I really want to write something. Something dazzling. Something profound. Something even half-way decent. And I can't even summon the energy to be half-way entertaining. The fingers are willing to type, but the wit--she is gone. Where oh where is the creative muse? The Beatrice to my little Dante of a mind?
I'm not a new-agey type woman. While I consider myself someone who believes in the mystical, I'm more of a pragmatist. I don't sip a lot of green teas, preferring mine in the caffeinated form. I can't tell you the perfect herbal concoction for your bunion problem, although I can give you directions to a nice natural food store in North Manchester where they'd probably have the answer to your intimate foot issue. I don't align my chakras, nor do I balance crystals on my solar plexus. I don't believe in colonics to purify one's karmic power, nor do I find Tarot readings especially ominous. All in all, I'm sort of a rational girl. I'd sort of like to believe all this kind of stuff, but my brain always says, "Ah...I don't buy it."
But...(you knew there was a but here didn't you), today as I was leaving church (the 11:15 service, which is a reach for me...far different from my traditional 9:00 service with the white haired gang, as I affectionately call them...the ones who like their hymns acapella the way God intended, and who don't go for this happy-clappy new-fangled madness known as "Contemporary" [and having said all that I confess to sort of clapping a long a little in the second service but I did not sway, there was definitely no swaying as that might be seen as a little too praisey for me]) I stopped to talk to Deanna, one of the pastors and dear friend of mine. We chatted about this and that. She expressed surprise at seeing me at the 11:15 service as she knows I'm not a happy-clappy kind of girl, and I said, "I was just so tired I couldn't get up this morning!" And then I recalled that I had gone to bed at 9:30 the night before and had, get this friends, 12 hours of pure, unadulterated sleep. I said to Deanna, "I just don't get it. It's weird." And she said, "Well, Christen, you've recently grieved the loss of two grandmothers, and well, look at the work you do?" Hmmm...yeah...I can see it....
So, I'm thinking. I'm thinking that perhaps there is a psychic energy (I know, I know, I cringe even as I type it) which drains us when we're around grief. Perhaps that old adage about a grief shared is a grief halved has some truth to it. Perhaps that is what Jesus knew when he spoke of being aware of what it meant to drink of the cup.
Regardless, I pick up the chalice and drink anew each morning. But I also need to remember to allow it to be filled by One who offers more abundance and grace than my humanity can muster.
And, having said that, I'm off to bed. It is, after all getting close to 8:00.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Miscellaneous Thoughts...
Forgive me in advance.
Yesterday I caught the latest cold virus flying around the metropolis of Fort Wayne. For several days I've been priding myself on the fact that perhaps I was the only cold-resistant species in the tri-state area as both Tess and Brynn (my step-daughters) my father, and my mother (who are divorced and never see each other), and numerous office colleagues have all been infected and lo and behold I, mutant being that I am, have not. Perhaps, I have been...the carrier. I got all excited and decided that, indeed, perhaps I was the anointed one...the missing link. And then it started with a sneeze. Damn.
One of my colleagues said to me today, "Christen, this isn't one of those colds that comes on like a freight train and gets away fast. This is one of those colds that comes on like one of those coal trains that gets stopped on the tracks during rush hour." Well, double damn. To ward off mutant germs, I decided to have some extra-hot chipolte salsa with my supper.
So...when one doesn't feel like they have all that incredibly much to say (and I'll blame that on the snot cramming up my head...), one often resorts to internet blog shortcuts...or gimmicks. Here's one I saw today...and will make writing a little more quick...it is (ta-da) the ABC's of Me.
Yesterday I caught the latest cold virus flying around the metropolis of Fort Wayne. For several days I've been priding myself on the fact that perhaps I was the only cold-resistant species in the tri-state area as both Tess and Brynn (my step-daughters) my father, and my mother (who are divorced and never see each other), and numerous office colleagues have all been infected and lo and behold I, mutant being that I am, have not. Perhaps, I have been...the carrier. I got all excited and decided that, indeed, perhaps I was the anointed one...the missing link. And then it started with a sneeze. Damn.
One of my colleagues said to me today, "Christen, this isn't one of those colds that comes on like a freight train and gets away fast. This is one of those colds that comes on like one of those coal trains that gets stopped on the tracks during rush hour." Well, double damn. To ward off mutant germs, I decided to have some extra-hot chipolte salsa with my supper.
So...when one doesn't feel like they have all that incredibly much to say (and I'll blame that on the snot cramming up my head...), one often resorts to internet blog shortcuts...or gimmicks. Here's one I saw today...and will make writing a little more quick...it is (ta-da) the ABC's of Me.
- Admiring: The fact that Maisie, the miniature dachshund hasn't peed on the floor in over a week (I know, I know, she's three years old and she should be trained by now...so sue me. She's cute. That's her schtick. She's cute. And she's German. So, she's zehr cute.
- Beating Myself Up About: Not enough green vegetables.
- Crying Over: Katrina, and her wily ways.
- Daydreaming About: Unseating my husband in his Snood victories.
- Excited Because: Autumn is finally arriving. I hate this @%#$ heat.
- Frustrated Because: Aforementioned cold.
- Grumpy Because: See above.
- Hate-filled and Seething Over: The current administration.
- Indignant Because: There are those who would still re-elect above.
- Just shoot me now because: ... Uh-oh, I don't have an answer here. Please, don't shoot me. I work with Hospice patients. I don't want to die....
- Kidding myself regarding... Whether I'll get the "real scoop" on what happened at the 7th grade dance tonight when T. gets home...
- Listening to... My sweet dog snore.
- Mooning Over... I always moon over my hermit of a husband...
- Need... Some vegetarian refried beans.
- Obsessing Over... Fertility rites and passages. Ovulation predictor kits. Yadda, yadda, yadda...
- Praying... For this great big world and all in it...(how's that for a pat answer?)
- Questioning... Why my college roommate became such a rigid Christian and decided to write me out of her life.
- Reading... The Position by Meg Wolitzer
- Singing... "WAR...What is it good for, absolutely nothing say it again..."
- Trying... To remember to re-stock the toilet paper in the bathroom before a catastrophe happens...
- Unnerved By... High school stud boys driving muscle cars who cut me off in traffic. Why? I don't know. I just don't know...
- <>Vexed About... Haven't we already covered this?<>
- The X post has mysteriously disappeared...but what I typed was...and I'm serious here..."There is no X post as clear channel has elminated it in its ultimate desire to purify your computer." But, really, for some reason it did get deleted from my blog in my inept computer typetitude...
- Yawning over... Rush Limbaugh's rantings and gruntings.
- ZZZZ... WHAT?!? This is how an ABC questionaire ends? Who wrote this? What 13-year-old weblogger made this up after cheerleading practice?
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Releasing
This evening I sat quietly in my "sanctuary," (i.e. the room which has become my safe haven, the "room of one's own" that Virginia Woolf claims every woman needs, the room where I cloak myself in the knitted afghan created by a powerful woman who knew me at my birth and who I refered to as "Old Lady Loose", and gaze out my window adorned with a stained glass frame from my first home, and light the candles which reconnect me to the sacred). I was reading the North Manchester newspaper (I have a strange fascination with tiny town news...the police reports read like a bad sitcom..."police were called out to investigate a strange noise in the kitchen of Mrs. X assists were made in relocating local owl"..."11-year-old cited for riding bicycle on downtown sidewalk." [actually, that final one really existed. Sigh.]) and found this little teeny tiny blurb under the heading Marriage Licenses:
______ . Miller-____, 35, Seattle, Wash. and _________ , 24, of North Manchester.
Those were the words printed (imagine the names if you desire, I feel the need to honor those who haven't given permission for their names to be in print and their ages and home cities are probably already too revealing). Black and white words on the page of the Manchester Monitor. For me, they were surrounded with a swarm of memories and hopes and regrets.
You see, the man with the hyphenated Miller-______, the good man here mentioned is my ex-husband. The Miller in front of his name is the Miller that was placed there when he and I were married in May of 1998. We shared that common hyphen (among the sharing of a 30-year mortgage, and the parentage of five cats).
I knew of this wedding...indeed, received word of it typed from my ex-husband's own fingers in an email shortly after his fiancee agreed to marry him. The subject line of his message was, "She said yes!" and my heart leapt for both of them. And I immediately wrote back a congratulatory note. I have always wanted him to find an amazing woman who would both embrace and challenge him, and who would love him far better than I could or did. I have met her. I have heard stories of their relationship from others who know them as a couple. She is beautiful and insightful (and in a weird incestous-Manchester-College-way was named by my sociologist professor husband as one of his favorite students).
And yet, seeing their marriage announcement in print gave me pause.
It didn't give me pause because I resented either of them (instead I was thrilled that they had found one another). It didn't give me pause because I regretted our divorce (it is one of the mysteries of my life that I still carry pain and guilt over, but which I continue to believe is in the best interests of both my ex-husband and myself). It gave me pause because it was a symbol of life moving on. It gave me pause because it called me to reflect, again, on the nature of relationship. It gave me pause because it invited me to offer a release and blessing over the past. It simply gave me pause.
I cut the clipping out and took it downstairs to show Robert, my husband. I said, "they filed this on August 12th and I don't think they're getting married until October...do marriage licenses expire? Maybe I should let him know?" Robert smiled and said, "I think you can release that. Why don't you let him and his future wife handle that now. You've tried to take care of him for long enough. Let it go." And again, I loved, loved, loved the way Robert read me, and wasn't threatened by my words (for he has known his own reflections upon past relationships).
Ah yes, but what I spoke to Robert, the words I uttered, that was always my problem. I couldn't just let things go. I couldn't let K. be K...another thing I have learned (am learning?) to release.
Blessings to you, newlyweds (how presumptious of me to assume you need my blessing...but I offer it anyway, for what it's worth). May you dance in the light of God's love.
______ . Miller-____, 35, Seattle, Wash. and _________ , 24, of North Manchester.
Those were the words printed (imagine the names if you desire, I feel the need to honor those who haven't given permission for their names to be in print and their ages and home cities are probably already too revealing). Black and white words on the page of the Manchester Monitor. For me, they were surrounded with a swarm of memories and hopes and regrets.
You see, the man with the hyphenated Miller-______, the good man here mentioned is my ex-husband. The Miller in front of his name is the Miller that was placed there when he and I were married in May of 1998. We shared that common hyphen (among the sharing of a 30-year mortgage, and the parentage of five cats).
I knew of this wedding...indeed, received word of it typed from my ex-husband's own fingers in an email shortly after his fiancee agreed to marry him. The subject line of his message was, "She said yes!" and my heart leapt for both of them. And I immediately wrote back a congratulatory note. I have always wanted him to find an amazing woman who would both embrace and challenge him, and who would love him far better than I could or did. I have met her. I have heard stories of their relationship from others who know them as a couple. She is beautiful and insightful (and in a weird incestous-Manchester-College-way was named by my sociologist professor husband as one of his favorite students).
And yet, seeing their marriage announcement in print gave me pause.
