FirstKingsNineteenNine

2011-09-03T15:37:00.000-07:00

At the moment I am sitting in my back porch looking at the earliest of fall leaves on my trees. This is my first fall at this house that Lyndsey and I share. I am so very happy to be here. It is comfortable and a place we can call home together. Home is a good place.I am listening to a Knoxville radio station with Bob Kesling who took over for John Ward a few years a go. I miss John Ward, gravel voiced and all. He is retired and doing Tennessee gas commercials. Which made Sam and I laugh alot. It is days like today that I miss them the most...them being Mom Dad and Dot and Sam. Tailgating on the river with brownies from the little bakery on Jacksboro Pike. Can't think of the name now but Dot made sure that we had them. Sam and I headed to Hardee's for either chicken bisquits or roast beef sandwiches...depending on the game time. As a kid it was 1:00pm period. "TV just ruined it!" they always proclaimed afterwards.It s a rain delay per the radio. So we wait for kick off. At one time I remember sitting in pouring rain but I think that was before the metal seats! So many memories in that place and time. For which I am grateful and loved even now on this back porch on a day that is football time in Tennessee.

Throwing Shoes

2011-07-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

She was 11.

Tears streaming down her face, she sat in her seat on the bus.

Things had gotten a little hairy getting on the bus leaving camp that day. And when you are small, life gets a little challenging. Shoes got tossed and she was hit in the head.

The head counselor came and got me. I seem to be the one to go to when the crying starts. Not sure why but I do.

I asked what happened and made sure there was no real harm....like blood or a knot. All was well on the outside any way.

She asked me to sit with her. So I did. We sat in silence for a good bit. Because she was 11 and I might as well make a new friend, I asked her what she did, who was her family.

She did art and soccer and lived with her mom and 4 yr old sister. She liked to wrestle with her sometimes. Her dad had died in the last year.

I know that hurts.

It being summer and all, I asked what she was doing this year. Camping with Nana in a really, really, really hard bed had already happened. This week was grief camp...that was where we were when the shoe thing happened. And next week she was going to Alaska.

"We are flying to Las Vegas"

"Gonna play the slots?"
"Nooooo silly....I am too young to do that! But then we're gonna fly to Washington and then get on a boat and then we're gonna horseback ride in Alaska and ride bikes and...."
"Wow....I think I want YOUR life!"
"Do YOU wanna get hit by a shoe?"

: )

Bah Humbug...Sorta

2010-12-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

If anyone has been around me lately or near me during Christmases past, you know I am not thrilled with the holidays. For me, it is too much grief, too much missing. It is for me the worst of “orphaned holidays”.

Growing up Christmas WAS fun. We did the cookies for Santa thing (only it was cheese and crackers cause Santa had high cholesterol). We read the Christmas story. Decorated the tree. I was sent back and forth from my house to my god parents house with coded messages usually innocent enough but laden with sexual innuendo (it really was funny looking back on it!) and we spent the day with my grandmother and cousins…some of whom I didn’t see often.

This year is my first year with all of the family deceased. There has usually been ONE phone call to make at least. But this year, not so much.

So I am working Christmas eve and Christmas Day. I figure I can work and sleep and then it will be over! One can call me in denial or whatever. It is my choice and may keep me sane!

With all of that in mind, I did realize today, it isn’t ALL humbug. The following is a list I can live with:

1)I believe that Santa’s reindeer were on my roof that Christmas Eve when I was 5.

2)I think Handel’s Messiah is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.

3)I like hot cider.

4)I stand and sing the “loo loo loo loo loo” part of the Charlie Brown Christmas show

5)Luke’s birth narrative warms my heart.

6)I love Christmas lights.

7)I love my stockings

8)Everyone seems happier

9)I can wear my Santa hat…if I can find it

10)I re read a Christmas Carol this year…..

11)I think it is cool that my parents were creative enough to have “Santa” call me every Christmas eve at 6:00pm. It’s even cooler that I never figured out who it was until I was a teenager.

12)I am intentionally making things quieter each year.

13)I say “Santy Claus” sometimes….I am from East Tennysee you know.

All will be well and all manner of things will be well.

Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

2010-10-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

Sec C Row 32 Seats 1,2,3,4

These were the seats where I was raised. The are located in Neyland Stadium in Knoxville TN. If you believe the family stories, I was practically born there… in the rain in October 1966 as Joe Namath played for Alabama.

It was there that I sat and listened to stories of games played in Knoxville, Athens, Birmingham, “on the Plain”, Tuscaloosa, and Gainesville. Stories of games played in Emory VA, Jefferson City, TN and Bluefield, WVa. We talked football. And along with the sport, I learned the geography of my family and my faith.

Saturdays in Knoxville were spent in the ritual of getting ready for the game. When I was 5 or 6 I got to go to one game a year. It was usually Alabama because that was my “birthday game”. As I got older and that rivalry got more one sided, I usually chose the Georgia game. Our seats were alongside the visitor section. I learned all the school cheers, not just Rocky Top. I learned that “damn” was a cuss word and I was not to use it at home (thanks Hotty Toddy) and I never much liked cowbell (Mississippi State). I memorized the rules and the game program. I wondered about places like “The Plains” and Commonwealth Stadium. I got to go to Birmingham and understood why the Iron Bowl was played. I listened to "Lordy Hershel! RUN!!!" more than I care to remember.

This last Saturday, I had the privilege to go to Sanford Stadium with my friend Blair, also a child of the SEC south. It was a pilgrimage. With the ones who taught me the game long gone, I went alone to see a friend. I carried with me the memories, legends, and excitement of two men who I hope somewhere could watch me and see who I had become. That fact alone was enough for the weekend to serve its purpose. I touched the hedges, imagined a trip home in 1960 something that my father and Sam called “harrowing” as they were bumped “all the way down the highway”…the only time I recall my father wanting to fight someone, a feat hard to believe for his easy going temperament.

I wore red and black on Saturday, with orange socks. I wanted to experience Athens as a Georgia fan. As one welcomed home and into the fold. I am frequently asked why it is that I can sit and watch a game and enjoy it no matter who is playing.
It is because of those Saturdays in Sec C. I would cheer for Tennessee then. Still do most days. Sam and I shook our heads in dismay in those days…for the good and the ugly. I heard other fight songs and watched other mascots. I secretly hoped Vanderbilt would win most games.

Maybe it was in the section where I learned and saw differences. Subtle, obvious, and in between. It was in those seats that I learned some people win a lot and some people can’t win for losing. And that isn’t always fair.

And it was in those seats that I sat with my family, learned the rules of the game, and traded stories and knew I was loved.

2010-09-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

Today is September 11.

Nine years ago I came out of a windowless training room with 7 co workers and the world had changed. We emerged to see small television screens fuzzy with images of ash, smoke, and fire. A coworker worried that her husband would be unable to return from his business trip. I worried that a cousin in New York was safe. Both were safe and sound though shaken for obvious reasons. I also gave thanks for my mother’s death three months prior as I knew she would be frightened in ways I would not want to see.

I have seen signs and facebook statuses that tell me to “never forget”. That will not be a problem. I don’t forget what I have experienced. A lot has happened in these nine years since. America has been at constant war, both at home and abroad. I have friends whose family members have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have cared for them, their children, and their families in many ways. Through prayer, presence, and phone calls. It is the least I can do for them.

Closer to home this week has seen calls for burning of sacred texts. I haven’t read a Qur’an. I will buy one today. I will read it and hopefully talk to a Muslim friend who can help me understand it. I will compare it to my sacred text, the Bible. These are streams of faith that run into rivers of holy waters. I am baptized in those waters created by a God who is seen and heard in many ways for longer than any of us have known.

The God I serve is called many names. Even Allah.

The God I serve calls me to love my enemies. I am not even sure they are my enemies. I disagree with them for certain. Ideologically, theologically. We may not even agree on what football teams we like… and in the South that’s important. What I do know is they look like Fred Phelps. They look like Terry Jones. They look a lot like Scott Roeder. Those are the easy ones.

What about the enemy that sits next to you on the couch? The ones you know who loved you on the first day of your life? The ones that taught you to pray for peace? The ones that sit next to you at the office and need to tell you they are hurting because of something they know you support? The ones you care for in body, mind, and spirit who speak ill against “people like that” knowing you are the “that” of which they speak? Can you love them?

Can you forget them?

Advent Coming

2009-12-03T17:29:00.000-08:00

Advent Coming

Cold breeze blowing on a November night
Before Thanksgiving
Have you seen me lately?
In your dreams day and night
Sitting in a corner with my cigarette reading my paper
Across from you in a coffee shop
Watching you from a place unknown
Where I hear your voice
See your face
In your waking and lying down
Cold nights and days coming
Are here... now
Gripping you in their fold
Leaves dead on the sidewalk
Kicked to the curb
On a long walk last night
In the dark
Embraced by the chill
Air that hits with sharp pangs
Biting
Crunching
Crushing
Coming like the death that comes soon but not soon enough
Waiting is the hardest
With news of old wounds that won't heal
Here
Now

Observations on Life (and sometimes death)

2009-09-10T19:29:00.000-07:00

So today …. I went alone.

Ok so that was dramatic!! I have begun a year long residency in chaplaincy better known as CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education. For those who need to know, most chaplains actually DO get certified to do their job and a year long residency is part of the process. Most chaplaincy jobs require a residency in a clinical placement which may be in a hospital setting (where I have worked before), prisons, psych hospitals, and hospice settings (where I am placed) and other places. I have been visiting folks in tandem with another team member. Today I escaped and was on my own thankfully.

My placement is in a hospice group. This placement requires me to visit patients in their homes. What I have discovered in the mere two weeks I have been working in hospice is that one home is as different from another and another and another…. And people live everywhere.

Some random observations after a week.

Observation #1: Despite what the “typical” definition of family may be, I have yet to see a “typical” family. I met a couple, now married for 10 years who married each other late in life. They “lived in sin” for two years before they got married. They were 65 and 69 respectively when they married. Grown kids and grandchildren. Another man I met is estranged from 2 of his 3 children (I think I know why but still…). Two patients are living with friends who have taken them in. One patient is living with his significant other girlfriend and sees his ex wife about every week.

Observation #2: I love GPS. I swear I do. I even used it to get to the store yesterday. Just because I wanted to try a new route (which I knew but the voice on the GPS relaxes me)

Observation #3: Pets. Pets matter. Period. Just today, I met Binkie the cat, still traumatized by a de-clawing experience. I was the first person to see him today as he has remained hidden for the last three days. Rufus the boxer who hates it when you leave. I have a hole in my shirt sleeve from that one. And finally, Bubbles the parrot. He does talk but I couldn’t teach him Rocky Top today. Maybe next time.

Observation #4: Lots of parents worry about lots of kids. And houses and property that no one may want.

Observation #5: Access to health care is a privilege. A paid for privilege. It shouldn't be. Right now, the way the system works money is access and access is limited. Period. Health should not be a matter of economics of treatment. I knew that in theory. I am now coming to know this in practice. I am not sure how to rectify this but will work on it.

Observation #6: 80 year olds apparently used the word “copacetic” back in the day. My friend Sam uses it often… he is 82. An 86 year old used it today. I love the word.

New factoid: Cows lived across the street from me… in 1933. And there was a tornado that year to. Trauma to a 10 year old girl who is now 86.

Not bad for the first two weeks.

There's life in the old girl yet...

2009-08-19T19:30:00.000-07:00

I have worked the evening shift at the hospital the last couple of nights. Not a bad gig if you are into quiet hallways and crickets. And I have been fortunate that there have been no huge emergencies…though those make life interesting.

Yesterday, I met a woman whose aorta exploded. Don’t ask me how or why or what that looks like but according to her husband, that is what the doctor told them. The patient, whom I will call Cecilia, was in and out of sleep and on a breathing tube. She has been here for 3 weeks and each day is part of the roller coaster ride of life on the edge of death. Her husband, Mr. French, (again I will call him that) was a gentle sort who took his hat off when I came in and clutched it in his hands as we talked.

Conversations often begin with how and why a patient is here, where folks are from, etc. I usually ask about families and how long the patient and spouse have been married. This conversation was no different, other than the worry on Mr. French’s face. He had been sleeping in the waiting area for the last three weeks. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay all at once. As our conversation turned toward his marriage to Cecilia, he smiled and blushed.

“How long have you been married?” I asked
“27 years” he answered
“That is a good long time”, I responded, thinking this may be a second marriage.
From the other corner of the room I heard “It is both of their first marriages”

“Great!” I say, “Nothing like waiting to be certain. Where did you get married?”
Mr. French shuffled a bit and the blush grew a little deeper….. “we eloped”

“Eloped!” I said, along with the nurse who replied all at once. Both of us imagining this sweet sweet couple sneaking off one day to their parents surprise.

He giggled and said “yes we did… to Florence AL!”

Of all places! We laughed and he grinned and gushed over his bride now lying behind a bank of machines and bells and whistles.

I noticed she was awake and went to her bedside. Her eyes opened and I introduced myself. She tried to talk but the breathing tube prevented any conversation. I saw in her eyes that she was aware of her surroundings. I told her I heard she eloped with this sweet man on the other side of her. Her blue eyes smiled as she nodded. And I saw someone else there in that pool of blue.

We prayed together and Mr. French cried… I hate it when men cry. I looked at Cecelia and told her I would visit again. I went back today. She was more alert and Mr. French had gone home for the night. A good sign I think. And those blue eyes of hers lit up again. She wanted to talk and couldn’t. I yammered on about how she needed to rest. We continued to look at each other intently. Her eyes wide and wonderfully bright. Mine trying to tell her it was ok to rest.

