance the practical with living out your calling and dreams?  When is it okay to quit your day job?  When do you let go of dreams and get a "real job?"

Chair Thief.

Yesterday, I came face to face with the question, “What is compassion?”  I am regretting my response; my seeming lack of love and mercy towards the stranger-neighbor who crossed my path.  I have always been taught and come to believe that we are to love one another.  This love included a holding back of judgment in regards to surface realities.  If you peeked into my heart and could see the thoughts I harbored, you would find contrary evidence to my spoken belief.

Yesterday, I took the kids to the Y pool.  It was 94 and sunny, so you can imagine the crowd of fellow patrons seeking cool relief.  We found chairs and arranged out towels.  We left our chairs to enjoy a picnic lunch.  We returned to find one of our towels had been removed and someone else’s stuff in its place.  I see the woman who orchestrated the chair stealing – I have seen and observed her before.  She was a tough woman with obvious signs of a hard life.  A woman I presumed would cause a scene if I attempted to confront her.  My oldest began questioning why her towel had been moved leaving her without a chair.  Ah, a moment to teach about turning the other cheek.  I tell her, “Someone took it, but it is okay, we can just share.”  A virtuous response intended to disguise my fear of finding myself in an uncomfortable altercation.  My daughter was not happy with my response. 

I was not happy with my response.  Yes, it was turning the other cheek, but my secret thoughts were initially filled with resentment, anger, and passive-aggressiveness.  “How dare she!  Who does she think she is!  Perhaps I should point this out to the lifeguards and have her kicked out of the pool!”  And then I begin to tear her down in my head – “Look at all those tattoos . . . and her teeth . . . she is just gross.”  I began to despise the state of my soul.  I could not teach my child to turn the other cheek and love our neighbor if my own motivations were this impure.  I began to hate my thoughts and immediately recognized my virtuous response as a sham.  Not only was it intended to cover my cowardness, it quickly became a vehicle to stroke my ego and exalt myself as being better than she.  Awareness – now I must deal with my heart.  Grrrr.  Can I be angry with her for this?  Or better yet, be grateful that she was unknowingly exposing stains that needed removed?

It got worse.  She came and sat next to me and began apologizing for taking our chair.  She had lame excuses – “I needed to be near my purse; I was too focused on getting sun screen on my nephew; I did not realize you were still using your chair and towel.”   I responded with an “it is okay” and attempted to turn the focus back to my kids.  She kept talking to me – asking me for a lighter because she really needed a cigarette.  Then she began telling me about her life, how she had grandbabies because her daughter had kids so young.  And by the looks of her age, I assumed she also had kids young.  She talked about not being able to drive (again, I had my assumptions as to why she could not drive).  I responded with brief head nods and one-word answers.  She did not take the hint that I was not interested in talking with her.  The longer she talked, the more I wrestled with what to do – how would Christ respond to this woman? 

It got worse still.  For now I see that my struggle with attempting to figure out how to best love this neighbor was motivated by a heart filled with pride.  I am the better person – it is I who have something of value to offer this woman.  Ouch.  Dangit, more conviction.  As it turned out, it was she who became my teacher.  She who became the vehicle to expose deep layers of my sinful pride and arrogance. 

Not what I expected or wanted from my journey to the local Y, but it was exactly what I needed.

Avarice.

Looking at sin, especially the sin in my own life has historically been a signal to bring on the shame. I might as well have stood in front of a mirror and waved a wagging finger in front of my face. It is no surprise that thinking of an examination of conscience would bring about feelings of dread and avoidance. Lately I have come to see this assumption as an irrational belief. Looking at my own sinful ways is actually a gift. It is an invitation to set aside my false self and become more of the person I was designed to be. It is an invitation of movement closer to my True self; toward the better me.

This brings me to an honest confession. In my own examination of conscience I have looked at the role of vices in my life. Pride and envy are obvious, though I certainly wish they were less oppressive. But, I have maintained a blind eye to presence of greed in my soul.

It was easy to ignore avarice. On the surface I am generous with my possessions -- with my material goods. I have been generous with my time. Weeks and months at a time spent on the mission field; years running a not-for-profit. My time and small monetary compensations served as justification that I was avarice free. I had pride regarding my "giving" heart. This egomania worked well to support my false-self beliefs. I was awesome. I was not corrupt like the greedy that kept the poor oppressed. The poor whose conditions I was working hard to eradicate. I was not like "those" people. I was good. I was not greedy.

Last fall, I facilitated a "Now Living Your Strengths" group. We spent 7 weeks discovering our unique gifts and talents and then discerning how to share them with the Church and community around us. It was here I discovered a word to name my strength, input. I renamed it the "hoarder."

I am not like a hoarder you see on tv. I follow the one year rule and get rid of most things (books are my weakness.) Lately, I can longer ignore the avarice in my heart.

I struggle with a stinginess of emotions. My tendency is to hide my vulnerabilities behind a fortress of rocks and steel. I fool myself that I can hide the secret chambers of my soul from God. Silly, I know. I fear being hurt, misunderstood, or my shames being exposed. I hoard the longings of my heart from those around me. My fear turns to greed. I am not free to give of myself to others. I am not free to connect with the community around me. I am the opposite of hospitable.

Hospitality is the practice of being fully present with others. Seeing my hoarding of thoughts, ideas, and emotions as greed increases the severity of it. It raises the importance of doing something about it. It robs me of true joy -- of deep intimate connection with God and my fellow friends. It robs me from deep connection with my kids. In my greed, I must disconnect. I float through life safe and distant, but away from where the real love happens.

My greed, the stinginess of my emotions and thoughts robs my friends, family, and the community around me of the gifts God has granted me to share with others. I hide the True self I was made to be; the true part of the Body of Christ I was called to play. A light hidden under a lamp is useless.

Unexpected visitors.