It didn't give me pause because I resented either of them (instead I was thrilled that they had found one another). It didn't give me pause because I regretted our divorce (it is one of the mysteries of my life that I still carry pain and guilt over, but which I continue to believe is in the best interests of both my ex-husband and myself). It gave me pause because it was a symbol of life moving on. It gave me pause because it called me to reflect, again, on the nature of relationship. It gave me pause because it invited me to offer a release and blessing over the past. It simply gave me pause.
I cut the clipping out and took it downstairs to show Robert, my husband. I said, "they filed this on August 12th and I don't think they're getting married until October...do marriage licenses expire? Maybe I should let him know?" Robert smiled and said, "I think you can release that. Why don't you let him and his future wife handle that now. You've tried to take care of him for long enough. Let it go." And again, I loved, loved, loved the way Robert read me, and wasn't threatened by my words (for he has known his own reflections upon past relationships).
Ah yes, but what I spoke to Robert, the words I uttered, that was always my problem. I couldn't just let things go. I couldn't let K. be K...another thing I have learned (am learning?) to release.
Blessings to you, newlyweds (how presumptious of me to assume you need my blessing...but I offer it anyway, for what it's worth). May you dance in the light of God's love.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Heaviness
Everywhere the heaviness of the aftermath of hurricane Katrina surrounds us. I continue to pause in slack-jawed wonder at how in the hell any of this can be resolved. It all seems so big, so overwhelming, so tragic. I sat for hours on Thursday afternoon watching CNN and MSNBC and felt helpless and alone. I went to bed that night wondering why this world was going to hell in a handbasket...wondering why the poor are always neglected...wondering whether there was a good God. I woke up Friday morning in a sweat, literally panicked at the state of humanity ("Here I am, making it all about me," I chastised myself).
When I arrived at work, sullen after a car ride spent listening to NPR, I plopped down in my chair in my little corner cubicle and Michael, our local grief coordinator guru, asked how I was doing...a standard morning greeting. I swung around in my swivel chair and said, "well, Michael, not good. That's how I'm doing. I am heart sick for these people in the south. I am angry at the government. And on top of it I don't know where God is in this mess." I thought Michael might be surprised, as usually my standard response is, "good, and you?"
It is a sign of the grace of God that I was not smote in that instant and was intead given a wise messenger who heard me in my wonderings.
Michael nodded and then said softly (I think grief therapists always speak softly), "I've felt that heaviness too. This morning in my hike up Reservoir Hill I watched the sun rise and prayed that I might feel God's peace so that I could embody that sense of peace and presence to others."
This time my slack-jawed look of wonder was one of awe (in my head I thought, "Holy cow, this Michael is the shit! Why isn't he the chaplain?" But, I tried to act cool....). While I lament that there is little I can do from Fort Wayne, Indiana (apart from pulling out my credit card and donating to the Red Cross), I recognize that I can cultivate that sense of God's peace which reminds me to be still and know that God is a good God who embraces all who suffer.
After work I stopped at Fox Island Park for an hour or so and sat under a pine tree seeking that peace. It's coming. Slowly.
May we all hold the survivors and victims of this hurricane in our hearts.
And may God grant us the peace to be God's hands and feet in the midst of this disaster.
When I arrived at work, sullen after a car ride spent listening to NPR, I plopped down in my chair in my little corner cubicle and Michael, our local grief coordinator guru, asked how I was doing...a standard morning greeting. I swung around in my swivel chair and said, "well, Michael, not good. That's how I'm doing. I am heart sick for these people in the south. I am angry at the government. And on top of it I don't know where God is in this mess." I thought Michael might be surprised, as usually my standard response is, "good, and you?"
It is a sign of the grace of God that I was not smote in that instant and was intead given a wise messenger who heard me in my wonderings.
Michael nodded and then said softly (I think grief therapists always speak softly), "I've felt that heaviness too. This morning in my hike up Reservoir Hill I watched the sun rise and prayed that I might feel God's peace so that I could embody that sense of peace and presence to others."
This time my slack-jawed look of wonder was one of awe (in my head I thought, "Holy cow, this Michael is the shit! Why isn't he the chaplain?" But, I tried to act cool....). While I lament that there is little I can do from Fort Wayne, Indiana (apart from pulling out my credit card and donating to the Red Cross), I recognize that I can cultivate that sense of God's peace which reminds me to be still and know that God is a good God who embraces all who suffer.
After work I stopped at Fox Island Park for an hour or so and sat under a pine tree seeking that peace. It's coming. Slowly.
May we all hold the survivors and victims of this hurricane in our hearts.
And may God grant us the peace to be God's hands and feet in the midst of this disaster.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Nada, Nothing, No Good Words
The translation of gospel is "good word."
Sorry, friends. I've got no good word today...
Not because I don't feel good, and good things aren't happening...but because I dont' (again) have deep and inspiring thoughts.
I think that I thought that when I became a hospice chaplain I would have these incredible and mind-altering experiences that would make me feel like big-stud chaplain. Instead, I have these teeny-tiny daily insights that make me feel like, well, wimpy-ovarianish-chaplain (not that ovaries are bad...hell, when you're doing the fertility ritual ovarians are never bad, they're always very, very good and very, very worth praising).
BUT...I guess what I'm saying is that I haven't had these mammoth watershed experiences which often lead to posts...and essays...and deep thoughts....
So, for today, you're getting me. Just me. All five foot two inch, one-hundred-thirty-nine pounds of Christen. A Christen who misses the series "Six Feet Under" and thinks of the series finale as a death. A Christen who doesn't know how to relate to her 12 year old (step) daughter because teen culture sometimes alludes her, but more often, pisses her off. A Christen who wonders whether she will ever feel comfortable expressing herself without hitting the #$@%# delete button so often.
Deep thoughts will come....and you'll see them here...I promise (and God/ess willing).
Sorry, friends. I've got no good word today...
Not because I don't feel good, and good things aren't happening...but because I dont' (again) have deep and inspiring thoughts.
I think that I thought that when I became a hospice chaplain I would have these incredible and mind-altering experiences that would make me feel like big-stud chaplain. Instead, I have these teeny-tiny daily insights that make me feel like, well, wimpy-ovarianish-chaplain (not that ovaries are bad...hell, when you're doing the fertility ritual ovarians are never bad, they're always very, very good and very, very worth praising).
BUT...I guess what I'm saying is that I haven't had these mammoth watershed experiences which often lead to posts...and essays...and deep thoughts....
So, for today, you're getting me. Just me. All five foot two inch, one-hundred-thirty-nine pounds of Christen. A Christen who misses the series "Six Feet Under" and thinks of the series finale as a death. A Christen who doesn't know how to relate to her 12 year old (step) daughter because teen culture sometimes alludes her, but more often, pisses her off. A Christen who wonders whether she will ever feel comfortable expressing herself without hitting the #$@%# delete button so often.
Deep thoughts will come....and you'll see them here...I promise (and God/ess willing).
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Sisters
Kristen and Kara have known me from my birth. Literally. Kristen is two years old than I am, and Kara is four years older, and it wasn't long after I was born that I was shuttling back and forth between their home on Wendmere Lane and my home on Kentucky Avenue. Kristen and Kara remember me before I remember myself.
Kara, four years older than I, taught me to read the word "breakfast." She paired Kristen and I as groom and bride in one of the many wedding ceremonies that she officiated. Kristen and I would sunbathe like lizards on the big rocks outside the Kauffman home, and then come into the living room and pretend it was an ocean that we had to swim across. I sat on Kara's Heidi record and she swore she would never forgive me. Kristen taught me that the word "KaKa" was a word about feces in Spanish and would irritate my mother to know end if I spoke it regularly. Kristen and Kara comforted me when Fruma Sarah sang on the Fiddler on the Roof album and I would cry, and on the morning when Robert and I got married they sent me flowers with a card that said, "This bouquet is just for the bride." They took pity on the only child, and adopted me with open arms.
Our fathers were best friends...that would be Jim the Father and John the Father...Reverend Blue Jeans and Nikon John. They photographed together. They enjoyed good scotch together. They talked often. John gave my father his first camera. Dad dedicated one of his books to John. We took father/daughter escapades to far-reaching places like Maine and Colorado...and also spent quiet evenings eating homemade meals in Fort Wayne. I sat one night at the Hospice Home and recalled stories of our trips to John as he spent a restless night tossing and turning and pulling at his covers, a night when the only thing I could offer Kristen and Kara was a brief respite from the many hours and nights they spent at their father's side. My dad preached at John's funeral.
Kristen and Kara have been here this weekend...here with their families and we have reveled in Genevieve's 4-month-old smiles, and laughed at Lily's almost-two-year-old pronunciations of words.
I am blessed to have these sisters. How can God be so good?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
San Angelo INDEX
It's Saturday night...a wild and crazy night in our home. The girlies are with their Mama and Robert and I have been luxuriating, nerd-style, in a free and easy Saturday. Translation: Robert got up, read the paper and then sat at his computer for many hours and read articles and then worked out on his Nordic Track. Christen got up, checked her email and then sat in her "sanctuary" (i.e. Study or Guest Room, but doesn't that title add an air of mystique to it?) and read and then went running. Whooee...it doesn't get better than this. Every once in a while we'll wander into one another's space and either plant a kiss on a furrowed brow, whose eyes are heavily involved in the task of reading, or we'll ask, "Want a cup of tea?"
Yes siree...Saturdays at the 'ole homestead of a sociologist and hospice chaplain don't rock more than they do here.
You, dear reader, have probably noticed that there have been very few posts of late. Lest you think I have abandoned you...I'll let you know that INSTEAD I have been deeply ensconced in the wonders of family life in the suburban automobile traveling through the nether-regions of the midwest and into that foreign territory known as Tex-ASS (see previous post of my 4th grade humor when saying that word). We went. We saw. We ate. And here, upon our return home...I provide you with the San Angelo INDEX...a register of our family's trek to West Texas in August. Picture if you will, our very own personal Harper's Index...
Yes siree...Saturdays at the 'ole homestead of a sociologist and hospice chaplain don't rock more than they do here.
You, dear reader, have probably noticed that there have been very few posts of late. Lest you think I have abandoned you...I'll let you know that INSTEAD I have been deeply ensconced in the wonders of family life in the suburban automobile traveling through the nether-regions of the midwest and into that foreign territory known as Tex-ASS (see previous post of my 4th grade humor when saying that word). We went. We saw. We ate. And here, upon our return home...I provide you with the San Angelo INDEX...a register of our family's trek to West Texas in August. Picture if you will, our very own personal Harper's Index...
T H E S A N A N G E L O I N D E X
*From Chapter III of Carolyn Keene's The Haunted Bridge (Copyright 1937). In which Nancy Drew wonders whether or not she can compete in a golf tournament after falling off a balcony into a flower bed while stepping away from a boy who was a little too "forward." A doctor has come to examine the wounded sleuth. Nancy waits in her hotel room with her boyish friend George Fayne and poor, overweight, pathetic Bess. I quote exactly as it is written. Robert said that the way the scene should have ended was in Nancy having a cigarette.
"Nancy stands a very good chance of participating in the tournament," Bess told the doctor. "It would be a shame if she couldn't play."
