Immigration, Families & Grieving

I have felt quite angry lately. I don't even like to spend time with myself because of my poor attitude. I realize anger is a part of grieving and I must be grieving. It was two weeks ago today that Mom died and I have not had a deep, boo-hoo, hiccup-making cry yet. May or may not - time will tell. There are many times that I think of something humorous that happened that I'd like to tell her next time we talk on the phone; then I remember she can no longer hear well enough to hear me on the phone; then I remember she isn't near a phone. I laugh at myself because I know it will take a while to adapt to the new change. Yet, I know she was ready to go and she's with Dad and I'm happy for her and him and for Jesus who orchestrated the whole thing. 

Yet, I know in heaven she knows and she is known. (1 Cor. 13.12 - "I shall fully know, as also I was known")  I believe she now fully knows me and fully accepts me. That was not possible when she was on earth. It gives me comfort and joy to experience that now. I am happy for that. I am happy for her that she is now known by God and accepted fully.  I love the story of the prodigal son and am reading Henri Nouwin's book, "The Return of the Prodigal." Fully loved and accepted - whether the returning prodigal or the stay-at-home bitter older son. Both are loved and accepted. So am I. I feel accepted by God - just as I am... a little bit younger son and a little bit older son included in my character.

I have become dissatisfied with my life. I love when I recognize that gentle, inner gnawing that makes me uncomfortable and dissatisfied; because it is God's way of growing me up. I no longer fear those times of mild or intense dissatisfaction because I know the rewards of growth will become great. (I just re-read the Beatitudes and they fit here beautifully.)

I was mentally itemizing what things might be annoying me and can be changed to grow me into greater life satisfaction. It hit me in church - like a ton of bricks.  I love my church family and feel accepted and loved; the people's unconditional love and acceptance has given me the courage and strength to grow. I am grateful for Father Gerald who has touched my life with that type of love... which doesn't mean he can't be a burr under my saddle at times... yet I try to pass on to others the Christ-like, brotherly love he's shown me. Okay, so I have a terrific church. Hallelujah! But that's only a few hours on Sunday for 4-5 months a year and more the other 7-8 months - so that means I can't expect my church activities to meet that need to accept and be accepted. Although that helps meet my need for belonging, there is still a big gap in filling that need.  I think that will be the growth - how to feel I belong when it's sporadic and very transitional; or what can I do to fill the gap, even with my limited energy?

The first thought was take in foster children and give them a place to feel accepted and where they belong (at least temporarily).  I don't think my health or age would allow that.I doubt if I'd meet the requirements for such a responsibility.

Next thought was finding a partner.  Then I laughed at myself. Not because I'm against remarriage, but hunting for an intimate, rest-of-my-life relationship so I feel I belong would be the wrong motive. I won't do that to me or some man.  It's an unrealistic expectation to place that "make me feel I belong" onto one person. What a weight to expect one person to carry. No way! A few days before she passed, Mom said her and Dad had discussed me and they were hoping I would remarry - parental pressure from the grave, eh? That's left me a bit confused since Mom was so against that after I divorced 5 years ago. It's a moot point since there's nobody I'm interested in or that has shown interest in me. I'll let God figure it out and I'll remain open to God.  Most of the time, I'm very content solo; I have a few good women friends who are there for me and I feel very blessed.

Next thought was finding ways to connect with my children. When both sons and 8 of my 10 grandchildren were together at Mom's bedside, it was so wonderful to have extended family near. Sharing history, enjoying laughter, comforting each other, nursing Mom and getting reacquainted.  I miss that long-term connectedness so much.  It was the first time my two sets of grandchildren met each other and they had a blast. Two of the little girls cousins enjoyed dance and were having a terrific time talking about that and dancing around the common room at the rest home - to the smiles of the residents. The boy and one girl cousins enjoyed art and they were busy making posters for my mother and others.  The teen girl was practicing her ASL (American Sign Language) with one of the deaf residents. The toddler was enjoying the attention of being the only preschooler. My two daughters-in-law were talking like old friends. My niece, her partner and her oldest daughter were there and I gained a greater respect for the compassion, intuition and giving that Gypsy ministered to others - took my breath away. What a powerful woman.  I discovered her partner, Patrick, is a wonderful man and see why my niece is crazy-in-love with him.  It was so wonderful to be a part of it all. It was amazing to watch the dynamics between people develop and grow.  Because of our grief, we were able to put down the defenses and walls and be there for each other in new ways. I am so very grateful for that time. That healing time.  As my sister said, even in her death, Mom was still teaching us.

I love living here, but there are times I miss family so much I can hardly stand it. If the US government doesn't increase the retirement age, in four more years I'll be eligible to come back to the US. That means all but two grandchildren will be teens. I will have missed their infant through childhood years and have almost-adult grandkids. I love children and wanted a dozen; but I love my two sons deeply and I'm grateful God chose them to grow next to my heart and in my heart and in my life. I love them very much. But they are so far away. It is so hard to stay close so far away. It is hard to stay connected when they are busy with their families of 5 children each (so far) and working on their MBA degrees while working full time. I'm grateful they want to continue to grow educationally - they learned that from me! I'm not complaining, just stating the time constraints and respect that as I know their families are priority - and I taught them that. It's great to see that happening - they are both wonderful daddies... the youngest quit work for several years to be the stay-at-home-daddy. They are awesome men and picked compatible wives.

Like I usually do when something is upsetting, I read about it, study it, figure out what it's about and then experience it. I was surprised to read there is grieving after immigration and it hits missionaries particularly hard. I'm obviously not a missionary; but a woman who followed her heart to an island that has it's own national culture (as it was it's own country until 1949); but the island somewhat shares the same English language but some dialects and words are still confusing to me. Yes, it was an adjustment but I adapted to the changes when I arrived out of my love for ex. After his betrayal, I had to remain here because I am unable to get health insurance nor am I able to work full time if a company could hire and insure me in the US. One thing Obamacare has done is lowered the pre-existing disease to 12 months, so I'd only have to wait a year after working full time to be insured and hope my disease didn't flare up and I'd lose everything I've worked for to pay the medical bills; but I don't think I am able work 40 hours a week, thus, I'm not eligible for insurance.  That means Canada is home for 4 more years minimum or whenever I'm eligible for US old-age health insurance. 

I've often tried to look at the bright side:  at least living 4,313 KM away, I can't be accused of being a meddling mother-in-law. So that is the silver-lining blessing. It's 3,722 KM from where I live to London, England. OMG, I'm a long way away and I didn't bring Toto with me on this yellow-brick road.

I am done grieving the loss of my exes, my children, my US citizenship, my health, etc... but I haven't grieved not getting to dandle grand babies on my knee. Seeing them for a few days a year just isn't enough to carve a relationship or have sleep-overs. So, I need to grieve that loss and maybe that will help me figure out how to grieve for Mom.

