Life

Today we complete our election process and hopefully will elect Barack Obama as our next President.  I do not expect him to be a perfect President–something even he admits will not be possible–but I do trust his keen mind, compassionate heart, knowledge and revere of the Constitution, and his willingness to learn from others.  All of these are the beginnings of him being what Colin Powell rightly named as a “transformational figure.”  In considering Mr. Obama’s credentials, gifts and temperament to bring about lasting change here in the US, I could not help but think of another transformational figure–Martin Luther King Jr.  But do we ever really transform?

In pastoral care, we often speak of “then is now,” meaning that elements of the past are often brought right into the present moment.  Many times this relates to the pain of our lives, especially unresolved unhealed pain.  It can also speak to simple vulnerability and all of the feelings that impregnate any moment of emotional exposure.  I once spoke with a woman in the Rehabilitation Unit at the hospital where I served following her amazing recovery from a brain aneurysm.  She at first laughed the visit from me off, but then took my hands and told me her secret.  She said, “Chaplain, it is the funniest thing…I just cannot figure it out.  Ever since I woke up–I should have died you know–I cannot stop thinking about something that happened when I was just a little girl.  This was over sixty years ago!  Yet here I am thinking about it all day.  It is a secret–I never tell anyone about it–but see, I was molested when I was a little girl.  Why do you think I cannot stop remembering it now?”  I told her that when she was molested it was the most vulnerable she had ever been, and now she was that vulnerable again–even as she survived both.  Then is now.

I also believe “then is now” relates to the key lessons of history–ones we often do not want to learn.  Our bodies, our minds, our hearts all scream at us to pay attention to our personal histories and how our fears and pains get brought up into our present lives.  I see this in myself, and I see it in others.  I once dated a guy who said that his past was “over and done with” despite having an elaborate plan to recreate his own parents’ pilgrimage away from their abusive home and venture to another country for a fresh start to get away from his own abusive past.  Student of history he was not–despite the degree in history!  Jung would call this living to the shadows of one’s psyche.  And the tragedy of personally living to the shadows–whether they be of greed, power, control, fear, etc–is that they create individual bridges into corporate shadows like institutionalized greed, power, control and fear.  The Nazis capitalized upon this phenomena.  Jim Crow Laws capitalized upon this phenomena.  The Republican Party capitalized upon this phenomena in this election again and again with its incessant hate-filled advertisements, punditry, and candidates.

I needed some relief and hope, so I began my morning reading excerpts from Dr. King’s “Letter From A Birmingham Jail” and his “I Have A Dream” speech. I thought today of all days needed the voice of the past to again ring our Liberty Bell and toll for change.  Again and again then is now.

From “I Have A Dream:”

-This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism.  Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy; now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of  racial justice; now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood; now is the time to make justice a reality for all God’s children.

-Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

-We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote.

-I have a dream my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

-With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.  With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.

My prayer for today is that Dr. King’s dream will be realized in the election of Mr. Obama.  This realization may not be its full expression–this I know–but I do believe we can come that much closer with his Presidency.  How so?  I went to see Mr. Obama in Miami two weeks ago, where a young mother and her three daughters stood in front of me.  She carefully lifted each girl to see both Michelle and Barack Obama.  She told her daughters, “See…there is Mrs. Obama.  She is going to be First Lady–a black First Lady–just like you.”  The dream is alive and well in the souls and imaginations of those little girls.  I find it alive in me as well, especially today.

May our soul force be strong enough to usher in a new age of equality and justice, which will then bring their sister peace.  Amen.

I hear so many of my peers say, “I hate politics.”  Some refuse to vote.  Some practice apathy on all days but Election Day.  Some try to find the middle–where they pay attention but feel utterly dismayed.  I understand the feeling of hating politics.  I think it is akin to saying, “I hate games.”  We detest games when it comes to that which is central to our well-being–in our intimate relationships, in our job environment, in the course of history.  The problem is that we may hate games when we feel our own survival–physical or emotional–threatened, but we also keep playing them.  Politics is a by-product of US.  Politics is not some outside alien force thrust upon us.  Politics is not gravity.  Politics reflect the lives and interactions and passions of  humans.  Politics reflect our deepest fears, our most grotesque narcissistic tendencies, our hatred of other, and in some glorious moments our most beloved dreams and ideals.

In honor of this exhausting and paramount political season, I want to offer two things I just have not been able to survive this time without: Franklin Roosevelt and Tina Fey.

Tina Fey has helped to alleviate my utter panic and terror over the Republican VP Candidate through the miracle of laughter and satire.  Thank you!  Thank you! Thank you!  I think two great ideas for SNL might be: 1) To have “Sarah” reading EVERY magazine and newspaper as she says she does.  Can’t you see it?  Playboy.  Highlights.  Cosmo.  I think she should take a Cosmo Quiz called, “Are you the kind of Cosmo Girl who could be President?”  Priceless!  and 2) A little skit/game called “Are you smarter than Sarah Palin?”  I am sure Jeff Foxworthy would do the guest spot as the host.  Truly laughter is my only saving grace here–for the willingness of the American people to be critical thinkers does not bode well for this election.  My friend sent me a funny email with some comparisons between the candidates.  Here is my favourite, which seems to capture my own disbelieving spirit about this whole matter:

If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers 150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a constitutional Law professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the state Senate’s Health and Human Services committee, spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works and Veteran’s Affairs committees, you don’t have any real leadership experience. If your total resume is: local weather person, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then you’re qualified to become the country’s second highest ranking executive.

And then there is FDR.  At the 1936 Democratic National Convention, his acceptance speech was called “A Rendezvous With Destiny.”  In it, he points out the difference between the “royalists” and the “average
citizen.”  Our economic peril of the moment relates directly to the same kind of royalists he refers to–some 75  years later.  I believe history as Senator Biden pointed out last night is in fact “prologue.”  We came to this moment because of choices we all made or allowed to be made on our collective behalf.  On this blog, I go after the boys I have dated who refuse to become men by their wanton disregard of their own crippling history and its effect on them and those they touch.  In the same way, we as a people must take  responsibility for empowering those who seek to profit at our collective demise.  Here are President Roosevelt’s words:

“Senator Robinson, Members of the Democratic Convention, My Friends: Here, and in every community throughout the land, we are met at a time of great moment to the future of the nation. It is an occasion to be dedicated to the simple and sincere expression of an attitude toward problems, the determination of which will profoundly affect America.

I come not only as a leader of a party, not only as a candidate for high office, but as one upon whom many critical hours have imposed and still impose a grave responsibility.

For the sympathy, help and confidence with which Americans have sustained me in my task I am grateful. For their loyalty I salute the members of our great party, in and out of political life in every part of the Union. I salute those of other parties, especially those in the Congress of the United States who on so many occasions have put partisanship aside. I thank the governors of the several states, their legislatures, their state and local officials who participated unselfishly and regardless of party in our efforts to achieve recovery and destroy abuses. Above all I thank the millions of Americans who have borne disaster bravely and have
dared to smile through the storm.

America will not forget these recent years, will not forget that the rescue was not a mere party task. It was the concern of all of us. In our strength we rose together, rallied our energies together, applied the old rules of common sense, and together survived.

In those days we feared fear. That was why we fought fear. And today, my friends, we have won against the most dangerous of our foes. We have conquered fear.

But I cannot, with candor, tell you that all is well with the world. Clouds of suspicion, tides of ill-will and intolerance gather darkly in many places. In our own land we enjoy indeed a fullness of life greater than that of most nations. But the rush of modern civilization itself has raised for us new difficulties, new problems which must be solved if we are to preserve to the United States the political and economic freedom for
which Washington and Jefferson planned and fought.

Philadelphia is a good city in which to write American history. This is fitting ground on which to reaffirm the faith of our fathers; to pledge ourselves to restore to the people a wider freedom; to give to 1936 as the founders gave to 1776 - an American way of life.

That very word freedom, in itself and of necessity, suggests freedom from some restraining power. In 1776 we sought freedom from the tyranny of a political autocracy - from the eighteenth-century royalists who held special privileges from the crown. It was to perpetuate their privilege that they governed without the consent of the governed; that they denied the right of free assembly and free speech; that they restricted the
worship of God; that they put the average man’s property and the average man’s life in pawn to the mercenaries of dynastic power; that they regimented the people.

And so it was to win freedom from the tyranny of political autocracy that the American Revolution was fought. That victory gave the business of governing into the hands of the average man, who won the right with his neighbors to make and order his own destiny through his own government. Political tyranny was wiped out at Philadelphia on July 4, 1776.

Since that struggle, however, man’s inventive genius released new forces in our land which reordered the lives of our people. The age of machinery, of railroads; of steam and electricity; the telegraph and the radio; mass production, mass distribution - all of these combined to bring forward a new civilization and with it a new problem for those who sought to remain
free.

For out of this modern civilization economic royalists carved new dynasties. New kingdoms were built upon concentration of control over material things. Through new uses of corporations, banks and securities, new machinery of industry and agriculture, of labor and capital - all undreamed of by the Fathers - the whole structure of modern life was impressed into this royal service.

There was no place among this royalty for our many thousands of small-businessmen and merchants who sought to make a worthy use of the American system of initiative and profit. They were no more free than the worker or the farmer. Even honest and progressive-minded men of wealth, aware of their obligation to their generation, could never know just where they fitted into this dynastic scheme of things.

It was natural and perhaps human that the privileged princes of these new economic dynasties, thirsting for power, reached out for control over government itself. They created a new despotism and wrapped it in the robes of legal sanction. In its service new mercenaries sought to regiment the people, their labor, and their property. And as a result the average man once more confronts the problem that faced the Minute Man.

The hours men and women worked, the wages they received, the conditions of their labor - these had passed beyond the control of the people, and were imposed by this new industrial dictatorship. The savings of the average family, the capital of the small-businessmen, the investments set aside for old age - other people’s money - these were tools which the new economic royalty used to dig itself in.

Those who tilled the soil no longer reaped the rewards which were their right. The small measure of their gains was decreed by men in distant cities.

Throughout the nation, opportunity was limited by monopoly. Individual initiative was crushed in the cogs of a great machine. The field open for free business was more and more restricted. Private enterprise, indeed,
became too private. It became privileged enterprise, not free enterprise.

An old English judge once said: “Necessitous men are not free men.” Liberty requires opportunity to make a living - a living decent according to the standard of the time, a living which gives man not only enough to live by, but something to live for.

For too many of us the political equality we once had won was meaningless in the face of economic inequality. A small group had concentrated into their own hands an almost complete control over other people’s property, other people’s money, other people’s labor - other people’s lives. For too many of us life was no longer free; liberty no longer real; men could no longer follow the pursuit of happiness.

Against economic tyranny such as this, the American citizen could appeal only to the organized power of government. The collapse of 1929 showed up the despotism for what it was. The election of 1932 was the people’s mandate to end it. Under that mandate it is being ended.

The royalists of the economic order have conceded that political freedom was the business of the government, but they have maintained that economic slavery was nobody’s business. They granted that the government could protect the citizen in his right to vote, but they denied that the government could
do anything to protect the citizen in his right to work and his right to live.

Today we stand committed to the proposition that freedom is no half-and-half affair. If the average citizen is guaranteed equal opportunity in the polling place, he must have equal opportunity in the market place.

These economic royalists complain that we seek to overthrow the institutions of America. What they really complain of is that we seek to take away their power. Our allegiance to American institutions requires the
overthrow of this kind of power. In vain they seek to hide behind the flag and the Constitution. In their blindness they forget what the flag and the Constitution stand for. Now, as always, they stand for
democracy, not tyranny; for freedom, not subjection; and against a dictatorship by mob rule and the over-privileged alike.

The brave and clear platform adopted by this convention, to which I heartily subscribe, sets forth that government in a modern civilization has certain inescapable obligations to its citizens, among which are protection of the family and the home, the establishment of a democracy of opportunity, and aid to those overtaken by disaster.

But the resolute enemy within our gates is ever ready to beat down our words unless in greater courage we will fight for them.

For more than three years we have fought for them. This convention, in every word and deed, has pledged that the fight will go on.

The defeats and victories of these years have given to us as a people a new understanding of our government and of ourselves. Never since the early days of the New England town meeting have the affairs of government been so widely discussed and so clearly appreciated. It has been brought home to us that the only effective guide for the safety of this most worldly of worlds, the greatest guide of all, is moral principle.

We do not see faith, hope, and charity as unattainable ideals, but we use them as stout supports of a nation fighting the fight for freedom in a modern civilization.

Faith - in the soundness of democracy in the midst of dictatorships.

Hope - renewed because we know so well the progress we have made.

Charity - in the true spirit of that grand old word. For charity literally translated from the original means love, the love that understands, that does not merely share the wealth of the giver, but in true sympathy and wisdom helps men to help themselves.

We seek not merely to make government a mechanical implement, but to give it the vibrant personal character that is the very embodiment of human charity.

We are poor indeed if this nation cannot afford to lift from every recess of American life the dread fear of the unemployed that they are not needed in the world. We cannot afford to accumulate a deficit in the books of human fortitude.

In the place of the palace of privilege we seek to build a temple out of faith and hope and charity.

It is a sobering thing, my friends, to be a servant of this great cause. We try in our daily work to remember that the cause belongs not to us, but to the people. The standard is not in the hands of you and me alone. It is carried by America. We seek daily to profit from experience, to learn to do better as our task proceeds.

Governments can err, presidents do make mistakes, but the immortal Dante tells us that Divine justice weighs the sins of the cold-blooded and the sins of the warm-hearted on different scales.

Better the occasional faults of a government that lives in a spirit of charity than the consistent omissions of a government frozen in the ice of its own indifference.

There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected. This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with destiny.

In this world of our in other lands, there are some people, who, in times past, have lived and fought for freedom, and seem to have grown too weary to carry on the fight. They have sold their heritage of freedom for the illusion of a living. They have yielded their democracy.

I believe in my heart that only our success can stir their ancient hope. They begin to know that here in America we are waging a great and successful war. It is not alone a war against want and destitution and economic demoralization. It is more than that; it is a war for the survival of democracy. We are fighting to save a great and precious form of government for ourselves and for the world.

I accept the commission you have tendered me. I join with you. I am enlisted for the duration of the war.”

Growing up I held onto the secret regarding being molested by my step-father because I believed John would kill my Mother if I did not.  He dragged me by my hair and showed me the little vials at the top of the medicine cabinet.  “See these?  I can kill her anytime.  I can kill her and no one will know I did it.  I am a doctor.  I know how.”  I believed him, and although I toyed with telling and letting her die, in the end I could not.  So, I kept my mouth shut and the secret buried until I was seventeen.  I held on in the face of everything, and I swore that when I grew up nothing like this would ever happen again.  If someone tried to rape me, they would have to kill me first.

I did not know that some promises–even the deepest ones of all–cannot always be kept.

When I first began to talk about being molested, I would say, “He touched me.”  I never used the “R” word–rape-to describe it.  In fact, I would secretly breathe a sigh of relief that he never had vaginal sex with me.  I would whisper to myself, “At least I was not raped.”  As a Junior at Wheaton College, I went to a meeting of “Christians For Biblical Equality,” where a woman spoke about sexual assault.  She described sexual assault–the real term for rape–as being whenever someone forcibly penetrates another, whether this be by penis, hand, bottle, stick, etc.  As she spoke, a little animated movie began in my head of this dark blackness–all in deep tones of gray–with a motion of a hand in-and-out, in-and-out.  It played over and over to the point I could no longer hear a word she said.  I could make that movie today or draw it for you–it remains so vivid.  This image thrust me into counseling within the week, which then led to a three week stint in a women’s mental health unit the following February.  Once the movie began to play, the truth did as well.  I became flooded with memories of being molested daily at home for five years.  All the images I pushed away in my fierce determination to survive rose up and spilled out like hot lava.  A purge began.  I had been sexually assaulted.  However, the “R” word hung in the air like a suspended universe waiting to fall or explode.  I just could not let the word fall upon me.

I still try to only say that I had been sexually assaulted or molested.  I tell people by saying, “This is not a secret…I was molested as a child.”  I just avoid the “R” word in its many manifestations.  I avoid talking about it…personally…seeing movies where there is a rape…listening to stories about rape…the news about someone being raped.  I try to keep the “R” word out of my life all together.  At one point I did try to let it sit on my tongue.  I leaned up against the word while going to a Rape Survivor Group circa 1992.  I just never could own it as a word to describe me or what happened to me.  I left the group–the women in it were too depressing–and for the most part try to keep anyone who has been molested or raped out of my inner circle.  I never want it to be the point of connection, for rape is not life-giving or hopeful.

I tend not to think too much about the particulars of what happened any longer–the movie does not play.  I dealt with the actual events a long time ago.  In fact, when I was in the women’s mental health unit, I can remember thinking about how the easy task was to deal with the rock thrown in the water–the molestation itself.  The hard work was going to be all those ripple currents of not what John did, but instead what I do to myself as a result.  I feel like I have spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing those down one-by-one and healing them as best as I can.  I keep at it because I want to be strong and healthy.  I keep at it because I do not want being molested to be the centerpiece of my life–I want redemption to be front and center.  Ultimately, I do not want that rock to fuck up not only the past but the future as well.  I do have deep moments of fragility, and in those moments I fear the rock is all there is.  I sink low some moments, terrified that “John won” and got all the good of me and the good possibilities of my life.  Just some…not all, and definitely not most.  But some.

Part of why I avoid any stories about rape is I do not want my own emotional dial to be affected.  I possess my push-buttons, just like anyone else, so keeping rape off of my radar screen keeps me focused on the living in the present, even as I am healing from the past.  I try, but I do not always succeed at this avoidance.  Most times I weather the conversation or topic well, but every now and again my wires become tripped and alarm rings though me.  When this happens, I know something still needs to be dealt with from the deep well of pain and loss in my life.  Case in point: While hitting the elliptical at my trainer’s, I was going through the channels.  I caught a clip of women talking on Oprah about rape in marriage.  I tend not to watch Oprah any longer, but I found myself mesmerized by this one story.  The “expert” on the show talked about how “no” means no–even in a relationship.  I was caught off guard, even as I know that to be true.  I preach it to my nieces.  I will emphatically say it to anyone listening.  However there was one night a couple of years ago where I pretended to forget this truth all together because the actual truth was excruciatingly painful.

The story is simple: I was making out naked with a boy, whom at the time was a new love interest.  This was probably our third or fourth date, and most definitely the first time we had been naked.  No sex…just kissing and cuddling after a great massage.  We talked about not having sex–I was clear I was not ready to sleep with him.  He agreed.  So there we are, in the first throes of attraction, lust and friendship, and all of a sudden I feel this sharp pain.  I thought I hurt my back.*  We shifted positions a bit.  Then it happened again and he said, “Oops.  I’m sorry.”  I repeated that I was not ready to have sex.  He repeated to enter me without my permission.  (I can still see the smirk on his face.)

I did not leave.  I did not argue.  I did not protest.  I just curled up in a ball crying softly while he drifted off to sleep.  About two hours later I woke him up.  I told him, “I did not want to have sex yet, but that cannot be our first time.  Please make love to me.  Make whatever that was go away.”  He did; it did not.  I tried to bury it to the point of never telling a soul.  And then I found myself on that damned elliptical with all my buttons pushed stopping to try and catch my breath that was knocked out of me with those simple true words: “no” means no.

I look back now and see how I needed to get up and get out of there.  I see now that I stayed with him for a long time after that–five months actually–needing him to love me because if he loved me then what happened would not have happened.  I stayed even when I knew he we did not share the same value regarding integrity.  I stayed despite the fact we were so different.  I stayed because I thought he was the best guy I ever dated.  I stayed because of all the other beautiful things I saw him to be, which is not dissimilar from John who was an amazing doctor and a pedophile.  I stayed even as I saw the deep rage within him and his unwillingness to deal with his own demons.  I kept trying to reinvent that moment right up until the moment he left me and left me devastated.   Lastly, I see how I held onto my rage at him leaving me because there was this part of me that could not understand how he could leave me after I stayed even after what he did.  He owed me.  He owed me his love and devotion–yet of what value were either?

(The truth can be so disjointed and tragic when we begin to finally tell it to ourselves.)

I know what happened with him happened because of those places in me still broken from John.  Obi Wan (therapist of all therapists) has really worked with me to understand how we are innately drawn to those who will hurt us in the most familiar of ways.  So terribly sad to think I somehow chose this little power play because deep inside it was known and safe.  (Safe in the way the devil you know is better than the possible devil you don’t.)  I realize now my part in all of this–especially in why I stayed long past the point I needed to leave.  But none of my own responsibility takes away from what happened that night, and the promise I made myself that was broken.  None of it takes away from what he did, which was to violate me and my stated desires.  None of it takes away from the fact that he penetrated me knowing I did not want him to and even after I asked him to stop.

I still cannot say the “R” word though.  I just cannot, although I know it fits.

*I recently read in Dan Savage’s column that the opposite of an orgasm is actually a back spasm, which makes sense to me given these events.

Note: This post took over six weeks to complete.  Secrets can be very powerful, which is why I finally forced myself to finish writing it–to eradicate the power this one has held over me for more than two years.  Frank Warren, who does Post Secret, stamps all of the books he signs with “Free your secrets and become who you are.”  I feel this is one of the messiest posts I have written to date, but also the most freeing.  Sometimes you just have to speak the messy truth in order to become who you really are–a whole and healed person.  If you have been molested, raped or date raped, please seek help.  None of us are innately prepared to heal from these things alone.  Cosmo (of all places, I know!) has compiled a short list of places to get help here.

I often feel there is a ghost in the room when dating: the Ghost of Relationships Past. You know, the girl who broke his heart? He missed all the signs–the selfishness, the petty lies, the deep resentments, and prejudices–and gave her all of himself regardless. Now that the signs finally catapulted him to a place of recognition of who she really was, what she really was not capable of, and that indeed their relationship was doomed, he is adrift from his dreams for his life because they all included her. Her–not you. She looms over every exchange, every hope, every little moment where your heart cries out “God…he is so amazing.” He is amazing, and he is amazingly broken. He is broken beyond your repair. He must fix (i.e. heal) himself, which you want for him. You want it for him and in that small corner where you light a candle for him (birthday cake sized so as to not get your hopes up too much) you want it for your life as well; you want him for your life as well. In the meantime, strength requires that you do not get into a love triangle with the Ghost of Relationships Past. Strength to resist this love triangle is always easier said than done.

Being a young woman in my thirties, I know a thing or two about dating men who have tried to stuff their Ghosts in a closet. The funny thing about these Ghosts, they always escape the closet eventually. Slippery buggers! Their hazy smoke permeates moments. With one ex-boyfriend I was shocked to learn that he almost never reached an orgasm through sex. Without even realizing the severity of what I was asking I inquired, “What did your ex-girlfriends make of that?” He replied, “None of them cared. They were just happy to have me focus on them.” In one swift moment all his Ghosts began to swirl around us. What they did. What they did not do. The pattern of being with women for whom his needs were never a priority emerged, and I–the naive one–foolishly believed that by loving him and caring for his needs I would show him what real love was. I did. I did what they would not–could not–do.

He left me to go back to one of those Ghosts.

Is it not amazing how we feel so much more comfortable in the rut of horrible relationship patterns than we do in the uncharted territory of intimacy? Logic would dictate that if you put your hand on the hot stove and are burned, you learn to never put your hand on a stove that is hot again. I am learning–by looking at my own patterns in love–that logic rarely comes into play when we make decisions about whom we will be in a relationship with. This may seem an oxymoron–to make a “decision” about love when it certainly feels like it is not a choice but an emotional by-product of chemistry. However, we do choose. We have patterns where we are comfortable, and without even realizing it we go right for the person whom will fit our pattern. Of course the opposite is true too, we reject those who do not fit this pattern.

Our pattern seeking love-making leads the boy with the controlling alcoholic mother to the girl who will control him and be out of control themselves. Our pattern seeking love-making will lead the girl to the boy who will present one face to the world and have a private rage that leads him to sexual betrayal, just like her father from before–at least that was once my story. These patterns are just that–patterns–not destiny. They are emotional habits that have to be broken in order to be free from them. These habits relate not just to the type of people we feel drawn to, but also those “old tapes” we play in our head. The tapes that say we are not good at relationships. The tapes that say we are unworthy of love. The tapes that say all men are hateful and irresponsible jerks. The tapes that say women are needy bitches. So how do we make new ones? I believe new habits cannot be formed until we face ourselves–not in judgment but in the twin lights of insight (psychological understanding) and epiphany (spirit/love understanding). In addressing the places we attempted to get our root needs met through unhealthy patterns and broken emotional neediness, we open ourselves to allowing unconditional love to flow in us, towards our very own hearts, and then towards others. The old ways set aside through hard intentionality. New mantras of love for our minds to use even when our heart’s old longings for brokenness attempt to get us in trouble.

Building new patterns may seem utterly impossible when we first start out. Not only to us, but also to those who we call friend. A dear friend of mine is just beginning this journey himself to re-write his heart patterns, and in so doing excise the Ghost of Relationships Past. His circle keeps encouraging him to sleep around a bit as the way to expedite this exorcism. I find this to be the relationship equivalent of when a couple looses a baby through miscarriage or still birth and are told by “loving” folks that they are young and can have another baby–as if another baby will “fix” the terrible grief of losing their child. In general, moving on seems to be our modus operandi, but we never really do move on if our patterns are any indication. What my friend’s inner circle fails to realize is most assuredly he will end up dating someone exactly like his ex. He will become involved with someone who will not only leave him devastated but also further sunken into his own fears that he is indeed unlovable. This is the main problem with these terrible patterns informed by the Ghost of Relationships Past–they reaffirm our worst fears about ourselves, our lives, and the impossibility of our dreams coming true.

I have this image of the Ghost of Relationships Past as an elephant chasing you down in the forest. The first instinct–the pattern–is to run away from the elephant. Your gut tells you, “If you do not run, it will kill you.” Really? I cannot believe running is the only choice we have. I believe in healing. Sometimes the only healing available requires facing down the elephant, killing it, and then eating it. The elephant–the pain of the past–must become part of who you are. Take in the lessons, and let the shit go. Otherwise, we will just be destined to be chased by those elephants the rest of our lives–they travel in herds after all. For me, that is one pattern I cannot afford to live within.

I know a great deal about these patterns because I am daily working daily to re-write my own. (Eating my own elephant, so to speak.) Out of compassion, I want to be close to those who are hurting. I also know that a smart lovely boy in the throws of pain will never be healthy enough to deserve my love or truly love me back, even as my heart strings might want to pull me in that direction. I learned the hard way–the very hard way–that you cannot make up for the pain inflicted by the Ghost of Relationship Past. He has to heal himself before you can be with him. Just as you must heal your own heart before he can be with you. Healing allows for true intimacy, the goal of all relationships. And healing–sweet beautiful healing–has one of the most amazing gifts to give us when we embrace it. Healing gives us the gift of freeing those Ghosts once and for all so we are free to love fully present in this moment.

Bon appetit!

Have you ever met someone and just had magic from the very beginning? I do not mean sexual chemistry, although sometimes it does go hand-in-hand. I am referring to meeting a Soul Mate. Someone who makes your soul sing and your spirit dance. It may only be for a short time that your lives are intertwined. I am thinking here of a patient of mine–another Jacqueline–whom I loved so very deeply from the moment we met. I do not believe there is just one Soul Mate for your life–I believe there are many. The hope is to meet all of them.

I met one of mine recently. My new friend inspired an almost instant love in me–”agape love”, as my friend so aptly put it. My friend literally is standing in the wood with the two roads branching off in vastly different directions. I suspect, if they go down the road that seems the most negotiable, they will eventually loop back to where they are now. My own heart hurts to think of all the dreams shattered or suspended in their life at present. My friend is earnestly trying to find the way while grieving “the way it is not any longer.” Given all their gifts of being so very bright, interesting, full of creativity and kindness, and a genuinely soul-full person, there is no doubt in my mind this person will develop their own meaningful road map and find their way home again–find their way to love again.

We spoke at length about the need to be 100% within yourself and not looking for your missing piece or feeling that you lacked anything. Obi Wan (the greatest Hippie therapist of all time) calls this “accepting yourself and accepting that you deserve love.” Acceptance does not require perfection in yourself or even the expectation of perfection in another. He likened it to two hands grasping, instead of trying to make a hand with bits and pieces of two broken ones. I love that image. I could not help by wonder: What if you were left with just two thumbs and a pinkie? Not much good could come of this amalgamation. No, you need two whole hands to get the work of life accomplished. Sure, there maybe a scar here or there. Maybe your hand hurts from time-to-time, for the rains will surely come. But you are a hand, a whole hand, at the ready for its mate.

Shel Silverstein put it this way:

I have a prayer for my dear friend now as they seek to find wholeness and life anew. A prayer to help as the painful process of smoothing those edges begins. My prayer is:

Know that although my support is silent it sings endlessly in the quiet to you. I will sing out to the heavens and to the earth and to the ocean between us gentle prayers of hope for your life. I will mix into the currents a balm to tend to your wounds. I send on the wind a whisper, “You will make it. You will heal. You will be whole.” I will pray that the rain washes away your rage–leeching it away one drop at a time from your being. I will send people from near and far to your door seeking out your compassionate company. May they teach you just as you teach them. I will tell the birds here to pass it to their friends a message that your heart is broken so their insistent song will find you and stitch it back together not unlike Cinderella’s dress. May you be clothed with righteousness and fidelity towards all you hold dear and believe. May you know yourself in a way you never did before and find grace and opportunity in this new understanding. May you find peace.

Amen.

In The Screaming 7 Year-Old I wrote:

I cannot help but wonder: Why do I feel so creative, capable and strong and also feel so stuck, inadequate and fragile sometimes?

This question rattles around my whole being these days. I feel the fear of not being good enough seeping into my pores. The anxiety it brings tingles and makes my heart quicken. Hedged in on every side, again I feel both hopeful (creative) and stuck. A coup at my former employer where the one who lies and manipulates was rendered fully empowered has placed me and my co-workers on the unemployment line. I would never have been able to stay, yet I am still profoundly grieving being let go. I look back over the last seven months and wonder at times if making the move there from hospice was really worth it? I also know it gave me so much–I know I was meant to be there. (Even as I do not believe in destiny.) But for such a short period of time? That was it? More than once, I find myself shaking my fists and crying out to God, “But I am on YOUR side!!!”

The last three weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions. Grief. Loss. Pain. Shame. Fear. But these are not the only feelings, and in many ways they are the lesser ones. Mostly I feel hopeful. I feel on the verge. I feel my life spinning in a new direction. I feel ready to take a quantum leap–to move like those ancient reptiles who left behind walking and running for flying! I have absolutely no idea where I will go, what I will do, what will happen. I am fraught with excitement. I just want to read, meet new people, explore, travel, talk with strangers! I do not, however, want to be a chaplain out on the edge with people any longer.

My professional life has been all about walking out onto the edge with people. Trauma, death, disease, crisis, terror, homicide, suicide–these were the daily staple of my work. I dealt in terror. Again and again I walked out to the precipice and met people. I could not “save” them. I could not pull them back from the edge, but I could stand beside them while they teetered on the brink. I could make sure they were not alone. I could make sure God showed up for them because someone came. I could fill in the gaps where it felt God could not be trusted.

I know a great deal about who God is not. God will not rescue you. God will leave the woman to be raped and set on fire. God will not untangle the chord from the baby’s throat–or the parent’s hands. God will not prevent a parent from losing all three of his children in less than five days. God will not stop you from marrying an abusive spouse. God will not make cancer go away. God will not ensure that while you are facing one crisis other ones will not befall you much like dominoes balanced precariously tumbling again and again. God will be silent while the one who works hard never has enough. God will be silent while the one who is mean and destructive wants for nothing.

I know about how God is not a puppet master. I know first hand that loving God does not guarentee you that your baby will live, that you will find the love you seek, or that you will grow up in a home where you are safe. I know God is not in control.

I went to the edge again and again. Why? For one thing, I needed to prove to myself I could go out there and return. For another, I did not want anyone to feel alone there–alone as I had so long ago. I went to learn about how God acts in suffering, and I learned overwhelmingly how God does not act. This knowledge emboldened me. Something had to be done! So, I stood where I thought God ought to be and could not be counted on to show up. I tried to make up for God’s failure–both with me and with others.

Of course, making up for God is not the only story. I found love and peace out on that edge. I found no one ever died without Love making her grand entrance and embracing her child. I found Emmanuel–God with us. I found you can laugh even with the precipice’s jagged rocks cutting your hands, your feet, your side. I found humanity. I found my step-father wanting only the best for me and letting him go into the deep sleep where he can no longer hurt me or anyone else. I found peace. I found understanding. I found hope. But I did not find God.

This may seem odd. To find God’s presence but not God. I can only describe it as feeling the wind on your face, but not actually seeing the storm front that pushed the air upon you.

So now, I am looking for God. I no longer want to pour myself out so completely for others to the point I feel bereft. I want to acknowledge my deep need–my deep longing for others. I feel so terribly isolated these days. The life I dream for myself has a table of friends gathered around it eating, drinking and talking. I eat alone. The life I dream for myself is full of embracing the world I live in and soaking up the creation into the marrow of my bones. I feel landlocked. The life I dream for myself is full of love and family. I am working on accepting that I am more than enough just as I am and look for opportunities to love without abandon.

The funny thing is holding onto these dreams too tightly squeezes the life out of me completely. I feel called to letting go of fear–this is my truest calling. To give up not only the deep anxiety rooted in me from years of scarcity, but to bring it to my core where God is and let God speak to it. To deal with these fears–to draw close to them–I began praying “The Welcoming Prayer” after my Spiritual Director suggested it to me. Here it is:

I let go of my need for safety and security. Welcome.

I let go of my need for power and control. Welcome.

I let go of my need for love and esteem. Welcome

Now, when I feel the horrible panic of “Where do I go from here?” “Who will love me?” “Will there be enough?” “Am I ever good enough?” I pull that fear close in to my heart. I accept it as part of me. I welcome it. Well…I practice welcoming it into my very center. The most amazing thing occurs when it gets in really close. I find the fear dissipating. As I go to sleep the pain, shame, and loss all crowd into bed with me–taunting me. I say, “Welcome.” I rest. My hands are soft and my fists unclenched more these days. These days I find myself whispering to God with anticipation, “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

Many of you are familiar with Dr. Randy Pauch’s Last Lecture: Achieving Your Childhood Dreams. For those of you who have not seen this amazing lecture, informed by his journey with terminal pancreatic cancer, here is the YouTube video of the lecture:

In his book, he ends it with a request for information from those of us whose own parents died when we were young. My mother suggested I write to him; the letter follows. I do not expect him to read it, for I am sure he is deluged with mail of all kinds these days. I did, however, think the letter was a good summation of my own thinking about how to help children who face the death of a parent.

Dear Dr. Pausch,

I am writing to you because I understand you seek first-hand reflections from those of us who lost our father at a young age.  I was six when Daddy died from a MI following a year of being in the hospital off and on due to viral myocarditis.  I can remember my mother coming and taking me on Fridays to see him at lunchtime.  We would stand outside of the ICU in the grass, and the nurse would open the window so I could see Daddy and talk to him.  Thankfully, the ICU was on the first floor!  In 1977, children were not allowed into the ICU proper, but my mother wanted me to see Daddy with my own eyes.  She is a nurse, which I think helped inform her understanding differently than the prevailing wisdom of the time.  Now, unless there was an issue of infection, we would never keep a child out of the ICU.

You may wonder how it is that I know this fact.  I grew up to become an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ and have worked as both a hospital and hospice chaplain.  I did my Residency in Clinical Pastoral Education at RUMC in conjunction with the JMSHCC.  My clinical rotation was as the first chaplain for their stand alone Trauma Unit.  Prior to that, I worked at the UNCH and with CDS, where I helped families facing the brain death of a loved one.  In January, I left Hospice and became the Support Services Director for the CCA.  I offer to you my credentials for two reasons: 1) I want you to know I understand grief and bereavement issues as both a mourner and as professional; and 2) I want to spark your imagination about the potential to use the deep shit of one’s life for good–even if that shit happens as a young child.

Daddy’s death taught me some very fragile, yet important lessons, at six.  Freud would call it my “primary narcissistic trauma.”  I call it the moment my DNA changed.  Whoever I might have been without his death at that moment, ceased to exist.  The only potential future before me included the loss of my father.  I would travel without his presence.  Period.  Every moment of the time of being told about his death is real to me still, but so is Daddy.  In today’s grief lingo we speak of “continuing bonds.”  Even death does not end our relationships with those most dear to us.  One need not believe in an afterlife  in order for these bonds to exist. (I dream of one, but I do not know one exists.) The way I put it to the families I care for is this: The love in our hearts keeps them alive within us.  Nothing can separate us from that love.  It never dies as long as we remember.

Remembering is the greatest gift.  I know your children are young, but I remember more of being 0-6 than any of my peers.  Why?  My mother was keen to ask me to continually retell my Daddy stories.  Even as it broke her heart, she listened and cajoled.  I am 37 now, but I still remember being on a National Airlines flight at 3 months of age.  I cannot, however, remember what I did last Friday night!  Why?  My theory is that my young memories became reinforced by the storytelling so much they became marked within my mind and saved as permanent not temporary.  When I was six, it was not a big deal to think back two years and remember playing with Daddy at the park.  Now, I would be hard pressed.  So, my first thought is your wife needs to be committed–even when she cannot breathe or hardly get out of bed–to ask your children to tell her stories about you.  The whole extended family would also need to be encouraged in this regard.

Secondly, leave for your children as many personalized letters and videos, etc. as you can and make them age appropriate through college and young adulthood.  I know this will be the most devastating thing, but I suspect you have already begun this process.  My father did not do this at all.  In fact, I have a rock in my living room with his penciled “Jack” on it as my only reminder of his handwriting.  (He sent the rock to my Grandmother as a joke because our dog kept bringing her rocks as tokens of love when she visited.)  I often ask Mother if he would be proud of me…what he would think of my work…if he loved me?  Although in my heart I believe these things to be true, how much the better to have them before me.  You come across to me as a man of good humor and realism–don’t forget that in these remembrances.  Your children will look to them to decipher who you are, and who they are that is you.  They will be both mirror and guide, so set reasonable expectations for their life coupled with a humor-filled dose of “Daddy was a human being, after all.”  Losing a parent at a young age immortalizes the parent–Daddy died and climbed onto a pedestal in short order.  Some of this is inevitable, but I also think you can show your tender underbelly.

So many parents I have worked with as they are dying want to protect their children from the inevitability of the pain of their loss.  They want to delay it as much as they can.  This is not helpful, because then the death appears as a trauma.  When someone is sick and dies–as in your case and in my own story–warning shots can go across the bow so as to make the death (loss) expected and not a surprise.  Children over the age of four can usually handle some form of warning shots, especially reinforcing that you are indeed sick.  Depending on emotional maturity, the ages of four to six may be able to handle the possibility of death.  Over six, in my opinion they need to know death is not only a possibility, but also a likelihood.  I often use the analogy of giving your child Motrin for fever: You never give the whole bottle, but a dose at a time helps them to heal.  In the same way, I suggest dosing out these warning shots.

Lastly, I urge you to write letters to your children for when they are 25.  In these letters you need to say one very important thing: Goodbye.  I wish I had been able to say that to Daddy.  My father was healing at the time of his death, and as a result, we went on a little vacation before he was to go back to work July 5th.  He died on that trip the morning of June 28, and so I went from seeing him leave with Mother for a few private days one morning (I stayed at my Grandmother’s.), to having Mother tell me of his death the next.  Most of the 400 deaths plus I have attended afforded some opportunity for the family to say goodbye, which our death rituals do as well.  But the opportunity for the one dying to say it rarely is taken, if even there is the time and space for it.  “Goodbye” is powerful and healing.

You know, there really is no “right” way to do things here.  This totally sucks!  At the same time, there are things I learned as a child that helped me become a tender and intelligent woman and chaplain.  Truth and kindness go a long way–for yourself and for others.  I do not know what will happen when you die, for you or for them.  What I do know is that healing, which is coming to that place where a loss is integrated into our lives, and a rich and full life is possible with great and terrible loss.  Your death will change their future, their DNA.  The loss is that profound.  And with that change great potential will open for them to use that loss to make their lives more, not less.  This will be their choice, just as it was mine.  May the teaching and loving you do now and the legacy you leave them help inform this choice.

In kindness and solidarity,
Jacqueline Hope Derby

Food and I dance delicately with one another. I work hard to eat healthy, but I also know the times when the planet tilts swiftly beneath me and my emotions cry out for comfort food. My Deserted Island Menu of three items has remained steady throughout the years: broccoli, mac & cheese, and mint chip ice cream. I still eat broccoli almost everyday, but I limit the other two to the “rarely” column. Long gone are the days where cheese is the centerpiece and not a condiment. Now, eating mint chip makes me take a good long look at my emotions and what stress I seek to avoid. Yet, a girl’s gotta eat!

I work with someone who can (miraculously) eat egg whites and an apple for breakfast, a frozen piece of chicken with salsa and frozen brussel sprouts for lunch, and NEVER complain (she does heat the frozen parts). Not me. I can eat the same yummy food day-after-day, but it needs to be homemade. I prefer not to eat Chicken Catchatorie with a side dish of regret, so I work to limit fat, sugar, white flour, and eating out. However, I do leave room for small squares of dark chocolate or Whip ‘N Dip, where a girl can get Light Cream to satisfy the ice cream craving without a shred of guilt. Never being a big fan of meat really comes in handy when one wants to eat healthy. I used to be a vegetarian, and I am back to chicken as my only meat source again. I work out with a trainer these days–”Cupcake” (so named because he has replaced the cupcakes in my life)–so I REALLY do not want to eat something to undo the hard work I do whilst I pay him to torture me for two hours a week!

So, a girl’s gotta eat and gotta eat good and gotta eat good and healthy!

Fortunately, I love to cook. I love knowing I made something not only scrumptious but also good for me and those I feed. (You know who you are!) I love how food binds us together. Conversation flows more easily around a big bowl of chili. Love is folded into freshly baked bread. Illness is soothed. Fear is quieted. Connections made. I think this is why Jesus (and any good Jewish mother!) centered so much of his ministry around the table. You cannot break bread with an enemy without the enemy being transformed into a companion, if not friend. Family is created at the dining room table. Wounds healed.

Here are two of my own favourite recipes–one is my own, the other an adaptation–to make some truly yummy comfort food and food that is good for you:

Chicken Tortilla Soup

You are going to be a bit scared when first reading this, but once you make it you will see how simple it is. I promise. I felt the same way the first time I read Heidi’s site with the pizza dough recipe, but after doing it once I don’t even need to look at it again unless I need a reminder of portion size. That simple once you know it, but daunting the first read. Keep that in mind here too:

• 2 whole chicken breasts, boneless and skinless, split and cleaned up with no fat.
• 2 yellow onions
• 2 green peppers
• bunch of cilantro, trimming off lower half of the stem end, and then cutting the group in half, to reserve the top part for the soup itself
• fresh garlic cloves (Note: I like at least 10 in the soup, and another 6 or so for the chicken.)
• sea salt or kosher salt
• pepper corns
• 2 T oregano
• fresh ripe red tomatoes (Note: I use at least 3 large fresh tomatoes, but more depending on what is in season and looks good. You can make this with only fresh tomatoes, or you can use only canned. This is really a seasonal issue. I prefer Roma tomatoes, but they did not look spectacular at the store this last go around. Instead I used 3 beautiful garden tomatoes with 26 oz of organic strained tomatoes.)
• 26 - 52 oz chopped tomatoes, if needed
• 1-2 yellow, orange or red bell peppers
• 4-8 jalapeños, depending on preferred hotness
• 2 Serrano peppers
• 4 Cups of chicken stock (Note: I prefer Pacific Organic Chicken Broth to all other store bought brands, although I find using the chicken stock from the chicken will work great too.)
• 1 T cornstarch
• 2 limes

The Chicken: To make the most delicious chicken that shreds the moment you touch it and is succulent in this soup…or enchiladas, tacos, etc. you must endure a three hour process. That is the bad news. The good news? This is less than 15 minutes of prep and a 5 minute finish. (Good soup making and laundry go hand-in-hand.) I try and always do four whole breasts, (double the above amount) and freeze the other half at the end, without shredding.

1. Put the chicken in a large soup pot (the same one you will use later) with the lower half of the trimmed cilantro, one roughly chopped onion and one green pepper, smashed garlic cloves, the oregano, some sea salt and a good tablespoon of peppercorns.
2. Add enough water to cover with a half inch of water, and simmer over medium low heat for three hours. Add more water if needed.
3. Take out the chicken, to be shredded for the soup.
4. Strain liquid through a sieve lined with a coffee filter, which will keep out the oregano from the broth.
5. Reserve broth.

The Soup: This recipe started when I made some enchiladas in Chicago with fresh homemade salsa to accompany it. I had the left overs in my kitchen and thought about how much I love Tortilla Soup. In short, you make homemade salsa, but just puree it instead of the rough chop homemade salsa usually requires.

1. Place in two batches the tomatoes, peppers, garlic, onion and cilantro into the bowl of your food processor and puree. (Note: You will need to split the tomatoes over both batches because the water content in them helps keep the food processor working smoothly.)
2. Add to clean soup pot and bring to a boil. Lower heat.
3. Add shredded chicken and broth. Simmer until it turns a deep brownish red.
4. Add cornstarch to 1/4 C cool water, and put slurry into soup.
5. Finish with fresh lime juice and sea salt to taste.
6. Makes 8 servings

You may wonder where the tortillas are. I skip them in order to have the corn muffins below. My favourite store bought brand is FoodShouldTasteGood’s Multi-grain tortilla chip/cracker things. Simply perfect!
Here is the nutritional information, based on the above ingredients put into My Food Diary’s recipe builder:

Corn Muffins

If you love to cook, Heidi Swanson’s amazing site 101 Cookbooks is for you. Everything I try from her recipe trove proves perfect. The pizza dough IS the best, and how I found her site to begin with. I made the Cottage Cheese Muffins, from Rose Elliot, twice now with great success the second go-around by eliminating the salt. (The first batch were too salty given the saltiness of the sun-dried tomatoes.) I use almond flour (Bob’s Red Mill) in lieu of doing my own almonds, which give these muffins a texture not unlike a good corn muffin. Being Southern, I love a good sweet cornbread reminiscent of Jiffy. I thought I could adapt the Cottage Cheese Muffins to be yummy high protein, lower carb versions of my favourite corn muffins. The results were AMAZING!

• 1 C low fat cottage cheese
• 4 whole eggs, or equivalent egg substitute
• 2 T blue agave (in lieu of sugar for those diabetic, like me–can be found at Whole Foods)
• 1 T canola oil
• 1/2 C cornmeal
• 1/4 C soy flour
• 1/4 almond flour
• 1 t sea salt
• 1 t baking powder
• 1/4 t cayenne pepper (more if you like)
• 2 ears of fresh corn cut right off the ear and uncooked

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Line muffin tin with cupcake liners or spray with oil and dust with flour.
3. Whisk together all of the wet ingredients. (I find the whisking helps the cottage cheese to become incorporated.)
4. Then add the dry ingredients until fully incorporated. (You could stir the dry ingredients first, but I just go for it!)
5. Fold in the corn.
6. Fill cups and bake for 25-30 minutes until golden brown. (I added a tablespoon of lower fat cheddar to the tops for the last half of the baking. Amazing!)
7. Makes 8 servings.

Here is the nutritional info if made with egg substitute:

I find myself on a precipice. The mountain climbed…the sorrow of a broken childhood, of a broken child behind me. The battle scars emblazon my side, my hands, my feet. I carried the first most horrid of crosses. I survived the plunge of the sword, for John tried to take my very life away by stealing my spirit, my youth, my hope. I did not die. I would not die.

I waited a terribly long time to open to the nakedness love and intimacy require. I ventured first with those safe, manageable, less. I thought I met my equal; I was wrong. In choosing to look away when he lied, I pretended he would not lie to me. He did. I almost died, and almost spent the wellspring of my hope on the despair I became enveloped in when he lied and left. I did not die. I would not die.

Hope; she is my constant friend. She stands with me on this ledge between the past and the future, so uncertain but always imagined. I see us standing against the wind, which whips through our hair. We laugh. We cry. We dream the most amazing of dreams for my life. The sun blazes and the sky dances with colour as we put to bed the despair of this last season of my life. How strange I find it that the setting sun seems to fall so much faster than the heat of the noonday sun. Why?

So my dear love, here I come. Are you ready?

Let us be clear about what I need from you, for I am completely clear about what I will offer you. I need fusion. I do not pine for fireworks shattering the sky with a million stars here for only a moment. I do not desire the rapid fast burn of a nuclear love. I survived one of those, and the apocalypse devastates everyone in its path. No. Give me fusion. Give me two whole people coming together creating a fire between them impossible alone. Leave the divided spirit, the divided desires, the divided will, the divided atom behind. Join. Merge. Intertwine with me. Let us be more than we could have ever imagined on our own. Leave the ashes of simple fireworks to fall back to the earth. Let us be a galaxy all our own.

I will give you creativity. Nothing will be boring. I will always find new ways to laugh and play. I will give you integrity. I will tell you the truth. I will be kind. I will be generous. (Shall we compete to see who can be more so?) I will embrace you as you are, and dream your dreams of all you can do and create for this world. I will give to others. I will not forget you. I will write my name on your heart. I will cheer you on towards your prize. I will pray for kindness and doors to open to you. I will place a soothing balm on your wounds when the doors crash into your broken body. I may not pick you up–for you will have to do that for yourself–but I will lay beside you and kiss you sweetly until you have the strength to rise. I will question. I will fold the laundry. I will be my own person. I will have my own life and friends. I will be good to your family and friends. I will forgive. I will believe in you no matter what they say. I will trust you. I will honor the man you are. I will value your gifts and never think you a pansy. I will fight for you, and at times with you. I will apologize. I will seek your forgiveness. I will deserve it. I will love you. I will fuck you. I will lay you down. I will tenderly caress you. I will make love to you and discover your body anew even as the years pass us by. Every wrinkle, every laugh line, every sag, every cell will be counted with affection. I will embrace your changes. You will be mine, and I will be yours.

Are you ready? Here I come.

Please let me into your secret places. Let me see you. Let me love only you. I know we have it in us to do this together and to create something more than we can possibly imagine.

I stand on the precipice with Hope beside me.

Acknowledgment: The inspiration for this piece comes from Sarah McLachlan’s song “Answer.”

PHOTO CREDIT: Philip Brooker

Mother has a favourite Cynthia Clawson song that she is unable to find anywhere. She only remembers one line and sings it regularly, “I am on a journey Lord.” Over and over again I will hear her lilting and crackled voice sing this line to me. She longs to hear the song again. Where does the longing come from? Does she feel like she is perpetually on a journey? Is she clinging to God when the going is hard and tough? Is she asking for understanding as she continues to grow (and grow up), even at 70? Is she letting God know she loves the process more than the destination? Is she staking her claim?

I do not know what it means to mother–this song, this line–but I do understand what it means to stake a claim on the journey of life. I feel I am there too. Life is change, but it often comes with pain. In order to grow up or morph, we have to tear down the old and bring in the new. I find myself in the tearing down phase right now, which feels amazing and hard and painful and hopeful–all at once! I feel pulled in, introspective, jumbled, lost, searching. Not unlike the butterfly in its pupal stage, I find myself a pupil at the feet of those who are teaching me now. Some teach me through interaction; others through reading. I am also being taught by my memories. “I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me; to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes,” is how the group Sweet Honey in the Rock put it in one of their songs.

I seek transformation and transcendence. I seek love unlike I have ever known it before. This love flows to me, in me, around me, beyond me. I do not want to be the same Jacqueline–not because I do not see the beauty of my being and life to this point, but because I see it and its innate potential for so much more. I see how I step away from extraordinary for good enough. I do not seek perfection. However, I do want more from myself than to simply get the deep connections, I also want to put the plug in the wall and let the juice flow! I see all the time I invest into understanding, but not into the actual living out of my dreams due to the cesspool of fear left behind by those who broke my heart and my own frail ways of coping at times. I keep unwinding the spool of thread, but I feel I put it back on the shelf neat and tidy. I live to the fear of it all falling apart, coming undone, getting painful and messy too much of the time. I need to hurl the ball of string off the bow as a streamer of joy in my life!

I find myself in the stillness of my own quiet temple, yet with an ever present messy messy mind. I have such a messy mind! I unwind the spool, and cringe at how I need to let it go free. The only reprieve or solace I find is in the quiet. I do not watch television. I do not listen to music. I hate talking on the phone. I avoid friends and family. I play quietly with Emma. I delay at answering personal emails. Not completely–for when I need them, I draw them all close, but for the most part I find these days rather isolated. I find I need so much time to think and to heal, for this is my ultimate treasure now.

In the stillness I find healing. Not a panacea, where everything has been righted and the planets aligned again. No. Healing where the tilt exists, but I know how to lean into it now and not lose my balance healing. For some reason, when I received this photograph my friend sent me from his time in the woods of France I felt I was IN the photograph. No, not there physically, but in my heart. In the stillness of the stream. In the stories hidden beneath its loam. In the fold of the branches. In the seeking of the leaves for a bit of light. In whisper of woods. In the heartbeat of nature. In the strength of the root. In pride of the tree trunks. I am in the song, in the breath, in the scurry, in the ache of life right now. I am in that place of chaos and clarity. I am in love–with my own heart, with life, with others.

I am on a journey Lord…

PHOTO CREDIT: Philip Brooker

Big. HUGE. Announcement:

It is official: I am in the Urban Dictionary for “Tribble Factor” from my post Tank Top Wearing Man Candy. I can die a happy woman now knowing my legacy will live on after me. No, not a child. No, not the work I do with those sick and in a crisis and their families. No, not for leading the world toward peace (every Beauty Queen’s deepest desire, of course it might have helped if I was actually a Beauty Queen). No, the thing that has guaranteed me imortality is getting this into the Urban Dictionary. See!

You can go out to my definition by clicking here, and be sure to give it a “Thumbs Up!”

We live in an age where we are supposed to be confident, have a positive self esteem, and know our gifts. We are also supposed to not be too confident, too braggadocios, or feel we are better than anyone else at something—even if we are. The Greeks were concerned with “hubris” or pride, but hubris always was more about causing harm to another than being realistic about one’s own abilities. If I say that I am good at something, is that done to shame or humiliate you? Even if I say I am better at something? For instance, I am very good at spacial relationships, color, and home design. I decorate my own space in a way that fits who I am. I do not expect anyone else to do it the same way. When consulted on someone else’s design project, I try to offer suggestions in keeping with their tastes…a kind of expert opinion. My opinion is not offered to belittle or threaten, only to guide and support.

We all need expertise. Seeking out an expert requires four things: 1) An acknowledgment that we do not possess the ability or knowledge to complete a process or project; 2) An understanding someone else does possess the ability or knowledge we lack; 3) A willingness to seek out someone else to help with this process or project; and 4) To place our trust in that person to provide the help needed so our main goal—completing the process or project—is met. A simple analogy would be seeking out a car mechanic to fix a broken automobile. But what about more complicated processes, like finding the right doctor when you have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer? Do you just go to any oncologist? Probably not. At minimum, you seek the opinions of others to find out who specializes in treating the cancer you have. If at all possible, you will travel to where “the best” specialist practices. Why? Because we all understand that even within the realm of “expertise” there are “experts.”

However, sometimes we do not seek out expert help even when we need it most. Why? I think we are often afraid of our limitations, and admitting we need help in some manner means admitting there are areas we do not possess the power we want to have over our lives. I once dated a guy who refused mid-panic attack, to go to a doctor or seek out counseling. Why? The answer given was something along the lines of, “I just don’t do that.” This same guy would call Katmandu if it meant being put in-touch with an expert regarding something he was interested in and needed help with because this type of expert help did not seem like an affront to his masculinity or a threat to the ways he had always “done” his life. Therapy, on the other hand, did feel threatening. He was himself an expert at something, and he relished being able to teach that expertise to others. In fact, he was quite good at it. Yet he would not consider that the inner workings of his being needed some expert attention.

Pride going before the fall?