"Well," he said finally, after studying Nancy with twinkling eyes, "I suppose you could play. But right now I advise against it. However, by tomorrow night I may alter my opinion."
Dr. Aikerman picked up his physician's bag. "Nancy, I suggest a hot bath and a body massage to prevent your muscles from becoming stiff." The idea rather appealed to Nancy, who felt battered and sore.
After the doctor had gone, George spoke up, "Bess and I could give you a good rub."
Nancy regarded her dubiously.
"There's absolutely nothing to it," Bess put in."You locate the various muscles and then rub until the soreness is all gone."
Nancy allowed herself to be persuaded. After the hot bath, she stretched herself full length on the bed.
"Where do you hurt the most?" George inquired.
"Everywhere." Nancy groaned. "Oh, don't rub in that spot, please, George. It's too tender!"
"I have to massage the muscles," her friend insisted.
"Where did you get that bottle of liniment?" Nancy demanded. "It smells awful."
"This is a free massage, so don't be so critical,"
Bess relieved George when the latter's arms grew weary of the task. There was no rest or relaxation for Nancy. She was pummeled and pounded by her well-meaning but inexperienced masseuses until she felt ready to cry from sheer exhaustion.
"Oh, girls, I can't stand any more," she pleaded finally. "Just let me crawl under the covers and go to sleep."
"We're through now, anyway," Bess declared, as she helped Nancy roll over on her back again. "In the morning you'll feel fine."
- Miles traveled from Fort Wayne, Indiana to San Angelo, Texas: 1,265.
- Hours spent in car "enjoying" family bondage, I mean bonding: 42.
- Number of pornographic passages of "family" books read aloud: 1.*
- Number of pounds gained by husband while on vacation: 2.
- Number of pounds gained by self on vacation: 1.
- Approximate percentage of body weight gained by each spouse: >.05%.
- Number of pounds gained by dachshund while family on vacation: 3.
- Approximate percentage of body weight gained by dachshund while staying with Grandma and Grandpa: 30%.
- Number of "Big-Ass Crosses" seen while traveling: 2.
- Number of state license plates viewed while driving: 38.
- Number of bathrooms at gas-stations and fast food restaurants rating higher than an "8" on a scale of 1-10: 7.
- Number of Subway "Kid's Pack" meals consumed while traveling: 12.
- Number of times eldest child claimed to spot Brittany Spears in an Applebee's restaurant in Missouri: 1.
- Number of dead armadillos spotted: 3.
- Number of times husband burst out in ecstatic singing of the song "Oklahoma" while driving through the state of Oklahoma: 3.
- Number of margaritas consumed while in Texas by parents: 7.
- Number of hours from time single margarita was consumed by husband until husband needed to take a nap: 1.
- Number of days we have to wait until we travel to Texas next summer: 357.
*From Chapter III of Carolyn Keene's The Haunted Bridge (Copyright 1937). In which Nancy Drew wonders whether or not she can compete in a golf tournament after falling off a balcony into a flower bed while stepping away from a boy who was a little too "forward." A doctor has come to examine the wounded sleuth. Nancy waits in her hotel room with her boyish friend George Fayne and poor, overweight, pathetic Bess. I quote exactly as it is written. Robert said that the way the scene should have ended was in Nancy having a cigarette.
"Nancy stands a very good chance of participating in the tournament," Bess told the doctor. "It would be a shame if she couldn't play."
"Well," he said finally, after studying Nancy with twinkling eyes, "I suppose you could play. But right now I advise against it. However, by tomorrow night I may alter my opinion."
Dr. Aikerman picked up his physician's bag. "Nancy, I suggest a hot bath and a body massage to prevent your muscles from becoming stiff." The idea rather appealed to Nancy, who felt battered and sore.
After the doctor had gone, George spoke up, "Bess and I could give you a good rub."
Nancy regarded her dubiously.
"There's absolutely nothing to it," Bess put in."You locate the various muscles and then rub until the soreness is all gone."
Nancy allowed herself to be persuaded. After the hot bath, she stretched herself full length on the bed.
"Where do you hurt the most?" George inquired.
"Everywhere." Nancy groaned. "Oh, don't rub in that spot, please, George. It's too tender!"
"I have to massage the muscles," her friend insisted.
"Where did you get that bottle of liniment?" Nancy demanded. "It smells awful."
"This is a free massage, so don't be so critical,"
Bess relieved George when the latter's arms grew weary of the task. There was no rest or relaxation for Nancy. She was pummeled and pounded by her well-meaning but inexperienced masseuses until she felt ready to cry from sheer exhaustion.
"Oh, girls, I can't stand any more," she pleaded finally. "Just let me crawl under the covers and go to sleep."
"We're through now, anyway," Bess declared, as she helped Nancy roll over on her back again. "In the morning you'll feel fine."
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Blah, blah, blah
So, I should be posting...and so I am posting...and I only have a bunch of miscellaneous things to type...nothing earth-shattering, nothing shocking, nothing which will rock your world...just little tid-bits which make you say, "Ah, but I do love that Christen keeping me posted on her life..."
First, only a few more days until we pack up the troops and head to Texas (sometimes to annoy Robert I put the emphasis on the last syllable. Say it with me now, "Tex-assss." It appeals to my Miller sense of humor which finds all bodily functions and bodily attributes silly and, therefore, fodder for jokes. I'm continuing to use these jokes with my sensible and non-fecal-humor minded husband by claiming that I'm just honoring my grandmother by speaking these kind of silly truths by telling these bawdy word-plays. [I know, I know, now is the time for all my Brethren comrades to frown sadly and shake their heads at what an ordained minister has come to]). We're packing up the 'ole Honda Civic and heading for San Angelo on Sunday to visit Robert's family and have a week and a half of bliss. I adore Robert's family and am so, so, thankful to feel such a connection with them. I adore them so much that I have absoutely no qualms about getting in car with two pre-adolescents and driving for two days. I am very ready for a vacation. I am very ready for steaks on the grill at Koon Hollar (Lois and Vayden's family homestead) and for long swims in the San Angelo Muncipal Pool (which the girls call "The Municipool").
Second, my sweet Annie died while I was away for my grandmother's funeral. So far I haven't broken, and haven't collapsed in sobbing fits, so I'm doing pretty well. Thank you, Lexapro.
Third, I had an amazing high school reunion last weekend. I was reunited with my two very close high school friends, R. & L. who now live in Eugene, Oregon. There's lots of history there...and there was a "break-up" of sorts in college, which has now all amicably resolved as we've grown and changed and matured and realized what matters in life. It was so, so, so, good to be with them. As we were leaving one another R. said, "I love you, Christen!" and I realized how much I missed their presence in my life. I was so thankful for the time together...I'm blessed... (more about this reunion in an upcoming essay...)
That's about all the news that's fit to print here in Southeast Fort Wayne, where all the cats are above 21 lbs., where all the bookshelves are cherry-wood, and where the dachshunds all neglect their obedience training...(how'd you like that, Garrison Keillor?)
First, only a few more days until we pack up the troops and head to Texas (sometimes to annoy Robert I put the emphasis on the last syllable. Say it with me now, "Tex-assss." It appeals to my Miller sense of humor which finds all bodily functions and bodily attributes silly and, therefore, fodder for jokes. I'm continuing to use these jokes with my sensible and non-fecal-humor minded husband by claiming that I'm just honoring my grandmother by speaking these kind of silly truths by telling these bawdy word-plays. [I know, I know, now is the time for all my Brethren comrades to frown sadly and shake their heads at what an ordained minister has come to]). We're packing up the 'ole Honda Civic and heading for San Angelo on Sunday to visit Robert's family and have a week and a half of bliss. I adore Robert's family and am so, so, thankful to feel such a connection with them. I adore them so much that I have absoutely no qualms about getting in car with two pre-adolescents and driving for two days. I am very ready for a vacation. I am very ready for steaks on the grill at Koon Hollar (Lois and Vayden's family homestead) and for long swims in the San Angelo Muncipal Pool (which the girls call "The Municipool").
Second, my sweet Annie died while I was away for my grandmother's funeral. So far I haven't broken, and haven't collapsed in sobbing fits, so I'm doing pretty well. Thank you, Lexapro.
Third, I had an amazing high school reunion last weekend. I was reunited with my two very close high school friends, R. & L. who now live in Eugene, Oregon. There's lots of history there...and there was a "break-up" of sorts in college, which has now all amicably resolved as we've grown and changed and matured and realized what matters in life. It was so, so, so, good to be with them. As we were leaving one another R. said, "I love you, Christen!" and I realized how much I missed their presence in my life. I was so thankful for the time together...I'm blessed... (more about this reunion in an upcoming essay...)
That's about all the news that's fit to print here in Southeast Fort Wayne, where all the cats are above 21 lbs., where all the bookshelves are cherry-wood, and where the dachshunds all neglect their obedience training...(how'd you like that, Garrison Keillor?)
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Snapshot
Snapshot: It's noontime. The sun is hot in the sky as the adventurers set out on their maiden voyage aboard the S.S. Orange Paddleboat. They have been planning their voyage throughout their week-long stay at the lake, along with their trusty officer of the galley. The sailor's rations, artfully packed in a Marsh brown paper grocery bag include two ham sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, two bananas, two cans of Sunkist orange soday and Grandma's reknown chocolate chip cookies. The sailor's each carry with them on their vessel their own fishing nets and their own tiny green bucket to entrap any wayward miniature painted turtles (which they will undoubtedly name "Myrtle" and keep as pets for a day or so before releasing them back into the land from whence they came). These sailing journeys were Grandma's idea, for Grandma understood adventure.
Snapshot: It is evening in 1980. The sun has set and it is the light blue of twilight on the lake. Cicadas and crickets are chirping. Citronella candles have been lit. We don't dare turn on lights in the cottage, as mosquitos would soon feast on us for supper. The summer Olympics is being aired on televisions all over the world. Everywhere, people are huddled in tiny groups watching this pinacle of the childhood sporting year. Everywhere, that is, except our cottage on Chapman Lake where even a teeny-tiny black and white television has yet to be introduced, as Grandpa doesn't want to spoil the rustic nature of the cottage (I mean, geez, we actually had put in a bathtub and shower the year before we were getting a little too civilized if you asked him). Two cousins lament over their pitiful and isolated state on this the first night of the opening ceremonies. Grandma creates the Chapman Lake Olympics which are performed on the six by eight foot arena of carpet between the couch and the recliner. There are only two countries, the country of Adam and the country of Christen. Grandma is the judge and gives surprisingly generous ratings as we each execute difficult hand stands and cartwheels. She often gave 8's and 9's. She was much more lenient than the Soviet judge. Grandma understood creativity.
Snapshot: It is raining. Again. For the third day. Two children are trapped in close quarters. Again. For the third day. Did I mention it was raining? Grandma busts out the Monopoly game. A game which ultimately lasted for two more rain-filled days. Sunkist orange cans and Monopoly money were strewn across the dining room table. When it would come time for meals Grandma would say, "just scoot it over, children. We'll eat around it." I think that's how Vermont Avenue got that blueberry stain. Grandma understood endurance.
