Celebration, Loss & Raccoons

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*Kraccckthwump!*

It sounded for all the world like a bookshelf or other piece of furniture had toppled and crashed to the floor.  I ran into the living room, looking for the mess – only to find that everything was fine.  Chuck went into the basement in search of the offending stack of boxes – but found nothing.  Again, all appeared to be well.

Then the scratching started.  And the screeching.  And the mewing.

Something in our house was alive and inside the wall.

We went through the process of alerting the landlord and leaving messages for the local animal control agencies, but it was after 5pm.  Everything was closed for the day.  Eventually, we popped in earplugs, finished out the evening and went to sleep.

In the morning, all was silent.  For a moment.  But then Chuck went down to the basement to check on some laundry and there they were:  three baby raccoons.

Somehow, those fuzzy wobbly creatures had managed to work their way through the wall and into the basement while we slept.  One part vicious, three parts precious, they wriggled and mewed around the basement with a certain urgency, never stopping to rest or take in their surroundings.

The kids were looking for mom.

As it turns out, mom was no longer in the picture.  More than likely, during our big rainstorm her den was flooded and she made the decision to move the kids to higher, dryer ground.  The gap in our chimney seemed perfect, so one by one she lugged each wriggling cub up a tree, across the roof and up the chimney, stuffing them away where they would be safe.  After that, she left and, likely hit by a car, did not return.  The kids were on their own.  Not understanding, they began to search for her and, in their searching, they fell down a gap into our wall, ultimately winding up in our basement, hungry and alone.

——–

All week my heart has ached for those little raccoons.  Perhaps it’s because a dear friend recently lost her mother, or perhaps it’s because the hype of Mother’s Day always reminds me of all the people who grieve for mothers lost, mothers absent or neglectful, children gone or children never had.  Perhaps it’s all of that and more.  One way or the other, the thought of cubs lost in a dark and unknown place, thirsting for one who will not return…well, the thought destroys me.

It also convicts me.

So often, dear Church, we do a poor job of remembering these losses when this holiday rolls around.   We give out carnations or daisies to the moms in worship and, if we’re really sensitive and enlightened, we also present flowers to every sister, daughter, aunt and friend in the place.  No one is left out, except for the grief.

In the midst of our celebration, and our fear of truly acknowledging the ugly in the world while inside our safe sanctuaries, we sometimes miss the opportunity to name that unnamed guest in our midst: Loss.

The women taken in childbirth, lost to violence or addiction or mental illness, killed by car wrecks or cancer or other disease.  The children lost to SIDS, birth defects, illness or miscarriage.  The abortions.  The empty cradles caused by infertility.  All of these losses and more will be present in the pews this Sunday, silent specters whispering despair in the pauses between prayer and song.

And if we recognize them, if we name them gently and frankly within the space we’ve carved out for worship, it is holy.  There is no diminishing of our celebration and joy when we acknowledge those who have come before us and those who will not follow us.  Instead, having named that ghostly grief, we give it flesh – and the dry bones of those we loved and lost (or never had) can get up and dance, if only for a moment.

We are a resurrection people.  At our best, we know that death and loss and despair do not have the final word – but instead, there is hope for new life and reunion and joy within the Kin-dom of God.  But in order for resurrection to be possible, we must acknowledge death.  In order for joy to be made real, we must acknowledge despair and grief.   We must name them instead of avoiding them – even when it is frightening or unsettling to do so.

Avoidance and hope are poor dance partners.  They simply can’t sync up, moving to two entirely different beats.  So, as we compose and orchestrate our worship for this Mother’s Day, let’s not invite avoidance to the party.  We don’t have to be disingenuous or go overboard with our lamentations – but we do need to save some space for those we have lost.

In so doing, our celebration is not diminished but broadened because we honor the lives and gifts of women in all places and all times: mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, friends…and maybe even raccoons.

A Slice of Heaven

Going through the 800+ pictures I took during April’s California trip and ran across this: our backyard at the rental house in Sonoma. This view has been in the back of my mind ever since, nagging me with sweetness, beauty and rest.

