Or, perhaps, simply courses you wished they'd taught in seminary after your first few years as a priest, pastor, or other ordained presence in full-time Christian service. Our sampling would include:
Bob Vila is not your rector 101. Apparently, many parishioners think you had this course when they come to your office and say, "Oh, the toilet is overflowing again," or, "the chancel lights are on the blink." Then they leave you, the person whose bookshelves are lined with tomes on Rethinking the Doctrine of Atonement or Elementary Biblical Hebrew. See any Bob Vila books in here? Nope. But what do we do? Go jiggle the handle ourselves or flip the light switches on and off a few times to no avail. Just because we can invoke the epiclesis does not mean we can call down the Holy Spirit to unclog a toilet. Tragically hard to believe, but there you go.
Housekeeping 101. This we know, but did we really go to seminary to arrange chairs, sweep the vestibule, wash altar linens, or clean up after the parish pot luck? Perhaps the real course should be Avoiding Housekeeping 101, which most male clergy seem to have excelled at as they quickly leave an event before any actual physical housekeeping needs are identified.
Self-editing 201. Speaking the truth in love does not mean having no unexpressed thoughts (an aside, I actually do have unexpressed thoughts, which should be really disturbing for those who know me well). Nothing good will come from uttering, "Why do we have this garish chasuble?" before discerning it was the gift of the parish matriarch's mother and sewn from the remnants of her childhood camping tent. Just blog about it anonymously.
Human Relationships 099. Just because I'm your priest does not mean I want to be your girlfriend. Clever yet subtle ways to avoid the creepy attention from the gentleman callers who also regularly attend your church services. Course will also include a list of valid excuses that, while complete lies, have received an absolution from God herself. They include, but are not limited to: I have a meeting that could go on for hours; I have a pastoral emergency; I'm dating someone else (even if it's Mr. Darcy in fantasy boyfriend land); and Doesn't this violate the terms of your probation?
Covert Activities 501. For advanced students only. Also known as Dating in the Priesthood. Find nifty ways to have dinner where no parishioner will see you and engage in awkward conversation, then spread rumors. Learn how to camouflage the vehicle of a guest so it will remain unseen. Master the art of vagueness while sharing your vocation so he won't be initially creeped out by dating said priest.
What Not To Wear. A week-end seminar on all things clergy wear. Lesson one: clergy shirts aren't sexy. If a man says they are: RUN. They are shapeless and black with a piece of plastic around your neck. They are made to identify yourself as a woman of God. All well and good. However, just because they aren't lovely parts of your fashion wardrobe DOES NOT mean you get simply get to give up on looking nice. General no-no's include pants with elastic waistbands, anything velour, and clothing your mother gave you because she no longer wears (unless your mother was Coco Chanel).
Silent self-expression. Learn the fine art of non-verbal communication. The eye-roll for particularly stupid statements at Diocesan conventions. The furrowed brow for yet another phone call about the failure to sing, "Hail Thee Festival Day" on Easter. The shaking lip for the girl priest who wants to say, "I don't want to have this conversation and tears make most men uncomfortable enough to shut up." When you can't say it with words, simply imply it with facial expressions.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Let's do it. Let's get the s*&t kicked out of us by love.
That line, from a scene in the excellent movie Love, Actually, sums up love. Not love, that sappy feeling that has been distorted by far too many bad movies and even worse songs. "Love means never having to say you're sorry." Really? No, codependency, passive aggression, and denial mean never having to say your sorry, so you curl up in the corner and munch on wet cigarette butts.
Love means having to say you're sorry, you were wrong, you screwed up, and you aren't sure how to fix things. Love means having enough faith in this complicated and complex feature of human relationships to go on yet another first date or even celebrate yet another year of being with a person who knows your faults so well that s/he dare not bring them up in a heated argument. Love is doing something out of pure hope and goodness that when the tears come (and they do), somehow, you know deep in your bones you will heal and will love again, even love a bit better because you were willing to love enough to surrender to faith.