Snapshot: I'm eleven and sitting on the floor at Grandma's feet. She's sitting in the recliner in front of me. My parents have just announced they'll be divorcing. Grandma's quizzing me, an only child herself. "And you feel okay about living with your Mom?" "Yep," I mumble. "And you're sure you know how much you're loved?" "Yep," I repeat. "And you know you can always come to the lake with us if you want?" "Yep." "And you know this is all for the best?" "Yep. Really, Gram, I'm fine." She is quiet, sizing me up. I keep watching her face as she rocks slowly in the recliner. The chair creaking softly with each downbeat. "That's right," she finally says, "You are fine." And gestures me toward her where she pulls me onto her lap and rocks me, even though I am practically as tall as she is. "Just fine," she murmurs.
Snapshot: It is nineteen years later. I call her one night in Florida where she is staying for the winter with Grandpa. My father insists. I don't want to call her because I don't want to tell her my news. I'm getting ready to divorce the man that only four years ago I stood up with in front of a church of over 300 people and promised to love for the rest of my life. I am embarassed and ashamed, afraid of the judgment of others. But I promised my father I'd call. Dad had said, "Call her...she keeps asking me what's going on with you...it's like she has some sort of sixth sense...she needs to hear it from you." I call her and tell her my story, mumbling occasionally and swallowing tears. She is quiet and then she says simply, "Well, I'm glad that's all it is, Honey." Granting me the grace I couldn't give myself. Grandma understood unconditional love.
Snapshot: It is late at night on the lake and it is hot. I am in college and I am visiting for Grandma's birthday. I have brought her bedroom slippers shaped like rabbits, and the wiggle their ears as her feet bounce up and down in the reclining chair. Grandma and I sit on the front porch and watch the lights across the lake. We tell stories--silly stories that don't even bear repeating and probably include some sort of bawdy humor related to bodily functions and we both howl with laughter. But Grandma's laugh is loud enough to carry all the way across the lake. Grandpa shuffles out from the bedroom sleepy-eyed and tells us we need to be quieter. "Okay, Herman," Grandma says. Grandpa goes back to bed. As soon as he's out of earshot Grandma turns to me and winks, "Spoilsport," she says. And then she laughs even louder. I will remember that laugh as long as I live.
Snapshot: It is evening in 1980. The sun has set and it is the light blue of twilight on the lake. Cicadas and crickets are chirping. Citronella candles have been lit. We don't dare turn on lights in the cottage, as mosquitos would soon feast on us for supper. The summer Olympics is being aired on televisions all over the world. Everywhere, people are huddled in tiny groups watching this pinacle of the childhood sporting year. Everywhere, that is, except our cottage on Chapman Lake where even a teeny-tiny black and white television has yet to be introduced, as Grandpa doesn't want to spoil the rustic nature of the cottage (I mean, geez, we actually had put in a bathtub and shower the year before we were getting a little too civilized if you asked him). Two cousins lament over their pitiful and isolated state on this the first night of the opening ceremonies. Grandma creates the Chapman Lake Olympics which are performed on the six by eight foot arena of carpet between the couch and the recliner. There are only two countries, the country of Adam and the country of Christen. Grandma is the judge and gives surprisingly generous ratings as we each execute difficult hand stands and cartwheels. She often gave 8's and 9's. She was much more lenient than the Soviet judge. Grandma understood creativity.
Snapshot: It is raining. Again. For the third day. Two children are trapped in close quarters. Again. For the third day. Did I mention it was raining? Grandma busts out the Monopoly game. A game which ultimately lasted for two more rain-filled days. Sunkist orange cans and Monopoly money were strewn across the dining room table. When it would come time for meals Grandma would say, "just scoot it over, children. We'll eat around it." I think that's how Vermont Avenue got that blueberry stain. Grandma understood endurance.
Snapshot: I'm eleven and sitting on the floor at Grandma's feet. She's sitting in the recliner in front of me. My parents have just announced they'll be divorcing. Grandma's quizzing me, an only child herself. "And you feel okay about living with your Mom?" "Yep," I mumble. "And you're sure you know how much you're loved?" "Yep," I repeat. "And you know you can always come to the lake with us if you want?" "Yep." "And you know this is all for the best?" "Yep. Really, Gram, I'm fine." She is quiet, sizing me up. I keep watching her face as she rocks slowly in the recliner. The chair creaking softly with each downbeat. "That's right," she finally says, "You are fine." And gestures me toward her where she pulls me onto her lap and rocks me, even though I am practically as tall as she is. "Just fine," she murmurs.
Snapshot: It is nineteen years later. I call her one night in Florida where she is staying for the winter with Grandpa. My father insists. I don't want to call her because I don't want to tell her my news. I'm getting ready to divorce the man that only four years ago I stood up with in front of a church of over 300 people and promised to love for the rest of my life. I am embarassed and ashamed, afraid of the judgment of others. But I promised my father I'd call. Dad had said, "Call her...she keeps asking me what's going on with you...it's like she has some sort of sixth sense...she needs to hear it from you." I call her and tell her my story, mumbling occasionally and swallowing tears. She is quiet and then she says simply, "Well, I'm glad that's all it is, Honey." Granting me the grace I couldn't give myself. Grandma understood unconditional love.
Snapshot: It is late at night on the lake and it is hot. I am in college and I am visiting for Grandma's birthday. I have brought her bedroom slippers shaped like rabbits, and the wiggle their ears as her feet bounce up and down in the reclining chair. Grandma and I sit on the front porch and watch the lights across the lake. We tell stories--silly stories that don't even bear repeating and probably include some sort of bawdy humor related to bodily functions and we both howl with laughter. But Grandma's laugh is loud enough to carry all the way across the lake. Grandpa shuffles out from the bedroom sleepy-eyed and tells us we need to be quieter. "Okay, Herman," Grandma says. Grandpa goes back to bed. As soon as he's out of earshot Grandma turns to me and winks, "Spoilsport," she says. And then she laughs even louder. I will remember that laugh as long as I live.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Grandma Miller
My grandma died this morning.
I'm weary. It's been too much today. I've seen my grandfather kiss my grandmother's cold lips as he cried hot tears and tenderly told her goodbye in a soft voice. I've touched my grandmother's soft hands for the last time and pried her diamond engagement ring off her arthritic finger. I've smelled the sulphuric smell of well water at the lake as I mopped up Grandpa's kitchen floor in an effort to do something (and to take care of that nasty lemonade spill due to my clumsy nerves). I've tasted the deviled eggs which seem to be ubiquitous after a death in the rural midwest, thanks to the countless God-fearing Christian women who make it their mission to feed the bereaved.
My heart hurts tonight.
This is the second grandmother I've lost in six months. The odds aren't looking good for grandmothers in my family this year.
So much to think about...and remember...and hold close tonight. But for now, a tepid bath (it's still 86 freakin' degrees out at almost 10 p.m.) and a soft bed. Maybe Grandma will whisper in my ear the words I need to speak on Thursday.
Things to Do Whilst Awake at 2:43 A.M.
- Annoy husband, who is far to polite to respond in any way, by twisting and turning in bed, thereby pulling covers away from him and undoubtedly keeping him awake.
- Go to kitchen and have bowl of tasty and fiber-filled generic raisin bran, thus ensuring superior "regularity."
- Pray. Focus on prayer for enemies. Recount to God each little teeny-tiny infraction against said enemies. Become very angry in process and realize that praying for enemies might be better if details were vague. God will understand.
- Itch poision ivy on neck, attained undoubtedly from miniature dachshund who, while romping in backyard, apparently found the vile weed. Consider buying tiny miniature dachshund haz-mat outfit to avoid further incidents. Google "dachshund haz-mat." Believe that the reason no outfit can be found is because one must be spelling "haz-mat" incorrectly. Curse google.
- Finish final load of laundry.
- Convince cat to hold still so that matted hair on his back can be cut out. Praise cat and tell him how patient and beautiful he is. Spend time analyzing why exactly he gets matted hair only in that spot. Determine that he is too fat and cannot reach his tail to clean. Vow to switch him over to low calorie cat food. Apologize to cat for this change. Offer tasty morsels as incentive to lose weight.
- Read husband's copy of TV Guide cover to cover. Realize that perhaps Tom Cruise really did have a "celebrity melt-down" when he was on the Oprah show. Wonder about odds of his marriage to Katie Holmes lasting. Be thankful you don't have to provide their pre-marital counseling.
- Marvel at all that can get done if you slept less at night.
- Crawl into the guest room bed with a book and admit defeat.
Friday, July 22, 2005
The First One That Will Break Me
Annie is my first patient that has the power to break me...the very first client in my three months of work who will cause me to burst into anguished tears when she finally dies. I adore Annie. I adore her sweet husband, Jimmy. The love they have for one another is so palpable. It is a living, breathing presence everytime I sit with them. Thanks to the wonders of the anti-depressant Lexapro I'm relatively calm in the face of death...but Annie's death is the impetus for the emotion which could finally leap over those protective pharmaceutical gates and render me helpless.
Annie and Jimmy live in a little tiny shotgun house on the outskirts of town. It is a part of town separated by eight railroad tracks and a switching station. Sometimes when I drive to see them I am a half-hour late due to the obnoxiously long train delays. They live in a ordered but filthy home, thanks in part to the coal-heated furnace which sheds its residue year-round and in part to Jimmy's good-hearted, but slightly inadequate cleaning skills.
Annie and Jimmy are in their 70s or 80s and have lived in this home for over forty years. Jimmy built the home, and recognizes that it's plywood sidewalks which covered the spring mud and it's uninsulated windows which leaked the winter wind are not as adequate as he thinks Annie deserves. Jimmy has a lush garden next to the house in which he grows yellow tomatoes (red tomatoes mess with Annie's coumadin levels) and wax beans (Annie's favorite). He confesses that he doesn't care much for vegetables, but he has noticed that she seems to enjoy watching him garden. Every night he wheels Annie around in the wheelchair on the perimeter of the soil and he points out what has sprouted, and what has blossomed, and what is ready to be pruned. And then, Jimmy settles her in next to him on the porch swing which he made out of old car seats, and they watch the traffic go by, while their caged 'coon hunting dogs finally halt their ceaseless barking, knowing their master and mistress are nearby.
But Annie is failing. She hardly talks now. That sweet trilling voice which once sang "off tenor" with a gospel band called "The Glory Bounders" is raspy. She no longer serenades me with an Appalachian version of "Amazing Grace" where her notes slide all over the scale and leave me slack-jawed in my own state of amazement. But her long fingers still reach out as she strokes the faces of those close to her. Yesterday she brushed my cheek and said, "Well, I'll be...ain't you just as purty as can be."
Jimmy won't cry in front of her. In front of her, he massages her spindly legs and says in that slushing way that those without teeth do, "Hi Honeeeyyy...How's my baby doll?" His eyes light up, and he's so convincing you almost can look past his tears.
Yesterday he told me that he'd bought her the most expensive casket he could find. It looked like marble and had roses on it. It cost him $10,000. He said, "If it were me, you could just throw me in a hole...so long as I'm next to her...but for her, nothing but the best. She comes first."