A week ago, I spotted a new bird sitting on our fence.  I was struck by his beauty.  His song, one I had never heard – a sweet cackle.  He presented as friendly, allowing me to approach him with only a few feet separating us.  Curiosity grabbed hold of me.  I researched.  He is a common house martin.  I began looking for him.  I found myself needing to see him.

I continued to see him.  And then she joined our party of curious encounters.  It seemed as though we studied one another.  I sat in frequent anticipation hoping to have just one more look.  One more moment of watching, hearing, and noticing them.  They were doing something for me – giving me something I could not quite put my finger on.

I continued to anticipate their presence.  These past few days, they have joined our home.  Just inches outside our porch, they are building a nest in an ugly, old birdhouse.  I almost threw it away (it’s that ugly!)  Now, I find it the most valuable thing on our property.

They are amazing, there is no doubt about it.  But I began to ponder more why it is that I am so captured by their presence.  What exactly were they doing for me?  Why do I seem to need to see them?  Need to know they are there?  To answer that, I need to back up a bit.

The past month or so, I have had a case of the “pricklies.”  This is my term for “I AM READY TO BUST OUT OF MY SKIN WITH BOREDOM, ANXIETY, AND IMPISH DESIRES.”  And there are some legitimate reasons to have some angst.  And the boredom, well, life has settled down.  The kids are more independent.  My job has taken roots and settled down.  As someone noted to me yesterday, “You have become too domesticated.”  Meaning my adventurous side, my wild and silly tendencies have been far too confined over the past couple of years.  I am feeling the cage walls of seriousness, deadlines, and responsibility.  The imp and the pioneer-adventure woman parts of me are screaming to be set free.  I need two things to mend the pricklies.  One, give myself permission to play and be appropriately impish. This I can do.  But two, I needed to find some serenity and re-center myself.  This was the problem I could not fix on my own.  I even repainted my living room and dining room shades of slate gray hoping this would create some order and calm in my environment.  The house looks nice, but the peace I was looking for did not come.

So I surrendered.  SERENITY NOW! (Those who love Seinfeld know what I am talking about.)  Seriously though, I began praying and asking for help with the pricklies.  This is probably the first “selfish request” I have made to God in several years.  My prayer life still has a ways to go.  As I figuratively begin to open my eyes, I am coming to believe the martin nest is an answer to this prayer.  They are nesting just feet from where I sit on the porch.  There is great serenity in watching and observing their patterns of nesting, guarding, and protecting their territory.  And there is a deep spiritual quality to what is occurring between us – we notice one another and remain respectfully curious.  The invitation to be a part of their lives is truly a gift and a blessing.  As my eyes opened to the immediate wonders around me, I found peace and serenity.  

Fighting the pricklies creates an angry tension within me.  Trying to stomp down desires for wild play crushes my spirit.  When I stop trying to control my world so tightly, when I recognize I cannot do it alone – that I need connection with God, friends, and nature, I always seem to find exactly what I am looking for.  

The Scrutiny of Appearance

Ashley Judd is the latest celebrity in the spotlight of scrutiny for her physical appearance.  Her face is puffy.  Critics assumed she had work done.  The reality, she was ill for a month and was taking steroids.  In addition, she confessed to not working out for six months and consequently gained weight.  Society deems her size 8 no longer thin and beautiful.

Ms. Judd answered her critics in a thought provoking article( click here to read Ashley Judd's article).  Apart from raising awareness of how we are quick to judge and criticize one another based solely on appearance, she invited us into a conversation.  She asked the following questions:  “Why was a puffy face cause for such a conversation in the first place? How, and why, did people participate? If not in the conversation about me, in parallel ones about women in your sphere? What is the gloating about? What is the condemnation about? What is the self-righteous alleged “all knowing” stance of the media about? How does this symbolize constraints on girls and women, and encroach on our right to be simply as we are, at any given moment? How can we as individuals in our private lives make adjustments that support us in shedding unconscious actions, internalized beliefs, and fears about our worthiness, that perpetuate such meanness? What can we do as families, as groups of friends?”

I find myself caught up in the criticism.  I notice when people gain or lose weight; I notice if they are aging too fast.  And I wonder why I care.  What does it do for me to participate in the critical conversation?  The simple answer is that it allows me the opportunity to feel a little better about myself.  For a brief moment, I get a distraction from my own insecurities and shortcomings.  I can ignore how much I despise my own lack of maintaining a healthy diet and exercise regimine.  I can ignore my own imperfections.  And then I wonder why do I care if I have chubby arms?  Why do I hate my saddlebag thighs and love handles?  When did I come to accept that thin and pretty was the standard of personal perfection?  My head preaches about character, values, and integrity as the ideal.  And I believe this, but I still find myself participating in the pursuit of physical perfection – and if I cannot achieve it in myself, I will be sure to identify everyone else who also falls short.  In part, I am searching for companions willing to reject the pursuit of physical perfection, but through my silent criticism in my thoughts, I rip to shred those would be companions.   And if you are too pretty or too thin, I am quick to assume you are shallow or fake, and I have decided I do not like you even before I have met you.    This game I play is sick, and I am hesitant to confess it publicly.  But I think Ashley Judd is correct, we need to talk about it.  We need to confess our own inner dialogue; our own internal beliefs.  As long as we keep it secret, it will continue to destroy others and create havoc in our own lives.  Acknowledging our participating, accepting that we are part of the problem is the first step in healing. 

It is easy to step back and blame society and the media for perpetuating the pursuit of physical perfection.  To paraphrase Jesus, it is easy to point fingers at the splinter in others' eyes and simply ignore the giant log in our own eye.  But this is not the problem of the anonymous “they” – the “they” is made up of me and my willingness to buy the lie that appearance matters more than character.  The “they” includes me and my willingness to participate in the judgment and criticism of others weight changes, wrinkles, and physical imperfections.