I miss my offspring.  I miss my beloved niece.  I miss I didn't have the chance to know my great-nieces.Yet, I live in the age of e-mail, phones, flights - and I know in my grandmothers' time, women left their homes to travel to other countries or other parts of the country when they may only get to share a letter every few years. I know I need to grieve; but I know I am blessed, too.

I don't know what God is growing in me; but first I will grieve and I trust He will show the next step. I pray it brings me into feeling greater belonging and connectedness - to not feel so isolated or alienated. I talked to Mom about that once.  She said from age 47 when dad died until she turned 70 and her co-workers and friends' husbands start to die like flies, then she finally felt greater  acceptance by other widows/women. She said single mature women are alienated which is why many rush out and remarry so they will be socially accepted.  That is comforting and discomforting.  That may mean 7 more years; and it means grief and pain for others as they adjust to losing a loved one; but it is comforting that I may not always feel so alienated. Or maybe God will teach me to feel belonging even if it's on such a sporadic basis. I will continue to trust Him to lead me on the journey that He has planned for my good.

Well, that's a vulnerable blog entry. A bit more self-disclosing then I'm really comfortable with. But it is where I am right now.

Gone From My Sight

Gone From My Sight
by Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying...

 

______________________________________

I figure there are two ways to go with today's entry: about Mom's life, or processing my loss.  The song I am compulsively listening to and celebrating Mom's passing is "Great is the Lord" by Maranatha. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaOIdhPLqeQ (male voices) or http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMwi86QVMTQ (female lead - my favourite).  I know Mom's been wanting to go home to heaven for at least 15 years and has talked about it often with hope and joy. She has not had an easy life, but seldom complained. With the two new breaks in her spine and the pain she's had for 70 years since her first broken back - there is no way I could want her back to endure more pain. The main thing I've heard her complain about is her advanced age meant she had so many more people to grieve and that was becoming a burden. She lost her dad at age 7 and got sick during his funeral and ended up living apart from her mother and brother for almost a year while her mother's friends nursed her back to health. She lost her best friend who was pregnant, her friend's husband and her boy friend in the car wreck that broke her back as a young lady, next she lost her beloved step-father Bob, followed in a few years by my birth and having to leave me at the hospital for a month while she went home until I was big enough to survive life out of the incubator, a year later she lost her mother who had lived with them for several years.  A few years later she lost her her husband and was left with two pre-teen girls, funeral expenses and hospital bills.  Yet, she plugged away, held tight to God and saw the cup of life as half full. I remember some of the miracles we saw as God provided; once there was no money for groceries so she got out the guest book from Dad's funeral to read all the names of people who had loved him and found a $20 bill - enough for a few weeks groceries back then.

One time I told her how hard it was to be single in a couples' world. She laughed and doled out some of her common-sense, practical advice:  "Just hang in there; when you reach your early 70s, other women's husbands will start dropping like flies and then you'll get the deep friendships you need and desire." She said the first 20 years after Dad's death the isolation of being single in a coupled world had been very hard for her. Another "momism" that was instrumental in my parenting was when my oldest was going through his terrible two's and he'd tried my patience all day, "Honey, if you can't control him when he's 2 and you can pick him up, what are you going to do when he turns 14 and borrows the car keys?"  Another that was beneficial was after a day when I'd threatened my child punishment several dozen times, and Mom gently said, "Debbie, do you realize how many times you've told your son there would be punishment and he didn't get punished?  What you've really taught him is that it's okay to lie." I know there were many more, but that's the ones that come to mind today.

I'm sure I'll be blogging more about Mom in the next few weeks as I process her death. 

________________________

After a complimentary upgrade to executive class for the last leg of the journey back to Newfoundland, I arrived, 2 hours late, bone-tired, rain-drenched and glad to be in my own bed; but sad because I wouldn't be there to share Mom's home-going and frustrated because my disease hinders me from travel medical insurance of longer than 2 weeks. It's too dark to see my yard from my car; but during a break in the rain, I carry my sopping wet bags into the house, check e-mail, call my sister at the care facility to assure her I arrived home safely.  I lecture her to follow the direction of the hospice care team who told us how important it is that we take time off, use volunteers to sit with Mom so she can get adequate sleep, rest and just re-energized for the demanding work of sitting and waiting and loving and caring and remembering. 

Moms are always Moms. About 20 minutes after Pat tells Mom that I'm home safely, she passes to heaven gently in her sleep... knowing her youngest child is home safely.  Pat says she just stopped breathing. She died like she lived: no fuss, no muss, no drama. Continuing to teach her children through her death and even now as we process it.

I am grateful for the most marvelous slumber party with us "girls."  Mom, Pat, Gypsy and me. It was my night to hold Mom's hand and Pat and Gypsy's night to do some Mother-Daughter fun; plus Pat would get to sleep in a bed instead of in the chair or a thin mat on the floor.  Pat and Gypsy had attended an outdoor theatre of Les Miserables and had a wonderful time.  I texted them just as it was over (God's perfect timing) Gypsy drove Pat straight there at midnight. I'm so grateful for this holy slumber party. Mom laid in bed and talked to us, talked to Dad, talked to her mother and others who had gone before. We laughed, we joked, we sang old hymns, we sang songs Mom had sung to us as children. We cried. We held each other. We talked about the now, the past and the future - things seen and things unseen. We let Mom know she was such a good Mom that we knew we were strong enough to live our life without her tender care. We played peek-a-boo. We were loud. We were quiet. We were comfortably and companionably silent. The staff did the minimum to give us this wonderful time together uninterrupted. Nobody complained about the noise. Pat even tried to start a pillow fight. We prayed together, and Mom shouted "Amen, amen and amen" at the end - the loudest her voice had been since I arrived.  That opened a round of the spiritual song "A-men, A-men, A-men, A-men." before Pat and Gypsy left shortly after 2:30 AM. It was a wonderful, blessed, bonding time of pure grace from our heavenly Father.  Thank you, Father God, for this time of healing and bonding; I know it's a beautiful love gift you granted us girls. 

__________________________

Father Gerald often talks about Christ in us the hope of glory; and how we are in Christ. He has often said how important knowing that truth is when we lose a loved one to death. He says that person may be closer to us in death then they were in life - because we are both part of the body of Christ.  Father Peter was presiding today's mass.  I tried to arrive a few minutes late, so I could sneak in and not have anybody ask me how Mom was - because (1) I didn't want to cry in public and (2) Sunday is about Christ and not about me.  Donna was the first I saw and she asked and held me.  Father Peter was presiding and ready to start of the liturgy but waited a second to ask me. He said at the prayer before the readings that today's liturgy would be dedicated to Mom.  That meant a lot to me.  His homily was about the Lord's prayer and he talked about how some people who are our nemesis are gifts from God to help us grow and to help us pray. (not in the beautiful context it was presented but my rough synopsis). As the liturgy proceeded, I started to sense Mom's presence as part of the body of Christ and the unity that is found in Him. It was very comforting and reassuring.  As some dear friends took me out to dinner after church, I realized ... well, I'll start a new paragraph and put it into context.

