Tonight, perusing the Internet, I came across a relatively new collaborative blog focusing on issues "important to members of the SBC (Southern Baptist Convention) and all Christians."
Then I proceeded to read a post about how "getting saved" means cutting your hair and no longer cursing, with a lot of implications that a man is somewhat holier for having shorter hair, and that dropping a few meaningful and powerful curses (Shit and Damn are in the Bible, so I guess God is guilty)is a big issue facing all of us Christians. The discussion degraded into someone calling another's theology 'defective.'
There was an implication that having your nose pierced is associated with a particular 'lifestyle' (it was clearly implied that this was not a 'good' lifestyle). Education was referred to with suspicion. One mother's response to her sons telling a 'dirty' joke was to make their father have a sex discussion with them. This response was described as "characteristic" of a woman.
I guess this is why a tattoo wearing female doctor with training in theology and whose research is all about sex sex sex just didn't feel at home in the SBC. When all of those pesky problems with the poor are solved, when wars are ended and peace reigns, and the Church no longer needs my services as a soul care giver, then I will be able to worry about the really big problems. Like how much someone does or does not 'cuss' and the length of someone's hair, or what holes they may have in their head.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Celebration of Discipline
Saturday, I started a stained glass class. I've wanted to learn stained glass since I was a preteen reading a novel, its title long forgotten, about a misfit young girl who connected with her Gram over her stained glass hobby. Then her Gram dies and she finds a way to stay connected to her Gram by using her exposure to stained glass to create a masterful light design for her school play in order to save some dastardly sets.
I wanted to be that girl on the way to becoming her wizened grandmother, and I wanted to learn about the vividly described rich colors of the glass, the whirr of the grinder,and the snap of glass across the score line.
Of course, the process of cutting glass is difficult, breaks are uneven, and have you ever tried to cut a circle free hand? Stained glass is an art of preciseness, and my character and personality are very imprecise. It is a time-consuming endeavor, requiring cutting and recutting while trying to conserve expensive and beautiful colored glass. Completion of one step requires movement to another process and yet another, meaning my task oriented nature becomes fatigued, frustrated, and tired.
But there's a special blessing in the muffled crack of a run, the undulations of specialty glass under my fingers, and of hues reminding me of the sour balls that I used suck as a child. I need a hobby that is unable to be completed in one sitting, one Saturday, or one late night. I need a hobby that requires me to walk away because the runs aren't working that day, or because I broke my last piece of beloved glass.
I need a discipline that makes me plan ahead, consider design ahead of time, but to hold my plan loosely, ready to be inspired by an unexpected moment or an unanticipated break. In fact, this feels much like therapy without the constant worry about managing my self with intense focus on another. Rather, I am able to focus only on my experience of the glass, the pliers, the grozers, the grinder, and to adapt to the cuts and how they turn out.
Once you've committed to a cut, you can't stop or you'll ruin it. You must learn to work with your mistakes while cultivating accuracy. You can't fake stained glass. Under examination fakes look, well, fake. So this weekend, I'll return to a community college chemistry classroom to spend time with retired and disabled senior citizen Gary who "takes classes because without them I have no reason to get up in the morning," cockeyed middle-aged Rick whose children have left the nest and who seems to need conversation, lots of conversation, and Marie, a younger than me woman who speaks only when spoken to, but whose gentle features soften the room without any words. And we'll cut, grind, solder, and all of that, hoping to learn more about something and to have an experience.
I wanted to be that girl on the way to becoming her wizened grandmother, and I wanted to learn about the vividly described rich colors of the glass, the whirr of the grinder,and the snap of glass across the score line.
Of course, the process of cutting glass is difficult, breaks are uneven, and have you ever tried to cut a circle free hand? Stained glass is an art of preciseness, and my character and personality are very imprecise. It is a time-consuming endeavor, requiring cutting and recutting while trying to conserve expensive and beautiful colored glass. Completion of one step requires movement to another process and yet another, meaning my task oriented nature becomes fatigued, frustrated, and tired.
But there's a special blessing in the muffled crack of a run, the undulations of specialty glass under my fingers, and of hues reminding me of the sour balls that I used suck as a child. I need a hobby that is unable to be completed in one sitting, one Saturday, or one late night. I need a hobby that requires me to walk away because the runs aren't working that day, or because I broke my last piece of beloved glass.