I believe one response to the game of criticism to embrace a spirit of hospitality.  I am currently reading Dakota, by Kathleen Norris.  She is a Presbyterian living on the plains who found home in the Benedictine Monasteries of the Dakotas.  She wrote about the heart of monastic contemplation and hospitality which is marked by an openness to see the dignity of each and every person.  Henri Nouwen wrote it is only possibly to offer such hospitality when they “have found the center of their lives in their own hearts.”

At the center of my heart is a longing toward holiness.  My heart is on a life-long journey in a pursuit of Christ-likeness.  The journey is slow process.  At times it is painful as ugly layers are exposed and needing to be removed.  When my patience wears thin or the journey becomes extra difficult, I find myself looking for a break.  I take the focus off the center of my heart and I start looking elsewhere.  I begin to shut the doors of hospitality – I objectify both myself and others.  I strip us all of our dignity.  May I keep my eyes fixed on what really matters and become one less participant in the pursuit of the physical ideal.

Blame, Silence, and Solutions.

My heart is broken, or at least that is how it has felt the last couple of weeks.  I have been moved by discussions of race and social injustice, and noticed our knee jerk reactions to blame and accuse “those people” on both sides of the issue.  In the news, I learned that my former tennis coach was arrested for sexual misconduct with a 14-year-old student.  Outraged comments poured forth, “Yet another Christian pervert . . . let him burn in hell.”  We are quick to point fingers of harsh judgment and condemnation believing we would never act in such a devious way. We choose to blame and accuse in hopes to find reason and meaning into senseless acts.

There seems to be a shortage of dialogue and an unwillingness to look deep into ourselves.  To see that we too have the capacity to destroy lives either through our direct actions or through our silence. 

I have been intrigued with the Holocaust since my adolescence.  It began with reading The Diary of Anne Frank and Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place.  My intrigue started with questions of survival and resilience.  Then it became an interest in the manifestation of evil – how did ordinary German citizens become sadistic murderers?  Lately my interest has resurfaced, only this time I have started looking at the silent consent the general German population gave towards open prejudice and hate crimes.  I have always believed that if I had lived in Germany during WWII, I would have worked the underground Nazi resistance.  I have a history of advocating for the underdog.  I am related to Willie Brandt, former Chancellor of West Germany and known resistance worker.  I have said it was in my blood.  It was in my theology – we must be willing to lay our lives down for our neighbors.  I recently read Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, by Eric Metaxas.  I resonated with Bonhoeffer’s theology and his ethics.  We must do what is right no matter what the cost.

And then I look at my children.  I suddenly begin to waiver in my steadfast convictions.  I no longer know what I would do if I had to choose between the life of a stranger, or even a beloved neighbor if it meant jeopardizing the life and safety of my children.   They have also changed how I look at my own life.  I am less likely to take risks that could compromise my role and involvement as mother in their life.  Suddenly I can see myself as a passive condoner.  I can see blood on my hands – my silence makes me no less guilty than if I had carried out the crimes myself. 

I was examining my conscience --  searching my soul for roots of sin.  I came to greed.  I do not consider myself a greedy person.  I live in a modest house with modest furniture and I drive a modest car and a necessary minivan.   Our household income is only slightly above the national average which means we have enough to provide our needs but not much in terms of extras.  I want for little.  I often envy those who seem to have great fortunes, especially the ones who I assume are also jerks, but honestly I would not want their life.  I was ready to write myself off as greed-free, but I started to dig a little deeper.  I close my eyes to the plight of my impoverished neighbors, both those in my immediate vicinity as well as in countries far away.  I choose to place the safety and comfort of my family ahead of those who are dying.  I am a passive condoner to the oppression of the poor.  I am coming to believe that my silence, my choosing to remain comfortable rather than look the hungry in the eyes, makes me just as guilty as corrupt governments and other greedy thieves.

As a result, I have begun to contemplate deep questions that lack an easy answer:  How are we to live?  What does it mean to truly love our neighbor?  What does it look like to deny ourselves and lay down our lives for God and one another? 

I have been begging for some clarity.  Please, someone tell me exactly what I am supposed to do and how I am to be!  I have even wondered, do I sacrifice my house and become homeless in order to help the plight of those around me?  Do I put my own personal safety or that of my children on the line in order to show mercy to my neighbor?  Do I move my family to the ghettos or the third world in order to bring some hope and a little bit of love into dark and starving corners of the world? 

What I am discovering is a lack of clear cut answers.  It’s messy.  Just as it is easy to do nothing except point fingers and blame others, I find it just as tempting to become paralyzed in the presence of overwhelming oppression, starvation, injustice, and corruption.  I remember walking through the streets of Hanoi, Vietnam feeling like I was being suffocated.  Everywhere I looked were street children begging for food and disabled bodies, some ravaged by the effects of Agent Orange used by my fellow Americans during the war.  There is so much to do, so many neighbors in need of help it is hard to know where to begin.  Mother Theresa told people to each find their own Calcutta.  

I still have no clear answers as to what I am supposed to “do” with my life.  What I do know is that I must see myself as not only working toward a solution, but humbly accept that I am part of the problem. 

Dreamers and Rocks: Some Thoughts on Marriage

I did some math the other day. I have been with my husband for almost a fourth of my life. For the girl who never thought she would get married, this 23% has been amazing. I have a good marriage, in part because I am married to a good man. He is quiet, safe, and consistent. People refer to him as a “calm presence.” He has a way of comforting people without saying a single word. I knew I was going to marry him after we sat for an hour of silence under a tree listening to live folk music. There was no awkward silence, only an assurance that we were connected on a
deep and meaningful level.

