Monday, November 24, 2014

Strangers like me

 

So you may be thinking, "Why did Emily post what is essentially a love song between a jungle boy and a rich girl?"

Let me start here. One of my spiritual practices during CPE has been to listen to broadway music during my drive to and from Livonia. Granted, this has left me singing songs from multiple musicals in my sleep, but it has been a good practice because it gets my mind off of the difficult stuff so I can leave it at the hospital.

So one day this song came on and I thought, "Hm. Strangers like me... That sounds familiar..."

My work at the hospital is full of strangers. This is one of my dislikes about hospital chaplaincy. Unlike church work, where week after week, month after month, year after year, you deal with the same group of people (give or take a few), the hospital is populated by strangers. And as someone who thrives in ongoing community, especially the work of bringing people together to think through church life and theological quandaries, essentially the work of becoming together... well, the hospital just isn't that place. Sure, a chaplain may see people for a week or even a month if the patient is in rehab, but even at that it remains very individual work.


Here is the chunk of lyrics that I am focused on from this song: 

"Oh, these emotions I never knew
Of some other world far beyond this place
Beyond the trees, above the clouds
Oh, I see before me a new horizon
I wanna know, can you show me
I wanna know about these strangers like me
Tell me more, please show me
Something's familiar 'bout these strangers like me."

"Oh these emotions..."
All throughout the CPE program we are digging deeper to get at our emotions. It's not unusual to feel like I'm sitting in therapy during my Wednesday class time with my peers because our supervisor will frequently ask us "How did you feel when ____  happened?" (And no, the answer cannot be "fine"... well it can but you have to have a really good rationale.) So it's emotionally draining work, not only the hospital visits but the class time, too. The benefit of CPE is that it brings up all kinds of stuff from my past, my family system, my expectations, my relationships that help me to see "a new horizon" where I can differentiate between my emotional baggage and another's so that I can do better ministry. That is not to say that after CPE everything will be figured out and I will be able to draw hard and fast emotional distinctions in every interaction because emotions are messier than that. However, it has prepared me for an emotional "world far beyond" the one I have been living.


"Something's familiar about these strangers like me..."
One of the exercises we do in CPE is called "Cultural Narratives." We write a two page family history including major cultural shifts, interactions with diverse communities, and personal place in our family system. After someone reads their narrative aloud, the process that follows includes naming connections, disconnections, and curiosities. Essentially we name the places where we have had a familiar experience, where we know nothing about that experiences, and where we have questions (respectively). This translates into patient work because we then pick either a connection, disconnection, or curiosity and frame it in a way that we would speak to a patient.

Here's a made-up example...
  • The cultural narrative says, "I come from a long line of family members in the armed forces. I am not continuing that as I am seeking ordination."
  • I say, as a point of disconnection, "I don't know what it's like to have a history of military involvement in my family."
  • My reframing for patient care: "How does that family history impact how you see the world?"

So the other night when I visited with a patient and he started talking about his involvement in multiple symphonies and pit orchestras playing woodwind instruments (primarily clarinet), I felt an immediate connection. It was great! I never mentioned to him that I also played clarinet for nine years and that I love broadway shows, but his stories gave me a gateway to become more curious than I usually am because I had the language and familiarity. I may not be a straight white married man in my 70's, but I do know something about music. "Strangers like me..." 

Of course it's easier to connect when we can relate. I struggle when I don't have that place of connection. It requires staying in the conversation long enough to really hear what the other person is saying. Perhaps that's an emotion that I understand ("That's frustrating.") or an experience I've never had ("What was that like?")... but it requires paying close attention to the other person. 

This is what people in caring professions usually call "empathy"-- being able to feel the feeling the other person is experiencing because as a human, you also know that feeling. Hence, my example about frustration above. It's not always that easy... sometimes I run into people who have had a really challenging life and are now fraught with medical issues and they have no family left. I don't know loneliness like that, or overwhelm like that... so I simply sit in it with them, perhaps in silence, perhaps in prayer. My approach may change person to person, but no matter what, it still requires a sense of genuine care for the other. (Note to self: Write a blog post about my understanding of empathy.)