I need a discipline that makes me plan ahead, consider design ahead of time, but to hold my plan loosely, ready to be inspired by an unexpected moment or an unanticipated break. In fact, this feels much like therapy without the constant worry about managing my self with intense focus on another. Rather, I am able to focus only on my experience of the glass, the pliers, the grozers, the grinder, and to adapt to the cuts and how they turn out.
Once you've committed to a cut, you can't stop or you'll ruin it. You must learn to work with your mistakes while cultivating accuracy. You can't fake stained glass. Under examination fakes look, well, fake. So this weekend, I'll return to a community college chemistry classroom to spend time with retired and disabled senior citizen Gary who "takes classes because without them I have no reason to get up in the morning," cockeyed middle-aged Rick whose children have left the nest and who seems to need conversation, lots of conversation, and Marie, a younger than me woman who speaks only when spoken to, but whose gentle features soften the room without any words. And we'll cut, grind, solder, and all of that, hoping to learn more about something and to have an experience.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Random Shuffle
A random 10 of songs in honor of my brand new, first-ever IPOD(4GB, old generation, super on sale, too bad it's pink) nano.
1. The Pointless, Yet Poignant, Crisis of a Co-Ed ~ Dar Williams
2. Feelin' Love ~ Paula Cole
3. Faith My Eyes ~ Derek Webb (House Show Version)
4. Gypsie Flat Road ~ Derek Webb and Sandra McCracken
5. Helicopter ~ Pedro the Lion
6. From Agrestic to Las Vegas ~ Weeds Soundtrack
7. Zero ~ Smashing Pumpkins
8. My Little Corner of the World ~ Yo La Tengo
9. The Boxer ~ Simon and Garfunkel
10.Me and Bobby McGee ~ Janis Joplin
and one to grow on
11. David ~ Nelly McKay
1. The Pointless, Yet Poignant, Crisis of a Co-Ed ~ Dar Williams
2. Feelin' Love ~ Paula Cole
3. Faith My Eyes ~ Derek Webb (House Show Version)
4. Gypsie Flat Road ~ Derek Webb and Sandra McCracken
5. Helicopter ~ Pedro the Lion
6. From Agrestic to Las Vegas ~ Weeds Soundtrack
7. Zero ~ Smashing Pumpkins
8. My Little Corner of the World ~ Yo La Tengo
9. The Boxer ~ Simon and Garfunkel
10.Me and Bobby McGee ~ Janis Joplin
and one to grow on
11. David ~ Nelly McKay
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Restoration frees us here
How am I to be in the world?....How can I be a believer in today's world in such a way that it involves my whole self--my passion, my intelligence, and my allegiance? My question always invites me to return to the desert. Alan Jones in Soul Making
Have you ever had a day that was so encouraging, and where you felt as if everything was coming together in some cosmic God-driven way, and the goodness and sweetness of it overwhelmed you? Your everyday annoyances, the things that grate, irritate, and wound seem less uncomfortable for a moment, and you find yourself in a moment where you felt truly alive.
I think that happened today.
It wasn't anything monumental, if you look from the outside. It was a women's professional development group where approximately ten women in my field talked about finding our voices and this distinct gifting and calling we have as psychology professionals. It was a conversation about being relational, authentic, and uniquely who we are as the beloved of God, dispensing grace to others, in the same way it has been dispensed to us.
It was feeling at home in the therapist's chair and feeling such overwhelming love for my clients that I felt for a moment I was seeing each of them through God's eyes. Of feeling so excited about the even smallest glimmers of possibility and potential in their lives, that I cannot wait for each client to find the small glimmers of hope that you see and she has yet to uncover for herself.
It was two friends show up to work out with me after work. It was coming home to a husband who had half of dinner cooking on the stove. It was the snuggle of kitties and the comfort of having nothing that HAD to be done.
They are rare, but needed, and I am thankful for today.
Have you ever had a day that was so encouraging, and where you felt as if everything was coming together in some cosmic God-driven way, and the goodness and sweetness of it overwhelmed you? Your everyday annoyances, the things that grate, irritate, and wound seem less uncomfortable for a moment, and you find yourself in a moment where you felt truly alive.
I think that happened today.