While we are both introverts and find comfort and renewal in the silence, we are also vastly different. I am an ambitious dreamer with great aspirations for my life. I feel a pull toward a life beyond myself. I dream big and in times of enthusiasm I run after things with full speed, not always considering the path of half-done projects I have littered along the way. My husband is one who is content – content that he has a job that pays the bills, has health insurance and financially provides a reasonably good life for his family. He does what is needed, and it typically stops there. One of my constant frustrations has been his lack of motivation to have or pursue dreams. He has never had a clear “calling” on his life, whereas I have known what I want to be since adolescence.

I was processing this frustration with a trusted mentor. Initially, I wanted to complain that I seem to carry the energy for our family. But before I started my rant, I reminded myself that I married him for a reason. I married him because he was a constant and calm presence. He is my rock; my home base. I could not be the dreamer I am, nor could I chase after my ambitions if my husband were not the man he was. If we were both ambitious dreamers, our house would crumble. As I started seeing him in this new light, my heart was filled with gratitude. He is the husband I need; the husband I want.

I began looking at my dreams, specifically the writing that I am giving birth to. My husband has read some of my writing, but commented that “It seems to be more for women.” Initially, I was annoyed at his seeming lack of interest, but resolved that he was right. I write mostly for an audience of women. As I continued to process this aloud, a new discussion arose around women and the role of spirituality. Across cultures, it is women who seem to be the bearers of spirituality. I remembered being in Viet Nam visiting Buddhist temples – the monks were the mainstay, but it was the women who ushered in their families. It was the women who carried out the rituals within the homes. Within most American households, I find much of the same thing – women are the god-bearers, the theotokos, within their families. Men are the protectors and the defenders of the doctrines and Institutions. Men protect against defilement. They are the constant guardians who keep it safe. Women give birth to spirituality, and men are the stable rocks that keep it grounded. Neither is better or more important than the other. We are different, but truly we need one another.

As we concluded our conversation and began scheduling our next meeting, we happened to pick the Feast of St. Joseph. Not much is known about St. Joseph, the step-father of Jesus and the husband of Mary. He is often referred to as the hidden saint. What we do know is that he stood beside Mary, the Theotokos, as she brought forth the Savior from her womb. It was his presence that allowed Mary to carry out her role. There was a slight laugh in the room – how coincidental to choose this day. My husband is my St. Joseph, my hidden saint. He is the rock that stands silently behind me that allows me to carry out my role – to birth the dreams and visions laid upon me. My appreciation for my husband deepened to a level that changed my heart for the better. As cheesy as it sounds, I am forever grateful he stumbled into my life. He has maintained the space that allows me to be the me I am called to be. I would not be who I am had it not been for him.

To Live and Forgive.

I have a tattoo. I am not exactly the sort that fits the stereotype of an inked person. One, I am clean cut. I prefer shirts with collars tucked into pants complete with a belt. Years of private school dress code has stuck with me. My clothing is boring – if I wear a striped shirt I am being bold. And I freak out if people write on my skin with pen or marker. I like things untainted, pure, and orderly. Nine years later, I still love my tattoo. I love what it symbolizes.

The ink on my skin is the symbol for life. To the best of my knowledge, it literally means, “to live.” There is a story behind my marking.

Twenty-one years ago, I no longer wanted to live. I believed the world would be better off without me. Call it adolescent angst; call it depression. I called it a desperate need to get away from my life. I am fairly certain I did not want to die, but I certainly did not want to live either. I wanted the pain ripped out of my insides. I wanted the hurt to stop. I wanted to be resurrected. My only hope was to either successfully take my life, or at least make a valiant enough attempt that someone would notice and get me the help I needed. Neither really happened. I put on a smile. I made some life changes and instead of seeking negative attention, I sought after affirmation. I stopped being an obnoxious brat and focused on helping others. While I became a good kid and young adult, I never really found my vitality. I was passively stuck in victim mode – disempowered with no real sense of self-agency.

Nine years ago, I made the conscience decision I was no longer a victim to my circumstances. I was tired of merely surviving; I was ready to thrive. I permanently marked this decision. I covered over the scars on my wrist – covered the death wishes. It was an imbedded reminder to never turn back. It has become my permanent motto -- to always choose life; to choose vitality.

Choosing life meant to start feeling again. I had to experience the anger and rage I had previously tried to kill via neglect and ignoring it. The anger led me to sadness; to mourning. And finally, I was able to forgive myself and my enemies. The path to vitality was really a slow process of forgiveness that did indeed lead to a place of peace and true healing.

I was recently in a conversation about forgiveness, and how the Christian mandate is to forgive our enemies. But the conversation took an interesting turn, that being can we be too quick to forgive? I think the answer is yes and no. If we are choosing to “forgive and forget” at the cost of denying our own injuries that need to be healed, the yes, we can forgive too quickly. Forgiving too quickly may lead us to choose being numb, feeling nothing, and surrendering our vitality. At the same time, I believe we are called to forgive immediately. Confusing, right?

Forgiveness is a process. When we are injured, I believe our position should be to immediately forgive our enemy, but recognize that forgiveness is a both immediate and ongoing. I am coming to understand that forgiveness and grief are intertwined. We choose to be actively involved in the process and to continually forgive along the way.  We choose to let go of each new layer of anger and hurt that are uncovered in the process. The deeper we enter into our healing and grieving process, the deeper our forgiveness will go. We experience our own forgiveness to the same depths we are able to forgive others. And if you are like me, the more we understand the extent of injuries, the more we understand the seriousness of the injuries we inflict upon others. We come to grips with our own depravity. Our humility deepens as does our desperate need for grace. As we recognize our own ability to destroy others, it becomes easier to address our enemies with grace and forgiveness for we know deep down we are really no different at all.

Nine years ago, when I made the decision to choose life I did not understand that I was also choosing the path of forgiveness. I was resurrected from death through the process of forgiveness. As we continue in this season of Lent, may we continue to uncover the layers of grievous sins that need forgiven -- sins inflicted upon us and those we have inflicted upon others. May we keep our eyes fixed on the promise of resurrection and life.

