Gratitude

Thanksgiving always turns me toward the concept of gratitude, and this year is no different. Hubs and I cooked an entire dinner, complete with turkey, dressing, various casseroles, cranberry sauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie. For 2 people! We're gluttons today, folks.

But lately, I have felt an overwhelming gratitude for many things in my life. I am thankful for being in a profession where I feel I can daily live out my calling and use my gifts. Most times, I leave sessions saying, "THIS is why I do this." I am thankful for a husband who respects me, adores my independence and my ideas, and thinks that this overweight body is delightfully appealing. Our marriage has felt especially rewarding these days.

However, my thoughts also inevitably turn to our next steps. For the longest time, my academic background in sociology, training in community psychology, and idealistic nature has combined swimmingly with our shared Christian faith and Hub's love for social justice and a Tony Campolo type of Jesus faith. The result is that we have long felt a call to live in a neighborhood many young professionals would shun. One where the houses are less than pristine, where crime is not an anomaly, where people work hard and many never get caught up, much less ahead.

If we head back to our home in Tennessee for my internship, we plan to buy a home in such a neighborhood. In my head, we'll be these urban Christian hippies who grow our organic garden in the backyard and invite our multi-colored neighbors over for happy hour with everything from Pabst Blue Ribbon to pomegranate martinis.

I joined the neighborhood yahoo group for one such area where we might live, and the reality busted my bubble a bit. Yes, there are regularly scheduled social events in this diverse neighborhood, but there are also neighborhood meetings on how to respond to prostitution, public relations initiatives to explain those two murders, and other evidence that our children would likely NOT be riding their bicycles down an idyllic tree-lined street, as I did in my youth.

I am not doubting what I feel is God's call to stretch myself beyond the comfort of my white-bred (and white-bread) rural upbringing to grasp what is good about living in the reality of a grittier, less insulated life. People breathe, and people breed, and people live, and people die. I don't want to miss that, but I do seriously doubt my own faithfulness to do this. Can I go from one of the most affluent, predominantly Christian suburbs of Chicago to the reality of an impoverished small city in the American South?

My brother points out that I could minister to "those people" without living with them. My father points out that the resell value of our home will likely not be good. My mother worries about the schools our children will attend. I am not naive, these are worries that I have, as well. But, I can't get past that all of these are selfish concerns. All about if me and mine are getting the best, if we can insulate ourselves from the reality that many have no choice to live in and with everyday. Realities of poverty, discrimination, disadvantage, disappointment, and suffering.

I don't have hopes of swooping in and saving anyone, that is not why the desire to live in this way came about when I was 19, and has not waned one iota. It's because as much as I feel I have something to offer, I also have something to gain. But what I have to gain is more intangible, less measurable, and more elusive. Thus, I listen to the doubters who doubt for good reason. They love me and they want to forestall their own losses by keeping Hubs and I safe.

Gratitude. Can I be grateful for what God is calling me to? That, I'm not sure. Not yet, anyway.

Sunshine, rainbows, and ponies.

While you were all handing out or collecting candy, I was busy writing discussion questions for a book on signature sins. It's a really well written book that looks at our temperament, our struggles with sin that are unique to who we are, our past experiences, and how contemplative spirituality can help us to address the sins that cling so closely. I'll let you know when it comes out. (Oh...wait...let me clear something up. It's NOT my book, but the book of the professor for whom I've worked for the past four years.) But, doing so does not make me a cheerful gal. Everyone else eats candy, I contemplate sin. I guess that fits more with Reformation Day than with it being Halloween. Calvin was a sucker for gluttony, and so am I, so skipping the candy might be a good thing.

In the therapy office today, it seemed to go exceptionally well. Clients that never talk, talked. Clients that are never quiet, were quiet. And clients that considered leaving therapycame in and told me about their misgivings. That's all any therapist can ask for in a given day. It felt like sunshine, rainbows, and ponies. I never would have thought that a profession that leads me to sit with people in their various pains, false selves, and suffering could be so life giving. The honor of sitting with another in love and truth can be as uplifting as it can be full of despair. I wouldn't call the struggles of my clients uplifting, but to see that an hour a week gives some of them hope to keep fighting, changing, and growing, is a relief. It emboldens me to the goodness that we can taste in this life.

It's a busy day, and I am still working on things. I must go. Just know that there is hope, even for those of us who think we are lost causes.