It wasn't anything monumental, if you look from the outside. It was a women's professional development group where approximately ten women in my field talked about finding our voices and this distinct gifting and calling we have as psychology professionals. It was a conversation about being relational, authentic, and uniquely who we are as the beloved of God, dispensing grace to others, in the same way it has been dispensed to us.
It was feeling at home in the therapist's chair and feeling such overwhelming love for my clients that I felt for a moment I was seeing each of them through God's eyes. Of feeling so excited about the even smallest glimmers of possibility and potential in their lives, that I cannot wait for each client to find the small glimmers of hope that you see and she has yet to uncover for herself.
It was two friends show up to work out with me after work. It was coming home to a husband who had half of dinner cooking on the stove. It was the snuggle of kitties and the comfort of having nothing that HAD to be done.
They are rare, but needed, and I am thankful for today.
Friday, September 07, 2007
The Story of My Discontent
When I was 18, my body went on strike. I became lethargic. Somehow, making it to my 11:15 A.M. Calculus class became impossible. I was just too tired. I got up around noon, made it to a course or two, took an afternoon nap, had some dinner and then played basketball in the evenings with my guy friends, outside in the Tennessee heat. Then I’d go to bed, and sleep 10 or 12 hours, waking up again exhausted.
I was constantly hungry. The bigger the meal, the sooner afterward I was starving. My middle grew mushy with extra weight that my athletic (but never petite) frame had not seen before. My acne grew worse than I had ever seen in my years in high school.
Suddenly, my periods became unpredictable. The punctuality my body had displayed since I was 11 years old (!) disappeared. My less than ample breasts stopped growing, defying my genetic heritage. I went to doctors, gynecologists, and others who told me I was likely just “stressed.” I protested. I was having the time of my life. I was pulling down A’s even if I did skip Calculus. I was just too tired to feel present.
The symptoms continued, and I noticed extra hairiness on my arms and face. And my luxurious curly hair seemed to be thinning and changing on me. Doctors dismissed me and my concerns. I failed to assert myself, being young and trusting in their care. Finally, my mother saw a special on the health channel on something called PCOS, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. A new doctor and some medical tests later, and the diagnosis was confirmed.
Since that time, my struggle with PCOS has been a struggle to hold onto my femininity, as this world has defined it. I am no hourglass, I’m an apple. Extra pounds gravitate to my body. My luxurious curly hair is no longer thick and often unattractive these days. I sweep piles of dark curly hair from my drain and the bathroom floor. Despite high quality treatment, my periods remain sporadic, and I spend many anxious moments worrying that miscarriages and infertility will delay my strong desire to carry a child, or many children. My friends have lithe bodies that they can still abuse, but my attempts to lose weight must be deliberate, slow, and frustrating.
On occasion, I am overwhelmed at the grief of the loss of my physically feminine self. I don’t get to appreciate the gentle curves of my body, the soft ringlets of my once thick hair wrapping around my face. I take two pills everyday and pay two hundred dollars a month that both remind me that I am deficient, inadequate, and possess few of the attributes of a woman as society tells me I should.
Yet, amidst all suffering, there is hope and a deepness of faith that develops. I am unbelievably grateful that medications manage my appetite, insulin, and fatigue. I have learned to slow down and to breathe. There is meaning in a disease that can make me feel a false hunger. Its metaphorical applications to my spiritual journey of discerning real spiritual needs and hungers from my own yearnings has been meaningful.
I have grown to place my identity in Christ. I have begrudgingly accepted that my worth, and value as a woman specifically, does not come from my curves, my body, or my physical appearance. Rather, I am God’s beloved, and God delights in me and in my being fully alive. My vanity has been wrenched from hands unwillingly. Yet, I have began to define my womanhood in having a voice and speaking my mind. Somehow my womanhood is tied to my gift of feeling deeply, being passionate and courageous. Being a woman is part of me because of the way in which I can love and nurture that is distinctly powerful and different from a man. I am thankful for this gift of learning about myself, but it has come painfully in grief.
When I am crying about my receding hairline, I must admit that I do not think of my newfound strength, courage, and love. Nor does it mean that I don’t repeatedly yell at God and ask him to take away this strange “syndrome” that makes me question my sanity and blame myself for being too fat, too ugly, too hairy, too bald. I shed tears, I yell, I curse, and I get unbearably angry about it all. Tomorrow I have blood work to be done. I don’t know what I hope it finds. An elevation somewhere so I can take another medication but find relief from some of my symptoms? That everything be within normal limits and I find I must accept my symptoms as they are now? I don’t really know.
