Category Archives: faith

Jan23

Pretty Paper

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Ugly thoughts…

I have always been a sucker for a beautiful blank notebook or journal. When I was a child, I remember more than once asking Mama for a “Dear Diary” to write my deepest, most personal thoughts in. Eventually I received one, and I was so tickled with it because, not only was it mine to write whatever I wanted (unlike my paper and boring notebooks for school) but it had a teeny-tiny lock and key, ensuring privacy! Back then I didn’t require much more from a journal than that.

As I got into junior high and high school, the selection of “blank books” started to become more interesting, and prettier. I still have a bunch of my high school blank books, filled with the angst of those years, countless pages of bad poetry, and the occasional line of beautiful words strung together in a pleasing way. A couple of my favorites were the lavender corduroy with flowers, and the navy blue calico print, filled with lined pages. I never fancied myself a “writer”; that role in our family was already filled, admirably, by my brother, Reed. I just needed space for all that emotional stuff to go, and like most girls, I wanted that place to be pretty, if possible.

Within the last 15 years or so, I added another requirement to my criteria for a journal. I no longer want my pages to be lined, or ruled. Dot grid pages are acceptable, because I can still destroy those any way I see fit. But “LINES”…nope, no more. Lines are, for me, restrictive in nature, and I already have more restrictions in my life than I want. So now, I look for unlined pages, or dot grids at the most. Heavily textured, thick, handmade papers are a bonus when I can find them, and such a treat on which to put my pen.

It seems like it should be a sin somehow, for me to put my ugly, visceral, pain-filled/angry/petty/violent thoughts into and onto these pages. Pretty paper, ugly thoughts. But I know that those feelings have to have an outlet in order to keep them from coming out in destructive ways. Pen and paper do no harm, as long as I can count on a third “P”, that being privacy. 

Then, there is a fourth “P”…prayer. Sometimes my prayers are silent, sometimes spoken aloud, and sometimes, written. God knows the ugliness of my thoughts, and He can handle it, for which I give thanks. 

I write this after a rough couple of weeks in which some difficult conversations have taken place…and I have had to backtrack with a couple of people in order to establish some boundaries and make sure I have done all I could do to make sure I stated those boundaries clearly and firmly, as well as the consequences that will happen if my boundaries are ever again violated. 

(A couple of my recent journal acquisitions are pictured below. The one on the left will be a collection of my thoughts this year, the year I will turn 60, a birthday my sweet and spicy Mama never lived to see. She died in the hospital at age 58, one day shy of one month after her 40th wedding anniversary with my father. The other one’s purpose is yet to be determined, but it was so visually interesting, and so beautifully tactile, handcrafted, I couldn’t leave it behind. It came from a favorite art and souvenir shop on St. Simons Island, Georgia, during our last vacation there. Words, or sketches, or ephemera of some sort, will fill its pages.)

May29

Not Coming Back

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My last overnight on call…

I have mentioned a number of times in this blog that during the first half of 2012, I completed a unit of CPE—Clinical Pastoral Education—at our local teaching hospital and trauma center. My experiences in that period of time changed my life in ways that I am still processing more than a decade later. I was an Extern, meaning that I was doing this work while still working my day job, participating in my chorus and chamber chorale, and trying to be a wife and dog mom. Fortunately, both my husband and my dog extended me a lot of grace and extra portions of love as I explored this alien educational landscape.

Part of the Extern experience (like the Residents) included spending overnights as the chaplain on call. These overnight stays exposed me to some of the most eye-opening, adrenaline-surging, sorrow-inducing, empathy-expanding moments of my entire life. I also saw some things that enraged me. I don’t share many details because of confidentiality, but in my notebook I recorded as much detail as I could in the time I had to write things down.

One incident from my last overnight stay haunts me.

I was paged to the room of a patient who had coded (gone into full cardiac arrest). The medical professionals who attend to cases such as this always amazed me. The efforts to resuscitate a patient who has gone into full arrest are extremely physical…chest compressions alone can be exhausting. I had witnessed numerous codes during my unit, and in every case, the patient was “brought back”. Heartbeats and respirations were restored, at least for a time.

Not this patient. He was not coming back. Young, handsome, full of potential…and gone.