A Slice of Heaven

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Why We Need Planned Parenthood

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I try not to blog-rant very often – but this afternoon I can’t help myself. The announcement about Susan G. Komen For the Cure halting funding for breast cancer screenings at Planned Parenthood pushed me right over the edge.

You see, not all that many years ago, Planned Parenthood could have saved my life.

Between student loans, a starting youth ministry salary and a few other medical debts, I was cash poor.  What’s more, I was underinsured – my health insurance provider treated womanhood as a preexisting condition and wasn’t much help when it came to gynecological screenings and other services.  So, rather than finding a health care provider I couldn’t afford to pay, I went to Planned Parenthood.

Over the course of four years, PP was my provider and resource for women’s health.  I didn’t “freeload” – their sliding payment scale made it possible for me to pay what I could.  I paid more than some women, and less than others.  In a sense, we were all in it together.

I didn’t get an abortion as a Planned Parenthood client.  I suppose I could have if I’d had and felt the need, but that isn’t the point.  The point is that I got the care I needed.  Because I could afford it, I scheduled those necessary yearly appointments.  I actually showed up for annual screenings instead of ignoring the reminder cards that arrived in my mailbox.  And, when one of those annual exams indicated the possibility of cervical cancer – I was able to afford the colposcopy that let me know the abnormal cells were benign.

If it had been cancer, and I hadn’t had Planned Parenthood, I wouldn’t have known until it was too late.

—

When I look at the news and see the attacks made on Planned Parenthood by some politicians and religious leaders, the demands that Planned Parenthood lose all of its funding because 3% of their budget goes towards abortions – when I see these things it literally makes me sick to my stomach.

What Planned Parenthood Actually Does

The cancer screenings, STI screenings and treatment, family planning services (including contraception) and other women’s health care – all of that should be thrown away (along with the women and men whose health and lives depend upon it) because of one issue?  I don’t think so.

Regardless of your stance on abortion, you should care about the consequences of this sort of defunding.  Regardless of your stance on abortion, you should care that people who live at, below or near the poverty line will be hardest hit by this.  In the end, this is not about abortion.  This is about a callous disregard for the lives of men and women who have no access to the top of the line health care that policymakers seem to take for granted – and it is unacceptable.

If policymakers really want to take down Planned Parenthood, if they are truly hell bent upon it – then they had better be prepared to create and fund other avenues for acquiring low-cost and free women’s healthcare.  Those avenues had better be prepared to accept ALL of the people who currently rely upon Planned Parenthood, and then some.  And they had better do it BEFORE they hamstring what is already in place.

If they don’t – if we don’t – people will fall through the cracks.  Cancer will go undetected.  STI rates and unplanned pregnancy rates will increase – and there will be even more women in search of the abortions we tried to eradicate.  People will die – and their blood will be on our hands.

I’m not willing to see that happen.  And I’m not willing to tear down an organization that has helped millions of women and men (including me) to be healthy, educated and whole.  So I’m ranting about it, but I’ll also be writing letters and helping to educate others about the need for quality affordable community healthcare.

What will you do?

Me? McGonagall?

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I love the Harry Potter books and films.   I’m pretty much smitten with the characters, the detailed map of a magical world both behind and within our own muggle realm, the ways that the mundane struggles of kids in a boarding school become enmeshed with the cosmic struggles of good versus evil…all of it.  Man, oh man, do I love Harry Potter.

Beyond my fascination with the story (I’m a super geek, as demonstrated by my passion for science fiction and high fantasy narratives), I’ve also learned something intriguing about myself while following Harry and his comrades through those ever-shifting halls:  I most strongly identify with Minerva McGonagall, the no-nonsense yet compassionate professor of transfiguration at Hogwarts.

At first this realization was rather alarming.  If I identify with one of the profs, does that mean I’m getting old?  Why McGonagall?  Why not that lovely Luna Lovegood?  Why not smart and perpetually-prepared Hermione Granger?  There was certainly a time in my life when I might have identified with either of them – and not one of the teachers. 