If you're female and have been through the terrible two's or through puberty - then you understand the "mother as a nemesis" thoughts. Some of us let go of that mind-set easier then others. I won't say Mom was a perfect mother or I was a perfect daughter - I want to remember her for who she is with her gifts and her faults recognized because those are what made her unique and herself.  One of the things she said on the slumber party night was, "Ory told me all the horrible things you've been through and I had no idea about them or what a strong and courageous woman you'd become."  That night Mom started to see me for who I am (warts and all) and I started to see her for who she is. We dropped our own neediness, wants, agendas, expectations and hurts; something new was placed inside me and I presume her. A gift from God; a gift of healing and restitution.

Like the above poem.... she is an object of beauty and strength. 

I'm honored to be her daughter.  I'm honored she lives in the unity of the Spirit - in Christ, Christ in her, and both in me. 

I wish I could call you and tell you, Mom. But I know you know.

Rude Phone Call That Brought Insight & Healing

I wanted to blog about something that happened last night and my delayed response from this morning.

I have a last name that isn't very common. I've looked at both Canada and US people search engines and often the names listed have given names that are quite different then traditional Western names. To give examples, I looked again today and quickly found these given names:  Fatouma, Zeeshan, Blerim, Diaka, Makoya, Souleymane, Sekou, Hassan, Rameez, Sekou, Yaya, Kerfala, Gulamali, Ibis, Shqipe, Mohamed, Saibou, Ajfer,  Abakar, Adama, Ai, Almas, Badrudin, Yared, Sitan, Kasamali, Moussa, Nabil, etc.   Thus it's not surprising that every few months I will receive a phone call from somebody telling me about a mosque that is starting, or a Muslim event politely asking if I have interest.  I'm usually polite and friendly and thank them for the information.

I received a phone call last night. I found it belittling, annoying and a time-waster. At first, the man refused to talk to me, he wanted to talk to the "man of the house."  Of course, this not only sets off my anti-feminine button; but it also makes me question my safety. I threw caution to the wind and said, "I am the head of this house" .which doesn't say I live alone, but hints that way.  Maybe next time I'll say, "He can't come to the phone...." and so I'm not lying state under my breath "because he doesn't exist."


Then the man on the phone tells me that I need a man to teach me the Koran. Then he says in a very condescending manner that his group could teach me. His prideful sexism and  just oozed through his vocal inflections with mega-condescension; and I could tell his invitation was part of a script and not offered with anything but dutiful scorn. I thanked him and quickly hung up. It bothered me but I couldn't state why I was annoyed. I've been treated rude before by nameless people on telephones and I didn't have that gut-level reaction.

I knew it wasn't because of him being Muslim because Greg and I had a young Muslim man I taught with to our house for meals several times when we lived in Tulsa. We even had a young gay man stay at our home almost every weekend one spring when he was in university. It seems there was some flak from a few friends who were purists who thought Christians never should befriend anybody until they became homogenous to our denomination's beliefs. But, back to the story.

I was using the weed whip in anticipation of mowing. The rude conversation returned to my mind and I'd try to shake it off. I thought it wasn't worth a second thought. Forgive and move on works great for these little offenses.

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Wham.

I felt the same way when the man was rudely belittling to me on the phone as I felt back in the early 70s when people would come to my door or stop me on the street or be a pest at my work desk and start telling me I was going to hell if I didn't accept Jesus. I use to get the giggles at Rick (may he rest in peace) who'd say to them with the same amount of disdain:  "I would not want a religion where I'd have to become an unloving, self-righteous prig like you." I agreed with Rick.

It was through two couple's love, acceptance, taking time for me, listening to me, asking gentle but probing questions, their humour and their love that I eventually came to want Christ in my life.  My theory of evangelism is similar: "Make a friend, be a friend, bring your friend to Christ."

There was one time I went door-to-door witnessing and I hated every minute of it. I liked being part of the group that went; but inside my gut was churning and my mind was yelling "wrong, wrong" - which I now believe was the Holy Spirit directing me to stop the self-righteousness bullying of others. I believe in evangelism, but I don't believe in pushy, better-than-you evangelism - even if the pushy person thinks he/she is doing it from a place of love.  I know that some people think the apostles witnessed that way, but I don't see it when I read my Bible.  There are a few accounts of public preaching - and had that been the norm, I doubt if they would have made it into the Word. Most of the New Testament talks about worshiping in small home groups or at synagog. Public preaching isn't bad, in my opinion; people have the right to join and listen and move on or to not stop and listen - its not hindering their free choice. But knocking on somebody's door, bugging them on the phone, cornering them at a store or hanging over their work space is a form of religious bullying and shouldn't be tolerated.... by Christians, Muslims or any other religion.

I was glad I was able to not negate the emotions the phone call called forth last night; they helped me see the unity of the right-wing no matter what denomination or even religion a person chooses. Maybe teams composed of all religions should go together when they go door knocking - at least it would give people options instead of negating their uniqueness by robbing them of their individuality.

Having said all that: I do believe Jesus is fullness of God incarnate, and He is the only way for human kind to enter that fullness.  But let's treat people respectfully when we tell them, after all:  God gave us two ears and one mouth for a good reason.  Christ treated people with respect and dignity; there is no example where he cornered anybody and tried to push his beliefs on them - he was loving and waited for them to come to him.

Count the Cost

Count the Cost

Do I recognize I've paid a cost to be a Christian?

June 30, 2013

Today my priest preached on the cost of discipleship. At breakfast Bible study, I said I could not think of any cost associated with following Christ. Maybe I am not understanding the word "cost" accurately.  After church I talked to him a few minutes and he suggested I think about it because there is a cost associated with following Christ.  I agreed to do so and this short study is my introductory journey into understanding what my cost has been to follow the Lord. The gospel reading was from Luke 9. 51-62 and the discussion was mostly on the three examples:  (1) vs 58 "And Jesus said unto him, Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head."  (2) vs 60 "Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God." and (3) vs 62 "And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God."

Several people at the study said the third one was an especially hard saying. I will start by looking at various online information and commentaries to better understand this text in it's 1st century context.

Comments on vs 58, "And Jesus said unto him, Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." 