I told Jimmy to call me if Annie starts to decline rapidly over the weekend, so I could come out and be with them. So that Jimmy wouldn't have to be alone. Jimmy said, "Ma'am, should I call you even if it's the middle of the night?" I assured him that yes, night or day, he should call--that I wanted to be with them.
When he calls I will go. And together we'll weep tears for the woman who sang in both of our hearts in different ways. And even Lexapro can't deny that kind of love.
Annie and Jimmy live in a little tiny shotgun house on the outskirts of town. It is a part of town separated by eight railroad tracks and a switching station. Sometimes when I drive to see them I am a half-hour late due to the obnoxiously long train delays. They live in a ordered but filthy home, thanks in part to the coal-heated furnace which sheds its residue year-round and in part to Jimmy's good-hearted, but slightly inadequate cleaning skills.
Annie and Jimmy are in their 70s or 80s and have lived in this home for over forty years. Jimmy built the home, and recognizes that it's plywood sidewalks which covered the spring mud and it's uninsulated windows which leaked the winter wind are not as adequate as he thinks Annie deserves. Jimmy has a lush garden next to the house in which he grows yellow tomatoes (red tomatoes mess with Annie's coumadin levels) and wax beans (Annie's favorite). He confesses that he doesn't care much for vegetables, but he has noticed that she seems to enjoy watching him garden. Every night he wheels Annie around in the wheelchair on the perimeter of the soil and he points out what has sprouted, and what has blossomed, and what is ready to be pruned. And then, Jimmy settles her in next to him on the porch swing which he made out of old car seats, and they watch the traffic go by, while their caged 'coon hunting dogs finally halt their ceaseless barking, knowing their master and mistress are nearby.
But Annie is failing. She hardly talks now. That sweet trilling voice which once sang "off tenor" with a gospel band called "The Glory Bounders" is raspy. She no longer serenades me with an Appalachian version of "Amazing Grace" where her notes slide all over the scale and leave me slack-jawed in my own state of amazement. But her long fingers still reach out as she strokes the faces of those close to her. Yesterday she brushed my cheek and said, "Well, I'll be...ain't you just as purty as can be."
Jimmy won't cry in front of her. In front of her, he massages her spindly legs and says in that slushing way that those without teeth do, "Hi Honeeeyyy...How's my baby doll?" His eyes light up, and he's so convincing you almost can look past his tears.
Yesterday he told me that he'd bought her the most expensive casket he could find. It looked like marble and had roses on it. It cost him $10,000. He said, "If it were me, you could just throw me in a hole...so long as I'm next to her...but for her, nothing but the best. She comes first."
I told Jimmy to call me if Annie starts to decline rapidly over the weekend, so I could come out and be with them. So that Jimmy wouldn't have to be alone. Jimmy said, "Ma'am, should I call you even if it's the middle of the night?" I assured him that yes, night or day, he should call--that I wanted to be with them.
When he calls I will go. And together we'll weep tears for the woman who sang in both of our hearts in different ways. And even Lexapro can't deny that kind of love.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
I am a step-mother
Oh so long...so long since I have communed with my sweet little blog, which I swear is only read by my sweet husband and duty-bound parents. God love you all (all five of you).
I realize I have this problem. Yes, I'm working on it in therapy (thank you , John). I have a hard, hard, hard, hard, hard time writing anything unless it think it is PERFECT. I have gone so far as to insist that my college English professor NEVER know about this website (despite the fact that he has become a good friend to both me and my father). I have this DEMON editor on my shoulder sometimes. And so, if I'm not completely sure about my writing. I don't write. I won't write. Thus, the long silence after the Annual Conference sermon. I felt spent.
So, I'm trusting this little audience (who in my mind are very few in number) and writing anyway and hoping you'll forgive me.
Here's the deep thoughts of the day:
I am a step-mother. I am privileged to parent two of the most amazing human beings ever created on this planet. Two intoxicatingly beautiful girls whom I adore. And two amazing creations who are never mine. This has it's benefits, as I am free to boast about them outrageously since I can take no credit for their phenomenal genes. But to be a step-parent means that one always cedes parenting. I will never be Tess and Brynn's mother (nor should I be). I am always second-best. And I understand that. And I accept that. And I respect and admire the girls' mother tremendously and would never want to infringe on her role as mother. Never. And yet...I am still always second best. And I am also a competitive person. So this is one of my "growing edges" as they used to say in CPE training...or "another fucking growth experience" as one of my good friends (accurately) names it.
I "inherited" Tess and Brynn when they were 8 and 5 respectively. I loved, loved, loved having a ready-made family to be part of. And I loved, loved, loved the phenomenal parenting that I saw in Robert. I threw myself whole-heartedly into the role of step-mother. I bought the most expensive popcorn popper that Target sold, so that when Tess had her first overnight we would have the best popcorn (just as my step-mother made for me). I went to the library and read up in the particulars of cheetahs so that I would have something to share with a wild-cat loving Brynn. I called and emailed my own step-mother regularly with questions and sought her wisdom and advice.
And what I've realized...the verdict as of July 20, 2005 is that step-parenting is HARD. It's so hard and it's such an exquisite joy. I adore "our" girls...but they will never know my body as their home. I adore "our" girls...but their safety is always found within their mother or father's eyes first (as it should be). I adore "our" girls...but I still feel as if I have no claim on them, no right to their loyalties.
Today I called home while I was working and Robert was home with Brynn. Robert and I chatted--touched base on our day--enlightened each other on our latest insights--reminded each other of pick-up and drop-off times for miscellaneous activities and as I was getting ready to sign off Brynn slid a note to Robert. In her scrawling 8-year-old writing she had written the words, "Tell Christen I said hi." Robert relayed the message. I felt my heart melt. It is in those instances that I realize that step-motherhood may not be for the faint-hearted, but it's worth it. Because she remembered me. And that's something.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Annual Conference Caucus Sermon
It's been so long since I've posted...but I've been a busy girl. Working on my sermon for the Womaen's Caucus Luncheon at Annual Conference in the Church of the Brethren (forgive the exclusive language, this denomination has a ways to go yet in being enlightened in some areas). I've had some requests to post the sermon, so here 'tis. Back to more deliberate bloggage soon...
Winter Wheat
A Sermon Presented by Christen Pettit Miller on July 4, 2005 at the Womaen's Caucus Luncheon.
Listen to the poet Carlo Carretto:
How baffling you are, oh church,
And yet how I love you!
How you have made me suffer,
And yet how much I owe you!
I should like to see you destroyed,
And yet I need your presence.
You have given me so much scandal
And yet you have made me understand sanctity.
I have seen nothing in the world more
Devoted to obscurity, more compromised,
More false, and I have touched nothing more pure,
More generous, more beautiful.
How often I have wanted to shut the doors
Of my soul in your face, and how often
I have prayed to die in the safety of your arms.
No, I cannot free myself from you, because
I am you, although not completely.
And where should I go?
I speak confessionally when I say that this is my lover’s quarrel with the church. I love it, and yet I feel so distanced. I find my home within its embrace, and yet it stifles me. It taught me what it means to be a follower of Christ, and then sometimes it slapped my hands when I tried to act on its teachings. I believe the church is at it’s most authentic, when it unashamedly follows the teachings of Jesus and yet when those ideals become idols, or mere words without action, there is no greater hypocrisy. I have come to recognize that I am not alone in my wrestling.
Last fall I received a phone call at home one evening after supper. Our house was aflutter with girls home from ballet class, one of whom was pirouting through the kitchen as my single-minded husband, who doesn’t do very well at multi-tasking, was fixing her macaroni and cheese. Our youngest child was regaling us with a blow-by-blow of her daily observations of the class bully, Eric D. while simultaneously carrying the miniature dachshund around the kitchen in what looked to be a rather compromising position. It was too much action for my little mind after a twelve hour shift at the hospital where I was a chaplain in an intensive care unit. In the midst of this chaos the phone rang. I picked it up quickly, pulling the cord out in the hallway with me to avoid ensnaring the piroutting eleven-year old or tangling up the dachshund and heard a voice ask, “Christen, would you like to be the speaker at the Womaen’s Caucus luncheon next year at annual conference?” I asked the speaker to repeat the question. She said, “If you’d like time to think about it you can call me back.” I quickly piped up that, “No, of course I didn’t need time, of course I would do it, of course, I would be honored. Yes! Yes!” And then I paused and said, “but what should I say?” She gave me the scripture and told me, I’m sure much more about the theme, but in the midst of that harried evening I wrote only these words, “message of hope…cloud of witnesses…we’re tired and weary.” Wide parameters for one who lives in ambiguity on the mere margins of this denomination. But I have recognized that I don’t live there alone. There are many others out here. I want to thank the Womaen’s Caucus steering committee for asking for my voice, the voice of one not born and bred in the Church of the Brethren with the standard Brethren purebred pedigree. The voice of one who no longer serves the denomination in pastoral ministry at a prominent church. The voice of one who has at times felt like a stranger in a strange land ( but a good land, a land of potlucks, a land where they like to eat lots and lots of ice cream).
The writer of the letter to the Hebrews was not unfamiliar with struggle. For Hebrews was written to a people whose hope and faith were feeling a little shaky. Eugene Peterson disarmingly shares the ancient writer’s purpose. He says in commentary on the text, “It seems odd to have to say so, but too much religion is a bad thing. We can’t get too much of God, can’t get too much faith and obedience, can’t get too much love and worship. But religion…can very well get in the way of what God is doing for us.” The people to whom this letter was addressed had, it seems, gotten caught up in this whole business of religion rather than in simply living their faith. But despite how wrong they may have gotten this religion business… they were still a well-meaning people who had been persecuted for what they believed. They were a people who had been imprisoned for their faith. They were a people who had seen their reputations sullied. Because they had spoken the truth that they knew, because they had witnessed to the abundant love and radical justice that Jesus offered, they found themselves alienated from the culture around them. This letter was written to refresh the weary, to remind them that they needed to persevere. It is a letter that could be written today for those who speak that same message of abundant love and radical justice and are instead met with hostility and cynicism and disregard.
And so the questions begin for us. How are we like those early readers of the letter to the Hebrews? And how are we to run the race and not grow weary? How are we to continue to preach the prophetic words of inclusion and justice when we are questioned with cold exclusion, hostile words, or a dismissive glance? How do we find it within ourselves to continue the work of Jesus, when we feel hopeless? When hope is hard to come by?
I confess that I am not a fan of the “WWJD?” phenomenon. All the products and paraphenalia. It may have started as a simple reminder to follow the steps of Jesus by wearing a simple cloth bracelet. And that’s fine. However, it’s been co-opted by a market economy that’s tried to commodify the very one who resisted commodities and lived a life of simplicity. I can’t imagine Jesus having his old wine poured into a new insulated state-of-the art decanter with “WWMD?”—“What Would Moses Do?”, embossed on it on gold-lettering while wearing his “WWMD?” baseball hat and hugging close to him his “WWMD?” plush teddy bear.
However, having said all that, I believe that asking what it is that Jesus would do in a given situation, and how it is that we can follow in the footsteps of our teacher is still an important question.