Owning Nothing.

I am reading St. Therese of Lisieux’s, A Story of a Soul. St. Therese, also known as the “Little Flower of Jesus,” entered the Carmelite Order at the young age of fifteen. The Order did not allow girls her age to enter, so boldly St. Therese went straight to the Bishop, and then the Pope to seek special permission. She had guts. But she also had great wisdom beyond her years. She wrote her spiritual autobiography for the Carmelite Mother prior to her early death at the age of twenty-four.


The more I read, the more I am struck by her humility. I am baffled by her passivity. Rather than engage in power struggles over what most would deem her rights, she surrenders to the aggressor and lets them win the argument. If people ‘steal’ her thoughts and insights and claim them as their own, she does not attempt to reclaim the credit. St. Therese holds a belief similar to the Buddhist philosophy of indifference – none of it is mine to begin with; I own nothing, therefore I have nothing to lose and nothing can be stolen from me. Or in the words of Jesus, “Turn the other cheek . . . go the second mile . . . and give him your coat.”

This has brought me face-to-face with my struggle with possession and personal boundaries. I want to protect my intellectual property. I want to defend my rights. I want to win arguments and prove that I am right. I want to maintain firm boundaries to protect myself from toxic people and unnecessary suffering.

For clarification, I do not believe St. Therese, Jesus, or the Buddha is asking us to intentionally throw ourselves directly in the path of suffering or toxic people just so we can be trampled upon. But I am truly pondering what humility in the face of conflict looks like. What does it really mean to turn the other cheek? Two thoughts strike me.

One, do I really own anything? The reality is, no. While I would like to claim my intellect as my own, the truth is, I was born this way. I have intelligent parents, who had intelligent parents before them. I have a personality structure that is naturally inclined to ponder over ideas and spending time alone reading and writing (INFP for those who are curious). I was born a serious thinker. In other words, the strengths of my personality were not something I initially created. Yes, the seed was fostered into growth by my environment and my choices, but I did not pick what type of seed was to be planted.

To use a metaphor from the garden – if I plant a carrot seed, I will only get a carrot. If I tend the soil, pull the weeds, and wait patiently I will get a nice, big, hearty carrot. I cannot claim I made a carrot; I only helped it to grow. When it comes to me, yes I am proud of the results my hard work has produced, but can I really claim that I made me who I am? No. I only am what I am because of certain gifts bestowed upon me – and we all have unique gifts given to us. I only had the intellectual property and ideas because of the original gifts given to me. I am the hired hand on the farm, not the owner.

My second thought is in regards to conflict, especially in fighting over my rights. I have had wise people in my life ask me, “Is this a hill you are willing to die on?” and advise to “Choose your battles wisely.” I am beginning to wonder how many arguments are worth engaging in?  I cannot think of many. This is not suggesting we go voiceless. I strongly believe that in relationships it is important to hear and be heard. In therapy world we talk about “I language.” In other words, in a conflict using phrases such as “I feel . . . I want . . . I need.” The goal is to avoid “You language” that points blame. But if a person continues to be disrespectful despite my using “I language” do I need to argue and prove that I need to be respected? Probably not. It would seem they do not want to listen and I am only going to grow more frustrated in trying to be heard. I should probably just walk away.

These are my initial ramblings on the idea of owning nothing and turning the other cheek. I am still pondering, chewing, and meditating on the idea. What are your thoughts? What do you think owning nothing and turning the other cheek looks like?

Lent. And Other Thoughts on Grievous Sin.

Lent began today. I went to the Ash Wednesday Mass this morning and the homily focused on the words, ‘grievous sins.’ The priest asked if anyone knew what the word ‘grievous’ meant and a young student raised his hand ready to answer (this was also an all-school Mass.) The student said, “Like General Grievous?” Yes, Star Wars made it into Mass this morning, and the priest ran with it. He said, "Yes, like that because he was a bad guy". A light-hearted laughter filled the church, and then it shifted to a serious tone – a grievous sin is a serious sin. It is something that causes severe grief, pain, or suffering.


A few months ago, I began to notice how uncomfortable I was with the word “sin.” Upon further reflection, became aware that I had basically removed it from my vocabulary over the past several years. I had much nicer words to use – infraction, slip-up, fault, wrongdoing, a mistake. These words are applicable in many cases. If I forgot to pour my child milk for breakfast, that would be a mistake, not a sin. But when in a moment of parental frustration I tell my child, “I am done!” in a tone that suggests I am done being a mother, I am done with our relationship, I am done caring about my child, well, if I am honest, that falls into the category of grievous sin. In my anger I caused harm to another.  My child had panic stricken across her face.  I could see the doubt of love begin to creep across her eyes. I put a ding in our relationship. I repaired our relationship. We still love one another. But I cannot help but wonder what lasting impression that ding (or other future dings and dents) will have. Yes, it was a mistake. Yes, I admitted I was wrong to say such harsh words. Yes, I apologized to my child and asked for forgiveness.  But to limit my description as a wrong-doing and a mistake is to short-change the reality and impact of sin.

We live in an individual-focused culture. It is all about the “me.” We are independent and proud, and I am the first to jump on this bandwagon. If I make a mistake, it is my consequence to contend with. But sin, grievous sin, is beyond the individual. It is to contend with the reality that my choices and behaviors impact more than just my own little world. It damages the Community, the world, and Christ. As I, a parent, sin against my children it makes it all the more difficult for them to understand a loving God. They lose sight of their worthiness. Their self-respect declines. They have less of a positive impact on the world around them. And perhaps my sins are carried forth for generations to come. My grievous sins impact beyond what I can grasp. This is a serious matter.  It is not just about me and  my personal relationship with God.