"I wanna know about these strangers like me." Jesus dealt with strangers all the time. Rachel Held Evans, a great blogger on Christianity, ministry, and more, recently wrote this blog post in which she stated, "If Jesus started with the outliers, why shouldn't we?" Strangers can be people that are unfamiliar to us, in which case we can be curious about them-- ask questions and get to know them. Strangers can also be people we consider outliers or outsiders, in which case, we should treat them as Jesus would, with care, compassion, and empathy. ((Disclaimer: we still need to use our common sense when we feel as though we are in danger. Trust G-d but tie up your camel.)) 

So here's me holding myself accountable through my writing. When I go to work today, I will do my best to be curious about people. To show compassion. To be empathetic. To ask questions. To make a point of un-stranger-ing the patients. 

And I encourage you to do the same. The more genuine care and compassion we share, the more human we become, the more love is spread, the better the world becomes. 

Will you join me?

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

All Saints: Culture. Inheritance. Chair.

Grandma,
I'm sitting in your chair.

The chair you made a coverslip for
when the velvety sky blue was worm
and out of date.
Now covered in a pattern that
screams your name,
Ethel Violet Oie.

The chair in which you sat
and drank your barley green...
that smelly drink that kept you
healthy for so long,
that kept you ahead of the
organic, natural, whole-food curve.

The chair in which you watched
the fish swim back and forth,
back and forth, up and down,
with all of their movement, dynamism,
and flow.

The chair in which your
body deteriorated
from the cancer that took over
your body.

I look at this chair every day and think of you...
think of your smiling face,
your big hands and crooked fingers
worn from a long, grief-filled,
and joyous, G-d infused life.

I think of the times we
played hide-and-seek,
watched Mary Poppins
or Peter Pan
over
and over
and over again.

I think of the times we
shucked corn and peas
on the back patio
on Crown Dr.
When Gracie was two
(and she thought she was nine).

I think of the times we
went to St. Marks
for Good Friday
and how when that stone rolled,
and the tomb shut,
and the lights dimmed...
how that memory shapes my
understanding
of one of the most solemn nights
of the year.
That night that
emotionally paralleled
what it felt like when you left this earth.

Your tomb shut and
the lights of life dimmed.

You were particular and fastidious,
traits that I only kind of inherited,
but that mom and Gracie
totally admit to.

You were kind and gentle,
qualities that I continue striving to
embody because they made you, you.

You were a woman of G-d,
whose beliefs probably
would have opposed mine
in a lot of ways and yet
we would always have agreed upon
G-d's infinite love
for G-d's people.

Grandma,
I'm sitting in your chair
writing my cultural narrative
for my CPE internship.
Thinking about the ways you
shape(d) my life.

Thanks be to G-d,
every day you
resurrect
for me in this chair.

I see you.
I feel you.
I hear you.
I miss you.

You would want it to become my chair.
But it will never be my chair.
It will always be your chair.

Because you are in it.
Every stitch. Every fiber.

And you resurrect for me.
Every. single. day.

What more could I have asked for?
You are a saint.
And this is legacy.

Love,
Emily



Thursday, October 9, 2014

The Divine in the Canine

This guy reminds me, more than anything else, that life is not about me:

When I come home from a long day of class, I need to walk him. But the thing is, it's not that I need to walk him, rather, he needs a walk. He reminds me daily of the reverence I must hold for all of life-- G-d's creatures and creations. Milo reminds me that I need to tend to critters, humans, and living things all the same because life is meant to be cared for-- not dominated or destroyed. My dinner can wait, my sitting on the couch can wait, because Milo needs to stretch his little legs, frolic in the grass, and poop outisde. He has his own needs and since he is dependent upon us humans to take care of him, thats precisely what we have to do. Feed, walk, pet, burrow him in blankets, pet, feed, walk, pet, tuck him in.

My work in the hospital is rooted in this understanding too. Visits with patients in the hospital are not about me. They're not about what I want, where I want the conversation to go, my curiosities... Those visits are about helping the patient uncover the emotions they have pushed deep down because they're facing a life-threatening illness; or inviting the family into a conversation about how to care for the patient because they are actively dying; or brightening the patient's mood because they love to laugh and there's not much to laugh about in a hospital; or providing a sense of normalcy in a place where the patient feels everything but normal; or helping the patient suss out their regrets because they know there's not much time left.

We reflectively listen to people's stories helping to draw out of them that which they hadn't yet articulated. We help them clarify values, feelings, emotions, and beliefs. We hold the patient's hand when they're in pain, hug the mourners, and pray over the deceased. It's about meeting people where they are at and accompanying them through that moment in time.