Love stays up all night with the baby and fixes breakfast for the homeless the next morning. Love gets to know people, even in their ending days, and cries at the funeral. Love is courageous enough to stand with the outcast and kiss first. Love just walks into the fray, cost-benefit analysis be damned.
God loves us like that. We imagine ourselves these amazing beings full of compassion and goodness, but we spit and kick and hit each other regularly, especially over political issues, it seems. And the results of our temper tantrums, from the smoking remains of a marriage to the smoking remains of a country and a people, cut God deeply. And yet, look up from our mess and guess who's there?
And in our better selves, we love like this. We don't forgive quite as quickly, and our memories seem to etch the pain so deeply that we think we'll never get over the crevasse of betrayal, hurt, guilt, anger, even the memories of great love that pinch our souls that we're experiencing because we were brave enough to love and love again.
The scene in Love, Actually is the culmination of one of the plot lines. A young boy and his step-father are bonding in the grief that follows the death of his mother and the step-father's wife. Sam, the young boy, decides he's in love with a classmate, a young girl. And so ensues the sacrifice, the conversations, even the insanity of courtship (one-sided though it be). When the object of his affection is flying to America, Sam in just about to call it a day when his step-father implores him not to give up. Love just doesn't walk away that easily. Sam looks at this man, calls him Dad, and utters the line.
"Let's do it. Let's get the shit kicked out of us by love."
Verbatim or not, Jesus said that line. The saints who preached inclusion and mercy said that line. We say that line. It's the Gospel in two sentences. If you love, you will get the s*#t kicked out of you. Just a hard, true fact.
But you will also get the best kisses and hugs. You will laugh with people who love you. You will be part of something far greater than grief or death.
You will be loved.
And by the way, Sam gets the girl. Because love always wins in the end.
Love means having to say you're sorry, you were wrong, you screwed up, and you aren't sure how to fix things. Love means having enough faith in this complicated and complex feature of human relationships to go on yet another first date or even celebrate yet another year of being with a person who knows your faults so well that s/he dare not bring them up in a heated argument. Love is doing something out of pure hope and goodness that when the tears come (and they do), somehow, you know deep in your bones you will heal and will love again, even love a bit better because you were willing to love enough to surrender to faith.
Love stays up all night with the baby and fixes breakfast for the homeless the next morning. Love gets to know people, even in their ending days, and cries at the funeral. Love is courageous enough to stand with the outcast and kiss first. Love just walks into the fray, cost-benefit analysis be damned.
God loves us like that. We imagine ourselves these amazing beings full of compassion and goodness, but we spit and kick and hit each other regularly, especially over political issues, it seems. And the results of our temper tantrums, from the smoking remains of a marriage to the smoking remains of a country and a people, cut God deeply. And yet, look up from our mess and guess who's there?
And in our better selves, we love like this. We don't forgive quite as quickly, and our memories seem to etch the pain so deeply that we think we'll never get over the crevasse of betrayal, hurt, guilt, anger, even the memories of great love that pinch our souls that we're experiencing because we were brave enough to love and love again.
The scene in Love, Actually is the culmination of one of the plot lines. A young boy and his step-father are bonding in the grief that follows the death of his mother and the step-father's wife. Sam, the young boy, decides he's in love with a classmate, a young girl. And so ensues the sacrifice, the conversations, even the insanity of courtship (one-sided though it be). When the object of his affection is flying to America, Sam in just about to call it a day when his step-father implores him not to give up. Love just doesn't walk away that easily. Sam looks at this man, calls him Dad, and utters the line.
"Let's do it. Let's get the shit kicked out of us by love."
Verbatim or not, Jesus said that line. The saints who preached inclusion and mercy said that line. We say that line. It's the Gospel in two sentences. If you love, you will get the s*#t kicked out of you. Just a hard, true fact.
But you will also get the best kisses and hugs. You will laugh with people who love you. You will be part of something far greater than grief or death.
You will be loved.
And by the way, Sam gets the girl. Because love always wins in the end.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Stewardship is not about money- right?