And then I realized who else was there…. my grandmother. The same look. The same blue. My grandmother died a good 12 or more years ago but I saw her again today. A shadow that follows me around a good bit. The woman who was so very strict and stoic but who read to me from the Bible. A woman who could remember the 23rd Psalm when she could no longer remember her name… or mine.

The woman who baked the best cakes and whole wheat rolls in the world. None of us can re-create those.

And the woman from whom I learned an awful lot about trusting God and prayer and the church.

I never know who I will meet in a hospital room. Sometimes, it isn’t the person in the bed but is the person you need the most.

Night work might be ok sometimes.

Guilty Pleasures

2009-08-18T08:19:00.000-07:00

Ok I broke down..I am on Twitter. Don’t ask why. I was merely supporting those I love in their endeavors. But apparently it will be my new addiction. Thinking for some stupid adolescent reason that I can “follow” my favorite celebrities (ok basketball players and coaches!), I am following the likes of well…ok… former UT Lady Vols and hot coaches! There I admitted it!

So here I am, a relationship person. One who believes in a good cup of coffee and good belly laughs and conversation. Face to face. And I will be Twitterized for awhile now.

I also like People magazine and VH1 Behind the Music. And E True Stories. Roller Derby and an occasional Britany Spears break down.

How is it we think we can “know” each other in 140 characters or less?

I will let you know. And when the randomness comes out of my twitter account…. Maybe you can ask me a question.

PS KitKhet is one of the family nicknames. Me and Dad….just like always.

All will be well...

2009-08-11T19:37:00.000-07:00

I went to lunch with friends yesterday. A long drive to Knoxville buoyed by conversation with a college friend with whom I have reconnected.

We were off to deliver some of my mom’s dishes to a former girlfriend. Long story there, but let it be said I seldom rid myself of relationships. I never have been good at goodbyes or separations. I have too much need to be connected and cared about to “get rid of people”. A normally good trait but it leads to complications some days.

So there we sat: two recovering alcoholics and a child of one who never could. Between the three of us we had seen the destruction of a lot of money, some relationships, and mostly damage to ourselves. But this day we weren’t thinking of that. We were instead three 40 plus year olds acknowledging our lives lived in ways only we could live them. We all harbor our insecurities. We all live into the people we are affected by and affecting us.

Conversation on the way over to Knoxville turned toward a comment about spiritual needs and spiritual disconnect. I am not sure how all of that works in us much less in how it manifests itself in an addictive personality. And we likely all exhibit addictive behaviors at one point or another. None of us are immune to that. Perhaps it is that some of us have an “off” button that gives us a better sense of when to stop things that are destructive. What I do know is that we are all human. I shy away from the word “broken” though surely that is a truth we know. I have read recently that there is original grace instead of original sin. I prefer that logic, particularly if we are made a little lower than the angels.

I also know how proud I am of these two who continue to work each day (maybe each minute) to stay sober. To stay healthy. To stay self aware. They speak truth to themselves each day and to me most of the time. We all laughed hard at college tales of stupidity but unadulterated fun at the same time. Not many regrets there either. We laughed hard at our own foibles and fallibility. And patted ourselves on the back for keeping at it and getting up every day.

It is times like these I am grateful for my habit of not ridding myself of people. I need these and others to remind me who I am, who I was, how far I have come, and how far I have yet to travel. It is good to go along with someone.

Summer Job Posting

2009-07-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

Lots of folks have asked me what I am up to this summer, a summer that is proving to be one of transition and re invention or some such newness. My pat answer in grown up speak is that I am the Assistant Director of East Nashville Hope Exchange. Hope Exchange is a five week reading enrichment program for kids in East Nashville. We are located at St. Ann’s Episcopal Church at the corner of Woodland and 5th Street.

That is the technical job description anyway. The real job description is chief snack maker, sometime cheerleader, field trip coordinator, lemonade creator, Kool Aid chef, reading buddy, nurse on call, track coach and sometime pace maker, and anything else that gets tossed my way. I am learning to make Kool Aid. I need a taste tester every day almost. And always the reaction is that it needs more sugar. So I add a boat load more mix…more than any human being should have especially if they are 4 feet tall and are going to be confined for the next hour and a half. But my 6, 7, and 8 year old taste testers tell me it is getting better. I am grateful to add that to my transferable skill set.

I usually spend my time with sick kids, kids that are dying, or their parents who are grieving their loss. So this summer is an experiment in life. It has been a welcome and needed break. I have watched a 6 year old girl with fire in her eyes knock over a boy who wouldn’t let her play football. All the little girls thought her a hero of sorts. And all the big girls secretly cheered for her too. We have had our share of homesickness – the 6 year old who only sees her Dad before work in the morning and another little girl who wanted to hang out with her mom because the day was “too long”. Her mom works 2nd shift at the Fire Department. Her days are too long too.

We have read “Pig Boy”, a book about an adventurous little pig who morphs into what he needs to become as life throws him adventures. He ends up like the rest of us, wanting his mom at the end of the day. There was Sam the Hot Dog man who retired at the bakery only to open a hot dog stand and work 10 – 2 every day so he could fish with his wife. He also saved some kids from a snowstorm since his hot dog van was warm and had food. And then there was Moses who taught me and 2 others about sign language and music at the concert he had. Oh and there was the bus ride through the human body…only to have us sneezed out at the end of the day. If I had had that one as an 8 year old, I really would have been a doctor.

There are more adventures to come I am sure. We have two more weeks. My hope is that these 40 kids will gain some good reading skills, learn that life presents them with opportunities and choices to make, love with the abandon that they have now already, and they live into what they are created to be. Perhaps they might remember how it is to run with abandon to the fence and back and then do it again until they fall over or will roll down a hill and try to stand up straight afterwards. Life makes us dizzy but it passes soon enough.

Or maybe they will just teach me all of this.

Frameworks? Who needs 'em?

2009-03-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

Roller Girls. Roller Derby.

I remember Roller Derby when I was a kid. It was on television and was on a wooden track and looked just really out dated. Besides that, everyone wore pink and I thought that was stupid. Just not a fan of pink.

Last year some friends kept after me to go see the Nashville Roller Girls. Yeah yeah yeah I said. It cannot be all that fun. Looks kinda redneck. Looks like I would have to crush a beer can on my forehead to fit in. Looks like a preppy little red head from Vanderbilt would never like it. Well think again. It took all of 10 minutes and the trash talk started. Mostly because it was an intra league match and I was cheering for the “wrong team. I cheered for the Green Team …the X Pistols. The other team had on well, pink.

Once around the track and there were some bumps along the way. Twice around the track and someone got pushed into the crowd and I was hooked.

Last night was the second match of the season. It was a sanctioned match too so it was a kinda big deal. The place was sold out. A friend of mine came with us. She is an Ethics professor here in town. Smart. Articulate. Funny. And new to the sport. Her comments?

“I do not have an epistemological framework for this”

What the hell does that mean?

According to the dictionary epistemological means : a branch of philosophy that investigates the origin, nature, methods, and limits of human knowledge. So that all fits with her question and frankly her working out of life. In other words: I have no idea what this is!

She, by the way, is hooked too.

We looked at each other and wondered how in the world an ethics professor and a hospital chaplain were sitting at a Nashville Roller Girl Derby. Then we witnessed a halftime contest for Roller Girl names. The one that won? Mary Smash-delene. Uh huh. It did. The best part? It was a Div School grad who came up with it. So we watched as Lady Fury, Dr. Hildebeast, and Slammy Lou Harris skated their hearts out, flung their opponents to the ground, and won a hard fought match .

And then we went home and went to bed. All the better for the simplicity of it. No need for frameworks. No need for the usual trappings of sport. Just in your face names for in your face skaters who likely wait on us at area restaurants or bars. Who maybe have kids. Or who work next to us at the hospital.

Frameworks? Who needs ‘em!

Maybe a Little Patience too....

2009-02-28T15:42:00.000-08:00

Lent. I love Lent. A time to reflect. That time in the church calendar that calls me to be still and shut the hell up. Those of you who know me know of my love…LOVE…for the liturgical calendar. It speaks to me in ways I can’t explain and has since I figured it out in my small Methodist church in Knoxville. I asked my mother why the colors were green and she said she didn’t know but we should find out. She was Baptist and most Baptists don’t follow such things. Too Catholic my grandmother always said.

But Mom and I found out together. And I have not ever looked at the world the same again.

Lent is usually a time of “giving up” something. I choose to take on something since every time I give up something I think I fail. So I take on a practice. One year was water. I never drank enough so that year I drank so much I couldn’t help but go to the bathroom every hour on the hour. My kidneys LOVED me.

This year I decided to call my family. As an only child and one whose parents are both deceased, family is a precious and elusive entity to me. It has bothered me a lot this year. I am far away from my hometown of Knoxville (well farther than I usually am). My Other Dad, Sam is older and frankly drives me a little nutty with his sermons. And he does sermonize on how we don’t know the Bible enough, preachers don’t preach it enough, Israel needs to be protected and is my car ok. I love him. Truly, madly, deeply, I love him. He taught me so much about the Bible, about faithful living, about car care, about people and how to treat them. I think he even taught me how to flirt. And how to wear a ball cap.

But he tries my patience. And reminds me why I needed to do this call thing anyway. As a way to remember who is important and maybe to remember who is it that loves me even when they know I took their gospel lessons and turned them on their head. I re-interpreted lots of things he taught me. I heard God loves everyone. God created everyone. God will care for you. The church matters. Only I think Sam is a little more exclusive about God and who God cares for. I missed that part of the sermon message.

But I called. I will call him again next week. Because he makes me laugh and he makes me cry when he tells me he loves me. He knows me since I was a baby. Was there when I was born and was one of the first people to hold me (#4, I think after Mom, Dad, and Dot). I need patience with him now. But I think I need HIM more.

When is Lent over?!

Shoes

2009-02-23T14:29:00.000-08:00

I wrote this for a class reflection. We reflect a lot around here. Too much sometimes. I am a little anxious today. For reasons that are obvious. I graduate in May with hopes of a job over the summer and hopes of an internship in August that will pay me for a bit. But hopes don't always pay the bills. I get anxious over all of that and all of sudden I get anxious. Maybe it won't last too long. The reflection part is for a Field Education class where we are "encouraged" to do a spiritual discipline. We don't do very well with disciplines really. I picked walking cause I know I do that on a fairly regular basis.

Reflection on Shoes, Part I

Shoes
The tales you could tell about where you have been
The things you have collected that I missed along the way
The grounds on which we walk, what has it seen and taken on from us?
From others.
Ground called “hallowed”.
Ground “condemned”
Ground poisoned
Ground lush with food
Ground called home
Stomping ground
Named by what happens there, who lives there, who dies there.

Shoes
These went across the sea to places of wonder and worship.
They were bathed in tears that day in the park.
They were washed in the blood of a child
They carry my weight and the weight of the world in which I walk.
Placed specially in a place as a reminder of all that is out there

Shoes
Protecting feet that walk too much in death
Supporting knees that ran too much too young
Teaching me to dance in love
Carrying me into an intimate place where it is just me and Thee
Where I am cared for, loved, named, and held. On hallowed ground simply because I am present

Aunt Kay

2009-01-31T09:39:00.000-08:00

Kay Yow was buried today. The finality of life that seems to just end for some.

She was an inspiration to many of those fighting cancer. Her “success” at having had 2 recurrences and continued work seemed to define what cancer should look like…manageable and chronic. As one who has witnessed it up close in my personal life and work, I can be assured it doesn’t always look so “easy”. She was likely in pain for much of the last few years. Fogged by chemo brain and tired beyond any measure of a way we healthy ones can imagine. Admirable for sure, and certainly for her, the way she managed the disease was a way she could continue to educate and care for young women.

But rather than being defined as a “fighter” and “brave”, I hope that she knew in her heart of hearts what she meant to others. Reports of 1400 or so at the funeral yesterday are followed by reports of 300 or so at a burial. She did a video that was played at the funeral. A little creepy but she was known as a talker so no reason to deny a woman her last word.

I didn’t know Kay Yow. I watched her coach basketball for so many years she just seemed to be there. Kind of like Pat still is. There is a bevy of coaches who are still considered the matriarchs of this sport I love so much. And most are still young enough to remain active for a while to come. Yet we forget they have lives to live. Kids to raise. Divorces to contend with and diseases to fight.

I knew Kay Yow’s nephew however. He was a tall gangly fella named Walt Beeker. A kind soul who loved his Aunt Kay. He spent a good deal of time in my office on Friday afternoons when I was at East Tennessee State University. Last I knew of him he was a contractor in Myrtle Beach. From him, I heard stories of visits to the country and fun times with family. Full of food and those warm southern memories. I didn’t know until just before graduation that "Aunt Kay" was Kay Yow. I am glad I didn’t because I could hear stories of the woman and not who I thought she should be.

I hope we can all be seen as who we are. Not just what we do or who we know or how many people attend our funeral.

May we all be Aunt Kay, or Cousin Khette, or whatever we are called by our loved ones.

Because that is what matters.

Reality and Religion

2009-01-14T09:41:00.000-08:00

I got a call today from the Children’s Emergency Dept. I don't always get to go down there but when I do, it is never good. I guess it is what I call the Jesus shit. That stuff no one wants to do but some of us get to do and it becomes a back-ass-wards blessing. And well, Jesus shit likes me I think.