The team members who had worked so hard to revive him had to acknowledge that their efforts were unsuccessful, and what should have “worked” just…didn’t. Time of death was called and recorded, which I had not witnessed in previous codes I had attended. It’s a solemn duty, and as the on call chaplain, I first attended to the team, offering what support I could. The next step was contacting family to come to the hospital, but letting the news of the death wait until their arrival.

I sat with the patient while family members were in transit, holding his hand, speaking and singing to him. Just being present. I’ve done this with members of my own family, other hospital patients, and patients at the hospice where I volunteered. I know that Scripture tells us, “Absent from the body, present with the Lord”. But I have never been sure exactly how immediate the change of address is. Perhaps it has been my imagination, but in these moments, I have sensed their floating souls, hovering in the spaces above us, and I’ve been reluctant to leave until I felt a sense of dissipation. Members of my family haven’t understood my need to see the newly departed off in this way. I think some of them have viewed me as a ghoul.

In my final meeting with my supervisor, I related this experience, including my time spent after the patient had died, and my other times sharing spaces with a newly-departed soul. I questioned why I’m like this, because most other people aren’t. Is something wrong with me, am I really a ghoul? He looked at me with a penetrating gaze and a warm smile, and told me that, while it is true that most people are indeed not “like this”, my desire to remain for a bit with a recently departed soul is, in truth, a very pastoral trait, and one that I should embrace. He told me that he was proud of my growth during the unit. That he was proud of ME.

My CPE supervisor is gone now, in Heaven with many others who poured goodness into my life, whether they did so over decades, months, or moments, like this final patient. My hope is that, when I go to be with them, I can find this one who refused to come back. I want to thank him for moments of goodness, the sacred, holy hovering of his soul that I was privileged to share.

Sep22

Today I Choose

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Because I can…

 

Today I choose gratitude,

because no matter how tough life is, there is always a reason to give thanks.

Today I choose grace, for myself and for others,

because God has shown grace to me.

Today I choose authenticity,

because all I can be is myself, and for those who love and appreciate me, that will be enough.

Today I choose reconciliation,

because in reconciling myself—to others, to my circumstances, to my own conscience—I will find restoration.

Today I choose peace,

because the world outside is filled with conflict.

Because I CAN

Today

I

choose.

 

Jan5

Bare

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When the paint comes off…

I’ve enjoyed playing with makeup and skin care since I was a teenager. Experimenting with formulas, blending colors, learning how to shade and highlight…all fun techniques which allow me to pretend that I am an artist, and my face is the canvas I alter and, I hope, improve.

God gave me my face and features through my gene pool, and I can look at the pieces of myself and see my forbears in the mirror. There’s the chin that came from my Mamaw Massengill through her family, the Dunns. My dark hair and deep hazel eyes resemble Dad’s coloring. My body type, short, with ample hips and breasts and a tendency to be WAY too large, comes from Granny Williams and her people, the McGills. My pale skin tone is a bit of a mystery, though. I have always been the lightest-complected person in the family, on either side, and in family photos I sometimes appear to glow in the dark!

As a young teen I battled with acne for a time, but with good skin care (and obsessive habits!) the pimple problems never became as serious as Dad’s had been at that age. I guess the Lord figured with the boobs and the bulges to deal with, I didn’t need blemishes for a trifecta! Even now, at age 57, I still get the occasional Humility Pimple. You know the one. It shows up exactly when I need to look good for an occasion, concert, interview, you name it. Cosmetic intervention has saved many photographs over the decades! I’ve written about The Humility Pimple on my weight-loss blog:

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But when the paint comes off, it’s still my face that I have to face in the mirror…naked, exposed, and bare. Sometimes that face looks at me, my choices, my relationships, and seems to say, ”You are more blessed than you have any right to be”, or, ”What on Earth possessed you to make such a stupid mistake? YOU KNOW BETTER!”

Sometimes I can barely stand my own reflection. Turning away from the mirror doesn’t change anything; it merely gives me a break from having to face my face. All I can do is strip off the paint, come clean, and try again tomorrow to…put my best face forward. (You knew I had to write that.)

Feb7

My True Colors

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Work and play…

I’ve always envied people who can draw, paint, and sketch.   Those aren’t areas of talent or giftedness for me.  And we always seem to wish for that which we don’t possess.  It’s human nature.