"The saying refers to the continuing hardship and loneliness involved in following the Son of Man."  - F.F. Bruce

"But Jesus said to him - First understand the terms: consider on what conditions thou art to follow me." - Wesley

Comments on v60, "Jesus said unto him, Let the dead bury their dead: but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.":

"I'm hoping Jesus is saying: Make sure that following me is what guides all that you do. Don't put me aside to go bury your father; make following me guide you as you bury your father" - David Ewert

"They are best taken to mean "Leave the (spiritually) dead to bury the (physically) dead”—there are people who are quite insensitive to the claims of the kingdom of God, and they can deal with routine matters like the burial of the dead, but those who are alive to its claims must give them the first place."   - F.F. Bruce

Comments on v 62, "And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God."  

Note: Elisah was plowing with oxen when Elijah called him to follow. "Elijah was a very important person, outstandingly engaged in the service of the God of Israel, but he offered no objection to Elisha’s taking time to bid his family and friends farewell in a suitable manner. But the business of the kingdom of God, on which Jesus was engaged, was much more urgent than Elijah’s business and brooked no such delay. Once again it is evident that, in Jesus’ reckoning, family ties must take second place to the kingdom which he proclaimed." - F.F. Bruce (cf. 1 Kings 19:19–21)

"the plowman who looks back will not  drive a straight furrow."  - F. F. Bruce

Overall Quotes:

'The most difficult choices in life are not primarily between good and evil, but the most difficult choices in life are between what is good and what is best.' - George Caird

Next is to find the definition of cost from my Bible dictionaries:

From Strong`s:  (to devour); expense (as consuming): - cost.   

 Unfortunately, the word "cost" is only used once in the New Testament so it is difficult to grasp the meaning. Luke 14:28  "For which of you, wanting to build a tower, doesn't first sit down and calculate the cost to see if he has enough to complete it? "  When Jesus called me to follow Him, at 3:30 am on Saturday morning, October 11, 1975, there was only joy and weeping - no time to stop and count the cost or even consider what following Christ meant. I was compelled to be drawn by that love. I wasn`t knocked to my knees like Apostle Saul (Paul); but I was knocked off my high horse and was beautifully humbled before my new Lord and King. Marvelous, Mystical and Miraculous. Two weeks later when the emotional and spiritual high of meeting Christ was starting to wane, God gave me a vision of Christ on the cross, robed in His splendorous white robes, His face shining with love. Without words, I knew He loved me and His love would never fade but would compel me to continue following Him. For years I was concerned that this vision wasn't scripturally accurate. Jesus was a bloody, meatball of a human when He hung on the cross. But when I discovered Anglican liturgy, the vision made sense during the Eucharistic prayer, "Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again." All three were represented in my short vision.

Maybe the word "cost" could be exchanged for "persecuted" to determine if I've given up anything to follow Him.

Especially when I was a new believer, I lost some friends - including a boyfriend - a decade later I was privileged to lead this man to Christ so He would now be my brother in the Lord.

Since I was trained to tithe as a child, I never saw financial support of my parish family as a cost but somewhere between duty, responsibility, pride and humility. The only thing I financially feel was a personal cost was when I felt the Lord tell me to decrease my giving back to 10% gross since I was already at the governmental standards of poverty. That was a hard time to be obedient and it still is hard to give such a small amount when I want to give more. But there is a joy that comes with being obedient to Abba.

Has it been a cost to hide the Word in my heart? My 12-step sponsor had me start to memorize scripture that depicted a loving shepherd that helped me erase the judgmental despot I had envisioned. At one time I had about 40 chapters of the Bible memorized - most teaching me about a Loving and Caring Abba but some to help me revamp doctrine to go along with a Loving Abba. Was that a cost?  No, I don't see it as a cost. Since I'd sustained a brain injury prior to the memorization season, it was a challenge but it not only taught me a better understanding of God, of myself, helped overcome the reason I was in 12-step, and gave me a different type of loving the Word. 

Was there a cost to reading the Bible?  For me there wasn't. I enjoy reading. I am grateful that as a family my ex, children and myself read through the Bible annually for several years until their teenaged years became so scheduled dysfunctional it was a challenge to have meals together let alone time to read the Bible. It wasn't a cost - it was a joy to share our love of God and His Word with our children. 

Has it been a cost to be faithful to attendance to parish liturgy and other events?  Goodness no. There may be times when I don't want to get up on Sunday morning; but there are times I don't want to get up to go to work, either. Thus, I don't view either as a cost because I know when I show up that God will bless me and I'll leave grateful I went.

Has it been a cost to develop a prayer life?  I have struggled in this area, but I don't see it as a cost. My prayer life has changed through the decades I've followed Christ. Prayer has had seasons and Ecclesiastes has explained that well and I am learning to feel content in whatever season I'm in. If it's a season to sit and bask silently in his presence, or a season to walk the floor in loud intercession, or lay prostate before Him and pour out my heart. I have learned to accept the season and not feel defective because it grows and changes and evolves and may start over with the same outward manifestation as it matures deeper. I am learning the joy of being sensitive and accepting of the prayer season.

Has it been a cost to hold to my moral code? Sometimes it has been an inner battle, but I don't see that as a cost of following Christ. Before I knew Christ or maybe that is back when I was still a heathen, I still had a moral code and at times battled to have my actions agree with those morals. That wasn't a cost of following Christ, that was just part of the human condition.

Has it been a cost to share my story of following Christ in prayerful hope of others finding Christ? No. I enjoy talking about my grandchildren, but try to keep it to a minimum so I don't push people away. I love Jesus more and try to keep my conversation about Him to the times when it flows naturally or I feel lead by the Spirit to share my story; and I'm careful to remember I have one mouth and two ears and rry to openly listen to the other person's story without interrupting, judging or rolling my eyes, too. I'm currently not active on any self-help boards and I miss sharing and hearing; yet that is not a cost because I am being obedient and I know the joy of obedience. This is not the season to reach out but a season to reach inside. It is not a cost, it is just what is and I am following it, sometimes with curiosity of what the next season will bring.  

 
These scriptures keep coming to mind as I write this:

James 1.2 "Let it be all joy to you, my brothers, when you undergo tests of every sort."

Hebrews 12.2 "We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting Him, He endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now He is seated in the place of honor beside God's throne."

Paul wrote of his life of the stonings and beatings and shipwrecks. I seldom tout what I've been through as mine were not because I was out being an apostle but just living my life. Abuse and the scars my body carries from that, three divorces, the humiliation of a cheating spouses, two children in heaven (one was miscarried by abuse), three opportunities to press criminal charges against me for violent crimes, homelessness twice, times of disenfranchisement, alienation from my children, a brain injury from a car wreck, three college degrees yet I live below this nation's poverty level. Some were poor decisions on my part; others were just life happening. All were instrumental in making me the person I am today. I like myself and love my life, so how can I consider the lessons in the school of life a cost?