A 1 year old child was hurt in a car wreck. Uncle was driving. He is being treated elsewhere. Mom is about 25 or so. There were a gazillion people in the Trauma room doing what a zillion individuals do in a trauma room to keep a being alive. How that all works I have no idea. The little girl’s heart had stopped completely at one point but oxygen was continually running so maybe there is no further damage. So they prepared to take the child to get a CT scan. Before they go Mom went in to see her baby for a moment. So was escorted by a very skilled nurse manager. We had already prayed in the hallway… that place that for me seems to be the literal line often between life and death. The no man's land of uncertainty.

After they whisked the baby away to CT, Mom collapsed into a chair. I held her as close as I could. I realized as I started to put my own knee down to the floor a nurse stopped me. There was a pool of blood beneath me. I think I have some on the bottom of my shoes probably. We moved mom to another room for some privacy. Grandma came to be of no use as she decided to have heart issues (a pre condition anyway). I moved to the hallway to let them do their medical thing and the same capable nurse manager came out and thanked me for being there and said "She is of no f-ing use" which made me laugh. One thing about ED nurses is that they don't mince words...about anything. Much.

I passed the same trauma room when I left the ED. All the paper and plastic and yes the blood was still there. The chaos of keeping life in this world.

It makes the body and blood real. All of it.

And somehow I have to go read some book on Shenandoah Religion….

Epiphanies and Referendum (or is it Referenda? Referen-duh?)

2009-01-09T18:42:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago I was called to the room of a mother whose child had been admitted to the hospital.

As I approached the room, I noticed that mom looked frightened and held her son close.

I approached her carefully and said hello.

We quickly realized that my Spanish and her English was not going to get us too far. After a few awkward moments of rudimentary sign language and pointing, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed some help.

I called an interpreter.

I had a choice with how to do this. I could talk to mom through an interpreter on the phone. This seemed a little impersonal. Or an interpreter could come to her room and we could talk together.

Now to do this, I had to make an appointment. All of which meant due to scheduling, I would not even get to speak to mom again. Another chaplain would.

I found the whole experience Frustrating and Inconvenient. Because of the language barrier, we could not express ourselves in a way that was authentic to either of us.

And we lost something in translation.

On January 22, 2009 Davidson County residents may consider a Charter amendment proposal that deems English as the only language in which the county government may do business.

Officially, this amendment states, in full, emphasis is mine:

English is the official language of the Metropolitan Government of Nashville and Davidson County, Tennessee.

Official actions which bind or commit the government shall be taken only in the English language, and all official government communications and publications shall be in English.

No person shall have a right to government services in any other language. All meetings of the Metro Council, Boards, and Commissions of the Metropolitan Government shall be conducted in English. The Metro Council may make specific exceptions to protect public health and safety. Nothing in this measure shall be interpreted to conflict with federal or state law.

In December, I joined several local clergy members in the Glendale Baptist Church Fellowship Hall to discuss this amendment.

I would say we met under the cover of darkness in the basement but that simply was not the case. This overt operation included salad, chili, homemade cobbler, and iced tea.

The usual suspects were present. The serious conversations we had about inclusion and welcome was interspersed with laughter and concern about what it meant to be a witness to the life of Christ and a citizen of the world.

As faith leaders, your pastors (and intern) felt it necessary to talk with others who oppose this amendment, to share information, to share stories, to share the burden of leadership in times of cultural conflict.
Over lunch, we decided Epiphany Sunday would be a date to collectively preach upon what it means to welcome the stranger.

There are signs where I live that invite my community to “Keep Nashville Friendly”.
I reckon that is what we do in the South. I was told growing up to be nice. Be friendly. Bless their hearts.

But this amendment calls for so much more than let’s be nice to each other. It is about more than friendliness and the platitudes of propriety.

It is about prejudice and power and frankly fear.

Notice the language. It calls for totality of action. Words such as ONLY and ALL, No person. The amendment literally calls for voices to be silenced.

There is no room for any one else, in the inn or in the courthouse, or the city employment line.

In contrast, Matthew’s text tells the story of strangers at the bedside and a story of aliens as angels.

And if you saw our Christmas pageant a few weeks ago, the kids will tell you, the aliens are less scary.

To read this text again especially through the lens of local politics, one can clearly see the power dynamics. Herod fears this child. His power is threatened. He doesn’t know who or where this child is. But he fears him.

Later in Matthew it becomes clear to what lengths Herod will go to retain his power. Going on to murder all male children under the age of three, he wipes out a whole generation of Israel.

This amendment before us in essence wipes out a whole segment of our population as well.

UCC minister Kathy Huey suggests: “the biblical story leads us to ponder the meaning of visitors from the very places in the world that we seem to fear most right now.”

She suggests that we get a better sense of the reaction to these visitors if we imagine a visit to our local church (or government) by religious or political leaders from say Iran or Iraq. South Koreans or Chinese.
What is it we fear? What is it that drives this amendment?

Scott Hoezee puts it this way: "Matthew is giving a Gospel sneak preview: the Christ child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, immoral prostitutes, greasy tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers."

In Matthew's story, then, of God at work in the world--the good news, the gospel--these foreigners, these Gentiles, represent us, too, in a sense. Remember then that Matthew, twenty-six chapters later, would tell of Jesus commanding his disciples to "Go, make disciples of all nations."

We are all in this big picture. The one that includes a big tent of a tradition of hope rooted in the prophets and embodied by Jesus Christ himself.

I recall stopping at a local bank one afternoon. I approached the ATM machine, already irritated that it was “talking to me”.

I put my card into the slot only to notice a message that I could receive my instructions in English or Spanish.

I was furious. Why is it that I have to choose I thought? I want English. I speak English. If I was in France I would have to speak French. No one would help me. I would be lost and unable to communicate or know what to eat or go to the bathroom….
In less than 5 minutes I had become a world traveler lost in Europe ..all from the comfort of my car which sat in a bank parking lot in Chattanooga Tennessee.

How did THAT happen? How was it that I became afraid of instructions on the ATM machine?

But do these arguments sound familiar?

After a few minutes and maybe a year or two later, I came to my senses a bit.

I was a management major in college. In reality banks aren’t going to reprogram their ATM’s just to be “friendly”. They are going to invest in where they will receive the most benefit.

To have instructions in English or Spanish is good business. That means our Latino neighbors might have bank accounts. They are contributing to the economy. They are helping me have a more diverse and rich life experience.

There is no word from our text as to how the magi interacted with Jesus or his family or the locals.
There is no word from our text as to whether they were wanted or not.

But they were welcomed. If nothing else, their story was deemed important enough to be included in our faith tradition.

Under the proposed amendment before us, this story would not be included. Thousands of stories will not be included. Lives will continue to be ignored and will be made irrelevant.

It isn’t to be “nice and friendly” that we should think hard about this resolution.

It is to realize that some resolutions are just mean spirited.

It is to remember that as our own table is set, all are welcome.

Our text does tell us is that the magi went home another way.

They chose a different path. They chose to travel a longer road. Perhaps one that was frustrating and inconvenient and required an interpreter.

But they knew that was the best path.

Let us do the same. Not for convenience but for community.

For welcome.

For the love of all of us.

Epiphanies and Referendum (or is it Referenda? Referen-duh?)

2009-01-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

Reflections on Christmas

2008-12-25T19:43:00.000-08:00

Ok it has been a long long while since I last blogged…much has happened but alas it is Christmas. A time to reflect… or a time for me to do such things. Most people I think just eat a lot…which I did about an hour ago.

But I digress. I was on call this holiday. I work as a chaplain at Vanderbilt Hospital. Some of you know this. I have had two calls this last two days. Both yesterday. One was from a man whose wife was dying …slowly. The other was for a very young mother whose baby was about to undergo surgery for a chest tube. Today I went in for a “prayer appointment” for a woman who had Stage 4 lung cancer and some other complications that I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

Here is what I have decided: No one should be sick on Christmas. No one. My mom got sick once on Christmas. I declared then that it shouldn’t happen. And furthermore, no one should have to die on Christmas, say good bye to their kids, or generally suffer on Christmas.

God and I are discussing this at the moment. I yell a lot and God, well God is God. I will say that the hospital seems to be a bit more gentle on Christmas. Not many folks around and the halls are quieter. Makes getting through the rat maze of buildings a little better.

And there are reindeer who hang on to cookies for Santa at the Children’s Hospital. I stole a cookie this morning from one…I figured Santa had eaten enough by that point.

That is all really. Just a declaration for a moratorium on sickness and suffering on Christmas.

I could settle for some Jesus dust though. Presence is enough sometimes.

Strawberry Time In Tennessee

2008-06-09T19:01:00.000-07:00

I have a gallon of strawberries in my refrigerator at the moment. And while that may not be all that unusual for many of you, it is for me.

These are special strawberries for a variety of reasons. First they are hand picked …by me. I have never picked a strawberry in my life, other than out of the grocery store off the produce aisle. I wasn’t even sure I could identify a strawberry plant if I had to. But I think I can now. The closest I have come to fresh strawberries is a roadside stand in Johnson City that proudly claimed to be from Unicoi County. There was a lot of claim to fame in those parts with regard to “home grown-ness”. Not the least of which are Grainger County tomatoes. But that is another story.

I am involved in a class at the moment called Ecological Theology. In it we are discussing the nature of ecology, what it has to do with God and further what it has to do with us. We know about global warming and its effects on our environment and the planet. The statistics are staggering. And the reason that Minnesota has tornados and it is 95 degrees in June? I don’t think we have to think too much about that one. But also within these discussions is talk about sustainable agriculture and local produce. It is not so much about the produce as it is about the cost of the produce…to grow it, to pick it, to transport it. All of which adds up.

So off I went today to pick strawberries. At an “honor system” farm outside of Gallatin. Lyndsey and I went together and in the 90+ degree heat we picked a wad of strawberries. In preparation, we needed our own Strawberry Receptacle Devices, which looked remarkably like sand buckets purchased from a local Kmart. Lyndsey has picked strawberries before and was amused at my rookie picking lack of ability I am sure. But along the way another thing happened. We talked. Now those of you who know us, know we talk a lot anyway, but today was a little different. We talked about family and her grandfather’s strawberry patch. How it was that as a child she helped pick strawberries (and other garden goods) and hated it sometimes.We talked about how it was that we KNEW where these berries were from much like those she picked as a kid. And how it is that the small Ohio town that raised her is still that small Ohio town that remains home to her. My thoughts went back to Mr. Fleming and the garden he grew on the plot of land next door to me as a kid. Which led me right back to 225 Carta Road on summer nights catching lightening bugs between the corn rows.

I am reminded again of how important time is. How important it is to DO something with our lives that matters. We often talk a good game about sustainability and the “good earth” but how often do we work in those places that are sacred earth? And how often do we share those places and those times with others we love.

So go pick some strawberries while you can. Even when it is 90+ degrees. Even when you are tired from work. Take the day off. You have to be intentional. You have to look for it. But it is worth every last drop of strawberry juice that stains your shirt in the hot summer sun.

And blueberry season is coming along soon.

Progressive Lenses

2008-05-15T18:37:00.000-07:00

Progressive lenses. The “new” bi focal.

Call them what you wish, they are bi focals. I have talked for a long time now that I need new glasses. I know this. I can see but when it comes to “detail work”, as my mother used to say, things are fuzzy around the edges.

It first concerned me when I had trouble reading from the pew Bible at church. Normally, my own manuscripts are a little larger font anyway. But I could do with the pew Bible…but a few months ago it got irritating and it has now gotten down right difficult. And then there is the looking at people thing. I can see them but even faces are a little fuzzy around the edges. And when you start messing with my peeps then we got issues. I need and want to see the beautiful faces of my friends. Their smiles and eyes and whatnot.

So, I went to the eye doctor. We did the “one or two” thing a good bit and then he did a double vision test…only the lines of un-seeable letters were horizontally placed upon each other. And then I knew.

Is this the bi focal test? I asked
Not yet. We are getting to that.
Goodie.

We did and I will have a brand new set of bi focals in a week or so. One good thing is I got kid frames. That is helpful and I hope they don’t mush against my face. I don’t think they will but I did pick them out by myself … a dangerous idea.

So the big deal about bi focals? It is a milestone of sorts. I will get over it. My friend Amy told me that bi focals are the new braces. This from someone who has yet to wear glasses and is 45! Heidi has been in them for two years now. No one really cares and swears they will love me anyhow. And I have the text messages to prove it.

I am not a vain person. I have some gray but not enough to color. I am blessed with reasonably good colored hair so the gray doesn't show unless you look for it. I hate my contacts because it takes too long to put them in. And I don’t wear makeup unless I want to impress some one… so bi focals it is. Again, with kid frames.

I can still act 12. And will do so as I have for most of my adult life. I think I have my mom’s family genes….those for long hearty lives. I am healthy. I have a lot of things left to do.

And now I can see to do them. That always helps matters.

If I run into a wall or two just pick me up. The glasses lady told me it may take a bit to used to them.

Searching

2008-04-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

Sucker punched and red faced bruises
The last truce from adolescent wars fought with paper tigers
Whose silent roar is heard only by those whose arguments fail in the face of faith
leaving vulnerable paper men.

Glass houses chipped and cracked and broken in places
Protected by walls of words scrawled on paper and not etched in stone.
They speak of matriculated riddance of ill conceived plans of trash can dreams.

We sit ragged and raw
Bound by coffee and conversation, petition and prayer
With wonder at what was
What is
And what will be.
In the twilight of spring.

Sticks and Stones

2008-04-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Or so we say.

We talk a lot about language in Div School. What it means, how it affects people, can it damage us? What is the PRECISE meaning of that Greek word and how does it change the whole context if it is misused.