This morning in our staff meeting we discussed the dreaded task of sending out stewardship letters. For those who don't know, each year churches send letters to all their members asking them to pledge to give money for the following year. The money collected throughout the following year from these pledges is used to help the church carry out its various ministries and pay expenses. These letters are notorious for saying: "Stewardship is not about money" or "Give of your time, treasure, and talent." The funny thing is that often we never get around to asking people for their time or talent.
Stewardship is about recognizing God's many gifts to us and saying thank you. We say thank you with what we do. We give back. Stewardship is between God and us. We put something aside for God, for us. We realize that we have been loved so much that we can share that love in whatever way we can.
We ask people to give, to pledge what they have. Certainly, the church does need cash, but what if we broadened our stewardship campaigns? What if when we ask people to pledge a dollar amount, we also asked them to pledge a talent amount and time amount? Someone could pledge $10 a week and 10 hours a week for serving God specifically at the church and in some other ministry outside the walls of the church. What would that look like?
Stewardship is scary business, and perhaps that is why we just stick to cold, hard cash. Helping each other use our gifts to the Glory of God can be very difficult. What if someone doesn't know what gifts he or she has to offer? Will we be willing to give of our time to teach or mentor this individual? How do we quantify "serving God" in the community outside the walls of the church? Do we need to quantify "gifts from God"?
So, more stewardship letters will go out. We will mutter about not having enough cash. We may not have enough help for our different ministries. The struggle to understand stewardship will continue until we are willing to recognize those two other elements of stewardship: time and talent.
Stewardship is about recognizing God's many gifts to us and saying thank you. We say thank you with what we do. We give back. Stewardship is between God and us. We put something aside for God, for us. We realize that we have been loved so much that we can share that love in whatever way we can.
We ask people to give, to pledge what they have. Certainly, the church does need cash, but what if we broadened our stewardship campaigns? What if when we ask people to pledge a dollar amount, we also asked them to pledge a talent amount and time amount? Someone could pledge $10 a week and 10 hours a week for serving God specifically at the church and in some other ministry outside the walls of the church. What would that look like?
Stewardship is scary business, and perhaps that is why we just stick to cold, hard cash. Helping each other use our gifts to the Glory of God can be very difficult. What if someone doesn't know what gifts he or she has to offer? Will we be willing to give of our time to teach or mentor this individual? How do we quantify "serving God" in the community outside the walls of the church? Do we need to quantify "gifts from God"?
So, more stewardship letters will go out. We will mutter about not having enough cash. We may not have enough help for our different ministries. The struggle to understand stewardship will continue until we are willing to recognize those two other elements of stewardship: time and talent.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My Friday Night
7:oo pm Stand in front of closet to select outfit that will catch the attention of local jazz musician to whom I will be introduced. Need pants or skirt that makes my ass look uplifted but slim. Need shirt that looks sexy but not trashy. Realize all of my clothes scream, "I am a middle aged woman!!!" Call BGF for guidance (Best Gay Friend). He, with his super-gay powers, remembers a hot pink shirt I have that fits the bill. He also suggests my high heels. I opine that I might break my ankle on the French Quarter cobblestones. He scoffs and reminds me that beauty has a cost. Get dressed. Put on makeup. Think I look a bit too much like a raccoon. Wipe off some eyeliner. Decide I look more normal. Remember glitter lotion I have and smear it on my shoulders. Shimmer skin! Awesome.
8:00 pm Arrive at the OGP's home (other girl priest). Her husband gives my outfit a thumbs up. Since aforementioned jazz musician is straight, I take this as a good sign. The Holy One wonders if I will have trouble walking in my heels. When I shrug, she puts on her high heels. One more smear of lipstick, and we are off.