People who are into exercise often use the term, "no pain - no gain" and that is true as a Christian.  Is there a cost associated with it?  Let's see the Words in red from Luke 14:28-33 (MSG) which is the only New Testament use of the word cost:

"Is there anyone here who, planning to build a new house, doesn't first sit down and figure the cost so you'll know if you can complete it? If you only get the foundation laid and then run out of money, you're going to look pretty foolish. Everyone passing by will poke fun at you: 'He started something he couldn't finish.' "Or can you imagine a king going into battle against another king without first deciding whether it is possible with his ten thousand troops to face the twenty thousand troops of the other? And if he decides he can't, won't he send an emissary and work out a truce? "Simply put, if you're not willing to take what is dearest to you, whether plans or people, and kiss it good-bye, you can't be my disciple."

I remember when my oldest son was a few months old, I received flowers from him and his dad, Greg Kahrs. We put the baby in his little plastic "pumpkin" seat with the flowers in front and took a photo to commemorate that day. Greg's mother had a hissy fit. She said with the baby laying there with flowers in front it looked like we were having his funeral and blah, blah. We stood firm and didn't destroy the photo like she desired. We told her the child had not came with a written guarantee that he wouldn't die an infant. (Thank God he's a healthy adult with four little girls of his own and a fifth on the way.) We had dedicated him to the Lord as an infant and his life was in God's hands and out of ours. Yes, we were responsible to nurture and raise Him up to be a godly man, but he was no longer ours but Gods. When I read of Hannah and how she gave her precious toddler Samuel into Eli's keeping, raising and training... even knowing Eli had raised his biological children who did evil things (1 Sam 2.23).

Yes, there is emotional pain I don't have a close relationship with my children and thus grandchildren; however, that is not a cost of following Christ. That happens to non-Christians, too. Some was life happening, some was how I parented and how their dad parented, etc. I've repented, apologized and am making amends for my part. Just as I gave my children to the Lord as infants -  they stay in His arms as adults.

Another scripture is Acts 20.24a "But none of these things move me, neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I might finish my course with joy"

One of my recent questions I struggle with is "What did I do to deserve so much joy?"  Nothing. I mess up royally. But I know the heavenly Royalty who is the Bestower of gifts and He chose to grace me with joy. I don't deserve this much joy based on what I've done - and maybe that is why this joy is so sweet. I didn't earn it so I can't un-earn it by messing up, or call that sin if you prefer. I do sin routinely; my human capacity for egocentric selfishness often amazes me. I think I'm at the place where most sins are sins of omission rather than of commission - but occasionally God graciously allows me to see myself without my own filters and blinders of prideful self-protection. Then He teaches me tenderness towards others and self so I'm not paralyzed with inability to move forward but to be tender towards myself. Tenderness or kindness is a fruit of the spirit. As I practice tenderness towards myself, I can pass it to others. 

I could have self-pity that sometimes life hasn't felt fair. But nobody's life is fair. Believer or unbeliever - life happens and it causes pain and we either move through it or stay stuck. For me, being a Christian is a blessing because I was given the vision of Jesus to lead me back to Him. Through the pain and tears of whatever earthly thing is causing the grief, I feel the tug to let the God who died, rose and is coming again to comfort me. The God whose been through what I've been through and who empathizes and understands and hurts with me. The God who lives in me and I in Him; who is also the God on the heavenly throne with the four beings, the 24 elders and the choirs who surround Him. I love to envision Revelations 4 & 5 and mentally move the furniture to where I think it is depicted in John's vision and meditate on the significance of those present and the furniture. Then remembering it's that same regal, crown-wearing, throne-sitting God who lives in me in unity and intimacy.... well, it's so amazing words can't describe it. Cost?  Hardly. Blessing?  Yes.

There are only two things I consider might possibly be a cost - and they are things I am not permitted to do with my parish family. I seldom mention them because I seldom think of them. I can do that because I know there is joy set before me. I stay aware that I can count it as joy or an unfair burden. I chose joy. Discipline proves I'm not a bastard child but a true, cherished and accepted child. (Heb 12).

Have I given up things to be a Christian? Yes.  Had I not yielded to come to Christ when He called my name in 1975, would I still have given up things?  Yes. When a baby takes her first step, the parents rejoice - but a part of them grieves their infant is becoming a toddler, too. When my sons became fathers, I rejoiced in my grandchildren but I also grieved the loss of hands-on parenting. There is a letting go to grasp something more mature - and that is a natural part of growth rhythm.  Thus, the giving up is part of the human condition and not just part of being a follower of the Lord. One of the myriad benefits of being a Christ-follower is that I can count it all JOY rather then counting it as a cost knowing He is in me and I am in Him and He is orchestrating the whole of my life.

Phil 2.13 says, "For God is working in you, giving you the desire and the power to do what pleases Him."  Thus, I don't see it has been a cost to me as it is God who called me, trains me, equipped me, changes me, enables me, matures me and loves me.  How can it have been a cost to me when it's not about me? The struggle is when I forget I died on October 11, 1975, and it is Christ who lives in me. (Romans 6.6)

I hoped this study would help me understand the cost of discipleship; but I haven't found it yet. It might be a topic worth revisiting or conversing with my spiritual director. 

But I don't wanna' read.....

I felt like writing tonight, so decided to blog.  It's been several months and; I am almost embarrassed to say. I don't want to read. I made myself read a little this morning. I read a few pages of "Spiritual Torrents" by Julian of Norwich. It was interesting. I highlighted a few sentences to review..... some day... maybe.... I'll want to finish it.

Here I set, university educated, blessed because I was taught to read as a child and have hundreds of books that I could plop down and read... or over 200 books on my Kindle (mostly free downloads of Christian literature).

I figure there is one of several things going on:

Idea 1:  I've gotten lazy in my old age.  Living in Western society with drive-in restaurants and drive-through banks and media on demand - I've lost the ability to patiently wade through the typed words to make sense of what I'm reading and to find ways to apply it to my life. If that's the reason, than I'm in sad shape and need to pull myself up by the boot straps and get a life.

Idea 2:  I'm too tired to read with intentionality and comprehension.  I'm still recuperating from moving, tired from the last bit of unpacking, tired from trying to work and get my yard in shape, weary from a half of year of urinary tract infection and a couple rounds of anti-biotics, depleted from this latest round of antibiotics (that are not liver friendly), exhausted from the liver disease.  If that's the reason, then it looks like not reading is good self-care.

Idea 3:  God is pulling me out of books so I will incorporate what I've read during the last few months of compulsive reading and apply what I've learned to my life.  If so, then not reading is a good thing and a growing thing.

I don't know if any of the above are accurate, or partially accurate or just completely wrong. The blessing is that I'm not overly concerned about the why's because I know my life is in God's hand and trust He is directing me this way.  I love the fruit of the spirit "Gentleness" and am so grateful I am learning to apply gentleness to my own self.  I do not intuit I am out of His will; but deep in his heart of love. I feel close to God and sense His indwelling presence. I talk to Him and spend time with Him. I just don't want to read what others say about Him at this time.