Hospital chaplaincy is most certainly not my call. But working in this setting has helped me to better understand the ways in which I try to put myself first. Hear me though-- Self Care is really important. My last post even said so. I'm not saying we must become a martyr to others-- especially those that drain you of your resources. But if we truly believe in doing ministry that follows Jesus' teachings and actions, then we cannot look away from the marginalized, the helpless, or the stigmatized.

One of the biggest, most privileged, mistakes I have made, is assuming someone's needs. I continue to learn this lesson every time I walk into a patient's room. I try not to make any snap judgments about how I can help the patient or the family. Each person has their own set of needs that we cannot know until we ask and engage them in conversation. Listening to the heart of what someone is saying helps me to better grasp their needs. Sometimes the patient doesn't know what they need emotionally or spiritually until I draw it out of them, but I can only draw it out if I pay attention to the nuanced words or intonation in their voice. If I assume what they need, the patient will never feel heard. 

I just paused writing this post because Milo needed to go out. So we went for a walk, he did his business. When we came back and I sat back down at the computer, Milo started whining from the other room. What could he possibly need? I just took care of all his needs. 

Lo and behold, this is what he wanted. 
And now he's snoring peacefully.









                                 It's not about me. 

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Self-Care, Success, and Apples

**Note: I write more when I notice multiple ideas synchronizing at the same time... this is one of those posts. That also means this may be a bit scattered... **

I'm big on self-care. I used to be horrible at it, or at least it was misdirected. I would over-exercise, deny myself yummy food, and get up early/stay up late. I thought it was healthy because that's what everyone tells you-- "everyone" meaning american culture, hollywood, magazines, and TV... when I think about it that way, it's pretty clear that all of those have become the same thing. I digress...

When I went into my Ordination Interview last week, one of the questions they asked me was about where I saw myself in ministry in 5 years.  As someone seeking a first call, logistically a 5 year window lands you right on the cusp of transitioning from the first call to the second. So really, I could have said any number of positions-- senior pastor, specialized associate pastor, solo pastor, campus minister, social service chaplain...

I briefly responded to his question by saying I will likely head for the parish, but I'm open to however the Spirit moves me. And then, I followed it up by saying:
"AND... I want to be in a healthy place." 
The man who asked the question, who is also a pastor, laughed (I don't know why, perhaps he assumed I meant a church that was healthy). Despite his laughter, I continued speaking because being healthy is so important to me as a person, a partner, and a pastor. I went on to say that we have lost a serious understanding of self-care in ministry and that if we don't cultivate pastors and parishioners who put in the time to take care to themselves, then we are going to lose church all together.

I am one of the biggest self-care advocates that I know and it's largely because of the shift that happened for me in seminary-- going from an exerciseaholic to someone who takes time to rest. I know what it's like to think I'm resting, when really I'm stressing myself out, depriving myself of sleep, and working too hard. True self-care is something I learned during field ed in seminary, not through the seminary itself. There was very little evidence, institutionally, that self-care was of any import. Yet, my mentor had developed incredible boundaries for herself that she wanted to pass on knowing that as a young pastor I would soon be swept up into a congregation who wanted to work me hard. Being a young female, and the product of a generation that is always connected to something (thank you, technology), I often feel like I need to prove myself. I buy into the myth that working harder, longer, busier hours will get me everything I need to succeed in life.

But what is success anyway?

And especially success at the expense of one's health?

I am grateful to Rob Leveridge, a brilliant UCC pastor and singer/songwriter, who wrote a blogpost today about apple trees.  Rob asks the question: What is the purpose of the apple tree? We think it is to produce apples, when really it is to produce more apple trees. Rob writes, "People think apples are the plant's reason for being, because WE love to eat apples, and we cultivate and groom the trees to get their fruit. But from the tree's point of view, the apple is just a part of a process that serves a bigger goal. It's a delivery system for the seeds." So if success is not our fruits, then what is it?

Success is embodied in the seeds we plant. This means that the way we live our life, the legacies we leave for those who follow us must be seeds worth reaping. What does the way you live your life say to your children? Your parishioners?

So, I understand self-care as the manifold practices of ritual and activity and/or lack thereof that help us to maintain a healthy emotional, spiritual, physical, and mental well-being. This can be anything from a nap to a walk in the forest to watching a movie to using all of your vacation days to blogging to playing with your kids or your dog or your partner just because. Perhaps it's spontaneous, perhaps its a ritual... but hopefully it is sacred and life-giving.