The first thing I suggest is that we remember that we cannot go it alone. When we look to our teacher, we see that Jesus pointedly surrounded himself with companions, even when those same disciples misunderstood his motives. When Jesus commanded his followers to spread the news of the gospel they went out two by two. The spiritual writer, Christina Baldwin, in her book Calling the Circle shares these words on the call to community, “All I know is that none of us can travel further by ourselves. Alone, our hearts become stony and guarded. Alone, we become frightened. Alone, each of us can only stand and watch the next tree go down, watch the child fold over in hunger or pain…and whatever intervention we make is not enough. But, when we are traveling in the company of many, then we are a great body that can affect change.”
But there are other reasons to find a space within community. In community, we can also be carried when we feel too weary to continue. The Quaker writer Parker Palmer reminds us that the beauty of community is such that when we reach the limits of our own capacity to love, community means trusting that someone else will be available to pick up where we have left off. Community is that safe and nurturing place which nurses our vision when we are too exhausted.
When I was beginning pastoral ministry, and facing ordination in the South Central Indiana district, I sat down before a Ministry Interviewing Committee. Our meeting was cordial, and I was pleased at how well the process seemed to be flowing until one of the committee members took her Bible out of a bag at her feet and placed it on the table. She rested her hand upon it, and said with conviction, “My Bible is clear on the teachings of homosexuality. Can you explain why you disagree?” The meeting went downhill from there, and I left wondering whether I would be granted ordination. I wept angry tears throughout most of that afternoon. At a board meeting at the church that evening I reported the painful interlude. The room was quiet. And softly, one of the board members spoke up and said, “Christen, let me pray for these people for you right now, because I can see you’re having a hard time praying for them.” Her reminder to me was the reminder that we do not have to go it alone. There are shoulders on which to rest our heavy heads, and arms to carry our limping bodies when we want to do the right thing, and are simply too weary to do so.
The second lesson is this: solitude is full of God. This is something Jesus knew. When we are at our weariest, when we are our most worn, we can seek solace to reconnect with our Creator. When we are left wondering if our work has any meaning, when we question whether our feeble voice speaks with more than a whisper, it is time to return to our God in solitude to renew our souls. It was Jesus who sought solace in the desert, in the hills, away from the crowds. It is in this quiet place away, in this Sabbath time apart, that we can find the peace within to return to the struggle. It is when we pull away and allow ourselves to crawl up into the lap of God to be cradled and rocked for awhile that we can eventually find the strength to walk back into the fray. We need not feel guilty for these moments, or days, or even years away if it renews us to keep the Spirit alive, to continue to follow the teachings of the Christ.
And finally our third lesson. If we follow Jesus, we recognize that we are called, we are commanded to speak truth to power. It was Jesus who spoke truth to the Pharisees about healing on the Sabbath. It was Jesus who turned over tables in the temple when he recognized a sacred space was being abused for commerce. We are empowered by a God who embraces the powerless to raise our voices against injustice and intolerance in every form. We are called to stomp our feet in righteous indignation when justice is not forthcoming. We should recognize our anger as a sacred summons from the living Christ.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the founding mothers of the feminist movement. She was the writer of the Women’s Bible, which was an early feminist interpretation of the scriptures. Toward the end of her life, though, she was growing discouraged. For despite the many years of labor, despite the thousands of miles traveled in campaigning for suffrage across our nation, despite the many women she had inspired and taught, Stanton recognized a sad truth. She would never live to vote. It would not happen in her lifetime. Rather than be discouraged by this outcome, though, Stanton instead wrote these words, “We are sowing winter wheat which the coming spring will see sprout and which other hands than ours will reap and enjoy.” Winter wheat, indeed, for the first woman to cast a ballot did so eighteen years after Stanton’s death.
We who labor in the work that Womaen’s Caucus undertakes are sowing winter wheat. We may never reap and enjoy the seeds that we sow, but it is imperative that we continue the planting.
We sow winter wheat whenever we challenge church search committees who claim that they cannot allow a woman to pastor in their midst based only on her gender. May our daughters and granddaughters never know this kind of discrimination.
We sow winter wheat whenever we stand alongside our lesbian sisters and gay brothers and demand their full inclusion in ordination and celebrate their contributions to our communities of faith. May our daughters and granddaughters, our sons and grandsons take as a given the goodness of diversity.
We sow winter wheat everytime we choose to use inclusive language for our Creator when we preach and when we pray and when we sing. May our sons and grandsons, our daughters and granddaughters know God as more than just a masculine deity.
We sow winter wheat whenever we continue to remind our denomination that language shapes thought, and that for this reason we must find a new name that encompasses all of who we are as a sister and brother-hood. May our daughters and granddaughters always know inclusion, and may our sons and grandsons support such inclusion.
Sisters and brothers, we are sowing winter wheat as we remain committed to the values of Womaen’s Caucus, as we support it with our prayers and with our gifts. The struggle is not over, but we are not alone. Look around you at the companions sitting to your left and to your right and recognize that we are surrounded by a mighty cloud of witnesses. And when the day comes that our children gather the sheaths and bake the bread, all will enjoy a feast in the community of God.
In the name of Christ our liberator, may it be so.
Amen.
Winter Wheat
A Sermon Presented by Christen Pettit Miller on July 4, 2005 at the Womaen's Caucus Luncheon.
Listen to the poet Carlo Carretto:
How baffling you are, oh church,
And yet how I love you!
How you have made me suffer,
And yet how much I owe you!
I should like to see you destroyed,
And yet I need your presence.
You have given me so much scandal
And yet you have made me understand sanctity.
I have seen nothing in the world more
Devoted to obscurity, more compromised,
More false, and I have touched nothing more pure,
More generous, more beautiful.
How often I have wanted to shut the doors
Of my soul in your face, and how often
I have prayed to die in the safety of your arms.
No, I cannot free myself from you, because
I am you, although not completely.
And where should I go?
I speak confessionally when I say that this is my lover’s quarrel with the church. I love it, and yet I feel so distanced. I find my home within its embrace, and yet it stifles me. It taught me what it means to be a follower of Christ, and then sometimes it slapped my hands when I tried to act on its teachings. I believe the church is at it’s most authentic, when it unashamedly follows the teachings of Jesus and yet when those ideals become idols, or mere words without action, there is no greater hypocrisy. I have come to recognize that I am not alone in my wrestling.
Last fall I received a phone call at home one evening after supper. Our house was aflutter with girls home from ballet class, one of whom was pirouting through the kitchen as my single-minded husband, who doesn’t do very well at multi-tasking, was fixing her macaroni and cheese. Our youngest child was regaling us with a blow-by-blow of her daily observations of the class bully, Eric D. while simultaneously carrying the miniature dachshund around the kitchen in what looked to be a rather compromising position. It was too much action for my little mind after a twelve hour shift at the hospital where I was a chaplain in an intensive care unit. In the midst of this chaos the phone rang. I picked it up quickly, pulling the cord out in the hallway with me to avoid ensnaring the piroutting eleven-year old or tangling up the dachshund and heard a voice ask, “Christen, would you like to be the speaker at the Womaen’s Caucus luncheon next year at annual conference?” I asked the speaker to repeat the question. She said, “If you’d like time to think about it you can call me back.” I quickly piped up that, “No, of course I didn’t need time, of course I would do it, of course, I would be honored. Yes! Yes!” And then I paused and said, “but what should I say?” She gave me the scripture and told me, I’m sure much more about the theme, but in the midst of that harried evening I wrote only these words, “message of hope…cloud of witnesses…we’re tired and weary.” Wide parameters for one who lives in ambiguity on the mere margins of this denomination. But I have recognized that I don’t live there alone. There are many others out here. I want to thank the Womaen’s Caucus steering committee for asking for my voice, the voice of one not born and bred in the Church of the Brethren with the standard Brethren purebred pedigree. The voice of one who no longer serves the denomination in pastoral ministry at a prominent church. The voice of one who has at times felt like a stranger in a strange land ( but a good land, a land of potlucks, a land where they like to eat lots and lots of ice cream).
The writer of the letter to the Hebrews was not unfamiliar with struggle. For Hebrews was written to a people whose hope and faith were feeling a little shaky. Eugene Peterson disarmingly shares the ancient writer’s purpose. He says in commentary on the text, “It seems odd to have to say so, but too much religion is a bad thing. We can’t get too much of God, can’t get too much faith and obedience, can’t get too much love and worship. But religion…can very well get in the way of what God is doing for us.” The people to whom this letter was addressed had, it seems, gotten caught up in this whole business of religion rather than in simply living their faith. But despite how wrong they may have gotten this religion business… they were still a well-meaning people who had been persecuted for what they believed. They were a people who had been imprisoned for their faith. They were a people who had seen their reputations sullied. Because they had spoken the truth that they knew, because they had witnessed to the abundant love and radical justice that Jesus offered, they found themselves alienated from the culture around them. This letter was written to refresh the weary, to remind them that they needed to persevere. It is a letter that could be written today for those who speak that same message of abundant love and radical justice and are instead met with hostility and cynicism and disregard.
And so the questions begin for us. How are we like those early readers of the letter to the Hebrews? And how are we to run the race and not grow weary? How are we to continue to preach the prophetic words of inclusion and justice when we are questioned with cold exclusion, hostile words, or a dismissive glance? How do we find it within ourselves to continue the work of Jesus, when we feel hopeless? When hope is hard to come by?
I confess that I am not a fan of the “WWJD?” phenomenon. All the products and paraphenalia. It may have started as a simple reminder to follow the steps of Jesus by wearing a simple cloth bracelet. And that’s fine. However, it’s been co-opted by a market economy that’s tried to commodify the very one who resisted commodities and lived a life of simplicity. I can’t imagine Jesus having his old wine poured into a new insulated state-of-the art decanter with “WWMD?”—“What Would Moses Do?”, embossed on it on gold-lettering while wearing his “WWMD?” baseball hat and hugging close to him his “WWMD?” plush teddy bear.
However, having said all that, I believe that asking what it is that Jesus would do in a given situation, and how it is that we can follow in the footsteps of our teacher is still an important question.
The first thing I suggest is that we remember that we cannot go it alone. When we look to our teacher, we see that Jesus pointedly surrounded himself with companions, even when those same disciples misunderstood his motives. When Jesus commanded his followers to spread the news of the gospel they went out two by two. The spiritual writer, Christina Baldwin, in her book Calling the Circle shares these words on the call to community, “All I know is that none of us can travel further by ourselves. Alone, our hearts become stony and guarded. Alone, we become frightened. Alone, each of us can only stand and watch the next tree go down, watch the child fold over in hunger or pain…and whatever intervention we make is not enough. But, when we are traveling in the company of many, then we are a great body that can affect change.”
But there are other reasons to find a space within community. In community, we can also be carried when we feel too weary to continue. The Quaker writer Parker Palmer reminds us that the beauty of community is such that when we reach the limits of our own capacity to love, community means trusting that someone else will be available to pick up where we have left off. Community is that safe and nurturing place which nurses our vision when we are too exhausted.