On the one hand, we have harmful hubris where we try to belittle someone for not being the same as us in some fundamental way we consider paramount to our sense of having a worthwhile existence. On the other hand, we allow our own sense of self-protection to get in the way of accepting the very help we need the most. Pride, self-confidence, hubris, need, problems, and just plain old stupidity make for an awful mess. I am left wondering how to make sense of myself—especially the things I am good at—without needing to add the caveats of the things I am bad at. For instance, “I am really good at understanding where a person is coming from when they describe a problem to me, but I am not good at parking my car straight!” These two things have nothing to do with one another, yet I find myself smooshing them up close when identifying the areas of my greatest strengths. Somehow—in the name of not being too prideful—we feel the social pressure to always add the caveat of “but.”

One night, Pixie and I were talking about relationships. She kept encouraging me that when it comes to being open and revealing myself as a part of intimacy, I did the “right thing” in past relationships. She also used her famous line of: “You are the prize. You deserve to be won.” In other words, Pixie loves me and thinks I am a great girl. I got caught up in our conversation and began to list my gifts and strengths. At one point, she laughed and said, “Yeah…those, and humble too.” I know she meant no harm whatsoever, but the point is clear from a social construct standpoint; you need to believe in yourself, but only to a point. After you reach that point, you enter the world of bragging and need to be brought back to “reality.”

Really?

I often am told that I am intimidating. I am good at a great deal of things. (This is where I would now normally enter all the other things I am not good at, but in an exercise of restraint I am resisting—painfully.) I feel like one of my greatest strengths is playing to people’s gifts. I try and focus on the good stuff. In areas I wish someone would “grow the fuck up,” if I see even one little improvement, I will bless it up and down as good. I figure that complimenting the goodness and ignoring the ickiness goes a long way. I know I receive this back from others too. So why then am I intimidating?

I think one reason is that I just go for the truth no matter what. I am willing to say the hard stuff—almost never to hurt and almost always to heal. I feel so much of my life was lived in a dungeon of fear and lies that I cannot imagine perpetuating those things in my here-and-now. My truth does include the areas where I have some growing edges, but on the whole I am very happy with the woman I am in the world. I am proud of my willingness to grow, change, accept help, invest in others, and care with a sense of radical welcome. I am a neat person, and I do not want to lord that over anyone, or deny my beauty at the altar of social graces.

One of my Clinical Pastoral Education supervisors told me she felt my greatest challenge was to accept being “extraordinary.” My current journey has brought me back to this challenge. In looking back at the extraordinary seven year-old within and the creativity and gumption she utilized to survive, I find myself embracing my own gifts in a new way. I am also working to resist the social urge to offer up disclaimers or stories of “imperfection.” Not because I seek to be perfect–I do not. I only want to fully accept the extraordinary woman within and let go of the fear of being great because it might bring further isolation.

Here is my favourite quote from Marianne Williamson:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some; it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Here are my favourite things about me; humility not included:

• Kindness
• Compassion
• Understanding
• Creativity—both with colour and design and with problem solving
• Ability to forgive and forget
• Ability to change
• Ability to move on after great pain
• Scrappy
• A survivor
• Good cook
• Good listener
• Good story teller
• Will go out of my way for a friend
• Tenacious
• Smart—scary smart
• Ingenious
• Loving
• Generous, even when it hurts sometimes
• Not just focused on myself and what I want or what is convenient for me
• Quick learner
• Not afraid to get hurt—most of the time
• Patient
• Take the long view
• Have gumption
• Tell the truth
• Wicked funny, but not mean spirited
• Curious
• Open
• Liberal
• Willing to learn/be taught
• I get “it”
• Cool in my own book nerd way
• Pretty
• Emotionally honest
• I set goals and follow-through
• Willing to seek out help and take advice from others
• Trust my inner voice
• Athletic
• Able to walk out to the precipices of life with people
• Sexy
• A good and honest writer
• An excellent public speaker
• Able to meet people where they are
• An excellent hugger, but an even better kisser—among other things I am creative at
• Well read
• Stellar vocabulary
• Analytical
• Reasonable
• Logical
• Sweet
• Not afraid of sacrifice
• Willing to laugh at myself

What are yours?

As I have been pondering the strange working of my inner child, who at the moment seems to be more of an “outie” than an “innie,” I began to wonder what she looks like. In my mind’s eye, I do not have me at age seven fixed. If anything, I would tell you how I was so much taller than everyone else, awkward, not as pretty, frumpy, and that I had big feet. I set out all my picture boxes and began to look for this girl, only to find a sweet looking beautiful seven year-old with hair the same colour I pay to achieve these days. She looks no different than her friends, although her smile is often more genuine. She seems to laugh from the heart. She does not look frumpy, and by today’s standards rather cute. She does have big feet though–some things never change! Mostly, what I notice about her physically is her eyes. When I was little people would often comment about what big eyes I had–Red Riding Hood style. Here is my formal Seventh Birthday Photograph, where my big eyes really are noticeable:

This is also the same little girl who met a man who would molest her for the first time when he asked her if it was ok to marry her mother. Accepting the molestation went hand-in-hand with the proposal–”I will be your Daddy, and you will let me touch you.” The deep earth shattering need to be loved and accepted by a father after my own real Daddy’s death was met with this bittersweet promise from John. Here are Mother, me and John running through a deluge of birdseed on their wedding day:

Looking at these photographs brings the tears–they flow so easily right now–but these photos also evoke in me a sense of my own strength. I am just a little girl. A sweet lovely child who would write to her Grandmother letters about how her Grandmother was a “doll” and her “very best friend.” This is also the same little girl who stood before her whole congregation with her hands clenched around the microphone and prayed her friend would not die, who laid close to death in the Intensive Care Unit, because she just could not take one more person she loved dying. This little girl ingeniously went away to Summer Camp and made her mother a ceramic dog, given her Mother swore to ANYONE who would listen that her next dog would be ceramic. Jacquie Turner gave her present to her mother, accepted the bestowed gratitude, and then asked, “Now that you have your ceramic dog, can we please get a real one for me?” The Lhaso God would bring her–Mindy–would become her companion and confidant. They would hide together in the closet away from John and snuggle. Is it any wonder having a dog represents life to me still?

gratuitous photo of Emma

This little girl also survived. Can you imagine that? I think now of being harmed in some way, and I do not know how I would make it through except that I know I can because I already did! Somehow–luckily–the gifts of the happy accident of my birth, combined with my lifelong desire to listen to the Still Small Voice of Love inside me, have given me the courage to fight for my life again and again. The most vulnerable and youngest version of me was assaulted in the most vile and vicious ways. And that child–she lived! She fought her way out with the hope–the imagination–that things would change and not always be the same way. She found beautiful ways to express herself, mostly through art. The same love and imagination about God and God’s creativity and love for humanity still beats in my own heart today. She was full of gifts–so am I.

When I look at these photographs of little seven year-old Jacquie Turner I am in awe. This child survived so I might have this precious life I now live. This child survived so I might thrive. This child survived because love is stronger than death–or all of the other ways we seek to destroy ourselves and others. This child survived the best way she knew how, including eating ice cream to try and make John go away and to make the bad feelings go away too. I owe her my very life, so when she is running around on fire and screaming for cupcakes, I understand. I just owe it to her to comfort her with compassion and with honesty, and only every so often a yummy dessert. I owe our future better than just hiding in the closets of my life with Emma, hoping the bad men won’t come and hurt us.

She survived so I could have a real life. I owe her living mine to the fullest.

This little piece is what I presented to my congregation March 30, 2008 for Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Please check out the American Cancer Society and the Colon Cancer Alliance’s websites for additional information on this “Preventable. Treatable. Beatable.” disease.

Good morning.

The purpose of my coming before you today is threefold:
1. To help engage your imaginations about the ministry I am a part of on your behalf working with those who suspect they have or who do have Colorectal Cancer. I began in January after leaving my work as a hospice chaplain.
2. To talk to you about the importance of routine screenings for colorectal cancer, given March has been Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.
3. And thirdly, to keep my promise to Pastor Laurie to not talk about the poop too much! Of course numbers one and two are all about the poop!

You know, talking about the poop is what makes being in this church—and in our denomination—unique and special. We try to face our fears when it comes to the tough stuff. I grew up in churches where women were told to deny the call of God on their hears just because of their gender. Yet Congregationalist woman Antoinette Brown was ordained by her congregation in 1853. I stand before you today talking to you as a woman minister because of the witness of this congregation in my life these last 13 years of my membership. I am here because of our willingness to come and reason together about what the faithful life entails for our whole person, and because of our covenant together to support one another when the poop hits the fan!

And at some point, it always does.

My work puts me in contact with people from all over the country dealing with the messiness of life.  Some may call me with simple questions about screening, while others face terribly hard dilemmas about the efficacy of continuing treatment when the colorectal cancer is devouring their liver, their lungs, their body. I counsel people about where God is in their suffering. I hold their story as sacred, even as they struggle to understand how Cancer came to their door. I guide. I educate. I listen. And every single day I stand at the threshold of our failed medical system, and often out of compassion school people without insurance or means on ways to work the system to get screening or treatment. Even as I stand here today, I fear my message will strike a chord in someone who needs to be screened but cannot afford it. “Here, at Coral Gables Congregational Church?” you might ask. For at least six years of my membership here I was one of the millions of Americans living without health insurance. Did you know me then? “So, yes. Even here.”

When we are willing to talk about the poop, we are willing to acknowledge that it is not a problem someone else has “over there” that we might sweep in on our white horses and save them from, but instead we acknowledge that it is right here in our midst. Or as the bestselling children’s book by Taro Gomi points out, “Everyone poops.” And because of that, each one of us here is at risk of developing this terrible disease. That is the bad news, but the good news is that with routine screening—starting at the age of 45 if you are African American or age 50 for everyone else of normal risk—colon cancer can be found before it is—well, cancer. Getting your routine colonoscopy every ten years does not just tell you if you have cancer, but can actually be both preventative and curative if you have polyps or one of the early stages of this disease. Even though colorectal cancer grows slowly, getting it out early helps to ensure that it does not have any time to pierce the wall of the colon and spread, which is most often fatal.

Colorectal cancer is the second leading cause of cancer related deaths among men and women combined—only lung cancer beats it. Yet the only way we see a decrease in deaths is due to screenings. Why don’t people want to get screened? Fear. Dave Barry summarized this fear in a recent essay as, “You don’t want a doctor to stick a tube 17,000 feet up your butt.” And for him, it was only when his younger brother—who did not put off getting screened at 50 like he did—announced that he had colon cancer that Dave finally went to be screened. As Dave pointed out: What if his brother had put it off like he did?  Sadly, he most likely would have had a terminal version of the disease.

The beauty of our faith and our faith community is that we come together to grow to be whole people of God. Whole people. God is still speaking to us, my brothers and sisters, in our day and age with our advances in being able to help prevent this disease. The number one commandment in the Bible—said over 60 times in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures—is, “Do not fear.” So I tell you today the same thing, “Do not fear the poop! God will be with you!”

And I will be in Fellowship Hall after the service with brochures and to answer any questions you might have.

Thank you.

Working as a hospital and hospice chaplain over the last eight years, I can trace certain themes I repeatedly hear from my patients and their families. These themes include: questioning of why bad things happen to “good” people; the meaning in suffering; the timeliness or “out-of-time” sense when someone dies; trust issues with the medical community; causality; God’s intervention (or lack there of) in our lives; and the meaning of hope/feelings of despair. You know…the light stuff! The most common spiritual intervention I provide directed at a single place of spiritual suffering centers on the popular myth: “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

I write the word “myth” intentionally because indeed this is just that–a myth. We human beings created this idea out of our own hope that it might be true, but not based on any ancient sacred text we might hold to within either the Jewish or Christian traditions. There is a text in the Christian Scriptures that does have somewhat similar language, so the popular consensus is that it has been misquoted just enough to get the other idea into our popular lexicon. The text comes from I Corinthians 10:13 where the Apostle Paul writes, “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.” The part that is interesting four our discussion is where he writes, “[God] will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.” I guess we could call this “Biblical Telephone!” One person after another tweaks it just enough that over time we ended up “God never gives us more than we can handle.”

The problem comes from when we go around spouting off this myth as Biblical truth and live our lives by it!  Worse yet, we often tell this to people truly hurting as a way to try and assuage their pain.  Would you feel better to know that when the most horrible pain of your life is upon you–and you feel like you are going insane from not being able to bear it, yet having to anyways–to know that God had allocated this pain for you knowing you could handle it?

Just recently I spoke to a woman on the Helpline I answer who struggled with this notion. She had just been diagnosed as Stage IV, and she was shattered. She endured more grief and loss in the last twelve years than most, and now with hardly any emotional, physical, spiritual, or financial resources must wage war on this horrific disease–after being Stage Zero a couple of years ago and given the “all clear.” In our conversation, the issue of why would God be “giving” her the cancer came up. Why? Because she had been taught (most likely at church!), “God never gives us more than we can handle.” The implication is that God is giving the cancer for some higher purpose. She told me she believes in a loving God, which led me to ask, “Is a loving God then the creator of your heartache?” I reminded my caller–who is a Christian–of Jesus’ own words on the cross, in which he quoted the Psalmist saying, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?” I believe those words are the cries of someone who intimately knows what it means to endure much much more than they can handle.

If the ancient Hebrew and/or Christian Scriptures are important to you, let me direct you a gem from Proverbs 18:14: “A man’s spirit sustains him in sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” I do believe that feeling supported, loved and cared for while we battle the diseases within (and the dis-ease without) help us to heal in body, mind and spirit. This is why it is so important to surround ourselves during our healing journeys with those who can listen and hold the most fragile of moments–those times of despair, anger, hurt and loss–and celebrate with us the moments of life, hope, love and laughter we will experience even with disease. No one can bear our pain or illness for us–in that we are totally alone–but they can carry us while we bear it by carrying our spirit close to their own. Without that, our spirits will be literally crushed, and that is too much to bear.

My encouragement to you today my dear friends is this: God is not the author of our heartache or our broken bodies. We are fragile and live in a fragile world where brokenness is par for the course. God (or Love, if that fits your spirit better) is, however, always wanting to be part of the circle of support cheering us on, believing in our power to create goodness and beauty in a place where there is pain, and encircling us with comfort in the living we are doing right now…even when it is truly more painful than we can bear.

In the recent past, everytime I went to lose the rest of the weight I gained as a kid, not to mention the 10 “Post Apocalyptic” (aka post-break-up) pounds, I gained a tiny bit of weight instead. The earth would feel like it was shifting beneath me when someone would mention how I looked thinner, and then the cupcake eating would commence. After dropping over 70 pounds, to find my weight creeping back up with repeated attempts to lose weight was more than discouraging–heartbreaking would be the right word. I knew I was not gaining weight because I longed for The Bean to come back or felt some sense of unresolved emotion towards him. No! I was doing this to myself when I would feel the earth tilt. But why the tilt?

Here is my mental loop: I lose more weight, I become more attractive and desirable to men. I become more desirable, I could even end up dating someone more than three times (my limit last year before booting someone to the curb), and fall in-love. I fall in-love, am vulnerable, and then I could get left. Again. I do not want to go through that again–even as a deep part in me acknowledges this is always the risk of love–so I put on the weight to be less desirable, less attractive, and more safe. Build the walls. Keep out the love. Stay safe.

I could see it, but I felt utterly powerless and without creativity to address the issue. Since December, I could articulate this, and since December I have had at least 5 cupcakes!!! (I could go for one right now while writing this…and let me tell you that if you are in the market for a cupcake the ones at Fresh Market are TO DIE FOR!)

Did I mention that I really am not a big cake or cupcake person? I think (under normal conditions) that they are too sweet. I prefer soft serve ice cream or yogurt to any other dessert. Sweet, but not too sweet. Cold, smooth, creamy. I do not really like cupcakes! Yet here I am CRAVING cupcakes every time I drop a bloody pound.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with their problems. Amongst my loved ones we have a smattering of potato chip munching, cigarette smoking, workaholic, motorcycle riding, Jesus loving, Diet Coke drinking, scrap booking, gambling alcoholics. And those are just the ones who live on the West Coast of Florida! I believe in having a multitude of tricks–mostly healthy–in my arsenal, so when one fails another is at the ready. I ride my bike like a feign; I ration the chocolate; I talk to friends and family; I go for a walk; I play with Emma; I write this blog–but those fucking cupcakes kept calling out to me. “Don’t lose weight! Stay where you are! You will feel so much better and more calm when you have one! Everything will be fine if you just get up and go have a cupcake! Drink it with skim milk–then it won’t be that fattening! You rode your bike twice already today–have another cupcake!”

Fucking cupcakes.

The cupcakes are not the real issue, so having run out of other RATIONAL coping skills I marched myself back to therapy. Now to appreciate my current therapeutic experience, you must first picture a Datsun 280 ZX driving aging Hippie with a “No Nukes” bumper sticker and a Grateful Dead “quilt” (don’t ask) on his wall with his diplomas. The ponytail, vintage Danish/early 80’s office furniture, and Converse canvas sneakers round out the “ambiance.” This is a guy who sits back, listens to every word, is so non-judgmental and smart you suspect he had you figured out when you made the appointment, and then talks to you in such a practical gentle manner that you wonder why the hell you are paying him to tell you what you already know. But then again, knowing is not my issue. Figuring out what to do next is.

Like any therapist worth their salt, Obi-Wan Kenobi (the therapist) poked around in my past in order to get to know me. I did mention to him on the phone that I needed help in the “here and now” and that I had “dealt with a lot of the shit of the past, and really was not looking to dredge up that stuff or start again looking at it.” Uh-huh.

Given how my past includes the issues of disease, death, abandonment, molestation, threats of suicide and homicide, stalking, rape, and trust–I tend to be wary of beginning any new venture in therapy despite how much good it has done me in the past. I always feel defensive and want to shout at the new therapist, “I am ok! I have worked really hard! I am not as fucked up as you will assume I am! Please give me some credit! Please validate my journey before I met you! I am strong! I will kick your ass if I need to!” And under my breath I whisper, “I am totally scared shitless that the past will haunt me again and the next time I won’t make it. I worry that I am a failure at this healing business because I still am working on the weight stuff and because despair still finds me. I cannot control being vulnerable. I hate being in a relationship because I know there are no guarantees. I want to be loved because I have a lot to give, but trust seems like to high a price to pay. I am lonely sometimes. I want someone else to validate my worthiness to be loved, although I know I must believe that for myself first…but sometimes I am so full of doubt I don’t know how to.”

I cannot help but wonder: Why do I feel so creative, capable and strong and also feel so stuck, inadequate and fragile sometimes?

Obi-Wan listened and listened well. He told me my life has been made up of the big issues–not the small ones. They will always be with me. They will always be tinder for some jerk to come along and set fire to…or just life will set them on fire. Life is hard after all. I was vigilant with The Bean, but next time I need to pay better attention to the signs that someone is not healthy. A healthy person and an unhealthy person equal an unhealthy relationship. The Bean left, and my old shit got set on fire.

“Your inner 7 year-old is running around on fire screaming her head off inside of you. You will need to help her heal from The Bean before you can find your way to transcendence and then losing the weight.”

I love this image because it fits. I got it instantly. The Bean is only the second person since Daddy died my inner 7 year-old ever loved and trusted. John, my molesting murderous stalking step-father was the first. After not loving or trusting any man, she loved The Bean. He was fun! He gave her bike, promised to teach her how to do a cartwheel, saw all the good in her–the capacity to trust, to love, to experience, to excel–encouraged her to play, liked how smart she was, and he let her know in a myriad of ways that he would not betray her trust in him. And then he did, which only happened because I–the grown up Jacqueline–let him get close enough to her for her to get hurt. He hurt her. I betrayed her.

Obi-Wan pointed out to me that with The Bean seven-year old Jacquie finally went to sleep and rested. She still would wake up and cry sometimes out of fear, but the fact that I allowed myself to get so close to The Bean that I would allow myself to imagine really being with someone demonstrated my just how far and healthy I am–with her as a part of me. I had earned her trust enough to work through her immature and naive fears, which are never placated with rationality. Nurture yes, but logic no. More than anyone, she trusted me to keep her safe and to tell her who she could trust. More than anyone, she feels I let her down.

Seven year-old Jacquie only knows one way to deal with her terror when she feels she is in a trap where she will lose BIG again. She builds walls…walls of fat. These walls keep the fear at bay, the bad men away, and her safely protected against anymore betrayal or abandonment. They work for her–she is seven after all–but they do not work for me. I am on a journey now to comfort her, build up the trust with her again, and help her to let go of cupcakes making the world tilt right again.

February 28th is my “Reverse Day!” Instead of celebrating the Anniversary of my 28th Birthday, as I have for the last eight years, I am just going to go back this year. So, I am now 35 and have some of my memory back too! I loved being 35, so I think it suits me well! Here are some fun things that I love in honor of my Reverse Day:

Let us begin our gift giving with buying the art work of Philip Brooker. Why? I love how his work is grounded in story and yet some how transcends words with its provocative nature and beauty. I also believe he will be a household name in a year–think of it as a very good investment. You can see his illustrations at www.anicecupoft.com, and be sure to watch the little movie he made starring them.

Doesn’t this photo Barry Lewis took of him just make you smile?

If you can stay seated and listen to TTC’s “Travailler Orgasmic Mix” you must be paralyzed! I am not sure I would have a clue what they are talking about even if my French was better, but DAMN I love this song!

Speaking of things to just out and out love…

I have a major girl crush on Tina Fey. Did you catch this?

Don’t be a hater–I still love me some Obama–but Tina is the SHIT!

I so lust for this bike:

Strong enough for a boy, but made for an ass kickin MTB WOMAN!

Check out hi+lomodern A VINTAGE MODERN DESIGN STORE for some amazing 20th Century artifacts. I love Vera napkins and am always tearing through garage sales and thrift stores looking for them. This poster they have of her work exemplifies the simplicity, bold use of color, and strong lines she is known for:

This ring rocks too:

I cannot tell you how many people have commented when I wore these earrings from Lord & Taylor:

(I gave my pair to a special friend–so Mom…looking for a cool gift for me?)

I love beautiful stationary, and my home town of Coral Gables is sporting one fab store to fall in-love with–Paper and Concept. They have modern, clean stationary, with totally funky touches. I am not one for too much frill or flowers, so I embrace the simplicity of what they selected. I bought these amazing stock fold-over cards and made my own custom seals. I have a yellow fetish at the moment, and the yellow seal I did is so cool I do not want to put it in the mail! If you get it, it is only because I trust your sense of style and know you will appreciate getting it from me! You have to go in person to have the Paper and Concept experience, but their site does give you some of the flavour.

And of course my old standby favourite neighbourhood bookshop–Books and Books.

This is a great place to buy some of my favourite books of all time:

A Wrinkle In Time

Bel Canto

The Time Traveler’s Wife

Here If You Need Me

Honey I Love

Blessing the Boats

And what Reverse Day would be complete without some classic music?

From the Beatles:

And from Queen:

What components make up a “real man?” I hear men talking about not being a “pussy”–i.e. not being a woman–and illuminating the characteristics of being real. These contests often rely more on brawn than the strength of character. You took the dive off the cliff into the ocean’s cool waters. Can you be man enough to leap into a woman’s warm embrace and find solace there? You made the deal of a lifetime. Will you follow-through? You are a good person. Will you live by your word even when it is hard and difficult? Your body can lift the weight of another off the ground. Can you trust another person with your underbelly and know they will not sucker punch you when you are as vulnerable as Atlas?*

I do not think it is easy to be a real man in this unreal world. The weight of the world is firmly placed on men’s shoulders. They bear the burden of protection–physical and financial–from those men and women who utilize their power and brutality to harm the rest of us. Having integrity in the face of a rat race where lying and cheating are expectations, not exceptions, cannot be easy. Working unreal hours must make some men long for the days without electricity, where they were forced to draw up to the fire like Pa Ingalls by seven most nights. How many men do I know who have trouble sleeping? So much to do and so little time. Too much pressure all around to do, to be, to accomplish, to achieve, to surpass. No wonder many of them approach women in much the same manner they would a business deal. What is in it for me?

The so-called Men’s Movement attempts to move men towards a more egalitarian understanding of their gender role in life, while also addressing the often forgotten needs of fathers, the mythology of masculinity, and a reclaiming of it, amongst others. The Promise Keepers charge their followers to adhere to a moral Christian code within the confines of a narrow theology based on misogyny and a broken patriarchy. The gift within the Promise Keepers ideology is its focus on men keeping their word to the women in their lives and calling them to submission to God’s authority over their own self interests. The problem–as is often the case–is whose version of God’s authority wins? The God who smites those he hates? The God who kills the first born children of the enemy? The God who affirms women being seen as chattel? The God who commands colicky babies be smashed against a wall? Or instead will it be the God willing to hang on a tree like so many who are persecuted for their beliefs? Will it be the God of the poor and ill? Will it be the God who calls a woman to lead and not just serve? Will it be the God of Love for all persons, or just the God of persons not unlike themselves?

I see so many men who suffer in this world of flux and responsibility as they seek to rise above the patterns of destruction and disenfranchisement. I cheer them on towards the prize of a life of meaning! I also am cheering one of them on towards finding me, for I know I have the gifts, gumption and giving nature to make a real partnership with someone work. I do not aspire to sucker punch the man of my heart like so many women seem to be doing these days–I know, I keep dating their ex’s. I am so very tired of hearing story after story from men about the inhuman ways women treat them out of spite. Women need to celebrate the beauty and the strength of the men in their lives, and stop with the gender assassination every-time “he” does not do what “she” wants. For myself, I consciously work on never saying “MEN!” in response to some bad thing a particular male person did. I also correct my friends on this point, and name all the singular men of integrity I know–all of whom have an uncommon grace, but are not as rare as some might think.

I, myself, am looking for a man of uncommon grace. After recently finishing Kate Braestrup’s book Here If You Need Me, I felt inspired to articulate ten core qualities he will need to possess. Kate is an Unitarian Universalist minister serving as a Chaplain to the Game Wardens of Maine, and her book speaks of so much of what I find to be meaningful about walking beside people in ordinary and extraordinary ways as a Chaplain. She did not set out on that path, only finding it her calling after her husband died. Towards the end of the book, she writes an amazing passage about a conversation she and her four children have casually one day where they describe what the next man in their lives will be like, having been left hurt and disillusioned by the last. Simple words written by a child’s pencil end up on their fridge, and in time a man fitting those descriptors and so much more comes into all of their lives.

Here are the ten I put on my refrigerator:

1. Funny
2. Integrity
3. Smart
4. No children (or ex-wife)
5. Wants children
6. Willing to go to church
7. Kind hearted
8. Left
9. Serves
10. Active

There are some things, however, I “wish” for but did not make my top ten. Some of them include: rides a bike, reads books, loves dogs, never wears tank tops (click here to find out why), and has a purpose. I think being heterosexual falls into the “goes without saying” category! My friends, The Boys, were quick to point out that they would make the cut on my wishes and needs lists, but alas given they are Gay, they would N.O.T! That is the funny thing about lists, they are just starting off places. I am not looking for anything in anyone I do not have to offer, and I am more than mere words on a page. He must be too.

As I look over the list, I find myself surprised that Plant Geek was really the one person I dated who fit these the very best. And The Bean? He turned out to be 60% Guy. No thank you. I want my 100% Man, with all the surprises of what else makes him unique and special meted out along the way. This is what will make him real to me in the end–the aspects I cannot define but will cherish through the joy of knowing him. And in the meantime, I continue to focus on the joy of being me in the world and on the places I need to grow and change. I have a”little life left in me yet.”

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.**

*”Farnese Atlas” Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, Naples, Italy

The image and idea of the tenderness of men–like Atlas–comes from Norah Vincent’s amazing book Self Made Man.

** From Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”

I wrote the following prayer for “Seminarian Sunday” at my home congregation,

Coral Gables Congregational Church.

Today we come together to not only draw closer to the Source of Love—God—but also to one another. Inspired by this love, some of us have made the journey from the pew to the pulpit. For me, it was one of the hardest and loneliest journeys I ever made; it was also one of the most significant, beautiful and amazing journeys. I can remember being on this very chancel surrounded by more love than I had ever experienced in my whole life–many of you were there. Isn’t it amazing how life is like that? The bitter makes the sweet all that much more meaningful and rich.

Maybe you too have been on a journey like this—from student to teacher, from child to parent, from employee to employer, from caretaker to the one cared for, from married to single or single to married, from healthy to ill, or experienced the renewal of your body following an illness. All of us move from moth to butterfly. The ebb and flow of life continually has us in its grip, smoothing out our rough edges, sloughing away our dirt and grime, shaping us. So, as we pray today, let us pray for all of those on the lonely road of transition and transformation.

Loving God, you know us by heart. You know when we rise and when we fall. From far away you see our hearts and tenderly cradle us in your arms of comfort and rest. Even when we long for touch, connection, and love—we are not alone. You are with us. Hear our prayer.

We pray for all those who hear you asking, “Whom shall I send?” Help us to bravely venture forward and say, “Here I am Lord, send me.” May we hear you whispering in our ears to love your children more fully today.

We pray for all those who sacrifice the prestige, wealth and comfort they see their peers obtain in order to humble themselves before the hurting world. Be with them and all who sacrifice their comfort for your good.

We pray for those who fear paying their bills, feeding their family, getting the car fixed, or losing their home. You have given us enough resources and the creativity to take care of one another—help us to let go of our greed so everyone has what they need.

We pray for those who feel isolated and alone as they struggle to transform their body, their mind, their heart, their spirit. Change is never easy, but it is always constant in our lives. Change hurts, and pain is so isolating—even from you dear God. May your hand place a healing balm in our lives and may we feel carried by those who love us.

We pray for those facing a spiritual crisis today, trying to sort out the facts from the mythology, the truth from the minutia, the hope from the despair. May your cloud by day and fire by night illuminate our path and help us come to a place of imagination in what is possible and acceptance in the beauty of the questions.

We pray for those who are looking today for the face of God—waiting expectantly for just one person to listen, care, be tender, forgive, understand or hold. May we be your face of unconditional love in the world.

We pray for transformation, sweet Jesus. We pray to be made new. Come and see the deepest part of our hearts, and revive us so we might be strengthened to love again today. Hear our prayer.

Amen.

I love my niece Morgan. She is smart, wicked funny, hard working, kind and helpful. She is also a smart ass and quite possibly the world’s worst driver. Ever since she realized she could get her Driving Permit at fifteen, she begged to drive. Of course this meant that by the time fifteen rolled around, dear Morgan was sure she already knew everything there was to know about driving, and she graduated herself a world class driver. Unfortunately, this is really only true if there are no other cars, humans, animals, traffic signals, speed limits, or state governments. She has been driving for almost four years, but spent a good six months of that with a suspended license courtesy of the State of Georgia. A friend’s head in the windshield of the Suburban she totaled…moving violations untold…accidents, bumpings and scratchings of other vehicles, and girfriend has yet to get a clue.

Now her need to reform her driving skills with intention is a topic for another day. Today’s topic is her current cockamamie scheme to get a new car. Morgan has an alcoholic truck to haul her horse around, but the car she was driving committed suicide on a mountain road. (Maybe it thought it should just give up before she plowed it into someone or something and it died a wretched mangled death?) Her parents found a reasonably priced used Jetta and began to investigate the soundness of the engine. When Sista told this to Morgan she said, “Well Mom, that sounds good, but I was thinking about getting a new Scion.” (Huh?) “The car costs only eighteen thousand dollars, and I found this really great loan where I can just pay the interest for ten years, and then start on the principle. The only catch is that I need you to co-sign.”

There really is nothing quite like paying down an eighteen thousand dollar loan on a ten year-old car!

I just about fell apart laughing til I pooted and cried when Sista told me this story.  Never fear I am laughing with my dear sweet Morgan! I know better than to laugh at her–I used to BE HER! The only difference to my cockamamie schemes were that they always contained an altruistic spin. If I had proposed this to Miss Audrey, I would have put it this way: “Mom, let’s borrow twenty thousand dollars–eighteen for the car and then I can give the other two thousand to charity!”

Let me give you a real example from the annals of my own childhood of my altruistic scheming: I once convinced my Cousin Bopper that we needed to stay up after our bedtime at our Grandmother’s house and then proceed to make Tollhouse Chocolate Cookies as a “surprise” for our family. You know, there is nothing quite like the early morning surprise of a freshly baked cookie. I could see my mother, aunts and Grandmother awaken at seven in the morning. They would pad out to the kitchen to begin making a breakfast of eggs, grits and sausage. And then it would hit them! They would want a chocolate chip cookie! But dear God there were none at my Grandmother’s house!  What horror and longing they would experience!  Someone had to come to their rescue, so I devised a plan to ensure their deepest desire and NEED would be met. (I am kind like that.)  Cousin Bopper and I would make the cookies! Oh the joy they would experience in the morning because of our willing sacrifice!

The plan was simple: We would stay awake until everyone went to sleep. We would get up and make the cookies. Of course our Grandmother’s home was not that big, and the sound of the beaters might wake up our family and ruin the surprise. The only solution to this problem was to make the cookies in my Grandmother’s single car garage--right on the hood of her white Fleetwood Cadillac!

Maybe we did not get in too much trouble when my Aunt Gail (Bopper’s Mama) found us in the garage because cockamamie schemes are a family tradition. Our mothers are just two of eight, so when family stories include thrown rotten tomatoes, diarrhea in the foyer of a neigbouring apartment building, and exploding cans of tar “someone” threw on a fire, they tend not too be too upset about making cookies on a Fleetwood.

Either that, or they too really wanted a Tollhouse with their morning coffee!

So here’s to Morgan and all the other women of my family who have yet to see a problem and not creatively come up with a cockamamie scheme and solution!

My friend Pixie and I recently began a series of conversations about yummy older men we know. She takes her son to a sexy sixty-something therapist who projects confidence, knowledge and humor in such a way Pixie is more than a tad mesmerized. I have The Scoundrel, amongst others. We agree these men project a kind of allure younger men just do not possess; but why? What makes these men so interesting and intriguing to two thirty-something young women who normally date men YOUNGER than they are?

Now the simple answer might be: You girls have Father issues! I agree we need to consider this possibility, but for myself I reject this explanation. For one thing, spending $100,000 on therapy dealt with the vast majority of my issues. For another, I have been blessed by having a whole series of lovely men serve as mentors to my life in one way or another: Steve Gilchrist, Kirk Whiteside, Tommy Russell, Dennis Nason, Joe Holland, Joe Moran, Raymond Hargrove, Richard Congdon and Bill Koch…to name a few. These men filled the gaps the death of my father and the arrival of John created for me. At all the points in my growing up excellent role models of what it meant to be a man of integrity met me where I was and nurtured me. For me, I reject the idea of my attraction to an older man being equated to unfulfilled Father needs; Pixie will need to speak for herself!

I must admit how surprised I am to find older men so deeply attractive at this juncture of my life, for I have coveted younger men. Feeling I arrived at the Party of Life so late, I really felt owed a younger man with whom I could build the life I thought I might want with the “right person.” I wanted my chance at bat without the already told stories of ex-wives, children, or dreams broken. I wanted my own love story no one else ever had, and I felt I deserved it because of everything I went through to even get to the Party of Life at all. I can remember when I first started dating The Bean feeling like all the shit of the past was somehow more bearable because the path finally revealed a boy who was excited about who I was in the world and who did not seem intimidated by me or my gifts. Appearances were misleading in that regards, but it did fulfill a fantasy of a sort…for a time. In retrospect, I realize his presence also revealed a deep need in me–namely my desire to be with someone who is excited about who I am and what I bring to the world. I also want to feel that way about him.

I think part of why I never thought much about men older than me relates to my mother marrying someone 19 years her senior–twice! In fact, her current husband is her youngest one ever at just 16 years older. I saw a beautiful 39 year-old woman bury her husband, and Daddy being older played a role in his death. My half sisters had him into their twenties. I could not help but think if Mother had married someone younger I would not have lost my Dad at six. I just could never understand what she found so damn attractive in him when she was 32 and he was 51. I did not understand until Maria’s funeral.

At Maria’s funeral, her husband spoke. His eulogy marked her life and his own. He made the comment: “Forty years ago I can remember being a young man and wondering what my life would be–how it would turn out. Now most of life’s questions have been answered…” In that one moment, I got it. I understood how Daddy offered Mother a man who was not lost or searching to figure out who he was in the world. He offered her a man who possessed self assurance and was settled. He had already become. Mother, at 32, also had already become. She had her own money, a career to be proud of, position, clout, and most importantly, Mother knew exactly who she was.

Pixie and I have been dating all these boys who whine and moan about not knowing what they want to be when they finally grow up. When exactly that will be, we really do not know. I read that adolescence has been extended way past where Evolution would place it because of all of our modern luxuries, and I must say I believe this to be true. How many men do I meet who are in their late twenties or thirties who still have no idea who they are, what they want to contribute to the good of the world, or what passion lights their fire? I know plenty of men who have no idea where they stand on any number of issues–other than a cursory “yes” or “no”–and I know plenty of men more than willing to highlight all of the problems in others or in the world but never willing to do one damn thing about any of it or the shit in their own lives! These same men seem to always meet women not up to their standards, calling many of the women they meet “irrational, emotional, crazy bitches.” And–here is the real kicker–they would rather be with the “crazy bitch” who tells them exactly who they are than be with the woman who wants to know them and delight in their dreams for their life coming true!

I cannot help but wonder: Is it wrong to want to be with a man who does not call his friends a “pussy” when they do not “man-up” and do something the Boy-Code demands? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who wants to spend time cozying up to your pussy, but who also does not think you are just a piece of ass? Is is wrong to want to be with a man who can handle listening to your perspective without needing to call you a cunt behind your back when you are right and he is wrong? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who admires you and in whom you can be proud?

No.

But why does it seem these men only come in older packages these days?

I do believe there is such a thing as too old. The widower of a former patient who is in his eighties likes to tell me how he is in love with me and invites me to live in his home. Silly me, but I do not think it is real love. I think he just needs someone to empty his urinal! He keeps saying to me, “Age is only a number.” Yes; if you are an older man and win the Evolutionary Lottery and have a younger woman interested in you. But when she rejects you because you are too old, it is because age is the only number that counts. As I asked my friend Stepford, “Is there such a thing as too young for an older man?” Probably not. But there is such a thing as too old for us younger girls. Pixie and I will keep up the debate about the age threshold, and keep admiring those yummy older men we know. How could we not? They are self-assured sexy personified!

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

This is the Eulogy I wrote for my patient I called “My Love.” Maybe you will see a small part of yourself in times of great struggle when you read this:

As I began to think about what I wanted to say about my dear patient—whom I loved greatly and who I know loved me as well—I kept hearing the song from “The Sound of Music” in my head where the nuns sing: “How do you solve a problem like Maria? How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?” “Maria” was definitely a firecracker and a moonbeam! In all honesty, I did not meet the same Maria her family describes because in many ways that version of her never existed in the same way after she after her hospice admission in April of 2005. Maria never could fully accept the myriad of her life changes or heal into the person who rose from those ashes. And yet, her spirit—that “moonbeam”—could not be stopped by COPD or hospice…even if Maria struggled to see that for herself at times.

I once asked her to describe her life before she took that long last final terminal turn. She told me how much she “enjoyed her children” and how they had “always been [her] heart’s desire.” Children and animals…Maria drew close to her the tiniest and the most tender. She described herself as being handy, artistic, creative, fun, funny, and “a pleasure to be around.” She also felt like the disease not only was choking the life out of her body, but also that the process had stolen all the life out of living in the here and now. This was the Maria—“My Love” as I usually called her —whom I met in September of 2006. I met a woman ravaged by a disease and full of dis-ease as a result.

It was love at first sight. You may find this so odd given I am standing here breaking the cardinal rule of Memorial Services and talking about the tough stuff! Knowing My Love as I did, I think she would be proud of me for being willing to be honest about just how “shitty” this was for her these last few years. And no, she would not mind one bit that the Minister said “shitty”—it was a favourite word of hers after all! (She also had a way with the f-word, something I appreciated, but let’s have a tiny bit of decorum here.) I also know she would be proud of me for seeing into her—into her deepest most beautiful and hurting heart—she liked to say to me, “Intimacy means “into-me-see.” And I did see her intimately—broken, anxious, hurting, longing, suffering, grieving, wanting, hoping, searching, funny, smart, creative, insightful, wise, kind, loving, honest—brutally honest. I heard her laugh, rubbed her back as she cried, kissed her cheek, had her frail arms embrace me, and her hand cup my face—not to mention I have been the recipient of her pointed right finger on more than one occasion! I am so sad that I will not see her again…and I am so happy for her that she finally has the peace she sought and needed so desperately.

Part of why I love her so much relates to the tenacity she showed to stay her course no matter what. We all suffer in prisons of our own making, but even in those places where we are literally marking the days on the wall, life is possible. I read about how Nelson Mandela kept a garden on Robbins Island, where he was a prisoner for 27 years. He said it was his lifesaver. Maria kept a garden of her own in many ways. From little rituals that defined her life, to meaningful friendships where the introduction was based on her decline, not her beauty, wit or brains. She tried to sort out the story of her life, to try and find meaning with the terribly unfair thing that had happened to her. She tried to grieve all she lost on the way to losing her life. She sought peace. Maria showed unparalleled strength and courage in the face of devastation. She held on—tightly, mind you—for so much longer than most of us could even imagine doing if we were in her place.

Like all of us, she would often ask me why this had happened to her. She blamed herself for ever smoking, but I am here today to promise you that none of us “deserves” to have our breath taken away from us by a terrible disease. I know it is such a normal human desire to try and make sense of things by figuring out the cause-and-effect. Let me tell you the universal truth of why we suffer: We suffer because we do…it is part of what it means to be human. Human beings break—mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. The Blame Game never leads to healing, and when we break, to have courage to try and heal in the face of that brokenness—well that is true bravery. Maria had a brave spirit because she tried, and she held on, and she continued to laugh for as long as she possibly could—even when it was through her panic and tears. Yes, even this last month of her life when she became too weary to talk most of the time, she would carefully spit out each and every word of a zinger and make her family laugh!

Maria was not a superhero; she was just a woman…a human being like all of us here. She never walked on the moon. She never received a miraculous healing and lived to tell about it on Oprah. She never won the adulation of the masses or had her words or artwork revered. But she was a ray of light—a moonbeam to those of us here—and that was something her disease never stole from her. As each of us carries some part of her humor, her love, her life, her mischief, her spirit, her story in our own hearts, she continues to live on and bless us. I don’t think she would want it any other way.

Closing Prayer for Maria’s Celebration of Life:

God, we possess great imagination about who you might be, and we cling to the ideas about you our brothers and sisters share. Our brother David said you know everything about us…that you examine our hearts. Do you know each moment we sit or stand? Do you really count the hairs on our heads? We need you to, for we suffer and need to know you are with us even in the darkest place or the deepest valley. Find us and comfort us with your tender embrace.

God, we wonder if you know our thoughts when we are far away from you? Come quickly and hear them now sweet Shepard. We are full of love, remembrance, humor, and longing for our dear beloved Maria. We are so grateful she can breathe deeply now because her lungs, spirit and mind are at peace, and we are so sad that we will only hear her laughter in our memories. Comfort each one here—especially her family—and may the promise be true that if we ride the wings of the morning or dwell by the farthest oceans, even there your hand will guide us and your strength will support us. And help us to hold tightly to all of our stories, memories and love of Marsha, so we might speak of her and keep her spirit alive within us for as long as we live. Amen.

Sometimes I fall in-love very easily and shamelessly with my patients. I do not mean to speak of romantic love, but instead of how a special spark will exist and you just love instantly as a result. I recognize how common threads from my life and theirs act as catalysts, but sometimes I am at a total loss for why I feel so compelled by them and their stories, loved ones, life, illness, etc. I had two different “Jacquelines” this year, so I think we can easily trace why they were special to me right from the start! My nurse Wendy and I fell in-love instantly with “Yoda” and for no other reason than the man was a complete gentleman. I also think the way he would speak of his wife and how he longed to see her again touched me deeply–both in my understanding of how death does not end love and in my own longings to have a man feel that way about me. And then there is my patient I always referred to as “My Love.”

Whenever I would come into her home I would say, “Hello My Love, tell me about you today.” If I said, “How are you?” she would always reply, “How the hell do you think I am?” I always met that with a snappy, “Shitty for sure, but better now that I am here!?” (smirk included free of charge) She would snarl and laugh all at the same time! My Love suffered with COPD and with the horrible box of living with a terminal disease. Dis-ease all around her, I felt from the very beginning of our time together in September 2006 that she suffered from Complicated Mourning. The DSM IV (the psychological diagnostic Bible) basically says one suffers from Complicated Mourning when after a year from the initial time of the loss one still experiences the loss in the same way as when the loss first occurred. In other words, one never moves beyond the initial grief reaction. Imagine if you learned of the death of your closest friend…hold that thought, feeling, body trauma for just a moment. Now imagine never letting that feeling morph and heal, but instead staying exactly the same always. Complicated Mourning occurs most commonly after sudden traumatic losses, including but not limited to: homicides, death of a child, multiple losses or concurrent losses, and/or suicide. In the case of My Love, the person she saw herself to be died when she entered hospice in April of 2005, and she never could fully grieve the myriad of her life changes or heal into the person who rose from those ashes.

I can remember feeling intimidated walking up to her large home for the first time…what turned out to be a very pretty prison of her own making. I greeted the most beautiful woman. In her mid-sixties, she could have passed for being in her forties but for her hands, which belonged to a woman thirty years her senior. Her hands told the story of her weakened lungs, weakened resolve, weakened resilience. I always notice people’s hands–even as a child I would compare my own to my Mother’s and Grandmother’s all through the church services. Her hands continued to tell her story in that they were most often clenched. She would sit in her recliner, leaning back to her left with her left hand tight and her right arm locked out straight to her seat. She would wag her right index finger at you to make a point, but the rest of her hand stayed firm. Her hands never lied about how desperately she was holding on, and they never lied about how desperately she was living.

I think of my “Patient Zero” as a mother from when I served as a Youth Minister in North Carolina. She and her husband–both lawyers–engaged in one of the bloodiest divorces I ever witnessed, and I only saw the aftermath. She also had Breast Cancer with mets to her liver. I visited her at Duke after a surgery to help with the spread of the cancer in her liver. Her goal simple: Live until her 10 year-old turned 18. God forbid her former husband raise her or interact with her more than the bare minimum the court ordered! She too held on tightly. She told me as I stood by her bedside following the surgery how she prayed God would help her to let go of holding on with such vigor and desperation. She did not pray for her whole hand to unfurl, but instead she asked God to come and loosen just the tiny tip of her pinkie finger so she might breathe a bit easier. With this image in mind, I often find myself praying the very same thing–for myself and for my patients.

When I left My Love’s home after our first visit, I leaned in close to her and said, “My prayer for you is that you will have just one minute of peace each day. I am not naive. I do not think a feeling of peace will just overtake you out of nowhere. But I do believe one extra minute per day is possible. This is my prayer.” She gripped my hand with her right hand and said, “You understand. Thank you. Yes; pray for that for me.”

See My Love was so terribly stuck. She was near death when she came onto hospice in 2005, but after a drug allergy diagnosis and correction she rallied. When the old version of herself died, so did all her dreams of  this being something she could and would beat. Imagine a plane circling the airport–which in this case represented death–day-after-day but never flying anywhere either. She was terrified of getting sick, and subsequently her precious grandchildren represented the kiss of death. She also missed them terribly and longed to hold them, play with them, and witness the intricacies of their growing up. This is just one example of the ways she held onto her life but never really lived. My Love was so terribly stuck.

My Love never could consciously release herself from her ritualistic hovering over death. A fall a few months ago, and a series of events began to unravel her desperate hold onto a life she hated and hated to have any change to. At the beginning of December her husband moved her to an inpatient facility when her death became more imminent. I visited her there often, and would look painfully upon her still clenched hands. After her death this past Thursday, I sat in the same Family Room where she lived in isolation for these last two and a half years…a room without her chair, hospital bed, commode, mirror, eye brow pencil, pashmina, blush, and oxygen. A room without her. Her family looked at me excitedly and her daughter related something they just had to tell me: “Her hands were at peace the last two days. We noticed it and thought we had to tell you because you would be so glad to know she stopped holding them so tightly. She died with her hands open and at peace.”

Why her? Why did I fall in-love with her? She was a bright, enthusiastic, funny, creative, sarcastic, honest, lonely, hurting, broken woman. I do not know what to say beyond that I loved her deeply because I did. She never “earned” my love…in fact she tried it more than once. I just know I loved her right exactly where she was–clenched hands and all. Her husband asked me to officiate at her funeral. He knows the day of her funeral is also my last day with hospice, so he called it “poetic justice” that my last responsibility for hospice is her funeral. I fully agree, but even if I had already left I still would have done it for her…anything for My Love.

The first time I can ever remember feeling that I loved someone just because they existed and because of who they were to me was when I was three and thought the preacher’s son was just soooo cute. He came to my fourth birthday party, and I knew it was love. The kind of love I practiced with my Barbie and Ken or between Snoopy and every other toy I possessed. He played the Toilet Paper Mummy Game with me, lurking quietly most of the time. In retrospect, the boy had to have hated being forced to go to some younger girl’s party. I was oblivious to this, and only thought he was soooo perfect to marry one day. I cried the day his father announced they were leaving the church. I only saw him one more time–on a visit back to Miami when I was in the eighth grade. I felt relieved that the love one feels at four can be gotten out of at 14! My first love–who never really knew I or my love existed–morphed into a jerk in a military school uniform! What was I thinking?

me at four

Falling in-love and wondering “What was I thinking?” seem to go hand-in-hand sometimes. We humans spend vast quantities of time, money and attention trying to sort out just why it is we fall in-love. Whole forests have given their lives for this exercise…with us waxing poetic, writing and re-writing love letters, and making music for some love who just has to know how we feel about them or feel about their departure from our lives. Whole blogs too! (But I am not naming any names here…gotta have some self-respect!) Yet we still seem at such a loss. Why is it after all these years we still don’t have a clue? Maybe it is because Evolution is such a slow and painstaking process? Or maybe we really do not want to know–it would ruin it for everyone!?

My friend Paulina Ballerina differs from me greatly when it comes to love. She believes that you fall in-love first, and then over time you may find the person worthy of your deep true love. She has been with her current beau for almost two years, and she readily admits she is “in-love” with him. She also says she could love him, but she does not–yet. After two years? I find her position amazing and a bit ludicrous as well. No wonder I am her opposite. I tend to love first, and then if I really love someone and trust them I may begin to allow myself the luxury of falling in-love as well. In my relationships of any sort, I love easily. I look to the good in those around me and value who they are right from the start. “Love” seems the only word fitting for what I see in them and cherish. Opening up my heart to fall in-love, well…that is a whole other matter. For me, falling in-love is a byproduct of trust and quite honestly I never have been in-love.

I find no small measure of shame mentioning this given my age–36–and general sense that I am in fact not the kind of girl boys like, let alone fall for. Dave The Porn Guy (don’t even get me started on how the minister knows the porn producer) put it to me this way: “Just cause a girl is a ten in the categories of personality, intelligence, generosity and success, does not mean she will find a man. She has to be at least a seven in the looks category to get a man of equal or greater value. So, if you are a one or a two in the looks category, and you are a ten in the other areas, you have three choices–1) Give up on finding a man who is your equal emotionally and intellectually. Those guys can get any girl they want because women do not put the same emphasis on looks and so even if they are butt ugly they can land an all-around 10; 2) Become a lesbian; or 3) Go for the loser who works at McDonald’s and who feels grateful to land any girl, even one smarter, who makes more money, and who has a better background than he does. He is a one and won’t balk at dating a one.”

So falling in-love has to do with being a one versus a ten, instead of being “the one?”

I do not agree with all of Dave The Porn Guy’s assessment of the situation–consider the source after all. The guy left his PhD program to make porn, find easy “hott” ass, and avoid depth at all costs. He also refuses to be with the woman he calls the “love of [his] life” out of what seems to amount to just old fashioned fear. However, Dave The Porn Guy did hit a nerve with me reminiscent of how I felt about myself when I was three and four. Even at that young age I felt embarrassed by my feelings. I also felt out-of-control. The little boy did not like me, and I had all these feelings for him. How could I feel something for someone and they not feel it back? These feelings left me vulnerable to ridicule and to others having power over me. How easily my little girl friends could shame me with a few teasing comments! Somehow I equated this vulnerability to my not being worthy of him–or anyone else for that matter–falling in-love with me. Listening to Dave The Porn Guy punch me in every soft underbelly spot of fear I have posses woke me up a bit. Maybe no one ever falls in-love with me because I walk around certain they never could?

No wonder I look for all the good in someone and have to trust them deeply before I can ever even ponder falling in-love with them…it is just too risky otherwise.

Just like any good Beauty Pageant Contestant, I want peace on Earth.

Here are some of my favourite readings and quotes about Peace:

From Peace Pilgrim:

This is the way of peace: overcome evil with good, and falsehood with truth, and hatred with love.

Let There Be Peace On Earth

words by Jill Jackson and Sy Miller

Let there be peace on earth,
and let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on Earth,
the peace that was meant to be.
With God as our Father,
brothers all are we,
Let me walk with my brother,
in perfect harmony.
Let peace begin with me,
let this be the moment now.
With every step I take,
let this be my solemn vow,
To take each moment and live each moment
in peace, eternally.
Let there be Peace on Earth,
and let it begin with me.

Mahatma Gandhi Quotes

I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.

You must be the change you want to see in the world.

When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always.

Peace Prayer

by St. Francis of Assisi

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
Where there is hatred,Let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is error, truth;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, Joy.

O Divine Master grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

From His Holiness the Dali Lama:

I believe that to meet the challenges of our times, human beings will have to develop a greater sense of universal responsibility. Each of us must learn to work not just for oneself, one’s own family or nation, but for the benefit of all humankind. Universal responsibility is the key to human survival. It is the best foundation for world peace.

When we feel love and kindness toward others, it not only makes others feel loved and cared for, but it helps us also to develop inner happiness and peace.

Howard Nemerov, the poet:

Religion and science both profess peace (and the sincerity of the professors is not being doubted), but each always turns out to have a dominant part in any war that is going or contemplated.

The Buddha:

Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.

Jesus:

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.

Okay, let’s get the shameless bragging out of the way: Naomi Klein said I was “brilliant.” Well, what she actually said was that my question “was so brilliant, [she] could not restate it” for the crowd. That’s right! She said I asked a “brilliant” question. She spoke at my home church about her latest book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. Here is a short film Alfonso Cuaron made with her about the focus of the book:

She spoke at length about whenever a large scale trauma happens to us–either as individuals or as a larger human community–we seek to try and find meaning. We look to others, specifically leaders of our faith, civic, interpersonal or political groups, to help narrate for us the meaning. A quick example would be the outpouring of trust given W following September 11, 2001. So many people looked to him to help point the way, provide assurance, and lead us through a time of great fear and loss. This is a natural and normal response to grief of any kind–and I say this as one who is an “expert” on grief. The problem comes when those we look to utilize our vulnerability to capitalize on it and push through harmful agendas. On the individual level, I see those in my bereavement support group struggling with the painful comments others make to try and help them “get over” the traumatic loss of their loved one. Naomi Klein’s point is: As a society we are taken advantage of in times of crises when our leaders push through dangerous and corrupt laws we would never agree to in times of harmony. Think: Patriot Act!

My question was this: If I as a chaplain and Ordained Minister have to work so hard to help those facing individual crises re-narrate these losses so they can be incorporated into their lives in such a way that leads to more joy, more love, more hope, more imagination–more authentic living WITH the loss, how in the world can we help society as a whole? I do not know the answer to my own question, but I want to work on it. Do you have any ideas?

My friend Pixie gave me the single best Christmas gift: A tee shirt emblazoned with “Naomi Klein said I was brilliant.” The word “brilliant” was bedazzled!!! Ooolaalaa!