So I am reintegrating the word “sin” into my life. I need to continual be reminded of the serious consequences my sins can cause. I need to stop minimizing its magnitude.

But I also cannot beat myself up. I sinned against my child, and unfortunately it probably will not be the last. Try as I might, I have yet to reach perfection. What I can do is allow the magnitude of my sinfulness to sink into the depths of my soul. And as that sinks in, I am reminded of my own wretchedness. But it cannot stop there. I can rest in the mercy of God’s tenderness. But I still cannot stop even there. I must then allow grace to transform me. I must take this transformed soul back into the world around me. I must shine forth with the grace that saved a wretch like me.

Submit and Obey.

Some weeks ago, someone asked me to consider writing on the Ten Commandments. She noted that of the ten, several had commentaries or lengthy explanations with few exceptions (adultery, murder, and bearing false witness.) I loved the invitation to wrestle with my own thoughts on this subject. And being that I am one to wrestle, chew, and then wrestle some more on specific thoughts, I am finally ready to respond to the request.


The idea of following commandments strikes two struggles for me – obedience and authority. I do not think I am alone in my resistance towards surrendering my will towards another authority. Like many, I often would prefer to be my own god – be my own measure of what is right and wrong and choose my own path in life. After all, I am an intelligent, competent, strong woman who has a high moral ethic by which I follow. Surely the combination of these characteristics makes me quite suitable to be my own guide. And then again, perhaps not.

The life I would direct for myself is a good path. I believe in being a loving mother toward my children, a faithful and devoted wife to my husband, being compassionate towards those experiencing physical and emotional poverty. I have a strong work ethic that directs me to always doing my best and strives to avoid laziness. If I chose to be my own god, I am fairly confident that I would lead a worthwhile life and I would be known for a being a good person. But, I believe we are called to something more than a good life. I believe we are called to belong and be connected to something bigger than ourselves. Here is where obedience and Authority come in to play.

Obedience and submission to an Authority recognizes that there is a Way beyond what I can see and know. Following that Way, despite not fully understanding requires trust. I must recognize that my vision for my life and my understanding is limited. I must trust that what I cannot see is True.

Submission to an authority is counter toward my natural human instinct to keep my shame in hiding. From the time of Adam and Eve, humanity has worked hard to cover up our faults and shortcomings. We are natural deceivers, even to ourselves. It does not come natural for me to enjoy dwelling on all the ways my thoughts and actions have harmed other people (though I am fairly critical of myself when I do make a mistake). I much prefer to ignore my faults and focus on how awesome and great I am. It is easy to become proud and self-serving. As my own god, I do not have to address my ugliness. But in submitting to an Authority I must allow my dirty little secrets to be brought into the light.

Not long ago, I went to Confession to address my envy and pride. Confession is submitting to an authority. It is an act of letting another see the dark corners of my soul, and then submitting myself to their direction for reconciliation. From my vantage points, I saw my pride and envy as keeping me depressed and angry. Ironic that even my attempts at removing this sin from my life was still focused on me. Submitting to the authority and guidance of a priest serving as the Authority’s representative, I soon saw that my envy and pride kept me from being able to love. There is no room for love where envy and pride are present. My sin was not only hurting me, but what I failed to see was how my envious and proud thoughts were harming those around me. They were robbed of being loved – robbed of being treated with dignity and respect because I hated them for having such great things in their lives.

My envy led to a self-indulgent pity party. I focused on what I did not have; focused on the financial stress I experienced. I closed my eyes to the wealth and abundance I do have – a warm house, transportation, jobs, healthy children, the ability to afford health care, a loving spouse . . .. In my self-indulgence, I failed to see the poverty of those around me – to see the AIDS orphan, the hungry, the dying, the lonely, the cold . . .. The more energy I pour into dwelling on myself and/or covering up my ugliness, the less energy I have to pour into others. The world is robbed of compassion and love when I am my own god, my own measure of goodness, and my own director of my soul.

I believe that Christ called us to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. That if we submitted to his commands to love God with all of our being – soul, mind, and body, and if we truly loved our neighbor with a pure heart free of selfish motives to use or manipulate one another, then the Kingdom of heaven would be more visible here on earth. I believe there would be respect for personhood – that all people would matter and have dignity. If we can stop being our own gods and submit to a higher way, I believe poverty would be eradicated. Child abuse, murder, theft, rape . . . this would all go by the wayside. If only . . .. I believe this is the vision of Christ and His Kingdom.

May I follow completely; submit to the Authority over me, and obey the commands laid out for me.

Waiting in Line.

When I was in grad school studying to be a therapist, we had a saying that the answer to any Marriage and Family question was “both/and.” Unsure of the answer to an exam question? Fall to the back-up, answer “both/and” and you were guaranteed to pass. While there was jest among us, we were also wrestling with a complex truth. In the world of therapy, there is a little room for black and white thinking. People are not so clearly defined. There are not simple solutions to life’s problems. After all, if there was such a quick fix or simple solution then there would be no need for therapists. Instead, there is a myriad of resistances, narratives, and personal histories that keep us in the place of doing what we do not want to do and not doing what we desire to do. We enter into counsel (whether that is formal therapy or coffee with a trusted friend) to help uncover our blind spots; to know more about the roadblocks that stand in the way of our hopes, dreams, and true desires. We enter into the world of complexity where simple advice, while good and true, is not quite enough to free us from our chains and propel us to perfection.

This past week, I have been picturing myself waiting in line – a fun line, like the winding path leading up to “The Beast” at King’s Island. For those unfamiliar with “The Beast”, it is an amazing wooden roller-coaster (and my personal favorite ride.) On a side note, the first time I rode “The Beast” was with my late grandmother – I was twelve, she was seventy. It was her first roller coaster ride, and a memory that will forever be etched into my mind as simply wonderful. Now back to the point.