I suppose that on the surface the answer is pretty obvious.  I am getting older and now I’m a teacher of sorts – a figure within the institution whose job is to teach, care for and walk alongside teenagers.  Of course I identify with one of the professors!

But why McGonagall?  Is it because she’s one of the few women on staff?  Perhaps.  But after watching the last of the films (HP 7.2) a couple times and experiencing her all-consuming desire to protect those kids with such intense, gut-wrenching determination that during both showings I found myself shaking, teary-eyed in the theater seat – well, after that I’ve begun to think that there might be a bit more to this than my age, profession or gender.

It could be that I’m ridiculous.  A grown woman weeping during magical movie battles?  Come on now…

I am, admittedly, a little bit on the silly side more often than not.  But I don’t think that’s what’s going on either.  Instead, I believe something in Rowling’s storytelling has struck a chord deep inside me, rattling loose an instinct that I never really knew I had, or at least never recognized as such:  the desire to protect.  When I read the Harry Potter books (or watch the films), especially from Order of the Phoenix onward, and I see the way the world is crumbling into chaos around those kids, every fiber of my being screams “They’re only children!  Why does it have to be them who must save the world??”.  I reckon Minerva McGonagall wonders the same thing. 

In similar fashion, when I look at this world of ours and see the way chaos laps at us from every direction, every bit of me starts to howl that same refrain.  Why must it be these kids, these precious ones in my care who must solve our problems and stand in the face of so much hatred, violence and destruction?  “They’re only children!  Why does it have to be them who must save the world??”

So there it is.  I want to protect “my” kids.  I want to keep them from harm and put a wicked boot in anyone and anything that threatens their well-being.  It’s a normal, perhaps maternal/parental instinct – and yet it is also deeply unsettling.  Why?  Because now that I know it is there, I have to tend it. 

A drive to protect can become an act of violence against the very person or thing you are protecting.  Hemming someone in, eating away at her freedom of movement or voice or action, perpetually doing for the other instead of letting him do for himself – all of these things ultimately harm more than they help.  And yet they are so tempting when you love someone and yearn for their safety.

This is why I both identify with and feel drawn to the character of Professor McGonagall:  in spite of her consuming desire to protect the students at Hogwarts, she only does what she is especially able to do and then she gets out of their way.   She knows her students.  She knows their gifts.  And even though it pains her to see them in harm’s way, she recognizes that they are a part of things and must be allowed to help.  So she does her bit and helps those students to discern and play out their parts.  She’d die for them if it came to that, but she won’t force them to die the slow death that comes from squelched talents, hopes and dreams all in the name of safety.

I want to protect “my” kids, but not at the expense of their potential.  It’s terribly risky business, but that’s who I want to be – which is why I’m a Minerva McGonagall. 

 

Confessions of a Craft Nut

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Secretly, I’m a bit of a craft nut. I’ve been embracing it more and more in the last couple of years, in part because I discovered amigurumi (a type of crochet that makes delightful little stuffed animals – see the last two pictures if you’re wondering what that looks like). Could be I’m just getting older and turning into my mother.

Anyhow, for our anniversary (Four years! Woohoo!) Chuck got me a Cricut machine – and I’m thrilled! It cuts paper into all sorts of fun shapes, depending upon the design cartridge one is using. Not the sort of thing I would have wanted ten years ago, but now I’m geeking out about it.

What can one do with these little paper cuttings, you ask? For starters, I’m working on homemade tags (for gifts as well as for the crocheted critters I may be selling around Christmas this year, if I get cracking…). They’re not quite done – I plan to give them a coat of modge podge to make them shiny/strong – but wanted to share them anyway. Enjoy:

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Utoya… (Memories and Hopes)

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**Note**  I wrote this on July 22, 2011 – after hearing about the massacre that took place on Utoya that day.  Because I was at camp, and because I felt too raw to do anything beyond scribbling it out in longhand, the post didn’t make it here until today.  Much has come to light in the days that have followed, but this post does not reflect any of that information.