I wanted to share a blog that my friend Renee Garcia wrote with regard to sticks and stones. Her daughter is my Groovy Girl. Some of you may know of her as “Groovy Girl”. I frequently speak of Kennedy, though I try not to name her so as to protect her a bit. What I don’t tell you is that Groovy Girl has Down’s syndrome. I don’t mention that because it never occurs to me. It did as I began to get to know Kennedy. I wanted to communicate with her and part of Ds is a slower development of language skills. I talked to Heidi about this as she has a background in Speech and Hearing and has worked with Ds kids before. She suggested sign language and taught me some rudimentary signs so I could start making sense.

So I learned “mom” and “dad” and “girl” and “boy”. I could do “thank you” ok and got myself in trouble with that one with the hard of hearing community. Out of politeness it has been assumed I knew more than I do! But then again I do that a lot in a lot of places.

But I tried to learn a little so Groovy Girl and I could hang together like, well, Groovy Girls do. And it worked. She was WAY excited when we could sign girl and boy and baby and mom and dad. We did all of those over and over til she got bored because, well, I didn’t know any more and she did and I was clueless!! So she would hand me my Groovy Girl and look at me like, “well, you have done all you can now. Let's just play!”

So when Renee posted this week on her blog about some language that I had hoped was long gone with regard to Ds, I wanted to share. Because not only does it perpetuate ignorance, it hurts my friend Kennedy. And her mom and dad and brothers and sister. Not to mention all of us who can be “named” in any number of ways.

Renee’s Blog:

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Why it hurts
Tonight I have been surfing the net and checking up on some of my friends from myspace. If you're one of those friends, please know that I finally took down my Christmas music! I'm worse than those people who leave their lights up until June! haha

Anyway, I was browsing through some pictures on a friend's page who is from our church in California (and is involved in leadership there). I saw a picture that literally knocked the wind out of me. I felt sick. Light-headed. And then I felt angry. And now I'm sad. I thought about posting this picture here so you all could be livid with me, but really, I don't want to give any more credit to the person who created it. (I'm almost positive it was not made by the friend who has this on his page.) Let's just say, it's sick, cruel, disgusting, degrading, and it involves the word "Retard" and a picture of a child with Down syndrome. I can almost hear all of you parents in the Down syndrome community groaning.

A couple years ago, Downsyn, one of the message boards I post on, was hacked into. Pictures of many of the children from the board, including Kennedy's, were stolen. The hackers wrote horrible things on the pictures and reposted them for all to see. Our administrator, Tom, took immediate action to get them removed from the net. Still, our hearts were shattered and our group was shook to the core.

For those of you reading who are NOT part of the Down syndrome community, let's talk about this for a minute, please bear with me. The "R" word is something that some of you might use... you may use it to describe yourself when you do something dumb. "I'm so 'R'." You may use it when you think something that happened was dumb. "Man, that was 'R'." Chances are, if you use it, you've been saying it since childhood and you'll say that you don't mean anything by it. You'll say that you're just joking around. You'll say that it has nothing to do with our kids. "Everyone" says it, right? So here's the thing. Kids with Down syndrome, in most cases, have mild to moderate mental retardation. It's a medical diagnosis that few avoid.

When Kennedy was born, that word made me want to puke. I didn't want to think about it, I didn't want to speak about it and I definitely didn't want anyone else thinking it when they looked at my baby. Even when used in the correct context, I don't think it's ever easy to hear that word in relation to one of your children. Still, it's part of our reality. (Even though we happen to think that Kennedy is one of the 4 most brilliant kids on the planet. ;o)) Darn those IEPs!SO when we (parents of kids with Down syndrome or other cognitive delays) hear the "R" word being thrown around, used flippantly as a joke, even knowing that the offender most likely doesn't MEAN to be cruel, it hurts us. It hurts badly.

And many times we don't say anything because we don't want to risk offending the offender. I have to say, I have gotten a little more gutsy over the years, but in many cases I'm still chicken. There's a nurse at Vanderbilt that I STILL wish I would have said something to... but there's also the pediatrician I fired because of it (and other issues). I've had conversations with several friends about it, and just a couple days ago my husband talked to his Soldiers in Afghanistan about it. It's THAT important. The "R" word will NOT be used in our household as a way of degrading oneself or someone else. We are educating our children now, in hopes that they will educate their friends... so many kids today STILL use this word in the wrong way. Kids who will one day go to school with Kennedy are hearing it right now from their parents. They're passing down prejudice, whether they mean to or not.

This friend in California is showing that it's ok to make fun of people with Down syndrome... whether he realizes it or not. And it's NOT ok. It's just not.I hope that what I've said makes sense... it's after midnight and I'm tired and still a little frazzled. I hope that just maybe one person reading this will be touched by this post and realize that I write, not to accuse or condemn, but to educate. I hope that maybe one person who reads this will talk to their children today about this word... and tell them to talk to their friends. I hope that one day Kennedy will be proud of me for helping her, and all kids like her, to be more accepted in today's world. There are quite a few blogs out in blogland that have addressed this issue in the past week. As hard as it is for us to hear, it's even harder to write about.

But as advocates for our kids, we HAVE to stand up for them. We HAVE to be their voice. If we don't do it... who will?

An Easter People

2008-03-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

If you were a card maker and worked for Hallmark, what kind of card would you make for “after Easter people?”

This was the question posed to me as part of our regular Wednesday night service at church.

My first response was, “well I AM an Easter people. “So why should I worry about “after Easter”. If I don’t live in the hope of the resurrection, then why bother with it all? I know what the group leader meant. Our group came up with the card tag line of “It is after Easter…do you know where YOUR disciples are?” This was a direct reference to the “hidden people” of the Upper Room. How big was the upper room anyway?! But truly…our lectionary reading this week is from John 20 and tells of doubting Thomas. I love Thomas and can’t say that I wouldn’t also want to touch hands, feet, side, and anything else of a friend and teacher with whom I was close and loved. But then again I tend to stand up for underdogs.

Jesus lets him touch. Lets Thomas gouge his hands into the holes (I would assume they are still there?). Remember earlier, Jesus didn’t let Mary touch him as he had yet to ascend to heaven. He tells her to go and tell of his presence. At least I think this is the story. So why Thomas? I wonder if it is not that Thomas doubted but that Thomas’ experience of Jesus needed to be different than Mary’s. Thomas was not there when Jesus appeared earlier to the disciples in the upper room. Maybe he went for more wine? After all it had been a frightful few days.

But if we are an Easter people, we live in the hope and that hope looks and feels (literally) different for each of us. I don’t doubt Mary’s experience of the risen Christ. I also don’t doubt Thomas’. After all he made the declaration we recite in creeds and criteria...”my Lord and my God”.

In class today I admitted to being a closet conservative. Well sorta conservative. Much more to the right of some of my classmates at any rate on some issues. I can claim that and live with it. For me, the resurrection is what makes Jesus who he is, what makes Jesus’ life so radically alive. Yes he was subversive and up ended the systems of the day, but the resurrection tells me (literally or figuratively) that he was God’s all the way.

As I said in class, with the words, “who is it that you say I am”, Jesus allows us to declare who he is. And by that, we declare ourselves to be an Easter People.

Tenebrae

2008-03-21T19:52:00.000-07:00

Crucifixion Brokenness

I have just gotten home from our Tenebrae Service. The liturgy of Tenebrae is characterized by the gradual extinguishing of candles while a series of readings and psalms are chanted or recited. It is a service of shadows. It is a remembrance of Good Friday. We began the service with 7 candles lit and ended in darkness…or what was meant to be darkness. We had a little more light than care for. I have been to some services that ended in inky darkness and felt my way to the doorway through a game of trust.

But we were fine. We read an “account” from those at the foot of the cross; Mary the Mothr of Jesus, the soldier, Mary Magdalene (that was my part. I think it is the red hair), John, Joseph of Arimathea. It was a fictional account certainly. We really don’t know what it was like that day. I am not sure I want to know.

I left (after having dissected the service every which way) thinking of broken bodies and burials. I recall the broken body of a little boy in the ER a few months ago. I knew then that he would forever remind me of the broken body of Christ. I saw him held in his mother’s arms. Limp and lifeless. Bruised and battered. Pink cheeks still.

Perhaps it is this image we keep with us this day. A day that I had to remind myself that was a Christian holiday and yes things were still open. A day that still says "Friday" on the calendar.

It is an image of a mother left with her child. A mother whose tears washed her son’s body and whose tears were mixed with blood and dirt and shame.

A mother with no answers.

Not on Friday.

Deep End of the Pool

2008-03-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

I am depressed. Or at least my counselor and I think I am.

I had tried to “break up” with her but I couldn't. She let me go for a bit. I knew she would. I was “stuffing” she said. She was right but I couldn’t sit in the shit 24/7 and function. But then the shit hit the fan over something relatively minor and all the walls cracked at the same time.

So we are back together again.

She tells me I am “very high functioning”. I think I knew that. I function very well, thank you.

But I know where I am.

I am in the darkness.I have been here before. In the depth of the deep end of a pool. The bottom is elusive though I try nearly every day to get there. I think I find it only to have it slip deeper down. I know this darkness. It has come before and gone. It will go again. I have known it from early on.

I lose people. People I need to have around. They die. They don’t do it on purpose but their loss is profound.

I need a touchstone. The one I have has slipped. And I have no more. Maybe that is it. The realization that I have lost the bedrock; the one or ones who keep me secure. And you can’t go buy one at Lowe’s. Touchstones just are. And you just don’t look for them. They seem to find you.

I am waiting to be found.

Spring Break and more

2008-03-03T08:18:00.001-08:00

I think the saddest sight I have ever seen is an empty dog collar. I took Summitt to be boarded today. I am off to Chicago to meet Heidi and we decided to board her. We told her it was Spring Break puppy camp. She has been before. And she did fine when the lady took her back to her “spa”. But it was sad holding her collar and her leash.

Now for the fun part. Heidi is having me “flown” to Chicago this week. She is working and has a day between appointments. We love Chicago and have been a couple of times before; once in December and once in July I think. So we will hang out at the Field Museum of Natural Science and see Sue the big Tyrannosaurus Rex. Fun times. And then there is Geno’s East pizza. Always a good choice.

Now to stave off an anxiety attack once I get there and land and have to flag down a taxi. I seem to get overwhelmed at odd times in big cities. I did it in DC one year and then had one in Water Tower Place in Chicago at Christmas on our trip a few years ago. I don’t have a time crunch so that will help. I just need to sit tight until I have my bearings. We talked through the whole process before she left. This is not hard. I am 41 years old and speak English (although it is likely my cab driver won’t!). I have a cell phone. I can do it.

I think. I am not so sure where the anxiety comes from. I don’t recall a trauma as a child. My anxiety dreams seem to work on the premise that I get left or I can’t find something or cant’ get somewhere. So maybe that is it. I have a therapy appointment on March 24. May be a topic of discussion.

But mostly it will be good to be. We have gotten some relatively good news regarding treatment and this is somewhat of a celebration trip. Might as well take advantage of it despite the fact I have a mid term and 5 article reviews due on Monday March 10 when I go back to school. I think such things should be outlawed but who am I but a lowly grad student!

Administration Cuts Affect Homeless: Surprised?!

2008-02-07T10:20:00.000-08:00

Let me begin by saying I only know enough to be dangerous and am willing to listen as objectively as possible to alternatives.

Call me a bleeding heart liberal but the following article is disturbing. Though why after 8 years I would continue to be surprised, I have no idea. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in a secure country but I think our security should be wrapped in warm blankets and food on the table not in body bags flown from Baghdad.

For anyone who has helped with the Interfaith Hospitality Network (IHN), the second paragraph is frightening. Recent discussions with friends who work for the Veteran’s Affairs Administration warn of a crisis not only for veteran’s who are currently enrolled in services, but a crisis for those who return with needs far greater for far longer. I do indeed appreciate the sacrifices our service people make. They volunteer for this hell. There are those who say if they volunteer, “they” know what they are in for. It would seem to me if our Commander in Chief has the wherewithal to call for troops, he darn well ought to back up their “volunteer” care. It needs to be noted that benefits enjoyed (rightly so) by full time army personnel are NOT often open to National Guard and reserve troops. Healthcare, housing subsidies and other benefits are simply not offered. Since the reserve was not designed to serve as they are currently serving, those troops perhaps rely on regular employment in the civilian world to take care of some of those needs. I don’t know the whys of this but am outraged by the consequences of short sightedness.

By the way, did you know disability insurance excludes injuries caused by war? Just an FYI.

It appears the Administration can indeed say truthfully they increased funding, yet with our economy slowing exponentially and jobs losing benefits, this will not be enough to handle any variation of any economic indicator that will affect those on the margins.

Jesus tells us the poor will always be with us but we are also reminded that when we feed, clothe, or attend to one of these, we also tend to the Christ.

See below and for more:

http://www.endhomelessness.org/content/article/detail/1881

The Administration released its proposed budget for fiscal year (FY) 2009 on February 4. It proposes an increase for the Department of Defense, cuts to health care programs, and about $2.4 billion less for domestic discretionary programs other than Homeland Security. Domestic discretionary programs include most of the housing, human service, veterans, education, and infrastructure programs that help low-income people. After
accounting for inflation, these programs would be cut by 4 percent from last year.

Funding for the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development's (HUD's) McKinney Vento Homeless Assistance Grants would increase by $50 million (3 percent), much less than is necessary even to keep up with increasing renewals of permanent supportive housing. The proposal does not include a prisoner reentry initiative, which the Administration proposed in previous years, or a rapid re housing for families initiative which was funded by Congress last year. The budget for Section 8 includes $75 million for additional HUD-Veterans Affairs Supportive Housing (HUD-VASH) vouchers, which should fund an additional 8,000-10,000 vouchers for homeless veterans.