Waiting in line is an uncomfortable place to be, at least for me. I grow anxious in the anticipation. Fearful of what lies ahead of me. Impatient at the slow pace, inching my way forward tiny little baby steps at a time. There are moments of standing still and wondering if something is wrong, if the ride is broken, or if I will ever get my turn. And then that rush of excitement when the line suddenly moves forward several hundred feet. And of course that last wave of nausea when I am next in line. The space within the line is complex. My emotions roller coaster as much, if not more than, the ride itself.

And I start to think, the line is that “both/and” space of the spiritual journey. I have arrived, but I am still journeying toward. I believe, but Lord, help my unbelief. I Know with a capital “K”, but I do not know. I wonder if this waiting is worth it; or worse, in the moments when the pace has seemingly stopped, I worry if I am even in the right line. My anxiety suddenly clouds my ability to trust.

At times when I voice this to others I become even more frustrated with the quick answers and advice that come my way. Frustrated may be an understatement.  Outraged is probably more accurate.  My honesty seems to be met with harsh judgment.  But, faith is both simple and complex. It is my experience that belief and doubt coexist – that neither can be ignored. Doubt becomes the struggle which strengthens the faith. Faith becomes the hound dog that never stops hunting the doubter. Its dance is full of complexities.

This leads to the question, do we have room for the both/and of our faith life? Do we allow space to struggle and wrestle with the complexities in our own lives or that in our neighbor? Can we tolerate and welcome the myriad of emotions that come with waiting in the long line of earthly life?

It seems easier to resort to black and white thinking. Too easy to enter into a state of self-righteousness and separate the sheep from the goats prematurely. Too easy label those who are saved and those who are damned. Too easy to see ourselves at the finish rather than still in the line.

Touch.

I read a quote this morning by the ancient scholar, Jerome (342-420). “The kingdom of God is in your midst. Faith beholds Jesus among us. If we are unable to seize his hand, let us prostrate ourselves at his feet. If we are unable to reach his head, let us wash his feet with our tears. Our repentance is the perfume of the Savior.” Two Gospel stories come to my mind – the woman who reached out and touched the tassel of Christ’s garment seeking healing, and the woman who poured out the alabaster jar and washed Jesus’ feet with not only the precious oil, but her tears and hair as well.  I was drawn into this quote with the concept of touch.

My mind has been meditating on the idea of touch for a few weeks. To be more specific, I have been chewing on the idea of tangible experiences with God, my family, and the Community that surrounds me. Or even more specific, I am confronting my reluctance to place myself in a position of being able to be touched by God and others and my stubbornness that refuses to prostrate myself and thus make myself available to receive such abundant grace. Let me unpack this a bit.

At birth, I was identified as the baby that “did not want to be held.” There are reasonable explanations as to why I did not want to be held. My birth was complicated by the fact that I spent two days stuck in the birth canal before I was finally rescued by Cesarean section. I spent twenty hours in the NICU – twenty hours before I came into physical contact with either of my parents. Thirty-four years ago, this was common practice. Now we know that those are critical hours for forming a bond. Regardless of the circumstances, the legacy followed me. I came to believe the words, “I did not want to be held.”

At the age of five, I stumbled into toxic touch, and discovered despite its dangers, I did indeed long to be held. I wanted it. It felt good; at times it felt wonderful. But it was toxic. The pleasure was tainted with shame and at times pain. In kindergarten, I discovered a really big word . . . ambivalence. I loved to be held and I hated that I wanted it. I was being pulled into two different directions. The tension was torture – I pictured myself on the medieval rack. I was stuck in the middle of two opposing forces.  I was paralyzed.

As I aged into the great maturity of adolescence, my belief system shifted from “I did not want to be held” into “I do not need to be held.” And such birthed a new era of fierce independence. I engaged the world, and God armed with a sword of sarcasm and hiding behind a steel wall of self-protection.

In sixth grade, I had a Sunday school teacher who concluded class with “holy hugs.” It was an all-girl class, and at the end we were to join together for a large group hug. I maintained the facade of hating these hugs. I resisted; often standing with my arms crossed and a scowl upon my face. A few were brave enough to step into my fortress of solitude and give a one-way hug. While I never hugged them back, I was secretly grateful they were brave enough to find me.

The truth is I did want to be held. I did want to be touched. I did not want to admit it. Honestly, this is much to do with shame. Shame that I found pleasure in the throes of toxic touch. Shame that a part of me sought it out because drinking poison was better than dying of thirst. And then there is this little voice inside of me that whispers, “You do not deserve to ask for pure touch.” And another voice that whispers a little louder, “Don’t ask for it; you will only be disappointed.” And disappointment on this level is devastating.

I can put my therapist hat on and see right through the lies I have come to believe. And I know they are lies. What I cannot seem to do is get myself untangled from the sticky web they have strung around me.

And this is precisely the truth I need to hear. I cannot get myself untangled. My own hands are tied. My feet are tied. I need help to break free. I cannot do it alone, and I have exhausted myself trying.

As a therapist, I share with clients the importance of having enough positive experiences to counterbalance the negative. But, I stress this takes risk. This means putting ourselves out there in order to be available to receive such experiences. It is risking that sometimes we may judge a person wrong and be reinjured or further disappointed. But regardless, we must take the risk in order to get on the path of healing. I found this to be true in my own path of discovering love, intimacy, and empathic connection with others.

I find this to be true again as I wrestle with touch. I risked asking for a hug from a friend in a time of need and I got it. And it felt safe, comforting, and wonderful. I risked asking another friend to carry an emotional burden with me, and though we were 600 miles apart, I felt her holding me ever so tenderly. And so I say to myself, if this is what comes from friends – from the imperfect Community of humanity, how much more must there be from Christ himself?