I am applying to Vanderbilt’s Graduate Department of Religion, and today finalized my application. W00T! (Which, is now officially a word.) Here is my Statement of Purpose, a.k.a. why the heck I would want to subject myself to more education and debt:

In order to understand why I am applying to Vanderbilt’s Graduate Religion Department’s program in Religion, Psychology, and Culture, I must first paint for you the two important intersections of my life these last eighteen months. The first road began when I started dating an atheist. Yes, once upon a time an atheist and a minister met and fell for each other. Despite the curious rumblings of friends and family, he proved to be the one person (thus far) most similar to me when it came to the questioning the role of religion in society, the individuality of the faith story/existential quandary, and the core essence of spirituality, namely curiosity. We asked similar questions, and while we fell to either side of a dividing line due to differing conclusions, we could easily reach the other one over that line.

Our conversations awoke a deep need and desire in me to discuss the fragile and hurting world through the lenses of Pastoral Care, with its tenets of “being” and “healing,” and logic. I had already read Rabbi Lerner’s The Left Hand of God, but he pushed me to read Neo-Atheists such as Harris, Hitchens, and Dawkins, as well as the economist Naomi Klein and philosopher Jamie Whyte, among others. We began a blog reflecting the core issues we felt must be addressed for the future of humanity. He wanted his voice to be one of reason and science in the face of religiosity and mythology. I wanted mine to be the voice of a servant to the hearts and minds of hurting people with a strong commitment to logic. After we parted ways, I struggled to find ways to continue this conversation. I began my own blog and reworked the one we started. I kept reading. I volunteered and started a chapter of “Drinking Liberally” in order to meet other people to talk with about these things, but these actions are not enough. So, on one hand, I am applying because of a post break-up intellectual void. I need the conversation, discipline, exposure and mentoring only a graduate program can offer me at this point intellectually.

The other trajectory of my life unfolded for me by working as a hospice chaplain. I currently serve as a Home Team Chaplain in a middle to upper-middle class area. My typical patient is over sixty years of age, most likely Jewish or Roman Catholic, married, and retired. Repeatedly I heard the same story of faith narrated to me, and I began to call my patients and their families “The New Agnostics.” [1] I described them as such because regardless of what faith tradition they report historical and familial roots to, their descriptions matched one another. I see three distinct characteristics in this group: 1) A move away from the precepts of their historical religion, while still keeping some limited rituals from the tradition; 2) The centrality of a benign and altruistic God, who is best exemplified by the love of their family and/or friends; and 3) An co-opting of language, ritual, belief, and values specific to traditions other than their own seen as being coherent with their own spirituality. On the whole, they eschew attendance to services, with only some Catholics wanting a ritual visit from a priest—one they almost always have no connection with whatsoever. For example, I provided care to a woman who left Reformed Judaism for Kabbalah, only to not be connected at all but who reported that the two most important factors of her faith were “The Golden Rule and Karma.” Often to my surprise, they have read, seen or otherwise been influenced by the writings of the current Neo-Atheist movement. [2] They disagree, and still believe in “a higher power,” but they keep reading them and report to me the “good points” raised. Paradoxically, when they move away even from this kind of agnosticism and completely abandon their faith, or spirituality it is almost without fail due to the love of family or friends no longer being available to them. The larger systems of community or congregation based social interaction no longer provide “back-up” to their individualized spiritual belief.

By comparison, when I worked in Chicago as the Pastoral Care Resident for the Trauma Department, I saw young men of colour replace their family of origin with their family of choice—namely their gang affiliation. The search for meaning so great, that even in the face of the failure of society as a whole to address the needs of persons of colour—whether that be by the modalities of education, employment, access to services such as healthcare or training—another type of connection was found without regard for its inherent destructive nature. I saw a whole generation eschewing the spirituality of their mothers and grandmothers and a kind of unidentified atheism within them. This was in sharp contrast to the agrarian based spirituality I encountered in North Carolina regardless of economic or educational background. In other words, the types of spiritual crises I minister to has been largely dependent on geographies, economics and education. And within these larger structures of society, fractured, discarded, or amalgamated religious belief emerges.

I firmly believe humanity is at a crossroads where the potential for radical change—if not total abandonment—of our religious systems is imminent. The rise of fundamentalism across the globe speaks to a deep spiritual hunger, as well as an economic and educational famine the whole of humanity must contend with, but especially those of us in the One-Third World. I fully own that my own practice has thus far been limited to those living within the luxuries of the One-Third World, even as they are sometimes impoverished within it. What I see as opportunistic from a Pastoral Care standpoint is the types of interventions we offer as providers are more needed now—on both the individualistic and societal levels—than ever before. While at the same time, I also see a need to rethink these interventions outside of the systematic hermeneutics most seminaries ascribe. I want to be a part of this re-tooling and creation, and I want to be able to both research emerging spiritualities and teach how to provide essential spiritual care that creates an opportunity for genuine healing even in places where traditional religiosity has been abandoned. Let me be clear: I believe religion on the whole has failed, and I want to be a part of the phoenix of faith rising from her ashes.

The esoteric and existential questions posed to me now by my patients and their caregivers require me to “sit Shiva” with the failures of the religions of my patients. As a result, I provide care to people whose spiritual needs are much more difficult to map than ever before. I know my Spiritual Assessment skills are excellent. I even surprised one of my supervisors in Chicago—the inimitable George Fitchett—with the depth of information I garnered from my patients during my Residency! I can see all of the intersections, but my studies have not always prepared me for these emerging spiritualities, and what to do when they are in-fact in crisis. What interventions can be offered when the replacement spirituality no longer works? The emphasis on “being” with those we care for is important, but spiritual care providers are asked profound questions related to meaning. Although I do not believe we ought to answer these outright for those we serve, I do think our active listening, teaching, preaching and other interactions must reflect an understanding of what is at stake for those we care for.

My theological education provided some helps, especially Mary McClintock Fulkerson’s approach to Theology from a perspective of practice and story. Also, I took two spirituality classes with Father Phillip Leach, which I still find invaluable in my own practice but more from the standpoint of self-care than application. Admittedly, I did not study Pastoral Care while in seminary. Finding myself to be a “duck to water” (per Nape Baker, my first Supervisor) during my CPE Internship was a surprise, and my own interests centered more on Medical Ethics at the time than the philosophy of Pastoral Care or Psychology. In fact, as I researched PhD programs while in my CPE Residency at Rush, I looked for programs where by I would be exposed to the theories behind the practices.[3] I am an avid reader, so I have sought out books on my own and read psychological theories on-line, but I see the places where I lack the theory behind the practice. In large part, I believe this program will fill in those gaps and accelerate my own thinking and practice.

I also see the ways these emerging expressions of spiritual thought influence me. For example, so greatly has my own understanding of the need to speak of God without imperatives become that I no longer speak of my own beliefs as being normative, but instead temper with “God is for me…” in all of my interactions and writing. I see the issue of faith and its efficacy impacting my colleagues…oftentimes, ministers—even those from the more progressive traditions—in theological crisis. We are wholly affected by the ponderings of those we care for, but we are not wholly supported in trying to flesh out the implications of these questions on our own spirituality and pastoral care practice. I see ways of negotiating these waters, but often lack the time, training, or resources to work on these dilemmas to benefit my colleagues and myself. One recent success stemmed from teaching my fellow chaplains about how to incorporate Healing Touch modalities into their practices, and it was also taking a course in Healing Touch that led me to seek a PhD program now. I came away from the seminar knowing I needed an opportunity to take my practice to a new level and to be able to offer a wider array of interventions for those I care for. Lastly, I do not think we speak often enough of the manipulative nature of the “helping professions,” which is why I think these issues are not just paramount to those we tend to but also to ourselves. How do we arrive at our own theological clarity (not to be confused with certainty)? For without this we are more susceptible to compassion fatigue, manipulation and the eroding of our own healthy boundaries.

When I am asked why I am applying to Vanderbilt’s PhD program I answer this way: I want to study emerging spiritualities, specifically Neo-Agnostics and Neo-Atheism and the Pastoral Care emergency they generate not only in the types and efficacy of interventions offered, but also the spiritual crisis that can result for the provider when the failures of systematic doctrines are exposed through logic and science. Quite honestly, most people shake their heads and roll their eyes a bit. However, there are the few—especially some of my pastoral care colleagues—who pump their fists up and down and say, “Yes! Yes! We need that!” One such colleague, Paul Veliyathil, who is from India, an avid student of Eastern philosophy and spirituality, and of the Disciples of Christ tradition commented to me when I first began my application process, “You are on the cusp of it all. This is what it is all about, but no one teaches these things or talks so much about them. As long as the conversation continues to only mention emerging spiritualities or give passing reference to the Ancient Eastern Philosophical mindset, we will not be able to provide the type of care needed desperately for our patients and for the world as a whole.” I will admit that his words have been a comfort to me these last three months because it is one thing to be fully convinced that you are on the right track for yourself—it is another to inspire others to support you in that pursuit.

Another person who added an unexpected blessing to my thinking and process is Naomi Klein. She recently spoke at my congregation about her book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. I found myself fascinated by her use of narrative language in framing the societal hunger for meaning following a disaster. One of Duke’s many gifts to me has been the theological emphasis of the Divinity School on Narrative Theology. I asked her how she would suppose to offer wide-scale healing when in my own work as a chaplain dealing with individuals in crisis demonstrates just how difficult intentionality towards healing often is. She commented that my question was “brilliant” but that she is more focused on identifying the issues and not on offering the solutions.

I, for one, want to be a part of creatively thinking about healing paradigms and how they might be offered to individuals and communities. As my Spiritual Director in North Carolina once commented to me: “You are called by God once and for all and called by name, but what God will call you to, Jacqueline, will change over time.” I know that I want to first have the opportunity to learn and add more theory to my practice, but I also want to be a part of a wider conversation about how we prepare seminarians for ministry in this ever-evolving world where access to information has created unparalleled spiritual diversity. I hope that at some juncture I will be able to serve in a hospital again, where I would like to do research and work on the application of emergent spiritual models in crisis situations. I also know that my future is unwritten and yet to be explored. I recognize some hurdles in-front of me, including mastery of French, which was not needed on the side of the tracks I grew up on! But I also see an amazing opportunity for me if accepted to Vanderbilt, and an opportunity for Vanderbilt to benefit from my experiences, gifts and enthusiasm.

Respectfully submitted by Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

1. I am now familiar with Winifred Gallagher’s book by the same name, but I was not when these thoughts began for me.

2. I realize calling it a “movement” might be seen as a leap, but I really do see an emerging “evangelical” atheist movement. The blog de-conversion.com with its accompanying forum is a good example of the by-products of this movement.

3. I seriously investigated two other similar programs, but in talking to colleagues who attended these institutions and those who attended Vanderbilt, I came away feeling that your program and faculty would be the best fit for me.

I wrote the following piece for my company’s bi-annual Memorial Gathering to honor those who have died with our hospice. The theme for this season’s services is “The Light of Love.” The first section focuses on “The Light of Remembrance,” which inspires the piece.

In the summer of 1977 my father died. I remember the day as being rainy and very cold, but in reality it was a hot and humid Florida summer day. I guess my little girl mind was so overcome with grief that the only way to describe a day when you lose someone you desperately love is to think of it as being cold and dreary with dark clouds crying. That is the funny thing about remembering the past—we are always looking back at it through a particular lens. I saw that day through the lens of pain and loss for so long that the day itself became transformed to match the feelings.

I also look back and remember holding Daddy’s hand, as he and Mother would lift me up over the curb, swinging me back and forth. I remember seeing his arms outstretched to me, as I would scoot down the high slide at the park by his office. I remember the look on his face when he opened my door to find Kelly Grey and I sitting on the red carpet with the pink ceramic pig smashed into a million pieces.

Kelly lived just six houses from mine, and we were born exactly three weeks apart. We would walk the grass of our neighbour’s front lawns to get to one another’s homes safely. Our parents had taught us to do this, so we were full of four-year old confidence. Somehow we decided this particular day that she would come to my house, but we neglected to ask my napping Mother—out of kindness, of course. As we sat in my room, she asked me how much money was in the pig. We decided to count the money, but alas the pig did not have an opening on the bottom, and the small slot on top did not send the money back to us when we shook it. I offered to go and fetch my tiny hammer from the garage. Daddy bought it for me, so I could “help” him with his household “Honey-Do-Lists.” I marched out to the garage where he was working at his tool bench, took down the hammer, and replied to his inquiry about needing any help with a simple “no thanks.”

Daddy had not had a four-year old in the house in over sixteen years, so it took an extra moment for him to comprehend that there was no need for me to have the hammer that would be qualified as “good”—which also proved to be just enough time for Kelly and I to smash the pig to smithereens. So there we sat on the floor of my bedroom with one dead ceramic pig, one hammer, countless change, and one Daddy staring down at us saying, “What in the world!? Kelly, where did you come from? Does your Mother know she is here?” He had that look I knew as meaning I was in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. He also had the mischievous smirk around his eyes of appreciating my ingenuity. He would know…I got my ingenious and mischievous nature from him!

You may wonder how it is that I remember all these little details of my ever too brief six years with Daddy. The answer comes from my Mother, who never shied away from talking about him and from keeping the light of remembrance stoked within me. She would ask me, “Do you remember when we met Daddy for lunch?” or “Do you remember going on the boat and catching your first fish at the marina?” She kept the memories alive—she kept Daddy alive—even when it must have cut her heart to a million pieces to have to do so. I know she wanted to go to bed and never get up because her heart was so full of agony and loss. My Grandmother had to take her in hand and tell her to get up because I needed her. Being a widow herself, she also promised my mother that she would stop crying all the time—“eventually.”

I am sure Mother wanted to forget sometimes—to forget all the love, laughter, happiness, touch and connection she had with him—because the forgetting might make the pain less. Instead, she held onto my Grandmother’s promise that “eventually” the pain would lessen, “eventually” she would not be crying all the time, and “eventually” she would invest in her own life again. In holding onto that promise, she kept Daddy’s love alive for me by reinforcing all of my memories of him.

Now when we talk of Daddy, we light up with the remembering. He is ever close, ever dear, ever loved. When I drive her nuts by announcing just exactly how we will be going about accomplishing a particular task—step-by-painful-step where she is merely an extra pair of hands—she shakes her head and says, “Just like your father…you are just like your father.” When I tease her or say something terribly funny she says, “Just like your father.” In fact, it has become quite the joke between us. Mother will compliment me on something and I will with deadpan delivery tell her, “Well you know, I get that from Daddy.“ She just shakes her head and laughs! When we are with other people and they comment on how bright I am, we look at each other, giggle and chime together, “She gets that from her father!” We both know how much her love and care for me has shaped me, but in those little moments we bring forward into our lives right now the love, humor and intelligence of a man who has been dead over thirty years. We keep him alive within us, which makes him a real person to even those who never had the honor of meeting him.

Remembering the one you love who has died is a precious flame within you, but you may at times be afraid that it will burn you. I want to encourage you today that the light of remembrance can only illuminate your life and warm your soul. I know because eventually that is what the light of remembering my own lost loves has become.

My friend Pixie broke up with the guy she was seeing. She is in her early thirties and has two teenage boys, whereas he has no children and is in his late twenties. She knows who she is; he is still defining himself. She is in-touch with her body, mind, emotions and spirit. He knows his mind, but the rest of him has a way of getting away from him or being completely stuffed down or ignored. She opens up under stress and blooms into being her best self. When the trial or tribulation passes–as they always do–she feels the pride and the exhaustion. She knows she has it in her to weather whatever storms come her way. She is a survivor. She knows when she must retreat into a haven of love, friendship and rest. She knows that if she does not nurture her soul, no one else will. He…well, he sees stress as something to be avoided at all costs. He runs into a den of silence and retreats from the difficult emotions–in others and in himself.

After Paul, our friend and co-worker’s husband, was murdered Pixie turned to the guy she was dating. She was upset. Her heart broke for Teri, and she worked hard to support those of us in the epicenter of this nuclear holocaust of violence, loss, unanswerable questions, and grief. She sat with me the night he was killed at dinner, and drove me home after I swilled down two cocktails. I rarely drink, but the day deserved a drink to Paul’s memory and one to dull mine. She called me faithfully and sat beside me at the funeral. She held my loss as she held her own. She got angry at the way our company put my Social Worker and I through the wringer and then slapped us in the face with a “stay strong for the patients” without considering that we had nothing left to give. Spent, she needed to talk. She reached out to the guy, and he responded, “I don’t understand why Jacqueline and you are so upset?”

The dividing line was drawn, and he is now gone from her inner life.

I understand completely. When something terrible happens those of us in the epicenter of pain-especially those of us who are caregivers–we need the ones we are closest to in life to provide a safe shelter from the storm and fallout. We need the voices of Love and Friendship to say to us, “I am here for you, so you can be there for them.” We will repay the favor ten-fold. We will love you with undying affection and gratitude. Knowing that your arms will entwine our battered bodies and spirits gives us the courage to face the deepest darkness humanity wrecks upon one another. Your help so we can alight upon a resting place makes all the difference in the world. A quick “let me come and take you to dinner” matters more than all the money in the world.

Unfortunately, sometimes we get only silence. I think what happened with Pixie and her beau is worse though. The accusation is that if we were not upset–because somehow being upset about someone you know being murdered and how that devastates one you love deeply is irrational–then there would not be a reason to be upset. It seems so neat and tidy, but painful feelings are never clean. They are always messy and leave us discombobulated in their wake. As well they should! I do not want to live my life prepared for the worse-case scenario. I would never get out of bed! So, I will stumble, tremble, and fall down when the shit hits the fan. The reproach and silence that can come from even those we trust the most adds insult to injury. No wonder Pixie drew the line.

The person I was seeing at the time was very busy with his life, so I tried to not burden him with it all. I let him call me. Unfortunately, when he would call to check on me he would also talk A LOT about his “irrational and crazy” ex-wife. A dividing line was drawn the night before the funeral, and when he asked me if I would ever be seeing him again I had to tell him the truth–I would not.

And then there are those who just get what we need. When Paul died I wrote a pain-filled email to The Scoundrel, who was living in Paris at the time. He wrote back saying: “This is very very horrible. I love you and kiss you on the head…….I’m sorry………It’s just so horrible….Do you have a friend who can hold you? xxxxx”

So I told The Scoundrel the truth…there was no one to hold me. The feeling that overcame me when he wrote those words to me was “emptiness.” Somehow emptiness seems better than longing. Emptiness implies being open and ready to receive, just the right fit has not come yet to sit in that space with me. Longing is when the one you count on to sit beside you when you are beside yourself cannot or will not come. This is what happened with Pixie–she longed for him to be with her, but he fell to the other side of the dividing line.

Since my father’s death in 1977 I rarely dream of him. One dream during college where I realized the old man telling me not to “throw my heart away” on the man with the Southern Drawl was Daddy just as I awakened ashamed to not have recognized him in time to talk to him. Another dream in High School where my friend and I hit a man on a bike during a terrible and blinding storm. I saw the man was Daddy, and became horrified since we killed him. In my dream, I ran home to tell Mother only for her to laugh as she put on lipstick saying, “He’s been dead for years.”

I am an avid dreamer. In fact, if I could make one film it would be of my dreams. In my dreams I see colours I never see in my life. In my dreams the feelings seem more vivid too. There is an urgency, even with the dreams full of pleasure and humor. Sometimes I wake up laughing…sometimes crying. Often the dreams seem more real than real. Do you ever feel that way? I fall deeply into them and often have to tell some poor soul what happened before the day is set right. This is a pattern from childhood. The funny thing about dreams is that their true significance to us remains only with the one who had the dream. Dreams are completely singular. No one else remembers them–at least not unless we are paying them for their expertise and interpretation! Yet, they become part of our personal history nonetheless.

When I was a little girl I had a dream about a boy from my class I had a terrible crush on that year. As my mother attempted to patiently listen to all the gory details of the dream, she could not resist the temptation to tease me. “Sounds like a nightmare to me Jacqueline.” I replied, “Oh no Mommy; it was a wonderful-mare.”

The week I graduated from Seminary I had my only “wonderful-mare” of Daddy. In the dream, I had just moved into a beautiful and modern building where I could see the ocean. As I descended the grand staircase to the lobby I asked a girl about where I could get ice cream, and she directed me to the boardwalk and an ice cream stand in the sand. As I walked the boardwalk, I went into an antique shop looking for forks for a party. I found my friend Jennifer, and we in turn came upon my “sister” and her “husband.” My “brother-in-law” and I left them to look at an art book in the shop and went off to hunt for the ice cream. He wore a blue button down rolled at the sleeves with madras shorts and brown leather flip flops. I held his hand. He asked me about how things were going. I broke down in tears–now knowing he was in fact my father–and we sat down on a nearby bench. I asked him if I would ever find love, stating that I wanted someone wonderful like him. He laughed and told me I did not want him but someone better! I said, “Oh Daddy, who is better than you?” He pulled me close and told me, “You’ll see.” I asked him if he was proud of me and all that I was about and doing in the world. He kissed the top of my head and told me he was. I can remember seeing the mascara stains on his shirt and apologizing. He again laughed saying, “I am wash and wear.” (Perfectly Daddy in every way.)

We got up and walked hand-in-hand out to the special ice cream stand in the sand, which turned out to be a Dairy Queen (I was robbed!). As we stood in line contemplating our selections, he turned to me. “Jacqueline. You have to promise me something.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“Jacqueline listen to me–this is very important–you have to promise me that no matter what happens you will remember the joy.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“No. Jacqueline. Listen to me! You must remember the joy. No matter what.”

“I will Daddy. I promise.”

“Remember the joy Jacqueline. Remember the joy.”

When I awoke the next morning my heart was humming with the melody of “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy Down In My Heart.” I could not figure out why. Then I remembered someone told me to remember the joy. I sat straight up in bed and remembered Daddy! Daddy was the one who told me to remember the joy! The whole dream flooded back to me, and I still hold it as tightly as I did then. My one visit from my long gone beloved. How could I not?

I believe in joy over happiness because of its transcendent quality. I believe in the joy of my life because of the love and connection I feel to those I love and to the world all around me. Sometimes it takes my breath away to consider just how much beauty and love there really is all around me and in me at any given moment. My daily worship comes from drinking in the sky when I walk or ride my bike with Emma. These are not religious moments, but I touch Spirit and Love and all that is more than the dissected parts. I touch wholeness. I feel the creativity–the endless creativity–all around me. I recently read a really brilliant line about God being restless and unable to specialize as evidenced by the sheer plethora of divergent organisms.* My contemplative time in the splendor of nature makes me giggle with this thought. The abundance of creativity is because of God’s obvious lack of focus!

Sometimes the sheer brilliance is so much, and I am so overtaken with the joy, I stop in my tracks. I stand still and try and photograph with my mind a singular moment that is not just what my eyes see, but all of the ways my senses are on fire from the beauty, the stillness, the colours, the quality of the air, the hints of perfume lighting upon me. Recently I had just such a moment. The moon was rising and greeting me to the East, just as the sun set in all its bright pinks and oranges. I felt caught between them flooded with joy…pure unadulterated joy.

I could not help but wonder to myself, “When was there another so perfect moment of joy?” And without warning all the joy of listening, watching, laughing, talking to, being with, and touching The Bean overcame me. The rage and hatred at him and myself all spent, I remembered the joy. I burst into a flood of tears and longing for a path that my head never lets my heart look down any longer. I thought of Ann Hampton Callaway’s song where she wonders if there is “some kind of heaven” where old love can go to be used by a long since gone lover when they need it most desperately. I prayed there is–for him and for me.

I remembered the joy between the rising moon and the setting sun; it was a challenge in every way.

*I cannot remember where. Let me know if this sounds familiar to you!

PHOTO CREDIT: The Bean

See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things

over and over and over again for the truth to sink in,

to kind of catapult the propaganda.

–George W. Bush in Greece, NY 05/24/2005

My friend Bubbie and I are the local co-hosts of Drinking Liberally Ft. Lauderdale. Each week our group gets together to talk politics over a beer, which is very funny to Bubbie and myself given neither of us drinks! (He is allergic and my body cannot handle it post-mono.) The conversations are varied, but I often find myself bringing up the same question, “Ok…what do we do now?” I feel like I spend a great deal of time upset about things, but not always knowing what the course of action that would be meaningful looks like. I figure rolling my eyes, getting hot under the collar, and saying “Fuckers!” do not qualify as rallying points! But what does?

I hear such a spirit of futility these days in those I know. They fancy themselves “Realists,” but acquiesce to the status quo does not really mean you are a realist, it just means you know better but refuse to do better. Has realism somehow become a new brand of selfishness? We sit on our ivory soap boxes, looking down at the problems around us, but we are too concerned with our own fate in the moment to spend any energy working to change the world for the long-term? Is it not a kind of propaganda of these so called “Realists” that says, “Reality is that the world is going to end given the road we are on, so screw it and enjoy today while it lasts?”

I watched “Children of Men” again this weekend. I can remember seeing the previews before it came out last year and getting chills. I read PD James’ book, which the movie is based on, while in seminary and thought it was brilliant. The movie is amazing, and if you have not seen it–do. On my DVD, I also watched Alfonso Cuaron’s (the movie director) documentary called “The Possibility of Hope.” In it, Naomi Klein (the anti-Globilization activist), John Gray (the Economist and Philosopher), James Lovelock (the Scientist and Futurologist), and Tzvetan Todorov (the Philosopher and Historian)–among others–comment on the world’s trajectory. I love this quote from Slavoj Zizek (the Philosopher and Cultral Critic) from the film:

“Hope is only where despair is. Something truly new beginning happens only when you are in such a deep shit that within the existing coordinates you can find no way out. And then, in order to survive you have to invent something new. The magic is to turn a desperate situation into a new beginning.”

I am just not sure we–including myself–feel desperate enough…yet. And isn’t “yet” the operative word? We always get there, which of course may be too late. I just do not want to look back on my life and think I sat by waiting for “yet” to materialize before I got off my keister and sacrificed to be a servant to the world in which I live. And I do not want to be a “Realist,” someone who embraces the spirit of futility and forgets the creativity of hope. I mean, come on!!! anyone can bitch about the problems. I think it takes real courage–fear and creativity–to try and sort out ways to generate change. I know I have the fear, and I know I have the creativity. I just think it is about damn time the two met and did something.

I will keep you posted on my progress! In the meantime, my latest inspiration comes from the 83 year old founder of Untours. Click here to read his story of giving away ALL of his company’s profits year-after-year.

I have added a YouTube Viewer below where you can find all three parts of “The Possiblity of Hope.” You can also watch other videos in keeping with the themes of my life and this blog. (For those who are new to this, just click the arrow to play and under the video playing are other videos to choose from. You can also right click over the player to open it in a new–much larger–window.)

Final Note To My South Florida Readers: Naomi Klein–who I think is just BRILLIANT!! and wittily calls our current economic model a “crack addict”–will be speaking Monday, December 3rd at 7:30 at my home church–Coral Gables Congregational–about her new book The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism. The event is sponsored by Books & Books in Coral Gables.

My Team Secretary, Teri Beroldi-Rein, asked me to write up her feelings about her murdered husband. These words were read by the Broward County Sheriff’s Office Chaplain at his funeral on Teri’s behalf. During the service, I could not help but think how this lovely and lively man dedicated to public service deserved just such a send-off. Only he also deserved to have it come after he died an old man in his bed, not as a “reward” for being murdered. Utterly unbelievable!

The most moving part for me was the drive to the graveside and seeing all the people lined up on the side of the road with their hands over their hearts and heads bowed. Paul deserved their respect, and I am glad he received this honor. He may have died senselessly, but he also died doing what he loved–public service.

Photo Credit: ALBERT DIAZ/MIAMI HERALD STAFF

In honor of Deputy Paul Rein October 5, 1931 - November 7, 2007

Photo Credit: BSO ONLINE PHOTO

Here are her thoughts and my words:

I must admit it is hard to find words to describe what is in my heart about Paul. I know it, but words just don’t seem to be enough. How can I describe all those little moments of living with someone? A knee brushed at the dinner table with a quick smile, a brief phone call to say “I love you,” his hand holding mine…a million little things that wrote his name again and again on my heart. Our love is like that…so tiny it wiggled right into each and every cell of my being and so large that it overwhelmed me with a million kindnesses.

To say that Paul was a good man seems an insignificant way to describe the purity of his goodness that touched all he did and all he knew. I never could believe I found such a beautiful person to spend my life with after years raising my family alone. My family loved him the moment they met him, and they love him for the way he brought happiness and love to my life. But Paul was never just focused on his family: He reached out with that same goodness to friend, neighbor and stranger alike.

One day Paul and I walked through the grocery store and a young man approached us. He asked Paul if he remembered transporting him to court. Paul told him he did and asked, “Did you do what I told you to do?” The young man told him that he had in fact listened to Paul’s wise advice and cleaned up his act. He had a job and was doing well. You should have seen the look of pride on Paul’s face! His encouragement made a difference in that young man’s life. You should have seen the look of pride in my own face. What an honor to spend my life with the kind of man who would not just look at someone who made a mistake as a nobody, but as someone needing a little fatherly advice to get them back on the right path.

I did not just love my husband; I also admired him. His tenderness, wisdom and willingness to give his very best inspired me. Paul knew what it meant to work hard. He grew up poor, so life was always a struggle in his family. Yet he grew up to do the right thing and live his life with integrity and purpose…he and all of his buddies from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Those guys remained friends these last 70 years. Unbelievable! “The German.” “Germs.” “The Weasel.” “Cooney.” “Mayor.” “Pucky.” “Jake the Snake.” These are just some of the nicknames the guys went by. Imagine my surprise when one of their wives called the house one day asking for “Pucky.” I had no idea who that was! Paul admitted that in fact he was “Pucky.” His father gave him the nickname when he was a small boy, and it stuck with the neighborhood boys. I felt like I finally crossed into his precious inner circle of friends when I found out about “Pucky!”

Paul never took the happiness we had together for granted or took for granted my devotion to him. He knew what a special love we have. Just the other day we were watching “Dancing With the Stars,” and he danced around the den asking me to dance. I see him there full of life, joy, playfulness and love. I see him in all the stories people tell me of his goodness towards them. I see him faithfully going with me different places, not wanting to miss a moment of being together. I see the light of pride in his eyes the night I converted to Judaism. And I see him every night when I would come home and he would say to me, “Here is my darling. Here is my sweetheart. How was your day?”

Paul is my darling. Paul is my sweetheart. I will miss him deeply all the days of my life.

Today is a horrible day. Today my dear sweet Patient Care Secretary lost her husband. Paul died tragically when the prisoner he was transporting overpowered him, struggled with him, shot him, and threw him out of the transport van. (Here is the link to the CNN story.) There are no words that make sense of this horror. I literally am shaken and grieved to my core. For my dear friend, for her family and his, for the future they planned that never will come to fruition, for my grieving team, for myself.

I have been with so many people as they were told of the death of their loved one, and I never had adrenaline overtake my body. However, as she was told my right leg quivered uncontrollably. I am so heartbroken that this did not go differently, but here we are and Paul is dead. I met him and thought he was a lovely and kind man. He came to my Open House just after my birthday in early March. I also knew him through her and all of the tender love stories she would tell. Theirs was a second love, yet it was a gift of unmeasurable joy for both of them.

The news is reporting that the young man who killed Paul had written over his heart “Break This Bitch.” Was that a warning? Did he think his heart could not be broken? Had it been broken so badly that he started down the road of drugs, robbery, and armed robbery that led him to commit a murder? No matter what pain he had been through in his life, it does not dismiss the pain he has caused because of the choices he has made. But yet again I am reminded that if we do not face our pain–not just face it but actually heal it– we set off a series of events that can not only lead to our own destruction, but to that of others as well.

I cannot help but wonder if his heart is broken now?

Last week I wrote two nominations for our Employee Appreciation Awards. One for my nurse Wendy, and one for my Secretary. Here is the one for her so that you might know her a tiny bit and think of her with prayers for comfort as she negotiates the terrible cyclone of sudden traumatic grief and loss:

Three Sets of Footprints

All of us have read the poem “Footprints” about the person who notices only one set of footprints in the sand during all of the most trying times in their life. Inquiring of God why this is, they learn that those were the very times when God carried them. How true for us all! Life cannot be done as an individual effort. Each day we rely on unseen hands to carry us through and make our lives possible. From farmers to the checkout person at the grocery store, cannery workers to those at the recycling center, and loggers to soft toilet paper manufacturers, from the President of our company to our Patient Care Secretaries, our lives are interdependent.

Here at our hospice we think in terms of our Teams, and for our team—Team 151—there is one person we literally cannot survive without…our Secretary TBR. Even our Team Manager agrees that we do fine when she is gone, but those days when T* is out of the office are painful. Our team holds our collective breath until she returns, for she truly carries us through and helps us to thrive out in the field. She is so faithful in the little things, and if she misses a tiny beat she will go off to make sure we have whatever we need, even when we could do if for ourselves. She delights in the giving! T* knows that love is in the details, and although it might seem strange to speak of love at work, it is the only word to describe the dedication and attention to detail she offers. T* always speaks with kindness and concern, offering up love freely to us and to the patients and families she serves with us.

She also will go above and beyond to help her co-workers. She does not want to see anyone fail, for she knows what it means to work hard to keep your head above water. She patiently teaches the new PCS’s coming through, while lending a hand to other teams whenever needed…and not just our sister team! If ever there was a team player—encompassing the whole of our office—it would be T*.

She also takes the time to care about the stories of the individual families we serve. You should of seen her delight and gracious embrace of one family as they celebrated their 70th Anniversary last Christmas. T* was able to be at their home for our little celebration, and she was so tender with this lovely and fragile couple. Seeing the joy in her own face at finally being able to meet them was priceless. She holds the needs of our patients and families close and ensures they have what they need, sight unseen almost 100% of the time. It is no wonder she often is mentioned in our “Thank You Notes” from our families.

Team 151 is a terribly busy home team. In October alone we had around twenty-five deaths, yet our census stays stable. Twenty-five new patients filling our roster just as the other twenty-five came off of it. Talk about paperwork! Yet T* not only keeps us straight (no wonder she usually arrives before seven each morning!), but she will take on the slack when another PCS is out or falling behind. How does she have the time? How does she have the stamina? And to think she does this with kindness, professionalism and intelligence! No wonder our Team Manager knows her place in regards to T*! No wonder we admire, cherish, and love her as we do!

T* embodies the love of God by carrying us physically as a team, but also by the love she extends to us as team members and to our patients and families. When we look back at our lives and our time here we will see three sets of footprints in the sand, and when we see those times with only two sets we will know it was T* who helped to carry us. Please help us in acknowledging her unquestioning fidelity to our corporate values by honoring her as she so justly deserves.

I wrote the following about one of the nurses on my team,
as my team nominated her for Nurse Caregiver of the Year at our company.

The road not take is often a lonely road. Fellow travelers are few and far in-between. One goes on passion and commitment even when the body, spirit and mind seem completely spent. Often, only the tender angels of mercy, compassion, gentleness, and love serve as companions for the at times solitary work of our hospice nurses. Where would we be without their unquestioned faithfulness to our patients and families?

Our team—Team 151– wants to raise up the faithfulness of one particular nurse, Wendy T. This year’s theme for our Employee Recognition Awards is the perfect fit for what Wendy exemplifies, in that she always takes the higher road of doing right by her patients and their families. Wendy’s story at our hospice is one of consistency. She is not trying to go and do one extraordinary act for one extra-ordinary situation. She seeks no fame, and in fact is sure to be a bit embarrassed by our accolades. Day-in-and-day-out, Wendy gives the same tender and intelligent care to ALL of the patients and families she serves. The only complaints from her patients come when she has the audacity to be on vacation, and they miss her terribly! She makes that much of a difference in their lives.

The impact Wendy has begins with the trust she establishes. Being a hospice nurse with us for over 15 years gives her a depth of experience families and patients lean into. They know she has been in this space before and is not learning on the fly how to care for their beloved. That being said, Wendy’s openness to learn new ways to medically intercede for our patients, her flexibility to try new things, and her willingness to embrace the whole of the Inter-disciplinary Team’s expertise exemplify why she can be trusted implicitly. She uses the depth and breath of her practice as a nurse to give roots to her work, just as she reaches above and beyond her comfort zone to capture any intervention that might soothe a troubled patient. And she is also faithful to always call the family of her patients following their death to reassure a troubled heart, offer her support to them, and listen to them as they process both the death and the care we extended.

In the Christian Scriptures there is a passage written to the church in Thessalonica by the Apostle Paul where he speaks of being “gentle…like a nurse” when he visited them. Here is that passage re-written to speak of the way Wendy works on our behalf:

As God as our witness, she never comes with words of flattery or with a pretext of any kind, nor does she seek praise from anyone. Although she could make demands given her seniority and expertise, she does not. Instead, she is gentle amongst all, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply does she care that she is determined to share with all those she touches not only the healing balm of palliative care, but also her own self, because each and every patient and family has become so very dear to her.

By mixing in the good milk of her own life with the vulnerable hunger of those we tend to, Wendy gives of her very self to all. She creates bridges between herself and her patients by opening up and showing her own tender places of loss so they know a fellow sojourner is with them on the last important days of their life journey. If all roads lead to hospice, then the dedication, passion, skill, expertise and compassion of our employees must be honored, for our company does not exist without our faithful workers. We raise up our colleague and friend, Wendy T., because she is faithful to walk this journey in our name for the patients and families, even when it requires her to be on the solitary road not taken. Please join us in honoring her fidelity to all we say we hold dear and seek to embody, for she is already accomplishing these values daily.

I often think of the themes in my life as acting like boomerangs. Something may happen to me–a great pain or loss–that sends out the very best of me scatted against the wind, but eventually they all return to their rightful home within me. This last year has been full of this kind of scattering, and if you have ever read my blog, you know what I am talking about. A year of more challenges and stress than my body, mind or spirit could handle, and a heart so broken I thought it was beyond repair for most of this year.

Now there is just something about a list that I dearly love. Lists organize my life! I have running lists for the things I need, the things I want to accomplish (like having more sex in the coming year–twice in 12 months is just not enough!!!), lists of places I want to experience, lists of problems I am facing, and, well, the list goes on and on and on… This blog has been full of some great lists:

• A list of my experiences right up to my blindsided break-up: Post-Mortem: My November
• A list of the reasons why I am a good girlfriend: 40 Reasons I Make a Good Girlfriend
• A list of all diseases, losses and freak-outs of the last year: The Stress Mess
• A list of why I don’t trust men in tank tops (and my personal favourite post): Tank Top Wearing Man Candy?
• Not to mention the list of all the men I loved before (go on and hum it, you know you want to): The Dating Game

So in honor of my little list making fetish, I offer up on my one-year anniversary since this unbelievable year began with my emergency root canal the following list of all my gratitude for what this last year gave me–in no particular order:

1. My Ordination. This day was full of more love than I could have ever imagined, and I have drawn deeply from those waters this year.
2. Surviving This Year! If you read “Posting My Big Secret” and “Shift Change” you know that this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT all by itself! Not only do I feel I survived, but I feel stronger, happier and more at peace with who I am than at any other point in my life.
3. EMMA! Gotta love Miss Puppy Girl. She is my joy. We have really fallen in love these last few months, especially after her mean cousin Morgan left! Morgan, my niece, is part of the Puppy Gestapo. Her departure turned on the “My Mommie is not a meanine.” light over Emma’s head. Plus, she is FINALLY growing up…a little bit. She still has to wear a leash in the house–all the better to catch her and take my stolen bra out of her mouth with!!

   

4. Paparazzo. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I do not know how I would have made it through without him. I tease him that he is always “pulling my pigtails,” i.e. driving me nuts just because he can. Yesterday morning while doing crunches on the living room floor, Emma bit my ponytail and pulled hard. The more I would go to stop her the more she would pull. I ended up in a pool of tears and laughter! No wonder the two of them love each other so much–they are cut from the same cloth!
5. Casa Derby. I lived for 2.5 years without my own belongings, so coming home in February filled my heart in ways I cannot even describe. I missed my Red Turkey Rug! I missed my books, music, bed, sofa and enough dishes to host a party for an army. How sweet it is to be home again. Moving home also brought new friends and neighbours. They met me mid Apocalypse and adopted me straight away. I needed the affirmation of new friends, and so I am grateful the latest incarnation of Casa Derby came with some.
6. My Mama and My Sista. These two continue to show me love, love, love, even when I am only full of fear and despair.
7. My Work and Team. I get unbelievable joy knowing I am doing the kind of work that crosses the religious divide and finds people right where they are and ministers to their hurting hearts in that place. My patients and their families are my teachers, and I value their lessons. Ministering to my atheist patient this year, and the work in general, has given me my inspiration as I apply to Vanderbilt’s PhD program. I also have a wonderful team to work with, but especially my manager, my social worker, my secretary, and my nurses Wendy and Lisa. They all make each day a worthy sacrifice. (Trust me! At what I make, the word “sacrifice” is perfect.)
8. My Bereavement Group. If I ever have a friend go through a crushing break-up, I will immediately buy them Alan Wolfelt’s book Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart . Working through this book with my group, and the group’s grieving processes in general, helped me to identify that what happened to me was just the normal grief one experiences when someone you love dies. I suddenly no longer felt so isolated in my grieving, and listening to them give voice to their mourning, gave me an opportunity to accept my own. Once I got that the person I knew and loved did in fact die–metaphorically and literally, in as much as that person was no longer real or real in my life–I could finally find the courage to accept the past as it was, accept the me that I truly am, and move on towards my own best future.
9. My Bike. My Bike. My Bike. I love my shitty bike, and I am accepting cash donations (through PayPal of course) towards my next ride. It may just be one of the crappiest bikes on the planet for someone to ride 50-70 miles a week on, but she keeps on going strong. I love waving to the guys mowing my golf course at 6:30 in the morning with their headlights shining out in the dark. I love riding with Emma! I just love riding her period. Giant, Specialized and Cannondale may get quite a bit of my internet window shopping, but she gets my attention day-in-and-day-out. I would have gained a TON of weight without the bike given my knee, so I am so appreciative to have this bike even if it is not all that good of one or all that cool. She does what she is supposed to do–for the most part–and I am grateful.
10. My Blogs. Writing has given voice to my despair and to my hope, both of whom are constant partners in my dance of life. The affirmation of my faithful readers and the new friends I have made as a result, gave wings to the fact that I did in fact have a meaningful future without the one I had loved. He and I began a conversation–an important one for me personally and one of importance for the world in which we live–and when it ended abruptly I feared the conversation died too. In working on this blog and Don’t Be A Christian (which will be more fully operational January 2008), I found new partners in that conversation, found I could do it on my own (dammit!!!!), and the impetus to be bold enough to go after a PhD. I was once sent an email from someone wondering if this blog was the beginning of something else because she could sense something brewing in me from my writing. The truth is the blog began as a way to show photos of my new puppy! What it has become astounds me, but I also know it has been central to my healing and to my reaffirmation that indeed my middle name is hope.

There are certain songs that have supported me too, but especially the words to two Bjork songs: The whole of “All is Full of Love.” I keep reminding myself that I am full of love to both give and receive, and although it may not come from the places I expected, it is always right there within me and for me. The other song is “It’s Not Up To You.” The lyrics are amazing. She sings, “I wake up and the day feels broken. I tilt my head. I’m trying to get an angle…if you wake up and the day feels broken, just lean into the crack…notice how it sparkles.” This has been a year of leaning into the crack, and much to my surprise it has sparkled in ways unimaginable last year. Me too. I still sparkle.

With gratitude for the 525,600 minutes of this last unbelievable year,

Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

Photo Credit: PAPARAZZO

This week is National Pastoral Care Week, and our theme for this year is “Healing Faith.”  Working with hospice patients daily requires me to think about healing in a different way than “just getting restored to the way one was prior to the illness.”  Death is healing for my patients, and the only way they find it from a physical sense.  I find it amazing how easily we seem to equate healing with “going back.” Why don’t we possess an imagination that a healing would imply more than being “OK,” but instead would mean we are being re-created into a new fullness, being different, and flourishing in that difference?

Being a lover of rationality and logic, and also a girl with a vivid imagination, I must admit that I look for the scientific meaning behind so-called “miracles,”  while open to the amazing web of life that does not always go according to logic.  I am a skeptic…a faith-filled skeptic, but one none the less.  Mostly I am skeptical of any theology that speaks for how God does or does not act in a physical sense in our world.  I have seen the ravages of a theology that emphasizes a God who meddles with the laws of physics born out on suffering families who just cannot understand why that same God won’t meddle for them.   They often say to me while facing head-on the eventual death of their loved one, “We still have hope.”

I trouble these waters because I insist on planting seeds that might grow into a tree.  This tree then can be cut down and a bridge made through their theological quagmire.  Maybe.  I just heard on Monday from a Muslim family these very words, “We still have hope.”  One of the matriarchs of the family is dying from breast cancer, a cancer that has spread all over her body and is literally eating her alive.  Cancer that cannot be treated.  Cancer for which there is no mortal cure.  In the face of this cancer they still have hope, but hope in what?  Her daughter said, “Hope in her being healed.  Hope that she will recover.  Hope.  [She] will not give up on [her mother].”

How sad I am when I hear those I care for speak of anti-hope as being “giving up” on their loved one.  I imagine the patient in a terrible race where all of their supporters leave the sidelines and stop cheering, certain of their defeat.  But is that really what it means to “give up” hope?  No!  It cannot be!  For what they are really saying is that they are so in-love with this person that they cannot even imagine one moment without them present, so they do not even imagine it.  (And would I please stop even mentioning it too!?)  The center of this storm is the reality that at some moment they will indeed need to let go of their fantasy where their loved one is physically healed and restored to the fullness of life they experienced prior to their illness.  But this letting go is not giving up on hope or healing.

When I worked in Trauma, I would often accompany the physicians as they informed families that “there is no more hope.”  Oh the anger of these families being told to stop hoping!   They might has well have been told to stop breathing!  What the doctors wanted to convey was that they had no more medical expertise to offer the injuries and effect the healing.  They would support the body as best they could, and let the body evolve with its injuries as it would.  I would sit with the families and re-frame what hope meant for them at their crossroads of medical reality and faith.  I would tell them of how praying for healing was still a worthy prayer, and that of course they wanted their loved one to be healed and restored to them.  I also told them that healing might not look that way, but instead healing might just be surviving the worst, having their own heart continue to beat, or finding ways to invest in life and love even without this particular person being physically present.  I like to trouble the waters.

When my own father died, I can remember thinking that Jesus stopped loving me because he did not make him well.  It would take me years to come to a place of genuine reconciliation about my own beliefs about who God is and how God acts in order to accept God’s love and Daddy’s death as being co-inhabitants in my reality.   In other words, it took me a long time–and in some ways I continue on this journey–to heal my disappointment in God not being or acting how I thought God would act…or how I think a loving God should act.

Healing disappointment–a common theme for all of us–requires embracing the pain of things not going as we want, or as we need.  Many of us live with not having the most basic of needs, including life itself, met.  It is not fair for the young father to die, the little child, or the constant friend,  but unfair happens frequently.  When I work with my patients and families now, I work with them to heal–and have hope, or an imagination that healing is possible–all of the places the “unfair” has threatened their investment in life, in their spiritual and emotional health, and in their loved ones.  I often hear myself saying, “Although you cannot be healed of your disease, you can–if you intend to–work towards healing your brokenheartedness over all the dis-ease your illness has brought.”

I begin almost every week with my current Bereavement Group in the same manner. “Come and let us intend to heal together.”  Our lives must be totally re-ordered when they become shattered from the loss of someone we love.  We can never expect them to be the same.  If our life was a beautiful and colourful ceramic vase prior to the loss, the loss shattered that vase into a million pieces.  Healing is that work we do where we create a new mosaic with the pieces of the past, mixed into the mortar of our own rock solid existence, and with new aspects and colours we never would have imagined as our old “whole.”  When I think of “Hope in Healing,” it is this place of imagination where the new mosaic is created, where I see God as our greatest encourager in our healing.

God is excellent at creating something amazing out of dust, so I figure I will “seek striving” and “be still” and listen to the voice of the Holy One within my heart whisper direction, comfort, peace, and love into my ear as I watch my own hands create healing in my life.

I am a part of this parade of life.

How about you?

I’m feeling a bit out of breath.
I have been running–you see
trying to find my little band of brothers and sisters
in the crowded throng.
Last night—I could hardly sleep—
the anticipation beat in my chest
like the flurry of a hummingbird’s wings.
Rest eluded me. Frivolous giggles did not.
And so I have come upon you,
my dear sisters and brothers
(for we are all God’s chosen ones)
and with you I wait.

(How long must we wait? Where is our help? Is there someone somewhere who might save us? Who might save us from ourselves? Come quickly, for the whole of the earth groans in waiting. Give birth now to peace and reconciliation before we destroy our gift in greed and fear.)

Oh!

I see the merry band of travelers just up ahead. Let me run to greet them with a holy kiss. May forgiveness, kindness and love pour gently and easily from my heart.

Listen.

We speak both in a hushed and rapid way;
wanting to quickly get in every word of affection and hope,
but also we do not want to miss a single second
of the pageantry unfolding before our very eyes.

We see the divine in each other. We hear the voice of an angel in the one whose lips brush our ear with sweet words of welcome and celebration.

“Join us my sister. Life is blooming all around us. Love is everywhere and in everyone.”

“See there our brother Jesus. See his hands, his feet, his side. All for love. See there our brother Buddha. Hear his wisdom of compassion. All for love. See our sister Peace Pilgrim. Feel her arms of love wrap around you. All for love. See. Taste. Feel. Walk. Drink deep the living waters.”

Despair has no place here. Imagination and hope abound.

Ahh…Listen…

“Let go of the wrongs done to you, and forgive yourself for not being even your own best vision of who you can be. Choose to be, and you will.”

Ahh…Listen…

“May your vision be healed so that you are no longer blind to all those around you. Let hate not be the lens through which you see your life. Let not the fear of ‘us’ or ‘them’ guide your steps. Walk the way of peace, even as you see your duplicitous reflection in the mirror. (Remember we hate that which most closely resembles our own failings.)”

Ahh…Listen…

“May the lies on your lips cease, and the destructive ones in your heart vanish. Look in the eyes of your Mother, your Father and speak with the wisdom of the ages. Have integrity in all you do. Be the change you desire most deeply to see in this fragile world.”

Ahh…Listen…

“Who were you created to be when the happy accident of your birth happened? Tell us your gifts. Show them off! Invest them in our prosperity. We have enough, for look around there is only abundance when we share. Won’t you share your portion with us too so that none of us will starve?”

Ahh…Listen…

What is it that we hear?

Let the Mother say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let the Father say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let my sister say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let my brother say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”
Let all God’s children say, “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”

Let the love in my heart say, “Love endures forever.”

Amen.

I wrote this little ditty in honor of my Team Manager Mary Lou for “Bosses Day.” I feel she is the best boss I have ever had in my profession. I can count on her to back me up and kick my rear in gear when needed. This is a necessary and delicate balance! Since I am not writing as much at the moment, with the GRE looming and my Vandy application due in less than two months, I am posting this to keep you plugged into my blog and life. A poet, I am not, but this is heartfelt and that counts in a world of disconnect.

It’s a man’s world,
or so they say.
Where killing, lying, stealing
seem to be the only way.

Want to get ahead?
Want to win the race?
Be willing to trip your neighbour
to save a little face.

Lambs don’t lie down
with hungry lions at the gate.
Always on guard–
even the lambs seem to hate.

Get up in the morning,
try to find your bliss.
Work, give, and work some more.
Some things sure do seem amiss.

Unreal expectations–
the working woman’s plight.
She spends her days dreaming,
wanting them to take flight.

Is there a teacher?
A beacon or a guide?
Another woman walking tall
against the raging tide?

Mightier than a goddess,
an Amazon of grace.
Be careful not to cross her,
she’ll put you in your place.

Her hand will rock your cradle.
Her voice rocks your heart.
Listen to her sage words,
her wisdom to impart.

She is Mother, daughter
sister, friend.
When you are with her
you never have to pretend.

She will tend to you;
helping you to grow.
And sees your success
cheering, “Go! Go! Go!”

It may be a man’s world
but it is a woman’s strength
that nurtures the very best in us
and goes to any length.

So raise your voice,
your cup, your heart,
for it is honor
we have come to impart.

The time has come to celebrate
one trustworthy, steadfast, and true.
Let us praise our friend,
our boss, our own Mary Lou.

Miss Audrey, my mother, has done it again! On Labor Day she went to get off of her husband’s son’s boat in Syracuse and missed. She twisted her left knee–the one with the bionic knee replacement parts–and broke her femur to the tune of a six inch vertical fracture. A quick dunk in the drink, six folks to help lift her out of the water, a ride to the ER, and her self diagnosis was confirmed. Almost a week in the hospital for pain management, with another week in rehab so she could learn to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair, and she announced that she was coming home!

Let me give you her spiel to convince me how this was going to work:

The ambulance will come and take us from the rehab hospital to the airport. Bob’s son knows the guy who runs it. I had Bob’s daughter-in-law measure a trash can here at the hospital, so I will take one with me to raise up my leg. I still cannot bear to have any pressure on it, so it must stay upright. I was on the phone and on-line with USAir to use my miles to upgrade us to first class. I have the other wheelchair already scheduled for Bob, so there will be someone to help us at all three airports. (Oh yes, they had to change planes!) Then I will get STS to pick us up at the airport. I think I will have them meet us upstairs at Miami International, it will be so much easier there than the chaos downstairs.”

I do not think she actually breathed while giving me her rundown. All this from a woman who could not really stand on one foot, let alone two. Far be it from me–the Queen of Optimism–to throw the proverbial wrench into the mix, but I could not help but wonder aloud: “If you cannot stand up without maximum assistance, who is going to help you?”

Now to understand the pure genius of her answer, you first must picture her dear husband, aka Number Three. Here he is dressed up as The Colonel:

Bob–God bless his heart–is 86. He miraculously survived open heart surgery almost five years ago. Bob’s hearing is going, and he is not so steady on his feet any longer. Recently, before the whole leg fracture deal, I met them for lunch. Mother dropped him off in front of Nordstrom’s, and when I saw how pale he looked and witnessed him do the “old man two step” to keep from falling, I asked him how he was feeling. He replied, “I would not be alive if not for your mother.”

So, back to my all important question: “If you cannot stand up without maximum assistance, who is going to help you?”

“Bob will. I got them to give me a gait belt, so he can help me.” Don’t know what a “gait belt” is? Think canvas 3″ belt to help hoist someone up when they cannot stand!

“Bob? Bob is going to help lift you up? Bob cannot hardly stand up on his own, let alone help anyone else up! What happens if you fall and bring him down with you? The man is going to have a heart attack and die on top of you! Do you want that on your head!?!”

“Trust me. Bob will do great.”

Is it just me or do parents become more disobedient the older they get?

I sent out the following little email to family and friends announcing their return, which was entitled “Batten Down the Hatches!”

Miss Audrey and her consort will be coming home to Miami tomorrow! The doctor gave her a great report yesterday and feels that the rehab has her ready to make the journey. I have listened to all of Mother’s plans on how she will be pulling this off, and well…let’s just say this little molotov cocktail includes two escorts, one wheelchair, one gait belt, one walker, luggage, a trash can, and some frequent flier miles to upgrade to first class–God willing! I fear that the plan to invade Iraq had slightly less planning or ingenuity, but maybe a bit more hope of success without further injury given that it reminds me of her plan for she and Bob to put up the heavy metal hurricane shutters at their house by rolling them around the house on a wheelchair in that I have the same sick feeling in my belly. Regardless, I will meet them in Miami with my friend Paparazzo because it will take two cars to get this little posse and gear home to Homestead. Can anyone say “cocktails at 8″ with me?!

And this was just the journey home! She came home and announced that she would return to work in two days. Add to that, she was on the war path against STS–the Senior Transportation Service–threatening law suits and everything if they did not fetch her on time from the house, work, church, concerts, etc. STS is notoriously late. Something she knows all too well given her clients–at her adult daycare center–are all on STS.

And when STS lost her application right during a move to another building (of course), she decided to go with Plan B. B, as in Bob. Yes. That is right. Miss Crazy decided it would be a good idea to have this man drive her back and forth a half an hour on the Florida Turnpike during rush hour traffic! I would not allow him to drive me 30 seconds down to the Club House in their 20 mph gated development, but she felt it was okay to do this in order to get back to work.