Many mainstream housing and services programs would be cut substantially. Housing Choice Voucher funding is $1.3 billion less than is needed to continue housing families that are currently assisted. The shortfall could result in at least 100,000 vouchers not being renewed. The Community Development Block Grant (CDBG) program would be cut by $659 million, or almost 20 percent. The $654 million Community Services Block Grant, which alleviates the causes and conditions of poverty, would be eliminated. The budget also proposes to cut Medicaid by $18 billion over 5 years.

The Administration's budget is a proposal. Congress will make decisions on actual Funding levels later this year.

Super .......Cold

2008-02-05T15:26:00.000-08:00

It is Super Tuesday. And want to know what happens to my Super delegates for John Edwards? Do they just go away? Or get fought over at the convention? I missed that part of civics, I think.

And I have a Super Cold. Those who know me know I have a super cold. I have complained, lamented, and generally whined about it since Sunday. I hate being congested. I must have a recessed memory of being smothered in the womb or something.

One of the top ten things I plan on asking the Creator when I get to the other side is, how is it that such a small orifice can wreak such havoc? I get rid of “stuff” only to have an oh so brief moment of air and boom….more “stuff”. I did manage to get to the health center today only to promise hell and half of Georgia to the Nurse Practioner if she would give me some decongestant that worked. So I have some big time breathing relief but a cough from the bad place. So I will go for some meds for that next…..

Another thing that a cold does is get me banished to what I am now calling “The Cave”. We have a guest room off of our room. It is an odd shaped room and dark as pitch. We have recently had ideas of making it a study, which serves it well. But in its darkness, it is now “The Cave”. Where I lay breathing. My smothered breath and tortured cough. The darkness surrounds me and closes in and I hear a voice in the distance. It’s Heidi…from outside The Cave.

“Can you take out the garbage before it storms?”

Well, ok.

Rites of Winter

2008-01-19T19:20:00.000-08:00

It is flannel sheet time!! I am so excited. I came in last night and crawled into bed, which is difficult with a 17 lb beagle who hogs the covers, and discovered the warm fuzziness of flannel.

Some folks look to snow for the sure sign of winter, I look to flannel sheets.

They are indeed a rite of this time of the year. I am not so crazy about cottton sheets unless it is about 900 degrees. I am cold natured and very often wear sweats in the summer. Cotton sheets were great when I was a kid and would kick them up in the air and let the “tent” they created fall down around me. Now? They can stay in the closet.

Once I settled in and got warm, I was almost immediately transported back to my bed at as a child. I had a single bed with a trundle. Granted the winters in Knoxville weren’t all that cold but they got cold enough. The heat was turned down and my nose was about all that was exposed (more on my reasons why I sleep with the covers over my head later). I can see the snow in my mind’s eye. And hear the quiet of it all. The mattress itself had long formed to my body. I realized that several years ago as I stayed the night. I knew where my arms went and where my leg had laid for oh about 10 years.

I also thought about summers at camp. Yes, we had flannel sheets (well I did!). It could get cold in the mountains of Western North Carolina in June. I can almost hear the frogs at the lake and the crickets wherever they live. And feel the dew in the early mornings as the wake up bell rang. I just wanted to sleep a little longer. But only because the heat of the day would bring laughter and lightening bugs.

This morning I did sleep a little longer. Snuggled in for a long winter’s nap.
Too bad tomorrow is church day. It is supposed to be 14 tonight.

He Wore Cheap Cologne

2008-01-12T19:10:00.000-08:00

Life at 8:51 this evening is rather uneventful. I am (was) attempting to read an Ethics assignment for school all the while watching a basketball game that has become a blowout and listening intently for any sounds in the next room as Heidi sleeps off the effects of day 1 after chemo.

I got home late last night from work. An emergency at the hospital which involved a toddler, a car, and a distraught grandfather. It did not end well but I participated in a wonderful and graceful event that reminds me of God’s presence even in the midst of tragedy. I had the privilege to work the case with a wonderful pastor of a church in Middle Tennessee. I am certain if there had been any “real” theological discussion (like death isn’t real!) we would have landed at odds on every major issue. But instead we worked together with the staff in the PED managing logistics, incoming traffic (additional family), and unspeakable grief.

This death was his third of the day. Yes, the DAY. His eyes were wide when I arrived in the Critical Care room. I introduced myself and asked if I could be of assistance. One never knows when a family pastor is already present. I have been summarily dismissed and summarily ignored in some situation. It was 4: 45 and I was hungry so a dismissal would have passed without incident.

But he was shell shocked and asked me to tend to the grandparents in a nearby conference room. So my work began. Together, we shuttled family members back and forth to the child’s room all the while trying to be mindful of the other parents and children who are there for various injuries and illnesses that are not life threatening. It is difficult to hold the hand of a grandfather when there are pairs of eyes watching from a sliding glass door knowing exactly what has happened and sending silent prayers up for their own kids. I feel as sorry for them as I do for the family of the deceased. I have mentioned to others before that I walk the line between joy and pain in the width of a hallway. Guilt goes around, either by virtue of action or virtue of gratefulness. It matters not.

The hardest part by far is telling the family it is time to go. The business of death begins with medical examiner protocol (as was the case here) and decisions regarding funeral arrangements. Parents should never have to bury their children, particularly at two years old and particularly when their bodies are broken and blood spilled. You must return home to a place that will never be the same again. Ever. Sending them out into the emptiness of a cold evening with fogged heads and broken hearts.

Into the darkness of the night and the darkness of their own souls.

A Good Day

2007-12-30T19:37:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, we forget. Forget the fear and the unknown. Sometimes, like today, we feel normal. A normal couple doing normal things. Making fun of our favorite basketball coaches and eating bad arena food.

Today we went to the Vanderbilt women’s game. It was awful. We lost to ODU by 15. Pitiful really. But we did make fun of Wendy Larry, the ODU coach. And the lady who sat behind her who wore stretch leggings and high heels and could jump up on those high heels like nobody’s business. Wendy and her crying towel. Wendy and her close to but not quite inappropriate touching.

Yesterday we drove home from Wisconsin. It was cold there but we returned to 50 degree weather. We each played DJ on the way home. It is a surprise game where whoever is not driving gets control of the iPod. One minute may be Brooks and Dunn and the next be AC/DC. Well, on my iPod anyway. Heidi’s would include some Diana Krall. We had a mini dance party in the Expedition.

We play and then we remember who we are again. We remember what it is to be happy. Really happy. Laughing, making up dance moves (all while driving). Contorting poor Summitt into a break dancer. We remember what it is to live. To laugh and love. To be content. To look toward a future.

For a few hours.

Let It Snow...

2007-12-30T19:08:00.000-08:00

We spent Christmas in Wisconsin visiting Heidi’s mother in Waunakee, a suburb of Madison. This was my fourth or fifth visit but my first when there was snow on the ground. Now, I have been when it was cold as a witches titty, but not snowy.

There were at least 22 inches on the ground when we got there.

Seriously.

Folks up there are used to it. I, however, am not. I still act as though I am 10 years old and out for school on a snow day. I was chastised because I got my pants wet making snow angels and I insisted on traipsing through snow banks instead of walking to the house on the sidewalks which were cleared of snow. It just made more sense that way.

But some things I had forgotten. Like how quiet snow is. It muffles any sound and seems to absorb even the slightest noise. I forget this as I live in an inner city neighborhood and even as I write this the sound of the interstate intrudes into an otherwise quiet night. Summitt and I ventured out each morning at 4:00 am. Her idea, not mine but despite the un Christian hour, I am grateful for the reminder. On our first night we were greeted with a full moon shining just above a neighbor’s blue Christmas lights. The silver and blue hue was beautiful. Even to my sleepy eyes. Summitt had to tug on me to go back in.

Friday morning brought another 5 inches. I ate breakfast in the sun room that looked into the backyard. I was mesmerized by the snowfall. Not heavy at all but it was enough for me who thinks 2 inches is a big storm.

Friday was a gift. I was reminded all day of my mom’s tense relationship with the weather. She lived in snow in upstate New York, yet dreaded it immensely here in the south. Not that I blame her. But on this day, I remembered what she did love about it… to lay on the couch with a book and a cup of hot chocolate, letting the dog settle in at her feet, and watching out the window. So I spent some time doing just that. It was good.

Yeah. I could get used to it.

Groovyness in a Conference Room

2007-12-10T08:56:00.001-08:00

We are gathered in a library conference room. 5 of us. All women who have a desire to serve and to even save perhaps. An Episcopalian, two Disciples of Christ, a Presbyterian, and me… a mish mash of traditions.

It is this that keeps me hopeful. This community of faithful who want to DO and not just be. This community of the holy “together”.
As we struggle to find our voices, they become clear in our presence, the presence of each other. The struggle is not so much how to get our voices heard, but what they will say to a world broken and bruised. One in our midst is gifted in economic justice. She has traveled the world and made inroads into communities that are hopeful. She is graceful in her presence. And gifted in her ministry. And makes a great Pumpkin something or other one of her culinary treats she obtained from India.

Another is a former teacher who sees the world as a place to teach but better yet allows it to teach her. Although she will say she it only tells her she doesn’t “know shit.” Which isn’t true. She calls it like it is and that in itself is necessary and needed. And “groovy on the ground.” I think she is fearless.

The third is a woman from Ohio who has the heart of an angel. Who feels the depth of the hurt in this world. She too has interest in economic justice but also has a love for the community of the church she serves. She encourages me and loves me as the others here do in their own ways.

Our resident Presbyterian struggles with how to use her intellect in a world of congregations that appear to not care. She is a gifted analyst of how things work and how things are. She is not afraid to critique her own journey of faith, although I think she needs to give herself some grace. It is what got her to where she is.

And then me, who is basking in the cloudy day outside. Fearful of many big life challenges at the moment, but privileged to be able to share this journey … all of it... with people such as these.

If our laptops hold out, we might make a difference. As if we haven’t already.

An Advent Sermon

2007-12-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

In the spring of 1983, my mother and I took a trip. It was a trip many of you have made yourselves or with your children. We went off in search of colleges. Our search took us up interstate 81 north. This particular stretch of road runs from just outside of Greeneville, TN all the way up to upstate New York. My parents drove this stretch of highway for many years when they came home for Christmas. They lived in Cortland New York and their trips home to Tennessee were always fraught with long drives through snow and rain, up hill both ways, with driving wind and darkness.

But this trip was much different. This was my trip not my mother’s and I had never been that far up the road much less that far from home. It was an anxious trip for both of us into the “wilderness” of Southwest Virginia of all places.

For those of you geographically challenged, contrary to popular belief there is a whole host of land between Knoxville and Roanoke Virginia. Rolling hills and tobacco farms for certain but beautiful country that I came to call home for a good portion of my adult life.
But as we took the Meadowview, Virginia exit, my mother looked around and said, “Are you sure we can get there from here?”

We may wonder much the same about our texts today. Isaiah’s description of the Peaceable Kingdom and John’s wilderness path. Both are troubling in their own way, requiring some thought and a good deal of action on our part.

The text from Isaiah, on the surface at least, is a beautiful passage of peace in the world… the whole world of all God’s creatures. This is not just any peace, but "shalom." "Shalom," Walter Brueggemann says, "is creation time, when all God's creation eases up on hostility and destruction and finds another way of relating." So it is easy to see lions and lambs lie together and the fatted calf sitting with the bear in this Shalom.

The poet Les Murray once called this time, the time when the apple was put back on the tree.

But the poetry of these verses is written at a time much like our own. There was war with Assyria and the capital city of Samaria, in Israel would fall in 722. What followed was a siege on Jerusalem.

As my friend Tom Warren says, “Israel’s time was indeed a time of wars and rumors of wars. It was a time when real leaders spoke only of national defense, homeland security and God’s favoritism. It was a time when only fools spoke of peace.”

So who is this fool that Isaiah envisions?

It is doubtful that this describes any one of our candidates for president this election season.

Instead the description of this leadership is rooted in the spirit of the Holy. This spirit is the same spirit the “ruah” we hear about in the creation story. It is the creative active powerful breath of life. Not the winds of war so often felt in much of our world.

A spirit of wisdom rendering decisions based on fairness and equity with decrees that enable and affirm the poor and oppressed. A spirit of understanding that declares a community just and faithful and one that does not uphold the way things are but up-ends the status quo to create a society the way things should be.

This leadership establishes a reign of justice and concerns for the least of these. Isaiah describes the poor and the meek of this recreated world.

Oh if it were that easy!!

How do we get there from here???

My mother’s question came to me as our directions took us to the Meadowview VA exit. Now Meadowview has a bank, a mercantile – and yes it was a mercantile with chicken feed, farm equipment, work boots and maybe a jug of milk in the back – and a little Methodist church at the corner of the exit ramp.

The directions said to take a right so we did. The road we were on, better known by locals as “old number 11” paralleled the railroad tracks. In my 17 year old mind I thought ok, so if we follow the tracks we will surely get somewhere. After a seemingly endless 5 miles of clapboard houses and tobacco farms and more cows than I could count much less than I had ever seen, my mother and I exchanged looks that could only be described as wide eyed.

How do we get there from here?

And then there was John! John the Baptist scares me and I often wonder if he is merely a plot character or a real wild and crazy guy. I have struggled with John in my life of faith. Not because of who he is or what he does but what he asks us to do.

REPENT!!

I can still here a preacher from my past speaking that word. In his imposing stance and booming voice -- Repent and be saved. Repent and turn away from your sin. Repent for the kingdom of heaven is near.

This word has been so loaded with baggage that our caricatures of the phrase say “Jesus is coming, look busy!” And so we do.