8:30 pm Drive to the French Quarter and look for free parking, because we are priests and cheap. Talk endlessly about the possibilities of this evening. OGP says Jazz Boy is into racial reconciliation and has a new CD coming out. Come up with some ways to mention our work for justice, freedom, and peace for the least of these without mentioning we are priests. This is not easy. Decide vagueness is the way to go, although we both know that within five minutes of the initial hellos, God, Jesus, congregation, parish, sermon, justice, or baptism will fall from our lips. It's a compulsion. Decide if Racial Reconciliation Jazz Boy is worth anything, he won't mind that I'm a priest and he'll just fall in love with me anyway (we read a bit too much Jane Austen). Find a parking place and walk to the hotel restaurant. My legs look amazing in these heels, and they are surprisingly comfortable.
9:00 pm Arrive at the venue. Jazz Boy takes the stage. My first observation is his weak chin. And a questionable hair style. But his show is peppered with funny sarcastic remarks between average trumpet playing and singing, and sarcasm is just downright sexy in my book, which could explain a great deal about why I am still single. Both of us have a great time adding comments to his show, which is rather low energy. As he sings, "All of Me," we are inserting voice overs like, "Yes, all of me. Just take my soul, since a bit of me dies every time I have to sing for you people." Or, "Four years at the Julliard for this?!" We crack ourselves up. The table next to us seems mildly amused or annoyed. The dim light makes it hard to tell.
9:45 pm Jazz Boy with Weak Chin has finished his set. Other Girl Priest drags me to be introduced. I'm not sure about this, now that I've gotten tanked on club soda (liquid courage is not my friend). OGP takes the lead. I follow like a lamb to the slaughter. What if he walks away? What if he tells me I'm a loser? What if I end up eating we cigarette butts in the corner of the club? Wait, I remind myself. Save the drama for a real relationship.
10:00 pm Jazz Boy with Weak Chin but Surprisingly Witty Conversational Skills and I are having a great conversation. OGP is the perfect wing-girl. Her job is to keep me from saying something stupid like bringing up medical test results. She is excellent, as well as this other guy who runs this place or something. He's hot, but we can't decide which side of the fence his horses are corralled. Jazz Boy and I have excellent moment over our mutual love for Steak and Shake. We have a cute moment about his dad saying something inappropriate in a Steak and Shake. Yes! Then he has to go on for his next set.
10:30 pm We listen to his next set. Charming conversation and all, he did not ask for my phone number. Rats.
10:47 pm We leave this place and go to another jazz club where we run into another priest friend. We share our adventure, only to hear that Jazz Boy is a tramp. Really? I say. Yeah, is the response. And, the friend priest adds, he's not aging well. Do men really talk like this? Criticize a man for his appearence? When did straight men start having these conversations? No, don't change the rules now!! Straight men are weird. The club owner comes over to say hello and compliments both girl priests on how they look, apparently disturbing our male priest friend who can't believe he's not the center of attention. A quick wedding ring check. Yes, Club Owner is married.
11:00 pm OGP and I commiserate in the corner. I whine about why a guy who sees more lip action (among other things) than a jazz man's horn doesn't even get my number, and OGP assures me that I'm just too classy. I don't believe her, but appreciate the attempt. Then we notice a questionable piece of photographic art in the bar. Note to men: you naked embracing your trumpet is a bit disturbing in poster-sized black and white. We decide to go eat beignets. Fried bread with sugar makes anything bearable. On the walk to Cafe du Monde, we complain about our feet hurting.
midnight We're so excited. We've stayed out past midnight. We're so cool (or so not, considering we're excited about THIS). We walk back to the car. Barefooted. Yes, in New Orleans. But we don't care. No, I didn't get his number, and he didn't ask for mine. But the best evenings are measured in laughter with those who know you, I mean really know you, shortcomings, dark corners, weird sense of humor, and all, and love you anyway enough to join you in the possibilities of life. Not a bad way to spend an evening.
8:00 pm Arrive at the OGP's home (other girl priest). Her husband gives my outfit a thumbs up. Since aforementioned jazz musician is straight, I take this as a good sign. The Holy One wonders if I will have trouble walking in my heels. When I shrug, she puts on her high heels. One more smear of lipstick, and we are off.