Imagine my surprise when I called her a few days later inquiring about work and she replied, “Oh. I am not going to work until STS can handle my transportation.”

Uh huh. I did not even bother to ask how bad the couple of days of Chauffeur Bob went. I had to let the woman have some dignity left…even if it is just a teenie tiny bit.

Mother admitted to me that this last Thursday she was crying each day. Bob being so hard of hearing makes getting him to help her quite challenging. When I inquired of her on Friday morning if she made it through Thursday without crying, she replied: “I did, but you did not ask the important question…did Bob?”

Well, at least she still has her sense of humor! And her STS driver to pick her up in the morning at 6:50.

Studying for the GRE–the Graduate Record Exam–has created a crushing pain in my spirit. This pain envelops me and leaves me paralyzed at times. Why? Now I do like to call the GRE “The Graduate Retching Exam” because of all of the math, which I worked hard (okay, not that hard) to forget as promptly as it was no longer needed, but that is not why. The reasons why have much more to do with feeling I am putting my feet on a path that will take me away from a dream for my life…the dream to be married and have a baby. I feel I am choosing to give birth to ideas instead of a family, and I am afraid of the loneliness this path might bring.

I did not date for all of my teens and twenties. I never kissed anyone. I never felt anyone was even interested in me as a girl, let alone as a girlfriend. I got the message very early on that I was not in-fact, “girlfriend material.” Oh sure, I had guy friends. They love me! But I was never enough…not pretty enough, not thin enough, not cool enough, etc. Or I was too much. Too smart. Too opinionated. Too radical. Too fat. Too fucked up by my past. I kept getting the message that if I could just be, well, not me, then and only then would I deserve the love and respect of the men I liked or was involved with (after my thirtieth birthday).

Much of why I did not date for so long had to do with me and only me. I was just terrified of anyone coming near me. Terrified they would get close and see how fractured I was from being molested. I did not want anyone to see me naked. Shit! I hardly let anyone see any skin when I was fully clothed, always in long shirts buttoned way up even in the Miami summer. I felt so unsure of who I was as a woman. What did that even mean? I was asexual in many ways. I never looked at a guy and thought about sleeping with him, actually that still takes a lot of work on my part. Those feelings never come easily because even my fantasy life is cautionary. The one place where I could have a real mental free-for-all, and I judiciously practice safe sex with only emotionally well-known partners, who I actually do not know because I refuse to fantasize about people I know but am not dating! In other words, in order to get it up for an imaginary boyfriend I have to create a whole back story, emotions, etc. It is a whole hell of a lot of work!

Somehow I made it though that wilderness and found a way to be naked physically with The First, but I kept much of my true self to myself. I can see now that I only slept him because it was safe and controllable. Well, those and the fact that he would sleep with me. I was thirty-one after all and a virgin. I just wanted to have sex because I was afraid that if I did not at that point I never would. What a terrifying thought, but also a real one. I see that other than The Bean, everyone I ever got naked with had some element of safety to them. My biggest safety net being that if they were fucked up in some manner, then I felt it would be okay if I was a little too.

You get what you pay for; right?

After Plant Geek broke up with me because he “could not be attracted to someone like me” and just went out with me because “I was so healing,” I called Tammy Wayne to pour out my heart. I felt like I worked so hard through therapy, getting up at six in the morning to work out and drop some fucking weight, trying to accept my body, my heart, my mind, etc., and to actually trust and be naked with someone. I worked so hard, but no one was going to love me. I still was not good enough. I still was too much or not enough. I got all “dressed up” for the love party, and regardless got stuck against the wall with the other “flowers” nobody wanted. I came away from that conversation feeling like I poured it all out and maybe could just accept that it was not going to be my destiny to be loved in time to have a baby. Yes; it might happen, but it was unlikely.

Then I met The Bean and really trusted and loved someone for the first time in my whole life. I was thirty-five, and it finally happened to me. But only to me.

Here I am. I am thirty-six now, and I walked, crawled, dug, scratched, ran, swam and Tae Bo’d my way out of the hell of my first twenty-five years. I made it, but I still have never been loved by a man. I have never laid against someone in the dark and heard them whisper “I love you.” in my ear. Maybe the me that exists is not “girlfriend material?” I may be the “exception to the rule” girl, and as much as guys might want that in some ways, the truth is it scares the shit out of them. Scares me too sometimes, like right this very moment. I see what a fucking challenge I am! I take life seriously. I take my life very seriously. I am passionate to a fault. I insist on being me. I do not let myself get away with much, but I especially do not let my emotions go without investigation. Need proof? Here I am, up from bed, writing down all of my feelings on this topic well past my bedtime, with a stack of wadded up tissues on the desk from crying so hard as I write this.

I started this particular thread months ago and called it “Baby Blues.” I wanted to articulate a deep understanding about who I am fundamentally and my own acknowledgment of the price I might pay for being me. I am me. Just me. I only want to be me, but the message I get from most men I know or have known is: “Could you be a little less?” Often men tell me how “silly” I am. This “silliness” is usually over “thinking too much” or giving a rat’s ass about something they feel is a ridiculous waste of time. I often hear Madonna’s “What It Feels Like For A Girl” playing in my head during those moments of confrontation over my “silliness.”

Hurt that’s not supposed to show
And tears that fall when no one knows
When you’re trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less

Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
What it feels like for a girl

Strong inside but you don’t know it
Good little girls they never show it
When you open up your mouth to speak
Could you be a little weak

I made it this far in my life because of my own inner strength. I made it because I believe in a Love greater than my own comprehension that weaves us all together. I made it because of all of the love from those in my life who never want me to be weak, or less, or other. In large part, I loved The Bean because he never called me silly or gave me the impression that I was not enough or too much. (Granted, he did feel this way and told me so after we split.)

My mother really valued what The Bean brought to my life because she understands how lonely and isolating being smart in my way has been for me. Sometimes I wonder if during my life she has felt ill equipped to help me with these feelings? I think her own pain at his leaving had a lot to do with feeling like finally there was someone in my life who not only got me, but also genuinely was excited to discover all my inner nooks and crannies. She sees me, but does not always get me. And it is the “getting me” part that is difficult to do and difficult to accept without wanting me to “be a little less.”

So when I think of my own “baby blues,” I realize I could get married and have a baby. If it was THE most important thing to me, I would allocate all of my resources to it. I would be willing to give up certain things that I consider paramount, like my career or calling. It would also require a willingness to dumb myself down in order to find someone who might consider me both girlfriend and wife material. I am not saying all men would require this, instead I offer that if marriage and a baby are the most important thing to me I would do anything to get them, even that.

Marriage and a family are not that important to me. I will not give up on who I am or what matters to me in order to have them. At thirty-six I must acknowledge the time reality of finding the right person to add to who and what my life is already about is not in my favor. And then there is Grad School. My mother is right when she tells me how she hears how lonely and isolated I am right now intellectually. She kicks me in the butt over the GRE because she knows I need what a graduate program can bring me, and what I have sorely longed for since The Bean left.

I will be the first to admit that I freaked out when Mr. Joy  told me that he did not see himself leaving South Florida or having a child. I freaked out because I feel like that desire of mine is just a small thread in my hands. I can feel the weight of the world and my own sense of calling pulling against that fragile thread. One day it might very well be fully un-spooled and gone forever. We parted ways given the heartbreak destiny we could see awaiting us, and I am still a little bit sad. The worst part was the wanting to stay in South Florida, not the baby part, in my final analysis. I do not want to give up the dreams I am in fact willing to do anything difficult or painstaking to achieve…not for anyone. I am only “Jacqueline Material” after all, and if Jacqueline finds herself a girlfriend, or wife, or mother, then great; but I must remain Jacqueline regardless of the roles and responsibilities of my life.

I would not want to be anyone less.

I just began dating Mr. Joy. He radiates happiness, hence the nickname. We got to talking about the one word we would use to describe one another from the night of our first date. My word for him was “happy;” he chose “fun” for me. Don’t you just love it when you meet someone and they radiate love and hope? I want to be like that, and even though in some ways I am what one person once called “ridiculously optimistic,” there are parts of me that deeply remember all the sadness and lack in my life thus far. I get up and keep trying not because of some silly ignorance at the truths of life, but out of sheer force will to not allow the shit of my life to win and weigh me down.

That shit has been a real pest this last year. I feel a wind blowing through my soul and lifting it up and out. This process is difficult; I have used it as a fuel to get to this place in my life. I use it at work to create Healing Bridges day-after-day. Yet I still trip on the old fears of abandonment, value and loss. Life has been offering me opportunities of late to let go of the past and my fears of the future and just live in the gift of the present. I feel like Mr. Joy is a part of that gift in the now for me. My Cousin Bopper believes life brings you what I need, and I need joy in my life. I already have it in my family, friends, in who I am, and in my sweet Emma.

In that spirit I offer you the following photographs of glee and bliss, also known as “Emma goes for a bike ride with her Mama.”

The dog trainer came out a week ago and hooked up a “Canine-Cruiser” to my bike. Emma is attached by a bungee chord. We are riding about 4 miles a day now. She loves it!

And her Mama loves how she comes home POOPED OUT!

My busy puppy has finally found her inner napper.

Can you feel the love?

Emma truly makes our home The Glee Club!

The “HBO” chair was my Granddaddy, Heber Burton Osborne’s. Emma loves it too!

All photographs were taken by our wonderful Paparazzo and his bazillion dollar new camera.

Do you know what “rumination” is? “It means obsessing about problems, about a loss, about any kind of a setback or ambiguity without moving past thought into the realm of action.” (link to article by Ellen McGrath) You know…when you mind spins out of control. My mind is constantly going, but when it spins I can feel the difference in my body. I feel the tilt of the Earth. My thoughts circular, so I just keep looping back to where I started. I get stuck. I feel trapped. Despair overwhelms me.

My recent Healing Touch workshop stopped all the rumination. Somehow–like a hand reaching out and grasping my spinning mind and heart–the healing took hold in me in those gentle moments of comfort and learning. I found silence. I found peace. I found love. I lay on the table, and the latch opened. The spring released. I felt hope again.

The hope seeping into my spirit feels like an in-breaking. A little crack in the wall of helplessness. A shift change. Not a 180 degree turnaround, but a five percent move. These last nine months of my life have been full of noise, and now the volume is finally turned down enough to think, pray and hope again. I feel it in my bones.

When I lay on the table during the different practice sessions, all I felt was love. I would clear my mind, focus on my breath, and love would come to me. I could feel the love towards myself especially. A forgiveness. A prayer of thanksgiving for who I am and the joy I know I bring to life. A gratitude too for all the love in my life. I kept thinking about how much love Paparazzo has given me this year, and how much I love him. He is so beautiful, funny and kind. I thought of my family and how my aunt’s cancer has given us the gift of closeness. We lost some measure of it when my Grandmother died. I thought of my friends and how they encircle me with tenderness and fidelity.

I also thought about work. I realized I am missing out on being creative, and the places where I feel like I can soar creatively speaking seem to also be the places where the system of corporate chaplaincy requires acquiescence. I thought of the love I have for my patients and their families. I told myself, “I forgive you for having such a shitty first year there.” I also realize I cannot serve my call to God and also serve a corporate mindset. I made a promise to myself to stop trying. I still am some days, but then I play a new mantra in my head: “Do what you think is best as a minister, for them and for yourself.” I feel more empowered and much much less angry. I am still working on the fear though.

I did not think of The Bean. Somehow I guess that is important. I recently went over the worst of what he could have or might have done–the cheating, the lying, the pretending–and imagined sitting there hearing a full confession. I said all the hurtful things I could say in my heart and realized they were only directed towards myself. All the feelings of failure were about my not being good enough, and I felt terribly uncomfortable speaking to myself that way. So, I imagined the conversation again, but this time I thought only of loving myself as I am right now. In that imaginary confession my response was understanding. Pity, even. None of it belonged to me any more. Maybe it never did…

I came away from the Healing Touch experience and reached out for some help. I must say I am rather proud of myself on that front! Not easy, but so necessary. I do not feel like I am in it alone, which is always a place of despair for me. In allowing my heart to feel the love of those who support me and believe in me, I decided it would be okay to tell some of them exactly where I am–even the messy parts about wanting and planning to die in January. I cannot even begin to tell you how hard saying those words was, but I did. I said them.

Little changes. My life looks much the same as it did prior to the workshop, but I feel the new trajectory that the five percent shift change brought about. I feel open to all sorts of new possibilities, and I am even going to apply for a PhD program in NashVegas. I may not end up there, but I want to keep the future open to go wherever Love leads. Ah….Love leading me…I guess that is what I got connected back to in those moments of quiet. I know it seems like there was a lot of thinking, but these thoughts all came to me like the smells wafting out from a kitchen. They perfumed the air of my mind.

Here is a favourite quote from the poet Rumi that sums up where my mind and spirit are working to rest right now:

Reason is powerless in the expression of Love. Love alone is capable of revealing the truth of Love and being a Lover. If you want to live, die in Love; die in Love if you want to remain alive.

It is funny…this post has been simmering in my mind this last week and reworked quite a few times. Normally, when I sit down to write I write passionately and furiously. Everything sort of pours out. Not this time. Not now. The change–the letting go–the settling–took the stinger out of it all.

For those of you who read my blog consistently, you will find elements of this sermon familiar. I used the story I wrote earlier in the summer to commemorate my father’s death as the jumping off place for a recent sermon. The text from the Hebrew Scriptures is Genesis 17:1-8, 17-22, the story of Abram and Sari being renamed and told of the coming birth of a child late into their barren years.

In the summer of 1977–the summer my Father died–a mango tree was planted in our back-yard. Dear friends of my family gave the tree to us shortly before they moved back home to India. The father finished his PhD at the University of Miami, so it was not too long after Daddy died that the tree was planted. Their six-year old daughter and I played and attended kindergarten together. I can remember jumping on the mattresses at her house; they sat on the floor, so her mother felt our safety was not endangered! Her home always smelled of warm spices. I can remember being jealous of the pretty red dot her mother painted so carefully on her forehead. I can remember the cool embrace of her mother and father, always so glad to see me come to play. Her parents’ car had rotten floorboards, so you had to hold up your feet. I loved watching the road go by, especially in the rain.

The tree commemorated my friendship with their daughter, my Mother’s addiction to mangoes ( I still have nightmares.), and Daddy’s life. I can remember the father digging the hole and planting the tree. A small tree, with stakes and ropes to keep it upright. The hole was too big, but my Mother felt it would help the tree to mulch around it, so it was never fully filled in to the top of the hole. And mulch we did! Year after year, the best of the table scraps, grass clippings, and refuse went under that tree. Even the dead bunnies from a prolific surprise by my rabbit Baron (who then became “Baroness”) went under this tree. The offerings to the gods never were as thoughtful or as sacred as what we offered our dear mango tree.

When we sold the house ten years later, we still had never tasted one mango off our blessed tree. She never bloomed. Not once.

We sold the house on 100th Street to a Greek Orthodox priest. He invited to his open house to see all the renovations he made to our old home. We walked through the house noting each change, including the central air conditioning we never had. My room was now an office. The interior garden taken out, paved and a big hot tub put in its place. The Buddhas and totems were gone. The little concrete pond where Kelly Grey and I poured a whole bottle of bubble bath before turning on the pump and filling the patio with bubbles, gone. A huge satellite dish could be seen looming in the back yard. So much change, yet so much the same. We noticed and took in all the ways “our home” had become “his house.” As we finished our tour, we walked through the master bedroom and bath, then the laundry room, which put us at the very back of the expansive indoor patio and overlooking the back-yard. Mother and I saw it at the same time. The mango tree laden with fruit.

Mother turned to me and said, “It is time to go.”

Our faithfulness to our little mango tree not too unlike Abram’s to God. Dutiful to a fault, yet the promises of fertility beyond the grasp of reality. Don’t you just love it that Abram hears this covenantal blessing from the Holy One and laughs? Can you see him? I can. I can in large part because I have been him. All of us come to that place where we feel “settled” and accept—in a sense—our lot in life. Things may not be the way we originally hoped, but things are what they are and we try to hold onto that little corner of the world we call our own.

We do not look to the sky to see promises like stars painting the eternal ceiling above us with abundance. We do not want to be renamed anything other than what we are right now in this very moment. We only want to stay the course, keep things the same. Maybe we might complain about how they used to be when they were better, because the past somehow seems better in the rear view mirror than the uncertain future ahead. We did not feel that way about it when it was our present reality—of course—but now the luxury of time has given us the gift of forgetting the bad parts and putting on a pedestal the good.

Abram understands this too. He cries out to God to just let Ismael—his illegitimate child with his wife’s slave—be “enough” of God’s blessing for him. Let us look at our text again:

Abraham fell face down; he laughed and said to himself, “Will a son be born to a man a hundred years old? Will Sarah bear a child at the age of ninety?” And Abraham said to God, “If only Ishmael might live under your blessing!”

Abram wanted to keep the status quo, and changing it—even in ways that brought forth more fruit, more complication, more change, more work, more legacy, more life—inspired great fear, trepidation and well, laughter.

One of my responsibilities in my job with hospice is to lead a bereavement group. Week-after-week I often hear the same stories repeated about the way a loved one died, the ways in which modern medicine failed, the ways in which other family and friends just do not help with all the hurt, the ways in which life will never be the same without the one who died, the ways death changed life and the anger at those changes. I hear these stories from the same people week-after-week, and my heart hurts for them because I see how stuck they are, and I long to offer some kind of healing balm that might validate their pain, but also inspire them to embrace this change and the fruit it might bring to their lives. That old mango tree in the yard of my childhood home keeps coming to mind.

See once upon a time, I dated Plant Geek. Plant Geek is getting a PhD in Horticulture from the University of Florida and works down in South Dade studying Mamey for his dissertation (of all things!). His adviser went to Costa Rica for six months in 2005. Plant Geek house sat and dog sat in his absence, and this was the time of our dating.

We walked around the yard, moving between all the various fruit trees and plants. What else would you expect from a horticulture professor specializing in tropical fruit?! When we came to one particular mango tree, Plant Geek started to pick some of them off for me and Mother. He always considered himself to be her “Dealer,” given she really is a Mango Junkie. And what a good Dealer! More varieties. More mangoes. Needless to say, Ms. Audrey loved how it worked out that I dated Plant Geek during mango season!

As we stood under the tree, so laden with fruit, I thought of our tree on 100th Street. I told Plant Geek the whole story of our mango tree–even the dead bunnies–and how it never blossomed or gave us fruit. I told him about finding her drooping with fruit just a year later. I wanted to know one thing: Why?

He told me the answer was simple. We had been too good to the tree. Trees need stress in-order to bloom and give off fruit. Reproduction, which is what the fruit is all about to the tree, comes about when the tree gets scared it might die and so it sends forth the fruit to ensure its survival in the next generation. In commercial growing, he told me, they actually use drought and flood to force stress their trees into better production. Our tree never experienced a single stressful moment until we sold the house to a man not quite as dedicated to her nurturing. She did the only thing possible. She freaked out! She brought forth fruit for her survival.

How often all of us get stuck thinking life should be about rocking along and keeping everything nice and even and happy. Oh to have an easy stress free life! What wouldn’t we give for that! And, how much we need safety, security, good food, water, and tender loving care to grow to be strong, healthy and happy. But the truth is that part of what inspires our imagination and makes it sparkle with possibility much like the stars in the darkest night sky, is stress. And like Abraham, we too shake our fits at God and want things to just stay the same and for our lot to be secure.

Unfortunately, life is not like that. I recently remarked to my bereavement group that given how I am younger than all of them, and I know “life is not fair,” I was sure they knew this too. “So,” I asked, “What did you do in the past to help deal with the ways in which life was unfair?” The room fell into an awkward silence, and when someone finally spoke it was to tell the same story from the week before about trying to keep some piece of their loved one “alive” in their home.

Now do not get me wrong, all of us need places where we can bemoan, mourn, and cry out in anger and anguish the terrible changes this unfair life brings to each of our doors. We all go through terrible emotional droughts, and for many in my group that is where they are and where they should be. I understand. When my father died thirty years ago his death ushered in a terrible drought in my life. From his death June 28th, 1977 until the one year anniversary, I saw more than some see in a lifetime. Daddy, Grammy, and my best friend from church all died. My sisters came to Mother and told her they never wanted to see us or have anything to do with us again. With them went their husbands, Aunt Clem and Grammy, before she died later in the Fall. Our dinner table went from nine to two in less than one month. Losing my family like that has proven to be the most powerful loss of my life.

But my life has not just been about those losses, just as Abraham and Sarah’s was not just about barrenness.

For now I seek to embrace the good covenant I have with God, one you have too. The covenant that no matter what happens God with be with us. The covenant that grace is enough and mercy plentiful. The covenant about loving God, my neighbour and myself. The covenant that focuses on forgiveness and inclusion at the dinner table of all God’s children, even when they are barren or stressed out!

I want to embrace with gratitude all the love wrapping itself around my life. I possess more love than I know what to do with from both friends and family. When I was ordained last fall, the most beautiful moment for me came during “The Laying On of Hands.” Being surrounded by all of these loved ones blessing me and my calling to walk beside all of God’s children surpassed any other moment of my life. That moment did not come easy. Years of study, poverty, questioning, giving up, trying again, waiting, wondering and working had to transpire before I found myself on my knees at the altar surrounded. I felt more love in that one moment than I had ever experienced in my life. I could feel the mango tree of my own life overflowing in fragrant fruit.

So, tell me friend, what about your own tree? Do you feel the stress of your life bringing forth new fruit and the abundances of creativity, friendship, compassion and love? Or do you just laugh when God wants to bring you out of your barrenness–even if it is painful and stressful–and pray for the status quo?

After writing my last post about my sexless love life and dating disasters, I felt inspired. I put up my list (basically–I did make some small edits) on Craigslist to try and dip back into the dating pool. I received many interesting responses, including quite a few lists from men of their own Top 40 Reasons to date them! Some of which were really beautiful. Although I did get a bit offended that this one guy thought I was too much of cow to date, but did use my list to create his own list and then posted it on CL to attract the skinnier girls. WTF? I am too ugly, but my list is too good to pass up copying? PLAHHHEEESE!

I also got quite a few men saying that not only was a the “perfect” girlfriend, I would also make the “perfect” wife, partner, etc. I found myself always writing back to them to let them know how un-perfect I really am. Too much pressure to live up to, in my estimation. I was also totally flattered. So, in the spirit of full disclosure and imperfection, I offer to you the following list…with many thanks to Janeane Garofalo for the perfect quotation to start off my own thinking about what it means to be imperfect me:

“Many people feel that mass acceptance and smooth socialization are desirable life paths for a young adult… Many people are often wrong… Don’t bother being nice. Being popular and well liked is not in your best interest. Let me be more clear; if you behave in a manner pleasing to most, then you are probably doing something wrong. The masses have never been arbiters of the sublime, and they often fail to recognize the truly great individual. Taking into account the public’s regrettable lack of taste, it is incumbent upon you not to fit in.”

- Janeane Garofalo

1. I do not want to think or be just like everyone else.
2. I hate the suburbs. Architecture should be interesting and diverse; it should surprise you. Most suburbs are based on the idea that everybody wants basically the same thing.
3. I prefer old to new. I would rather recover an old chair fifty times than buy a new one. And if I buy a new one, I want to make sure it is well made so my grandkids can recover it fifty times.
4. I do not want my children–if I ever have any–to fit in completely at school. I want them to have it tough. I want them to have to build emotional muscles and empathy, which only comes from the school of ridicule.
5. I will judge you based on what kind of car you drive. If you have a gas guzzling SUV in the city, I will look down on you. If you are a man in your forties with three hundred dollar shoes and an expensive haircut and drive a Cadillac convertible, I will think you are the scuzzy Sugar Daddy type. If you drive a Mini Cooper, I will think you have a clown fetish.
6. I hate the words “nice” and “fine.” They mean absolutely nothing. My acronym for “nice” is: Not Into Connecting Emotionally. And from the movie The Italian Job, fine stands for: Freaked-Out, Insecure, Needy and Emotional. Let’s use them in an exemplar sentence: Only really nice people ask you how you are doing and when you say “fine” are satisfied.
7. I will freak out about the emotional strain of working with patients who are gravely ill, dying or dead sometimes. I will be bouncing off the walls and need copious amounts of holding to settle down. Sex and sleep help too.
8. I cry when I am exhausted, feel like I cannot express my emotions, or feel overwhelmed by not meeting my own internal high marks for myself. You are not responsible for this, but I appreciate it when you do not make me feel like shit for crying. I cannot handle the pressure of whatever is making me cry and then the added pressure of trying not to cry because you do not want me to, with the bad feelings that you cannot allow me to cry and just be there for me, which lead to the subsequent feelings that you must not even care about me.
9. I hate moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I hate it if anyone else folds for me. I am a total weirdo about folding. I love. I need it. I gotta do it for myself.
10. I will talk and talk and talk when I feel lost, happy, excited, overwhelmed and/or needy. If I can just be quiet with you, know that I finally trust you enough to do so and love you deeply.
11. I am skittish about opening up my heart to you and begin to question how I can make it if you leave me and break my heart. Stick with me, and I will sort it out and stop holding on too tightly. This gets really bad between the fourth and fifth month, and finally gets better after the sixth. Can you last that long?
12. I will try and run away between the second and third month. See above.
13. I love giving head and might make you pass out from my ministrations. You will go nuts!
14. When I feel insecure I will pay for everything, even though I will never make more money than you do.
15. I will remember everything you say. This can be a really good thing, because if you say you love Cookies and Cream Ice Cream, I will not only remember but get your favourite kind for you as a surprise. If you say you will do something for me, I will remember when you do not. You will not be able to get away with anything.
16. I have integrity about everything I do. I even obey the rules at the dog park! You will not be able to get away with shit.
17. I will put my dog before you if she needs food, walking, etc.
18. I go to bed early and get up early. I hate waking up though, so I will hit the snooze just enough times to make you want to throw the clock right at me.
19. I will make you an amazing dinner and expect you to clean up the dishes. If you do not offer, I will resent you for thinking I should do everything for you. If you do offer and I say “no,” I mean it.
20. I am both super analytical and super emotive. I think logically about everything, including my feelings.
21. I ask tons of questions.
22. I will talk to anyone.
23. I will challenge you and all of your assumptions.
24. I will not allow you to criticize faith traditions from a strictly anti-fundamentalist standpoint. You will have to dig deeper than that.
25. I narrate my life through the lenses of loss, hope, despair, faith, logic, creativity and curiosity.
26. I will laugh until I cry, and cry until I laugh. You may feel like you are on a roller coaster!
27. I will be fatalistic sometimes and sit down (metaphorically) and not want to get back up.
28. I will get back up, and I will not allow you to not get back up too. If you try to hide the shit of your life and say it does not mean anything, I will force the issue as it pertains to us or your wellbeing. I will leave you if you refuse to help yourself grow the fuck up and deal.
29. I never get my car washed enough!
30. I will try and find an explanation for everything.
31. I will not allow you to make racist comments or jokes in my presence. I won’t let your family or friends do it either. If I think you do behind my back, I will leave you.
32. I will not like it when you refer to not doing something as being a “pussy.” The worst insult to most men is to call them a woman. I hate that.
33. If you tell me your definition of what it means to be a “real man in the world” but then you totally disregard that and act like a self indulgent boy, I will see your crap and call you on it.
34. I know how to use power tools.
35. I will want to do it on my own, even when I really need your help. I will hint at needing the help and hope you offer. Then I will say “No, I can do it on my own.” at least once before accepting your help.
36. I am on time, almost always. When I am running late, I am so late I will want to cancel.
37. My body will never be what it would have been if I had not gained 40 pounds in fourth grade, and learned to protect myself with food and fat. I keep working on this one.
38. I freak out about feeling the overwhelming weight of scarcity–of which there has been a lot in my life–but will still try to find ways to be generous in the middle of that. If you looked at my check book at any given moment, you may find that I spent my last $20 on you or doing something with you so you would not know just how bad it really is to be a poor chaplain. I walk around terrified about this much of the time.
39. I will explain when I do not have to because I will be afraid you will not love me for being human, needing things, or needing human kindness too.
40. I will analyze everything. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. I am working on letting go more and just being. This is hard for me, but I want to change so my life can have less anxiety over trying to figure everything out. I do not do well with emotional messiness, but I have plenty in my own spirit. I am sure that once I figure this out I will no longer need to analyze everything quite so much. (Irony intended!)

Can you handle Little Miss Imperfection?

So, I had to cut the latest date loose. Dear Lord! What is up with a guy being in his thirties and having “fish mouth” when it comes to kissing? (Think guppy or bottom feeder in the tank.) Ewwww. First, there was Woody Woodpecker with all the in and out, in and out of that jack hammer of a tongue, and now Fish Mouth! What is the dating world coming to?

I told Paparazzo–after properly grossing him out with a full on description of Fish Mouth–that I sometimes feel like I ended up on the Clearance Rack at a bookstore. All the best sellers have been scooped up. Some returned, mind you, but the best of the best were bought a long ass time ago. I somehow ended up next to: From Guy to Guru: Divorcees Do New Delhi and Accept Your Fetish: A Guide On How To Braid Your Nose Hair. Am I the rare first edition tucked under all the trashy novels and travel guides to Siberia? Or am I just sad story of yet another 30-something “great girl” who cannot find a good man gathering dust?

My thirties have been rough in the dating department. Let’s see: I spent the first 497 days a virgin. Not that good of a start, but also just the way my life unfolded. Thank God for day 498!! I loved three people these last five years, but only totally loved one of them. I have had sex with three people in my whole life, and made out naked with another 2.5. I realize I cannot put “2.5″ without some explanation…oh wait! Yes I can! This is my blog and I can do whatever I want! Let’s just say that only one of us was nakkid, which is why it does not really count all the way. I also have spent 61 of the last 76 months without sex at all! What is a girl to do? From a strictly statistical standpoint, these numbers do not bode well for my sexual future.

(Please do not post the statistical results of my sex-less future based on these numbers in the “Comments” section of this post. Give a girl a break. I will not be able to face myself in the mirror, let alone my destiny if I knew THE TRUTH. Ignorance is bliss after all.)

Now, let me just tell you: I make for a great girlfriend. In fact, I have been known to be the “exception to the rule” kind of girlfriend. I zig–in a very peaceful and understanding manner–when a guy thinks I will zag just because of my chromosomes. Need space to play video games naked? I understand. I need space to pluck my eyebrows, fold my sheets (I get too much pleasure from being able to fold a fitted sheet.), and blow fart kisses on Emma the Puppy’s belly. Not to mention, how can I talk about you behind your back if you are always around!?

I have a lot of compassion, creativity, humor, understanding, fun and intelligence to offer. And I cook too! I am never above helping–although I will resent you just a tiny bit if I Magic Erase your whole fucking house a couple of days before you break up with me–or too snitty to laugh at my own ridiculous behavior. I will even try and–brace yourself–change! Yes, that is right folks. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby, will change and grow the hell up if need be. I also practice forgiveness and unconditional love towards others and self.

And did I mention that I have only had sex 15 of the last 76 months? I am always down for making up for lost time.

How about those 40 reasons? Feel free to pass them along to any completely single, completely heterosexual man who reads books, eat vegetables, likes to go bike riding, enjoys witty whip smart women, and is willing to consider a woman who owes the price of a Ferrari to Duke Divinity School (oh and younger than 36–my age–is always encouraged). Here they are:

1. I think really fast.
2. I give Diana, Gladys and Roberta a run for their money in my car!
3. I own my share of sexy heels, but I am almost always in flats or sandals.
4. I will do the right thing even if it hurts to do it.
5. I can cook most anything I try, but I really should not bake.
6. I’ll laugh with you but not at you…okay, maybe at you sometimes.
7. I have a dog who can make a room warmer just by panting.
8. I can do puzzles, but I cannot park worth shit.
9. I color coordinate my bra and panties to what I am wearing.
10. I am honest and kind.
11. I would rather go for a walk or a bike ride than watch TV all the time.
12. I love to give massages.
13. I kiss like I mean it.
14. I am pretty much happy wherever I am.
15. I am weird and entertaining…at least that is what my friends say.
16. I once fed a boa constrictor a live chicken.
17. I over tip.
18. I like ice cream, but not too much ice cream. I will share.
19. I went back to finish my degree after flunking out the first go around, taking a 3.5 year break and changing majors–again! I also got my master’s from “The Harvard of the South.”
20. I know how to pop pop-corn on the stove.
21. I never sleep with homeless guys or idiots…call it my anti-fetish.
22. I dream of being a published writer.
23. I take imaginary vacations on the internet.
24. I love cooking for my friends and having dinner parties, but not a party girl at all.
25. I pump my own gas.
26. I like it rough and gentle…and gentle and rough…and then rough and gentle. I like it. I like it a lot.
27. I set goals and write them down. I make lists. I always put “have more sex” on both.
28. My mother says I am her favorite daughter. I am an only child.
29. I don’t chew with my mouth open…but I will laugh.
30. I am really good at listening, even though I love telling a good story.
31. I can order dinner without freaking out about needing to make a decision.
32. I am spiritual, not religious and super liberal. I am a minister.
33. I work stuff out over throwing temper tantrums.
34. I love good books, baths, and boys.
35. I rarely have too much to drink.
36. Everyone calls me “sweetheart.” I guess it is my vibe.
37. I like (this week) Damian Rice, Stevie Wonder, Sia and Bjork.
38. I never mind doing it myself, but I also will ask for help. I believe in Relationship Chi.
39. I love boy films over chick flicks.
40. I am game for anything.

Back when I dated Plant Geek, I would often go to sleep in his bed with his hand on the center of my back. Sweet comfort found with a simple hand. Sweet safety in touch. A gentle connection. Even after he and I parted ways, I would lay restless in my bed and just think of the hand to my back and then tumble into a peaceful rest. Just the thought; it was all I needed.

In another relationship, I learned even more deeply the power of touch. I never heard of Reiki before this small introduction. I must admit to being both open and skeptical. Despite my own spirituality, I often put my analytical mind into overdrive and question, question, question. My first experiences with Reiki forced me to reassess some places in me needing to just be and not think. As the other hands held me and meditated over me, I felt the release of pent up energy and fear. Tears would often well up and spill out on the bed. I learned how much I internalized my life and how the scars of my life were flaring right in the depths of my body and disrupting my energy.

I knew of the word “chakra” but could not tell you anything about them. Now I can name all seven of them and their functions. I can assess them and work to try to find a balance in my energy fields and in those of others. (Here is a great link to a page about them and their functions.) My Root Chakra–that which grounds me to this planet and informs my sense of safety–often gets out of whack. The first line of the meditation for the Root Chakra on the above page says: “It is safe to me to be here.” As I said, when Plant Geek first put that one hand on my back I felt safe. The other experiences with this type of healing touch rooted me deeper to my life, my place on this planet, and the abundence of life and possiblity.

Unfortunatley, as soon as any new trauma occurs with me the first thing to go is my sense of rootedness. I can remember being very sick with a virus when I was 23 and in bed for a month. My fever did not fully break for two months, and in the beginning they soared over 103 degrees F. Delusions came and went. At some point, Mother crawled in my bed and fell asleep. I awoke to find her there and became terrified at this stranger in my bed. I did not remember who she was. I screamed out, “Who are you?” I was certain she was there to kill me. She told me that she was my mother. I cried, “I do not have a mother!” I can remember the feeling of dread overcoming me. I knew, just knew, I did not have a Mother. She calmly reassured me that in fact I did have a mother, and she was my mother. I finally realized who she was and began weeping. “I do have a mother.” I fell into her arms and cried out all my terror.

I fell back to earth and found my gounding again in her healing embrace.

My patients often describe to me feeling the pull of death upon them. Dying does not hurt or cause them fear, but when they tumble back into their beds and awake to find themselves back on earth they report feeling disorientated and unsure. I understand. I can still float away easily. Maybe this is why I feel the most protected and at peace when I am in water? The warm cocoon makes the floating feel normal and not do discombobulating. Alas, I am not a fish. I live here on Terra Firma and being rooted heals the feelings of being able to fall right off the planet’s edge. Being rooted to my life helps me feel real and of value.

Those first tender and amazing experiences with Reiki opened my spirit to the healing powers of touch. I do not mean this in the way one might experience a charismatic or ecstatic moment of miraculous healing that looks exactly the way the one seeking the healing expects…i.e. “I was blind, but now I see.” No, this type of healing is more about inner vision than anything else. This healing is about seeing yourself as you really are–the true you created by love, existing in love, persisting in love. This healing is about inner peace, creative hope, and forgiveness. Yes. Forgiveness. As Carolyn Myss said, “Every great act of healing is preceded by an even greater act of forgiveness.” This healing is about allowing the flow–the Chi–to be about unconditional love towards self and others.

I attended a workshop this weekend on Healing Touch. After witnessing a patient die whisper quiet and with minimal problems, when her disease normally creates a gruesome death, I became entralled with learning about Healing Touch. Her daughter has taken many workshops and did a great deal of energy work with her to facilitate this peaceful death. Healing Touch does facilitate peace, and my workshop served as a wonderful reminder of the need in my life for my spiritual practices to root and ground me as I provide compassionate care and touch to my patients. It reminded me of the need in my life for my spiritual practices to root and ground me to my own life and the process of my own healing.

As I lay on the table during a Chakra Clearing–one of the most profound experiences of tranquility I have ever experienced–I lay there thinking about my need for touch. Touch connects us one to another. When the one we love leaves, we miss not only their presence in our lives but also laying down on the sweet bed of love and companionship and resting in their tender embrace. The widows in my bereavement group tell me how utterly painful it is to crawl into their too empty beds and weep over the one person who would hold them in their void…the one person missing from their lives.

I need to be held and assured. I need that tender embrace. I need the hand on my back in the middle of the dark nights of my life. I need all the “compromised” places of disorganized energy to be healed with the gentlest of touch and by the kindest of hearts. I need the hands that heal placed on me.

I am waiting.

The first time I met a new patient of mine, I found myself surprised to see her sitting outside on the patio given that she is on Continuous Care. We only put you on Continuous Care when you are having medication issues or for immanency, and I heard she was on due to her death being expected shortly. A young woman in her fifties shrivelled from cancer and aged by at least thirty years. The visit with her was short given how easily exhausted she becomes. She fell asleep numerous times while we spoke–even in the middle of sentences–so I sat quietly praying for her and for her daughters.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love my nieces. I will do anything for them. In many ways they contain God’s greatest gift to me. No matter how much they might drive me nuts, I always can come around for them. I just love them–and forgive them and me for our humanness–that much. So when I meet other young women of a similar age, I find my heart picks up the same rhythm it has around Morgan and Piano Girl. For this reason, I offered to come back and speak at a more convenient time to my patient’s twenty-something daughter. I thought about my nieces and what they might need from a chaplain if Sista was dying. And I gave thanks that for at least one more minute I am young and cute (if I do say so myself), which goes a long way in reaching out to someone also young and cute and facing one of the most horrible losses of her life.

I arrived as agreed and met “Stacy” in the parking lot of their complex. Right on time, she came whirrling into the lot in her bright orange sports car. The car fit her personality, at least what I saw of it ever so briefly on my first visit. We went inside and she flitted around like a butterfly on acid ordering Chinese food, talking to her mother, and to our nurse. For a brief moment I thought she was going to cancel our conversation, but finally she looked up at me and asked, “So, where do we do this thing?” We ended up sitting next to each other on the couch and with a rush she began.

“I am really having a hard time. I can’t lose my mom–you know, I kind of still have hope she will pull through this–but I also know in my head that she is going to die. I do not trust anyone. I need help, but I can’t let anyone help me. I push people away. I am really independent like that. I think my sister is going to take a leave of absence and come down. My boyfriend is always trying to help me…but I have to find ways to pay him back. I feel bad if he stays to help me, like he has better things to be doing than helping me with my mom or because I am scared. And my friend from work–well, I pushed her away a couple of weeks ago. I always do that. I have a hard time making friends, especially with girls. I do not trust them. Not that I trust guys, mind you, because they all cheat. I mean my dad–before he died–cheated on my mom. My step-dad too. Every man cheats. I know my boyfriend cannot be trusted. My step-dad beat my mom, but he helped so much financially. She stayed with him because of us. I do not know who to trust or have help, so yes I am young but it is all up to me. That is why I like to help people and want to help people for a living. I am good at that. So, what exactly is it that you can do to help me?”

As I sat there listening to her I felt prepared. I heard this story once before, just with a slightly different cast of characters. At the time, the story was just a personal history. I filed it under “everybody goes through shit” and this is the shit The Bean went through. I look back now and see the signs he would eventually implode, but at the time the story was just that. A story. History. Past tense. Over. Done with. The imploding, however, got my attention as I lay devestated from the nuclear fall-out.

I looked at her ever so softly and asked, “Who was the alchoholic…your mom or your step-father?” The answer: Both of them.

I read a book about Adult Children of Alcoholics after The Bean imploded and left. I paid attention. I saw much of my own family dynamics, and the ways I continue to practice day after day healthier ways of living and relating in the world. I saw just how fucking hard it is, as best I can for someone who did not grow up that way, and how much work it takes to really deal again and again with it as it comes up. I learned some things I shared with this terrified girl, most importantly that being in relationships–especially intimate or fragile ones–wakens the beast of fear and that she did not have to reinvent the wheel to find her way to safety. The path has been walked by many, and they are availible to help her find her way.

When she repeated to me again that she just cannot trust anyone, I gave her the only promise I know: “You can learn to trust yourself, so that when people fail you–and they will because we are all human and make mistakes, even Chaplains– you will trust yourself to get through it and figure it out.”

I sat there so grateful I grew up in some terribly important ways…so grateful all the imploding shit was not just left to rot out me and my heart, but could be used for good somehow. All of a sudden, in one conversation all the pain of this terrible heartbreak was bearable. All of a sudden, I was glad I met The Bean, and I was ready to say that I do not regret meeting him. All of a sudden, everything was okay. All of a sudden, everything came full circle.

Now this is the place where some of my dear readers might be saying to themselves, “Yes. Everything happens for a reason.” I do not believe in that lie. If everything happens for a reason, then The Puppet Master we call fate, or destiny, or God, is intentionally causing terrible things to happen to us in order to teach us a lesson. I posses no freedom of action, just freedom of emotional reaction until I get to whatever reaction this Puppet Master has deemed pleasing to itself. No thank you.

I do, however, believe things happen for the reason we give them. I believe in our limitless creativity, which I think continually surprises God in its joy, love, forgiveness and at times, cruelty. I am the one who can with all the love in the universe take back a thing meant only for my harm and find a way to make it into something life giving for myself or others. I am the one who can invite God into that space to whisper in my ear “potential” when my heart is crying out “impossibility.” I am the one who can forgive, let go, reshape, build anew, and design good things for my life with whatever comes my way. As I said to Stacy, I can trust myself even when others prove untrustworthy.

So, I changed what I wrote about him in The Dating Game.

Here is the old version:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. Or at least that was The Bean I experienced until his ex-girlfriend called, he went to have dessert until after 2 in the morning, and… Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, but so far, it has. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him– regardless of the pain he caused when he left. Although he is the only person I feel I ever really “fell in love with,” none of it remains as sweet as it might of if we had broken-up over not being good together and with integrity. He said, “I only dated you because I was lonely.” I believe this to be true. Unfair. Wrong. But true, even if only in part. Given this, I wish I never met him, which is terribly hard and painful to say, but given the lies my joy was based on, it is also really honest. No one likes to be the fool, even if everybody plays one sometime, so every memory, every thought, every feeling became tainted in one cruel week. As I said, I wish I never met him.

Here is the new:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. This is The Bean I experienced until he “imploded” (his word). Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, so I have worked very hard and intentionally to not let them. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him–because I really like her. She is a good girl. I think I understand now that he did the very best that he could do, and even while it may not have been the very best for himself or for me, it was all he was capable of. The day it ended I told him I remember who he really is. He replied, “I am glad one of us still does because I don’t.” I carry that beautiful, imaginative, kind young man who really gets it in my heart and only want the best for him. I want that for me too. I give us both countless amounts of freedom to find it for ourselves, by ourselves.

Amen. So be it.

A recent post of mine contained the story of the first time I had sex at thirty-one, and some of my complicated past that contributed to the long period of abstinence in my life. I worked on this particular story for over a year given it will appear at the bottom of a photograph of me fifteen feet high in Paris later this year. I worked hard, but I never could seem to capture all of what I wanted. The story is complex for me with many different currents running through.

I was raised in a fairly spiritually conservative environment, although with my stepfather being a physician and Mother being a nurse, science was never downplayed in my home as irrelevant. In fact, quite the opposite was true. I like to joke that although I was not allowed to read anything I considered important during dinner–say, Nancy Drew–my parents would allow the Bible, the Journal of American Medicine, and Science magazine to be read…their only exceptions. They wove together science and Christianity to help teach me about my sexuality. Anatomical drawings on the back of Burger King placemats detailed every falopian tube and prostate gland. “Wait to have sex until you are married in order to be safe,” their spiritual message.

The irony, of course, was the same caring physician sitting across from me and quizzing me about ovulation cycles also went home and molested me day-after-day. A wonderful doctor and a terrible father rolled into one human being. I received all sorts of education from him, some of which I still work to process and heal from. I can remember being in the hospital at twenty-one and seeing my name on the psych unit’s Team Workroom dry erase board. Beside my name were the words “violent abuse.” You’re telling me.

The year of my going into this hospital for three weeks became the major turning point in my whole life. The staff taught me coping skills I still use and practice. I know I would be dead by my own hand without all I learned there. A seminal moment for me came when the therapist working with me took my hands, placed them in my crotch and said, “One day you will want a man to touch you there, and that will be okay.” I did not believe I would ever want to be touched, but I did know I wanted to want to be touched. She lit a match.

The fire of my own sexuality burns within me fifteen years after her words. Christians, ministers, faithful persons, etc. do not talk about these fires unless forced to speak of our own limited understanding of sexuality or when we are trying to put them out in another. How much disconnect and fear have the so-called faithful roused up against homosexuality? I often think the real problem is not with anyone else’s sexuality, but instead the problem lies in our not being able to deal with our own. Christians historically look to scripture to teach them about sexuality, even with its limited understanding of human relationships, genetics, reproduction and the equality of all persons, male, female, trans-gendered, gay, straight, bi-sexual.

I must say I possess a bit of trepidation speaking about my own sexual identity and exploration because of both the shame of being molested and the imposed upon shame of my historic religious tradition. Christians are really bad about making the body and its desires something “ungodly” and despairing anyone who dares to embrace what God gave them. We have whole churches where membership requires a myriad of lies in order to participate. I grew up Southern Baptist, and the inside “joke” is not if there are any gays in the church, but if there are any choir directors who are not. I do not find this funny; I find it tragic and fundamentally against everything I believe following Jesus ought to be about. For me, following Jesus requires that we speak the truth of who we are and practice radical difficult love and inclusion of those in our midst. I cannot help but wonder what amazing things would happen in our congregations if we embraced the GLBT community in such a way as to help their gifts flourish in our midst, instead of insisting they hide their God-given lights under the proveribial bushel/closet?

So, I am coming out. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby–wait!–REVEREND Jacqueline Hope Derby own a vibrator, and I love it. Jesus loves me and my truth. I know the Jesus of “do not fear” would never want shame in any form to fill me because of the truth of who I am. Here is my truth: I am a woman. I am a minister. I am a sexual person. I know my own body. I would not survive sexual dry spells without my vibrator. I am not married, nor have I ever been. I love men and love having sex with them. I chose to do this one at a time and in a relationship. This is me.

Writing this story for my artist friend has pushed me to uncover some old shame left in my heart. In the end, I tossed out the prior version and re-wrote my piece for him. This time I left behind the fear of being “found out” and said just want I really wanted to say. I hope when you read these words you will feel provoked, comforted, inspired, angry, and mostly curious about your own God-given sexual self. Here is the final story that will appear with my picture:

When was the first time I had sex? Was it at seven? Twenty-one? Thirty-one? Thirty-five?

Was it the first time my stepfather molested me? He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands ran up my thighs while we watched cartoons.

Did I lose my virginity the first time I had an orgasm? Finding a book on female masturbation the summer I was twenty-one taught me about my body. The book inspired me to explore my own body and sexuality, but I still felt shame. My self-exploration a secret; my sexuality known only to me.

Was it when I first had sex at thirty-one? I still covered my real body with layer upon layer of fat, but I allowed certain parts of me to be seen, touched and explored by a good friend. I kept most of my heart locked away from him though. Sometimes it felt like I was watching us have sex and not really present in the moment. I slept with him because I could and because I knew nothing real and lasting would ever happen between us. He was safe.

Or did I lose my virginity last year when I fell in-love for the first time? Many of the layers of fat gone, I let him touch, taste and see every single inch of my body and my heart. Sometimes sleeping with him would cause me to laugh hysterically, the waves of bliss overwhelming me. At other times, I would cry without understanding the deep wellspring of complicated emotions pouring out. I imagined door-after-door in my locked soul opening up as the pure light of love poured into the rooms and illuminated them. Shame melted away. I found my heart and body capable of things I thought the abuse stole away from me forever.

After six months he left me saying he only dated me because he was lonely. I almost died. Am I a virgin again?

I am trapped in the Rage Cage. I want to let go of all of my anger, but I just do not seem to be able to do this…yet. I feel my body, mind and soul overflowing with rage. Rage at The Bean for all the unanswered questions and betrayal. Rage at work for trying so hard, and rage because I leave feeling overwhelmed, overworked and angry. Rage at striving so diligently to heal the past because sometimes feel I got to the party too late…what is it all worth? Rage at not being paid a living wage. Rage at myself for feeling entitled even when I know better. Rage at Mother for putting even more pressure on me right when I need her to just swoop in and help me out, again. Rage at needing help at all; rage at needing help right now. Rage at my body for falling down before I could heal my heart.

I am trapped in the Rage Cage.

I will admit I once was an Oprah devotee. Certain moments stay with me. Maya Angelou saying, “You did then what you knew best to do. Now that you know better, do better.” A group of very angry lesbians talking about misogyny (an important topic that I agree with many of them on) and a woman in the audience asking, “If you hate men so much, why do you try so hard to look like them?” Damn! I just about died laughing, and to the credit of those amazing women, they did too. And then there was the time Andrew Vachss sat with Oprah for an hour talking about sexual abuse. Oprah’s public struggle to make sense of the sexual abuse in her past helped me to come out of the proverbial closet. I give her all credit for helping to debunk the stigma and for showing that women who have been raped can possess real strength and beauty.

She sat there heavily upon her chair speaking to him and not quite agreeing with him about the rage victims of sexual abuse carry with them. Andrew Vachss said, “Your anger is the weight you carry.”  She immediately understood and agreed.  Epiphany!

The light went on for me in that one sentence too.  Why am I here fifteen years later and still sorting this one out?

I had so much anger then. Anger at Daddy for dying, my sisters for leaving, my Mother for bringing John into our home, and anger at John for hurting me so profoundly my DNA altered. I write these things now and feel so little of the sting. No. The sting is not gone completely, but mostly now just makes me uncomfortable when the present reveals a place of vulnerability. So much of this anger has been released. As I spent the last few years working my ass off–literally–and saw the pounds slipping away one painful ounce at a time, I saw the anger melt and the Rage Cage lift.

I survived these last months in some part due to eating to lessen the blows to my shattered defenses. So much has happened to me this year that I find myself in a brand new Rage Cage. I keep sorting through all the reasons why I am so angry, and trying to figure out what I need to do to let go of this anger that is hurting me. I want to go back to the place where I feel free and strong, not where I eat to stuff down my rage at my circumstances and failed or flawed relationships. Now do not misunderstand, I believe anger is an important and healthy response…to begin with. I also know at some point we all must let go because the anger only destroys us like an insidious cancer. I can feel it eating away at my optimism, my spunk, my trust, and my openness.

Ultimately, I want my anger to morph into a fuel to empower me to love more, and love with a greater attention to detail. I realize this may seem strange, but “passion to love” is too similar to “passion to hate” for me to ignore anger’s power when it comes to love. Letting anger melt allows real love and intimacy to grow. I know, I have seen it happen in me before, but it seems to happen only when I let go of the past being any different. (Going back to my post on forgiveness.) Ultimately, I want it to empower me to forgive and practice grace and mercy towards myself and others. Practicing grace and mercy are key. Grace being the place where I extend unconditional favour, and mercy being the place where I extend unconditional abandonment of my expectations in the face of them not being met. I need both right now because I keep hearing myself saying–pleading really–both out loud and in my head, “I am just one person!”

As I rode my bike on Thrusday morning, I envisioned myself in the Rage Cage. I fell deep within its claustrophobic den out of all the anger I feel towards The Bean. Add to this the rage at myself for both hitting below the belt twice when he left and for not seeing it all coming down the pike, and my whole being felt oppressed. I see all the “trying” and all the ways I feel like I am failing, not just flailing about. I thought about what I needed and what I want, and I counted all the ways these go left unanswered. The bars just seemed to get stronger and press more tightly against my already ravaged body. I looked it over for a door, bars I might bend to wiggle through, a lock for a key or key for a lock…I just want a way out.

I do not possess the needed tools to just “poof” myself out of the Rage Cage. No fairy dust. No magic wand. I did, however, find rather unexpectedly a tear-filled conversation, with a small epiphany, helped alleviate my shrinking prison bars. My epiphany? Letting go of The Bean being wrong feels like letting go of my being wronged. Just admitting this all too human fact allowed grace and mercy to find me for a bit and for them to apply their tender balms of understanding and acceptance.

I cannot help wondering how much longer this will all take, but I also know that when I am no longer hurting to the point food makes it all feel better the Rage Cage will be lifting off of me.

I sat yesterday for a photograph that will be fifteen feet high when the show opens in Paris later this year. Under the photograph of me will be the story of the first time I had sex. Here is what I wrote:

June 2002

I had no idea how people went from dressed to naked and fucking. Thirty-one and a virgin. I did not even know what I looked like naked! I stopped paying attention.

I spent my thirtieth year looking hard in the mirror at my naked form. Imagine my dismay to learn that my breasts fallen down after years of ignorance and lack of care! When did my belly become so squishy? I hate my arms. This is me? My skin glows! I have beautiful shoulders. I love the turn of my chin and full lips. The small of my back has a tuft of wispy blond hair that calls out to be caressed.

I will admit I had phone sex prior to having real sex. The phone sex did nothing to keep us from being shy and anxious; it did not last long. Soon we found ourselves naked, kissing, holding and fondling. He touched me where I wanted him to touch me. We did not have sex right away, but when we did—damn. I could not tell up from down or left from right. I was taken completely unaware by what it felt like to be touched by a man. We made love; we had sex; we fucked. My first time with him was sweet, passionate, lovely but not tentative. I remember that, but it was not the best sex we ever had. The best sex came one night when he and I made love at four in the morning, and I could see this orange glow in my room even though it was pitch black.

June 1977

I was six when my father died. It was just my mother and me.

March 1978

After my father’s death, more than anything I wanted to be normal again and have a Daddy. The first time John put his hands on my crotch and fondled me, he asked me if it would be okay if he married my Mother. I happily said, “Yes.”

He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands running up my thighs while we watched Little House on the Prairie.

January 1982

I threatened to tell on him and what kind of person he was. He pulled me by my hair into his bathroom. I remember how tiny the little glass bottles with metal lids lined the top shelf. He pointed to them and told me that he could kill Mother any time he wanted. He was a doctor; he could do it in ways no one would suspect. Then it would just be the two of us. I needed to “shut my God damn mouth.”

He kicked me on the floor when he turned to leave.

July 2007

I fell totally in-love last year. The woman I saw reflected in his eyes was the same one I see in my own. He left me, and I almost died.

But I did not die. I am stronger than that. No more games of Hide and Seek for me. I still get scared that I will not survive Love’s brutality, but I also know the walls must never be stronger than the woman I truly am. My beauty comes through. I see me, even when men don’t.