John’s world was one where the oppression was prevalent in the ordinariness of their life, religious and otherwise. The power wielded by the Jerusalem elite and their Roman patrons was experienced in exorbitant taxes, confiscation of ancestral property, and chronic shortages of food, among other things. This contributed too much social unrest and desire for change. Unlike the Old Testament prophets or the annunciation story that we shall read on the last Sunday of Advent, the Baptist does not point toward the nativity of Jesus, but rather to his ministry, life, and death

This is John the Baptist, the crazy separatist who speaks of the eschatological renewal to come.

This is John the Baptist, the crazy prophet who knows there is more to life than what is before us.

This is John the Baptist who gets his name from what he DOES, baptizing not in the way the ritual immersions were modeled but in a way that sealed the deal for those who came to be baptized

No John’s Baptism was a once and for all thing. John’s repent is the stop sign at the crossroads.

We cannot ignore his calls for repentance.

John does indeed ask us to repent then we need prepare a road in the wilderness. Finally he asks us to look into the waters of the river and see our reflection. The reflections of who we are. The reflection of people who have fallen short of expectations. To look at the reflection of a people who have failed at being the people of God. And who are facing the reality that maybe our ways won’t bring about this society of peace of which Isaiah speaks.

But within those waters we also see a reflection of the children of God. Who are claimed as God’s own.

If we can imagine ourselves loved so much that we can be called children of God, then we can take a step toward the vision Isaiah so clearly describes. A place where we sit together. Where we sit across the table from those who are also loved.

A place where we do indeed eat together in a peace that passes all understanding.

My mother and were at a crossroads. As we looked past our stop sign we saw the gates to Emory and Henry College. The place where I would spend years learning and growing in a community that nurtured me, a place that has ultimately led me here.

John asks those at the river to stop and look into the future. A future that comes from out of the wilderness and into the peaceable vision of Isaiah.

How do we get there from here?

We are told to PREPARE. Prepare the way of the Lord, makes his paths straight.

If Isaiah’s words can be any encouragement, this leader, this Lord’s path goes straight from John to the peaceable kingdom. I don’t know about you but I can’t imagine this world from Isaiah. I can almost see the wolf and the lamb, the cow and the bear, the leopard and the kid, but I can’t quite get the children and the snake pit. I am sorry. That one is beyond me and is as disturbing of an image as I can conjure up.

Our poet writes

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod

The path we have taken to this point is soiled with too much. Is covered with too much mud and muck and blood and sweat and yes tears.

We have worn this path out. A path that places the fast lane over the slow lane. We have worn out the paths that are strewn with twisted guardrails and broken glass on the cement. We have worn out the express lane at the grocery because it means I get to get out faster than you do. It means I never look in your grocery cart to see if you are buying steak or noodles. I never see if you are paying by cash or food stamps. I never see if you drive or walk home. Or if you even have a place to call home.

The old roads won’t get us there.

We can’t arrive at this peaceable place without going through John’s stop sign. I don’t think we can blow through this one as if it doesn’t matter. As if we can keep doing things as we have always done and expect to get there.

After his conversion, St. Francis saw the world in a new way. A theologian at Claremont College “He saw everything upside down. He was not enamored at the strength and security of well-grounded towers, walled city states and impressive cathedrals. Rather, he saw everything hanging over nothing. And he was astonished, but grateful, that everything did not fall down.”
We must stop and reflect and look both ways before we cross at the crossroads.

John’s requirements are difficult not because he asks us to turn from our ways but he asks us to look at our ways. To look at what these actions do to the world around us. Maybe they are crooked. Maybe our roads need to be straightened. Straightened to lead to the reign of a God who can bring a Peaceable kingdom. It is John the Baptist, that scary guy who scares us not because of his less than conventional ways, but scares us because of who he points us to.

A God who loves us enough to let us dream about peaceable kingdoms and hopes with us as we prepare a new way.

A God who loves us enough to send peace on the wings of a promise and hope that comes like morning’s first call, and joy that comes on the winds of a Spirit.

Come, Lord, Jesus Come

Decorations of Blue

2007-12-06T17:13:00.000-08:00

So it is Christmas. I think there is a song title there by some one I have heard. One of those Rosie’s Christmas things or some melody sung by pop singers who are past their prime.

I sit at the moment with Summit’s ear flopped over my computer. She is helping me type at least two papers. She has been a good helper girl. Heidi is on her way in from Chicago where it was 18 degrees and snowy. It is far from that here. This time last year I was in the midst of the first year franticness. I do not miss that. I don’t have exams but I do have enough papers for a small book. And that is fine. I prefer it that way. AR and Lyndsey promised me it would be this way but I didn’t believe them. I need to stop that cause they haven’t led me astray as yet.

The tree is up and Heidi is planning on baking cookies this Saturday. That will be a fete considering our world’s smallest kitchen. It got done last year but not without great consternation and gnashing of teeth. Soon enough we will reconfigure it, we hope. It is a little different this year. We are without Casey. It has been a full year now since he died. We still think of him in his fuzzy glory. And the sweetest kisses ever. I think he has re-incarnated himself in Summit at times as she has adapted (quite well actually) to life without him. She misses her buddy and still perks up a bit if she hears us mention his name.

And Heidi truly misses her boy. He was there at every turn during the last round of cancer. Always present and always knowing the best thing for the best momma. We are about to begin chemotherapy. A long course but one that promises to be a bit less intense with regard to side effects. We are taking a wait and see attitude on that one. There are a lot of miles to go before we sleep. But we have put up the tree and decorated the house albeit with a little less enthusiasm than previous years. The hope remains. The lights were a little brighter as we talked our way through the various travel ornaments as we decorated.

“Remember when we didn’t take snacks on the trip to Dahlonega?! Never doing that again!” (Dahlonega, GA Fall of 2004)

“How was it that the Apollo spacecraft landed again? Won’t it fit in our living room?” (Washington DC 1999)

“We never really went into the White House you know!” (ditto)

“But there is only one Mickey Mouse..well two really.” (Disney World, FL May 2005)

“Ah, the margaritas on the beach! YES!” (Cabo San Lucas, Mexico March 2004)

“MIND THE GAP… and which way do I look again?” (London, England May 2007)

“They were just socks!” (The Hermitage Nashville, TN December 2005)

“The BARN!! Where are the barns!” (See Rock City, Chattanooga, TN March 1998)

And there are others. And there will be more.

I hope.

Basketball time and the Living is Easy

2007-11-18T13:11:00.000-08:00

Ok, it has been awhile and I left with a bitter taste in my mouth. Not that the taste is gone but life has moved forward. Heidi is through radiation and surgery and we are on toward chemo. Not sure what that will hold but it is a long and arduous road that will be chronicled I am certain.

But it is also basketball season. A season of therapy and one we enjoy beyond all measure.
I am a Lady Vols fan. Let that be known. Most who read this know this already. But I do like women's basketball in general. I am known to criticize anyone and everyone from their shooting style to their hair. I am petty. I am poetic. I am a fan.

And I have a pretty good Basketball Theology. More on that at a later date.
So today the Lady Vols are playing the University of Texas. At Knoxville, where they have hung the 7th...SEVENTH... National Championship banner. It is only halftime but here I go.....

1) I wish I were there but I forgot to look at the schedule! Yet if I had been there in person, I would have missed seeing Carolyn Peck on television. Carolyn as you may know is a Vandy grad, UT Assistant, Head Coach at Purdue, Miami Heat and Florida. And was my nemesis in the 10 and under breaststroke in the Knox County Swim Association. We went back and forth year to year winning the City Championship. Both of our parents had to take our birth certificates with them at the regional meets because I was the height I am now and well she was taller. But we were indeed both 10. And the there was the time my dad was the finish judge at the Jefferson County Flying Fish vs the Holston Hurricanes at Jefferson County. Carolyn and I were in lanes next to each other and she out touched me by literally a fingertip (as hers were longer). My dad called her the winner and I didn't speak to him for a week. And yes Carolyn remembers this as evidenced by a conversation several years ago at West Town Mall.

2) Second, Pam Ward needs to stop flirting so blatantly with her Tennessee girls. She called Carolyn the "pride of east Tennessee" and whenever Kara Lawson is on she continuously flirts about how smart Kara is. Which she is but she needs to find her own woman.

3) Mickie DeMoss looks old and haggard and her hair is too long. I love Mickie dearly and she can talk the ears off of an elephant but maybe she came out of retirement too soon.

4) Gail G is still dreamy and looks much healthier, certainly from the Texas air...oh wait she got divorced last year. Must be in the water.

5) Last year's Sydney Spencer is this year's Ashley Bjorkland. From Washington State. Think way back to Abby Conklin that lovable goof ball from UT who could slink up to the top of the key and land a three. Or think Katie Douglas doe eyes. Either way the girl can shoot. She is a freshman. I love her.

If you can't stand the heat

2007-08-04T19:54:00.000-07:00

I would assume the news is out now. Heidi’s colon cancer has re appeared. The technical term is “recurred” although I wonder if statistically they would term it a new case since the 5 year mark is considered “cured”. So much for that.

I always thought it would come back. That some little cell was out there lurking in the darkness waiting for it’s time. I have to give it some human characteristics because otherwise I can’t hate it as much. Biblically if you name something, it gives it power. I am willing cede power to cancer. It has it. It wields it in curious and uncontrolled ways. It lurks in blood cells in the kids in the hospital. My little friends and I have had a tough time with it. It makes us cry and cry out. It brings 40 year olds to their knees in their dining rooms.

I hate it. With every fiber of my being, I hate it.

But the news isn’t always so grim. I have been amazed, shocked, and downright appalled at the reactions we have gotten. I understand folks react in different ways. I really do understand. It is scary and people care. And we appreciate that. Those of you who may read this I apologize ahead of time. You may be offended but this is my blog and you need to work with that.

There are those who have indeed felt the shit hit the fan with us. Who have called it like it is. The unfairness of it and the anger we have felt. Alongside the hope we have. Thank you for standing in the line of fire.

There are those who seem to see nothing but pity. And don’t think we can’t hear it or see it in your eyes. The eyes that seem to have us six feet under before we get started. And I know the look because I have had it too. But I am done with that now. That is not to say I won’t cry. That is not to say I won’t be afraid. But as a wise woman once told me (last week!), fearing something will happen does not make it a forgone conclusion. We will get through this. We were never promised a rose garden in the first place. I don’t know why it happened. So don’t ask me again.

The funniest name I have heard it called is a “colon problem”. Well, yeah it is that. Just a slight one. I think that statement was followed by a plea for a miracle. That was helpful let me tell you. There are miracles everyday. And we are one whether we have colon CANCER or not.

So don’t go freaking out on us. Don’t go selling us down the river. Just stand in there with us and if it gets too hot, then get the hell out of the kitchen.

It’s small in there anyway.

Enough Already

2007-08-03T14:25:00.000-07:00

She had had enough already.

I stepped into a little friend’s room today after hearing her cry. I thought it was another little friend but it wasn’t.

My little buddy isn’t one to cry. Or at least that I have seen. She was to have a CAT scan of her chest and stomach. I don’t know if it was scheduled or not. I asked her if she was scared and she said she was. I asked her what she was afraid of and she said she has to have a shot to make her go to sleep so they can do the test. She has had enough of those already too. She wants to go home.

My little friend has cancer. I am not sure what kind and it really doesn’t matter much. There are so damn many these days. They can name it whatever they want to, ALL, AML, MLL; all sorts of alphabet names that designate the types and the cells that keep dividing and conquering. The treatment is the same no matter what. A body is betrayed by whatever is in it and so we invade the same body with stuff that requires a shot or a port or an IV. As if that makes it all better. It may make it better. Or it may not.

So we cry because sometimes, there is nothing else to do.

CPE and Me

2007-07-15T18:26:00.000-07:00

My summer “job” has been something called CPE. CPE is Clinical Pastoral Education. Perhaps I should have mentioned this at the beginning of the summer, thus preventing a ton of questions and odd looks from people who have no clue. For many of us who are seeking a career in ministry, CPE is a requirement. This requirement is often done for one unit of credit although if one wants to go on and do chaplaincy as a career then one has to do upwards of 4 units of credit.

There are 4 hospitals that support this program. Common knowledge seems to say that these hospitals (Baptist, St. Thomas, Vanderbilt, and McKendree Village) fight like cats and dogs. Apparently they seem to see the need for pastoral care in “clinical” settings. Clinical meaning hospital or nursing home/assisted living settings.

There are 7 of us who participate in this summer program. We meet every Monday and Wednesday from 8-12 and the rest of the time we are working in our clinical settings. 5 of us are from Vanderbilt Divinity School and 2 fellas (and they are fellas) are from New Orleans attending a Catholic Seminary there. We get along pretty well and it has been good to see each other in “work” situations and not just in class. We struggle with our theology and how to best discuss how suffering affects the people we see every day. We struggle with our own “stuff”. I seem to be continuing to fight with my mother this summer. She has been dead now for 6 years. I love her but I am tired of her. : ) My classmates have been incredible. Some of us knew each other before. Now we know each other a lot. And we are safe with each other. There is a sense of having been through the fire. We have watched folks die before us. We have held people in their grief and we have laughed (really hard) at our incredible ability to step back and analyze what in the world we are doing.

I don’t want to go back to school. I have found what I want to do. But in usual catch 22 fashion, I have to go to school to do this. So I will. But I am not sure I will see things the same way now. I already hear scripture read (the Good Samaritan for instance) differently. The beatitudes have faces now. Mercy seems to have a name. I have enough fodder for a few sermons or more. And I have 4 more weeks to squeeze the life out of a program that I hope to be able to do more of…..although it will certainly be in a different setting.