But I don’t let it keep me from enjoying the process of playing with colors.  Right now I am coloring in part to regain some fine motor skills that my COVID process has affected. So it’s both occupational therapy/work, and fun/play. 

A while back I bought an inexpensive but fairly comprehensive set of colored pencils to play with.  I also found a similarly inexpensive sharpener, with a USB cable!  Modern and high-tech for such a simple hobby.  Sharpening my pencils this week when I needed to proved a bit zen like, a meditative, almost hypnotic task, watching the shavings accumulate in the container.  Even the shavings resulted in a beautiful image.

Blending colors sparks my imagination and frees my mind to wander to other areas of my life, sometimes helping me to unravel the tangles of my day to day concerns.  I can settle into my couch, busy my hands, and end up with some surprising color combinations I wouldn’t typically put together, and perhaps come up with an unexpected solution to a life issue in the process.  No rules.  It’s liberating.

There has been a lot of time recently for me to think about my life, and how I want to live it moving forward.  Proper priorities, balance, authenticity, and simplicity are the things I want to embody from now on.  It is a tall order. 

Lord, help my true colors to shine forth, glowing with a vibrant reflection of Your plan for my life and how I can serve the people You place along my path.  Amen.

Jul4

Someone Else’s Story

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And what chapter do you contribute…?

I have not written a post here in two and a half months.  In that time frame, 3 valuable people in my universe died.  Two of my connections from Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) died, both on Monday, April 27.  Randy, our unit supervisor, was a mentor, coach, sensei, cheerleader, buster-of-chops-and-rejoicer-in-successes.  John, a member of our peer group, was a United Methodist pastor on sabbatical, a warm hearted man of insight and humility.  These losses came to all of us as a shock, and for me, a gut-punch as I was still reeling from Aunt Helen’s death, which I shared in my last post here.

One week later, on Monday, May 4, my beloved friend, #FirstEverWorkHusband and Person, Martin, died.  I have written several times about him, his kidney failure, and our friendship in this blog.  We had just texted shortly before he passed, and his death appears to have been a fast and massive heart attack.  I can’t really write much about that right now; it is still pretty raw and I continue to process a great deal.

But the circumstances surrounding his passing left me inconsolable.  When I could manage to sleep there were dreams (which are to be expected and I know there will be more to come); various types of crying, from leaky moments to wailing, sobbing jags.  Finally as I stood in my yard, I spoke out loud, to Martin, to God, to The Universe, asking, pleading for…something.  A sign.  I said, “I need something to know that Martin is OK, so if he is…if you are…please, let the next feather that comes my way be either white or red.  I will take that as my sign.”  I didn’t specify that I needed to be the one to actually find the feather, but I didn’t give that much thought.

Flash forward a few weeks to a Thursday evening after work, when I reported to my church to record the service for the following Sunday, since we had not yet been cleared yet for in-person worship due to coronavirus.  On my music stand was my music for the service, and an envelope with my name on it.  I opened it to find these beautiful #featherblessings from my #ChoirBoss, Carroll, courtesy of his neighbors who had collected them on a walk with their dog.

 

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As gorgeous as the spotted feathers are, it was the red one that brought me to tears.  It was the sign I had begged for.  After we had finished recording the service, I thanked Carroll for his gift, explaining to him, with choked-back tears and a breaking voice, what the red feather meant to me, and how it was the first semblance of comfort I had received since Martin died.  I thanked him for unwittingly playing such an important role in someone else’s story…in my story.

We never know the importance of a seemingly small gesture.  Something we may do or say without a second thought can make all the difference in another person’s life.  When you get an impulse to reach out to someone, don’t ignore it.  You never know when you might be writing a chapter in someone else’s story.

 

Apr18

Weirdest Lent Ever

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A church service and a phone call…

This year on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, our choir at Ebenezer UMC did not assist in the service there, so I took the opportunity to attend the service at the last church where I sang and served.  It was a joy to worship with the congregation at Messiah Lutheran, one of my church homes, and folks I will always consider family.  My patient husband was chauffeuring me around at the time because my vertigo had flared up, and we agreed with the family doctor that I probably shouldn’t drive until I was feeling better.  So Sweet Pea picked me up from work, we shared a tasty supper at PF Chang’s, then headed across Kingston Pike to the church.