I do hope desperately that my body maintains its fertility, so that this burning desire to have a child that has been so long deferred can be realized in a couple of years. I hope that I am not so desperate for it that it too must be stripped from me. These are the fears we all hold and never fully understand.
Resources on PCOS:
Celebrities with PCOS
Web MD
Support Groups Online
I was constantly hungry. The bigger the meal, the sooner afterward I was starving. My middle grew mushy with extra weight that my athletic (but never petite) frame had not seen before. My acne grew worse than I had ever seen in my years in high school.
Suddenly, my periods became unpredictable. The punctuality my body had displayed since I was 11 years old (!) disappeared. My less than ample breasts stopped growing, defying my genetic heritage. I went to doctors, gynecologists, and others who told me I was likely just “stressed.” I protested. I was having the time of my life. I was pulling down A’s even if I did skip Calculus. I was just too tired to feel present.
The symptoms continued, and I noticed extra hairiness on my arms and face. And my luxurious curly hair seemed to be thinning and changing on me. Doctors dismissed me and my concerns. I failed to assert myself, being young and trusting in their care. Finally, my mother saw a special on the health channel on something called PCOS, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. A new doctor and some medical tests later, and the diagnosis was confirmed.
Since that time, my struggle with PCOS has been a struggle to hold onto my femininity, as this world has defined it. I am no hourglass, I’m an apple. Extra pounds gravitate to my body. My luxurious curly hair is no longer thick and often unattractive these days. I sweep piles of dark curly hair from my drain and the bathroom floor. Despite high quality treatment, my periods remain sporadic, and I spend many anxious moments worrying that miscarriages and infertility will delay my strong desire to carry a child, or many children. My friends have lithe bodies that they can still abuse, but my attempts to lose weight must be deliberate, slow, and frustrating.
On occasion, I am overwhelmed at the grief of the loss of my physically feminine self. I don’t get to appreciate the gentle curves of my body, the soft ringlets of my once thick hair wrapping around my face. I take two pills everyday and pay two hundred dollars a month that both remind me that I am deficient, inadequate, and possess few of the attributes of a woman as society tells me I should.
Yet, amidst all suffering, there is hope and a deepness of faith that develops. I am unbelievably grateful that medications manage my appetite, insulin, and fatigue. I have learned to slow down and to breathe. There is meaning in a disease that can make me feel a false hunger. Its metaphorical applications to my spiritual journey of discerning real spiritual needs and hungers from my own yearnings has been meaningful.
I have grown to place my identity in Christ. I have begrudgingly accepted that my worth, and value as a woman specifically, does not come from my curves, my body, or my physical appearance. Rather, I am God’s beloved, and God delights in me and in my being fully alive. My vanity has been wrenched from hands unwillingly. Yet, I have began to define my womanhood in having a voice and speaking my mind. Somehow my womanhood is tied to my gift of feeling deeply, being passionate and courageous. Being a woman is part of me because of the way in which I can love and nurture that is distinctly powerful and different from a man. I am thankful for this gift of learning about myself, but it has come painfully in grief.
When I am crying about my receding hairline, I must admit that I do not think of my newfound strength, courage, and love. Nor does it mean that I don’t repeatedly yell at God and ask him to take away this strange “syndrome” that makes me question my sanity and blame myself for being too fat, too ugly, too hairy, too bald. I shed tears, I yell, I curse, and I get unbearably angry about it all. Tomorrow I have blood work to be done. I don’t know what I hope it finds. An elevation somewhere so I can take another medication but find relief from some of my symptoms? That everything be within normal limits and I find I must accept my symptoms as they are now? I don’t really know.
I do hope desperately that my body maintains its fertility, so that this burning desire to have a child that has been so long deferred can be realized in a couple of years. I hope that I am not so desperate for it that it too must be stripped from me. These are the fears we all hold and never fully understand.
Resources on PCOS:
Celebrities with PCOS
Web MD
Support Groups Online
Wahoo!!
I'm officially a candidate for the Degree of Doctor of Psychology. Wahoo! Time for a hot fudge sundae and a nap.
It's a big deal.
Pardon my absence. My dissertation proposal defense is tomorrow. Well, it's today I guess.
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