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

*Sigh*

In response to the VT shootings, I would hope that we would all be contemplating how to grieve and make meaning together. I would hope that we would be evaluating what it must be like to live in one of the many places in the world where the deaths of hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of people a day is a part of life. I would hope that we would examine how our disconnected society may have contributed to a young man who was possibly mentally ill feeling so rejected and bitter that he believed he had to exact revenge in such a traumatic way. I would hope we, as the Church, would be comforters to the suffering, proclaimers of the only hope that we have in the face of such a tragedy, the hope that there is something eternal for which we long in the aftermath of something so senseless. I would hope that we would learn lessons from the past, lessons of forgiveness in the midst of unimaginable grief and loss.

But, I am dissapointed that we seem to be discussing instead, how to react in fear and arm ourselves against an insidious and invisible enemy that cannot be controlled. To embrace fear and control instead of hope, love, and faith is a travesty that lets evil triumph.


TN moves to allow guns in public buildings

By News Sentinel staff
April 18, 2007

NASHVILLE — In a surprise move, a House panel voted today to repeal a state law that forbids the carrying of handguns on property and buildings owned by state, county and city governments — including parks and playgrounds.

"I think the recent Virginia disaster — or catastrophe or nightmare or whatever you want to call it — has woken up a lot of people to the need for having guns available to law-abiding citizens," said Rep. Frank Niceley, R-Strawberry Plains. "I hope that is what this vote reflects."

Read the full story in Thursday’s News Sentinel.

Dunked....

Last weekend, our church did an impromptu baptismal service. Without all the usual baptism classes and standard education, they offered to baptize whomever felt led to do so that night, New Testament style. Communion was being served and whoever felt led was to go to the back of the auditorioum.

As I sat there in the service, I felt an anxiety that I know could only be the Holy Spirit. God was telling me to be baptized. Immediately, I started to resist. I told myself all sorts of things... "But I'll look so foolish, I've been a Christian for over a decade." "Theologically, this just is not what is right." With every excuse came that feeling of being sick. I actually told myself, "Just hang on through the next fifteen minutes, this will all be over, and you can pursue baptism some other time."

But, I got up some courage and whispered to my husband, "I think I'm supposed to be baptized."

Thank God for him, because he responded, "Then go. Do you want me to come and support you?"

I said, "Of course!"

So, the theologically savvy among you are wondering how this Baptist girl was getting baptized when she's been a Christ follower some 13 odd years. Well....

I grew up in a church that was generally pretty supportive, though not without flaws. I never felt pressure to make a committment to Christ, and that wasn't quite on my radar yet at the age of 11. I loved Jesus, but the idea of becoming a Christian wasn't one that I fully comprehended, or even partially comprehended.

Enter old school interim pastor (OSIP).OSIP decided he needed to have a Sunday to teach Sunday School for the children, and that all the classes should be taught together. Being a small church, I was the youngest among that late childhood and adolescent crowd. He gave a very evangelistic message in Sunday School and then asked whoever wasn't a Christian to raise their hand. That was....um, me. OSIP came over, put his arm around me, got in my face and asked, "Do you love Jesus? Will you do that today?" Being 11, with an old man asking me to do something, I wasn't going to say, "No."

I said yes. And I made my parents take me home halfway through the church service, crying. I didn't understand what I was doing, but whatever it was, it felt confusing and so wrong. My parents convinced me to go out for lunch, even though I didn't want to because I knew that OSIP would probably be there. My parents assured me OSIP wouldn't bother me.

But he did. I got ambushed in the salad bar line. Confronted by a 70+ year old man about why didn't I come forward. There he went with the hugging and being in my face again. There I went with the crying and feeling violated again. After several other poorly executed attempts by OSIP, my father told him if he ever bothered me again...well, I don't know what he said, but it worked. OSIP left me alone and we got a new pastor.

Six months later, our new pastor told a rousing sermon, and our church experienced a huge revival. This was miraculous for the unemotional straight laced church that raised me. Nearly the whole church went forward to be recommitted, to join the church, or make professions of faith. I saw my opportunity, I could go forward, get baptized and everyone would leave me alone for good. So I did. And it meant nothing to me.

Two years later, at the age of 13, I truly did become a Christian. I didn't tell anyone. Why? Because they all thought I already was one. Talk about embarrassing. So, for 13 years I've wondered about whether to get baptized again or not. I've been counseled by people of all different Christian belief systems about whether to get baptized or not, and been told a a myriad of answers. But, for the past 3 years, I know that it's been something God has wanted me to do, regardless of what I thought I knew about theology.