”You are dust, and to dust you shall return…”

It was a beautiful service, contemplative and solemn…and just as we were leaving the church my silenced phone began to vibrate.  My cousin Hazen was calling to tell me that Aunt Helen was in the hospital and her situation looked pretty serious.  “Aunt” Helen is actually my first cousin, but because she was so close in age to Mama, and because they had grown up like sisters, we always called her Aunt Helen, just like all the other Aunts we were blessed to know and love on Mama’s side.  It was probably late in grade school before I figured out the actual family math on that relationship.  But she always functioned as an Aunt for me.

Because my vertigo was flaring I knew that a drive to Johnson City on my own was not possible, so I asked Dad if he might be up for a visit with Aunt Helen in the hospital on Sunday.  My cousin Stacy had told me that we should probably visit soon if we wanted to.  So Dad, bonus mom Carole and I made the brief trip up on The First Sunday of Lent, in beautiful sunshine and coolish temperatures.  Signs of spring were evident along the roadside as the landscape began to green up.

We arrived to find my cousin Lisa talking with the doctor, and Aunt Helen’s frail frame in the bed.  She was awake and recognized me before I fully made it into the room.  We exchanged “I-love-you’s” and I asked the questions I always ask at such a time as this.

”Are you afraid?”  She said no.

”Are you in pain?”  She said yes.

And I swear, it was like seeing Mama in her hospital bed, living that scenario all over again.

In the days that followed, our phones blazed with text messages and calls.  How was Aunt Helen doing?  Was Lisa eating?  Did anybody sleep last night?  Might they send Aunt Helen home?  What exactly would hospice entail or provide?

That Tuesday night, Aunt Helen went home with hospice care.

Wednesday morning, Hazen called again to tell me that Aunt Helen had died about a half hour before. Stacy was texting while Hazen and I talked.  I was at my newish job learning a very new task, and Amy, my trainer, who was aware of Aunt Helen’s condition, let me have her office for a while to make phone calls and cry.  It was a kindness I will always remember.

The Second Sunday of Lent was Aunt Helen’s memorial service.  Years ago she had asked me to do her eulogy, and I agreed.  My cousin Lisa asked if I could sing as well, which I also agreed to do.  I never sing well at funerals.  But I do it anyway, with the understanding that, while it won’t be beautiful, it will be loving.  I’m doing the best I can.

Rumors and speculation about coronavirus had already started to churn, and looking back now, I am grateful that we had the chance to gather as Aunt Helen’s family, by blood and choice, to honor and remember her.  I was able to hug my people, cry, sing, and laugh.  The church was packed with others whose lives Aunt Helen had blessed.  If a couple more weeks had passed, we wouldn’t have had the chance to be together like that.

The remainder of Lent saw us all self-isolating, exercising caution, and avoiding crowds as much as possible.  Many of our workplaces shut down, or drastically curtailed their activities and staffs.  A trip to the store became a major event. Toilet paper, of all things, became almost impossible to find!  And our church buildings have sat empty.

But The Church has, in many cases, been more vibrant and active than it was before coronavirus flipped everything sideways.  Technology has allowed us to stay connected to our church families via live streams and Zoom calls, for example.  I was privileged to assist my own congregation in worship on Palm Sunday and Easter, with a few other musicians and our pastors, from our mostly empty sanctuary, properly distanced from each other.

I miss hugging people.  I miss sharing space with my church family and my kinfolks. And Lord, how I miss Aunt Helen.

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(My last photo with Aunt Helen, February 2019, during #OperationTakeAMinute.  She was my first stop on a month-long road trip, and the days and nights I spent at her house are memories I will cherish forever, especially now that her New Home is someplace I can’t visit.  YET.)

Apr11

Waiting

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Once upon a time…

It was Saturday, the Eleventh Day of April, in The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand Twenty, and the day before Easter Sunday.  Known in many Christian traditions as Holy Saturday, this day was, for me, a bit different from the fifty-plus Holy Saturdays in my life that preceded it.  Our world was in a quieter state than most of us had ever experienced before because of a viral pandemic called Coronavirus that ground much of our activity to a standstill.

It hit me even as I typed the word “standstill”…

STILL.