8:30 pm Drive to the French Quarter and look for free parking, because we are priests and cheap. Talk endlessly about the possibilities of this evening. OGP says Jazz Boy is into racial reconciliation and has a new CD coming out. Come up with some ways to mention our work for justice, freedom, and peace for the least of these without mentioning we are priests. This is not easy. Decide vagueness is the way to go, although we both know that within five minutes of the initial hellos, God, Jesus, congregation, parish, sermon, justice, or baptism will fall from our lips. It's a compulsion. Decide if Racial Reconciliation Jazz Boy is worth anything, he won't mind that I'm a priest and he'll just fall in love with me anyway (we read a bit too much Jane Austen). Find a parking place and walk to the hotel restaurant. My legs look amazing in these heels, and they are surprisingly comfortable.
9:00 pm Arrive at the venue. Jazz Boy takes the stage. My first observation is his weak chin. And a questionable hair style. But his show is peppered with funny sarcastic remarks between average trumpet playing and singing, and sarcasm is just downright sexy in my book, which could explain a great deal about why I am still single. Both of us have a great time adding comments to his show, which is rather low energy. As he sings, "All of Me," we are inserting voice overs like, "Yes, all of me. Just take my soul, since a bit of me dies every time I have to sing for you people." Or, "Four years at the Julliard for this?!" We crack ourselves up. The table next to us seems mildly amused or annoyed. The dim light makes it hard to tell.
9:45 pm Jazz Boy with Weak Chin has finished his set. Other Girl Priest drags me to be introduced. I'm not sure about this, now that I've gotten tanked on club soda (liquid courage is not my friend). OGP takes the lead. I follow like a lamb to the slaughter. What if he walks away? What if he tells me I'm a loser? What if I end up eating we cigarette butts in the corner of the club? Wait, I remind myself. Save the drama for a real relationship.
10:00 pm Jazz Boy with Weak Chin but Surprisingly Witty Conversational Skills and I are having a great conversation. OGP is the perfect wing-girl. Her job is to keep me from saying something stupid like bringing up medical test results. She is excellent, as well as this other guy who runs this place or something. He's hot, but we can't decide which side of the fence his horses are corralled. Jazz Boy and I have excellent moment over our mutual love for Steak and Shake. We have a cute moment about his dad saying something inappropriate in a Steak and Shake. Yes! Then he has to go on for his next set.
10:30 pm We listen to his next set. Charming conversation and all, he did not ask for my phone number. Rats.
10:47 pm We leave this place and go to another jazz club where we run into another priest friend. We share our adventure, only to hear that Jazz Boy is a tramp. Really? I say. Yeah, is the response. And, the friend priest adds, he's not aging well. Do men really talk like this? Criticize a man for his appearence? When did straight men start having these conversations? No, don't change the rules now!! Straight men are weird. The club owner comes over to say hello and compliments both girl priests on how they look, apparently disturbing our male priest friend who can't believe he's not the center of attention. A quick wedding ring check. Yes, Club Owner is married.
11:00 pm OGP and I commiserate in the corner. I whine about why a guy who sees more lip action (among other things) than a jazz man's horn doesn't even get my number, and OGP assures me that I'm just too classy. I don't believe her, but appreciate the attempt. Then we notice a questionable piece of photographic art in the bar. Note to men: you naked embracing your trumpet is a bit disturbing in poster-sized black and white. We decide to go eat beignets. Fried bread with sugar makes anything bearable. On the walk to Cafe du Monde, we complain about our feet hurting.