I recently wrote about “Bastards and New Boyfriends.” Since then, I keep thinking about the last paragraph…about wanting someone who will hold me to the task of dealing with my life and letting go so I am really free to love without the shit of my life weighing me, and then us, down. I keep looking at what my niece Morgan calls “One horrible minute at the end of a relationship that caused you seven months of hell.” I keep trying to figure it all out, as if the past contains a secret I must decipher in order to be worthy of love in the future.

I want to let it all go, but I am still angry sometimes. Angry about how much more scared I am now than before I met The Bean. Angry at him for not treating me with respect when he left, and how that cuts at my self-esteem even when I do not want it to. Angry at myself for not being the “typical girl” about a lot of things. He always called me “an exception to the rule” because I do not act like what many guys expect from their girlfriend–I understand the need for alone time to play Half-Life every now and again–and I do not wig out easily. Should I have been demanding and dramatic and needy? “No.” And that answer leads me back to where I started: Content with who I am and how I act in the world. Glad not to be with “That Bastard,” and scared shitless I will carry Baggage a la The Bean, which will hurt my ability to give trust and my true “exception to the rule” heart to someone who will love and respect me.

Do I need to forgive him?

I spoke about this with my friend Harlot last weekend. I confessed to her that I lied to The Bean in April when I told him I forgave him. Bull……shit! He never even apologized. He only said, “Ditto.” to my apology and blessing for his life. I think of him as a total emotional coward, and I do not want to be that way. But how do you forgive someone who is not even sorry? Harlot’s take on forgiveness is that it falls into two categories: 1) Someone asks for it, and then it is up to you to accept and let go. You may not forgive them, but they did their part in the asking; or 2) You look back at the past and let go of it being any different than it was. You no longer replay every conversation, every moment, every move and try to figure out what you could do differently. You allow the past, even as horrible as it was, to stand. This is not a “get out of jail free card.” They are still responsible and accountable. You just let go of holding onto it and trying to shape the past into another form.

I think this idea of the nature of forgiveness is just brilliant.

I started off by saying, “I keep trying to figure it all out, as if the past contains a secret I must decipher in order to be worthy of love in the future. ” For this kind of forgiveness to come into my life, I must accept the past as it was. The Instant-Reply-Button has to be left alone. No more conversations with The Bean in my head. No more wondering why all of this happened. No more regretting the past. No more doubting myself and my ability to love. No more doubting my ability to pick the right person for my life. No more projecting his shit onto my own sense of worthiness. No more wishing it was different. Acceptance in my present of the truth of the past. It is just what happened, and I cannot change it anymore than I can change him.

I can, however, change myself and forgive the past for not being any different than it was.

Isn’t it funny how letting go of wanting the past to be different can be so hard? I mean, it already happened! I do not own or have access to a Time Machine. It’s not like I could–or would–go back. The acceptance still has not come easy. Why do we replay every moment when we know the outcome will be the same every time?

Charlie Peacock has a song called “Forgiveness.” I remember this one line…”The one thing we need more than to be understood or to be known is forgiveness.” How true it is.

I got tagged by Grace from 13 Graces for this little bit of fun, however, I am so new to the blogging world I know practically no one else who blogs! I got tagged “You’re It!” and now am sitting in the A/C enjoying a margarita and letting everyone else play on without me. Hope you enjoy these totally weird but true facts about me:

1. When I was a baby I screamed for a couple of months. It was so bad, my parents considered relocating me to the garage, per my pediatrician’s advice. He also said that “studies show these kids are really really smart.” Mother finds ways of working this into conversations as a way of saying, “My daughter has been brilliant since birth.” I always reply with: “Yes, Mother. I get that from Daddy!”
2. I had my mouth bitten badly by a German Shepard when I was 3. I still have the scars. My mother was getting mangoes, which she remains addicted to up until now. I have dreams where she is trying to get me to steal them for her. We are in full-on mango season now, so the nightmares shall commence shortly.
3. I went to private Christian school in Miami from 4th grade through 10th. Then I went to public again, but I dropped out my senior year. I ended up graduating the same day from High School that I moved into my dorm room at college.
4. When I was in late Elementary and Junior High, I volunteered at a wildlife rescue. I would catch chickens to feed to the boa. Gross, but fun.
5. I went to camp in NC most summers of my childhood. I would ride a small rodeo there each week, and do the Barrel Racing, Chug-A-Lug (usually hot Hawaiian Punch–yuck!), and the Hog Catch. My favourite was the Hog Catch-N-Wrestle where the pigs would be greased up with Vaseline and you would throw yourself in the mud to get them. My times were camp records!
6. I use a “u” in colour, favourite and neighbour in honor of my Grandfather from England. In fact, I love all things British, except some of the food!
7. I have perfect colour sense, much like some people have perfect pitch. I can remember colours like other people remember dialogue or music. I can also match colours perfectly. I was used as the “example of what to do correctly” while taking Colour Theory in college, but it was my Professor for Leonardo Da Vinci who told me it is called “perfect colour sense.” I am loosing some of the yellows as I get older or maybe because of not working with colour as much. I tend to second guess the yellows sometimes…but not always!
8. I cannot park my car worth shit. I have excellent spatial relationships outside of things. ..when I can see them from above. I would have made an amazing architect, but I suck at anything that requires me to use my body too. Parking, dancing, walking in a straight line, etc. I always end up crooked. Let me apologize now for bumping into any of you if we were to walk somewhere together.
9. I come from a matriarchy, and I love that. The women in my family are amazing and fun and a bit nuts. They also drive me batty sometimes with a ton of questions, but I also know they only ask because they are so interested in me and my life. They are my biggest cheerleaders.
10. I am a fan of the “third way.” I always think there is another way to look at something…not a compromise necessarily, but a third option. Example: I am not a fan of evangelicalism, but I do not think converting them to atheism is the only solution. I do think there is a way to reinterpret one’s faith and give up the certianty of a particular mindset while still finding a way to speak of faith without causing harm to self and others. I like to try and think of another way to get at something without just replacing the original idea with a mirror image, albeit a different one. In other words, don’t replace Fundy 2.1 with Atheism 2.1. What do you really have? You may still find Atheism 5.4 is your best expression of beliefs, but it is not just drop loaded as an “either/or” paradigm.

And for extra credit: I am moving my blog to my own site–still using Wordpress, but .org instead of .com–as of August 1st. Don’t worry, I will keep you posted on the move when it happens.

Until then BLOG ON!!!

Miss Douglas once asked me, “If you were not a minister, what would you be?” I replied, “A porn director.” As true as this might be from a strictly imaginative standpoint, mostly likely I would have been a doctor…other roads not traveled and all. I also know I would be an Atheist if I was not a Jesus Follower (opposed to being a Christian). Atheism makes sense to me on so many levels, and my spiritual life still includes doubt, questions, ponderings and out-and-out rejection of theism.

And I still possess an image of a loving God whispering in my ear.

Both. And.

“Hank,” a patient of mine, is an Atheist, and we get along famously. He journeyed through periods of Protestantism, then to Jehovah’s Witness while his wife was dying of cancer, and now self-identifies as an Atheist. I know we get along in large part because I never try to move him from his convictions, even as I see his spiritual pain. I also hold him in my heart with great compassion over just how isolated Hank is from the rest of humanity. Hank is not a “Happy Atheist.” Hank is heart and spirit broken.

When I did my Clinical Pastoral Education Residency at Rush University Medical Center, George Fitchett–the Grand Pubah of Spiritual Assessment–supervised me. In a landmark study he conducted with Duke University Medical Center on health care outcomes and spiritual practice, they found those patients who were content with their spiritual path–from “Happy Atheists” to Southern Baptists to Buddhists–had decreased hospital stays and increased outcomes. Health is not affected by affiliation –or lack there of–it only mattered that you were “happy” with your spiritual choices. My Spiritual Assessment of Hank ranks him as “dissatisfied” with his spiritual choices. Highly dissatisfied.

I also do not believe Hank “needs God”–as his nurse does–in order to find the lacking satisfaction. However, I do believe Hank needs to come to terms with his prior vision of whom he believed God to be and his anger that God did not turn out as expected. The fundamental flaw I find in all religions stems from an insistence on having a special revelation about not only the nature of God, but also how God does and does not act in the world. Again and again, we humans–the creators of said religions–set up one another up for failure by claiming unknowable information as not only known, but Divine Truth. What argument can be made against such claims, especially as they are transmuted by various means over centuries into “the inerrant word of God?”

I find so many people these days are what I like to call “The New Agnostics.” People who gaze into the vast universe, see the complexity and beauty, and wonder about an Original Designer, Instigator or Force. This may be why, in part, the masses do not decry Intelligent Design; they suspect it themselves in its most simplistic understanding. (Not to be confused with the political and religious agenda of the Christian Right, in particular, on this front.) These folks are also totally disgusted with the failure of their religions to accept plurality, change, science, women, gays, etc. They leave their religious traditions behind in part but not in full as they seek spiritual connection without the religiosity of their past. “Spiritual, Not Religious” then becomes its own religion of one. I understand this because even as an Ordained Minister I always fill out on-line dating forms as “Spiritual, Not Religious.” I never want to be confused with the dominant perception of what it means to be a Christian.

Of course, there are some like Hank, who abandon their Higher Power all together. I hold no inner issue with this choice, but I question their satisfaction with it when it comes as a result of being disillusioned with other human beings and their perceptions, insistence and hate-mongering in the name of their “God.” I keep reading stories of those dissatisfied with God because of the ridiculous nature and behavior of religions and religious people. Are these the same thing?

I am a fan of logic, and it seems rather illogical to me for anyone to insist on knowing anything concrete about who God is and how God acts in the world or who God is not or how God does not act in the world. The information is simply unknowable. (Read this wonderful “This I Believe” by Bill Nunan.) Will this always be the case? I do not know. I do believe we live in an age where we cannot say with certainty–like in the same way we might assert “2 + 2 = 4″–anything about God at all. Whatever I say, even as a minister, is strictly based on my own inner vision of who God might be and whom God is to me. Get that? Whom God is to me. Period. In fact, I am so passionate about this stance, I will only reflect back to my patients and their loved ones words they use to describe who God is to them. This is why Hank and I get along so well. I never reject his language about who God is not to him.

I want to advocate for Hank to be at peace with his Atheism. Atheism is a reasoned, intelligent and ethical spiritual path for many. I want Hank to be a “Happy Atheist,” but I also know his “unhappy” Atheism is only one small tendril of the pain wrapping itself around his life and choking it out of him, literally. As his Chaplain, I feel my job requires me to try and help Hank make peace with all of the ways life did not turn out how he wanted or needed. All the “doing” of the different religious paths he choose did not earn God’s favour and keep him from harm. His wife is still dead. His children still absent. His addictions still present. Loneliness and isolation being his constant companions. Whatever vision he possessed of God and God’s children failed him, and I desire to walk beside him with compassion (His favourite word for me.). It is the least I can do as his Chaplain, as a minister, as a human being.

I feel part of my job as a Chaplain is to advocate for those I care for to be able to ask the deepest of metaphysical and ontological questions with a member of the clergy. Too often, clergy sit back on the revelations of the past and do not entertain the curiosity and creativity of the present. I do not advocate with my patients a change in their tradition, but instead affirm the ways their spiritual resources give life to their dying and provide curiosity when I witness ways it is not life giving. Mostly, I find I need to “sit Shiva” with those deeply hurt by the certitude of their religious bodies that left them dissatisfied, rejected and cast out from the one place they thought all would be accepted–God’s House.

In the summer of 1977–the summer Daddy died–a mango tree was planted in our back-yard. Dear friends of my family gave the tree to us shortly before they moved back home to India. The father finished his PhD at the University of Miami, so it was not too long after Daddy died that the tree was planted. Their six-year old daughter and I played and attended kindergarten together. I can remember jumping on the mattresses at her house. They sat on the floor, so her mother felt our safety was not endangered! Her home always smelled of warm spices. I can remember being jealous of the pretty red dot her mother painted so carefully on her forehead. I can remember the cool embrace of her mother and father, always so glad to see me come to play. Her parents’ car had rotten floorboards, so you had to hold up your feet. I loved watching the road go by, especially in the rain.

The tree commemorated my friendship with their daughter, Mother’s addiction to mangoes, and Daddy’s life. I can remember the father digging the hole and planting the tree. A small tree, with stakes and ropes to keep it upright. The hole was too big, but my Mother felt it would help the tree to mulch around it, so it was never fully filled in to the top of the hole. Year after year, the best of the table scraps, grass clippings, and refuse went under that tree. Even the dead bunnies from a prolific surprise by my rabbit Baron (who then became “Baroness”) went under this tree. The offerings to the gods never were as thoughtful or as sacred as what we offered our dear mango tree.

When we sold the house ten years later, we still had never tasted one mango off our blessed tree. She never bloomed. Not once.

We sold the house on 100th Street to a Greek Orthodox priest. He invited to his open house to see all the renovations he made to our old home. We walked through the house noting each change, including the central air conditioning we never had. My room was now an office. The interior garden taken out, paved and a big hot tub put in its place. The Buddhas and totems were gone. A huge satellite dish could be seen looming in the back yard. So much change, yet so much the same. We walked through the master bedroom and bath, then the laundry room, which put us at the very back of the patio and overlooking the back-yard. Mother and I saw it at the same time. The mango tree laden with fruit.

Mother turned to me and said, “It is time to go.”

Once upon a time, I dated Plant Geek. Plant Geek is getting a PhD in Horticulture from the University of Florida and works down in South Dade studying Mamey for his dissertation. His adviser went to Costa Rica for six months in 2005. Plant Geek house sat and dog sat in his absence, and this was the time of our dating.

We walked around the yard, moving between all the various fruit trees and plants. What else would you expect from a horticulture professor specializing in tropical fruit?! When we came to one particular mango tree, Plant Geek started to pick some of them off for me and Mother. He always considered himself to be her “Dealer,” given she really is a Mango Junkie. And what a good Dealer! More varieties. More mangoes. Needless to say, Ms. Audrey loved how it worked out that I dated Plant Geek during mango season!

As we stood under the tree, so laden with fruit, I thought of our tree on 100th Street. I told Plant Geek the whole story of our mango tree–even the dead bunnies–and how it never blossomed or gave us fruit. I told him about finding her drooping with fruit just a year later. I wanted to know one thing: Why?

He told me the answer was simple. We had been too good to the tree. Trees need stress in-order to bloom and give off fruit. Reproduction, which is what the fruit is all about to the tree, comes about when the tree gets scared it might die and so it sends forth the fruit to ensure its survival in the next generation. In commercial growing, he told me, they actually use drought and flood to force stress their trees into better production. Our tree never experienced a single stressful moment until we sold the house to a man not quite as dedicated to her nurturing. She did the only thing possible. She freaked out! She brought forth fruit for her survival.

Daddy died thirty years ago today, and his death ushered in a terrible drought in my life. From his death June 28th, 1977 until the one year anniversary, I saw more than some see in a lifetime. Daddy, Grammy, and my best friend from church all died. My sisters came to Mother and told her they never wanted to see us or have anything to do with us again. With them went their husbands, Aunt Clem and Grammy, before she died later in the Fall. Our dinner table went from nine to two in less than one month. I was molested for the first time the following spring when John asked me if he could marry my Mother. You might find this strange, but I do not think being molested was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Losing my family like that has proven to be the most powerful loss of my life.

I see six year-old girls and think about how innocent and little I was. Who of us can process so much loss at one time, let alone a six year-old? I still work at it. I get scared of losing those I love, and as a result, I get scared of loving too much. The place I see this the most is in my intimate relationships, and unfortunately, the only place to work on these fears is in an intimate relationship. I just cannot touch it otherwise. I do not know if I will ever find anyone who can love me through the adjustments…I thought I had, but I was wrong. I pray I do.

In the meantime, I embrace with gratitude all the love wrapping itself around my life. My Mother continues to be such a source of love, affirmation, help and friendship. She is one of my Soul Mates in life. My Sista is too. Who would I be without her? My own biological half-sisters left thirty years ago, but Sista has been in my life for the whole of it. Our blood may not be the same, but our hearts are one. She is my champion, best friend, mentor, and pain in my ass! Love truly is thicker than blood.

I have such amazing and lovely friends. My other soul mate is Tammy Wayne. I can always count on her to remember me, what I love, who I love, and celebrate my life. Paparazzo’s patience may have been pushed to the limits with all the grieving these last six months brought, but he never wavered in his love for me. Harlot never fails to call me. Paulina Ballerina always accepts me. Miss Douglas, Fundraiser, My Best Friend, the list goes on and on. I really do possess more love than I know what to do with from both friends and family. When I was ordained last fall, the most beautiful moment for me came during “The Laying On of Hands.” Being surrounded by all of these loved ones blessing me and my calling to walk beside all of God’s children surpassed any other moment of my life. I felt more love in that one moment than I had ever experienced in my life.

See. My mango tree is laden with fruit.

After a really funny conversation with Paparazzo last night, I thought I would share with you, my dear readers, my thoughts on the importance of a new boyfriend to help get over the last one. See, I am now in that place where I realize that although it is always possible that The Bean might gets scads of therapy, deal with emotional integrity towards himself and others, and actually apologize for all the cruelty towards me at the end of our relationship when he bailed and most likely had sex with his ex-girlfriend while I was at home praying he would finally be able to put her rejection behind him, I also realize it is highly unlikely. * I also think it is possible I might one day be a size 2, but only after being put away in the Internment Camps and starved for my beliefs…if I make it that long! I am built for a camp-fire roast, literally!

Being a realist–such as I am–I do not sit around and think The Bean will come back to me in any way shape or form. I also still miss him. I wish I never met him, and I miss him. As I said before, being smart and thinking about the things I do has been lonely in my life. The Bean has been the only person I ever met to really “get me” and want to talk about those things with me. I felt like my whole life opened up with him, and being so wrong about him left me devastated. Shit! Friends and family alike would come up to me and say, “He’s a keeper.” I did not know we would make it in the long term–he is an Atheist; me a real live Reverend–but I agreed with them from a character standpoint. I knew–just knew–in my heart that regardless of our love story, our friendship would be lifelong.

I was wrong.

So, I feel I finally have arrived in that place where I can see myself with someone else. I feel ready for New Boyfriend. I also know, there is nothing like New Boyfriend to help me get over the last lingering longing and thoughts about “That Bastard!” When I first started dating The Bean, I can remember thinking, “Oh. My. God. He is so wonderful. Thank you JESUS he is so amazing and different from Plant Geek!” I think the Number One Expectation we have in a new relationship comes from the place of our greatest pain with the last one; we want the new one to act as the total opposite of the old one in one key way. This proved true with The Bean. I never felt more beautiful or sexy than when I was with him. With Plant Geek, I never felt more ugly and undesirable.

Over time and while dating The Bean, I would think of Plant Geek and miss the fact I could cook for him and he would eat the vegetables off the plate without complaining or looking like he was about to throw-up. Never wanted to get back with him, but I could value certain aspects of him as he moved from “That Bastard” to “A Guy I Used to Date.” The Bean is still in the place of “That Bastard,” and only New Boyfriend can help move him along. Call it Relationship Physics. The only other force great enough to move a guy along in your heart–and not always–is for them to be arrested for a crime they committed. I think it is key for them to have actually done the offense, otherwise feelings of protection and defense for “That Bastard” will rise up and over take all the hard emotional work you did to get over him already. Nothing like a wrongfully accused ex-love to send a girl back to the Mint Chip, her therapist, and tissue box of tears while listening to “Stand By Your Man.” Now a good armed robbery, and the lingering feelings for “That Bastard” are gone!!!

I may have turned to Mint Chip Ice Cream to help me deal with “That Bastard” in the beginning, but I am now in a place of riding that shit off every morning at six on my Relationship Swag, aka my bike.  Now I am in a place where I choose New Boyfriend over the armed robbery. I do not get to have sex with the robbery scenario, but with the New Boyfriend…oh yeah…chicka bow wow.

I must take some responsibility for dating these bastards, otherwise I am destined to repeat the offense and be back here writing about it AGAIN in a year’s time. As entertaining as that may be for you, my poor heart needs more kindness than another round with an emotionally unhealthy guy. Of course the fact that neither of them were as emotionally healthy as I thought (or decided to perceive) is all on me. Plant Geek admitted he dated me because I was “so healing” given both of his parents are dead. The Bean admitted he dated me because of “being lonely.” My fault for dating both of them!

I realize I looked for men who had been through something because I have been through so much. I wanted it to be okay to have a complicated past. My niece, Morgan, lives with me right now. She said almost the same thing to me at the pool last night about her ex. She thought he “got her” because he had been through stuff. She said, “None of the guys in school are attractive to me because they have had it too easy.” Uh-oh. She too has been put through the wringer by her father, so she looks for the guy who won’t judge her for his actions. Just like me.

Maybe the right New Boyfriend is the one who will really think twice about all the shit I have been through, and the one who will really look at me hard to see how well I dealt with it, deal with it, and have a plan to deal with it, before offering his love to me. Someone who puts real value on emotional health and does not want to try to rescue me or teach me how to trust. Someone who expects me to do those things for myself. (See Red Flags on the Field of Love for more on this topic.)

And can he also read books, talk about real things, be kind, be funny, have a good job, want children, have beautiful thick thighs, AND eat vegetables?

Nahhh….that might be asking for too much…vegetables and funny???? What am I thinking!?

* One problem with dating is that I get asked “Why did you and The Bean break-up?” I still do not have a good answer for this, but given how badly saying “We were closer than ever, and forty-eight hours later his ex of fifteen months called and he left me.” has gone, I now have a new line. “It just did not work out because we are too different.” Every single one of these guys, plus some friends, tell me that he slept with her. The only explanation that fits. I actually asked The Bean the next night if he had slept with her. He said that he had not, but he also was pressed up against a wall (literally), looking at me with this look of horror, and telling me that he hoped I could remember who he really is because he could not. Not really understanding how all this happened makes answering the question bewildering as well. When I confronted him in the parking lot, he actually said, “At least it was not like I left you for greener pastures.” Uh-huh.

The year: 1977. I remember First Baptist Church of Seminole was having a church picnic when we arrived to find my Grandmother that Sunday evening. The plan was simple: Leave me with my grandmother for the week, while my parents enjoyed a week to themselves following a terrible year of Daddy being so sick with Myocarditis. He would finally return back to work the following Tuesday, July 5th. He never did.

I wonder now if he realized at all he would never see Miami or our home again. When was the last time he saw my sisters? What did he say? I remember being outside in the bright heat asking for just one more hug before they left Monday morning for Ocala. Daddy said, “Jackie. I will give you a hug when I get back.” Funny how promises not kept stay with us forever…

They drove our truck to Ocala, where they went antiquing and checked into a small inn. A couple owned the place and lived there as well. In the evening, my Aunt Charlyne met them for dinner and a dip in the pool. I see them in my memory now just as I saw them Tuesday morning around nine when Mother sat in Grandmother’s Florida Room and told me every detail. The sky twinkled with stars. The pool glowing against the dark night. Mother in her turquoise bikini, which always made her look more like an Amazon than a sex goddess. Daddy’s tan skin with the greying chest hair. I could see them floating around and laughing. Especially laughing. Aunt Charlyne has the most distinctive low hackle of them all.

After she left, Mother and Daddy went back to their room. Did they make love? I realize children usually try not to think of things, but I know from my own losses how unsettling it feels to look back and realize the last moment you lay with someone skin-to-skin. No one tells you it is going to be the last time. Would I have cherished it more if I had known? Would I have tried to cheat fate and find a sweeter moment to be the last? Who knows what happened for my parents, but that year of illness must have given birth to lonely consequences as the illness took them away from each other physically.

I know he went to the bathroom at some point and returned saying he did not feel well. Mother, being both a nurse and a wife having been through the mill, suggested they go to the hospital. “Jack, after all we have been through, I would feel more comfortable getting you checked out than not.” They dressed, went downstairs to the owners watching television, and they gave them directions to the hospital with best wishes for a speedy return. Daddy was in full cardiac arrest before they got out of the parking lot.

He wanted to drive, but Mother wisely thought this was a ridiculous idea. She also thought she should make a run for the ER, instead of waiting for an ambulance. Racing towards an unknown hospital in an unknown town, she forgot the directions as she leaned over and gave him rescue breaths. Using the truck’s CB, she cried out for help in getting to the hospital. The whole time she massaged his heart with her right hand as best she could.

I can see her with Daddy. Full of panic, yet calm and doing what had to be done. She is at a red light where there is a slight hill in-front of her. She turns the CB station again, unknowingly hitting the police band. A trooper responds. When she tells him where she is, the night sky becomes illuminated with flashing lights. He is just beyond the hill waiting for her, and tells her to run the light as soon as she can. She follows him all the way into the Emergency Room driveway.

This all happened late in the night. The evening shift of nurses, getting off at eleven, were just coming out of the hospital as they pulled up. Three nurses in total. One ran back for a gurney, while the other two took over giving Daddy CPR. One of those nurses stayed with Mother the whole night, even driving her to Aunt Charlyne’s at three o’clock in the morning. I know I think of her when I sit with a family during the wee hours of the morning paying back the universe her kindness in part.

At some point, a doctor came and told Mother what she already knew. Daddy had a massive heart attack. I know she called our pastor, Rev. Reed, in Miami and talked and prayed with he and his wife as she waited. Then, some time after two the doctor came again to say Daddy had another heart attack, they did all they could do, and how sorry he was, but “your husband is dead.”

At Aunt Charlyne’s, they talked and cried and decided to wait until Grandmother got up at six to call her. Why ruin her sleep? She would need her rest in the coming days. Over the years I have pondered my Grandmother going through her morning routine with a lively six year-old running around and knowing my world was about to change forever. How did she hide her tears? How did she feed me breakfast? How did she go for the mail? It came early those days. When it arrived, a package from Mother and Daddy held a little red toy. I ran through the house playing and singing, “My Daddy is going to hug me again when he gets back!” How did she not cry out in anguish?

This was all that happened before Mother arrived without Daddy, sat me down on the love-seat by the steps down to the Florida Room, and told me the story I based my inner movie on exactly what it looked like when Daddy died. This is what happened the day before my world tipped over and changed forever.

I read the following on a blog* recently, and I must say it has me thinking:

Things That Cease To Exist Without Belief In Them:
Homeopathy
Gods (anyone want to make the case for existence of Thor, Zeus, Hera, or Kali?)
Truth
Vampires (Bram Stoker-style, not the clinical pathology of drinking blood)
Hope, Love, Hate, Jealousy…emotions in general, really
Astrology
Spell-casting, Prayer, Divining, and other summons of supernatural powers
Obviously, these examples would anger, annoy, offend, or otherwise put off the majority of people out there. The good reader would question why I would put Vampires and Spell-Casting with Love, Truth, and God.

Well, would not all of the above examples cease to be without someone believing in them? I can go down the list and show that each of these points simply are not “real” in the same way mathematics, gravity, and aloe vera are.

Things That Exist Regardless of Belief:

The wet qualities of water
The elliptical motion of the earth as it orbits around the sun
The Macro- and Micro-evolution of organisms on planet earth.
The efficacy of aloe vera in soothing sunburns
Human Intelligence (and lack thereof, in some individuals)
The dramatic change in the earth’s climate caused by man’s pollution and neglect of their place in nature
Mathematics and all disciplines that stem from it

Now, the idea here is simple (if you haven’t caught on already): the above examples exist whether or not one believes them to exist. I can stop believing in evolution and global climate change, but they still most definitely exist. I can proclaim that I do not believe that pi does not equal 3.14, but it still will. Water is wet, the sky is blue, oceans are deep, etc. These things do not require belief; not believing will not cause water to be like sandpaper, the earth to rotate around the sun in a rectangular pattern, etc.

I think the fundamental problem with this kind of logic is how it requires us to break life apart and segment it into manageable elements. The parts cannot fully describe the whole. To use the water analogy: Water coming out of my sink may be just as wet as the waves crashing down on the beach during a hurricane, but their metaphysical properties are dramatically different. In other words, the wetness of water says nothing about its power for good or destruction. And even as those aspects are “real”–we can see the videos New Orleans post-Katrina or of a barren land and recognize its power–the way the wetness of water gets played out in our lives is best spoken to through our stories of pain, abandonment, terror, fear, love, compassion and heroism.

Love, pain, vision, inspiration, despair (to name a few aspects) may all require “belief” but they also are the required elements of any kind of art form or relationship. If we can only assign value to a “whole” based on assigning scientific proof to its individual parts, what meaning can the whole possibly have? We utilize story, poetry, painting, photography, design, sculpture, music, etc. to capture what is fundamentally important to us as individuals, as groups or as a whole. Where we screw up when we assign “factual value” to these parts in such a way as to empower our ability to harm one another. We do this because we disagree on said value, and when we feel someone else does not posses “right belief,” i.e. agree with us. The illogical loop then begins.

Christianity makes this mistake all the time. The Church Fathers fought with one another from the Book of Acts onward to distill their belief into manageable “facts” on which to hang their faith. Once they agreed, by vote no less, “The Church Proper” became more formed, hierarchical and political. Being able to describe Jesus’ ontology with a creed–The Nicene Creed especially–allowed The Church Proper to mandate “right belief.” If you are a Christian, then you must believe these things to be true in order to meet your membership requirements. In fact, I got a comment at the end of “The Ground Floor” saying…”I thought Christianity was about…” In other words, what I wrote was so counter to the accepted “right belief” the only way to challenge what I said was to point out the contradiction. In essence, the elements of belief have become so dogmatic and static they now stand in for “facts” instead of “personal truth.”

I do not think it is a fluke this guy sets up his argument with math and science in one corner and the religious aspects in another. He is only speaking to the systemic dichotomy The Church Proper has not only worked hard at creating, but also at institutionalizing across the boundaries of church and state, regardless of creed or country. ** Also, as fans of logic know, The Church Proper makes for a perfect target since the elements of right belief include a virgin birth, resurrection from the dead, and young earth creationism. So silly and simplistic to the logical mind, they would be disregarded all together if The Church Proper had not wielded its power for so much evil, then and now. In a world where revelation comes at the hands of scientific discovery and not tablets coming down the mountain, those of us who are not willing to buy into The Church Proper’s insistent decrying of Evolution, let’s say, are outside of “right belief” regardless of whether or not one self identifies as Atheist or Jesus Follower.

The problem in the argument–one he alludes to on his post–is that science may in-fact prove the biological existence of our existential selves…feelings and emotions being his example. Of course this leaves “real” and “provable” as being not only synonyms but exact replicas of one another. I disagree.

I have two schools of thought here: The first is a brief nostalgic ping about the children’s book “The Velveteen Rabbit.” In the end, what made the rabbit real was love. When he was well-worn, shabby, falling apart, stitched back together then he was real. Maybe love is not “real” in a Periodic Table of Elements kind of way, but then again maybe it is what makes us real as human beings. In the same way, I do not model my own life after Jesus because of the virgin birth, but because over time being Jesus’ Disciple and following his example of radical love and acceptance has given my life more meaning and made my own capacity to love and forgive greater. I have become “more real” in the way of the Velveteen Rabbit, if not in the way of my cells existing in time and space to any greater or lesser degree.

The second thought centers on the relationship between mathematics and music. Music is fundamentally math. You can use math to distill the elements of a musical piece, and the more complicated the piece the more complicated the math. But you cannot ever use music to describe a theorem. The whole is real in a way beyond the capacity of the elements to describe. For you Trekkie’s, I offer the way Data could learn to play the violin with utter perfection (He is an android, for you non-Trekkie’s.), but he never could capture any one’s imagination and heart with his playing because precision in the elements did not make for breath taking music.

I do not want to live in a world full of “right belief” because it confuses–dangerously–personal experience and truth with facts. But I also do not want to distill the experiences of my life, and the truths they represent to me, into categorical facts. Those facts cannot give meaning to my life, in the same way they have no real power over my spirituality and faith. James William McClendon, the theologian, names these facts “numerical data.” I like his wording here because he supposes that any kind of doctrinal agreement is only about this numerical data and tells us nothing of what it means to experience the love of God or be Jesus’ disciple.***

In the same way, knowing I was born February 28, 1971 at 7:30pm to Audrey and Jack Derby, or that I graduated from Duke Divinity School, or that I was molested as a child, cannot tell you the full story of who I am or what it means to know me and be loved by me. I am my own song, and you must hear it, experience it, let it wash over you, in order to say that you do in fact know the real me. And each listener always has a different take, but these differences cannot take away from who I am or my real existence in the world. The elements of belief may be informed by facts, truths, wishes, desires, but our individual perspective ultimately dictates the picture we experience, in the same way portraits of me by Modigliani, Picasso, Rembrandt or Botticelli would also differ. I am sure I would feel they all captured me, and that they did not.

*blog link

**Note: Christianity is not the only religion good at this, but given it is my own historical tradition, I feel I can only speak to it properly. One of my own personal litmus tests about any spiritual path and its veracity is: Does it allow for plurality and encourage it? If not, I deem it to be “sinful,” i.e. breaking fellowship between persons, self and God.

***I could not find the exact quote, but I am pretty sure it is from his Systematic Theology book.

The following post is dedicated to all the CNA/HHA’s who work selflessly to tend to patients’ most intimate needs, especially the six women on my Hospice Team. I wrote this for their special week of honor.

Feel free to check out my old post “The One Armed Bitch Named Jesus.” I wrote it in honor of them as well.

They are often the first to notice our patients’ decline. Inspecting the gentle folds, mounds, wrinkles, crevices, and colour while caressing back to cleanliness and comfort bodies no longer able to care for themselves. Once, our patients were babies and their Mother held them at her breast and nursed them to life. Now, these gentle women hold them to their breasts of love as they help lay them down gently before the Big Sleep.

They know who has enough love, and who goes gravely without. They know the wives about to lose their minds, and the sons who coo in their fathers’ ear sweet words of assurance. They know who eats. They know who does not. They know when the bladder function begins to fail. They know the secret chocoholics. They know those desperately lonely. They know the ones just plain desperate. They know the most intimate of secrets, and still come and care regardless.

What kind of person wakes up in the morning, smiles at the new day, makes their breakfast and then happily goes to wipe poop off fannies for a living? How can someone do this with such tenderness when even family cannot? Love. Unconditional love for neighbour is the only answer. When they heard The Voice of Love calling and asking, “Whom shall I send to tend to my children who are sick, elderly and dying? Whom will tend the least of these?” they responded, “Here I am; send me.”

Let us bless them, our Certified Nursing Assistants and Home Health Aides, for they bless all of us. They bless us by being on the frontlines of tender care and showing gentleness and grace to all they serve, regardless of who they are, how they act, or the severity of their condition. We bless them today, and always, in the name of the Love they so generously give out of the abundance of their own hearts and lives.

Amen.

I am helping a patient of mine put together her “goodbye letters.” Really, they are love letters to her closest family and friends done with knowing her death will come soon and wanting to leave them something tangible with her imprint of love all over them. This last week she dictated a letter to her future daughter-in-law. The future girl of her son’s dreams has yet to be found, and from what I gather he does not date too much these days–more your recluse type–so this letter is for the future hoped-for by his mother. Now I did hear that her son promised to get married by thirty-five, a good ten years off, at least that is her prayer for him. (Poor dear.)

As we worked on the future daughter-in-law letter, my patient would consult me to see if she covered all her bases. She wanted the opinion of a “future daughter-in-law,” whom she sees me to be given her palm reading from the week before! (Too funny; right?) I tell you what…this patient is such a joy to see! I really look forward to each visit because regardless of how sick she is, she possesses an amazing spirit and looks at life with joy and gratitude. I am learning a great deal from her about love, forgiveness, optimism, and most importantly, letting go of fear and trusting God.

In the letter to her future daughter-in-law, she wrote the following: “Be kind and gentle to each other. Love and marriage are like a rose. As they blossom, they get sweeter and open more with each passing day. When you argue with each other (over the next fifty years or so), remember inside that grouchy man is the same young guy you fell in love with. Please take excellent care of each other.”

Do you know much about roses? They are not difficult to cultivate, but they do require knowing a thing or two for them to flourish. I am not a rose expert by any means, but I did help someone plant a new garden and learned about roses in the process. Sista’s parents, Gram and Granddad, cultivate roses out at Lawless Landing. I wrote to Granddad to ask for some advice on the rose front, given there being just one straggly rose bush with one bloom every now and again in the garden before we began. What were we to do?

Granddad offered his sage rose wisdom. “Don’t be afraid to prune. Spend the time and money to make the right mix in the soil; roses can be picky about that. Water. Water. Water. If you tend to them, they should bloom abundantly for years to come.” In the end, the old rose was out, and two new ones purchased to be planted in deep pots with just the right soil and mulch top. A careful brew of moss, manure, soil and fertilizer to help these little plants blossom and grow.

I think many of us treat our relationships the same way we treat roses. We either buy them on the side of the street (you know who you are!) or at the store, but then throw them away when the blooms wilt and the water turns rancid. Maybe we feel sentimental sometimes, and turn over a bouquet and try to dry them out, but dried flowers are never as sweet at fresh. At other times, we do go ahead and actually “buy the bush” (terrible pun not intended, but noted) but become dismayed when the plant dies from our neglect. Into the mulch pile and onto another new plant thinking, “I just need to get one that is in my favourite colour, then it will work.” (Or something like that.)

The same person I helped with planting the garden remarked to me at the time, “I just want roses, but I do not want to have to mess with them.” Don’t we all! Relationships are hard. They require pruning back the dead parts of ourselves and allowing for that growth time in the one we are with after we help prune them. We must be honest, but we can never be cruel for cruelty always takes away more of the healthy plant than it can survive without. We have to nurture and tend to the soil. It takes the right balance of the shit of the past processed enough to bring added joy and life to the mix of regular ordinary life and rich healthy soil in order to have a full future. We must water our love. Love dying of thirst has no hope at all of blooming. And we cannot be afraid of being stuck, pricked, poked or cut by the thorns. Thorns are part of life, and I have found in my limited rose experience that often the sweetest most beautiful roses have the sharpest thorns. Put another way, if passion for life and love rules one’s heart, deep waters of sadness or informed understanding will often be their gentle companions as well.

I know part of the pain of my own past centers on feeling the burn of being tossed into the mulch heap. None of us like to feel tossed away because of our thorns, especially when we feel we have worked so hard to cultivate amazing blossoms with the fertilizer of our lives. Having been on the mulch heap these last six months, I spent my time pruning back so I would be ready for replanting a garden with someone else. My gut and heart believe the new blooms can be even sweeter than the last, but I still get scared sometimes. I do not want to be thrown on the mulch heap again! I guess this is why when my patient spoke of love and marriage being like a rose, I could not help but think to myself how appropriate a metaphor this is, only for me it is more like a rose garden. One that requires patience, nurturing, attention and forgiveness in order to enjoy the sweet opening blooms year after year.

I, for one, am willing to put in the work.

Photo credit: The Bean

I often hear people say, “It is all in God’s hands.” What do you think they mean? I think it often means we no longer know what to do about a terrible problem, so we hope–have an imagination of some sort–God might still intervene and make things right. When God does not make things right the way we think we need, then we often progress to the axiom, “God must know something you don’t know.” I heard this one in the hospital when people died all the time. Often it took the form of: “God must need them in heaven now.” The idea that people die because God needs them in heaven always seems to make me a bit ill. Why would God need them? To sing in the choir? To lay the gold on the streets? To help bring in the harvest? For that matter, why not to teach God how to use the Internet or the joy of the Kama Sutra? The word “ludicrous” comes to mind.

I remember the night my thoughts changed and matured about God’s intervention in the world. At the time, I worked doing twenty-four hour on-call shifts at UNC Hospitals and still attended Duke. The Pastoral Care on-call room was located up on the eighth floor of the Neuroscience Hospital with Carolina Air Care. Air Care tolerated–barely–99% of the chaplains given a particular elder chaplain in a silk robe had mistakenly (???) flashed some of the staff one night. I, however, developed a close relationship with the Peds Team and the bond translated into my not getting the same static as most of the chaplains. The bond became so close, they would just pound on my door to announce the fun time about to begin, instead of waiting for someone to page my ass downstairs to the ER. This night the pounding began before the kid even hit the heli-pad.

The story of how he came to us has been told plenty of times in plenty of places. Drunk kid with sports car given by parents totals the car and his (or her) life in a series of bad decisions. Thinking about him, I still see him being brought out of the helicopter–a hot lift no less (no time to cool the bird due to how bad he was)–and throwing up everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can smell it. I can hear the team moaning and groaning about cleaning all that shit up. The chills come again too…right up my arms and legs. Damn.

His parents come to the hospital. His Daddy had that farm swagger in his cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. He paced in between going out to our smoking lounge (only in North Carolina). Back and forth. Back and forth. I already knew the news. Having been in the ICU just prior, I knew his son would die soon. No medical interventions would stop the total devastation of his injuries. Brain and body in a race to the death. I sat in a chair watching him pace and listening to him as he spoke to me about God.

“I pray chaplain. I’m praying right now. I keep asking God to help. God is all I have. God is my only hope. God must give me a miracle, otherwise…well, otherwise I do not know what I will do.” He went on, now forgetting my presence, “Oh God! Oh God! No! Help me! Help my son. I cannot bury my son. I won’t. I just won’t. Dear God please! Listen to me. Stop this from happening.”

And then he stopped pacing and stood looking stoic. Ever so slowly he turned and faced me. “If God could stop this from happening now, why not just stop it from happening all together? Where was God when my boy really needed him? You know, out there on that road in the car?” [Now before you go down the path marked, "Your boy drank himself into this problem, sir. No sympathy here buddy;" let us remember his story is not so different from any of ours. We all screw up, and those we love do too.]

So, where was God prior to the boy being on that road and when he was getting loaded? Why did God not intervene?

I completely reject the idea that everything is in God’s hands. If this were to be true, God is a Puppet Master, and we are God’s toys, not God’s children. And children make choices. Right ones. Wrong ones. Indifferent ones. So where is God in my choices, if God is not in correcting or protecting me from my outcomes?

In my vision of God, I see God leaning into the boy’s ear saying, “Son, you know better than this. You have been taught right. Drinking like this and then driving cannot lead to good. Stop now. Don’t get behind the wheel. Let someone else drive. Listen to me. Your safety is important to me. Your life matters.”

We live in a world full of bad luck. Bad luck that just happens, bad luck we work hard to cheat, bad luck we create. I also believe in Immanuel–God with us. Love finds us even in those places where we are sure and wrong, just like when love finds us where we are unsure and right. I believe in the Whispering God cooing in our ear and heart. Can you hear God?

You are my child. I love you. I made you to be human, which can be quite fragile and limited, but also beautiful and capable. I made you to be in my creative image, and I am constantly surprised by what you come up with. Come up with something really beautiful and good today. Come up with a special gift of kindness. Come up with forgiveness where you feel betrayed. Come up with brilliant violet where everyone else expects grey. Come up with laughter instead of hurt feelings. Come up with mercy instead of judgment. Come up with understanding instead of more pressure for yourself or anyone else. Come up with life, not fear. Love. Love. Love, today my child. I know you can do it. I made you that way.

Amen.

Again I find myself thinking about the nature of suffering and friendship because Paparazzo is on Percocet. He needs it. Fucked up ankles and broken bones require the good stuff. You can check out all of the pics on his blog, but here is my personal favourite:

I feel a bit nauseous looking at them, and then a bit guilty for thinking “cool.” He goes through all the gory details on his blog and at Free Ride South, but the long and short of it is doing something you have done a million times with success does not guarantee you won’t crash and burn at some point.

Frequent readers of my little blog know Paparazzo means the world to me. He is my best friend. I do not know how I would have made it through these last six months–in particular–without his sunshine in my life, let alone moved! Twice! I told everyone my move into a first floor flat was due to Miss Audrey’s knees, but really it was because Paparazzo would have K.I.L.L.E.D. me if he had to help haul my gorgeous green buffet down and up any more stairs, given it weighs around one million pounds. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to keep her friends!

You know, us girls tend to be much more expressive of how we feel in general, but also towards those we love. I always tell those in my life how much I love them and the neat things about them I just find to be the bomb-diggity. Take Paparazzo: He is brilliant, funny, annoying (in an endearing way), always on-time, kind, would help any friend or stranger, has an amazing eye, game (he did go with me to Jacksonville and back in one day just to see puppies for an hour), athletic, fair, a great employee and boss, a good listener, honest, and a treasure trove of worthwhile insight. I also think he is brave. When he first moved down to South Florida he knew basically no one, and time and again that boy has put himself out there to meet new people and make friends…let alone a love connection! In fact, we met because he saw Paulina Ballerina and me sitting at the bar of P.F. Chang’s (his own personal “Cheers”) and fought for the seat next to us. A grown-ass man drinking a Shirley Temple with his calamari caught our attention and the rest is history.*

So, dear reader, I love him. It broke my heart to see him laid up in the ER without any pain meds for two hours, so I did what any good chaplain would do. I became the sweetest pest around! “Hi. You’re Adam? I’m Jacqueline, Paparazzo’s friend. He needs some pain medicine.” To which Adam replied, “I am getting it right now.” And with honey dripping from my voice I said, “Goooood. It has been two hours, so I am glad you are on it!” Sharp look of: “Don’t let that fucking happen again Nurse Boy.” and the meds were delivered then, and later, promptly. Trust me. In these types of situations, I am at my best. Car repair, reconciling my checking account, and understanding the hearts and minds of men…not so much. Blood, guts, doctors, hospitals, drugs, interventions, craziness, and emotional break-downs…I’m your girl.

You know, as a Hospice Chaplain I get asked all sorts of questions about the nature of suffering. I cannot even begin to count the times I have been asked the whole, “But I was a good person; why is this happening to me?” question of the ages. I try to just sit with them over the pain of feeling abandoned by God or life. I know, from my own experiences, not much that I might think to say in the moment of touching such a profound sense of just how fragile and unfair life really is will help my patients and their loved ones. It never helps me. But, I do say to myself–in that small corner of my heart where I speak the brutal truth–”It is just your turn.”

Years ago I read a story in a women’s magazine about a woman who had a miscarriage. In times before, when her own friends had been through one, she would tell them things like: “It is going to be okay. You can have another one. This one was just not meant to be. God needed this baby.” As she lay in her hospital bed after her D & C following the loss of her baby, her friends poured through the door. One by one, they too offered empty words of support. Then one friend, a friend who had herself gone through the loss and pain of a miscarriage came to see her. Weeping the author pulled her friend to her and asked her, “Why did this happen to me?” Her friend replied, “It was your turn.”**

This story has been freeing to me in so many ways. Life is full of bad luck. We all stand in line waiting our turn at the window marked “Shit Happens.” Sometimes it is your turn. Sometimes it is mine. These last six months have been brutal for me. I still sometimes wonder how I will find my way towards life and love again. I do not want to be the one who has to get back up AGAIN and pick up the pieces. I do not want to be the one who hears the other person say, “Well, I treated you like shit, but I saw no need to apologize because I knew you could handle it.” I do not want to handle shit sometimes. Sometimes, I just want it to go the fuck away.

Yet when it was my turn, I got through in large part because I had wonderful friends and family who understood it was also my turn to receive extra measures of love and care. Paparazzo surely did. So, now it is his turn to be in Shitville, and my turn to stand beside him. I know it is hard to be on the receiving end–we all value giving over receiving–but the ebb and flow of friendship and life and love require give and take. Those who only take are users; those who only give, martyrs. True friends do a bit of both.

And have no fear. One day, I will again be at the front of the “Shit Happens” line and hear the teller say, “Next!” I know Paparazzo will be there for me then, even if he will claim that his old ankle injury will not allow him to haul my gorgeous green buffet anywhere!

*In reality, it was cranberry juice and vodka, but it sure did look like a Shirley Temple!

**Mad props to the original author of the article. I cannot remember the magazine, let alone the woman who wrote it. If you know, let me know.

I hate feeling powerless. Becoming an adult ought to mean I can take care of myself in the world, but more and more I feel as though no matter what I do, I will always be behind the eight-ball. South Florida is notorious for paying low wages to the Worker Bees and high wages to the Kings of Commerce (some queens, but few). South Florida is also one of the metropolitan areas most affected by the Real Estate Boom and slow-down. As a result, rent prices have also gotten hefty to help cover ridiculous mortgages. Shit! I paid only $47 less to live in one room in some girl’s townhouse (her brass knuckled grill sporting live-in boyfriend came free of charge) than what I paid for a WHOLE TWO BEDROOM APARTMENT in North Carolina!

I bring home about $2650 per month, not counting mileage or on-call money. Let’s look at the break-down, a.k.a. “Why I Am Having A Breakdown:”

$1380 (Rent & Utilities, but only the most basic of cable around here…not even the Weather Channel.)
$470 (Gas & Insurance..and this number is on the rise.)
$200 (Prescriptions, etc…if I filled all of them. Who knew allergies and sensitive skin were so expensive?)
$400 (Student Loans & Credit Card. I still am in deferment for the Big Kahuna–the $120k I owe to Sallie Mae–which would be another $550 per month, consolidated so I finish paying just after Retirement. Also, my credit card debt is under $3200, but that is a doubling since I started this job. The majority of this money goes to school not credit cards, but I still feel totally irresponsible because this number is so high, and because I am not paying the suckers off.)
$100 (Emma: this covers fleas, food, treats, toys, vet visits, hair-cuts and heart worms. Puppy hysterectomies are paid in-full by Nana.)
Grand Total Out-Go = $2550

Wait! What about food, doctor appointments, clothes, hair-dos, tampons, floss, cleaning supplies, dry cleaning, going out with my friends, etc? What about savings, paying off debt, reimbursing Nana for all the emergency help, having money to fix my car, my knee, or my bike? What about birthday gifts, or cards for that matter? I have $100 guaranteed, plus the mileage and on-call money. Last month that came to a whooping $145.83!!! That meant that for four whole weeks I rolled in the pennies for a grand total of $245.83! Can’t beat $81 bucks a week, can you? This is why when I was at Target on Sunday I just about burst into tears that my $85 budget had already been blown by $65 on house-hold stuff before I put the first food item into my cart. I looked over the cart and decided that, yes, toothpaste is indeed a necessity and it would stay. Ditto for the laundry detergent. The other cleaner went back on the shelf. I now had a good $25 (including tax) to blow on food.

And to think my mother wonders why I eat cheese toast all the time?

See, I save my money to eat out with my friends every now and again. I do not want them to know how close I cut it sometimes. I want to feel like I am their equal. I do not want anyone to think of me as being irresponsible, but I know I feel that way. Not because I actually possess this horrible propensity to buy scads of unnecessary items, like toilet paper, but because I cannot make it right now without help from my family. A thirty-six year-old grown-ass woman with a Master’s Degree from Duke (of all places), and I do not make enough money to live on and take care of myself!

I have full-on panic attacks when I need to go to the doctor. Where will the money come from? What if he prescribes something else I cannot fill? You should have seen me crying like a baby over needing new tires in February. Had to call Mama on that. My $40 oil change cost just under a grand by the time all the “do only if my car would not be safe otherwise” things were done. Now I need three weeks salary, plus medical costs (about $6000 total) to get my knee operated on because of a tear in my cartilage from a bad crash off my bike last fall. Oh the fuck well! That will not be happening any time soon. How about just after retirement, when my student loans will be paid off? If Medicare is still around will they cover it or will it be seen as a pre-existing condition? Please email me if you know!

I need to get a second job. Most of the chaplains at my company work other places too. The on-call schedule makes it a real bitch to do, but people manage. You know? Work 60 hours one place and then try and pick up a good 20 or so hours somewhere else. Maybe I am just lazy or unmotivated or a total free-loading daughter, but I DO NOT WANT TO WORK ANOTHER JOB!!!!! (Can you hear me screaming now? Yes? Good!) Here is why: The job I already work really works me body, mind and spirit enough as it is. Sister here has nothing left to give. I need my down time in order to fill my cup, otherwise I cannot do the job I feel called to do. I do not have anything–time or energy–to give to a job I have to do in order to afford to continue to do the job I already have. (Say that three times fast!)

One of my supervisors asked me recently if I still feel called. I must confess the question stung.

I feel like I am giving my very best to my patients and their families. I just feel like my best includes my stressed out, broke off my ass, angrier and angrier by the day, worst too. Angry? Yes. The little vicious cycle of not wanting to get a job to help pay for my life so I can afford to stay at my real job has a cousin: I am A.N.G.R.Y. my family is helping to pay my way to keep me in my job as a chaplain–making all sorts of sacrifices, given we ain’t rich folks–so I can work for a FOR PROFIT COMPANY!!! That’s right. For fucking profit.

I have $20 cash…and less than $20 in the bank at the moment…checking and savings combined. (Thank God for credit, right?) I worked ten hours today going to a death, having smoke blown in my face more than once, did two spiritual assessments, fought for a cancer patient to actually HAVE some pain medicine because the pool nurse took him off given it was making him constipated (all narcotics do) but failed to actually order anything–not even fucking Tylenol–to help the poor dear, run paperwork back to the office, and cram a PB&J down my throat in the fifteen minutes I had to eat lunch all so the Fat Cats at Corporate get richer and can have lunch at Joe’s Stone Crabs (or so I hear).

With one week to go before I get paid, house guests who will be here four of the seven days, and the car on empty, you may wonder to yourself why in the world I would ever work for so little money in a job where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Do not feel too bad for me…feel bad for the Aides on my Team. If I can hardly make it, how do they at all? And they have to clean poop for a living!! The truth is that Chaplains do not make living wages on the whole. I would do better–even in my own company–if I lived in Georgia, for instance, where the cost of living is so much less and the company pays about $5k more.

Chaplains are not valued in any way by the majority of people, and money demonstrates this point just as much as anything else. We are seen as superfluous. Who cares that we live in an age full of what I like to call “The New Agnostics.” The New Agnostics hate their churches, synagogues and temples of origin because of the duplicity, abuse, irrational doctrine, disregard for science, and hypocritical nature of the congregants, but have not yet given up on their “Higher Power.” An ecumenical chaplain, like myself, then becomes the Face of God to them as they die and offers a peace they never found within their home congregation. Add to this, we asset protect in the tens of millions of dollars neighbourhood our organizations by being the front-line to listen to complaints, offer validation of feelings, and placate thousands of angry families each year.

But I guess it is still too much to ask that I make enough money to actually eat and buy my allergy medication? I am glad I know how to push that out of my mind when I am holding the hand of a patient telling me how angry she is at God for letting her get so sick, or at a family member insisting we want to kill her mother because we administered pain medicine, which calmed her down enough to begin to let go and die. And in the end, I find my calling in these small moments with my patients and their loved ones. My company cannot pay me to love them, which I do, so I keep on giving all my love away for free, and remind myself that they only pay me to fill out paperwork. Maybe that is why there is so much of it!?

These last few weeks the roller coaster I found myself whipping around on lacked any thrill or fun. My emotions all over the place–think Jackson Pollock–and the chocolate consumption has been at an all-time high. Hormones, regrets, dead people, poverty–take your pick–all had me feeling the crunch. I kept wondering to myself, “When will I get to the last of it?”

I can remember being in therapy at twenty-one and thinking, “all the pain of the abuse of my childhood will be worth it if my going through this helps it to happen less from now on in the world.” Then I realized by listening to other survivors’ stories, just how naive my thinking was. Total devastation at the time. I could find no line in the sand to draw…no bearing it so others would not have to…no end in sight. I found myself only one of many.

This realization touched off another more important understanding in me. I questioned my therapist, “I will never be over this, will I?” She told me, “No. And yes. Yes, right now you will find a way through towards life and wholeness. Yes, you can learn healthy ways of coping. Yes, you can get to a place where you are not terrified all of the time. You will also grow up and circumstances will change. One day you will no longer be afraid of someone touching you here (taking my hands and placing them in my crotch), but you will want them to touch you. You cannot face every piece of this at once, and life will bring the other pieces to you. As it does, you will have to look at them and deal with them, but you cannot prepare now for having a seven-year-old daughter and seeing yourself at that age. Just make a deal with yourself now that when those moments come, you will get the help you need. Don’t be afraid Jacqueline of needing to look at all of this again and again. Each time will be hard for its own reasons, but your emotional muscles to deal with what is coming up will be stronger too.”