We talked about the meaning of “shibboleth” in the office on Friday. Where else can I do that?! Or have a nurse cuss at you because you ASK them to do so.

Maybe one of these days.

2007-07-10T20:54:00.001-07:00

I am sitting here awaiting Heidi’s arrival from Omaha (yes!) Nebraska. She is traveling quite a bit this week and next and I still don’t like it. I can’t do anything about it but I can at least state that much. Summitt is asleep in the chair beside me. I have had coffee and now couldn’t sleep anyway.

Fun fact of the day: nerves grow one inch a month. One never knows what you will hear in a hospital elevator. Who knew?! I had to laugh as the resident who was privy to this factoid as she looked at the neurosurgeon with this “oh yeah, I knew that” look. Knowing full well of course that she had NO clue of such things.

There are residents all over the hospital these days. Nurse residents, doctor residents, CPE residents (that is me!). All very wide eyed and trying to do the cool doc thing. Or whatever it is that they do. I forget sometimes that the docs are real people. To stand behind one in the lunch line or the conveyor belt hallway to Children’s is amusing to say the least. They have to pay bills, break up with boyfriends or girlfriends, fix their cars, or make plans to hang out after work. I forget that.

Maybe that is a good thing. I would want them to know nerves grew an inch a month.

Monday After

2007-07-02T20:03:00.001-07:00

Ok, so CPE is turning me into an amatuer poet. Which I am not. Some things can't really be told in prose. I am amazed and blessed to be part of this hospital, if only for a while. It will be a lifetime of reflection I am certain. And hard to leave. What I haven't said is that I am responsible (assigned to really) for 2 main parts of the hospital: the children's oncology floor and the emergency department. I have manged to tentatively name a place for myself on the oncology floor. I am unable to describe my experience there but I am working on it. To say it is amazing is impossibly difficult. Words can't describe the spirit there..the "ethos" if you will. Words like "brave" and "courageous" just don't cut it. It is so much more than that. This 6th floor. The work done there is nothing short of a miracle each day. Difficult work to be sure, but oh such incredibly gentle work.

So for today, here is the latest post. This one is a bit cheesy (I think) to begin but it will get worked over I am sure. Just bear with me. Something else will come out for certain. Heaven help us when it does but...

Monday
A fortress against fear
Never far away
A mission sometimes impossible to know
Hearts strong in faith
Spirits rail against the sure foe
The bustle of morning gives way to quieter times
Laughter breaking over bacon
Care in confusion and chaos
Steady hand and hearts
That break sometimes
When they come in.
The little ones and their smiles and their pink rides in the hall
Stopping to “honk”
Echoing each other in chorus
Necessary laughter
Naming, life claiming, love

10:12 AM June 23, 2007

2007-06-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

Tender hands on tiny feet
Blue ink stains
Beautiful, beautiful boy
Snuggle deep into Grandma’s folds; sleep tight
Fussy response of the unspoken yet
Never unheard
“A.Donor” is unnamed
Not you.
You are named
Named with God’s hand imprinted on our hearts

England and More

2007-06-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

So we have been to England and worshipped in Salisbury Cathedral and Westminster Abby. How incredible it was. I am amazed –still- that these incredible buildings were built in ages when cranes and bulldozers and heavy equipment were not there. People literally lived and died while building Salisbury Cathedral. And often with in the walls of the building. When the spire (don’t call it a steeple!) was added the stones that held it literally bent inward. So the architect at the time – in the 1200’s or so—decided that flying buttresses would hold up. And they did. And the spire stands.

Two world wars spared this cathedral. I have no idea how as it was possible that the Germans used it as a landmark for their bombing runs over the city. The British army training grounds were not but 8 miles from there. Right next to Stonehenge. Again an incredible feat albeit a disappointing site. But how did the cathedral survive? How is it that in May of 2007 a forty year old woman from East Tennessee could awesomely worship every morning for 8 days in a 700 year old chapel? A blessing.

One of the more incredible stories (and there are many) of the Cathedral is the story of the stonemasons. They were asked to carve faces for one of the chapels. So, they looked around and saw each other! All along the walls of one of the chapels and throughout the Cathedral really, are little faces. 700 year old faces frozen in time. Jolly faces to be sure. Still there. Some with noses rubbed off. Most with curly curly hair. And they watch over us these many years later.

We build megachurches and churches in coffee houses. Built of steel and glass and concerns over the parlor seating. Yet these sites of stone are indeed built to the glory of God. I wonder what we are thinking when we hire architects and planners. Millions of dollars and fundraising efforts. And it is nothing compared.

Six Figures for what?

2007-05-18T20:34:00.000-07:00

In the course of less than 24 hours, my partner has been recommended for a job and subsequently will be interviewed for a job. At 7:30 am on a Saturday morning. She says it maybe that they are desperate to find someone! How does that happen? It is a job for a different company. Insurance to be sure, but a competitor. It pays significantly more than she is making now. In some ways that is nice. A nice compliment to her work, her work ethic, and her. Who knows who recommended her? She has worked with many companies and brokers and firms. Always professional and a great attitude and all those things you want in an employee.

We ran errands tonight for a trip to England. She will be going with me on a Div School trek to study worship. God love her for that. She is excited and I am excited to be able to share this part of my life with her. In all of its work and worship and wealth of experience. I don’t expect her to love every minute of it or become a seminary student herself. But it is an opportunity we could not pass up. It is a way for us to bring parts of ourselves together again. As we ran errands for the trip, we talked.

But as she says, it is an outrageous amount of money for something really doesn’t matter to her. In her words, she doesn’t work nearly hard enough for someone to pay six figures. “It just shows how screwed up the world’s priorities are.” She said it is an outrageous amount of money considering there are people who don’t make enough to feed their families. It is far, far from what she is trained to do. She fell into it. She tells me often that she feels as though she “plays pretend”. She is an Illinois girl who was raised with her two brothers on a dairy farm. Her father died when she was nine and her mother was a school nurse. She has never wished or wanted wealth. Only to live comfortably and able to pay the bills. She has more than provided for us. Particularly in this last year.

But when did it become a bottom line world? I see her struggle with the needs we have and yet remains unfulfilled. She is trying to determine what it is that she wants to do when she grows up. It is difficult to see where her road will take her. She misses her student contact and feels very far removed from her work with disabled students. Her heart is often trampled for the sake of someone’s bottom line. And it is not always her company’s bottom line. It may be a broker or a sales guy or a customer.

I so want her to find a way to use her talents in a way that feeds her. I have no idea how or where or when that will happen. She is realizing it too. I wouldn’t care if she quit tomorrow and worked at an Easter Seals camp. I can’t see the bigger plan and how all of this works. Why now? Why in Philadelphia of all places? And why keep pushing things toward a life of luxury? She doesn’t want it or need it. Neither of us do. A friend today told me she didn’t see our lives changing much no matter how much either of us made. It wouldn’t. We’d travel but I don’t see the Lexus or new house or jewelry.

I am amazed at times and confused and in conundrums. This too shall pass. Yet I have no idea where we shall pass to. We trust and hope it is for some greater reason. These goofy things that seem to be sent to remind us of how the other half lives.

Street Corners and Little Miracles

2007-05-14T14:08:00.000-07:00

I went to Orientation for my Summer CPE today. I will be serving as a Chaplain Intern at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital throughout the summer. I am excited, nervous, anxious, and thrilled all at the same time.

I stood at the corner of 21st Ave and the entrance to the hospital recalled a conversation I had a little over a year ago. It too took place on a street corner but in Chattanooga. It was a beautiful day and I had finished lunch. My friend Gwen looked at me and said “don’t let this place take your soul”. I had just been promoted to a managerial position at the company where I worked. She too had been in management for a good bit longer. She actually was my trainer when I came to work in August of 2000. She was well aware of the perils I was about to navigate. And she knew me much too well to attempt to buck up my ego.

And that is when the journey to this place began. I was struck this morning by how different my life is now than how it was this time last year. I am certain I am different but in ways I cannot name at the moment. I feel more peaceful though Heidi would tell you I am still hyped up 90% of the time. Only subject has changed. Another friend calls me “Capt. Anxious”. That too will fit.

My key relationships have been challenged to the very core of their being but are on track now. Thankfully. God bless that. We have come through the storms of uncertainty I never dreamed would face us. I know how blessed I am to have the people around me that I have. Who keep me grounded and hold me when I sleep at night. It is a miracle in so many ways.

There is some sense of moving I think. Not on as if to move along, but a movement toward something. I am trying to get used to actually having a summer for a few weeks. I will be back on an 8-5 schedule in June. That will be odd. Someone today told me they didn’t realize I had “grown-up” clothes.

I have actually taken to gardening. I have done it in part because I lost a bet to Heidi but in larger part because I am starting to see the therapy in it. Granted I needed some help in identifying the difference between a yellow leaf and a cucumber bloom but I will get there. I cussed one morning while trying to drag the water hose into the front yard in my pajamas. But, I go and check the garden every night and find myself looking over it as though it were a miracle. It is that indeed.

So as Josephine liked to say, “We shall see”. England is next up. It will be fascinating. To be where John Wesley was and the ages.

Good grief, we are but a twinkle in the eye of our Creator.

Backpack Garbage

2007-05-01T08:43:00.000-07:00

I spent exactly oh say 14 hours away from the computer. Pitiful really.

I finished my first year of Divinity School yesterday. I took the world’s longest Reformation Exam. Not hard really. Just long and most definitely thorough. “Comprehensive” as it was described to be.

I went to see our Field Ed supervisor afterwards. She sat me in her office and asked me what my very first reactions were about completing my very first year. I could barely complete a sentence. But I think challenging, personally more than I expected, worth every minute to be sure, I never got to get all of it and that bugged me but there was summer for that. And a few other things.

I was really making rounds to say hello to the Administrative staff. They are a funny bunch and remind me of the good old days when I was in Higher Ed. The staff in the Dean’s Office and Field Placement serves as our friends and allies when the faculty seems unapproachable. With chocolate readily available and good warm hugs, they are the people to see when you are tired and need a pick me up. And we are tired a lot it seems. Mentally and often physically.

So my first action of the summer was to run errands. Which I gladly did because I had time to do them. I took shoes to be repaired, I ate a leisurely lunch. I had the oil changed and transmission fluid flushed in my car. I got the dog’s medications for the next month. I usually hate errands but on this gorgeous spring day, I felt like a real person again. Not just a student whose time is concentrated on deadlines and papers. No thoughts really. A little numb. And realized through the tears I shed with Heidi that I was greatly relieved.

I cleaned out the backpack today. Finally. I THINK I cleaned it out last semester but can’t be so sure. It doesn’t look like it at any rate. Among the contents were receipts and Oreo crumbs. The random Cheerios which are my between classes staple food. I found a Cheerio on the floor behind my desk when I sat down for my exam. I had been there before it seems. A paperclip. A nametag for some event. Pens. Pens. Pens. All at the bottom of the bag. I for once rubber banded them. Why not? The semester is over…. The back pack is now on the stairs in the attic closet. It will sit there until England in a few weeks. Then who knows what it will carry back.

So a school year has gone. It did fly by and I know the summer will go and then the fall and then more time will have passed. I am still grateful and blessed to be here. To be able to reclaim a bit of time that many of us over 35’s don’t get to do for one reason or another. I hope for a good summer and one of some rest. I watched CSI for the first time in weeks and did notice that yes, Miami does have an orange and green color scheme just as Chris said they did. How odd…and I can ponder that now.

Minutiae but I like it.

Blackburg

2007-04-17T18:25:00.000-07:00

I find myself sitting in my little house that has become a refuge of sorts for me. It is indeed a little house that sits behind the larger “main” house. Someone built it a long time ago as a jam band garage of sorts. Heidi has since turned into a home office by day and I have turned it into a study room by night. The night is comfortable enough for my door to be open this evening. Unlike last night when it was chilly. Lyndsey stopped by to see if I would go and study with her. She scaled our 8 ft privacy fence. I left her hanging up there for a bit until I could figure out what she could step on to get down. She is young enough to be one of my youth kids from a good long time ago. Those guys are all out of college now and working on their lives. Some are married. One is an ad exec in New York. Another, the ad execs best friend, is married and expecting her first child. I still think of them.

I particularly think of them today. There was a terrible shooting at Virginia Tech yesterday. I know Blacksburg. It is an hour and a half from where I went to school. Tech is nestled in the mountains and has a beautiful rambling campus. It used to be a military school I think. The original buildings are stone. White stone now streaked with blood.

I talked with my friend Sam today. He is as conservative as I am liberal. We don’t agree on much except we both know that Jesus loves US. We discussed the shooting. He mentioned that the young man who killed these students and himself was from “CO-rea”. I mention this not only because of his East Tennessee accent, but because of his sometimes irritatingly hostile statements about those who are not from “around these parts”. He did mention that the young man was a legal resident from Korea. I applauded him for that. The immigrant card was off the table. Then Sam went on to talk about how he bought a gun in Roanoke several days before the shooting. I, of all people, said, “well you can do that”. He agreed. But couldn’t say much more about the purchase. Other than it was a gun intended to kill people. And not to hunt and not to have on the mantle.

I think about those kids up there. The RA who went to help when he heard a commotion. I did that once. It was friend who had crawled down the hall suffering excruciating pain from kidney stones. I sat with her head in my lap until the ambulance came. She was ok. This fella was not. I think about the 19 and 20 year olds who were from small towns in Virginia. Some were just starting their college careers. They could be youth group kids. They ARE someone’s children. And they got up one day to go to class and they suffered horribly.