When we live in ways that honor our bodies, honor G-d, and honor each other, we plant seeds for future generations that say:
       
      There is more to life than busyness.
                  Do not be conformed to this world but be transformed.
                           Take care of yourself.
                                                                 
                                                           Pause.         Breathe.
                       
                                 
              Do what is life-giving. 
                                                                          Is your life giving?


At Koinonia on Sunday, we experienced the last installment of a sermon series called Generation to Generation. Each week, to my understanding, the pastors invited folks from the highlighted generation of that week to respond to a few questions that helped the congregation understand more about their generation. Questions like: What was the most significant political event of your time? What does the grace of G-d look like for you? What was passed onto you that you remember most? This last week we heard from the Builder Generation (those who were greatly influenced by the Great Depression and WWII). Over the course of the conversation, we heard from these folks how the lives of their parents or grandparents gave them support, strength, music, opportunities, hope. And we heard about how their lives are giving to their children now....perspective, stories, love.

Generation to generation, our lives give... so do what is life-giving.


Last thing...  It was important for me to tell the committee that I hope to be in a healthy place because now they can hold me accountable to this commitment. I feel more dedicated to taking care of myself and finding ways of taking my Sabbath because I know there are others who will look to me as an example. I am a woman of my word... especially when my word is life-giving.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Damsel(fly) in Distress

[[I would encourage you, if your device allows, to play this song while you read this post.]]

I was having a frustrating morning, so when I happened upon Lillie Park I thought I would stop to just take in some beauty for a hot second. As it turns out, there are all kinds of paths, ponds, and picnic tables that sit in this bowl-shaped park. I was super grateful to find this place because when you're walking around, you hardly feel like you're in the middle of Pittsfield/Ypsilanti. Anyway, I walked around a little bit, trying to take in the sights and sounds.

relevant tangent: I was challenged by my mentor, during my second semester of Field Ed., to take an hour a day to do nothing. That nothing could be watching the sunset, taking an aimless walk, taking a nap, laying on the quad... anything that was nothing. This was a struggle for me, as you can imagine, being the active person I am-- both in mind and body. I tried to convince Curran it was impossible being a seminarian and working 15 hrs a week to do such a thing, but I tried anyway.... for about two weeks... and then midterms and Lent hit, and it was nearly impossible. (Though, the amount of time I spend on facebook and checking my email everyday has to add up to an hour at least...) Nonetheless, I learned an important lesson: Take time to be quiet, to be amazed, and to just breathe.

So I'm walking around Lillie Park and felt drawn to a dock that extended over the pond. The water was far more clear than I had anticipated. So I leaned over the edge of the dock and observed a small school of fish-- little bluegills or something similar. I took a moment to pray about my frustrating morning and just wondered about the fish. [Do they have worries? Are there bigger fish in the pond that could eat them? Do they know it, if that's true?]  Then I moved to the other side of the dock and I immediately saw a beautiful purple damselfly floating in the water.


I wondered about its fate: do damselflies usually lie in the water? I have to imagine her wings are saturated...  I assumed the damselfly was lifeless and immediately began singing this in my head. I mourned its passing for a moment... and then I saw its legs move. I was overcome with this need to save this creature. Out of reverence for all of created life? Out of a human survival instinct? Until Sasha came along I killed spiders, flies, bees... you name it, I sought to squash it.


But there was some ineffable nudge that just wouldn't subside.

So I looked around for... something. I thought maybe I could find a stick or a twig of some kind. I ended up breaking a small twig off of a dead bush just next to the water. As the wind pushed the water, the damselfly drifted closer to the dock. I knelt down, reached my arm out, holding the twig to rescue her. I didn't know if this would be more helpful or harmful.

She grabbed onto the twig and I pulled her onto the dock and set it down. I hoped she would just fly off, but to no avail, so I waited patiently. One wing was snagged on the twig so I took one of the keys on my key ring and gently brushed the wing off. She hopped off the twig and onto the dock. I wondered if she was drying off, just sitting there... or perhaps she was stuck again to something... or perhaps she was dying. I wasn't certain. Being the human that I am, I thought maybe I should help more. So I thought maybe it would be of use to separate her from the dock to give her some lift into the air. She was unmoved. Just then, a gust of wind came and moved the twig in her direction, separating her from the dock and off she flew. Just like that she was gone... thanks to the wind, and probably G-d. I hoped that her wings weren't too waterlogged so that she could continue flying, liberated just as I hope she was before.