When I was beginning pastoral ministry, and facing ordination in the South Central Indiana district, I sat down before a Ministry Interviewing Committee. Our meeting was cordial, and I was pleased at how well the process seemed to be flowing until one of the committee members took her Bible out of a bag at her feet and placed it on the table. She rested her hand upon it, and said with conviction, “My Bible is clear on the teachings of homosexuality. Can you explain why you disagree?” The meeting went downhill from there, and I left wondering whether I would be granted ordination. I wept angry tears throughout most of that afternoon. At a board meeting at the church that evening I reported the painful interlude. The room was quiet. And softly, one of the board members spoke up and said, “Christen, let me pray for these people for you right now, because I can see you’re having a hard time praying for them.” Her reminder to me was the reminder that we do not have to go it alone. There are shoulders on which to rest our heavy heads, and arms to carry our limping bodies when we want to do the right thing, and are simply too weary to do so.
The second lesson is this: solitude is full of God. This is something Jesus knew. When we are at our weariest, when we are our most worn, we can seek solace to reconnect with our Creator. When we are left wondering if our work has any meaning, when we question whether our feeble voice speaks with more than a whisper, it is time to return to our God in solitude to renew our souls. It was Jesus who sought solace in the desert, in the hills, away from the crowds. It is in this quiet place away, in this Sabbath time apart, that we can find the peace within to return to the struggle. It is when we pull away and allow ourselves to crawl up into the lap of God to be cradled and rocked for awhile that we can eventually find the strength to walk back into the fray. We need not feel guilty for these moments, or days, or even years away if it renews us to keep the Spirit alive, to continue to follow the teachings of the Christ.
And finally our third lesson. If we follow Jesus, we recognize that we are called, we are commanded to speak truth to power. It was Jesus who spoke truth to the Pharisees about healing on the Sabbath. It was Jesus who turned over tables in the temple when he recognized a sacred space was being abused for commerce. We are empowered by a God who embraces the powerless to raise our voices against injustice and intolerance in every form. We are called to stomp our feet in righteous indignation when justice is not forthcoming. We should recognize our anger as a sacred summons from the living Christ.
Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the founding mothers of the feminist movement. She was the writer of the Women’s Bible, which was an early feminist interpretation of the scriptures. Toward the end of her life, though, she was growing discouraged. For despite the many years of labor, despite the thousands of miles traveled in campaigning for suffrage across our nation, despite the many women she had inspired and taught, Stanton recognized a sad truth. She would never live to vote. It would not happen in her lifetime. Rather than be discouraged by this outcome, though, Stanton instead wrote these words, “We are sowing winter wheat which the coming spring will see sprout and which other hands than ours will reap and enjoy.” Winter wheat, indeed, for the first woman to cast a ballot did so eighteen years after Stanton’s death.
We who labor in the work that Womaen’s Caucus undertakes are sowing winter wheat. We may never reap and enjoy the seeds that we sow, but it is imperative that we continue the planting.
We sow winter wheat whenever we challenge church search committees who claim that they cannot allow a woman to pastor in their midst based only on her gender. May our daughters and granddaughters never know this kind of discrimination.
We sow winter wheat whenever we stand alongside our lesbian sisters and gay brothers and demand their full inclusion in ordination and celebrate their contributions to our communities of faith. May our daughters and granddaughters, our sons and grandsons take as a given the goodness of diversity.
We sow winter wheat everytime we choose to use inclusive language for our Creator when we preach and when we pray and when we sing. May our sons and grandsons, our daughters and granddaughters know God as more than just a masculine deity.
We sow winter wheat whenever we continue to remind our denomination that language shapes thought, and that for this reason we must find a new name that encompasses all of who we are as a sister and brother-hood. May our daughters and granddaughters always know inclusion, and may our sons and grandsons support such inclusion.
Sisters and brothers, we are sowing winter wheat as we remain committed to the values of Womaen’s Caucus, as we support it with our prayers and with our gifts. The struggle is not over, but we are not alone. Look around you at the companions sitting to your left and to your right and recognize that we are surrounded by a mighty cloud of witnesses. And when the day comes that our children gather the sheaths and bake the bread, all will enjoy a feast in the community of God.
In the name of Christ our liberator, may it be so.
Amen.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Embodied Energy
As I laced my Nike running shoes tonight I thought about how impractical it was for me to be running in an atmosphere where the temperature hovers at 90 degrees, with equal amounts of humidity. All day, I have walked outside only to be met with a fiery inferno, except that a fiery inferno would be dry heat.
I began running in April of 1991, my first year of college, when I was 19 years old. I am now 33, and am still startled that I feel like pulling lycra and Spandex over my thighs, and that then I have the audacity to show said thighs in public. Further, I am shocked that I have remained devoted to running, even if it is only a measly 3 mile route, when it once was five.
The reasons I began running I shamefully admit, were not for the exhilarated "high" most runners feel, not for the unity with nature, or because Oprah told me to, but rather because I felt uncomfortable with my body image (imagine--feeling uncomfortable in your body at 118 lbs?!?). For a few years the running was an obsession, an activity I attacked almost angrily. Slowly, my running mellowed into a slightly more, dare I say, relaxing jaunt, sort of like taking my head on vacation, while my body did all the hard work.
When I pastored a church in North Manchester, Indiana my congregants in that small community could tell when it was my week to preach, based on how many days that week they'd seen me running along the country roads or small-town avenues, muttering to myself. I did my best sermon preparation on those back roads. I prided myself on how muscular my legs were during the Lenten season.
Today I felt nervous as I stretched my hamstrings, and adjusted the cords on my newly acquired portable headphones. With trepidation my feet pounded into the sidewalk of our neighborhood the syncopated rhythm with which I am so familiar. Why the case of nerves? I don't know. Perhaps it is instead an anxious excitement as my muscles prepare, as I feel the embodied energy of the Spirit.
In the last half mile of my run, I began to tire. The sun silhouetted my body on the pavement as I ran eastward. I didn't plan to have my shadow in front of me, the sun to my back as I struggled up the last hill, but I have found that it is the perfect motivation. I watch the girl who has become woman in front of me, her ponytail swinging and try to catch her. My body has changed. My hips have widened, where they once were slim. That ponytail has gotten shorter, where it once brushed my back. The Spirit, though, has fired us both. The Spirit, though, reminds me that we are one. Thanks be to God.
I began running in April of 1991, my first year of college, when I was 19 years old. I am now 33, and am still startled that I feel like pulling lycra and Spandex over my thighs, and that then I have the audacity to show said thighs in public. Further, I am shocked that I have remained devoted to running, even if it is only a measly 3 mile route, when it once was five.
The reasons I began running I shamefully admit, were not for the exhilarated "high" most runners feel, not for the unity with nature, or because Oprah told me to, but rather because I felt uncomfortable with my body image (imagine--feeling uncomfortable in your body at 118 lbs?!?). For a few years the running was an obsession, an activity I attacked almost angrily. Slowly, my running mellowed into a slightly more, dare I say, relaxing jaunt, sort of like taking my head on vacation, while my body did all the hard work.
When I pastored a church in North Manchester, Indiana my congregants in that small community could tell when it was my week to preach, based on how many days that week they'd seen me running along the country roads or small-town avenues, muttering to myself. I did my best sermon preparation on those back roads. I prided myself on how muscular my legs were during the Lenten season.
Today I felt nervous as I stretched my hamstrings, and adjusted the cords on my newly acquired portable headphones. With trepidation my feet pounded into the sidewalk of our neighborhood the syncopated rhythm with which I am so familiar. Why the case of nerves? I don't know. Perhaps it is instead an anxious excitement as my muscles prepare, as I feel the embodied energy of the Spirit.
In the last half mile of my run, I began to tire. The sun silhouetted my body on the pavement as I ran eastward. I didn't plan to have my shadow in front of me, the sun to my back as I struggled up the last hill, but I have found that it is the perfect motivation. I watch the girl who has become woman in front of me, her ponytail swinging and try to catch her. My body has changed. My hips have widened, where they once were slim. That ponytail has gotten shorter, where it once brushed my back. The Spirit, though, has fired us both. The Spirit, though, reminds me that we are one. Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Rock Star Elmo
One of my book group list-serv buddies told me, "Christen, write EVERY DAY." (Okay, he didn't type it in caps like that, but still it seemed a stern admonition). The idea was, even if you don't think you've got a lot to say, you've got somethin' to say. So, bare with me, friends and foes of the blogging universe, cause this contemplative chick is thinkin' there ain't much here...
I have, however, been meaning to share with you all a little somethin' somethin' from a recent hospice jaunt (somehow "somethin' somethin'" and "hospice" don't work quite in the same sentence). Regardless...
It was Friday afternoon. It was my last visit of the day. I was tired. I was weary. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I was really looking forward to the end of the week...and a nice cold glass of chardonay with some baked doritos on the side (my snack of choice--I find the nacho cheesy goodness mixes well with the dry white grape succulence). My last visit of the day was to see a sweet woman who was in her 90s. This woman was also in rather good health, despite her status as a Hospice patient. She was a delightful woman, who reminded me a great deal of the wonderful grandmother of mine who died in the end of January. I found myself immediately smitten with Miss A. and kept asking more and more questions so I could hear her spin tales of her life growing up in Virginia. I adored Miss A.
Sitting on a beautiful antique chair, amongst Miss A.'s well-cared for houseplants and African violets, and her elegant Hummels and Queen Anne furniture, there was a strange anachronistic visitor. Sitting on that beautiful walnut chair, was a "Rock Star Elmo" (and believe me brothers and sisters, if I knew how to link things together I'd pass a picture on to you from a Toys 'R Us website of said creature). Elmo, as you probably know, is the furry red monster from Sesame Street who talks with a sweet little voice. Well, "Rock Star Elmo" is sort of Sesame Street Elmo's greaser counterpart (again, if there were a way I knew how to do that #@*&% link thing, I'd link you to an Outsiders movie website to compare the difference between "soc" and "greaser" types).
RSE (my new name for him) sat on the chair in all his rock star glory, eyeing me, the hospice chaplain...sort of like he was saying, "Yo, you think my lady's gonna die soon, punk?" I asked Miss A. where Elmo came from, and instead of answering she rose to carry him in her loving arms over to where I was seated on the aforementioned Queen Anne furniture. Whilst holding RSE, I was encouraged to squeeze his little hand (paw?) so that RSE could regale me with a few words of wisdom.
Upon the first squeeze, he sang me some 1950s rock ditty that I can't recall here. But, hark, on the second squeeze he said, in his little RSE voice, "Let's Rock the House!" The voice was filled with a joie de' vive that I cannot adequately express here apart from asking you to raise your voice to its highest possible decibal and repeat, happily and ecstatically as if you were just told that it wouldn't be long before Cat Stevens did indeed renounce his Islamic faith and begin singing again, "Let's Rock the house!!!!"
At first, I didn't understand exactly what Little Elmo was asking of me, and so I cocked my head and said, "Miss A.? What was it that Elmo said?" She smiled, adjusted her hearing aide, and shrugged saying only, "I think it says, 'What the hell!' But, what do I know?"
I love my job.