midnight We're so excited. We've stayed out past midnight. We're so cool (or so not, considering we're excited about THIS). We walk back to the car. Barefooted. Yes, in New Orleans. But we don't care. No, I didn't get his number, and he didn't ask for mine. But the best evenings are measured in laughter with those who know you, I mean really know you, shortcomings, dark corners, weird sense of humor, and all, and love you anyway enough to join you in the possibilities of life. Not a bad way to spend an evening.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Reasons I Became an Episcopal Priest
1. All night ladies shoe saleswoman was unavailable or did not exist.
2. I thought that black is really slimming.
3. There wasn't much happening in my social life at the time, but being a nun did not seem like so much fun.
4. I lost a bet.
5. I won a bet.
6. I needed an excellent way to fend off male suitors just by saying I am a priest.
7. I enjoyed gathering new male weirdos that are drawn to me when I say I am a priest.
8. I wanted to build up the muscles in my arms by lifting heavy chalices.
9. I like getting into deep theological discussions with anyone in airports, at bars, after exercise class...
10. I love God, and I love people. Somehow being a priest made these two intersect.
2. I thought that black is really slimming.
3. There wasn't much happening in my social life at the time, but being a nun did not seem like so much fun.
4. I lost a bet.
5. I won a bet.
6. I needed an excellent way to fend off male suitors just by saying I am a priest.
7. I enjoyed gathering new male weirdos that are drawn to me when I say I am a priest.
8. I wanted to build up the muscles in my arms by lifting heavy chalices.
9. I like getting into deep theological discussions with anyone in airports, at bars, after exercise class...
10. I love God, and I love people. Somehow being a priest made these two intersect.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Reality Shows I'd Like to See
So I admit it, I watch reality tv. Or perhaps more accurately, I watch people in dire need of therapy parade around in front of a camera behaving in ways that would get any pre-schooler a time-out. Yes, I watch that stuff. Purely prurient, with a dash of arrogance thrown in (good grief, I NEVER would act like that!) and I'm entertained for a while.
But my disturbed little mind also thinks while I watch yet another Bachelorette declare her love for someone she's met in a most contrived way and await the news that *gasp* they've ended their relationship, "but wish the best for each other." What reality shows would I like to create, if I ruled the world - or at least network television?
Big Brother: Christian House I probably don't need to say more, but just imagine tossing a group of super-Christians (the kind who use the word awesome far too much) in a house together. They must battle it out for the prize money. Watch them out-righteous each other. See how many Bible verses they can quote in one conversation. Forgiveness flows like water, until someone feels the pull of Satan and gives into lust. Hold on to your skirts, ladies. This could be a bumpy night.
Survivor: Inner City I am not impressed by people who "survive" on an island with a camera crew, full medical staff, and a stash of food and contact lenses in a locker just out of camera range. I am impressed by people who live in dangerous neighborhoods because they can't afford any safe place to live in states where tenant's rights issues are neglected; mothers who support children on minimum wage;and fathers who struggle to be seen as equal citizens in this land of theoretical equality, but not land of color, ethnic, or money-blindness. So, privileged ones, here's the show: take the loudest and most asinine representatives, senators, and talk-show hosts, stick them in a home run by a slum lord (completely compliant with the laws, though); let them live off minimum wage (give a few of them a record and see if they can even get a job, even if they've fully paid their debt to the criminal justice system); deny them health insurance because they are too poor, too risky, or too sick; let them struggle to find food and pay the bills. The winner is the one who realizes he's been full of garbage during his speeches/talks on the House or Senate floor or on his tv or radio program.
Real Housewives: Smithville Take the ladies from Orange County, New Jersey, and Atlanta and make them work for a living. Something fun, like farm labor or garbage collection. Oh, and they can't talk about: their boyfriends, ex-husbands, men they have/want to date, hair extensions, plastic surgery, which Housewife they hate, parties they've been to, or what happened in their childhood to make them desperately crave fame. Winner gets prize money placed in a trust account for their children's therapy bills. Mike Rowe can host.
American Idol Each week, we watch a young person read above his/her grade level, complete age-appropriate math and science problems, wear clothes that don't suggest a career in the criminal element, and make the world a better place by serving the needs of the least of these. Points also given for an ability to critically think about issues without needing a simple answer, to play outside, and to accept friends of various ethnicities, races, economic levels, and faith traditions. That, my friend, is an American Idol.
The Hills A group of twenty-something actors (well, maybe actor is a bit strong) sit around and talk about things that don't make sense or don't matter to anyone but themselves and become famous for no reason, while the rest of America waits until they fade into obscurity. Oh, wait. That's already a show.