The Tech President was being questioned today by Matt Lauer. (why not Meredith?). He discussed what they thought they knew yesterday. That by letting kids go to class it would be a way to protect them. He too was doing his job yesterday. I can’t imagine the guilt and second guessing he must be going through. As a former college staffer, I understand the responsibility he feels. Parents entrust their precious children to folks they don’t know in order for them to be educated. And now what?

Blame will be placed in all places. Sam mentioned lawsuits. Sure those will happen. But for what good? They are hiring more Campus Police at UTK. Great! Why did it take this? My guess is once the news dies down and state budgets get cut, those jobs will not be available.

And finally, what about the young man who was very troubled and angry it appears. He was supposedly a loner. A man with a dark sense of self. He too was someone’s child. His parents, much like the Columbine shooters parents, hurt. Who is to say their dreams aren’t shattered as well?

I don’t understand it. I don’t get it. I don’t get how we can live in a place that can find it so easy to hate the “other” when the other is loved by someone. And when we are all loved by GOD, for God’s sake. Sam would say this young man was not loved by God. He would say he will pay for his sins. I think perhaps this young man may be at peace. The demons quieted. Maybe not. I tend to look at things through rose colored glasses sometimes. But I can’t conceive of a God that doesn’t hurt with us. That doesn’t grieve with us while still trying to show us how to love.

Even in the awfulest of times.

And it's only Tuesday

2007-04-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

1) Sunday – Easter Baptism. I heard, "you are a child of God".
2) Monday- My own Easter Sermon for Homiletics . I heard "spirit filled".
3) Tuesday – I heard Matt Lauer give Don Imus more airtime after he was suspended from CBS Radio.
4) Tuesday -I heard C. Vivian Stringer, a coach, a woman, a mother, speak out for her team who might as well be her family. “we had to experience racist and sexist remarks that are deplorable, despicable, and abominable and unconscionable. It hurts me." C. Viv, it hurts us all.
5) Tuesday - I heard three speakers at school talk about HIV/AIDS in the Black Church. We can’t talk in ANY church about sexuality. Based on # 3 and 4, we apparently can’t talk appropriately about each other.

Can we go back to number one and start over?

Prayer 40% Off

2007-04-07T19:56:00.000-07:00

Prayer is 40% off at the 21st Century Bookstore.

I should say that only in the 21st Century would prayer be 40% off. As if it was a commodity of sorts. To some it is, I guess. My assumption is that this 40% off sale is for Prayer books maybe? I hope so otherwise I owe somebody something.

Wonder if there is an after Easter Clearance?

Wow! That’d be a concept. Clearance after the resurrection! After nothing is left in the tomb?! Cool! Liquidation! I can see it now…. Shrouds and linens clearance.

My friend Lyndsey saw this sign a few days ago. I had seen it a few weeks ago and forgotten about it. We are in school together, she and I. The two of us along with our friend Anna Russell Kelly are our own version of the Three Amigos. But we really resemble the Three Stooges. We had a 3 second conversation in the hallway of my house last night. We were all talking at once or in some monosyllabic manner finishing the other’s sentences as we often do. We finish them for each other because one of the three of us is laughing too hard to complete a sentence.

When Heidi and I left Chattanooga for this adventure, I prayed there would be people here to receive us. I never dreamed I would find two 20 something’s who would care for me to see me through this place. Lynds and AR are “2nd Years”. They have been through this “1st Year” stuff and have tutored me along with plenty of realistic expectations and a calming presence when the work has been overwhelming for me. They are kindred spirits who have taken me into their lives.

Lyndsey is the one with the activist heart who keeps the fire going for all of us. I tell her we are twins of different mothers 20 years apart. The funny thing is while she reminds us of our responsibility to each other and to the world around us in this fired up manner she carries with her, she is the heart and soul of us. Truly. A heart that loves more than most. For longer than most. She can argue with a doorpost and it most likely will move. She has an ability to see the “man behind the curtain”. Her knowledge and understanding of theory and practice are amazing to me. I can do one or the other but I can’t put the two together for Pete. Her dreams of a PhD will be realized and she will go on to teach others to do for themselves in a manner that will benefit the communities they live in. I am proud of her.

AR is the funny, kindhearted, best-friend-forever. I want to call her naïve but it isn’t that really. It is an awareness of being in the moment with someone that is her nature. She too has an activist heart for the homeless and the underprivileged. She is uncertain a bit as to what is in store for her after school. She wants marriage and children and feels guilty for wanting that Volvo down the street. At the same time, she is a welcoming hospitable spirit that wants to serve those who have needs beyond their control. She is interning at a church next to the Nashville Mission. She is capable of arguing for those whose destinies have unfortunately been decided for them. AR gives voice to those who can’t always speak for themselves. I am proud of her as well.

I know from previous life experience in the “other” world that we can get sidetracked from our dreams and our call. I am living proof of that. Maybe not the sidetrack but the meandering of life I guess. I want us to all get where we are going. But together. I hope in their taking care of me now I can return the favor in the future. However that may be. I have friends who are incredible stalwarts in my life. I know that. But to have friends who share in the journey you are on and who let you be who you really are, that is a blessing. I guess God knew what was up when these two wandered in or actually I crashed their party. They are the arms I seek when I need a good hug. One that takes you in and holds every bit part of you. They are the ears who hear my "joys and concerns". Theirs is the laughter I hear when I get too excited to talk and end up in tears due to a spittle episode after a math lesson.

I pray our lives will always have room for all of us. Those prayers aren’t 40% off.

National Champions 2007

2007-04-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

I will attempt not to gloat. But I am happy. I will wear orange tomorrow.

A few parting words:

Quit asking Candace Parker if she is leaving. She is not leaving despite Nancy Leiberman’s predictions of European riches.

Sidney finally found the basket. Go Sid Go!

Pat finally found a point guard.

Pat needs to find a comb. Or quit poofing her hair.

Pat has two more than Geno… and that is all that really matters.

Gail went to Texas. A pity she can't have some respect from a program she built.

Pokey is still missing. Probably best for the time being. Hang in there Pokey. Hopefully, there is grace to go around.

All will be well if Vanderbilt can keep Melanie. I hope so. I have grown fond of the Jersey Girl.

The next season starts in 197 days. If I can add, which is questionable.

The SEC Women’s Tournament is in Nashville next year.

I made a rather feeble attempt to exegete Revelation for the express purpose of this blog but I decided to let this be it. It became a Pat vs Geno eschatological synopsis and I got anxious. And then I wondered if I was in the 144,000 or if I just got confused and thought I was at Neyland Stadium waiting in line for the bathroom at a UT football game.

"It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End.”

I love basketball.

Palm Sunday Fun

2007-04-01T15:48:00.000-07:00

Palm Sunday. The day that is proclaimed to be the re-enactment of Jesus’ triumphal ride into Jerusalem on a donkey.

I love Palm Sunday. Not for the sentiment but for the simple fact that Palm fronds are way too fun. For everybody! At church, we were given palm fronds that were grown on a sustainable farm. At least that was our hope. I go to a progressive Baptist church and we are trying to do things “right”. One can only hope that when you order palm fronds from Guatemala that they are a) from Guatemala and b) are actually from the sustainable farm that advertises them. Otherwise, I am not sure what happens. Do you send them back?

The morning proceeds with the usual children’s “parade” down the aisle. Palms waving every which way. There is the little girl who waves it incessantly all the way to the altar. The little boy who sticks the end up his nose and then shows his friend what happens when you do this. He may leave it up his nose even. Embarrassing Mom and Dad and every one else. There is the little boy who waves his open hand palm to family members who are present, palm frond dangling at his side. All in all no one knows what to expect other than it will be a cutie patooties.

The choir then enters from the narthex. Voices carrying upward to the ceiling as we sing “All Glory Laud and Honor”. Now the fun begins. Leading the choir are those members who wave the fronds dramatically in the elbow, elbow, wrist-wrist-wrist action often associated with beauty pageants. Waving their fronds high in the air for the most effective performance of professional frond waving. The men are better at this, waving them instead in front of their music thus having to readjust their music folders AROUND the palm instead of waving the palm in a manner more conducive to holding their music. Maybe waving the frond in their neighbor’s ear. Finally the pastors who have been-there done-this so many times that they have t-shirt that says “I survived the Lenten Season”. They merely allow the palm to be carried as though it were a flag staff. It’ll wave then as it will.

The palms given to the congregation find themselves in all sorts of contortions and conniptions. We sit on them. We drop them in the floor. They serve as placeholders for the next hymn. For certain we do not know when to wave them. Is it during the choir introit? During the solo? We can certainly try our best waves in “Freebird” fashion like we did when we all had lighters in the arena rock days. I tried to do that during the offertory hymn but Heidi wasn’t paying attention and it wasn’t that fun then. Instead, during the prayer Heidi and I practiced our “beauty palm frond wave” as demonstrated by the choir. The older ladies in front of us were playing too. Waving them in each other’s hymnals as the invitation was sung. We are never too old to play.
I am not so sure Jesus’ last week started on such a high note. I would hope those folks in Jerusalem were better palm wavers.

But somehow, I don’t think Jesus would mind our lack of palm waving etiquette. As long as we know what comes next.

Summitt the Wonder(ful) Dog

2007-03-29T17:05:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the couch with my sleeping dog beside me. She is a beagle mix who is moody at times although the aging process has tempered her temper a bit. That and thyroxine.

She was a surprise “gift” from my mother. I grew up with dogs and they were always the best, best friends for an only child.

Summit was delivered to me on a Fall break 11 years ago. I had my own house and had room for a dog. She was 6 lbs. and could fit into the front pocket of my rain jacket. She slept a lot then. Like she does now. Of course she was to be an outdoor dog. But then it snowed. About 6 inches and she couldn’t get through the snow. And then it was cold. And then, well….she was comfortable on the bed. Under the covers. Behind my knees. Where she still sleeps most nights.

She scared me to death before Christmas when she contracted some awful puppy virus and I begged her not to die on me as we wildly drove to see Dr. Karl, a friend from church who was our vet. He is a gentle man with a quiet voice who kept her overnight and called me throughout the evening with updates. Calmly telling me she would be fine and it wasn’t Parvo and no she didn’t eat that earring I lost and couldn’t find. He did the x rays already.

She chewed on 8 year old Joe’s ears when that was ALL he had on his head. Just a noggin and short cropped hair and ears good enough o eat.

She gave her seal of approval to Heidi and was there to call me back to consciousness after that first kiss in the living room. You have had them...the ones that make the world stop and then turn over so you see it differently from that moment on.

She helped write my first thesis. And stayed up …truly, to see that I proof read and edited and finally printed out the last page of works cited. She got a graduation card from Grandma for her scholarship.

She moved across town and terrorized Casey (Heidi’s dog) and worried Max next door to death. She nursed Heidi through surgery in Chattanooga. And she stayed beside my mother as she took her last breath. Gently curling next to her until we could get there on that long long drive up the interstate. We could tell where she laid doing a job that I could never do myself. The last one of us to usher mother through the thin curtain. She dried my tears with her kisses and gently placed herself at my side as I sat on a deck that summer, silently screaming into the darkness of the nights that were endless.

As I sit on this couch thinking of the last time I heard my mother’s voice, Summitt looks at me with sightless brown eyes. Eyes that sometimes reflect something else I can’t quite make out. I know without a doubt that she cannot see. She blinks but that is because her eye lids still react to air flow. Suddenly, I realize maybe she knows how I feel. That it still hurts after almost 6 years this June. That sometimes I forget what it is to hear my mother tell me she loves me. She reminds me that there is a still voice that calls me home. A voice that lets me know deep inside that Mom is alright and that she loves me still.

Summitt gently nuzzles me and sits on my lap while I cry even now. And then she puts her head back down and sleeps.

In the Beginning

2007-03-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

FirstKingsNineteenNine

Maybe that will work for a Blog name. Not real catchy but it refers to a a chapter in the Hebrew Testament that had meaning to me today. 1st Kings 19: 9. “And behold, the word of the LORD came to him, and he said to him, "What are you doing here, Elijah?"

Except in the Jewish Bible Translation “ What are” is translated as “WHY are you here Elijah?”

Powerfully and excruciatingly close to home for me.

I am a Divinity School student at Vanderbilt Divinity School. A friend encouraged me to do this Blog thing, perhaps so she won’t get my rambling e-mails. Someone else encouraged me as well but that was because I was terribly catty and cracking jokes about any and all Women’s Basketball teams. Two loves, basketball and theology. They do work together in a sense. There is redemption in a free throw. Grace found when you get an offensive rebound and a put back. Rest when you ride the pine. And Miracles when a three sings string music.

So I will post. Why am I here? I can’t begin to answer that question. It only adds to a myriad of other questions. I can only answer as Elijah did in a sense…You called me here. And God goes on to tell him all he is going to do.

I have not a clue. I am not a theological brain. I could care less about the historical Jesus although I find it incredible that some man or men with a message a long time ago could change the course of the world and we still get it wrong. Even it isn’t factual, it is true. I am supposedly “pastoral” which is funny to me as I like to cuss and get just as mad at God as the next person. I just am.

But I am here. I get up everyday and try. I don’t always get it right. I don’t always even want to try but half assed is a half of something.

I have a partner and a dog that will inevitably make their way into this. My friends wander in and out as well. My life is a story and I can’t help but tell it. My head would pop off if I couldn’t.

I don’t pretend to have answers. There aren’t any or any right ones most of the time.
If yu read on in 1st Kings 19, God plays games with Elijah...sort of a 'Marco" "Polo" can you see me now game.

Until the end, when after the fire, Elijah hears the wind.