I can remember after a good $100k of therapy (one three-week hospitalization helped propel the figure), my mother asked me when would I be”done.” Done? Damn! I was livid. I screamed back at her, “How the hell does a person who was molested almost every day for five years–and who had to try and commit suicide for it to stop–ever get DONE with dealing with that shit?!?” At the time, I sat in the mire and filth of my life. I owned it. I needed it. I wore my Girl Scout Survivor Badge with the neon lettering of MOLESTED emblazoned upon it. I held my head up high as I went to the Rape Support Group.

Over time, gentle imperceptible shifts occurred. I took off my badge. I stopped going to the group. I no longer needed to think about everything in my past in order to know life existed for me in my future. I did not find the last of it, but I found “the last of it for right now.” The shifts came again and again, and my therapist from the past was right. When something big reared its ugly head, if I got the help I needed I found my way. When John died. When I did my Advanced Bereavement Facilitator certification. When I decided to drop the walls of weight. When I found myself deeply loving The Bean and opening up all these magical rooms in my spirit I thought did not exist for me because of the molestation.

And then there is now; this terrifying place where I struggle to trust myself in the wake of The Bean’s shit. I get that he is not trustworthy, but I still cannot understand how I got him so wrong sometimes. This makes me question my ability to judge who is trustworthy in my life and to trust those I already love. I took a big hit to my own compass. I read the tea leaves wrong. I put emphasis where there was none out of my own desire to believe not only in love, but in love for me.

I have three personal holy days: my birthday, June 6th and June 28th. June 6th is holy because on that day my parents married in 1970, I was conceived–also in 1970–and my niece, The Older One, was born. I first connected with The Bean on June 6th last year, meeting him face-to-face the next day. Meeting him on my holy day gave our meeting greater import, I must admit. Fate. Destiny. Whatever. Not on that day, of course, but in the days, weeks and months to come. When I looked out five months later at my ordination and saw him there in the church–knowing in my heart what courage and love for me it took for him to be there–I felt like he was my “reward” for all the shit that ever happened in my life. He took on the role of being my “line in the sand.” My life before him somehow making sense because (at the time, of course) having him in my life connected so many dots, filled so many places of emptiness.

Now, I feel I must explain the emptiness. I need to protect my honor! My life has be characterized by a particular loneliness due to seeing the world in a particular way, being “scary smart,”and willing to question anything or anyone–including authority–right from the womb. No one “gets me” and usually people fall into one of two categories: 1) They love me as I am, but do not understand me; or 2) They feel the need to put me down for being who I am. With The Bean, I thought I found someone who not only cared about me but who also actually understood me and where I was coming from. I felt trusted for all of the ways I am such a complete “weirdo”–leaned into in those places instead of pulled away from.

Fast forward to this last Saturday. I stood in my living room crying my eyes out to Bubbie. As I cried, Bubbie gave me a big ol’ hug and said, “It is okay, you are just crying out the last of it now. It has been almost six months. It is the right time.”

I did not realize until Sunday night, while talking to Paparazzo, that the tears had his name on them, not The Bean’s.

See, Paparazzo does the Ft. Lauderdale Street Ride on Wednesdays. So does The Bean. When Paparazzo and I talked on Friday about all the ways the Ride fell apart with break-downs last week, his bike included, he mentioned how The Bean gave him a fucking bolt. Just a bolt mind you, and I had a world class melt down. I did posses enough presence of mind to get off the phone as quickly as possible on Friday. But the next day when I got a bit of shit for not being that into the sublime invite to maybe go to the movies, I lost it. Figuring out why proved hard. Why did Paparazzo mentioning The Bean make me flush with burning panic?

The tears with Bubbie were over losing my cool and falling apart (again! fuck!) with Paparazzo on the receiving end. I felt threatened. That horrible insecure place where my sick fantasy (or is it a nightmare?) saw The Bean and Paparazzo sitting around having one Mojito and one girly fruity drink with an umbrella (you get to decide who drinks what) and laughing about what a total nut-job I am. Maybe they would even talk about how I never seem to get over the whole being molested thing and the subsequent abandonment fears and how ugly I am and not that funny or cute or…or…or…?

I love Paparazzo. No friend has ever been more true to me–even if he is a total G.U.Y. and keeps his cards so close–or been more game to make me play even when I wanted to lie down and curl up in a ball. I just cannot bear the thought of losing him too.

The last of it had nothing to do with losing The Bean. He is long gone, which is good. The last of it–for now of course–had to do with being scared shitless that the losing won’t stop and finding my way back towards trusting my heart again. The same heart that knows without a doubt Paparazzo would never speak ill of me to The Bean.

There are all sorts of things I never think about any longer. Pain healed, forgiven, let go of, and forgotten. I would tell you about them, but I just do not remember. I do, however, know all about pain getting into those deep sacred places I rarely show anyone or even admit to possessing because they are so vulnerable to both love and loss. The Bean and his loss are in there, but so is all the love I have in me for Paparazzo.

As those of you who follow my blog already know, I have not posted in a bit. No block, just lack of time to edit and post. Here is my sermon from Mother’s Day 2007 that I preached at Church By The Sea, Miami Beach, Florida. The texts for the sermon are Isaiah 54:1-8 and I Thessalonians 2:5-8. I will say that this sermon came from my own current season of barrenness that I continue to work through.

I can still remember the first time our passage in Isaiah grabbed my attention. The year was 1998, and I was finishing up my last semester before getting my Bachelor’s at St. Thomas University. I already knew I would be going to Duke Divinity in the fall, and the only word to describe how I felt about my “calling” and imminent graduate schooling would be “terrified.” I bought a new “Sweet Honey in the Rock” CD and sat at my desk in Dr. Holland’s office—I worked for him—and unwrapped it. I put the disc in my computer and began playing it while reading the liner notes. I became transfixed when I came upon their song “Sing O Barren One.” The song had been written for a friend of Bernice Johnson Reagon for her Ordination service…a service I could not even begin to imagine for myself. I forwarded the disc to the song and heard these words…

Empty and lonely I was
Worthless and useless I felt
Bounded and closed, I wandered
Empty and useless I was

Then I heard the voice
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud
Sing O Barren One
Sing out and cry aloud

Have you ever had a moment where you just got it? A moment where you understood? A moment where the Whispering God boomed in your heart and mind and you knew…just knew the most amazing thing?

What did you know? Did you know that you mattered? Did you know love’s sweet kiss for the first time? Did you know you were not alone? Did you know you were doing exactly what you were supposed to do? Did you know that you were going to make it?

In that moment of hearing the song, I heard a promise from God to me. A promise that I would forget the shame of my youth. A promise that my own barrenness(the terrible losses of my father and sisters when I was six; the ugly and awkward years of my youth; the feeling of being a misfit; the failures—for some reason they fail you if you only show up to Oceanography once)—those places where life just seemed to never want to grow—would find new life because “God is my husband.” I knew I would be ordained. I knew I would sing…sing…sing. I remember calling my mother and told her, “God knows me and has called me by name.”

So here we are these many years later, and the moment of discovery of this passage continues to be a moment of promise for me. I began a love affair with it. In my Hebrew Scripture class in seminary, I wrote my final exegesis—just a big fancy word for “studying the heck out of it”—all about these precious eight verses. When leading an adult Advent class, I used them. Again and again, these verses weave themselves into the fabric of my life. They are a part of my own personal “Sacred Text.” They mean so much to me because barrenness is a theme in my life, and honestly, I keep revisiting these places of emptiness…even now.

I offer them up to us today because I think we are in desperate need for their testimony to what our response to barrenness ought to be…

All of my studying these eight verses taught me that the identity of the “Barren One” is Jerusalem. The Israelites freed again from bondage journey back to their holy land, but instead of flowing with milk and honey, she was just a shambled and desolate place. Her children had scattered to the winds of occupation, slavery and brutality. Jerusalem could not be more bare. So our prophet writes to Jerusalem’s scattered refugees calling them home with the promise God will be present to them, no longer abandoning them, and will satisfy their barren longings.

Our sacred texts are full of stories of barren women: Sarah, Hannah, Naomi, Elisabeth and Mary. The imagery central to our understanding of what it means to have hope in the midst of desperate times: Life is possible even where it is not. God will not be discouraged by the death of promises or dreams. Life will find a way. You cannot get more barren than a virgin, so the story of Mary and Jesus became the ultimate retelling of this narrative.

Now we must be careful to not get caught up on technicalities. As I said, I taught from this passage in an adult education class during Advent. The whole first class I listened to quite the debate about the real age of so-called “barrenness” at the time of Jesus! Fortunately for us, the metaphor does not rely on whether or not Elisabeth was 23 or 53, but what does matter is the imagery itself. I offer this to you because I do not want you to sit there and think, “I am a man; what do I know of being barren?” or “I have three kids; I cannot even imagine what that looks like, but I do dream it involves more sleep than I get.” In other words, this barrenness has nothing to do with sperm or eggs or zygotes.

No, this barrenness is about the pain that desolates our lives. It is about abandonment, fear, anger, jealousy, disappointment, loneliness, loss and grief. This is about just plain being a human being hurling through space and feeling it. When were you the most barren?

Did a dream die? Did you find yourself with a regret or two along the way? Did you stop believing in God? Did you feel worthless, empty and alone? Did your friends abandon you? Did your family reject you? Did you lose a job? Did you get your heart broken? Did you have a creative impasse? Did you lose your status, wealth or significance? Did you feel you were just existing?

I know barrenness because I have been fired, broken-up with, a poor seminary student, living with my parents as an adult, and been lost, even after finding my way. Barrenness is not rare, but it is unique in each of our lives. As a hospice chaplain, again and again I hear of the barrenness of being old and slowly dying. I held the hand of a woman 100 years old not too long ago, who expected to die shortly after her 100th birthday. Three months later and she wanted to know of God, “What am I doing here? Why do you let me linger? I should be dead already? What good am I? What purpose is there?” She echoed a sentiment I hear too often, and I said to her what I always say (out of compassion), “I do not know why you have not died yet. I do not know, but I do hear your pain.”

Now some of you might be saying to yourselves, “It just was not her time yet.” Or maybe even, “God must still have had a purpose for her, which is why she was still alive.” The truly brave might even think, “She lived that long so you could talk about her in this sermon!” Don’t get me wrong, I do value the interaction with her, and when she died a few short days later I went to the house afterwards and whispered in her ear, “I am so happy for you.” But being with so many as they die has not given me the secret to why we die when we do or what the full purpose in those “lingering” moments truly is. I only know mystery in that place, but I can clearly see the barrenness hurts us all regardless of gender, age, status or education. Everybody hurts.

Now this is an extreme example, but I highlight it for us because I think part of the natural and normal reaction to barrenness is to ask “WHY?” We feel shame when we are barren, and we feel the need to stand before God and ask why we have been abandoned yet again.

So here we are, full of barrenness and Isaiah calls upon us to do what? Sing and enlarge the place of our tents. Huh? Now in reality Isaiah is making a call to those rebuilding Jerusalem to not be narrow-minded or prejudice. The only way to rebuild is to accept the “mixed multitude” into her gates. The strict boundaries of who was an “innie” versus an “outie” had to be abandoned in order for the city—for life—to flourish. We must abandon the lie of “blood being thicker than water.” As Isaiah tells Israel’s scattered children: We must be open to all in order to flourish, even those we might have rejected before.

For us, the response to barrenness is to be the same: We must open up and prepare for abundance to come to us in people, places and ways we may not be familiar with.

I do not know about you, but when I feel at my utmost worst, preparing for loving in a new way is not exactly what I am planning on (I shut down.)…no, I am planning on a good old fashioned pity party. I will be serving macaroni and cheese and Bryer’s Mint Chip Ice Cream at my pity party. Depending on how bad it is, I will also break out the movies Black Widow, Steel Magnolias, and Die Hard…or if it is really really bad: Titanic. I will buy a moisturizer that promises me that I will look closer to 26 than 36 and new underwear (don’t ask). I will smoke a cigarette—one single cigarette—just to prove that I can do whatever I want! (Pouting included at no extra charge) And I will cry to anyone willing to listen that my life as I know it is over, that God has completely forgotten my name and for that matter is probably dead or never existed. And to think, these are some of the more positive responses to my own barrenness. Worst case scenario? I start wondering why I even exist.

Now, I do not wish to dazzle you with some kind of positive thinking, reverse psychology, actualization voodoo here, although they do have their place. Nor is this about spiritual gymnastics to get God’s favour or intervention. You know? I will enlarge my tents—meaning “I will keep trying God, so you can do your part too.” No. The cost of this kind of discipleship is much much more difficult, and bargaining is not allowed.

Let me read to you again our text from I Thessalonians:

But we were gentle among you, like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children. So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us.

The link I see between these two texts is this: Enlarging our tents in the face of unspeakable barrenness is about being willing to share our very selves…like a mother nursing her baby…even when we are starving for love and wholeness. The cure to worthlessness and uselessness is letting another nurse at your very breast, and this is ultimately our Gospel…our “good news.” For what good is it that Jesus suffers with us, if we cannot mix it with the milk of our own lives and offer it to the one who is starving. Much like the old allegory on the difference between heaven and hell: In both, we sit at the banquet table laid out with every possible culinary delight. In both, we sit with our arms in splints unable to feed ourselves. In hell, we sit and starve. In heaven, we feed the one across from us. It is for this reason I selected the line from the Black Eyed Peas’ song “Where Is The Love?;” we live in an age of barrenness.

When we enlarge our tents we open ourselves up to being used by God to tend to others in the very ways we are so desperate to be tended to. Enlarging our tents is about being the very thing we find so lacking in the world. If you look back to the opening passages for your meditation, you will see that I chose the two complimentary passages from Rabbi Hillel and Jesus. One states “do not do” to others what you would not want done to you, and the other “do to others” as you would want for yourself. I must say, I love Jesus’ spin on the commandment because it requires us to be proactive. There is a physicality to “enlarging our tents” not just a mental exercise. This spiritual practice requires preparation and action.

Do you wish you did not have to always eat alone? Set another place at the table and keep inviting until someone accepts. Start a Supper Club. Feed the homeless.

Do you wish traffic was better in Miami? Stop cussing out the guy who cuts you off, listen to your favourite music or ride your bike more.

Do you wish there was more peace in the world? Make-up with your family member you just cannot stand, refuse to gossip, or join Amnesty International.

Do you need love? Mix the milk of your own life with the Good News of God’s unending love for us.

In other words, be the very change you feel is lacking in the world. Enlarge your tent first. For me, these words from Isaiah have served as a panacea to my pain in a way that all the mint chip ice cream in the world just can’t, maybe that is why I am so in-love with them.

Enlarge the site of your tent,
and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out;
do not hold back; lengthen your cords
and strengthen your stakes.
Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace;

You know I have another patient, also a woman, who is nearing her own 100th birthday. This last Christmas Eve she and her husband celebrated their 70th Wedding Anniversary. They survived the War, when so many of their family died in the concentration camps. They too were refugees trying to rebuild their lives in countries so unlike their own. I never hear her ask why she is still alive or say that she is just lingering. In part, I know this is due to the love affair she has with her husband. Their only fear is what will happen when the first one dies—worry for the one left behind. There are pictures on her wall of the dinner with their son and his wife and one other couple from the night of the special anniversary. I asked her recently how they came to be friends with this other couple, thinking they had known each other for a very long time. She told me that a couple of years ago the two couples met in the building where they live, and that in spite of a good 20 year age difference, they quickly became their very best friends. Imagine that…she made a new best friend in her nineties.

She refuses to see herself as “all dried up” and continues to offer the sweet milk of her life to those around her. She is not afraid to enlarge her tent, regardless of her age or disease. What a beautiful example to us all. Amen.

Last week I gave my Hospice Team the Holmes Rahe Stress Scale as a quiz of sorts. Basically, if you score over 300 points you are in danger of being totally stressed out and having health problems. The scale gives a point value to major life events experienced over the last year. Now, you may need to assign a close value to something not exactly put in their terms. For instance, I gave myself a “60″ for my break-up with The Bean. I made this number up given you get 63 for the death of a close family member, and he is still alive to others, but pretty much dead to me (seemed only fitting). Feel free to go out and score yourself, but for fun (trust me–you are going to feel SO good about your life), let’s look at why I scored a whooping 862:

Breaking-up with The Bean: 60

Personal Injury or Illness: 159 (53 x Lyme Disease, Mono, & the Chicken Pox)

Change in the Health of a Family Member: 44 (Aunt Charlyne’s Cancer)

Sexual Difficulties: 39 (I am 36, was a virgin until 31, and keep dating men whose emotional issues impact their libido. In other words, I have not had nearly enough sex.)

Gain a New Family Member: 39 (God love Emma, but a new puppy is w.o.r.k.)

Change in Financial State: 76 (Went from poor to making it back to poor again with my recent move and new puppy.)

Change in Frequency of Arguments: 35 (I feel M.A.D. about the “business” of chaplaincy at work and get all feisty about it all the time.)

Change in Responsibilities at Work: 29 (I should get more given my new job changes our requirements all the time.) 58 (One time for the bull-shit requirement to spend 60% of my week in direct alive patient care, with another 20% minimum working on bereavement. I am not listening to anyone after awhile with over 30 hours required per week, plus four hours of Team Meeting, and driving around over an hour a day, and making appointments, and having to work from home but go to the office to chase paperwork in triplicate, and…well, that is why I gave myself the other 29 points. Constant failure.)

Outstanding Personal Achievement: 56 (Once for being approved for Ordination, and once for the Ordination itself.)

Change in Living Conditions: 50 (Lived with Parental Elements, lived with Biker Girl, living on my own–THANK YOU JESUS!)

Revision of Personal Habits: 24 (I have lost, gained, lost, gained, and now am losing the same fucking 10 pounds.)

Trouble with Boss: 23 (I just know I will be fired any day now for being out of compliance at work–see above–and dread seeing the Supervisors as a result. I just cannot physically keep up, let alone emotionally, so I decided to give myself these points too.)

Change in Working Hours of Conditions: 20 (Wow! What changes!)

Change in Residence: 40 (Moved twice in six months this last year.)

Change in Recreation: 19 (Got back on a bike after 20 years and loved it!)

Change in Church Activities: 19 (The move north has taken me further away from church.)

Minor Loan: 17 (Refinanced with the Bank of Mom.)

Change in Sleeping Habits: 16 (Back to waking up to go see dead people in the middle of the night.)

Change in Eating Habits: 45 (see above personal habits)

Minor Law Violation: 11 (I bumped into a car parked illegally behind mine, but the damage to my insurance has been worse than the $804 in damages to his car.)

Christmas: 12 (Although, I did not celebrate it this year. I just worked and cried my eyes out missing The Bean.)

So, in summary, it is amazing that I am not dead. Plus, they did not factor in being shot at or having to call 911 on your roommate’s ex while he beat some guy at the house. Maybe we should just round my score up to an even 1000? And to think my score would have been under 100 prior to August 2006. In other words, all these life changes happened in the last nine months! Yet here I am, still funny and everything! (At least I think so.)

Yesterday I attended the death of a patient whom I really cared deeply for. Now there is no code at work to put down for when you just feel sad some days because people you care about and care for always die. Shit! This is Hospice after-all. I see how I need time to mourn all these deaths so I can go on to the next ones. So, yesterday I mourned a bit for the patient who died in the morning and for two others I really loved who died last week. I know part of what makes me good at what I do centers on letting people in my heart. I would not have it any other way, but I also must let them back out a bit when they die.

Funny…I did not intend to write any of this aspect, but now seeing it in black and white I realize how much I needed to say I do not work unscathed.

What I started to say was that the family of the woman who died commented to me about what a peace and glow I seem to project. Now yesterday I KNOW “glowing” did not get checked off in my beauty regime. I woke up late, felt like shit, had paperwork from the day before, and found myself with wet hair, no make-up, and still in my pjs when I received the call to attend the death. I walked out of the house within 10 minutes. The dog taken out, clothed, in my right mind, with blow-dried bangs (only) and make-up, but I looked less than my best! And I still glowed? How can that be?

I really do believe the reason I walk upright–even though these last months required some major lie down and cry time–centers on my attitude towards the shit of my life. Yes, I currently may be a stressed out mess in some respects, but I choose to be a funny, sarcastic, horny, wicked, kind one at that. I know recently I have been bitching about not wanting to always have to be resilient, but maybe there is just no other way to be in this life. Otherwise, I might end up with the shit of my life–much of which I have no fucking control over–weighing me down completely. Stubbornness possess gifts too. I try to focus on those elements I feel powerful over, and my reactions always are within my control. Do I get all Snappy Bitch sometimes? Hell yeah! Can I almost always be talked off my limb? Yes. Mostly, I know Love never leaves me and will always be stronger than death. (See Song of Solomon 8:6-7)

I look back at all of this and think to myself: “Damn girl! I am so fucking proud of you!”

This is the last of my three Ordination Papers. This paper addresses my theology, which I will admit has radically changed–at least as far as how I would articulate certain aspects–since I dated The Bean. Working to speak of my faith with an atheist enriched my own sense of who God is and who God is not to me in a way unparalleled. Also, these papers needed to be reflect my own faith with integrity while also meeting the United Church of Christ’s expectations of a minister in full standing.

If you and I shared a pot of tea together, I would flesh out my vision of God first. I would tell you how I feel what we say about God is speculative and important–all at once. I would tell you about the room in my spirit for Jesus to be God in the same way you and I might be. I would tell you what I do not know and of all of my questions. I would also say much of what is here too. Although I resist the word “Christian” given the word means what we as human beings did with Jesus’ message for our own good and for our own evil, I still embrace following Jesus and the faith community I cherish. Mostly, I continue to want to live a life of radical discipleship, which for me means standing in solidarity with all those hanging on crosses right now: the disadvantaged worker; gays, lesbians, bi-sexual, and transgendered persons; those suffering for any number of reasons; persons–especially women–of colour; and the list goes on and on.

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
Philippians 2:5-8

My theology begins and ends with Jesus. Even when the Omniscient Powerful Creator God and I are not on speaking terms, or I wonder how the Holy Spirit weaves together my life, Jesus and I remain in constant dialogue. As a young child Jesus became my dearest and closest friend, so I cannot really recall a time in my life when Jesus was not with me. My vision of Jesus is clear and pervades my day-to-day living. I see him everywhere. How many times have I felt Jesus lay down beside me as I curled up sobbing? How many times have I felt his hand encircle my own? How many times have I looked across the bed of a dying patient into his tear-filled eyes? How many times have I laughed to myself and heard his laughter fill my spirit? Jesus, his life, his ministry, his death, his resurrection, and his promise to be with us to the end of the age are woven into the fabric of my life. My faith in God is reliant on my vision of Jesus. The Philippians Hymn above captures my vision and understanding in much the same way that it did for those first followers of Jesus. Jesus is God. Jesus understood the path of humility leads to enlightenment. Jesus came to be a servant, yes, even a slave, to us—his most precious creation. The hymn tells us that being a human is not a sin, for even God has walked the human path of life. The roads of obedience, humility and love can and will lead to death on a cross. And what should we, as followers of Christ Jesus, do? We are called to “let the same mind be in [us]” that was in Jesus. We are called to the ethic of discipleship.

While at Duke Divinity School, I took a general theology class, as every seminarian does. I had two choices: 1) Dr. Geoffrey Wainwright, who would prepare me for taking the Methodist theology examinations; or 2) Dr. Mary McClintock-Fulkerson; who would not prepare me for the Methodist theology examinations. Another way to frame their fundamental difference is that Dr. Wainwright taught a systematic theology, whereas Dr. Fulkerson taught how to think about theology. I took Dr. Fulkerson, which was the obvious choice for a girl with deep Progressive Baptist roots, but my choice also proved to be of incalculable value. She taught us a grammar with which we could read anything theological and understand the assumptions, world view, moves and intentions of the author. The grammar then served as a way to not only catalogue a theological writing, e.g. “This writing is Postmodern because the author creates a dialogue between their present socio-cultural reality and eschatology;” but also as a way to uncover how theology can then be practiced. In other words, a written assertion about the nature of God has the end goal of changing practice—changing the way we do our relationship with God.

I spotlight her methodology because I want to create a diorama into how helpful her teaching continues to be for me in my life and ministry. I also want to illustrate how challenging her class was for me. My deep Baptist roots gave me a grammar that focused primarily on the Biblical record of the first church, the Bible itself and the problems of the daily Christian life. I was completely overwhelmed by the challenge to consider two millennia of Christian writings. This it not to say that I came to the table unaware or uneducated, but the wealth of writings did not necessarily have considerable weight with me. My upbringing in the church focused on my personal choices that would bring me closer in my relationship with God or would take me further away. I had no concept of being a part of a wider conversation evolving through time. Those theological writings I had been exposed to were easily put into categories. They either supported or challenged my own personal understanding of who God is and how God works or they did not and were disregarded. I wish to convey a certain element of flippancy because I see it in myself prior to being taught how to think theologically, and because I think much of Evangelical Christianity abdicates from the wider ecumenical theological conversation. Evangelicalism lends itself to a particular kind of independence because of the core value of a personal decision to choose to follow Christ over and above a communal understanding of faith. When one marries this value with Rugged American Individualism and the pervasive dis-ease we as Protestants have with anything written between the end of the Canon and 1517, when Luther nailed his theses to the Wittenberg church door, I see how much I was the product of my Evangelical nurturing and the suspicion of anything non-Biblical.

The Evangelical climate of my formative years, 1975-1990, was a period of rapid change. The beginning of that time saw the Hippies who claimed Jesus as their personal Savior take up social justice issues in a new way that their parents did not feel compelled to do. This generation was greatly influenced by the theologian Francis Schaeffer who ran a Christian commune in Switzerland called L’Abri. Schaeffer became close friends with C. Everett Koop, prior to his appointment by President Reagan as the Surgeon General, and this relationship would ultimately become paramount to Schaeffer’s legacy as the Patriarch of the Pro-Life Movement. But this is not where Schaeffer began. Schaeffer embraced the Hippie culture and their choice to “opt out” of society and embrace a more loving and peaceful path. In a seminal and legendary chapel service at Wheaton College, the intellectual hub of American Evangelical life, he told the students to see movies that challenged their assumptions, which was a big deal on a campus that almost came to blows over the showing of Bambi. He wanted them to engage the culture, to look at art, to read beatnik poetry, but his most disturbing call was to stop wrapping themselves in the American flag and become “World Christians.” Schaeffer was utterly progressive for his time and in relation to his contemporaries, but he was also consumed with panic over the legalization of abortion. Growing up during this time, I heard and saw the transformation of the central theological conversation move from a desire to help and nurture all people as an extension of sharing one’s faith to the necessity of Christians working to reverse Roe vs. Wade. Social justice had only one name, “abortion.” So, as I grew up and moved further and further away from the legalism of my Evangelical upbringing, further I also moved away from a communal conversation about God and how God works in the world.

Seminary not only gave me the challenge to absorb the content of thousands of years of writings, but also provided an invitation to think of the theological conversation extending back through time as being relevant to me and calling me to be a part of it. My response to the sheer plethora of writings and the divergent viewpoints, so many of which raised important issues to me, was to become deeply troubled. Did I believe in God or in a bunch of other failed and flawed human beings’ understanding of what might, could and should be in the nature of God? I did not believe in the inerrancy of scripture any longer, but if I cannot completely trust the scriptural record to tell me who God is, then what other source of knowledge do I have? Am I simply left up to my own devices? And why should I trust my faith community? They are all just as human and situated and flawed as I am. A mental Chinese Finger Puzzle—for sure—the more I would pull on one end, the tighter I would feel squeezed on the other. In sheer pain and humiliation, I approached Dr. Fulkerson after class one day. I said to her, “The more we study in here, the more I feel like I am becoming an atheist. Human beings made everything up! This is all a bunch of crap! Nobody knows anything! And, the majority of the theology that we blindly accept as being ‘correct’ is just the human opinions of the richest, most powerful men who won the argument. Every day I feel like I get closer to becoming an atheist. I do not know what to do.”

Her response? “Stick with that.”

Ivory Tower theological answers to my questions did not fill my empty cup because they seemed contrived and convoluted. The rigors of seminary life did not fill my empty cup because reason and hard work are not enough to propel one over the hurdles of faith. Prayer, for the first time in my life, did not appear to be filling my empty cup because I was no longer convinced that there was a God actively listening and caring and knowing me by name. And I hated going to church because I felt like such an imposter. I could not be dissuaded from my suspicion that God might very well be a figment of our collective imaginations. The dread in my heart grew as I questioned my history, my experiences of God that had been on a more guttural level, the “miracles” of my life, my calling and then the most terrifying proposition came to me. Who would I be if I was not a Christian?

In Matthew 7:7 Jesus says, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” I found myself, not for the last time, asking, seeking and knocking. The following semester I took a Pastoral Spirituality class with Father Phillip Leach, a local Catholic priest and closet evangelist, in the hope that the class might help me to sort out my atheistic dread. Seek and you will find. One night he preached a sermon instead of lecturing. I do not believe he planned it this way; for me it was a God Moment—a time when the only reasonable and understandable explanation is God worked in the hearts and minds of those present that night, including me.

The room was silent in that way where it feels like everyone is breathing together at the same pace and rhythm. He held everyone’s rapt attention, and yet my memory is that only Father Phillip and I were in that room. He was speaking to me and to me alone. Maybe everyone felt that way. He looked right at me and saw me, Jacqueline Hope Derby, the doubter, the questioner, the faithless, and he said:

Do you know why we believe that Jesus is God? The resurrection? Yes, Jesus rose from the dead. Yes, Jesus saves us from our sins, our stupidity, our fear, from ourselves—my little Baptists and my little Methodists who are always so worried about being saved from something. But what good is salvation to you today? Why do you care? Are you really going to tell me that you are obsessed on a daily basis with going to hell? Please! You are too busy fornicating for that! You can’t be bothered with hell today. You will face that if and when it comes. Anyways, you are saved; you have the right answers to the questions. ‘So, no, Father Phillip, we have no clue why we believe in Jesus.’ So, let me tell you. We believe that Jesus is God because of the cross. The cross! Are you listening? We KNOW that Jesus is God because right now someone is hanging on a cross. A dissident is facing a firing squad for speaking the truth—he is hanging on a cross. A child is starving to death—she is hanging on a cross. A woman is on the run from her abusive husband—she is hanging on a cross. A man is facing the end of his life and the fact that he spread HIV to his partner—he is hanging on a cross. We KNOW that Jesus is God because he is hanging on the cross with us. We do not suffer alone. The Holy One hung on that cross and suffered and bled and cried and was forsaken and abandoned by those whom he was sure loved him and would never leave. What cross are you hanging on today? What cross have you hung on? What cross will you hang on? Cause if you are going to be a minister let me just tell you that you will be hung out to dry—well, if you are doing it right you will be! Jesus, who lived, who loved, who triumphed on Easter morning over all that breaks us in two, is right here with you, suffering with you. Jesus is Emmanuel and that is the only thing that makes any of this make sense.

Emmanuel: “God with us.” God is with me. God has been with me all along. Everything clicked for me as I looked at that suffering Jesus on the cross and thought of all of the crosses of my life. Yes! Jesus was with me when I suffered the death of my father. Yes! Jesus was with me when my sisters abandoned our family. Yes! Jesus was with me when I was being molested. Yes! Jesus was with me when I could not go on and prayed for death. Yes! Jesus was with me when I was deemed the girl that you should not be friends with and a social outcast. Yes! Jesus will remain with me regardless of the cross I hang on, and so I can have faith in God not because God is a puppet master controlling my life, but because God intimately knows me and the difficult and beautiful road I walk down. When I break the bread and drink the wine, I join with my brothers and sisters as we sit at the table with Jesus right now. God with us right now.

As a hospital chaplain, I feel this is the first and most important Gospel, “good news,” that I have to offer. God is here. We are not alone. None of our pain has gone un-witnessed by the Holy Spirit. I know a great deal about crisis intervention, the Grief Spiral, intake history mapping, spiritual assessment and techniques to help people pick up their own coping skills, but this skill set is not my theology. My theology is Emmanuel under-girded with unwavering loyalty to my spiritual conviction that each and every one of us has been created in the image of God and that there is nothing that we can do or that can be done to us that can obliterate our lineage.

I cannot offer a systematic theology full of checks and balances. I have no tidy scientific way to explain the virgin birth, the resurrection or the power of the Holy Spirit, nor would I want to explain them in scientific terms for they are elements of my faith story, i.e. narrative. What I can only offer Emmanuel. I can only offer a lonely man in a garden sweating blood because he is so scared, and yet the same man who John brought out of the waters of the Jordon River with the Dove descending and the voice of God calling, “”You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.” I can only offer the One who promised that we do not have to be afraid, and the Biblical promise that nothing can separate us from the love of God. And these offerings are more than enough reason for me to believe that Jesus is in fact God. But knowing Jesus’ identity, even as Emmanuel, is not enough to teach me what it means to follow Jesus and be his disciple.

I do not want to simply admire Jesus for being a good and moral man. Admiration and discipleship are two completely different paradigms. Being a Christian is not the same thing as being a good person. My baptism sets a seal upon my heart and calls me to life anew. Being a Christian demands that I model my life after Jesus’ life and be open to God’s continuing revealing presence in my life…being open to God’s continual call to accountability. But what does God require of me? Micah 6:8 defines it this way, “He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?”

But God does not just require this of me. God requires this of us. I am not a Lone Ranger Christian. I am a part of a community of faith where we struggle together to be more like Jesus and draw closer to the person God created us to be. When we gather at the communion table we declare our legacy: To Jesus and his disciples; to the Cloud of Witnesses who have gone on before us; and to the faithful who will link our generation to the future. The wider theological conversation through the ages now has such depth and meaning to me. I may push away from the narrow halls of systematic constructs, but the faith in which they are created connects me to the writers. Yes, they are just human beings like I am, but they are also seeking, knocking, asking just like I am. I can read Luther now and hold “brotherly speech with one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.” The conversation for me is not about locating “correct doctrine” but about being a part of the community of faith and about our shared eschatology—what we consider to be the enduring qualities of God. I also believe in God’s enduring promises, not just for the time of the historic Biblical record but for right now. I believe in God’s continuing revelation, so the broad theological conversation contains a located understanding of these promises, just as our work now reveals our own life stories and their engagement with these promises.

I maintain a prophetic baptist vision of what it means to be a disciple in that I believe my faithful life must be characterized by the faithfulness of Jesus who was and is and is to come. Like my historical Christian counterparts within our tradition, I do not stress doctrinal agreement as the way in which to form the blessed community of the faithful. But I do not want to imply that the life of the Christian is without accountability or without doctrine. I see this accountability and doctrine very clearly in our covenantal relationship with one another, our baptismal seal and our continuing open table practices. The scripture that defines the covenant for me is Matthew 22:36-40. The Pharisee and lawyer asks Jesus, “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Jesus replies, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

I feel that I am coming of age as a minister during a time of warring bumper stickers proclaiming the “correct faith” one must have in order to be a faithful Christian. On the one hand there is the one I recently saw saying, “Do not put a question mark where God puts a period.” Counter that with our own God is Still Speaking campaign where we quote Gracie Allen saying, “Never put a period where God puts a comma.” We cannot even manage to love one another within the Christian community, so how can we begin to grasp the radical call to love and pray for those we might deem “other” or our “enemy?”

In the Luke version of Jesus’ being tested and asked to define the greatest commandment, he responds by telling the parable of the “Good Samaritan.” The Pharisee hoped to trick Jesus by asking him, “Who is my neighbour?” Jesus declares that the one deemed unclean, the Samaritan, was the neighbour. I believe in this kind of radical inclusion, and discipleship requires radical inclusion. As disciples we affirm, just as Paul did two thousand years ago, that ”there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” The Christian community is made up of equals before God. But, even in our equality, God calls out our individual names and requires different things of us. Some of what God requires is based on our gifts and the call to use those gifts. The body of Christ must actively utilize these gifts in order to be effective in our ministry of radical inclusion and care for our neighbour. Paul puts it this way in Romans 12:4-8:

Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a [person’s] gift is prophesying, let [them] use it in proportion to [their] faith. If it is serving, let [them] serve; if it is teaching, let [them] teach; if it is encouraging, let [them] encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let [them] give generously; if it is leadership, let [them] govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let [them] do it cheerfully.

Just as God requires us to use our gifts in service to one another, we are also required to resist evil as it manifests in our hearts and in our world. Discipleship does not end at the church door. I make my voice known in protest against the inhumane ways we treat one another, not because I label myself “liberal” or “progressive,” but because Jesus requires that my discipleship must “do to others as [I] would have them do to me.” I must resist the lure of “us versus them” because Jesus has told me to “pray for those who persecute [me].” Discipleship is not about being a good person, for God intimately knows my identity as God’s child and friend. In other words, I do not need to impress God with my goodness. But, in order to draw closer to the woman God created me to be, I have to practice radical loving and including those I perceive as my enemies, which I see as the hardest part of the greatest commandment. My neighbour truly is everyone on this planet, and loving them is not easy. This is why there is such a high personal cost to being a disciple. I have to come out from behind my false gods who lure me with their empty promises of security and whisper to me that I do not need a God who holds me accountable to my commitment as Jesus’ disciple.

Without this accountability I do not see how we can join Mary and proclaim God’s mercy, God’s righteousness, God’s redemption and God’s plan of reversal for those who are lowly. Yes, for me God is all about love, and that love asks me to love as I have been loved. Jesus is the greatest example of that love because he shows the beauty of the human life and that God suffers with us. We have been created in God’s image with intentionality and purpose. Our gifts are an extension of God’s creative force in our lives. We get to choose if and how we will use the gifts we are blessed with. We get to choose if and how we will love with the love we have been blessed with. Being a disciple is a choice; a choice I affirm for my life. The opportunity to turn, repent, reconcile and draw closer is always available. God is always there waiting with open loving arms to receive us. God has an enduring imagination regarding our lives and our potential to co-create beauty and peace in the world that God created for our delight. God has an enduring imagination regarding my life and calls me to co-create love and compassion in the world.

Everyone is just a little bit prejudice, and one of my BIGGEST prejudices is against men who wear tank-tops. I see a man in a tank top and I run the other way. Men should not wear tank-tops, but if you must wear one, please be gay. The Gays can carry it off–sometimes–but I have yet to see a straight tank top wearing man rock the sleeveless wonders. Here is why:

• Many of the guys who wear tanks, especially to the gym, do so to show off their muscles. I understand this. I like to rock my best features, which is why the boobs are always pushed up to where God intended and my hair shiny and soft. Tis’ human to highlight and accentuate, however, when a guy highlights his arms I immediately (remember, I told you this is a prejudicial issue for me) think, “Buddy…not too smart, are you?” Can you believe how pedantic I can be about appearances? I figure a guy showing off his arms like that has to do it to make up for being a complete idiot.
• I also find the guys with the tight workout tank-top cannot get enough of looking at themselves in the mirror. They go to the gym to show off their bodies and announce how hot (which I think means “fuckable”) they are. They want hot girls to see them and want to sleep with them. If my former roommate is a good litmus test, this plan usually works for them. Now you probably are thinking, given my own confession of not being a “hot girl” previously, that I am just jealous. Two amazing bodies see each other across the room and instantly want to fuck like rabbits never happens to me. The wallflower in Nike capri’s and her Duke Divinity tee-shirt does not get the “fuck me baby right after this rep” look ever! You are right about that! Jealousy though? Not on your life. Again, if my former roommate is any indication, these guys also have more drama wrapped up in them then you can find on a Telenovela. Do not even get me started on the insecurity issues either. They pump up for more than just health for damn sure!
• I find myself staring at the guy’s arm pits. The shirt stops right there! I never swoon over the muscles bulging, but instead find myself mesmerized by the little hairs sticking out. Now, when I guy is naked (really the best way to size a man up) I embrace the underarm hair. I will even embrace it when he is naked from the waist up–most of the time. However, standing next to a guy in a tank, I find myself totally grossed out by the underarm hair. I want to scream, “Cover that shit up man!” Sometimes, a guy will look all cute and athletic until you see the little Tribbles poking out their heads.

Dear Captian Kirk Up to His Pits in Tribbles.

• On the topic of not being mesmerized by a guy’s muscles…the WORST case scenario is when there are no muscles at all to size up! I speak from experience here. My arms flail in the wind. I know not to wear tank-tops in public unless medically necessary, by which I mean I find myself in the midst of a peri-menopausal moment and coolness wins over “Cool Factor.” Flabby arms on a guy, plus one tank top, equals REDNECK. Sweaty, stinky, beer can tossing, tractor pull going, NASCAR lovin Redneck. And for the record: A wife-beater is a tank top.
• Add some zits to the above and the ick factor quadruples.
• Lastly, and most importantly, when I see a good looking guy, well-groomed, athletic, etc. in a tank I a.l.w.a.y.s. sigh and think to myself, “God bless the Gays.” In fact, I discussed this whole Tank-Top Man Hating Thing with The Boys (a totally fab gay couple and good friends of mine) and Bubbie piped up saying, “But I have a tank-top that I work out in, what would you think of me?” With that The Joker hit him over the head and howled, “She would think you are GAY!” And she would be right.

In summary, boys if you have the muscles to highlight in a tank and are gay, feel free. I still find it a bit weird–Tribble Factor and all–but who am I to judge? (HA!) If you are not gay, keep those biceps under cover and let me use my imagination. I especially like the imagination part where I run my hands up your arms…wait! I do not write that kind of blog…

If you do not read Post Secret every week, you are missing out. I always laugh and cry. I find someone I can relate to deeply. Sometimes it just scares me shitless…

I told Fundraiser when he called me for my birthday in February what mine would have been…

I did not tell him about wanting to kill myself. I kept promising myself I would go for my final swim in the Keys when I could no longer tolerate the pain. I did not want Fundraiser to know just how bad it had been. In fact, I got Emma to try and stay alive. I almost didn’t get her. In the end, I figured I was due some unconditional love just about then. If I had not gotten her, I am not sure I would have made it this time.

I tried to commit suicide in sixth grade. Thirty-six aspirin one afternoon at school. God only knows why I did not die. I also had a pretty good plan when I was 17 and in Jamaica on Choir Tour with church. The Jamaica trip served as a turning point in my life. I finally went to get help for all the buried shit from my childhood. I told the truth for the first time. I said, “John touched me.” I told my mom the day I got back from Jamaica. And I worked and worked and worked. I used to believe I worked it through enough to never want to do it again. I am smarter than that now. I know how once you try it trying it again is not all that difficult. But I would not try; I would succeed.

Working as a “Mental Health Professional” of a kind means I know what happens if anyone finds out about your plan. You get locked up. I do not want to be locked up, so I keep the times I feel utter despair to myself. I think of despair as “negative hope.” Given how I see hope as having an imagination things will change, or how they might change, despair looks like things not changing at all. Of course, I do think of suicide as hopeful because it means things can change once and for all. My lifetime of suffering (not the only stories–I know) will come to an end. No more rejection. No more heartache. No more isolation. No more loneliness. No more fear. No more struggling. No more panic.

I see now how I wrapped myself in the warm comfort of ending it all after The Bean left and extinguished my star from his sky. The irony? I do not know how I would have made it through those really awful nights, days, minutes, seconds without its tender embrace.

I do not live in this same space now. How do I know? I am talking about it. I speak the truth of my secrets…posting them even. Plus, I no longer protect or censure what I say about The Bean. I did in the past under the heading of “just in case he comes back.” Now I feel I can say whatever I damn well please!

Want to know another secret? I still find joy in being me and in my life. I am just ridiculously optimistic like that even if it is hard-won.

I keep going over in my mind the differences between “burying the past” and “letting go of the past.” We all do both, but one–letting go–somehow gives more life to us than the other. One puts more cellulite on my ass, the other helps it come off. Why?

I never try and pretend I was not molested. I was. I also recognize its indelible mark upon me. My DNA changed the first time John touched me. The boundary between the girl innocent and unmarred and the one raped crossed once and for all. I will always wear my scarlet “I” for incest. I could not run away from it, although I tried. I ate and ate ice cream all day long to make my body as unattractive as possible so John would not touch me. Then I found out he still would, but by then the binging comforted me too much to go back to the thinner version of myself. Plus, once I grew up and away from his terror I insulated myself from the panic another man would touch me–even one I might want to touch me–by keeping a hundred pound wall around me. You could not look at me and pretend something bad did not happen. I wore it from head to toe.

I did bury my feelings of loneliness, isolation and general grotesqueness in the weight. With each pound I gained I sank further into a world where all the true dreams for my life mattered less than the all consuming fear in the present. I flourished in the areas I could control–school, friends, family, church–and floundered terribly in the one place I knew no one could ever love–the whole me. See, no matter how much love and intimacy the love of family and friends brings, without sex it only goes so far. Thankfully. I would not want to have sex with my family at all, and a good 99.9% of my friends! I really only want one person for sex, and one who really loves me, the whole of who I am and who I will become with life transformations.

The first time I slept with someone–The First–I weighed over 260 pounds. I let him bore a hole through all those walls and find me. He felt safe because of his status as a good friend and because I knew I would never be with him for the long term, even as letting go later proved difficult. I found sex allowed me to un-bury the past in my cells and begin to let them go. Ounce by ounce the weight dropped off my body. I worked hard at it, of course, but the inner work let the outer begin to reveal itself from its mask.

The inner work of my life consists of over $100k of therapy and an utter determination to face the shit of my life. I know if I do not face things, the only one buried in the past will be me. I practice complete honesty. I say “practice” because I realize how similar to playing an instrument or a sport truth telling really is. I find I must apply myself again and again, and I can never rest on the truths I told before. I understand the truth of yesterday may not be life-giving to me today. Today, I must find and tell the truth again.

Today’s truth is that I keep gaining weight here recently. I talk to myself about it over and over again. The Mono back in November took me down to within six pounds of my birthday goal, but by my birthday I regained six additional pounds. I probably am up ten all together now, but I do not see the end unless I find the truth of why I need to gain. Yes…need…I need to gain the weight.

I feel all the ways I am free from the pain of The Bean. I know he is not the reason, although I also know the truth about why I needed comforting food at Valentine’s Day and my birthday had his name all over it. I am a thirty-six year old woman and no man has ever really loved me. Not even for a minute. I never received a New Year’s kiss or a Valentine, and I guess I thought this year would be different back in November when my heart flowed with love for The Bean. I really believed he loved me too, but he did not. I allowed myself to dream and expect in places where I never let myself. Year after year of disappointment–in myself as much as anyone else–teaches a girl not to use her imagination in places dead to her. I never begrudge anyone any silly holiday because being on the outside of all of them creates a longing so deep I would never want to take away one precious moment of happiness from anyone else.

I think the trust it took for me to let The Bean into my life fuels the current weight gain. I trusted and lost. I feel like I wasted my heart on someone who took it, saw it for what it really really contained and could become, and then threw it away. He threw me away. I do not want to trust again like that. I need to hide. I can feel still–feel all sorts of things–but it kills me. I keep trying to push away the moments of trust, curiosity, desire and longing I feel. I want to hide behind my thighs again so I will not be in a position of trusting someone else who will automatically possess the power to destroy me.

I also know I must practice risking this again. If I do not, The Bean will be buried on my thighs and forever written into my DNA. There will be no room for anyone else. No room for loving again. No room for sex, with all its glorious fucking and making love. No room for my desires. No room for my dreams. No room for me.

I guess letting go is that moment when I risk just a tiny bit towards the future instead of holding onto the pain infused past. My run this morning contained more than a few steps in the right direction, but I do not know if I will find my footing and momentum today.  I guess I will just need to practice again and again.

After one month I deleted The Bean’s phone number out of my cell. Of course, I made sure to write it down in my Address Book, but not on the front page with all the other folk with last names that began the same. I guess I figured if I wrote it on a page rarely seen, it would not count.

After two months, I returned all of his things to him. Meticulously. I made sure not to keep anything, even the first gift he ever gave me because throwing it away seemed too cruel and keeping it too painful. The gift was this little ceramic wall hanging of a guy zip-lining in Costa Rica. My “Flying Bean.” When we first started dating he robbed a bank there and went down the line, video on You Tube and all. He brought me the “Flying Bean” back from his trip, and I cherished it. Letting it go hurt like hell.

Keeping the Mac Mini, desk, chair and bike also hurt. I really wanted to give them all back–preferably by throwing them through his front window–or at least pay for them. Deep inside I get all wicked about any man buying me anything. Old shit from John given how I would manipulate him into purple bathing suits from Burdines and extra Hello Kitty for keeping my mouth shut. I hate feeling paid for, so when a man breaks my heart I want to throw up every meal, scrub off every caress, sterilize my mouth and pussy, and return every fucking thing he ever thought to give me. Fortunately for me, most men I date never give me anything. Unfortunately for me, The Bean did.

So, I sit here writing this on the Mac he bought me off a truck through Craigslist, at the desk he bartered for, in the chair he got for free, with the bike in the storage unit that he bought for his sister, but then gave to me to ride. I guess they are mine now. I would have liked my actual stuff back, because unlike when I gave him his things, I never got back my things I did not think to take with me on the way out the door. During the Parking Lot Confrontation I did manage to get back a CD he just happened to have in a case in the car–The Bean I knew only used his ipod in the car–and forking it over was not too much of a problem. The case is probably in the bottom of his closet somewhere. He denies having some things, flat out kept others, and then offered to write me a check. Fuck that noise! I wanted them given back to me because he knew they were mine, but I settled for him knowing what a thief and wimp I found him to be after it was all said and done. I wanted to make sure he knew the score. “Jacqueline was more generous,” which is a lie–neither one of us really was there at the end–but given I tried and he never did, I win.

I work hard to make sure the score favours me when my heart feels at stake. Maybe some times I really am more generous, however, when I find myself so very low I will scrape your eyes out to be on top. Case in point: Right before the break-up, and during a time that turned out to be really really tough on me financially (although I did not know how bad it would get when I did this), I paid for the tax on The Bean’s fantastically expensive bike as his Christmas gift, got him monogrammed towels (a joke, but not a cheap one), got him some more long sleeved shirts for riding, and bought him “Nacho Libre” on DVD. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING? Oh yeah! I thought I loved him, and sacrificing for him made me feel good inside. The night we broke up I gave him all this loot–which were to be his Christmas gifts–because in my crazy heart they all had “The Bean” stitched to them.

In the third month, I deleted all his old emails–except the first ones–I need to go do that now. I also tried to have casual sex with Frenchie. What the hell was I thinking there? Twenty-eight and looking like a member of Depeche Mode was not such a bad thing. But! Between the smoking, weird silences, not really liking anything but oral–and I only like oral with the one I love, not the one I fuck–and then…well…imagine a pencil…

I never fuck someone for the sake of fucking them, so I figured why start now?

Here in the fourth month, I deleted everything about him off my computer. All the beautiful pictures of he and his mom in Vancouver last Fall. Gone. All the angry, loving, forgiving, painful, pain-filled, longing letters deleted. All the photographs thrown away or lost in an envelope somewhere. All the disappointment over him missing out on Emma. All the sadness he never sat at my dining room table. All the hope he might change. All the dreams of what might have been. All of what I once was with him, but I decided to keep the really amazing parts of whom I transformed into.

What else remains? My Ordination blog–I just cannot delete him because it would be all wrong without any pictures with him, but it now looks like this photograph book found tucked away in a lost piece of luggage from the Titanic. The tears I weeped into the blue paint on my walls. Catching my breath sometimes when I awaken in the middle of the night gasping for breath after dreaming again of making love to him where I see his face just as it was before: pure bliss. Then there are the nightmares of running, drowning, killing, melting, and being abandoned just one more time by him, usually with a baby in my belly. The random thought of “Oh, I need to tell The Bean that.” when I hear something or read a thought he would connect well, but then I remember. I still steel myself a bit in his neighbourhood, which overlaps my own in some places, but the energy got let out of that with the conversation last week.

Of course there is the Mini, the bike, the desk and the chair. My Mini, my bike, my desk, my chair.

This post is the second of my three Ordination Papers. This paper addresses my sense of what it means to be a United Church of Christ Minister in light of our history and polity (how my denomination “does” church).

Stop doing wrong, learn to do right!
Seek justice, encourage the oppressed.
Defend the cause of the fatherless,
plead the case of the widow.
“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD.
“Though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red as crimson,
they shall be like wool.
-Isaiah 1:16b-18

Talmudic Literature tells the story of Rabbi ben Shila who was holy enough to once encounter Elijah the Prophet. When he meets Elijah, he asks, “What is it that the Holy One is doing?” Elijah responds, “He is studying the Torah and the Rabbis…” Studying the Torah is such a great and wonderful undertaking that even God studies it. The history of the United Church of Christ shares a similar value with her brothers and sisters of the Jewish faith. As we trace the outline of our family tree, the importance of education, knowledge, curiosity and freedom spring forth on all of our branches. Even as we wrestle to define what it means to be “united and uniting” as our assumptions, beliefs and prejudices are repeatedly re-examined, we turn to our familial understanding that study creates opportunity for us to reason together. Our reasoning will hopefully lead us to places of community, if not agreement. Our covenantal bonds implore us to talk to one another and find places of connection so that we might better serve our common Saviour in his call to do right, seek justice, defend those maligned and share the good news of God’s continuing work of redemption through us in our world.

Louis H. Gunnemann, in The Shaping of the United Church of Christ, traces our very beginnings back to a Bible Study in St. Louis in 1937. The group of clergy involved included Congregational Christian and Evangelical and Reformed ministers who began to recognize that they shared “common bonds and responsibilities.” Truman B. Douglass noted that it was “this regular thinking together about the fundamentals of [their] faith… [that led them to consider] that the two denominational fellowships which [they] represented could come together in unity.” The United Church of Christ’s family tree, which has four distinct branches grafted together, then owes its formation to the spirit that the LORD speaks of when imploring Judah, in Isaiah, to come and join the LORD in utilizing logic, rational thought and sound judgment as they worked together for the betterment of the Hebrew people. Similarly, our family tree formed so that we might “accept the cost and joy of discipleship” together. The fact that two denominational bodies with such radically different identities, inner-church relationships and understandings of the role of the minister—the Evangelical and Reformed Church with its emphasis on their presbytery and the Congregational Christian Churches and their congregational and autonomous polity—ever came together is nothing short of a work of the Holy Spirit.

I must admit that my own Baptist heritage lines up more with the Congregational and Christian branches of our tradition. Despite attending a rich and vibrant Presbyterian congregation for my first 15 years, my own understanding of how to “do” church, i.e. polity, stems from local church autonomy over any form of presbytery or episcopacy. Fortunately for all of us, polity and theology are not interchangeable terms, even as they dance with one another within our fellowship. I do, however, think that in order for us to be “united and uniting” we have to be a fellowship of equals and our insistence on ordering our life together around covenantal bonds and not around hierarchal mandates allows us to be both a cohesive and diverse body. In this way, my transition in identity from Baptist to baptist within the United Church of Christ fellowship seems organic.

I also see how being diverse comes easily, and being cohesive does not. We live in an age marked by adjustments and modifications to our language but not always to our inward orientation. When I think of the benchmark terminology for our fellowship—unity, autonomy, covenant, congregational, freedom, diversity, mission, evangelism, and dialogue—I see the depth of what we have to offer but also the tension. These words can be incongruous with one another. How can we be a united and diverse body? Does our covenant, that calls us so that “all might be one,” really allow for freedom as well? I know the individual cost to live out the reality of the tension between these terms, but I can barely comprehend the cost we as a united body must undertake. The General Synod 25 presented all of us with a portrait of the painful and complicated struggle we face as we seek to proclaim justice in Jesus’ name while also internally struggling with what it means to be a “we” within a body of individual churches made up of singular human beings with minds and hearts all their own. Within our body we do not prescribe doctrinal agreement as necessary to have the privileges and rights of full inclusion and membership. Ahh…are there not times when doctrinal agreement might be simpler for all of us?

The easy answer is: yes. Simple lures us all. I heard that Dr. Laura Schlessinger, the radio personality, once commented that one of the reasons she loves her faith path is because it tells her to do, or not do, a certain number of things and then she is guaranteed a happy life. I see how this would offer safety and certainty. You know that you are getting your faith “right.” We share the name “Christian” with brothers and sisters who feel certain that a singular understanding will unite them and send them on the path of righteousness before God. Our understanding of covenant dramatically diverges from this understanding. Covenant for us is never simple; for we, much like our Hebrew brothers and sisters before us, find ourselves grumbling in the wilderness of plurality. We struggle to be fully committed to one another—to live sacrificially for those we covenant with—even when we are in sharp disagreement with them. Our ecclesial journey flows from our designation as heirs to the Kingdom. Our “shared identify” demands that we be willing to lay aside our individualism and its inherent self-interest for our calling to be bound to one another.