But my disturbed little mind also thinks while I watch yet another Bachelorette declare her love for someone she's met in a most contrived way and await the news that *gasp* they've ended their relationship, "but wish the best for each other." What reality shows would I like to create, if I ruled the world - or at least network television?
Big Brother: Christian House I probably don't need to say more, but just imagine tossing a group of super-Christians (the kind who use the word awesome far too much) in a house together. They must battle it out for the prize money. Watch them out-righteous each other. See how many Bible verses they can quote in one conversation. Forgiveness flows like water, until someone feels the pull of Satan and gives into lust. Hold on to your skirts, ladies. This could be a bumpy night.
Survivor: Inner City I am not impressed by people who "survive" on an island with a camera crew, full medical staff, and a stash of food and contact lenses in a locker just out of camera range. I am impressed by people who live in dangerous neighborhoods because they can't afford any safe place to live in states where tenant's rights issues are neglected; mothers who support children on minimum wage;and fathers who struggle to be seen as equal citizens in this land of theoretical equality, but not land of color, ethnic, or money-blindness. So, privileged ones, here's the show: take the loudest and most asinine representatives, senators, and talk-show hosts, stick them in a home run by a slum lord (completely compliant with the laws, though); let them live off minimum wage (give a few of them a record and see if they can even get a job, even if they've fully paid their debt to the criminal justice system); deny them health insurance because they are too poor, too risky, or too sick; let them struggle to find food and pay the bills. The winner is the one who realizes he's been full of garbage during his speeches/talks on the House or Senate floor or on his tv or radio program.
Real Housewives: Smithville Take the ladies from Orange County, New Jersey, and Atlanta and make them work for a living. Something fun, like farm labor or garbage collection. Oh, and they can't talk about: their boyfriends, ex-husbands, men they have/want to date, hair extensions, plastic surgery, which Housewife they hate, parties they've been to, or what happened in their childhood to make them desperately crave fame. Winner gets prize money placed in a trust account for their children's therapy bills. Mike Rowe can host.
American Idol Each week, we watch a young person read above his/her grade level, complete age-appropriate math and science problems, wear clothes that don't suggest a career in the criminal element, and make the world a better place by serving the needs of the least of these. Points also given for an ability to critically think about issues without needing a simple answer, to play outside, and to accept friends of various ethnicities, races, economic levels, and faith traditions. That, my friend, is an American Idol.
The Hills A group of twenty-something actors (well, maybe actor is a bit strong) sit around and talk about things that don't make sense or don't matter to anyone but themselves and become famous for no reason, while the rest of America waits until they fade into obscurity. Oh, wait. That's already a show.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Grief
About two weeks ago I experienced for the sixth time a pregnancy loss. I struggle to write anything else after this first sentence. I am not sure who really knows about what happened to me and my husband. Sometimes I feel like people can see this insurmountable grief etched into my face. Do they notice the passion that is missing from my eyes? I do not know.
I do not know how to write about this experience. I am not sure why I write about this experience at all. I do know that right now I am having a hard time. It might not be evident on the outside, but there it is. I have so much anger, so much grief, and so much sorrow within me that I do not know what to do with it. Sometimes I want to cry (okay, I want to cry a lot), but I do not feel like I can. I do not want people to see me cry. I am embarrassed by it, I guess. Yet, I know that I have to express this pain if I am to be able to do anything because right now I am in limbo.
I am in limbo. My passion is frozen. Have you ever seen a child fall down and for a moment he or she is stunned? Suddenly the pain comes, and the child begins to wail. I am stunned. I am numb and about to enter a world of hurt.
I look at that number six and wonder how stupid I have to be. Why, for the love of God, did we try again? That was just plain stupid or crazy. I could kick myself.