The only icky feeling is what if I'd never have the desire to cuddle under a warm blanket and read a good book cover to cover - underlining beautiful sentences that I want to explore later or that make me feel closer to God?  Part of me would miss that.  Part of me would rejoice that I am feeling God in ways other then reading and/or intellectual.

As Ecclesiastes says, there is a time and a season. I am grateful I can accept this is not the season for more head knowledge and am content.

I'm so grateful to be God's beloved daughter. 

Dad - A Father Worth Remembering

Having lived 17 years longer then my Dad, I often feel I'm treading on virgin territory. What would Dad have been like at age 62?  How would he have handled the changes age brings?  What could I have learned about aging gracefully from him?  The little I remember about the man are indelibly imprinted on my mind and are a guide.  A few specifics, but the character of the man shined: his honesty, his love, his integrity, his faith.

Specifics:  I remember riding home on his shoulder from work. When we walked into the back yard - winter was over and summer was there. Twigs were lush green, lilacs smelled wonderful, tulips added colour... it seems every spring the re-life after winter catches me by surprise and I am once again the little girl riding on Dad's shoulders with him holding my hands so I don't put them over his eyes thinking I was being funny.

Specifics:  I remember him finding make-work projects at his business.  Cleaning old car parts or scraping an old rubber runner off the floor. Things to help me feel special, needed and competent.

Specifics:  I remember taking an old blanket (pink & white with embroidered autographs??) and laying it on the ground and looking at the stars. He'd tell me about each constellation, why it was named, what the story was behind the name and the name of some of the more special stars. Then we'd come inside and he'd "dope" (put medicine on) my mosquito and chigger bites.

Specifics:  BRC (Bike Rider's Club - Janeen, Brenda, Pat and me) cleaned off the cement slab beside his shop to roller skate. He said it was too hot. We wouldn't believe him. He put a thermometer out in the sun and said if it's over 100 there would be no skating... it reached 110 that day. No skating.

Specifics:  After fishing many Sunday afternoons, and putting my pole and bobber in the pond and then walking around exploring.  The day we heard a schoolmate died in the pond when a bank gave away, Dad sat at the kitchen table and cried and cried; then called us to him where he held us girls and cried some more.

Specifics: I remember him crying when he heard a local teen was going to be an unwed mother. He wasn't mad at the girl but at the boy who had "taken advantage of her."  Okay, this was the 50s and there was quite a social stigma and ostracism back then; but he had compassion on people who others were shunning.  Mom made maternity clothes for her.

Specifics:  I remember when a tourist's car broke down, he helped them set up our family's tent in the back yard of his shop (in the grove area behind the office where the outdoor toilet was), and they lived there until the parts were shipped in.  Mom invited them to our home to shower a few times why they were stuck in Kensington.  Although they never met again, apparently they remained friends for years after Dad had died and them and mom corresponded.


I know that next to God, Dad's family was everything to him; not only his wife and children, but his birth family and their families; but the family of community in Kensington and his love of the whole family of God's creation.

As a kid, I liked May Day. Our family tradition was to make May baskets out of construction paper, filled with candy and flowers from the yard and deliver them to everybody on our list of who we'd went to get Halloween treats. That meant we chose to just visit about a dozen people at Halloween.  That's a tradition I handed on to my children. I remember them trying to figure out people to give May baskets to who they hadn't trick or treated.  But May Day didn't end on May 2. I remember more then once that Dad would drive the jalopy (what he called the car) down the street from some family, leave a bag or two of groceries, ring their door bell and run off and hide in the bushes to make sure they got the food and then sneak back to the car. He took such delight in giving.  I was so thrilled when I got old enough to go along and stay quiet in the car so he could give in secret.  Then on the way home he'd caution us to not tell anybody because the receiver needed their dignity. Even at those tender single-digit age, he trusted me to know something and handle the information in secret.

At age 7, I remember the family did it's normal nightly routine. Dad read us an age-appropriate story about nature then we'd discuss how lovingly God made the universe and how we could see God in nature. Then he'd read a Bible story and we'd discuss it. Then we'd kneel beside the bed and pray.  But one night was different. Dad went through the form, but his heart wasn't in it and he often would stop to wipe his face with his white hankie with brown plaid edge. I thought his hay fever was acting up.  But when it came time to pray, he didn't kneel down but sit on the edge of the bed and cried. Eventually Mom lead him out of the bedroom and put us little girls to bed.  I understood Dad was going to the hospital again, but instead of Sadie Gudd babysitting us in our house, we'd spend time with Aunt Madonna and Uncle Joe, Donna Jo and RoseAnne and Butch, the dog who drank out of the toilet and looked like the then popular "Shaggy Dog."

We arrived to find Madonna's nieces were also visiting. That was 6 or 7 girls and since I was 7,  I was the only one who wasn't old enough to wear a bra. I was spoiled, especially by RoseAnne who always did my chores because, "But Mom, she's just a little kid."  I loved the attention. Uncle Joe would let me sit on his lap when he got home from work and that was comforting because he reminded me of an extroverted version of my quiet Dad. He also taught me to gamble!

I remember getting into trouble because I told Dad that Grandpa Kaba was in the hospital. They didn't want Dad to know that his Dad was sick. I was too young to understand Dad was undergoing what was then experimental heart surgery. I was nick-named "Big Ears" by Uncle Joe and when Uncle Greg use to call Gypsy the Trix rabbit - it would bring back those memories of my childhood when I was the one with the growing ears.

After a few weeks Dad was back, Grandpa was home from the hospital; both were pale and skinny, so I didn't understand what all the hullabaloo had been about. The change for me was no more bear hugs because where they'd wired Dad's ribs back together on the left side, a piece of wire was an outsie instead of an insie and if I hugged him there, it would break through the skin and he'd hurt and bleed.

As I became a woman, I found out  more about those few days and read the medical report the family physician gave Mom that was sent to him by the heart surgeon (Not sure if he was Dr. Skillet or Dr. Kettle - but Mom called him by the wrong name and that became a family joke). The heart's valve, that apparently should have been large enough for a man to put two fingers in, had been reduced to the size of a pencil lead opening. After they opened the valve that was extremely damaged from rheumatic heart disease, his heart was still working hard to try to push the blood through the narrow opening but was pumping too much blood through the new big opening - it was more volume then the heart could manage. He blew a hole in the side of his heart and the doctors had to do an emergency surgery to repair the hole. I remember as a child he told me they fixed it like he fixed inner tubes in car tires.  In my childish wonderment, I figured they took it out, put it under water to find the bubbles from the leak and then put glue and heat on the patch to hold it together. It was age appropriate understanding that brings a smile to me as I remember by naivety.