In 1999, the summer after my junior year of college, I was sent to Norway to represent the Council of Ecumenical Student Christian Ministries (CESCM) at a World Student Christian Federation (WSCF) conference held in honor of a milestone anniversary of the Norwegian Student Christian Movement.  Though I flew into Oslo and spent the afternoon finding my way through the city and its famous sculpture park, the event actually took place on a tiny island outside of the capital: Utoya.

It was the first time I traveled outside of the US completely on my own, the first time I was the only US student present in a large gathering of people from around the world, the first time I found myself in a position where there weren’t others who shared my assumptions, my norms, my cultural biases.  And it was the last time I traveled internationally before 9-11.  The experience was transformative…and it hurt.  

There were various speakers called in to discuss the concept of utopia and whether or not it has a place within Christian ecumenical dialogue/work.  The talks were fascinating, but not what I carried back with me when I returned home to Texas.  What’s stuck with me were the one on one conversations, the relationships formed in the in between times.

In between speakers and other scheduled activities, we had large spans of free time to mingle – time that turned into me fielding questions and accusations about the US government’s involvement in world affairs.  Whether I liked it or not, I was the only representative of the US on that island, so every question, every grievance fell in my lap.

In particular, a Serbian student named Lazar took every opportunity to lay into me for the NATO bombings in Serbia.  He’d never met an American, and I’d never met a Serbian.  We only knew what our respective news outlets and politicians were telling us – so it started off with some rough encounters.  There wasn’t much I could say because I was so ignorant of the situation, the history, the messiness of it all (on all sides).  He’d accuse, I’d listen.  He’d raise his voice as he recounted events I’d never heard of.  I’d quietly take it in, awash in disbelief or horror or anger or grief.    

Somewhere in those encounters, a miracle took place.  We became friends.  Noting my silence, Lazar started asking questions instead of lobbing accusations.  Together, we started wading through layers of propaganda, both Serbian and American.  Together, we discovered gray in the midst of black and white.  Together, we learned humility.

Transformation took place on that island.  Relational webs were woven from that point on the globe and stretched across borders, oceans, ideologies.  Dayanthi in Sri Lanka, Marcus in Finland, Thandiwe in Zambia, Lazar in Serbia, Moatlhudi in South Africa, Thorsten in Germany, Lara in the US…we (and many others) experienced a taste of what utopia might bring.  In those moments of listening, laughing, straining and stretching, we caught a shimmer of the Kin-dom of God.

—–

So much has changed in the years that have passed.  Though the world was never “safe” or “secure”, the specter of terror has crept into new markets.  That relational web still remains, but the ground beneath it has shifted and begun to crumble.  These last twelve years I’ve teetered between cynicism and hope – one moment knowing the hopes we shared on Utoya are a pipe dream, and another moment trusting that even in the worst of times the Kin-dom is still breaking into the world.  

And then, today, during nap time at our high school summer camp, I got word via Twitter of another attack.  Oslo is trending – a bomb has gone off in the city – and Utoya has also become a hashtag.  Today that island, upon which my life was changed, is stained with the blood of children – campers the same age as these teens sleeping around me.  Campers murdered by someone who would do anything to destroy these webs that draw us near to one another.

In the midst of this terrible news, and this consuming grief, I’m completely at a loss.  What can be done to counter such hatred?  What can be done when utopia is stained with the blood of so many innocent kids?  

I have no idea – except that I know the web must continue to be woven.  

Thy Kin-dom come…on earth as it is in heaven.

Let’s Talk…About Sex?

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A Gathering Voices Post

This weekend I’ll be leading workshops on some hows and whys of talking about sex(uality) and embodiment in our local congregations. It’s a tricky subject and one that, though I’ve somehow managed to acquire a “local expert” label, makes me uncomfortable every time I prepare to talk about it. Creating the slides, choosing the right words, preparing the handouts – in all of these things, I catch myself fighting back anxiety by holding my breath. Which, of course, begs the question: If you’re so uncomfortable, why talk about sexuality at all?