People make kind but utterly stupid comments. Yes, I am sure that your niece’s aunt’s hairdresser experienced a miscarriage and now she is the mother of five. Maybe they do think that I am just crazy enough to keep trying. Of course when you say that this was the sixth time, they usually shut up. I love answering the questions. Yes, we have gone to a fertility expert. I am a freaking miracle of modern science. They cannot explain the why. Yes, I am sure your daughter in law went through that too. Uh huh, uh huh, sure. I have heard these stories now six times. Enough all ready! Let’s just say that this really sucks.
This really sucks. I am once again going through those lousy stages of grief. I cannot control or stop them. I listen to U2’s song “One” over and over again in the car and cry. I have no idea how my husband is doing, and I am not sure how I could comfort him anyway. Frankly, I am not sure I care, at the moment. I think that I am holding it together, but I just might start throwing my shoes and writhing on the floor. I am thinking about it. I am thinking about it.
I guess all you can do is cry. I cry for what might have been. I cry for what is. I cry for what cannot be. I listen for the voice of God. I listen for some purpose in this disappointment and sorrow. I do believe that it is there, but I do not know what it is. I cling to the Rock of My Salvation even as I feel crushed beneath it.
I want to say that I am not okay, but sometimes I am okay. I want to say that I am finished, but I am not finished either. I am not finished with life, with faith, with love, but I am really annoyed right now.
Right now is a time of endurance. I endure and keep walking. I endure and keep waking up each morning. I endure until I can do these every day tasks again, with joy. I endure until I hope. I know that hope is coming, but I am here right now. I know that hope is coming and that soon I will hope until I witness. I will hope until I witness and meet my Redeemer face to face.
I do not know how to write about this experience. I am not sure why I write about this experience at all. I do know that right now I am having a hard time. It might not be evident on the outside, but there it is. I have so much anger, so much grief, and so much sorrow within me that I do not know what to do with it. Sometimes I want to cry (okay, I want to cry a lot), but I do not feel like I can. I do not want people to see me cry. I am embarrassed by it, I guess. Yet, I know that I have to express this pain if I am to be able to do anything because right now I am in limbo.
I am in limbo. My passion is frozen. Have you ever seen a child fall down and for a moment he or she is stunned? Suddenly the pain comes, and the child begins to wail. I am stunned. I am numb and about to enter a world of hurt.
I look at that number six and wonder how stupid I have to be. Why, for the love of God, did we try again? That was just plain stupid or crazy. I could kick myself.
People make kind but utterly stupid comments. Yes, I am sure that your niece’s aunt’s hairdresser experienced a miscarriage and now she is the mother of five. Maybe they do think that I am just crazy enough to keep trying. Of course when you say that this was the sixth time, they usually shut up. I love answering the questions. Yes, we have gone to a fertility expert. I am a freaking miracle of modern science. They cannot explain the why. Yes, I am sure your daughter in law went through that too. Uh huh, uh huh, sure. I have heard these stories now six times. Enough all ready! Let’s just say that this really sucks.
This really sucks. I am once again going through those lousy stages of grief. I cannot control or stop them. I listen to U2’s song “One” over and over again in the car and cry. I have no idea how my husband is doing, and I am not sure how I could comfort him anyway. Frankly, I am not sure I care, at the moment. I think that I am holding it together, but I just might start throwing my shoes and writhing on the floor. I am thinking about it. I am thinking about it.
I guess all you can do is cry. I cry for what might have been. I cry for what is. I cry for what cannot be. I listen for the voice of God. I listen for some purpose in this disappointment and sorrow. I do believe that it is there, but I do not know what it is. I cling to the Rock of My Salvation even as I feel crushed beneath it.
I want to say that I am not okay, but sometimes I am okay. I want to say that I am finished, but I am not finished either. I am not finished with life, with faith, with love, but I am really annoyed right now.
Right now is a time of endurance. I endure and keep walking. I endure and keep waking up each morning. I endure until I can do these every day tasks again, with joy. I endure until I hope. I know that hope is coming, but I am here right now. I know that hope is coming and that soon I will hope until I witness. I will hope until I witness and meet my Redeemer face to face.
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