Not only was surviving the two surgeries a miracle, he got malaria from tainted blood. This was back in 1957 before blood was screened like it is today. Apparently one night his fever spiked at 106 and God pulled a miracle of a hail storm. They rolled him outside and rubbed him down with the God-given ice to lower the temperature. He was careful to hide from us children the recurring issues of malaria.

Since it was experimental surgery, there was no fees except repaying the many units of blood that were used and for any food he ate. Back then, hospitals weren't as expensive as they are today; but I am thankful for Canadian socialized medicine. The men, and a few ladies, from Kensington and relatives, would go to Kansas City and donate blood so he didn't have to pay for the blood used. Of course, it was a given when in Kansas City to watch the Kansas City A's play a game of baseball.  yeah, I know that team moved decades ago but it still sounds right to have Kansas City As.

The first year home, Dad obeyed the doctor and took it easy. He made model planes, bought a television and rested on the couch a lot, read, and about drove himself crazy. Mom worked to provide. That meant Pat and I did the cooking for noon meals and were often scolded for not being as quiet as church mice. Pat had a leg-up on being quiet as she was content to hide behind any piece of furniture and read; but that didn't go with my personality so I was always on the carpet - and not the red carpet. I remember Pat teaching me to put rubber bands around my sleeves so when I cooked dinner, my long sleeves didn't catch on fire from the natural gas stove. I was too short to see in the pot, so she had me stand on a chair so I didn't burn the food. She was just as quick to get me in trouble as she was to help me -- and that's what big sisters are for. I think that's their job description!  I love her dearly and she's my bestest friend still.

After the second year, Dad went back to work. Things felt normal again. Mom ran the children's clothing store she bought and later sold it to be the office manager for dad's business. I was a Pollyanna and life went on and that year of the surgery was interpreted as a glitch that reset itself.

Pat remembers those years differently.  She would talk to Dad about how he felt about his sickness, his future death and what it would be like to die and to live without him.  I rode bikes, played dolls and roller skated (I still have my roller skate key). I'm blessed she's told me some about their talks. Since turning 50, I try really hard to not be a Pollyanna but to accept reality; I don't think I'm very graceful at that yet, but it's a good skill for me to learn.

Dad did try to help me face his future passing. I remember times when he'd have to go to the next town for his monthly heart medication. I'd ask why he didn't buy several months medication and he's day, "I buy one month at a time because I may not be alive next month."  I interpreted that as something silly and not serious. I knew Dad didn't lie, but I couldn't wrap my childish brain around a life without my Daddy.

Sunday, January 20th, Pat and I went to Sunday School and were to come home afterwards. Dad hadn't felt well and had spent the night on the sofa with lots of pillows so he wasn't laying flat. We get home and exchange a few words (I was on the carpet once again - my normal spot it seems) and he died.  For me it was a danged quick passing - but to others, it was slow because they had been in touch with reality of his slow death throughout the years.

The next part is going to be hard to put into words and I don't want to cause distress to others. But the next few days were what turned me into an atheist and satanist for about a decade.  As people would come to the house, stop me on the street, or greet us at the funeral - they had no clue what to say to this blue-eyed child with tears running down her face and fear enveloping her like a halo. So they would open their mouth and say the most ugly, horrid things.  Some of them I remember was "God loved your daddy more then you could so he took him to heaven."  "God wanted your Daddy so He took him."  "Don't cry, it makes God sad."   When you see somebody in distress and don't know what to say, please don't say stupid things - just hold their hand and be still before the power of their grief - be with them in their pain. Cry with them. Hold them.  But don't lie about God or minimize what they are experiencing. Don't say anything that could even possibly shake their faith that may already be on shaky ground.  I couldn't love a mean God who'd willfully and selfishly force a a child to be fatherless - even men on death row for atrocious crimes know the power of a parent/child bond - yet so many people passed a faith death sentence on me by their uncaring and stupid words.  I have forgiven them; but after holding it in for half a century, want to say how I feel.

So at a time when God could have comforted and encouraged me; I turned my back on him. I didn't need the uncaring, selfish bastard of a god these people touted - I shudder evening thinking of a perverted deity like that. He'd be more like Moelech then Jehovah. I did find comfort in sitting on Daddy's gravestone (thank you Mom for getting him a flat stone that was sit-able instead of a tall one that wouldn't have given comfort). For a decade or more, I'd ride my bicycle the two miles to the graveyard and talk to Daddy, or just sit quiet and absorb the peace of the prairie surrounding the graveyard.  I don't know how many times throughout my adult life I'd like to have sit there and talked to Dad and God (after I found faith years later) about life and challenges.

It still strikes me as odd the times when I feel sucker-punched and almost brought to my knees in grief. When I had my first son, I grieved because I wanted Dad's blessing on my precious son who was named after him; the grief hit as hard with the second son, but it wasn't the raw pain because experience taught me to expected it. It sucker-punched me when my youngest son had his first bio-son and named him after dad; I wanted to share that glorious moment with the baby's namesake. When I graduated from university (all three times) I wanted his smile of blessing of a job well done because he was a supporter of education; my mom was proud of me but didn't even know what I'd majored in because higher education wasn't her interest but his.  When I was in my 20s and dated a black man, I knew Dad would have approved and probably grinned that he'd had such a positive influence on me; because he was so inclusive that our first doll was black because he didn't want us to see race but humans. Recently I've gone through a re-grieving of my absent father; I would love to show him my little house. I know he'd be proud of me for how I've picked up the pieces of my life and am making life work for me.The Phoenix has arisen from the ashes; just as it did for him after his surgery.

There are times with my own disease, that I can look to how Dad handled his disease and feel I'm handling it well.  It's hard to step out of my comfort zone and discuss it; but I know it is healing and relationship building to share. I remember Dad's well-worn Bible was by his bed and his illness brought him a closeness with God  that he may not have developed had he not been sick - and I try to look at my own disease that way.  But I'm at an advanced age where a serious disease is "common" but had it been 20+ years ago, I don't think I would have handled it as well as Dad did at that age. I admire him for that. So many set-backs in his life and he kept moving forward and enjoyed life anyway. I think he understood the set-backs are really stepping stones that make us more who we are. In his quiet way, he embraced life from the core of his being; but embraced it in a way he wasn't afraid of dying - but was concerned how his passing would affect his loved ones left behind.

I see so much of Greg and me in our youngest son. He's a good daddy; having been a house-husband he's also a good and fair disciplinarian; things and appearances aren't very important to him.  He's had his share of health, financial and family issues and he keeps moving forward with life. I think Justin looks like me in the face and height, but he's got his Dad's stocky build with wide shoulders and lots of facial fur like his dad. His feet are like his dad's - cute, chubby baby feet in man-size. He's married to a smart lady who knows how to help him open up and see the inner depths and layers of who he is.