Seriously, should we talk about these tough topics in church? I not only believe we should, but also that we must – and here’s why:

  • Because sex(uality) and embodiment make us uncomfortable. Avoiding and repressing things that make us uncomfortable inevitably creates space for those things to twist up and fester. Whether the topic is money, or power, conflict or sexuality, when conversation is taboo it becomes all the more likely that abuses will flourish.
  • Because sex(uality) is about more than just sex (that’s what the parentheses are all about!) – it is about relationship with self, with others and with God. It is about how we feel in our own skin, how we love and relate with our own bodies. It is about being completely vulnerable with another human being. It is about a sensual nature woven within us by our Creator. To only talk about sex(uality) in terms of individual sex acts is neglectful, inaccurate and even dangerous!
  • Because sex(uality) and embodiment are matters of life and death. Often this reality gets condensed down to a simple “sex kills”. Yet while that can be true, there is even more at stake than potentially life threatening STIs – there’s also the fact that shaming others about sex, sexuality and their bodies has the power to kill. Too many GLBTQ people in our communities, young and old, have taken their own lives or been murdered because of both our words and our silence about sexuality. Too many people (across lines of age, gender, ethnicity and sexual orientation) have taken their own lives because they either hated their bodies or hated themselves for past sexual choices. When we refuse to discuss these topics openly, we are complicit in the violence – and when we create safe space for open and loving conversation about sex(uality), we are given the power to save lives.

The truth is, we are going to disagree – especially when conversation leads us to questions about “the” biblical understanding of sex. Some of us will insist that the “traditional way” is the only biblical way, and some of us will point out biblical passages that don’t fit neatly into that traditional understanding. Some of us will advocate for programs that teach about everything including contraception, and some of us will demand abstinence-only curriculum. At times, our conversations may will be painful and frightening – but none of these realities are an adequate excuse for not talking about sex(uality) in our congregations.

So I wonder:

  • How are you making these conversations a part of the life of your faith community?
  • What part of talking about sex and bodies makes you the most uncomfortable? Or, is this not a source of discomfort at all?
  • Are you willing to risk discomfort and disagreement for the sake of greater spiritual and sexual health in your faith community?

 

Joy

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This spring has given me an incredible amount of joy.  One moment winter clung to us with ferocity, and the next moment God brought out the highlighters… pink, purple, yellow, green – color first creeping and then exploding into the world.

I’m not always all that good at joy. But, as usual, new life came and shook me up just in the nick of time!

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Friendship as Spiritual Discipline

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(Originally written as a Gathering Voices post on April 8, 2011)

 

As I type these words, I’m sitting in a Catholic retreat center in Saint Louis with two dear friends/colleagues.  The official purpose of this meeting of the minds is a writing retreat (we’re chewing on something that has the potential to be pretty exciting!).  Computers are out, keys clicking a symphony of ideas – and we really are getting some serious work done.

Yet, in many ways, the real work is happening aside from the writing.  We laugh.  We feast. We pad around in bare feet for late-night conversation.  Words ebb and flow, dancing from silly to vulnerable and back again.  We dream out loud.  Exhausted, we sleep hard so we can get up and do it all again.  This is the labor of soul friends.

Friends have always been important to me, and at the same time, friendship has often been difficult.  As an “army brat”, moving from place to place, I learned early on that friendships can swiftly evolve or end and take lots of work to maintain – especially over geographical distance.  Often, it was easier to just move on.

As a minister, I’ve moved with the same sort of frequent irregularity that is becoming more and more characteristic of young adults across the board.  Consequently, I have sometimes found myself living in a new place, isolated except for the rich tapestry of friendships that exist beyond my physical locale.  But I haven’t always reached for the tapestry.  Hiding behind my “introvert badge”, I’ve instead savored my isolation, even wallowed in it – only to discover somewhere down the road that (go figure!) my spirit was literally starving.