Being new to the United Church of Christ, I lack extensive experience in different congregations, but I can tell you an interesting story about our differences that played out in my own life. While serving as the Chaplain for the Trauma Unit in Chicago, I encountered a very unique and powerful woman named “Grace.” Grace is a nurse on the unit and has Cherokee, African, Spanish, Navajo, German and Chinese blood flowing though her veins. She is proud of all of them. She comes from a working class family, and she works hard. Her son was shot and killed—lost to the streets as it were. She attends Chicago Trinity UCC where Rev. Jeremiah Wright is pastor. Her congregation is Spirit-filled with a strong call to its members to support and foster their Black Identity. As a result, her faith identity stems from both a more traditional understanding of who God is and how God works and from her racial identity.

I am Caucasian, with mostly British and Finnish lineage. I can only say “I love you.” in Finnish, so I do not feel any great sense of heritage beyond the matriarchy of my Mother. I come from a family of professionals, and we have been lucky to not have the rage of the streets harm our loved ones. I attend a predominantly Caucasian, affluent and intellectual congregation. My faith is radical, inclusive and has a different idea about how God works in the world. In many ways, Grace and I could not have been more different. We could not attend more different congregations. We are in the same denomination. Grace and I forged a special relationship while I was in Chicago, once I passed her inspection, in large part due to our communal bonds as members of the UCC. She would brag to anyone who asked what religion that I was, “Jack is like me—UCC.” You should have seen the looks on their faces! “For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all…that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.” Our “shared identify” demanded that we be willing to lay aside our individualism and its inherent self-interest for our calling to be bound to one another as sisters.

Recently this dynamic has played out in my own congregation. The church suffered great pains as a result of trying to come together and decide what it would mean to be “church” together. What is our vision? What is our mission? What is our witness? Fundamentally: Who are we, and what are we about? This pain and our continuing journey of discernment has taken many forms. While in seminary, I received letters from one faction or another outlining their position and urging me to sign on with their point of view. Our Senior Pastor left the church, and our interim resigned over the ugliness that has unfortunately marked our inability to disagree without dishonor.

One Sunday I noticed that the two men who lead our Music Ministry were not mentioned in the bulletin. After the service, someone came up to me and talked to me about the fact that these men had been fired following the previous Sunday’s service. I know my friend came to me hoping that I would be as dismayed as he appeared to be over this sudden decision by the Church Council. He asked me my opinion. I replied, “I think that is good. Not because I feel there was a problem, for I do not know, but because I see this as a positive sign that the Council we elected is making decisions. They have been charged with the duty of keeping secrets, seeing the underbelly of our church, and equipping our staff to provide for the nurture and service of our church. I am happy to see them take a stand and say, ‘We as your representative body have reasoned together that we are going to go a particular way, the way of our greatest day here being today and tomorrow!’ And with our collective vision in mind they lead us. That leadership demands accountability, and leadership demands making a decision. I am glad to see them separating the proverbial ‘wheat’ from ‘chaff’ in order to maintain the vision we gave them to help us fulfill. I do not mean ‘chaff’ as any kind of indictment on those two men—for they have obviously had a tremendous ministry here—just that their time of effective ministry here has come to an end. May God call them to another place worthy of the gifts God has granted them with…just not in this church right now.”

Similarly, the Church Council sent out a letter telling the congregation that disruptive behavior would no longer be allowed within our fellowship. Some persons were asked to leave our fellowship if they could not agree to end their disruptive behaviour. A new interim senior minister was called. Church services continue to happen each and every Sunday. The choir sings beautifully, even as some of the faces have changed. Most noticeably, I sense a new sweet spirit in our house of worship. The steam has been let out. Those who remain in our covenant do so willingly, even as we continue to struggle together to articulate what it means to be in fellowship and ministry together.

As these recent events unfolded I could not help but think of how our union formed. Yes, discussion, idea planting, joint fellowship and prayer all worked together in the forming of the United Church of Christ. But so did lengthy litigation! We continually form and re-form with congregations and individuals joining and leaving voluntarily. Our denominational forbearers not even seventy-five years ago had “the concern to find a way to bridge the differences that were considered by some to be insurmountable obstacles to union.” I take great peace that the conflict and reasoning within my own congregation is part and parcel of what it means to reason together within the fellowship of the United Church of Christ. I hold the same for our congregations that see themselves as either “Open and Affirming” or “Faithful and Welcoming,” even as I wholeheartedly believe faithfulness demands radical inclusion of all of God’s children within our churches, including our pulpits and marital covenants.

Our covenantal bonds implore us to talk to one another and be accountable to one another under the headship of Christ. We are not free to do as we please, but instead free for the work that the Holy Spirit calls us to. We come together that we might better serve our common Saviour in his call to do right, seek justice, defend those maligned and share the good news of God’s continuing work of redemption through us in our world. Come and let us reason together what God is calling us to do today.

I do not know how we became a culture obsessed with “closure,” but I admit I love the damn thing. I hate the feeling of unrest in my gut from awkward, ugly and hurtful endings, especially where I feel my heart never fully heals due to the love cut off at the quick. When The Bean left, I reeled from the swift and unexplainable exit. I could not fathom how it seemed to me that we were just getting to the good stuff, and he “imploded” (his word) and left body, mind and spirit. I needed closure and answers to my questions, but if someone does not acknowledge that you are alive closure tends to be elusive. Well…at least until I saw him driving to the Bike Shop.

As I turned my car around I cried out to myself, “What I need matters too!” So there we were in the parking lot face-to-face for the first time in four months. I just wanted to know from The Bean, “Do you know why you left me?”

He kept talking over and over again about when he did the “Post Mortem” on our relationship. I found strange comfort in his words given the pain of losing him set me on fire like a death. I led one of work’s Bereavement Support Groups the day before, and I kept thinking to myself, “It is okay that I have been so lost and incapable of almost anything–I just have been grieving.” Grieving like death. Something died between us, but I never wanted him out of my life, so maybe I would be better served to say something died in him. Maybe.

He told me that the reason why he had to leave immediately and cut me off fully centered on his feeling judged for not wanting to look at the effect his past might be having on his present. He said, “I learned everything I could back when those things happened, and I never want to think of them again. The longer we were together and the closer we became, the more pain I found myself in with you. You live in your past, present and future all at the same time. This way works for you–its what makes you so good at your job–and I know you were not intentionally judging me, but you require the person you are with to look at things, and I did not want to. I did not need to. I already got what I could out of them and want to leave them buried in the past where they happened.”

Figuring that I had already been pegged correctly, and that it was no time to stop being my own damn self, I said to him, “But when you saw Ana (THE EX), you said that the shit of her life was weighing her down even more because she refuses to deal with it; yes?” He agreed. I went on, “So, it seems strange that you would want others to deal with their stuff, but you do not want to deal with yours. Plus, I did not set out to root around to find your past pain, I brought up these things because they were hurting you, and us, in your present.”

When telling all of this to Paparazzo, he asked, “What was his major in college?” I told him what he already knew, “HISTORY.” Paparazzo replied rolling his eyes, “Just checking.” Irony. Irony. Irony.

Now granted, The Bean could have just been blowing smoke up my ass with all of this, but I do not really think so. He left me because I got inside the facade and that is not how he does things. He is the one who gives and never receives. He is the one in control. He is the one there for the girl–and he does love to date girls who have been molested–and all her problems. I brought disorder to the delicate balance of chaos and control he exerted over his life, but the disorder possessed a rightness to it because it centered on his needs being important.

Remember those drawings he did? Ours was an equal relationship. He could not be in control with me given the pain of my past. Not this girl. Not this time. I am the fucking poster child for recovery. I deal with the shit of my life. And he is right; it does work for me. The problem is that even if my way does not work for him, neither did his.

Given how this is my damn blog and I can say whatever I want, you would think I would bash him royally. You would think. I just cannot do it because I know too much. Too much about him and too much about adult children of alcoholics. I bought a book. I read up, which is another point of irony given my being a well-trained chaplain that I never really thought so much about this issue when we were together. One thing I read turned on the big light bulb over my head. In Children of Alcoholism: A Survivor’s Manual by Seixas and Youcha I read, “The inability to trust [their] own feelings and perceptions puts [them] in a precarious position. Trying to do away with uneasiness by hiding it and hoping no one else will see is exhausting…” and as a result “secrecy, evasion, and deception all [become] as acceptable as the truth.”

I kept seeing The Bean over and over in the pages of the book. I did not want to see him. I wanted to believe he would be the exception to the rule. I wanted to believe he would be the poster child for figuring it out on your own and getting it right. I wanted to believe he would not be just plain typical, but I kept seeing him over and over again.

The book put new light on why he lies to his parents all the time, why he has no real idea what he likes to receive–he can never trust anyone would take his desires seriously–and why all these things came up for us when they did.  The book talks about how real intimacy will cause the adult child of an alcoholic to fill with panic, which is actually a good sign of new life being right around the corner.  They do  best to face their past while being supported by love, especially intimate love, in the present.  I understand that, for being with him helped my whole being to heal in ways I could never approach without the kind of connection and intimacy real trust with sex can only bring.

I do not know what it was really like in his house as a kid, but given my own history with incest my imagination is probably pretty damn close. Even with all the really hopeful and helpful information contained in the book, I realized just how painful and distorted growing up with an alcoholic really is. Who can you ever trust if you cannot trust your parents? Yes. Both parents. The one who drinks almost ends up making more sense than the one who stays and allows all the craziness to continue. Nothing is real. Your perceptions are not real. You are not real.

So I stood talking to The Bean thinking,”You did the best you could.” I felt so sad. Sad. Sad. Sad. Here is this amazing, beautiful, brilliant man who just cannot go the emotional distance right now. I still hope he will one day, but I know I will never see it. He has been practicing and perfecting burying the pain for a long ass time. He will have one hell of a journey if he ever makes the changes necessary to accept and give real love. I know. I have been practicing them for years.  That is why I walked away thinking how good it was for me that we parted, and maybe not the best choice for him.  Maybe.  Or maybe I started something - planted a seed in a fertile garden perhaps - that will grow and flourish one day when he can go the emotional distance and not keep reburying things over and over again.

I am reminded of Robert Frost’s first lines from Mending Wall:

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

So I stood there knowing how much I could go the emotional distance. I told him how angry I became over him leaving just when things got interesting. I got to the core fears and wanted to face them head on because of how much I wanted to be with him healthy and whole. I wanted to give him my very best and keep raising the bar again and again. I wanted to be more real, more loved, more loving, more giving, more free. I could see how we challenged each other in every single way and were on the verge of something great for ourselves as individuals and together as a couple. (Check out this great article about getting to the good stuff.) And then it was over. Sad. Sad. Sad.

I found closure to the most important and devastating chapter of my adult life standing in a parking lot. I found a way to bless him and our time together. I found a way to voice my anger and disappointment in him and the way he cut me out of his life. I told him about the destructive path of his verbal rage and emotional extinction. I told him how profoundly sorry I felt to find I caused him so much pain. I found forgiveness again.  I found a way to say goodbye to my first real love.

I found closure.

November, the month prior to my break-up with The Bean contained more emotionally, physically and spiritually intense–let  alone draining–events than we ever could prepare for.  So many things transpired that even now they do not seem real. It is almost as if the whole month happened in “super-slow-mo” and the tape playing in my head only makes the “waahwaahwahnan” sound over and over. Writing it down still stuns me.

The arduous rundown:

1. I broke a molar and had root canal the first few days of November, just before…
2. I was ordained on November 5th. Now The Bean continues to have major issues with any sacred or religious space (Let’s be sure to keep the two separate, because not all religious spaces are sacred or vice versa.). As a kid, his parents–one an atheist Catholic, the other Jewish–were blackmailed by the priests running the private school into having him baptised. The Bean did not want it, nor did his parents, but it allowed them to keep their illegal immigrant child in school. I have issues with baptizing any child, but against a grown child’s will and that of their parents and demonizing said child is abuse. Period. So, when I looked out and saw my dear sweet Bean sitting in my church I came undone with love for him. I knew what it took for him to be there, and I knew how much he cared for me to cross that threshold on my behalf. Pure selflessness in the place of pain for him.
3. I told him, in the throes of Ordination Bliss, the night of my ordination, that I loved him. He held me closer, and we fell asleep at the hotel.
4. November 7th we went to dinner. He said something to me over dinner about how he did not remember anything after we got back to the hotel due to being so tired. It turned out that this included what I said, which I repeated (feel free to judge me now). He replied smiling, “As if I did not already know that!” I said, “Right back at-cha.” The conversation brought up so many fears for me, especially the Big Kahuna: abandonment. I also talked to him that night about how I felt I had gotten really “busy” in our relationship due to my own fears of him leaving. Overcompensating. I told him about how I would drop yoga for him week after week–wanting him to keep my boundaries–but never expected him to not go on his weekly ride. I told him to expect some big changes from me in the coming weeks, not because I did not care about him, but because I realized I needed to take a step back and care for myself. I apologized for making him responsible for what I needed.
5. November 8th, The Bean called me at work to tell me how upset he was. I felt like he might be experiencing a panic attack and urged him to leave work “sick” and go to the doctor. He desperately stated how he needed a break and all of the pressure seemed to be too much. I got it and took him seriously. I also urged him to consider therapy, if that might help his anxiety coupled with all the really smart and hard physical workouts he already incorporated into his life for stress management. I heard a great deal of anger–rightly so, I might add–that I thought a therapist could help him with processing in ways that empowered him more than leaving him feeling helpless. He listened, but he never went further.
6. I took a terrible fall off my bike on my way to The Bean’s house on November 9th. He rode towards me but was on the opposite side of the road. Even after not finding me, he never thought to cross to the other side. Given my “safety first” alarm bells, I never would ride on the side where he rode due to there not being any street lights and it was at dusk. He found me, patched me up, and took me home following dinner. I felt just awful, in part because I wanted him to care for my boo-boos (only fair given how I had nursed his from a bad fall in August that he took), but I also realized that–for whatever the reasons–he needed to be alone that night. I told him later, “My wants got trumped by your needs.” I felt really grown-up for getting the difference with him that night.
7. I woke up at his house on the 11th with the worst sore throat of my life and a fever. By the end of the day, I was up to 103.7!
8. I went to the doctor and found out I probably had Mono on Monday the 13th. By Thursday, I had the confirmation. My official first day off Probation at work was the 13th as well, so I used my Paid Time Off on the first day possible and until I ran out. In the Month of November I worked only six days and out some of December too. This left me one whole paycheck short, not to mention all the medicine, doctor visits, etc. November would have completely ruined me financially if not for the money people gave me at my Ordination and some help from my congregation.
9. The next week I developed Thrush in my mouth. So, now I had the most exhaustion I ever experienced, could hardly go downstairs to get food, and now could not put anything in my mouth. Add to this diarrhea and nausea. The Bean planned a bike trip with a friend the day of the 18th. I felt so disappointed in him for planning that trip while I was not only so sick, but also because my Aunt Charlyne had just been taken to the hospital with life-threatening lung problems and Miss Audrey and Baub were up in Ocala for her that weekend. I never asked him to stay; I only told him that I was hurt he would plan to leave. In the end, he did not go due to spending the night with me in the ER. I could no longer speak or open my mouth, finding myself in terrible pain, dehydrated, not able to keep anything in me, and trying to throw up. That night still shines out to me for other reasons as well. The Bean told me of how he drew up these schematics of all of his relationships that day while at lunch. In the end, he drew them for me. He showed me how all of his other relationships were so “out of balance” with the relationship overshadowing him and his needs. He had no life outside of whomever he was dating, other than work and his own family–although they were enmeshed there too. When he drew out how he saw us, he drew equal circles placed beside each other, but with some distance between them. He said, “I see us as individuals now and always, but I can also see that we are moving closer together…not to overtake one another or become ‘one’ but to be right up next to each other as full partners.” He showed me how he had balance in his life for the first time. He had his own friends. He expressed concern about how large and dominating work had become. I asked him, “Is there anything you need from me or need for us to work on to help you in this?” He replied, “No. I would not change anything about us. What we have is really working and brings me a lot of happiness.”
10. The night of the 18th, we lay in bed talking until five in the morning. The Bean needed to talk about the pain his most recent ex (from over a year before, and the one who will call him December 1st) caused him when she left saying, “I do not love you.” He told me how he could not think of her without “feeling searing pain,” and how this applied to the good times as well. We held each other. He cried. I cried. I told him I knew he could find his way to holding both the pain and the good times in such a way that the pain no longer robbed the good, but also where the pain no longer robbed his present either. I must admit I feel as though I am betraying him for saying this at all, but I also know that I still protect his identity from most and how important this moment felt to me. I firmly believed that until he could let go of the pain she caused him, he could not fully open to the love I wanted to give him or receive from him.
11. Thanksgiving night he surprised me by coming back early to see me. He told me of how he shared with his family his deep thankfulness for me because I “challenged [him] in every way.”
12. Saturday the 25th, he went on his ride. I suffered the effects of a new colon infection IN PUBLIC, but I did manage to buy the plants for re-doing his front garden. We wanted to get it in last Fall, so it would be beautiful and ready if he tried to sell this Spring.
13. Sunday we worked and worked and worked on his front garden. By dusk, it really looked amazing. He asked me if I would help with a work thing, which ended up taking almost four hours but gave him some sleep he never would have gotten otherwise.
14. We worked on getting his resume ready the next few days to send to a personal friend of mine for help in finding The Bean a new job. His work life had become unbearable and his boss utterly unkind and unprofessional, in my opinion.
15. Wednesday the 29th, we sent off his resume. The Bean lay down next to me on his couch and told me, “Baby. I needed you. I never need anyone, but you were there for me. Thank you.” I told him how I could not believe my ears, but “thank you” for letting me in to help you. I also thanked him for all the amazing ways he helped me during my illness.
16. This is as good a place as any to mention the last time we had sex was in November.  Due to the contagious nature of Mono, we just would look at each other with longing.  God!  How I missed him!  Every single part.
17. I tried to go back to work on the 30th, but my boss took one look at me and sent me back home. Thankfully.
18. December 1st: The Bean and I sat in the car driving to his parents’ house to pick up something and then out to dinner. His ex called him, which he called “disturbing.” She called again. He did not answer. He became very silent and upset. I wanted him to go and see her. I wanted him to forgive her–something he told me in the Summer he wanted to tell her–because I felt we could not go on until he had full closure with her over the past. He was to call me when they were done talking, so I would know he was okay, even if he could not talk about it. He texted me at 2:30 in the morning.

We never really spoke about that conversation with the ex, other than him telling me that “the shit of her life is weighing her down more now than before.” He told me that he was “imploding” following talking to her, and after a week of time in his Man Cave, I went to see him. He told me that he did not love me, only dated me because he was lonely, and we were done. Two days later, I went back to him and told him that I did not know if we were doing the right thing–if I was doing the right thing–and how mad at him I was. Then I got the “your star is extinguished from my sky” email, and I was officially dead in his world.

Funny thing is, I was not dead in mine, nor was he.

So, when I saw his fucking car–for the first time ever since we split–on the road last week, I followed his ass to the local bike shop (I just knew where he was going.) and confronted him!!!!!! I have GUMPTION! And I must say how proud of myself I am. Damn!

Starting today, 13 April 2007, I will post my Ordination Papers for the coming three weeks. This paper addressed my own faith.

Claudia McK… was a rarity at Westminster Christian School in 1979. She was half Colombian and being raised as a Catholic. We both had the status of “social outcast” and became fast friends in fourth grade. When she went through Confirmation at her church, she asked me to come to the special Saturday service that the local Archbishop would be conducting. Having been raised to believe that the Christian life is a choice—not that anyone in my family gave me much of a choice about going to church or not—my ears and mind were on fire when the Archbishop talked to the Confirmation Class and said, “When you were born a baby Christian…” Born a baby Christian? No! I could not begin to grasp the possibility, or for that matter the Catholic theology and tradition, of such a thing. One makes a personal decision for salvation and without that decision one is not a Christian; or so I had been raised…irony of ironies. I keep thinking of this moment at her church and what the Archbishop proclaimed for I see that I was indeed born a baby Christian. The fabric of my life story has been woven within the context of the Christian faith. My earliest memories include being in the nursery at church, singing “Deep and Wide” and listening to Web Chenault and his dummy talk to me about Jesus and the lives of missionaries. I nursed on the Gospel. The raw material of my faith was a part of me much like the zygote has all the raw material to grow into a fully aware human being.

My Mother has always been the spiritual compass in my home. I can still see her kneeling and praying in the mornings before taking me to school. Her faith has been my greatest teacher, and she remains someone I turn to in order to discuss my faith, my doubt and my calling. I look back at how she raised me and I am surprised that I was not raised within the UCC, specifically the Christian Church, or within the Disciples of Christ because her own articulation of her faith so closely resembles these two veins. Historically she only goes to a church in her neighborhood, and she once moved our household to live closer to church. We went to a Presbyterian church from when I was zero to fifteen. I never was raised to think we were Presbyterian though. I never joined the Presbyterian Church. I made a major stink over some part of the Children’s Shorter Catechism and told our pastor that I could not in good-conscience join a church that affirmed this particular point. I have no idea now what that point was, but needless to say it was a deal breaker for me in sixth grade. Mother affirmed this choice because she continually encouraged me to think for myself and to make my faith my own.

I know much less of my father’s faith because he died when I was six. I know he valued people and took the time to take young men under his wing and teach them how to be good husbands and fathers. Mother says I get my sharp wit and my plotting demeanor from him. I hope I am as good a friend, raconteur, and fisherman as he was.

I cannot speak of a faith journey or my call without speaking of who I am and the life events which shape me. My life continues to be full of the vibrant colors of pain, hope, joy, despair, truth and faith. I frame my life through the lens of my relationship with God. Even from the earliest days I have always been convinced of God’s presence. I can remember being about three years of age and not being able to sleep because I needed to pray. I awakened my parents at two in the morning to help me. My disquiet, even at three years of age, stemmed from a deep desire to make sure that Jesus knew of my love for him. My sense that God waits for me to engage with God pervades my life. I pray all the time. And yet I still wonder about the efficacy of prayer. Can I change God’s mind, as Luther contends in his commentary on Moses’ response to Yahweh wanting to leave the Israelite people following the incident with the Golden Calf? I also have asked God, “What right do I have to pray?” My point simply is that even when I wander and ponder, I take these to God.

I never feel concern that certain topics are off limits when I speak to God All conversation with God is holy for me, so I take to God my joy, my praise, my anger, my disgust—even when these are directed right at God. The first time I decided God was a big failure was when Rev. Reed sat in our living room praying with us the day Daddy died. He said, “Lord, we want to thank you for being with this family.” NO! I just did not believe it. If God was with us then something had gone terribly wrong. Either God was not who I thought God to be, or God was not present. Period. I remember opening my eyes to see if Mother and Grandmother were buying into Rev. Reed’s prayer. I could not believe that they were sitting there shaking their heads in agreement.

And yet, by some miracle, prayer existed for me. I kept the dialogue going. Many years later a woman stopped me at a luncheon. She asked me if I knew who she was; I did not. She was the wife of our interim pastor the year my father died. She turned to her friends and told them the story of when her son was 11 and in the hospital dying. The church decided to have an evening prayer service of intercession for the boy and his family. She sat there knowing her son was going to die and feeling these prayers were only to give them support. Then a six-year-old girl got up and took the microphone. (This girl would be me, but I do not remember.) She started praying and telling God there was too much pain in her world, she had lost too much. So would God just let this one boy, her friend, live so that more pain could not come into the world today? The woman said that she looked up at the girl and knew her son would live. She knew God could not refuse this particular plea, and so they praised God for answering their prayer when he recovered fully.

I find this story interesting because I still sort through the efficacy of our prayers. Can we compel God to intervene in our lives? I know of points in my own history that demanded God’s intervention—an intervention that never fully came as I needed it to come. And I also know first hand the miraculous power of God’s intervention. This story also strikes me as amazing because it comes from a time where my walk with God was characterized by rage and uncertainty. I find it striking that I somehow still believed in Emmanuel, especially in issues of life and death. I confront this paradox so often in my ministry. We have the belief that God has power over that which seeks to destroy our very beings. We also know that we live in an age of despair, brought on from living in an imperfect world and filled with the consequences of imperfect people. How can we affirm the miraculous God, who we see acting in both grand and delicate ways in the fabric of our lives, and also deal with a God whom, too often for our comfort, seems silent and distant, and maybe even far removed from our very present suffering?

I consider the deepest source of personal suffering in my life as having come from the desertion of my half-sisters from our family life. My father had two daughters from his first marriage, and I spent the first part of my life with them all of the time. Unfortunately, the pain my sisters were in after Daddy died was so great they told my Mother that they never wanted to see us again. We went from a dinner table of nine to just my mother and I in less than one month. My sisters have never come back.. Now, almost 30 years later, I think I better understand how it is that we can make terrible decisions in our lives and feel stuck with them. I too have been stuck sometimes. Some days I pray there will be healing between us. Some days I forget they exist. And yet, I find I always carry them in my spirit and ponder the themes of abandonment, worthiness and reconciliation with this story in mind.

For all of the changes 1977 brought, nothing could have prepared me for 1978. Mother remarried, and sadly she married a pedophile who married her to get to me. A fundamental change in my being occurred as a result of being molested. I do not live on the edge because of it though. I missed having a Daddy in my life, so John was welcomed into my life and heart unquestioningly. The searing pain that he brought left me with an even larger hole in my life. At that point I needed the Father God, terribly. I needed him to kick butt, but where was he to be found? I felt so desperate for him. I believed that God had the power to intercede for me then and called upon God daily. Today I would say God the Father was present during the abuse. I can look back at certain moments and claim that the only way that the evil was mitigated was God’s intervention. But more than that, I can see Jesus holding me, comforting me. I see the Father God screaming at John not to do this terrible thing. Screaming at him that he was not created for this, it was not God’s will or purpose for his life. John chose to proceed. God chose to stay, refusing to leave me alone with John’s expression of the monster within. I know this. I know God was there and God being my witness helps me validate the truth of what happened.

Conceptualizing God in this manner propelled me to think deeply about my faith from a very young age. My Sunday School teachers loved me, and not just for being me, but also because I always came prepared with my memorized Bible verse. I took seriously the commandment to “hide God’s word in your heart.” Attending a Christian school gave me even more opportunities to work on the God questions from both mental and emotive places within me. By fifth grade, my faith constructs were quite savvy because I was reading Leon Uris, Mildred Taylor, Calvin Miller, Madeline L’Engle and C.S. Lewis. By sixth grade, I was radicalized because of listening to the music of U2 and had joined Amnesty International. The Sunday School teachers who loved having someone so interested in their class now had to contend with a young lady unafraid to question them and their teachings.

Around the age of fourteen I had a different prayer. Our Presbyterian church no longer felt like home. I was an outsider due to my refusal to join. I convinced my Mother that we needed a new church, one where I could join. We found University Baptist Church. Although I had been baptized as a baby at the Presbyterian Church, I insisted that I be baptized by immersion at UBC as a sign of Jesus’ ownership of my heart. Ah, Menno Simmons and the Ana-Baptists would be so proud! I think this began something in me that continues to this day. I started to see myself as a Baptist, which was a change given my familial reluctance to formal denominational ties. Baptist does, however, capture the historic roots and practices I still ascribe to. I believe in the autonomy of the local church and continue to rely on the priesthood of the believer. The last point, regarding the priesthood of the believer, gave me the certainty in my faith that I could question the church’s teachings on women in ministry, which for me was the final barrier to my heeding the call to ministry.

When I was growing up I had very few role models of women in ministry. The few women in Ministry I knew were missionaries. Many of them would cry at our kitchen table about how difficult it is to be a woman in the man’s world of the Church. I saw my own Mother never considered for church elder or deacon due to her gender, while at the same time she would defiantly speak up for causes she felt strongly about. I must admit that one of the largest reasons I never considered going into the ministry as a child, despite my love of all things God related, was I never thought I could since I was a girl. No one ever told me that girls could grow up to be ministers, preacher, evangelists or serve in leadership over men in a church. And yet, everywhere I looked in my Presbyterian church, with the one exception of the pulpit, it was the women who were the spiritual leaders of the church and of their families.

In college I became exposed to Christians for Biblical Equality. This evangelical group used the scriptures to prove that both Jesus and Paul argued for the full inclusion of women in ministry. They see the patriarchal hierarchy as a result of the Fall and not a part of God’s original design. Their writings inspired me to think differently about God’s plan for women in general and my life in particular. When I returned home after going to school out of state, I found our Baptist congregation no longer fit my needs. I could not attend and support a church that saw my affirmation of women in ministry as a sign that I was not a good Christian. So, in the spring of 1994 I began to look for a new church. I found Coral Gables Congregational.

This part of my pilgrimage coincided with my search for what I wanted to do with my life. Finding a congregation where I could flourish outside of the restrictions of labels like “conservative” or “liberal” blessed me immensely. Each Sunday we read from the lectionary, which meant we read more scripture each week there than we had in a month at my former congregation. I was in love, mad love. I became actively involved in the life of the church and felt at home. I also began working in an Adult Day Care Center where I began to have a glimpse of a future serving God’s children. During this time I started to prayerfully consider going back to college to finish my degree with the intention of serving God in some sort of helping or healing ministry.

I want to relate my first conscious articulation of my call to ministry to you. I was working as a Special Events Coordinator in 1996 for the Miami City Club. In less than three months I put us on the map for party clients and had the Big Boss impressed. My immediate boss, who I was only going to be under for three more days, drove me nuts. He left much to be desired. I knew booking weddings would mean a three-year minimum commitment from me to the club. So, I sat on the Metro one Tuesday morning praying and crying out to God for help. I knew I was not in the right place for me. I kept saying to God, “I know you have called me for something other than this, but I just do not know what.” I could not leave my job; I was helping to pay our bills. And I had no idea where to go or what to do if I did not stick this job out. I asked God for help. My immediate boss fired me that afternoon.

Getting fired was the best thing to ever happen to me. I went to work the next Monday for Dennis Nason, a club member, who believed in me, and he had frequent “come to Jesus” meetings with me about my future. He pushed me to go back and finish my BA, and he would not take “no” for an answer. When I told him I was thinking about getting a Master’s in Theology, he told me to go for it. Our dear friend, Susan Rodriguez, lived at our house after her graduation from seminary as she integrated into her new life as a pastor. So, in one ear I had Dennis saying, “Go for it!” and in the other Susan asking, “Why don’t you go to Divinity School?” She too would not take “no” for an answer. God placed two mighty forces in my life that helped me listen to the Spirit of God asking, “Whom shall I send?” From the time I went to work for Dennis to the time I went back to college was just over a year, with one more year to finish my BA. I still was not sure why God was sending me to Divinity School, but I was thoroughly convinced I was to go. When I got to Duke I realized that I was not alone in this experience. You can hear First Years every fall saying to one another, “Yeah. I know what you mean…I may teach, get a PhD, go into a local church, or become a chaplain too.” Uncertainty mixed with certainty.

But should I go as a UCC student? I was a member of my church, but I had no idea what that meant for my future. Heck! I know I did not have any concept of the wider UCC body beyond my own congregation! I felt uncomfortable with the idea of being a part of any denomination at that point, plus I had seen my own church’s struggle to be in the world and not of it. My first day at Duke led me to the head of the Baptist House, which serves the needs of Baptist students, the second largest group at the Divinity School. He encouraged me to look at going back to Baptist life since North Carolina is one of the more affirming places for women in ministry. I spent my first two years contemplating this, and I worked as a Youth Minister in a Baptist Church. I now know I am not called to the fight in Baptist life regarding women in ministry. I do not have to prove anything to anyone about the veracity of my gender’s call. And so, without regret, I left that particular turmoil behind me.

Now I see this sojourn into Baptist life as a vital key to the development of my call. During this time I met one of the leading forces in Baptist Women in Ministry: Anne Neil. I had the privilege of attending her ordination, just before her 80th birthday, and she mentored me. Over the last 60 plus years in ministry she has served as a teacher, nurse, health facilitator, missionary and women’s rights leader. She helped to form the Alliance of Baptists, one of the most progressive arms of Baptist life that now affirms an ecumenical fellowship with the UCC. She recognized progressive Baptist churches needed a seminary to send their students following the conservative takeover in the Southern Baptist Convention. Baptist House, a support system for students at Duke, was her way to address that need.

Seeing her life taught me that God’s call is to service, not to a particular place and fashion for all time. Once you are called God will change the locations to which you are called to, but not God’s investment in you. Over the seasons of her life her ministry has changed and evolved, while her call has remained constant. I see this as the model for my call: ever present and ever changing. My ministry has been and will continue to evolve as both my faith deepens and what I am called to, changes.

So, back to the question of what role the United Church of Christ could have in my life and ministry: My last two years of seminary allowed for a season to examine if I could find a spiritual home within the UCC. Seminary was an impoverished time, so I rarely came home to Miami. At Christmas, in 2001, I was afforded a rare opportunity to be in Miami for a month. During that time I met Donna Schaper, who was then the new pastor at Gables Church. She and I sat down for an in-depth conversation about the UCC and me. She asked me to consider requesting a time of mutual discernment between myself and the congregation about my call and future in the UCC. I left feeling God had answered my plea for direction and a home. Instead of a new home, I found a homecoming, which delighted me more than words can express. But I still had my lingering questions about any future in the UCC itself because of my identity as a progressive baptist—little “b.”

During the fall of 2001, I had the privilege of taking American Christianity with someone who sees the Congregationalists and Northern Baptists as being the best representation of mainstream American Christianity. Dr. Wacker gave me a glimpse of what it might mean to affirm my new Congregational identity in conjunction with my Baptist roots. Tracing the “religious family tree” and seeing how Baptist life in America in large part grew out of the eviction of Rodger Williams from the Massachusetts Bay Colony helped me to trace my lineage as both a Baptist and as a Congregationalist. My UCC polity class heaped “Miracle Grow” on these seeds by teaching me how the constructs so central in my own faith and intellectual upbringing: local church autonomy; covenantal relationships; intellectual curiosity; pluralism (valued within my own family), social justice as an extension of faithfulness; and the priesthood of the believer, were also values I shared with the United Church of Christ. Each week as I read about what was becoming my denomination, I became more excited. I love the things we struggle with, our tensions and our resolutions. I began to form a picture of myself serving in the United Church of Christ. As my own sense of place grew, my questions regarding what God would call me to bloomed as well. Here I am Lord, send me…but where shall I go?

My life began in a hospital. Yes, most of us are born there, but for me it was more than that. My mother is a nurse and came to Miami to work at Baptist Hospital. Baptist Hospital is where she met my Daddy, where she had me, where Daddy was taken care of during my kindergarten year when he was so sick, and eventually, where my Grandmother Hazel Osborne died. The pulse of the hospital matches my own, but I will admit that I remained closed to the idea of both chaplaincy and working in the medical setting for a very long time. The hospital is where I see my Stepfather, John, for he was not only a pedophile but also an amazing and gifted physician. When people would talk to me about doing my Clinical Pastoral Education Internship while in seminary, I would kindly nod my head and shake my heart “no.” But after this idea continued to be proposed to me by total strangers meeting me and telling me how they thought I would be so well suited for CPE, I, like Gideon, had to admit that the fleece of wool was wet with dew and the ground dry—I was going to go to the hospital for my Clinical Pastoral Education.

Have you heard the story about the duck and the water? My parents raised me to be a hospital chaplain; they prepared me for my call. The way they would engage the people they cared for taught me how to talk to people about both their lives and their health. I possess no fear of medical conditions, blood, ooze or complicated medical terminology. We read the Journal of American Medicine and the Bible at the dinner table! Nothing else was allowed to be read, but those two were read and discussed. I can remember going to a medical meeting in late elementary school on geriatric care. My Stepfather took care of a man who had AIDS when it was still called ARC. My mother would go by a church friend’s house and take their blood pressure and talk to them about their health needs. She would pray with them and comfort them. All these moments became linked together for me in the hospital setting. Every nook and cranny within the hospital walls felt like home. And my own journey to find God within a life full of suffering found a resting place in the hospital because I could co-create with God a new redemptive meaning for that suffering. All of a sudden my whole life made sense. All of sudden my calling made sense.

I have had to face the mystery head-on in my own life, and so I find the hospital to be a beautiful place to be present to people as Jesus was to those who were suffering in his own time. The Incarnation makes sense to me at three in the morning, as I pray with a family gathered around a dying loved one. I think ministering in crisis allows me an ecumenical opportunity the parish minister is rarely afforded; I get to be the face of God to people I would otherwise never be able to do that with, due to all of the walls of rubble we so readily put between ourselves. The practice, or discipline, of chaplaincy opens up the “secret prayer closet” of people’s lives, so I tread on sacred ground as I listen to the real truth of what has happened in a life and in a family. I see the real face behind the mask.

Following my internship I stayed on at the University of North Carolina Hospitals as an on-call chaplain, working a 24-hour shift most weekends. While at UNCH during my last year of seminary, Carolina Donor Services approached me three different times about coming on board with them and working in a bereavement capacity with families facing the brain death of a loved one. The last time, just after graduating from seminary, I applied and went to work for them. Even before I started, I found out that a chaplain colleague from UNCH—Vivian Hunnings—was also coming to work at CDS in the same capacity. The following year brought an amazing amount of personal and professional growth as Vivian and I created a new model for doing bereavement work with the families. Part of CDS’s support of our efforts included sending us to get our Advanced Bereavement Facilitator Certification. I went to Chicago, in November of 2002, for my training. My trip proved to be a seminal turning point for me as a woman of faith and as a minister.

I first want to discuss the radical personal transformation that occurred during the training. While working at the hospital in North Carolina, I had become more and more dissatisfied with the normative Baptist understanding of hell. Being at the bedside of so many as they died, even a death row inmate shackled to the bed, I could not shake a growing suspicion that hell is a human construct, given how we like to solve our problems through death and dismemberment, and not a God reality. But even as I moved away from this normative understanding of hell, I reserved a special corner of the old hell for my stepfather. During the bereavement training, we were given a writing assignment to explore the continuing dialogue and relationship we have with someone from our lives who had died. John died when I was twenty-five, and so for reasons I cannot fully explain, my dialogue was with him.

When I stand with a patient as they die, I have a vision of my Daddy and Grandmother being there with me. I also see Jesus clearly, regardless of the faith affiliation of the person dying. Jesus and my family are there for me, and God—in the all encompassing way we might define God—is there for the person who is dying. As I sat there at the hotel table creating this dialogue I began to see that in the shadows of those moments John was standing there as well, and so we began to talk to one another for the first time since I was fourteen. I told him how close to him I felt in the hospital and how appreciative I am for all that he taught me about medicine, physicians and about healing the mind, body and soul. I told him that in the hospital I was proud to be his daughter. He told me how sorry he was for being so destructive in my life. I understood, by some miraculous spiritual intervention, that John, more than anyone else, knew the terrible price that had been paid in my life because of the pain he inflicted. His intimate knowledge of my reality, meant that he wanted more than anything for my life to be full and free of pain and fear. My dialogue with him released him from the private hell I put him in and released me to embrace him as a wonderful doctor, without shame, in the hospital. I do not want to suggest that I never find myself touching the wellspring of rage over the pain he caused, for those waters are too deep in my life to just dry up instantaneously. I do want to offer that a miracle of healing came to me through this dialogue and that this reconciliation informs how I function as an empathic and forgiving chaplain.

The second big change that came as a result of my weekend in Chicago was that a conversation began between me and Rush University Medical Center about my coming there for my Clinical Pastoral Education Residency. They had an ongoing dialogue with the Department of Trauma next door at Cook County Hospital about providing a chaplain resident to their team. They had never had an appropriate candidate, since Rush does not offer any trauma experience. Given my three years of experience in numerous Level I Trauma Centers in North Carolina, the need and the right person for the job were finally coming together. Part of what made this opportunity right for me stemmed from my growing unrest from no longer being a chaplain. Bereavement work outside of the context of my calling to be a minister left me empty. My time working as a chaplain demonstrated to me the depth of my commitment as a servant of God, but also the depth of my ministerial identity. I do not tend to the hurting, confused, angry, grieving human beings out of the goodness of my own heart, although that is a factor. Mostly I engage with them and their stories out of my own faith story and ministerial calling. My commitment is to being a disciple of Jesus, so my work extends naturally from my radical understanding of discipleship. During my year with Carolina Donor Services I longed to be back in the hospital as a chaplain; I went to Chicago the next September to begin my Residency.

I could write an entire book on my experiences at County. I worked with people who were in desperate need of care and compassion. My patients were mostly African American and poor. Of these, the majority were young men who presented to us with gunshot wounds. I learned what it means to be a prophet in my own age. Standing at bedsides telling young angry men that God does not want them to kill in retribution took the power of the Holy Spirit standing with me to say, but I did. Being prophetic to the degradation my staff uttered took the power of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. My staff maintained a level of anxiety unparalleled by any other unit I have ever worked with. They manifested this fear through anger, racism, addiction and emotional distancing. My faith has been a way to make sense of the suffering in my own life and the lives of others. I came to understand that unit within the context of great suffering. My method of being a chaplain is not to graciously stand on the sidelines waiting for an invitation. I jump right in; getting bed pans or warm blankets is common place for me, as is holding someone’s hand during a painful medical procedure. Even with this as my practice, I would not have thought that I made much of an impression on my unit by the year’s end; they were just that hardened. When I went to leave some of the nurses threw a party for me. One of the nurses, who had tried my patience on more than one occasion with her hostile attitude and behavior, came up to me to talk. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, “You do not know what this unit was like before you came…you have no idea…but I want you to know how much it means to all of us…to me…that you came and you loved us.” She later presented me with a Tiffany bracelet from the “Trauma Chicks” as a thank-you gift, but her words were the real gift of affirmation. I went and loved them, which for me is both the simplest way to talk about ministry and the most profound.

When I think of all of the possibilities of what I may be called to next, I become overwhelmed. I know that my heart’s desire is to continue on with a call to a chaplaincy position, but I also remain open to God’s continual call in my life and how that call will transform over time. My continuing faith in the God who is with us leads me to a place of acceptance in regards to the great mystery of where I might next serve. Accepting mystery for me is somewhat akin to wearing burlap, but I also recognize that with maturity I have come to embrace the mystery a little more. I find meaning and delight in the apparent chaos because it affords me the opportunity to be on a God Hunt. In many ways I am still the same girl listening to the pastor’s prayer in the time of tragedy, only now I hear my own voice. I pray remembering the prayer said when my father died, so I know how singular and shaping these prayers can be. I pray knowing that these moments are both endings and beginnings I pray knowing we are being heard and loved. Mostly, I pray with confidence because I know God is with us. As Isaiah 54:7 says, “For a brief moment I abandoned you, but with deep compassion I will bring you back.”

This post is a part of my ongoing series “Don’t Be A Christian” about the failure of religion, Christianity in particular. The main thesis of this series is: Don’t be a Christian. Follow Jesus. In my opinion, Christianity has failed. Persons of faith and/or conscience must rise up against Christianity and its many forms of greed, tyranny, manipulation, hatred and irrationality. Our very survival as human beings depends on the end of Christianity as we know it today, and as it has been developing since the time of Paul. Eradicating Christianity does not mean that we should eradicate Jesus or Jesus’ central message of love of the other. No. Those of us who find solace, teaching and inspiration in the “Christian Story” must embrace Jesus anew, instead of embracing any kind of Christian identity. Again: Don’t be a Christian. Follow Jesus.

My ex-boyfriend The Bean, in case you have not read my page on The Dating Game, is an atheist. Now you might find it strange that a girl minister would date an atheist, but at least as far as this girl minister goes, the spiritual match I experienced far exceeded any other relationship in my life, past or present. Huh??? I know this may seem strange, but curiosity has characterized my relationship with God and with the faith I nursed on, Christianity. Empty pat answers do not quell my questions, which has been true since I was a kid. The Bean never was satisfied either. He too would challenge teachers of the faith–having gone to a Catholic elementary school and having been assaulted by Evangelical proselytizers time and again–and he too got into trouble. We found in each other a true spiritual complement, even as the surface appeared so very different.

Our relationship challenged both of us. (Don’t worry, I know it challenged him too. Otherwise he never would have told me at Thanksgiving how grateful he was for me because I “challenged [him] in every way.”) The Bean posed to me the problem with the foundational teaching in Christianity, specifically that “Jesus is God,” and how manipulative that can be to children. We spoke at length about what the Ground Floor of one’s spiritual/personal development could be with children. The Bean’s final say centered on never teaching children anything about faith, spirituality or God. I felt this approach was flawed. For one thing, it pretends that spirituality is not an inherent human propensity. Even if one’s spiritual space has only questions and a complete rejection of any kind of Supreme Being–personal or not–one still have a spiritual self. It is illogical to pretend something does not exist just because much of humanity has filled their spiritual space with idolatry of their own religion and hatred of others. The second problem with I found with his thinking stems from his own religious history. I believe that The Bean’s atheism is informed by the horrid intellectual and spiritual abuse meted upon him as a child by the Catholic nuns and priests at the school where he attended, including what only could be called a forcible baptism more akin to rape than anything else.

I do believe that atheism has both valid intellectual and spiritual grounds, but I do not believe it can be fully authentic within a person’s soul unless it is arrived at after healing the places religion failed. I often hear the argument for atheism based solely on the failure of “The Church” or on “religion.” Belief in some sort of creative force in the universe, or having the intellectual imagination that there might be a Supreme Being, cannot be equated with what we as human beings do with that imagination. This is a flaw in logic. We make the same flaw when we look at a drunk teenager who kills someone while driving and think to ourselves that the kid’s parents obviously did something wrong in raising them. Good parents do not always equal good kids, and in the same way, those who speak for “God” from a particular tradition’s apparent certainty often will not equal the best humanity has to offer, let alone any kind of holistic and loving view of God.

This flaw in logic–equating human followers and their beliefs to whom the actual God might be–also highlights another fundamental problem with the logic on both sides of the divide: No one can say with scientific certainty anything about the nature of God or even if there is a God because it is unknowable information. Anything religion or persons who might self-identify as “spiritual, not religious” say about God is purely human speculation. That is not to say there is no truth or even that what we say might not in fact be the case, but in order to parse out spiritual “goods” and how they inform our lives in beneficial ways, we first must all abandon the idea of certainty because of its unknowable nature.

Before I can go back to the conversation with The Bean about what the Ground Floor of a child’s person and spiritual development might look like, I need to talk about truth a bit more. In my experience, we use the word truth to mean two totally different things. In the first usage, we use it to denote fact. Example: 2 + 2 = 4. ** In truth’s second usage, we speak of things known to us as individuals. Example: Miss Audrey loves me. The second usage can be profoundly experienced by both Miss Audrey and myself. Others may witness her love for me and recognize it as such based on their own experiences with love. However, it is not a universal fact. Anyone who does not know Miss Audrey and myself takes the information that she loves me strictly on face value without any kind of core acknowledgement of its truth in both of our lives. In other words, it is strictly information unless it is anchored in a story about her love for me that somehow–again–invites them to witness her love for me and recognize it as such based on their own experiences with love. Put succinctly: Fact and truth are not the same thing, even as we use them interchangeably.

When we speak of God everything we say about God is ultimately unknowable information, up-to-and-including if there is even a God at all. The only fact we have about God is that it is unknowable to speak to one side or another. The logical conclusion of this argument is that both atheists and “believers” all fall along the same continuum of unknowable information, so none can speak factually about God or about the nature of God. All of us, ultimately, speak of our experiences with religion, faith, encounters, et al and these form our “truth” of who God is or is not. Put another way, my faith is real to me because of the truth and meaning it gives my life, but I recognize the lack of irrefutable fact. However, irrefutability does not have to mean a complete an utter abandonment of the faith stories that inform my life and call me to love in more profound and forgiving manner, but it does mean that these stories are isolated within my own life alone. (In its purest expression, faith communities would be places where similar stories create deeper human connections.)

I found flaws in The Bean’s logic about both how to approach children and why he self-identified as “atheist” (although, he did at some point acknowledge that “atheism” was not the correct way to describe his own spirituality). His abandonment of wanting to guide the spiritual space within a child spoke to me more of his own unresolved spiritual pain at the abusive hands of clergy, than it did of wanting to teach a child to be an atheist, and it negated their real spiritual needs. Now let’s be clear: This is a man who nurtures his own spirituality through intellectual pursuits and through an openness to alternative healing, meditation and a profound awe in the physical universe. His questioning forced me to think about what kind of Ground Floor of a child’s being–and my own for that matter–could be created that would be life giving for the long haul. My intellectual and spiritual goals were to characterize this Ground Floor in such a way so that there would be: 1) no empty places where fundamentalism as a spiritual demi-god could come in and take hold; 2) the child’s own spiritual sense of self could be nurtured and developed; 3) the spiritual traditions of each parent, and their combined family history, could be embraced and challenged; 4) where questions could be safely raised; and 5) where faith and spirituality were given equal voice along with the facts of science.

The Ground Floor I would nurture in a child has three main components: 1) curiosity; 2) love; and 3) integrity. Curiosity in life, in people, in discoveries, in culture, in traditions, in self, in the universe. Curiosity always allows for questions, which I believe must be the bedrock of any child’s life. Love because respect–even reverence–for the world around and in one’s being must inform decision making. Personal integrity gives legitimacy to what one says one believes because it is the action part of the equation. In other words, to love is not enough, one’s ethic of action must be aligned with one’s ethic of heart. In summary: One must actively and with curiosity engage the world. One must love the world, both human and physical. One must take action to protect and nurture the world.

This description fit for raising my own child articulates my what I now consider my own Ground Floor, none of which centers on being a Christian. My own faith journey no doubt informs these core beliefs, but I tend to feel suspicious of every doctrinal statement. I find doctrine to be even less inspired than any kind of “Holy Text,”for it is the finer point laws we impose on ourselves to separate ourselves from one another. I see Jesus as a Teacher who called Table Law not only into question, but put it under great suspicion for having nothing to do with the Spirit of God/Love and everything to do with discrimination.

What is your Ground Floor?

**I utilize an equation here deliberately. Somehow we live in an age where people say illogical things like: “I do not believe in science.” As if science is something to believe in? When we speak of scientific discoveries, we speak of facts and theories, which often can be confusing given that the language of science is math and not verbiage. I would isolate facts within science to that which is expressed mathematically, which hopefully will prove helpful to this discussion today, and as we come back to the role of science as it informs persons of faith in later posts.

I do not know that The Bean left our relationship to get back together with his ex-girlfriend, but I admit the high possibility. I am not stupid. You go to dinner with me, then out to “dessert” around 10pm with her and text me at 2:30 the next morning, and the questions will come. Even though at the time he said he did not sleep with her and their getting back together was not even discussed, I still possess great doubts. It sure would explain why he had to “extinguish [my] star from [his] sky.” If I was pushed completely out of the scene then I would not know just how low down and dirty a bastard he could be.

Us girls do like to give all the psycho-babble explanations we can find, but I realize–despite my own propensity in this direction–that ultimately the only person who really knows is The Bean. And he refuses to acknowledge that I am alive, let alone able to have a conversation with me to answer some questions. I used to feel ill just thinking of all that falls into that category of “unknown” when it comes to how he left. The questions did not just fall into neat little piles marked “What he did.” and “What I did.” No. The worst category was marked: “Am I unlovable?”

My half-sisters walked out after Daddy died. I went from having nine at the dinner table to only Miss Audrey and myself. I knew, as only a six-year-old can know, I made everyone leave. They left; The Doctor came. He came and molested me because he knew I was trash too. I possessed amazing powers to repel those who loved me and attract the one who would use and abuse me by seven. And why would they all do this? They did it because I had no value…deserved nothing…would get nothing…marked as filth so grotesque and horrible that to ruin me again and again became sport.

And then I grew up. I got a shit-load of therapy. I got as super healthy as one can get when your DNA gets fucked over every day by the ones who are supposed to love and protect you. I became the Poster Child for the sexually abused and healed, as one therapist put it. In fact, my pre-Ordination psychological testing showed just how low my suspicion factor is, which is unbelievable given a childhood of trauma, abuse and abandonment. Somehow I keep trusting and believing in love, even with all the evidence to the contrary in my life.

Don’t get me wrong here. I am far from perfect. Even with The Bean I found places where I needed to grow up so as to make myself even more healthy. I can see it though. I can see where I would get “busy” in our relationship and try to earn his care for me. I would tell him how I could see it, and try and work on it too. Old fears of abandonment creep up. I guess I just figure my best “Plan of Attack” is to try and deal with them when they do. Practicing sinking into being good enough also helps.

Relationships of the intimate variety do require me to practice. Practice trusting. Practice opening up. Practice letting go. Practice just being. Practice relaxing, for I can be so hyper-vigilant about my life. I never let myself off the hook–the old damaged goods record gets played too much–because I do not want to be seen as damaged goods, even if I am. Dont’ worry; I see ironic circular thinking on that one.

The time with The Bean felt like my reward for all shit I endured in my life. I could not believe how lucky I was to have found him. Someone finally got me! Someone finally thought it was amazing that I was smart! Someone finally understood how much pressure I put myself under and wanted to be a healing balm in my life! Someone thought it was cool and beautiful for me to be the “exception to the rule” girl! Someone dated me because I was “amazing!” (At least that is what he told me.) My relationship with The Bean empowered me and opened my heart in more ways than could be quantified. I found room after room in my soul that I thought my past had demolished. I opened up. I could not have been prouder of myself and the emotional risks I took.

Nothing in my past has kept me from risking my heart. I had been demolished in my tender underbelly before in a dating situation. When Plant Geek broke up with me he implied that any man attracted to me must have some sort of “fetish” and would have “to be into that sort of thing.” This was a direct attack on my being a size 16 and not a size 6 or less. Why do we have to resort to hitting the other’s tenderness as we leave them behind? Both Plant Geek and The Bean could have left me without leaving me to question my value or desirability, for that is what happens when you punch hard that tender underbelly. The old “you are grotesque trash” message starts playing and overwhelms my heart, mind, spirit and body…at least for a time.

When Plant Geek called into question anyone being genuinely physically attracted to me, I knew what he meant. My breasts could be higher and firmer. They are not. Shit! I make cellulite whenever I look at broccoli, so anything “fattening” dooms my thighs yet again! My belly is not flat. My hips are wide. My ass spreads. I have sensitive skin that becomes easily irritated. I look pasty without some blush. You cannot see my eyelashes very well without mascara. My chin is not as sharp as it will be when I get to my goal weight. I have psoriasis on my right sole. My nails do not grow long. I have flabby arms.

I am not perfect. I do not have the body anyone would look at and say, “Damn! She is hot!” But that does not mean I am not beautiful or fuckable. I just fall into another category…my very own with only my name on it. I am Jacqueline. Period. My smile can light up a room and calm the fears of the dying. My eyes will tell you my life story before I even open up my mouth. I love my full lips, and I bite the bottom left one when I am nervous or when I am thinking about kissing someone. I have strong lovely shoulders. My skin is soft and milky all over. An artist drew my hairline before my life began, and my hair is always soft. I smell good too. I have beautifully shaped legs. I have a really cute dimple in my ass that only gets more adorable the more squats I do! Each toe is unique at the end of my long feet. I have strong hands. I have a graceful back. I am all woman and will be a girl even when I am an old lady in my deathbed.

I also build emotional muscles daily. I am resilient. I am kind. I am sensitive. In seminary a friend talked about different people’s reputations. I was curious. What was said about me? She told me that my reputation centered on one thing only: “You are scary smart.” I loved that! I see it too, and I am no longer afraid to show off my big beautiful brain.

I forgive easily. I listen. I try. I respect. I honor the humanity and potential for beauty in those around me. I still believe in the created worth of each and every human being and believe God has a dream–an archetype perhaps–of whom we could be, if only we would choose to be that person. God knowing our capacity for greatness. I am funny. I am creative, and I am proud of the way I put things.