Believing that a God I cannot see is eager to embrace me, all of me, including the yucky parts is difficult.  It is especially difficult to believe I will have a real and tangible experience.  Blind faith is a risk-taking adventure.

Today, I am grateful for the physical Community around me here on earth offering the gift of positive experiences. I am indebted to those who are truly being the Body of Christ – the incarnational presence of love, tenderness, and mercy. Their hospitality is indeed healing. They are counterbalancing the negative. And because of them, my faith is slowly, but surely becoming a little more tangible.

Serious Laughter.

I am a serious woman. I take my work seriously, my life seriously, and my religion seriously. Another way to look at it, I do not laugh nearly enough.

I have moments of impish desire. I work with a math teacher, and for some reason I cannot walk past her classroom without shooting her a silly face. There are a few other playful souls that have the ability to pull out my silliness, but unfortunately these moments seem few and far between. I thought a good New Year’s resolution would be to laugh more each day. I did not make this “official”, but wouldn’t you know it is creeping its way into my life despite having a formal invitation.

Let me take you back to Wednesday night. I am tucking my three preschoolers into bed. We have a routine. I go to each individual bed and sing two lullabies, say a series of “I am thankful for . . . “, and conclude with praying the “Our Father.” It is a sacred time of ritual and routine, of deep felt affection and connection as mother-child and also with God. It is a serious time.

I failed to remember preschoolers are not always serious. Instead of praying, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .,” prayers went more like, “Our Father, who are in Pinkie . . .,” followed by an eruption of laughter (Pinkie is my oldest’s stuffed pig). Our children all sleep in the same room, so not only was the laughter contagious, but so was the improvisation. Before I left the room, Pinkie was well blessed by three small mouths and my children continued laughing from their toes for another forty-five minutes. Even I left the room unable to hold back a quiet giggle and a beaming smile as I shook my head.

Laughter eventually won me over, but not without a struggle. Prayers are to be reverent, devout, and serious. I kept thinking this is the prayer that Christ himself taught us to pray and my children are making a mockery of it. I tried to say, “No, we say the words we are supposed to say because we love and honor God.” But I too caught the case of the giggles and was unable to complete a sentence with sincerity and parental authority. I left their room in tension – I was smiling and I was struggling.

What my children offered up that night was pure joy. It was innocent laughter. I began to wonder what the more “perfect” prayer is. Is it the right words or the spirit behind it? I am fairly certain that Wednesday night, I was the student and my kids were my teacher. Their message: don’t hold back. Give it your all. Bring it from your toes and let it out – whatever the “it” happens to be.

There is a time to get the words right; to be serious in my devotion. God does deserve our devotion, our awe, and our reverence. And this is serious business. I am picturing what would happen if the same “Our Father, who art in Pinkie . . .,” erupted in church. The person in me who cares what others think of me, who fears being judged as a “bad mom”, and who is anxious about getting things absolutely perfect is freaking out by that mental image. And as I confess what is behind my desire to get it right, I realize just how much I am missing. I become aware that my motives for reverence are as much about appeasing my anxieties as it is to honor God.

Christ said, “Let the little children come unto me.” And being a mom of little children, that would include laughter, temper tantrums, and blueberry stained fingers. And he said again, “You must become like one of these.”

Confessions of a Reluctant Observer.

I started re-reading one of my favorite books today, Return of the Prodigal Son, by Henri Nouwen. For those unfamiliar with the book, it was largely inspired by Rembrandt’s painting by the same title. I find the painting, Nouwen, and the Gospel parable all to be incredibly inspiring and relevant to where I am today. In the book, Nouwen depicts his own spiritual journey as seeing himself as the three main characters of the painting, the lost but returning son, the jealous and faithful son, and the embracing father. But Nouwen begins his introduction by noticing the four observers in the background and shares his temptation to remain an observer of the father’s welcoming embrace rather than allowing himself to be held and comforted.

This is where I found myself this morning. Standing in the backdrop. I watch others find comfort in the surrender of the Father’s embrace. All the while I am burning with jealousy at the gift they are receiving, but finding difficulty in allowing myself to be a recipient of such gracious comfort.

It is safe to be an observer. I can see it. I can smell it. I can experience it vicariously. It looks absolutely amazing. I know that is in the midst of the action where I long to be; where I need to be. To have my spirit, my needs, my sorrow, my hope, and my joy held in the arms of a loving Father is my deepest desire. But to actually go there myself . . . that scares the pants off of me. It is easy to write about it. It is quite another to do it.

I see my prodigal ways, at times with a harsh, critical eye. I am neither proud nor ashamed of them. They are what they are. I cannot undo my choices or any subsequent damage afflicted. I can seek forgiveness. I can work towards reconciliation and healing. But I fear I too often keep this process cerebral. “Yes, God, I seek your forgiveness.” “Yes, neighbor whom I harmed, I humbly admit I wronged you.” I remain on the outskirts nodding my head in agreement with the son’s whole-self approach towards the father, but rarely do I seek the close proximity of the actual embrace. Rarely do I throw my emotions, my soul, and my whole being at the feet of a merciful God. God gets my thoughts and my writing, but I hold back my relentless expression. I seem to believe that such an embrace is not for me.

I suspect much of this is a pride issue. Part a reverse pride that I am the exceptional one not worthy of such an embrace. And part an egotistic pride -- I am often too proud to admit that sometimes I just need to be held in the midst of my sorrow, my confusion, and my fear.

I suspect another part of me is still struggling to realize that this embrace is really for me. Struggling to trust that as I lay myself bare, open, and vulnerable I truly will be welcomed. That I do not have to earn it or even deserve it, but it is truly mine simply to have because I am who I am, a beloved daughter.

And this is where I begin 2012. My prayer has been to grow deeper in my understanding of grace and mercy. I am shifting that prayer. It is now to grow deeper in my experience of grace and mercy.