I see so much of Dad and Harry (my ex's dad) in Mark, my oldest son. He looks like a combination of both, his body build is similar to theirs at that age, like Harry, he's a go getter and business leader; like my Dad, he's inventive and creative and a good dad - like his dad and his grandad (my dad). He's married to a smart lady who knows how to help him schedule his busy life so he has time for all of their large family's obligations.He's smart enough to recognize that her people skills can be a great benefit and he listens and learns from her.  I sense that when Mark was faced with his own mortality in 2008, there was a major shift in his life that mellowed him and turned into a blessing.

I'm grateful for my children, my children's dad, my mother but especially for my father. I am blessed my father was a shining example of my heavenly Father. From the cradle, Dad was instrumental in starting me on the path to God.

Thank you Dad.  Thank you God for picking my Daddy to be my daddy; he did more in 12 years to earn the name Daddy then many men achieve in a long lifetime.

Rohr - Beyond the Bird Bath

I recently finished an online Richard Rohr course from Center of Action and Contemplation called "Beyond the Bird Bath: Courageous Heart of the Franciscan Way."  I want to learn more about the Franciscan lifestyle and thought this would be a great way to learn.  Of the six lessons, this quote is what stood out to me the most:  

Dualism creates necessary struggle. The cross is a geometric sign of holding, nailed to the two sides of all of the human dilemmas:  divine and human, matter and spirit, male and female, good thief and bad thief.  When you try to hold the contraries together, St. Bonaventure says you will always be crucified.  The world wants you to chose sides.

We are suppose to be the people who hang on the contraries and hold the dilemmas that life presents us with.  And we suffer them.  Now you have the meaning of the cross.  You absorb the tension. You don't release the tension on another group by blaming and damning another group of people.  You hold what's true about this side and what's true about that side.  There is a field beyond right and wrong and I'll meet you there; maybe that is the only place you can meet the other - that who is beyond me and other than me."

I have been unpacking that to learn to better apply it to my life; and I feel I will be unpacking and expanding on that for quite a while as I mature in my Christian walk.

I'll start with how I have utilized that quote in the past week.  When I'm faced with the inner conflict or contrast, I perceive I take up the cross, suffer the pain of being stretched out with one side of the conflict nailed on one side and the other side is nailed with the conflict on the other. Nailing is "naming" the dilemma and determining what is going on inside - to listen to my inner dialog and making an executive decision what to name the inner conflict. Nailing is painful because it opens me to change.  Next, I meditate and release all thoughts until the inner pain of confusion abates. Through this, I either have the answer of which to chose; or find freedom in holding the dissonance within and not allowing it to disrupt my God-given peace and joy. It also helps me see areas where I need to grow up and allow God to refine and purify me like gold. 

I'll give a specific example. I had an opportunity to be offended this week. Part of me wanted to have compassion and empathy and jump in to fix the problem that was causing the tension.  The other part of me wanted to blast this person for causing the inner conflict. Fortunately, I didn't start by nailing the person to the cross.  Unfortunately, I didn't immediately nail the two sides of my thoughts to the cross, but analyzed them.  I'm discovering that analyzing never fixes anything and often prolongs and augments the suffering.  This unnecessary analyses brought me to finding lots of little things this person had done to annoy me and escalated into all the other things people had and have and probably will do that annoy me. I'm ashamed to say, my knee-jerk reaction was wanting to blame him and hurt back.  I wanted the suffering of the inner dichotomy to end - but I thought to have compassion I had to "fix it" or love meant being an enabler; and I didn't want to blast this person, either; because the times I've blasted others, I walk away feeling ashamed and guilty.  Yes, I am very egocentric at times.  I was stuck in a dilemma.  

I finally named what was nailing one hand to the cross: feeling I had to put on my pink super-cape and fix the problem.  The other hand was nailed to the cross by wanting to get even.  I stood quietly for a few minutes and cleared my mind, relaxed and released the emotions and noticed how tight the muscles in my neck and shoulders were. I didn't ask God to show me what to do; I just trusted He would lead me on the right path. Maybe praying should be part of the process... something to consider as I develop in this skill. If I'm trusting already, do I need to pray to trust?  Hummm.  another dilemma!  ;-)

I chose not to fix the problem - that was out of my comfort zone and exceeded my available personal resources.  I trusted the other person to handle their own stuff. Having taken myself out of the equation, peace and love returned and I could write an e-mail with empathy and validation and hopefully encouragement. The deadline was met, rapport was not broken and I think a greater respect was born - not only my respect for the other person but my respect for myself. I also learned a nugget about me:  I'd erroneously equated compassion with enabling!  No wonder life had been such a struggle at times - enabling sets me up for resentment. 

Yeah, I think I'm going to find the suffering of the cross helpful to stop the dualistic, self-defeating thoughts and behaviors as I move forward with my life.

I am grateful for this teaching. I'm grateful for Fr. Rohr's teachings.  I'm grateful for God in me (Col. 1.27)  and me in God (Acts 17.28a). 

As the quote mentions, St. Bonaventure says the world wants people to chose sides. The above example didn't have a side because it was private and if I wouldn't blog about what I learned from it - it would remain hidden.  Back to choosing sides: I am finding myself embracing opposite church doctrines and finding joy in the diversity.  Infant sprinkling or adult immersion?  Both thrill my heart and I don't have to pick one or the other.   Common cup, individual cups or no Communion?  All thrill my heart and I don't have to pick one or the other.  Heaven/Hell or Universal Salvation?  Both thrill my heart and I don't have to pick one or the other. 

Why don't I feel I have to chose one doctrine over another?  Because I know and love people who believe either way and I know their heart is turned to God - they've shown me God's love and hopefully I've reflected God's love back a little. So how they practice their faith is none of my business. For where I am now in this life's journey:  how faith is practiced is less important then the Love of God that under=girds the whole thing.  I want to find ways that unite me to others much more then I want to find ways that exclude others. 

My prayer:  God, let me grow in inclusiveness - in finding roads to become united in your body of believers and let that grow to inclusiveness to those who don't believe or who believe but are rejected by many Christians because of their lifestyle.  Help me, Lord, be accepting of others just where they are - like you are accepting of me where I am. Give me wisdom to touch others with your compassion and let that compassion change me to be more like Christ.  Let me be like Jesus and be open to loving friendship with tax collectors, shepherds, prostitutes, and those who are often excluded, rejected and who have experienced more then their share of rudeness, bullying  and shame - especially when those were injuries by Christians (including me). Help me not see them as different or "defective" or as "a project" but teach me to see the diversity of the people you're created  and love them with compassion and acceptance - like you do. I ask this in the name of your son who shows us how to love the other.  Amen.