I have, however, been meaning to share with you all a little somethin' somethin' from a recent hospice jaunt (somehow "somethin' somethin'" and "hospice" don't work quite in the same sentence). Regardless...
It was Friday afternoon. It was my last visit of the day. I was tired. I was weary. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I was really looking forward to the end of the week...and a nice cold glass of chardonay with some baked doritos on the side (my snack of choice--I find the nacho cheesy goodness mixes well with the dry white grape succulence). My last visit of the day was to see a sweet woman who was in her 90s. This woman was also in rather good health, despite her status as a Hospice patient. She was a delightful woman, who reminded me a great deal of the wonderful grandmother of mine who died in the end of January. I found myself immediately smitten with Miss A. and kept asking more and more questions so I could hear her spin tales of her life growing up in Virginia. I adored Miss A.
Sitting on a beautiful antique chair, amongst Miss A.'s well-cared for houseplants and African violets, and her elegant Hummels and Queen Anne furniture, there was a strange anachronistic visitor. Sitting on that beautiful walnut chair, was a "Rock Star Elmo" (and believe me brothers and sisters, if I knew how to link things together I'd pass a picture on to you from a Toys 'R Us website of said creature). Elmo, as you probably know, is the furry red monster from Sesame Street who talks with a sweet little voice. Well, "Rock Star Elmo" is sort of Sesame Street Elmo's greaser counterpart (again, if there were a way I knew how to do that #@*&% link thing, I'd link you to an Outsiders movie website to compare the difference between "soc" and "greaser" types).
RSE (my new name for him) sat on the chair in all his rock star glory, eyeing me, the hospice chaplain...sort of like he was saying, "Yo, you think my lady's gonna die soon, punk?" I asked Miss A. where Elmo came from, and instead of answering she rose to carry him in her loving arms over to where I was seated on the aforementioned Queen Anne furniture. Whilst holding RSE, I was encouraged to squeeze his little hand (paw?) so that RSE could regale me with a few words of wisdom.
Upon the first squeeze, he sang me some 1950s rock ditty that I can't recall here. But, hark, on the second squeeze he said, in his little RSE voice, "Let's Rock the House!" The voice was filled with a joie de' vive that I cannot adequately express here apart from asking you to raise your voice to its highest possible decibal and repeat, happily and ecstatically as if you were just told that it wouldn't be long before Cat Stevens did indeed renounce his Islamic faith and begin singing again, "Let's Rock the house!!!!"
At first, I didn't understand exactly what Little Elmo was asking of me, and so I cocked my head and said, "Miss A.? What was it that Elmo said?" She smiled, adjusted her hearing aide, and shrugged saying only, "I think it says, 'What the hell!' But, what do I know?"
I love my job.
Monday, June 13, 2005
A fight with the insurance company
This is a not so contemplative post...R and I have been fighting with our health insurance about covering a claim. I had a little fun with the form letters that we sent (yet again) and thought I'd share the joy. My fear, however, is that I'll have some imbecile read the claim and think that I mean it...enjoy.
June 13, 2005
To Whom it May Concern,
In regard to Claim Number: XXXXXXXX in Patient Account: XXXXXXXX. Here is the information requested on the claim form for the events which led to my Emergency Room visit on 5/11/05.
In regard to subrogation:
I hope this clears up this unfortunate incident. Incidentally, both the cat and I are healing quite well, thank you.
Yours truly,
The Contemplative Chaplain
June 13, 2005
To Whom it May Concern,
In regard to Claim Number: XXXXXXXX in Patient Account: XXXXXXXX. Here is the information requested on the claim form for the events which led to my Emergency Room visit on 5/11/05.
In regard to subrogation:
- Where did the accident occur? It was not technically an “accident” it was, rather a cat bite which occurred in our home, by our own cat (who had a broken leg and was being transported to the vet. The cat is a calm, tame, rather portly cat [topping the scales at a whopping 21 lbs.], but was in tremendous pain at the time and responded as animals [and some humans] do when in pain).
- Who was involved? Me, Christen, and the cat, Cooper.
- Who are the insurance carriers? Our insurance. That would be: ______ College, Group No: XXX, Division: XXX. (The cat has no insurance, obviously, as he is a cat).
- Were the police involved? Heavens, no.
- Do you or anyone involved have an attorney? I do not. I assume the cat does not as well, as he does not has opposable thumbs, and thus would not have been able to pick up a telephone and contact an attorney. However, cats are wily creatures and he has been looking at me strangely, of late.
I hope this clears up this unfortunate incident. Incidentally, both the cat and I are healing quite well, thank you.
Yours truly,
The Contemplative Chaplain
Friday, June 10, 2005
Feet
I was running this evening in the hot, humid, sticky Northeastern Indiana summer and was trying to focus my mind on things other than the sweat trickling down my forehead into my eyes. I was trying to find even one thing to be happy about while my feet were thumping the cement. And here's my brilliant realization. I am thankful for my feet. Yes, brothers and sisters, this is what I contemplated this evening...this hot evening.
Having a father who had to give up running in his 40s due to his arthritic feet, I am sometimes mindful of how many good years I have left. And even when it's so, so damn hot, my wimpy three mile runs are still a source of reflection for me. I used to say that you could tell the weeks I was preaching based on how many miles I ran in the small hamlet of North Manchester.
I wrote this little ditty about my feet...an homage of sorts.
These feet have walked acres--
calloused and rubbed raw--
broken teeny tiny bones
from the strange, heavy-set girl who
tripped during a high school
Campus Life event--
and fell--
oh-so-clumsily on them.
but they carried me, painfully,
slowly, away,
so she wouldn't have to see how much it hurt.
These feet have weathered
splinters and pine needles,
they've relished fuzzy wool slippers,
and tolerated bright red toenail polish.
These feet have been kneaded,
and reflexologied.
They've been soaked in Epson salts,
and washed in Love Feasts
by tired old white-haired women
who pat them gently dry.
These feet are a bit pathetic,
the littlest toes don't really
move on their own,
the first three are all the same length.
They are a freak show of sorts.
but I know their lineage,
they come from hearty stock,
see my own feet
when I sit at the swimming hole
and watch my Aunt Patty
digging her own, identical toes in the tiny rocks.
I spend so little time appreciating them, really--
never really stopped much to thank them--
these draft-horses of my body--
for if I did, I may have to marvel at each step.
(And then I'd never get out of this damn heat.)
Having a father who had to give up running in his 40s due to his arthritic feet, I am sometimes mindful of how many good years I have left. And even when it's so, so damn hot, my wimpy three mile runs are still a source of reflection for me. I used to say that you could tell the weeks I was preaching based on how many miles I ran in the small hamlet of North Manchester.
I wrote this little ditty about my feet...an homage of sorts.
These feet have walked acres--
calloused and rubbed raw--
broken teeny tiny bones
from the strange, heavy-set girl who
tripped during a high school
Campus Life event--
and fell--
oh-so-clumsily on them.
but they carried me, painfully,
slowly, away,
so she wouldn't have to see how much it hurt.
These feet have weathered
splinters and pine needles,
they've relished fuzzy wool slippers,
and tolerated bright red toenail polish.
These feet have been kneaded,
and reflexologied.
They've been soaked in Epson salts,
and washed in Love Feasts
by tired old white-haired women
who pat them gently dry.
These feet are a bit pathetic,
the littlest toes don't really
move on their own,
the first three are all the same length.
They are a freak show of sorts.
but I know their lineage,
they come from hearty stock,
see my own feet
when I sit at the swimming hole
and watch my Aunt Patty
digging her own, identical toes in the tiny rocks.
I spend so little time appreciating them, really--
never really stopped much to thank them--
these draft-horses of my body--
for if I did, I may have to marvel at each step.
(And then I'd never get out of this damn heat.)
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Homesick
I have been homesick for my women friends lately. I'm homesick for The Sisters, the other seven women who serve as my spiritual home. Two of them recently had babies, and it aches that this auntie can't marvel at each one of Vaughn's tiny toes, or stare in wonder at Bethany's new baby eyes. I'm homesick for other women's groups...for other times and places when I have gathered in the midst of solace and silliness. Fort Wayne in June of 2005 seems like a distant and foreign land compared to other years and other places in my life.
We are from dusk
and candles
and the earthy illuminations
which make our faces shine
and our eyes sparkle.
We are from spices
and the exotic,
the always herbal,
and the intoxicatingly sweet.
We are from silence
the tick of the clock
the sigh of a cat
the Breathing, Breathing, Breathing
stillness.
We are from "I remember's"
and "I sense's"
from the "this hurts" and the "this heals."
We are from tears shared
and griefs carried--
We are from secret whisperings
and growing vulnerabilities.
We are from a feminine God
and as we cradle one another
in the turning of our faces
to glance at the divine--
we stare into one another's eyes.
We are from dusk
and candles
and the earthy illuminations
which make our faces shine
and our eyes sparkle.
We are from spices
and the exotic,
the always herbal,
and the intoxicatingly sweet.
We are from silence
the tick of the clock
the sigh of a cat
the Breathing, Breathing, Breathing
stillness.
We are from "I remember's"
and "I sense's"
from the "this hurts" and the "this heals."
We are from tears shared
and griefs carried--
We are from secret whisperings
and growing vulnerabilities.
We are from a feminine God
and as we cradle one another
in the turning of our faces
to glance at the divine--
we stare into one another's eyes.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Jesse is in his late 50s. I sat across from him in his trailer, next to him on the couch, listening carefully as he told me the stories of his life, or at least the stories he wanted to tell this earnest young thing who told him she was the chaplain from Hospice. When I walked in he said, "Now, how old are you?" When I told him I was 33 he seemed relieved. Perhaps he didn't want the care of his spirit left in the hands of a youngster. My ineptitude can be hidden with age, perhaps.
Madeline L'Engle has written that the great thing about getting older is that one never loses all the other ages they have been. Jesse's eyes reflected the gentle spirit of a young boy growing up on a small farm north of Fort Wayne. The deep crag between his eyes told me stories about how it felt to return from a war in Vietnam when you feel as if you're country abandoned you, or how it feels to recognize that your world has become small, because you have to live in your trailer, tethered to your oxygen tank, a literal life-line. Jesse is quick to try to hide these realities though, he is quick to smile, and it is only when you lean closer, close enough to smell his aftershave, that you see to the core.
"What gives you hope now, Jesse?" I asked. "Hospice," he said, "you won't leave me."
No, we won't. And we're not the only one.
Madeline L'Engle has written that the great thing about getting older is that one never loses all the other ages they have been. Jesse's eyes reflected the gentle spirit of a young boy growing up on a small farm north of Fort Wayne. The deep crag between his eyes told me stories about how it felt to return from a war in Vietnam when you feel as if you're country abandoned you, or how it feels to recognize that your world has become small, because you have to live in your trailer, tethered to your oxygen tank, a literal life-line. Jesse is quick to try to hide these realities though, he is quick to smile, and it is only when you lean closer, close enough to smell his aftershave, that you see to the core.
"What gives you hope now, Jesse?" I asked. "Hospice," he said, "you won't leave me."
No, we won't. And we're not the only one.
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