Not moving, suspended, stationary.

But not inactive.

As with the first Holy Saturday, our world seemed on this day to be holding its breath, waiting for something.  A change.  A revolution.

A revelation.

As I found myself waiting on Holy Saturday in The Year Of Our Lord Two Thousand Twenty, I reflected on exactly what it was for which I was waiting…Easter Sunday celebrations, of course, even though I knew my church’s building would be nearly empty.  But we would connect through the gift of technology for which we all gave thanks.  The glory of Jesus and the hope of new life through Him would still be preached and revealed.

But I also waited for my world to return to “normal”, whatever that meant now.  My suspicion was that my definition of normal would never be the same.  Gone were the days of long-range planning for…anything, really.  Life was now taking place in real time, one day at a time, heartbeat by heartbeat and breath by breath.

And I imagined the body of Jesus, lying in that small, dark space that was both tomb and womb, having experienced death, waiting to rise up and emerge into a world that would be changed forever.  Good Friday was about Death.  Easter Sunday was about New Life.

Holy Saturday was about Waiting.

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Mar29

Church On My Couch

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It’s not about the building…

This morning I went to church.  On my couch.  The flippant, sarcastic, class-clown side of my personality wants to call it:

The Fifth-Sunday Singing Service at The First Church of St. Social Isolation.

The trusted-Jesus-in-my-childhood side of me knows that it is, in truth:

The Church Is Not About The Building.

My childhood church had a motto that was printed on our bulletins.  It read, “Enter to Worship—Depart to Serve”.  That is ringing more true to me in these days of social distancing, self-imposed isolation, safer-at-home.  Thanks to the Interwebz, we can still participate in worship, work from home, see about our friends and family.  We can stay fairly well connected.

We can donate to causes, including the local church, that are working to provide necessary resources to our neighbors in need.  We can share music, humor, insight, and even our own original thoughts, in an effort to keep our loved ones engaged, lifted up, and encouraged in the days of COVID-19.  We can drop non-perishable necessities off onto our neighbors’ porches.  We can call, text, Zoom/FaceTime/Messenger Chat to stay connected.  I think that all of these efforts are “church”.

I completed an extended unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) in 2012.  The ages of my peer group ranged from mid-40s to late 60s.  The eldest member of our group was participating at the recommendation of a ministry of his church, a well-established, well-heeled, and well-respected faith community here in Knoxville.  Toward the end of our time together, Bob remarked that he was “seeing more church happen inside the walls of the hospital” than he had ever seen at “church”.

Which illustrates the point, once again, that it’s not about the building.

Church is loving our neighbor, whoever they are, wherever they are, however we can, without trying to judge whether or not they are worthy.  When we are unable to gather face-to-face, church can still happen.  Loving our neighbor from a distance is still love.  Prayers, financial support offered online, front-porch drop-offs, whatever we can do…we can still love our neighbor.

We can be the church.

We ARE the church.

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Feb15

Practice Makes…?

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The old adage versus the new perspective…

We’ve all heard the old saying:

Practice makes perfect.

Here’s the thing, though.  “Perfect” is impossible for human beings.  Whether the pursuit is related to our health, profession, or artistic endeavors, perfection is an unrealistic goal.

I am primarily a musician, but I also enjoy several other creative pursuits including paper crafting, photography, and writing.  When I commit myself to a project, I want my efforts to be the best I can make them, realizing that my best is never going to be perfect.  Coming to grips with that is an ongoing process…and it is a change in paradigms.

So often we are goal-oriented, when perhaps it is better to be process-oriented.  Case in point: a student who crams at the semester’s end to receive an “A” on an exam, but forgets the information soon after the test is over. Process orientation is more focused on learning bit by bit, along the way, and letting the exam take care of itself when the time comes.  Information learned along the way tends to “stick” better.

I have begun to realize, and to share with others, an adjustment to the old adage:

Practice doesn’t make perfect.  Practice makes progress.

When I was young, I thought my life was going to be all about the destination; as I have gotten older, I realize it’s really about the journey…the process, and the progress.  As long as I am growing, moving forward, doing my best (whatever my best happens to be on a given day!), I am on the path that is meant for me.

That’s really the best I can ask for.

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(Pictured above, a recent creative project…in progress!)