So then, why would The Bean treat me as if I was less than anyone he had ever known? What did I ever do to deserve that treatment?

The ex-girlfriend prior to the one at issue here slept with his best friend from High School and that guy’s wife. He still wanted to be with her and work it out after that fiasco. The ex whose call ended our relationship could easily be labeled “Dysfunction Junction” given how the “shit of her life just weighs her down” (per The Bean), but he…well, I know he wanted her back for a long time and maybe always did. The only person from these fiascoes to be given the “You Are Dead To Me” treatment was his former best friend for seducing the one girl, who was particularly vulnerable due to her own emotional shit.

So if I get this right, I am in the same category as that guy? WHAT THE FUCK?!!?

My friend Miss Douglas asked me yesterday if The Bean could have found out something about me that would have made this happen. What is there to find out? He knew most of my secrets, and the two that he did not know were not life shattering. No. This all happened for reasons only he knows, and I believe no matter what they are they all qualify for “Fucked Up In The Head” status. Paparazzo rides with him on Wednesdays, but I would never ask him. Miss Douglas asked me about that too. I will tell you what I told her: “Not only would I not want him in the middle, but I really do not want to know anymore.” She still thinks that enough time has gone by for Paparazzo to say “WTF?” to The Bean, but my fantasy of that moment would have to include a hard right uppercut as well! (Damn! That makes me laugh!)

My heart is not such a swirling mess any longer. All the “What the fuck?” questions the royal eye roll treatment now. I shake my head and embrace the not knowing and how that must be a more gentle answer. What would I do with knowing anyways? Would it put me back playing the old recordings of being unlovable again? I found a miracle when The Bean and I broke up after he told me that he did not love me and only dated me out of loneliness. I knew I was worthy of love, and all I felt was love in that place…if even for just the most critical of moments. I knew that I loved me. I knew God loved me. I knew I loved The Bean. Somehow in the worst place, I found the love I had been seeking but just not from the sources I thought would bring it.

Unexpected love in an unexpected place.

When I was eleven Miss Audrey sent me off to Theater Camp out at the Dade County Youth Fair Grounds. I played some character in Pinocchio, but I do not remember who any longer. I do remember going to the public pool for a bit each day and swimming until she came to get me after work. The diving board on the right side of the deep end and the diving platform to the left. I would go off the diving board again and again. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Jump. 1…2…3…splash! I wanted to go off the platform so badly, but I was scared. I climbed up, teeth chattering, palms sweating. I stood at the end of the platform breathing deeply. Then pinching my nose before jumping off, I went for it! 1…2…3…?????Where is the splash????Oh my god, is there water???Am I going to die???HELP!!!HELP ME!!!!!!!!!S!P!L!A!S!H!

I find myself on the High Dive again. I keep putting myself out “there.” I find the corners where the pain The Bean caused makes me hesitant to not only date again but invest again. After Plant Geek, I wanted to get other opinions of the person I dated. I dragged The Bean in front of friends and family time and again. The resounding affirmation was: “He is a keeper.” We were all deceived? Probably not, but none of us saw his underbelly for not only what it was, but also what it was capable of doing either. So much not knowing, even as I try to keep the tangled mess of questions about the past in the past.

What I do know is I feel the corners where I still need to heal when one guy tells me that I am “very very beautiful” because I feel skeptical of his intentions. When I think another guy is terribly smart and interesting, I fear it a bit. When I want to kiss someone in particular, I talk myself out of it…for now…because what if I get rejected? I find myself scared shitless! But one of these days…well, I will jump off knowing that the splash may take a bit more time, but once I hit the water I am golden because I am a really strong swimmer. Not to mention, I love the water!

But until I take the leap, I will stand on the High Dive with my heart racing, my palms sweating, and my teeth chattering. And there will still be that corner of my heart that is suspicious that I am in fact unlovable…because no matter how much this Poster Child heals, the old questions journey with me. I just keep trying to find ways to love with them, instead of thinking I can get rid of them all together.

Recently Whole Foods saw me coming in the door, and they laid out the one snack item I cannot refuse trying: popcorn. As a child, my Mother told me that she had been voted the Best Popcorn Popper on our whole block. I asked her how they voted, enraptured by her status as a premier popcorn popper. She had a special method using a paper plate in the pan to let the popcorn pop up without leaving the pan, or having the lid trap the steam and make it soggy. In 1975, we did not have an air-popper or buy the Jiffy foil bag popcorn either. She made it from “scratch” with real butter and salt. She would turn the pan into a big paper bag, pour in the butter and sprinkle in the salt. Sometimes she would add Parmesan cheese, but for the most part butter and salt ruled her popcorn.

I learned the important lesson about not pitting one parent against the other over popcorn. My family would watch a movie on TV on a weekend night, with Mother popping us up a big bag of popcorn that was placed into Tupperware bowls. I always was given the smaller green bowl, and on this night I just had not had enough popcorn. I trotted into the kitchen to ask for more, but Mother told me that I had eaten enough as far as she was concerned. So, I trotted back to Daddy in the living room asking him if he wanted any more popcorn, which of course he did. Back to Mother with the news that Daddy wanted more popcorn, but she was onto me. She called out and asked him if he was asking for himself or for me. Needless to say, I never asked one and then the other after that!

Popcorn was such a fixture in our home that both of my Daddy’s beloved boats were named after it! Popcorn I and Popcorn II. Really! I tell you no lie! So when I went into Whole Foods and saw the display of Kettle Corn, I just had to reach in for a handful. I can still remember the first time I had Kettle Corn; I was at the North Carolina State Fair. The Kiwanis Club or Jaycee’s sold it warm out of their big iron pot. The amazing rapture of the light white popcorn, with the hint of salt and sugar. De-lish!

Jill Connor Browne, in her book The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love, highlights the importance of eating that which is truly salty with that which is utterly sweet. In fact, when Jill writes down for us the four major food groups–salty, sweet, fried and au gratin–she highlights their importance as foundational to our very well-being! She writes:

“The queens have found what we think is a very effective eating pattern. Sweet and salty. For us this combination works equally well whether we’re eating simply for recreation or if we’re engaged in your true therapeutic wolfing…the concept is that when you’ve sufficiently met your body and soul’s requirement for sweet foods, your salty needs are practically screaming for attention.*

Now if you do not have time for cheese fries with your brownies–the perfect Salty Sweet meal for a girl given that it covers not only the four major food groups–salty, sweet, fried and au gratin–but also the bedrock of any meal–CHOCOLATE–then Kettle Corn is the perfect addictive little corner of Salty Sweet heaven to satisfy both needs in one delicious handful! And the Kettle Corn at the North Carolina State Fair comes highly recommended by me, but you can buy your favourite brand at the store–the one at Whole Foods is now my drug of choice-to munch away your blues or celebrate your latest accomplishment, like remembering to buy the Clorox toilet bowl drops so you never have to scrub the darn thing. Truly, Salty Sweet works for any occasion!

I think we love the balance of the salty with the sweet because we need both in our lives. Life is not just a cup full of joy or a cup full of tears; life is both. All at once. All at the same time. I thought about this last week as my Social Worker on our team read my devotion for last week about our child who had died. Such a large cup full of tears, I needed her to read it so that I could pour some of mine out. At the same Team Meeting, one of my nurses brought the most beautiful pictures of her brand-spankin’ new granddaughter. One new life celebrated, while another life ended is mourned.

I welcome the darkness in my life for the contrast it brings to the joy. Would I notice one without the other? At the Passover Seder, this concept is understood. Bitter herbs, salty water, sweet charoset…all to remind those celebrating the meal of their history as slaves delivered into the Promised Land of milk and honey. By tasting that which is bitter, by dipping the vegetable into the salt water and tasting the tears of the ancestors, the sweetness of life now becomes more full on the palate.

Don’t get me wrong…I still weep and grieve about all the really hard and painful places I find myself in, not to mention the bitching and moaning sometimes just because I can. I also will pick up the phone and call Paparazzo to tell him to look at the amazing moon. I want to keep my eyes and heart open to see all that life has to offer me, and I know that when I focus only on one, the other loses its potency. So I dance between the ebb and flow and know with change as my constant friend, my tears will turn to joy and my joy to tears given enough time.

*The Sweet Potato Queens’ Book of Love by Jill Conner Browne. Three Rivers Press: 1999: pp 171-172.

I stood outside of my first apartment in Durham, North Carolina a few weeks into 2000 talking to Ms. Audrey and walking Gretchie. I asked my Mom, “What is it called when it is raining cats and dogs, but it is snowing?”

“It is called a blizzard,” she informed me.

“No. No. They are only calling for another three to five inches to the two we have on the ground.”

I awoke to 24 inches the next morning, in non-prepared mid-South! I can still remember walking Gretchen the next morning and she was buried up to her neck in pure white snow under a blazing blue sky. We were officially buried in, and would not get out for days. A lone voice above us called out, “That is too funny! Ginger is buried in the snow!”

The voice belonged to an upstairs neighbour, with whom I had a mutual friend but did not know very well. That was about to change forever, because from that moment on Handy became one of my best friends in the whole world. She saw my Inner Sex Goddess way before I ever did, she made me laugh like no one else, taught me to drink Margaritas, and got me into more trouble than I feel comfortable sharing–even now!

We both grew up in South Florida, and found all sorts of connections even though Ft. Lauderdale and Miami really are worlds apart. (Something I really appreciate now that I live in Broward.) We found connections in our common struggle to deal with our hearts and not satisfy our needs with food. We found a fellow sojourner in the delicate dance of life. We found understanding and a bit of boot-to-ass-kicking as well. We ate at Chuck E. Cheese and shopped at the sex store! Soul mates of a sort.

The years have pulled us up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Our friendship has ebbed and flowed like the tides, but our love and belief in the other remains steady regardless. The silver chord of love binds us throughout all these changes, even when it has not been easy…even when one or both of us wondered if it would break.

We have never been mean to one another. We just retreat back into our own worlds, busyness, and pain sometimes. You can call me and get the low-down in the conversation. Handy always puts a happy face on things unless you are in front of her and she dishes it out. She needs a warm up, and I need the cool down. When we lived in the same place, the rituals of friendship came easily. When we live apart, I never really know how to reach past the miles and get her to open up unless she needs to really talk to me. I feel bad when I talk and she does not. I love there to be balance in my relationships…ebb and flow of the energy.

But she can call me any time. One word and I am there, and I know that she would do the same for me. The word came the week before last and it said it all, “tumor.” They found a lump in her breast. An operation, a biopsy, a week, and she has breast cancer. Stage One. They caught it early. Best possible kind, if you must get it at all.

Fuck that noise! My dear friend has breast cancer. I hurt in my body for her. My aunt has cancer Handy has cancer, who else? Am I next? It could happen to me too. They buried the six year old from it. The poison is everywhere. None of us are immune, and yet I am not afraid.

I know what will come, will come. I will not hasten it, nor will I pretend that it cannot happen to me. I will savour my life and my relationships. I will strengthen the silver chord of friendship as I can, so that it might bind me to those I love, and them to me, so that when life pulls on it those I love will know I am only a phone call away.

Handy is a part of “Back of the Pack Walkers,” a group whom raises money for Avon’s Breast Cancer Walks. She joined this group long before she found out that she had cancer. If you would like to donate to them click here.

My team took care of a six year-old with terminal cancer until a week ago. The child died. We knew this would come, but until the death we could pretend death would bypass this family in that corner of our hearts where the unbelievable meets pleading to Someone somewhere to make it go away.

This child was (yes, the word now is “was”) so beautiful and precocious. One set of grandparents already gone, the child wrote a letter last year to them saying how much they were looking forward to meeting them in heaven long before anyone knew what was growing deep inside. I find such comfort in that letter–I pray the family does as well–and have a vision of the child being welcomed into Love’s embrace with the longed for grandparents waiting to take this child by the hand.

I cried when I heard last Wednesday of the child’s death. The death felt sudden somehow. I saw the look of shock, grief, dismay, concern, pain and resolute understanding on the faces of my team. This is not to say we did not believe the child did not have terminal cancer. We did. This is not to say we believed the child would be given a miracle. We did not. We are just human beings who despise seeing children die, and still just do not want it to be the case. We are also human beings who know that children do die, for we have been in this place before.

As many times as I have been there, I do not like going back. Inconsolable. Yes, that is the best word to describe the terrible pain. I feel it in my gut as a caregiver. What can I say? What can I do? I can only be. I can only love. I can only care. I can only remember.

When I was a Chaplain in North Carolina, I saw so many children die I lost count of their faces. Some still come back to me–even now as I write this–and I pray for their parents and loved ones who continue on without seeing them grow up. I count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years they were with us and name it “blessing” even as their deaths continue to be “loss.”

Let me call out those I do remember:

• The baby in the bucket.
• The baby who waited two weeks for her Father to be found in Afghanistan and brought home before she died.
• The teens–two from one family, one from their best friends’ family–who died in that wreck.
• The boy who got drunk to celebrate getting out of rehab and getting a new car. Your father taught me an important lesson about hope in the face of destruction: We pray for a miracle because it is all we have, even as we are so angry with God (or at least our view of a God in control of every aspect of our lives) for not stopping the terrible thing from happening.
• The twins of the one I cared about. May your adopted child continue to bring you blessings and the trees flourish in their honor.
• The baby with the perfect old lady hands.
• The little boy who I prayed over in the operating room.
• The teen with Cystic Fibrosis.
• The girl whose mother was an inmate.
• The girl whose mother donated her organs after she was stuck down at the bus-stop.
• The boy whose parents just could not donate; they were too grief stricken.
• The girl whose body was in limbo as her brain held onto only the tiniest expressions of life.
• The baby the mother beat.
• The children set on fire by their mother’s boyfriend.
• The children tossed from the van on the family trip from Virginia.
• The children tossed from the van on the way home from church.
• The baby my flight crew brought in and just melted when he died.
• The baby killed by her father.
• The boy who knew he was dying for so long, but his parents never wanted to talk about it.
• The baby with no arms or legs. I will never forget escorting your wailing family out of the NICU.
• The baby I bathed before putting in the box to be buried at home given how poor your Mama was.
• The ones I have forgotten, may God remember for me.
• The child who died a little past midnight on my Team, Wednesday, March 21, 2007.

Sweet Honey In the Rock sings “We Are” on their Sacred Journeys CD. Here are the words in honor of all the children I tended and their loved ones, and for all who have lost a child and all the dreams that go with them into Love’s tender embrace:

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises
and sings to the universe
who we are

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
We are our grandfathers’ dreamings
We are the breath of the ancestors
We are the spirit of God

We are
Mothers of courage
Father of time
Daughters of dust
the sons of great visions
Sisters of mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life
Builders of nations
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace
Wisdom of ages

We are one.

Recently I started putting more of my CDs into my iTunes…to the point I will need to buy even more memory for my Mac sooner than later! As I unpacked all my Chicago Boxes I found old friends buried in the midst of discs now labeled “What the Hell Was I Thinking When I Bought That?!” Did I really need One Bad Pig just because they had a cool Johnny Cash cover? I think not. So as each CD loads into my computer I journey back to when I fell in-love with a particular song.

I hear Alanis Morrisette on Under Rug Swept as I drive through the mountain pass between Asheville and Knoxville on my way to Tammy Wayne’s in Nashville. I listened to “You Owe Me Nothing In Return” about 100 times on that trip. I kept thinking about how much Miss Audrey loves me like this and how I hoped to find someone to love this way one day…not to mention being loved this way by him.

I’ll give you countless amounts of outright acceptance if you want it
I will give you encouragement to choose the path that you want if you need it
You can speak of anger and doubts your fears and freak outs and I’ll hold it
You can share your so-called shame filled accounts of times in your life and I won’t judge it
(and there are no strings attached to it)

You owe me nothing for giving the love that I give
You owe me nothing for caring the way that I have
I give you thanks for receiving it’s my privilege
And you owe me nothing in return

One of my favourite first lines to a song comes from Hal Ketchum’s “You Lovin’ Me.”

You said, “Someday I’m gonna break your heart”
the first time that we met
Were you warnin’ me, just seein’ how close I’d get

I wonder sometimes if these words describe me…do I play games to see how close men can get? I think I want to, but my longing for love is so great that I give into the closeness of having someone beside me, and then I am left stunned when they are no longer there. I lose my own compass somehow. In my relationship with The Bean, I would hear these words in my head from him sometimes. He just had so many walls around his heart…so many places where forgiveness had not yet healed, but pain had festered. The last time I thought about these words came one night–just two weeks before we split–where we lay in his bed talking until almost 5 in the morning. He let me into these places of pain…that is all I can say about it…I still protect him… So, I thought of these words and that they no longer applied. I was wrong.

Then I found my cds by The Choir. Damn! How I love their music. I saw them play a couple of times in college. Those boys were coooool. Of course, I am sure they now have mortgages, kids out the wazoo, and minivans, but back in the day they were the hippest of the new emerging Alternative Christian Rock bands to come along. God this line is so f-ing catchy:

Tie your shoelaces to my shoelaces
I’ll tie a rope to a tree
See how the wind whips happy fool faces
come blow away with me

I always loved Over the Rhine’s “Like a Radio.” The song haunted me about love, desire and also put in my mind a thought about how we treat our things better than people.

I’ve walked the streets to your door
To find just what’s in store
I see you
You and many others
In your clean well-lighted place
Where I would find disgrace
But I do
Know I’d find contentment
Just to be your furniture
I need nothing more
In the thick of the night
Take me out of the cold
Let me sing inside
Like a radio

Then there is Suzy Bogguss’s “Diamonds and Tears.” I think this could be my theme song right now:

Spent my life looking for
Happiness like it was buried treasure
Somewhere behind the secret door
Surely there were riches beyond measure

I would take my sanity to task
Walk across broken glass to find it
And no mountain top was left unclimbed
Before I ever took the time to look inside me

These dreams of mine, these precious years
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears
The slow grace of time, the joy and the fears
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears

Oh sure, there was love
And of course I thought it’d be my salvation
And in a way, I guess he was
There’s always room for higher education

Yes, I have said and heard the word goodbye
Felt the blade and turned the knife sideways
But I’d crossed bridges while they’d burn
To keep from losing what I’ve learned along the way

These dreams of mine, these precious years
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears
The slow grace of time, the joy and the fears
Oh how they shine like diamonds and tears

Lastly, I found my Sweet Honey in the Rock CD with “We Are” on it. I wrote a prayer based on this song in Seminary. You just have to listen to it…

For each child that’s born,
a morning star rises
and sings to the universe
who we are

We are our grandmothers’ prayers
We are our grandfathers’ dreamings
We are the breath of the ancestors
We are the spirit of God

We are
Mothers of courage
Father of time
Daughters of dust
the sons of great visions
Sisters of mercy
Brothers of love
Lovers of life
Builders of nations
Seekers of truth
Keepers of faith
Makers of peace
Wisdom of ages

We are one.

I watched the news this week of Elisabeth Edwards’ cancer metastasizing to her bones and was shocked by how no one said the word “terminal” at any point. “Treatable, not curable.” Does that mean Elisabeth Edwards will die from cancer? Yes, mostly likely she will. I would call that terminal, even if she will live longer than six months, which is the gold standard for coming on Hospice.

But we hate that word–terminal–and what it means. Terminal grounds us in there being no more extraordinary curative measures that will stop a disease process all together. Terminal means that eventually the inevitable will happen. Terminal means that we might prolong this inevitable course, but there will come a point where we will only offer comfort–spiritual, emotional and physical–and nothing else as you die. Terminal means death is on its way.

The New York Times had an interview with her where she said the following:.

When asked about the suggestion some have made that the continuing campaign is an act of supreme denial about her cancer, Mrs. Edwards looked momentarily struck. Then, with her husband looking on somewhat tensely, she hurled back: “Absolutely! I am not giving it anything. If it expects to be the boss of me it’s gonna have to earn that.”

She added, “I am denying it control over how I spend the rest of my life.”

“We made the choice to live,” Mrs. Edwards said. “We don’t want to do it surrounded by a veil of tears.”

Such interesting words, “I am denying it control over how I spend the rest of my life.” Is that possible? The answer simply is “no.”

Even now, on a daily basis she must contend with the cancer. Pain, fatigue, life-extending treatments, and that nagging guttural fear knowing it is eating her alive. The circle of loss will be with her daily. She will look at her children and count the seconds. She looks at her husband and wants so much for his future–the Presidency, no less–and knows that her body has the capacity to destroy both of their dreams. She looks at her lifetime love and knows she will bring him unspeakable pain because she will leave him. Leave him to mourn their parental loss of their eldest son Wade alone. Leave him to be both mother and father to their other three children. Leave him to face his political destiny without her, something he has never had to face before.

I do not think denial is possible in this place. Terminal can be called incurable, but its truth looms nonetheless. Death can escape the verbiage but not the heart of the matter. So why deny cancer its due? Because cancer, even terminal cancer, does not mean you have to give up living in the other places it is not encroaching. I completely understand.

One thing working with the so-called “dying” has taught me is that there is no such thing as “dying.” There is only life, life, life, life and then death. Despite all the ways in which we make that spiritual transition–for even my atheist patients journey in their mind’s farthest corners prior to death to search and heal and say goodbye–death is in a moment. Life is all those other moments leading up to it. I understand the heart of what Mrs. Edwards desires. She desires to focus on her life–and all that it contains, including this cancer–instead of just focusing her attention on death’s door.

I do not know why we die when we die, and I say this as someone who has been with others as they die hundreds of times. I do know we only have once chance at living though, so for whatever time we have embracing that life, life, life is the very best and most we can hope for. To do anything else would be denial of our fundamental purpose on this planet…to live and to live and love well.

I am so tired. Never having had a young puppy before, not to mention a job and being an old lady celebrating anniversaries of her 28th birthday since last century, I had no idea! I behold the sunrise every morning, every day. In fact, more sunrises graced my mornings this last month than all of the months of my life prior. Often, I get to see the morning sky without the sunrise–we are up just that early! I get up and pee–Mama’s first around here–and then fetch the pup crying, “I gotta go. I gotta go. I gotta go. Mommmmmieeeeee. I gotta go. I gotta go. I gotta go.” Of course the fact that she really would rather not go outside due to being afraid of it does make this a bit tough, but out we go. First time we pee and poop. Times two though five we go to pee again, otherwise I am on my hands and knees cleaning up the floor. I hate cleaning up the floor, and not just for the obvious reason. My puppy is addicted to the cleaning spray and would prefer I just squirt it into her mouth. I think she has the Alcoholism gene because she also really loves it when I take off nail polish, so I figure the lure of these things is all about the alcohol. Not only does the pooch love the hooch (ha!) but she also loves cayenne pepper. I found this out when I sprinkled it on the wood of the sofa she thinks would be fun to teethe on, and instead of her crying and backing away, she licked it up. Thankfully, I also know now that she hates mint. Needless to say, my house is minty fresh these days.

You may be asking yourself why in the world I would put myself through all of this torture. Trust me! At five in the morning, I too am asking myself what the heck I got myself into. Then I see her cute little panda marked body bouncing around and melt. She really is a love, and she is putting a lot of F.U.N. back into my life. I needed the fun and her as my teacher. I can be sooo serious sometimes. Plus, knowing she was coming into my life really helped me to start planning for my future and stop looking back over my shoulder at the painful past with The Bean.

Those early morning wake-up calls ground my whole day towards taking care of her, and in so doing I also take care of my own soul. As we played catch this morning at eight, instead of our usual 6-6:30 stint. What a God-send she woke up at 7:30, with a tiny bit of encouragement at 5:30, 6:15 and 6:45, given that I was on-call last night and went to a death until almost 3 am! So in my sleepy haze tossing her ball down the hall and praying to not hit the china cupboard, I started to think about what I am learning from little Emma. Here are my musings:

• The adage “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” is really smart. When she nips at me, I wish the wrath of the puppy gods upon her cute little deranged head with the sharp needles for teeth! We can all nip at our bosses about this and that–my favourite nips center on the antiquated systems that make everything take forever to do, coupled with “productivity” requirements (Yes, even Chaplains have quotas!)–not always taking to heart that if they had a magic wand they too would fix the DOS system that makes their life a living hell as well.
• Toys are fun, but even more fun when you play with someone else. Emma never steals things that are not hers unless I am ignoring her. She demands attention, that is for sure, but she also has a lot more fun when we play together. Take me: I always went to the movies by myself over the years. Even when I was in High School! But now I really just like going with a friend, especially Paparazzo. So much more fun to talk about it with someone and share the experience. This holds true for me and bike riding as well. I go further, have a better workout and enjoy myself more. I guess I am not as much of a loner as I embraced at an earlier time.
• A good day includes eating both your meals and some yummy treats, pooping and peeing, walking around outside, being curious, playing with friends, and loving on those around you, so do not worry too much about all the other complicated stuff. Granted, Emma is cared for because I get up and go to work, etc. She has an easy life, which I lecture her on when she is a pain in the rear-end. But she also shows me that keeping things more simple can lead to a really amazing walk on a cool evening or some precious cuddle time with a wiggly puppy in my lap. The Internet or TV are never as wonderful.
• Kiss, kiss, kiss is always better than nip, nip, nip. In our world, Emma kissing me is always better than when she is a mouthy puppy. The Bible puts it this way,”A kind word turns away anger.”
• Jump into the arms of the one you love. My heart fills up with sheer glee when I see her bounding towards me, leaping into my lap and arms, and snuggling in to get close. So often we see those who matter the most to us and say, “Hey.” That is it!???! How much better to just fling our arms around them, hug them tight, and say, “I am so much more happy now that I see your beautiful face. I love you.”
• Naps are good. This one is self-explanatory, and causes a great deal of jealousy around my house. I put her down for a nap and sulk away from her crate. Pitiful!
• Napping with another warm body beside you, even better. I need to work on this in my personal life as well as my puppy life! She prefers napping in her bed than in mine. Plus, if she is in my bed, she insists on checking my head for fleas. “Mommie is not a puppy,” gets said around here quite a bit. Mommie also knows that just any warm body will not do in her bed. Only one encasing the heart of a man who really loves me for who I am will do at this point. I am glad I get that now.
• Accidents happen. I keep thinking of that old Bissel ad that said, “Life is messy; clean it up.” Shit happens; we all do it! I try to focus on cleaning things up and moving on with life over getting all upset that it happened in the first place.
• Forgive. Forgive. Forgive. She is growing up and has to learn the rules, test the rules, and grow into accepting the rules. I try to be as consistent as possible, and fair. Sometimes I just mess up on the Mommie end, and often she messes up on the baby end. I must forgive her in order to wipe my heart clean of my anger at the “mistakes” and to be open to loving her fully again, so I might train her to be the dog I want her to be. I also have to forgive myself for not always doing the right thing or for getting overwhelmed, etc. A girl has to work, ya know? Grace has to be the cornerstone of all of my relationships–even the one I have with myself–in order for them to grow and flourish. Forgiving the nicks along the way means that I understand pruning as being a part of life.

Emma and I are both growing up around here, and I am honest with myself about that.

In honor of this being “Social Workers Week” or something like that, I want to honor the Social Workers I know and love:

First let me honor the LCSW in North Carolina that I started seeing just before my thirtieth birthday. I began working at UNC Hospitals doing paid on-calls, and I felt I needed someone to help me process my work. I also wanted to look at why I pushed sex away and the boys it comes with.  I can see myself clearly at that time, so confident in my inner strength and so fragile when it came to my outer self.  I wore my shirts buttoned all the way up, save the top button.  (A big change from college 10 years before when the top button would have also been snagged.)  Hair done, make-up in place, but always on the outside shielded by body fat and clothes.  They did not, however, protect my core from longing.

I remember sitting there in her office listening to her ask me why I had come to see her, taking a big gulp of air and blurting out, “I am about to be a thirty year-old virgin, and I do not want to stay that way forever!” She really helped me to process how I thought of my body, how I saw myself as a whole person, and to embrace the sexual woman within. I asked myself some rather hard questions with her, and she supported me in finding answers from within my own ethic and sense of my spiritual commitments. With her help, I embraced my abilities as a chaplain, my femininity, my desires for my life, and my dreams for my future.  I also had sex for the first time and began a really important walk out of the walls surrounding me and towards my own inner vision of myself in the world.  Finally, outside and inside began to merge.

Then there is my friend Darling.  She works in a similar setting to my own now, but she has also been around the Social Worker block helping troubled kids and families. What an amazing woman she is! She lives for the thrill of working hard to help people. God forbid she get bored on the job–or in life for that matter!  That woman loves the go-go-go pace and has the heart to keep at it. She gets it, and not just about those she helps (including her friends) but also her clients. I trust her radar, even if she did think that The Bean would be back. Everybody is wrong sometimes…I won’t hold it against her! Mostly, what I love about her is that she knows herself and her own places of weakness, pain, growth and strength. She can articulate the ways she has had to grow up, and she never puts you down for needing to grow up too. She will kick your sorry rump if need be, but not so much that you doubt yourself or her friendship.  If I need a practical and hilarious take on my life, I turn to Darling.  I call her my “Relationship Sponsor,” from my fictional group Relationships Anonymous.  She really needs to start this up for real because we are all so screwed up in the head about relationships it seems.

Lastly, I want to honor my Team Social Worker. She too just gets it…I think it is a requirement for Social Workers! She sees that there are those we can really help and is not afraid to step into the fray and do what needs to be done. She is practical and diplomatic. She can roll her eyes with the best of them. She is dedicated and works very hard. She will move her schedule around to help get things facilitated and will stand up to a family or patient in such a way that they might even from time to time thank her. She is smart and kind, which is sometimes a hard balance to keep. She really cares about the staff on our team, and I know that love and care is something one cannot buy with a paycheck.  I know how blessed I am to have her to be both a colleague and a mentor.

Mostly, these woman demonstrate something really important to all of us…they deeply understand and live by the knowledge that life is a process. There are no quick fixes, cause if there were they would be using them to make their tough jobs easier! No. They willingly walk beside people with both practical and emotional problems and provide comfort to them as the pain of the process unfolds. Change is terribly hard. Transformation from worm to butterfly requires shedding all that was past in order to unfurl into what is possible. These three women never look at anyone in the pain of the cocoon of change and judge that or demean that process.

So here is to them and to all of the other Social Workers out there leaning over our cocoons and whispering into our ears and hearts, “Change little butterfly, change.”  I honor you.

My Aunt who has lung cancer and COPD moved to Miami last week. First of all, lung cancer and COPD basically mean that she is not only screwed when it comes to her breathing, but she is messed up every which way. A MRI of her brain this week will tell us just how far the cancer spread in its attack on her body, but we already know one of her lymph nodes has ballooned. Time. We just do not know how much time she has left, but we can all feel the breath being choked out of what little time we were counting on when we knew she had the COPD but not the cancer.

Secondly, this whole situation is fucked because she SWORE, circa 1975, that she would never never never ever ever ever live in Miami again. She moved to Ocala leaving the corporate world of Esso behind and worked with horses or on horse farms for the majority of the last thirty years. She also lived in a trailer in the stix and mostly as a private person with little contact beyond her job and family…well, sisters. Until this last weekend, I had not seen her since Christmas 1997. I remember our last meeting very well because of the momentous occasion of beating her for the one and only time at Super Boggle! But I digress. My point is that she has hid away from friends and countrymen for the last thirty years, and she now lives back in the one place she swore she would never set foot in, let alone live.

Last fall she called my aunt who lives here in Miami asking to move in with her due to realizing she could no longer take care of herself. She could hardly breathe just trying to go to the grocery store. Another aunt turned her down–I do not think she realized how serious the situation had become–and out of total desperation called the Miami aunt. At the time I pointed out to Ms. Audrey that I thought she probably could not take care of herself for awhile, given how notoriously stubborn the woman prides herself in being. What it must have taken to make that phone call? She had to admit weakness, need and ask to move in with someone who would have to take responsibility to care for her. She also had to admit to herself that her needs evolved to such a desperate state that living in Miami became the least of her worries.

So this is the woman whom I greeted on Saturday. Let me tell you, she looked like shit. Old. Wrinkled. Pushing a wheelchair with her dried laundry and oxygen tank. Her pulse-ox (O2 level) was 77, aka “Totally Fucked!” even on 100% oxygen. She looked miffed to find my surpise arrival, although I did call my other aunt before stopping by, with puppy in tow as well. I could see my grandmother in her and my eldest aunt. Her colour pale, her lips pursed…I took a deep breath. I told her that I was sad to hear the news about the cancer. Her reply? “You play, you pay.”

I cannot seem to get those words out of my head. “You play, you pay.” She was “playing” all these years of being a heavy smoker? I do not doubt that occasions of mirth existed where she lit up, but I would not be out of line to say that she mostly lit up out of anger, frustration, loneliness, being pissed, bored and full of addictive habit. I remember all of the Christmases where she would storm out angry at some infraction by one of us. There were family gatherings she never came to, and momentous occasions she never phoned or wrote or acknowledged. My first memory of her is out on one of those horse farms, and her telling me to not call her “Aunt” because she was nobody’s aunt. Where was the “play” in her distance, both physical and emotional all these years?

I hope I can take her by the hand and say to her how I feel about this bullshit statement. She is just so damn angry about the cancer and her impending death, but then again, she has always been angry. My work teaches me again and again how most of us die as we lived. Death and life mirror one another. In other words, once a pain in the ass, always a pain in the ass. I want her to know how I continue to think of her not as simply my mother’s sister, but that she is my aunt. I take with me in my heart her quick wit, love of games, staunch loyalty, and fierce independence. I want to tell her that I do not care that she smoked, no one “deserves” to die with their very breath being choked out of them. I want to tell her I understand that all those years of smoking got her through and helped her survive. I want to tell her I believe it totally sucks that the one thing that helped her survive this world, which can be so rotten some times, will kill her in the end. I want her to know how we all have survival methods that kill us in some way or another. As Katherine Hepburn said, “Life is hard, afterall it kills you.” I want to buy her the best damn cigarettes and let her light up as much as she wants until she cannot any longer. What will it hurt now?

Mostly, I dream of her forgiving herself and her family for just being human beings. I want my Mother and her other sisters to forgive her for smoking and offer her compassion. Maybe then we can really say, “I love you,” and she can breathe it deeply into her soul and be comforted.

This time last year I tried to be friends with Plant Geek, took my psychological testing to be Ordained (fooled them!), and had two weeks left to finish my Ordination Papers, plus working full-time as a personal assistant to Realtors and regular life shit. I lived with the Parental Elements in Hell, aka Homestead…the bottom of the world as far as I am concerned, my dog had died. Since then I have moved past Plant Geek, fallen profoundly in love with The Bean, gone through the break-up with The Bean, and been on two dates with Woody Woodpecker (god bless his heart). My friendships with Paparazzo, Harlot, Paulina Ballerina, and Darling deepened. I moved three times, if you count that in the last week I moved from North Lauderdale to Margate on Saturday and my belongings moved down from Chicago on Tuesday. The fact that I m.a.d.e. Paparazzo help me with the two local moves, exactly six months apart, proves what an amazing friend I have in him and that nothing short of serving up a wonderful, fun, laid-back, game, smart brown eyed vixen will do as repayment! (Please email me if you fit the bill.)

I also started a new job where my clients die (imagine that), the paperwork is crazy, and the computer system Vintage Microsoft from the days of Bill Gates programming in a garage. I always feel like I am going in the wrong direction, and the bereavement aspect frustrates me on too many levels to mention. Add to this mix that on the job I declare people dead–fortunately they usually have been for at least an hour, which is a big fat “phew!” when going in towards Grandma to check for her vital signs–have been shot at by kids with bee-bee gun (nearly pooped myself with that one), and had to stand firm with a daughter who wanted to have a throw down over the narcotics she was sure her Daddy would want her to have as a parting gift. Thankfully, I love the Team I am on and almost all of my patients and families. Almost!

So, here one year later I am a Real Live Reverend, back in my own home, and trying to survive housebreaking with Emma…a noble task given that she likes to sit and lie down on the grass, but not much else. I painted some of the walls here and cried like a baby thinking of The Bean talking to me before about how he could not wait til I got back into my own home because he would help me paint it to match my soul. I cried too the night I brought Emma home because she is so beautiful and amazing and fills my broken heart with so much love the cracks do not seem so big anymore.

I look back over this last beautiful year so full of change, love, hope, loss, fear, friendship, challenge, heartbreak and opportunity and think, “This is a real life you have here Jacqueline.” Don’t we all. I love the title from one of Maya Angelou’s books: Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now. I feel this way about this last year. I would not trade one single precious moment if it meant missing out on the heart break, even if I could go back to this time last year.

The following is a true story told to me by a live-in health-care aide at one of my patient’s homes. “Mary” worked in a large nursing home before starting to work privately, which is the setting for this story. I regret I cannot write in such a way that you could hear the melodic Haitian lilt to her voice. You will just have to use your imagination.

Let me tell it to you as she told it to me:

“Once when I worked in the home, every day they give to me 10-13 patients to clean, help use the bathroom or bedpan, bathe, feed…all the help they needed for daily living. One woman on my floor had THE worst reputation! She had no legs and only one arm left cause the diabetes get to her so very bad. I hurt to look at her, but she was not nice. She was mean. I tell you, she was mean.  Always yelling and cursing at everybody.  People would saw terrible things behind her back about what a horrible person she was.

One day another aide went to bathe her, and she had the most terrible bed sores you ever saw. She messed herself, so the aide had to clean her. Given how ugly she was, always yelling and talking down to people there to care for her, the aide was not gentle when she bathed her. She used a washcloth and scrubbed her clean until her backside was not just raw, but also bleeding. I guess she thought she would teach her a lesson

The next day, they give her to me. I go to her and ask her if she was ready for me to clean her up. I could smell that she had messed herself again. She told me, “Get out of here! Leave me alone! Go away!”

I say to her, “But you are dirty; you need to be clean. Won’t you feel better when I clean you?”

She tells me to go to hell and to leave her alone.

A little while later I go again. “Don’t you want me to clean you? I will make it so you smell nice and feel good.”

She starts yelling at me, “Why don’t you just leave me here and let me die? Go away. I do not want you or anyone else to come near me or to touch me. Get it?!!”

I say to her, “But you will feel better. Please let me clean you.”

She only glared at me, so I left her again. I tend to my other patients and when they are all done, I go back again. Three times Chaplain! Three times I go to that woman, but I just cannot go home knowing that she is lying there in her filth.

I go in again and say, “Please let me help you.”

She looked like she would explode and tells me that she will call my supervisor if I do not leave her alone. She will have me fired!  I tell her to call. I just do not want to leave her like that all the time. I am a good person and just can’t go home and leave her in her own mess.

Somehow she softens a bit and tells me that she was rubbed too hard by the girl the day before and that her backside is raw and bleeding. This is why she does not want anyone to rub her or touch her or bathe her. She would rather sit in her filth and die than have that much pain again.

I say to her, “I will be gentle. I will not use the wash clothes but the wipes. I will get you clean and put lotion on your sores to heal them.”

She say to me, “You promise that you will not hurt me.”  She was almost crying at this point.  So, I promised her that I would be very careful.

So I wash her very gently. I clean all of the mess away. She never cried out, not even once. I rubbed the lotion to help soothe her skin. She smelled so good when I was done with her!

She then says to me, “Only you…I only want you to give me my bath from now on. I will tell them what a good job you did. You were so kind and gentle. It never even hurt.”

The Christian Scriptures teach us that when we care for the least among us, it is as if we were doing it to Jesus or the Holy One.

This is dedicated to my aides: C, P, E, M, F, & L.

The following is a sermon I preached at my home church in October of 2006. Let me begin by giving you the two scripture lessons from the Lectionary for that Sunday:

THE HEBREW SCRIPTURE WITNESS:

Job 23:1-9, 16-17

Then Job answered: “Today also my complaint is bitter; his hand is heavy despite my groaning. Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his dwelling! I would lay my case before him, and fill my mouth with arguments. I would learn what he would answer me, and understand what he would say to me. Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power? No; but he would give heed to me. There an upright person could reason with him, and I should be acquitted forever by my judge. “If I go forward, he is not there; or backward, I cannot perceive him; on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him; I turn to the right, but I cannot see him. God has made my heart faint; the Almighty has terrified me; If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!

THE CHRISTIAN SCRIPTURE WITNESS

Hebrews 4:12-16

Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account. Since, then, we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast to our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

Sermon:

Seeds of Life

Cold was the night, hard was the ground
They found her in a small grove of trees
Lonesome was the place where Georgia was found
She’s too young to be out
On the street.
Why wasn’t God watching?
Why wasn’t God listening?
Why wasn’t God there for Georgia Lee?

These words come from Tom Waits’ song “Georgia Lee” where he both tells the true story of a murdered girl and pleads for understanding about where Love is in the face of terrible tragedy and loss. Georgia Lee suffered and suffering is incomprehensible to us.

Let me tell you a more typical story: During my internship in North Carolina, one evening I found myself on my renal failure unit sitting and listening to a man of seventy tell me about how he felt that he was a failure. He sacrificed spending his time playing with his kids to work two jobs so they could all get a good education. And now here he was, spending his retirement caring for his wife, who had Alzheimer’s, having his own grueling dialysis treatments and spending his children’s inheritance on medicine. He recounted despair after despair. What would he leave his children? He told me his secret—he had considered suicide to make things better but realized that he could not leave his children with the burden of his wife’s care. He looked at me deeply, grasping my hand so tightly that our hands shook: “Chaplain, tell me, where is God? Will he help me? What did I ever do to him to deserve this pain? What ever can I do?” And with that he broke down and wept openly. A country man, a strong man, a man’s man, sat there asking me to explain to him the deepest mystery for those who know Love’s tender kiss and then also face feeling the deepest rejection by that very same Love. Why do we suffer as we do?

I find in my practice as a Chaplain that we have done a terrible job within our faith communities of narrating suffering in such a way that gives us tools to deal with the terrible things we all somehow face. So, again and again I walk beside people, especially those facing the death of loved one, and find that faith has only offered them impossible standards or empty platitudes, or convinced them that God is intentionally doing this to them to teach them a spiritual lesson.

My job as a Chaplain is to find you where you are and support what you already believe or question. So, when it comes to the nature of suffering, I cannot dismantle centuries of harmful teaching. I cannot begin to speak to why the world works the way it does or tell anyone with certainty exactly who God is and how God does or does not act, for my experience of God cannot capture that truth in a way that is true beyond question or reproach for anyone other than myself.

What I can do is reflect God’s presence in their suffering by showing up and holding their fears and pain. I feel intimately called by God to go and stand beside people as they raise their hands towards heaven and cry out, “See me! Listen to me! Be here! Answer me!” I understand these questions, for I too have asked them. So today provides me with a rare opportunity to talk to you about some of the things I see we can say about suffering so that we are set up for Life and not for failure.

Then Job answered: “Today also my complaint is bitter; his hand is heavy despite my groaning. Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his dwelling! I would lay my case before him, and fill my mouth with arguments. I would learn what he would answer me, and understand what he would say to me. Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power? No; but he would give heed to me. There an upright person could reason with him, and I should be acquitted forever by my judge.

All we like Job have shaken our heavy hearts in dismay and said, “But I am good. My wife is good. He never hurt anyone. We do not deserve this.” We love cause and effect. Be good and good things will happen. Do bad and bad things will happen. I do not mean to imply a loose understanding of karma here, but instead that simple base part of ourselves where we believe one plus one should always equal two.

So, why do we suffer? The most pure answer I can give holds not one shred of meaning: We suffer because we do. Suffering, having problems, facing loss, having grief and despair all characterize the human life. Period. We suffer because we do.

I am a big believer that meaning is not some big floating cloud of intentionality by God towards us and what we go through. I believe that the meaning we give to the tragedies we face comes strictly from our own willingness and creativity to do just that…an opportunity God wants to be a part of, but not that God creates suffering for us to teach us a certain lesson about the meaning of life.

We suffer because we do; we create meaning with that suffering because we can.

I realize that I am saying something that we do not often articulate, and quite frankly the historic theology of the Christian Church has embraced a radically different theology about suffering. Here are some common themes:
1. Suffering is good and we must suffer for the good of God.
2. Suffering is a holy enterprise.
3. You really know you love when you suffer.
4. The better the Christian the more quiet they are when they suffer.

I reject these understandings of suffering, and quite frankly in my practice as a Chaplain I have never seen these offer any hope to those who have been taught them. If anything, they set us up to fail because when we are faced with pain we get scared. And when we are terrified we have a God-given instinct: Fight or flight! If suffering was something God intended for us as part of holiness then why build our core with a default OUT? And if suffering is so good that we should embrace it with quiet acceptance, why did Jesus curse God from the cross and cry out saying, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

I want to offer us another—more life giving—way to think about the suffering we face. We suffer because do, but the opportunity to create life, love and healing with our reality is limitless. When we embrace our lives—the fullness of our lives that contains beauty and real stinky messiness—we embrace that we are human. Being human means that we are frail, limited creatures. We break, and we heal.

So, let us be honest about why we are suffering. What is causing the real pain?

I have a patient right now who is actively dying. Her dear sweet husband is stuck on the fact that she is a good person and that he just cannot seem to understand why she is dying. What did she ever do to deserve this? The flaw that I see in his logic (but not in his heart or questions) is that what is causing her death is cancer, not her or anything she has done or not done. The causality is cancer. She has cancer. Period. And even if her lifestyle aided in her getting this particular disease, the reality is that if we live long enough we will get anything and everything. We are human beings. We die. Babies, teenagers, young mothers and old men all die everyday. You are born. You live. You die. She will die from cancer; she knows how she will go and that her time is very limited. I do not know how or when I will die, but I do know it will happen to me too. What is causing the real pain in this family is the terrible reality that she will die and they will miss her deeply. What value is there in wondering what she did or what they did to cause her death?

I am not arguing against us asking these deep “root of our lives” questions. But I am inviting us to consider the ways in which causality is tied to our faith understanding and how destructive that can be.

As we engage the fullness of our pain, we need not rationalize it away or think that our pain is insignificant in the light of another’s pain. God is not extending any merit badges for rationalizing away our pain or our need. This is not a time for “mind over matter.” Life hurts us all sometimes. How many times has someone asked you how you were doing and your soul cried out to say, “I am hurting. I am so lonely that sometimes I feel desperate for some human interaction and touch? Or I am going through x, y or z.” But instead of the truth, you say to them, “I am fine, you?” thinking to yourself that you do not want to be a burden or that the other person probably has it worse than you and who are you to “complain” anyways? As any of my friends will tell you, when they say they are “fine” I reply, So, you are feeling Freaked-out, Insecure, Needy and Emotional—what is really going on?”

I believe that acknowledging our own pain creates the opportunity for healing bridges between others and ourselves. When we are honest about the fact we are hurting we open ourselves to extend and receive compassion. I don’t know about you, but I would rather not tell someone who has the “perfect” life about my problems. They are just not going to get it when I am miserable. And the person who denies their own pain usually says things like, “It is all in God’s hands. or Everything is going to be okay.” I do not think that the husband of my patient would be very comforted with the thought that his wife’s life hangs waiting for the whim of God or the lie that she will be okay. Being in-touch with our own suffering helps us let go of platitudes and get down to the truth, “I see you are hurting and this sucks!”

When we embrace the suffering of our lives, we find Immanuel. God with us. I love this one part of our lesson from Hebrews: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses.” By allowing ourselves to be human beings who hurt, we allow God to come and sit with us on the ash heaps of our lives. The greatest balm I know for suffering of body, mind and spirit is to not be alone. No one else can feel your pain for you, but to know that you are held in love and care as you suffer—that has miraculous healing power.

I want to preach to you the Good News of resurrection…most importantly spiritual resurrection.
Michael McGee says this of spiritual resurrection: Spiritual resurrection happens when our “hope has grown into healing, when we have gone from seeing ourselves as broken and fragmented to being whole and complete even though we still hurt.” We have established that pain and suffering just are, and in the same way the opportunity for healing and wholeness are ever present. Spiritual resurrection happens when we take that opportunity, grab onto it and our lives become more, not less, with what has happened to us.

Spiritual resurrection is all around us! As Helen Keller said, “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.” Having an imagination about this kind of wholeness is not a denial. Healing does not mean that the bad things never happened, but it does mean that the end of the story is NOT the suffering. How many times did Jesus say to those afflicted, “Rise up! And let me see you whole!?” The pain wins when we are presented the opportunity to heal but resist it thinking that we have to hold onto our suffering for it to stay real. In the end, however, the suffering stays real and we lose a little bit more of our lives each day as a result. There is no magical expiration date…but what I can tell you is that if you hear Jesus whispering in your ear “Rise up!” do not be afraid to be whole again.

Finally, when we do find our mourning turning into dancing, let us not only celebrate being free from this pain, but also ask God “What I am free to do for Love and life now?” This is where we reflect our divine right as children of God, made in the image of God, made of the stuff of stars, to be creative with God and design the next chapter. Reach out. Grab your neighbour’s hand. Let us be transformed together as spiritually resurrected persons, who have abandoned the hamster wheel of despair where we spin around and around wondering what we ever did to deserve this. Dance! For anyone can survive…finding ways to love and invest with the suffering of our lives takes uncommon courage, but we have within us all the tools needed. God is not hiding from us, for God is right here in the fabric of all that we are giving us the creativity and grace to imagine our lives WITH what has happened to us.

I know this is true out of my own life and the painful losses I have suffered through. I have asked deep questions and shook my own fists at God so hard that I swear I have given God a bloody nose on more than one occasion! When I hear “Georgia Lee” I often have put my own name into that song asking “Why wasn’t God there for Jacqueline?” I only can speak to you about the life that is possible with what happens because I of the spiritual resurrections I have had in my own life.

Once I had a vision of my life being a terrible wasteland—similar to one we might imagine following a nuclear holocaust—where God and I tended a small and thriving garden together. I saw Jesus and I laughing on the tiny patches of grass, teasing and tickling, rolling around as children might with glee. The warm sun on my face. The cool breeze whistling though my two weeping willows that embraced us with their drooping shade.

Close your eyes and count to ten
I will go and hide but then
Be sure to find me. I want you to find me
And we’ll play all over
We will play it all over again
There’s a toad in the witch grass
There’s a crow in the corn
Wild flowers on a cross by the road
And somewhere a baby is crying
For her mom
As the hills turn from green back
To gold
Why wasn’t God watching?
Why wasn’t God listening?
Why wasn’t God there for Jacqueline?

And as I looked out across the barrenness and scarred landscape left by the pain of my life outside of that garden, I knew that things might change and life take a turn and bomb this garden one day too. And then it hit me: I know how to grow another one, for the seeds of life are always within in me. The seeds of life are within us all. We were made from them as were the stars. Amen.

Last week I wrote: “I have my own boundaries, and I know that sometimes, for all sorts of reasons, certain patients and families touch you beyond the professional distancing I practice. A woman so kind, my heart breaks to leave her or hang up the phone. Give me just one more of her “sweetheart” comments I pray.”

She will die soon, very soon. She knows it. I know it. Her family knows it.

I saw her again on Monday at her request. When I arrived, she could hardly be roused. I felt the bells in my gut go off, but I worried they rang only because of how I feel about her. I went out of her room to talk to her daughter about how she felt her mom was doing…trying to feel her out about her own radar regarding how close to death her mom might be. Later, as I thought over the visit, I realized that even sitting there talking with her daughter, and when I called her Primary Nurse, my anxiety level climbed. Why? I think I felt fear that she could have been dying in her room while we were talking. I do not want her to die alone.

I often tell my patients and families that the goal of hospice centers on helping their loved one die surrounded by care and love and without pain: physical, emotional or spiritual. Some of my patients want to die with those they love outside of the room, and so they lay wait until the room empties and then they let go. Still others wait until one particular person crosses the threshold before letting go. My own grandmother died the moment I entered her hospital room. I count it joy to have been with her as she entered the next life. Whether those dying wait for leave taking or coming in, they die with love. The love in their hearts, and the love bestowed upon them, if they are lucky.

This particular patient wants to die with her family around her, but let me not skip how I found this out.

After calling to see about a nurse coming out to evaluate her, I journeyed back to her room. I found her exposed with most of the covers pushed down. She now engaged me, and seemed to be coming around more. I asked her if she was in any pain, and she told me that she felt terrible pain from trying to move. Her daughter came in and helped her move to her side, gave her a new pain patch and a few small bites of sherbet. Being even more awake, my patient asked me, “Is this what happens to everyone?” I knew what she meant by her question…Do my other patients as they die feel themselves dying? I told her “yes.”

She denies any fear about it, saying she could feel herself going and it was “peaceful.” She just wants to live long enough for her grandchildren to come in from out of town–a few days more–and then she can die. She put it this way to me: “I just want to hold on until my family gets here so I can die with love all around me.”

I hope she makes it.

She also told me why she asked for me to come to see her; she wanted to pray for her family and to confess her sins. She wants a clean slate before she crosses that great divide and enters the place of Love. We must have prayed at least five different times that afternoon. I cried each and every time. Her name is special to me, so each prayer felt like a prayer for her and a prayer for the one I know and love by the same name. (I cannot write this now without the tears streaming down my face.)

Maybe part of why I care so much about her has to do with this name connection? Maybe it is because she reminds me of my grandmother given both of them are characterized by kindness and a certain steely determination? Her daughter showed me pictures of her at a younger age, and she looks so much like Aunt Glitter. They could have been sisters. These reasons are just pieces of the complicated puzzle of my heart. I can sketch in certain places, but in the end I just know that I care about her differently, more, something…than how I care for most of my patients. She just got in to my heart. Period.

Her own daughter worked in the hospital for a long time and said to me, “Some people just get to you. It is not supposed to happen. You are a professional, but they do. We are just humans.” She then told me about a woman who got to her heart. I am glad she understands. I do too.
I have no delusions about my place or role in their lives, but I also am honest with myself about how I will miss her when she is gone. She is just that lovely.

When we were done praying together she said to me: “Honey, thank you. I feel so much better now. Sweetheart, I love you.”

My only response?

“I love you too.”

These days I find myself rattling around my new blog trying to tweak it and build it up so it is worth reading. Back in 2000, I started working on writing a book about my life. Did you read it? Yeah. Me neither. Then in 2004, I started collecting a lot of notes on another book, this one titled “Sex and the Single Christian Girl” that has yet to materialize. The whole point of this blog is to get some of that writing in one central place and see what the folks think.

Also, I started a blog with The Bean, but when we broke up, he went on a “Purge That Girl From Every Corner of My Life” rampage and deleted my access to our blog. I have to say that of all the bad things that happened those last 12 days–not really talking to me about what happened when he had dessert with his ex-girlfriend until two in the morning, his shutting down, his telling me that I was untrustworthy because I had the audacity to suggest that if he was “imploding” and experiencing “excruciating pain” he might get some therapy–the blog bit hurt the worst.  I really did feel like we could take on the world with that blog.  We focused on the conversations that developed between us given that I am a minister and he is an atheist. The amazing part centered around how we both arrived at very similar places given that we shared so many core values. Fleshing out the differences created some pretty amazing work product, but I digress.

I must say that the best blog entry I have ever read comes to us from tender comrade. (This is the link to the entry.) This entry is entitled “Hating the Lovers.” tender comrade talks about the trite “hate the sin, love the sinner” and how we seem to always have a fist full of hate in one hand and a fist full of love in the other with that statement. His question is this: “If Jesus had tattooed his fists, wouldn’t they both have said love?”

I agree.

I want to write about the Jesus with hands full of love, and about why Christianity has failed to be that in the world. I want to flesh out the difference between morals and ethics and sin. I want to offer some reflections on being a Hospice Chaplain, and maybe encourage all of us to live and love more deeply as a result. I want to write about my life–even the really messy parts–and risk rejection by those who know me because I am not doing it the way they think I should. I want to show off my wit and weirdo sense of humor. I want to talk about real things and real people. I want hope to come through my despair.

And most importantly, I want to have a place to show off pictures of Emma!

My boyfriend, The Bean, and I broke-up on December 9, 2006. My new puppy was born the next day. I think this is an example of poetic justice, balance in the universe, the opening window–well, something like that. I cannot help but feel the pangs of hope, which to me signal that my imagination of what my life can be with out The Bean is alive and kicking.

Can you look at her face and not feel a bit hopeful?