Every time that I started to get baptized, or mention it, or seek someone out, I would feel too ashamed, too judged, too prideful. But I did it, finally! Making the experience all the more meaningful, my husband was the one who was able to baptize me. When I imagined my true baptism, I never imagined it'd be a loaned pair of men's swim trunks from the church and a tshirt that everyone who is baptized at our church receives. But, I can't imagine a better time or place in my life for making my baptism more meaningful or symbolic of my new life in Christ, for only in these last 4 years have I felt truly remade, refined, and grown by God.

So..now I'm telling everybody.

Vocare: To Call

Yesterday, I had the blessing of working together with one of my closest friends at Panera Bread. It is blessing enough in itself to have a friend with whom you can be fully yourself, and she can do the same. Everyone needs one or two of the type of friends who will sit with you in a coffee shop, lap top in tow, and work alongside you just because they like your company.

I felt especially blessed because we discussed our callings. I disclosed to my friend that in the past year, God has had several people whom I trust deeply each affirm a specific calling in my life, independently without knowledge of the others. It's one of those things as Christians you would think that we would shout from the rooftops. But I haven't, the number of people I've told include my husband, my mother, and one other friend.

"Why?" you may ask. Well, as my mom jokingly said, you can understand how it makes me feel a little like Pat Robertson claiming that the world is going to end on Wednesday. So, I whisper what I have been told only to those who I know will not doubt it. I hedge it with "Well, we'll see if that happens..." and "Oh, I don't know.." I worry that my whispering offends God. It's actually unusual for me to be secretive about anything. I've always marvelled at mysterious people who live their life internally, such as my brother or my husband. Those mysterious, internal people attract me like a bug to a light on a summer night.

And when I undertook this sort of confession, my friend confessed to me her own calling, its development, and the sources of her own doubt. To me, the calling she speaks of seems so clearly fitted to her. It's so much easier to see in others their gifts and God's work in their lives than it is to do so about ourselves, in our own foggy minds and sense of self.

I always have had difficulty hearing the small still voice of God. I most often learn about God through other people. That's why I so strongly believe in the value of the priesthood of believers as a community. Aside from the fact that it's scriptural and historical, I know it and I've experienced it.

It saddens me that my friend and I, two passionate, strong, loving women of faith, whisper our callings in small conversations with each other. While such interactions are important and powerful, why do we hesitate to announce this powerful work of God in our lives? In our cases, I think some of it has to do with gender. In our conservative evangelical tradition, we have each experienced the invalidation of our gifts and callings purely because of our gender at times, in ways that wound and hurt. But, I think we're struggling with more than that.

There come all the doubts, the fears, the Moses-like feelings of, "Who? me? God, I think I'm going to horribly disappoint you." There's also the sacrifices that I must make, having had parents who were involved prominently in our community, I know the struggles that come with parents that are watched. Some of my hesitation stems from the fact that it's hard to reclaim a dream that you have let go. When a dream is deferred, you mourn its loss, feel the grief, and have to let it go. Similar to how the followers of Jesus had to reconfigure and evaluate their entire existence when he rose from the dead, when a dream rises from the dead you have to tear down all the new ones that you've built in order to embrace the old one. The overwhelming joy is mixed with a sense confusion and disbelief. It's a gift for your birthday, 5 months and 14 days after the date...it makes no sense, but you're unbelievably grateful.


A Dream Deferred
~Langston Hughes~

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Who am I?

Today, I was talking with some Master's program students, and we were discussing what are good reasons and what are not good reasons to apply to a doctoral program, and specifically the doctoral program at our school. They were asking me about what I was juggling, my school and practicum responsiblities, mission work, TA hours, etc.

One of the ladies turned and looked at me, and she said, "But you seem so calm, and you're sitting here taking time to talk with us, when you have so much you could be doing." Wow! I almost had to stop and ask if she was talking to me, because based on the person I have been for the first 26 years of my life, those are not reflections that I would expect. But that is me now, and I am this recently calm, almost serene person. It's amazing the work that Christ has done in my life, making me this new person whom I have to get to know all over again.

Life is crazy insane, swirling all around me, but in most moments I have a peace that I have never had before. It's amazing the faithfulness of God. Look at me! Using God talk type of language that I usually avoid. I almost hesitate to talk of these feelings and this experience because religious language and concepts have been abused by many in my past to produce trite answers and fake joy. But, I don't want to deny that this change is not my own, that's for sure.

So, what the heck. Peace be with you.