I’m beginning to understand that friendships aren’t “just” friendships.  Friendships (and the work of cultivating them) are a form of spiritual discipline, just like prayer or scripture reading or mindful eating.  When I don’t pray, my spirit suffers.  When I don’t spend time reading the Word, my spirit/mind become impoverished.  When I don’t eat mindfully, my spirit/body become stressed and broken.  And when I don’t practice the art of friendship, my spirit begins to turn in on itself.

As it turns out, I’m not alone in this.  The friends who journey alongside me need this too.  It is part of the human mold, this yearning to be connected in meaningful relationship.  So now, we carve out time.  One small group of soul friends meets every fall, another meets for both business and relationship twice a year, and this trio will meet each spring.  We stay in conversation via social media throughout the year, but we also need this time set apart to laugh and cry and dream “in the flesh”.

While, to a casual observer, there’s nothing about these gatherings that screams “work”, this is holy work all the same.  It is part of our vocation (not just as ministers, but as Christians) to be the best friends we can be…and that requires practice!

Speaking of which, my friends are waiting and it’s time to get back to work…

  • Who are your soul-friends (friends who walk with you on your journey through life)?
  • How can the Church help us to cultivate deeper, life-enriching friendships?
  • What other seemingly-mundane activities could actually be spiritual disciplines?

Forgive Us Our Trespasses…

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(This was originally written for Gathering Voices – The Thoughtful Christian Blog, a blog which I highly recommend you check out in the near future!)

 

Having grown up in a border city, it is safe to say that I know more (at least experientially) about the US/Mexico border than your average Midwesterner.  So, when I went to our local ministerial association meeting this week (knowing that the topic was immigration and border issues), I was attending in order to be supportive of the presenters and the people affected by our immigration policies.  I didn’t anticipate that I would learn much and I certainly didn’t expect to have my mind blown.

 

Luckily, a mindset tinged with arrogance is just rigid enough to be broken open…

 

There was lots of information presented that was new to me.  I’m most familiar with the stretch of border that runs between El Paso and Ciudad Juarez, but the presenters had attended a program in San Diego/Tijuana.  The program, run through the Daniel F. Romero Center for Border Ministries, provides immersion opportunities in Tijuana as well as space/language for theological reflection about immigration and the economic disparity that exists between the US and Mexico.

 

The stories shared during our meeting piqued my interest and tugged at my heart, but for some reason what really got me was a single photograph of an official sign on the border.  The sign reads:  US Property – No Trespassing.

 

Trespassing When I saw the sign, the word “trespassing” struck me like lightning.  I’ve long been familiar with the language of the immigration debate: illegal, alien, undocumented, migrant, immigrant, and so on.  I’ve heard the arguments back and forth – the position of scarcity (“those people are taking our jobs, our resources, our money”), the position of abundance and welcome (“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”), the Hebrew Bible mandates for welcoming the stranger and caring for the alien (passages like Exodus 22:21-24 and Hebrews 13:2).  But for some reason I’d never connected “illegal immigration” with trespassing.

 

Personally, I have always been more swayed by the position of abundance and those passages from the Hebrew Bible.  In my mind, immigration and our treatment of “the other” has always been about justice and the dignity of all people as children of God, yet justice, dignity and abundance don’t seem to be values universally claimed by those who claim the name of Christ.  Finding the language needed to explain myself to Christians who are passionately against undocumented immigrants has always been difficult for me – but now that I’ve seen that border sign, I think I’ve found another track, something so basic that all stripes of Christians know it in their bones:  the Lord’s Prayer.

 

If, at its core, this immigration debate is about trespassing (as that official border sign asserts), then it makes sense that we followers of Christ would contemplate the issues and people involved in light of the prayer that he taught his followers.  As a person committed to thoughtful Christianity, I won’t come down and say that you must come to the same conclusion to which I have come (I know my own tendency towards arrogance well enough to see the danger and hypocrisy in that).  But I do hope that each Sunday, as we ask God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” we all might take a moment to meditate upon the lives of the undocumented immigrants who live amongst us – and use our holy imagination to contemplate what such forgiveness could look like if we (and they) were to live it out in the world.