What a moment of recognizing that we can only do so much.
What a moment of resurrection.

Thanks to Mary Oliver, here's another way of putting what I learned last year and was reminded of again today:
"Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."
May it be so.


Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Holy Synchronicity

Though today was only day one, I hope to continue blogging throughout my CPE journey. It's going to be a long haul and I'm going to have plenty to process (hopefully coherently) outside of class. This may be just one manifestation of that. Welcome to the wild ride. 

Today, after I got home from class-- which was a full 8 hours of learning how to use the computer system-- I found two emails: one was a poem from a daily poem subscription and the other was my enneathought.* 

The poem is called "The Moment" and it's from Margaret Atwood:
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,  
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe. 
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
And my enneathought said this:

No matter what type we are, Holy Law is the dynamic, living unity of everything as an unfolding process. There can be no independent doing or accomplishment because everything is happening together

Holy synchronicity, right? And I mean Holy with a capital H. Holy. 

How perfect that these two texts would collide on the same day that I start CPE. While this experience is about me learning and growing and learning new ways to be in ministry with others, chaplaincy is not about me at all. It is about entering the cosmic flow of dialogue with a patient; it's about letting go of my own ego and desires; it's about encountering the unfolding of life before me; it's about paying attention to the gifts of life and death; it's about the living unity and dynamism of everything; it's about being 'a visitor time after time' and not pretending like I know everything; it's about being curious; it's about finding and being found. Without G-d** this experience is nothing. Which means I am never doing this work independently-- though I may like to think so. G-d is present with me in every moment, every prayer, every mistake, every hurdle, every learning. Every Everything. 

G-d, in search for communion, created the world in G-d's own image-- that multifarious and complex image. In this diversity and unity (but not uniformity), we are called to care for each other and seek justice through fostering right relationships with one another. The mission statement of the health system for whom I am working says this:
We serve together in the spirit of the Gospel to be a compassionate and transforming healing presence within our communities. 

Yes. I yearn to be a part of that. I yearn to serve together, understanding that nothing is done without the unfolding of the rest of life; I yearn to serve in the spirit of the Gospel understanding that I own nothing and seek to be just one speck in someone's healing process; I yearn to be a compassionate and transforming healing presence because I know it is that to which I am so deeply called; and I yearn to do all of this within [these] communities because it is a place that values the dignity and respect of the vulnerable. 

When I write it all down, I get really excited... 

                                                                and yet there are those pesky dragons....





*Enneathought is a daily email from the Enneagram Institute, which I love. To learn more about it or what your enneagram number might be, follow this link. Also I love talking about the enneagram so feel free to engage me around that as well.

**I use ‘G-d’ as a way to reference the mystery and vastness of the Divine. Dashes indicate that the reader should take note of the substance between the dashes. In this case, it is my hope that to use a dash instead of an ‘o’ we are reminded to stand in awe of the ineffable, limitlessness of the Holy—an unfinished word for a Still-Speaking G-d. It also hearkens back to G-d’s chosen name in the Hebrew Scriptures: יהוה, Yahweh, which is actually an non-word in Hebrew. 

 

Here be dragons...

Well, I'm back. Oh, blogging-- how I've missed you.

As you've probably noticed, or maybe you haven't, this blog received a facelift. I changed the background as I start a new phase. Just today I began the last piece of formal education in my ordination process with the UCC: Clinical Pastoral Education. CPE, as it is commonly known, is required for most people entering professional Christian ministry. It is most commonly experienced as hospital chaplaincy. Here is how the Association for CPE explains their program:

Clinical Pastoral Education is interfaith professional education for ministry. It brings theological students and ministers of all faiths (pastors, priests, rabbis, imams and others) into supervised encounter with persons in crisis. Out of an intense involvement with persons in need, and the feedback from peers and teachers, students develop new awareness of themselves as persons and of the needs of those to whom they minister. From theological reflection on specific human situations, they gain a new understanding of ministry. Within the interdisciplinary team process of helping persons, they develop skills in interpersonal and interprofessional relationships. 

It is a very challenging and enlightening experience, from what I've heard. Today I met my cohort, supervisor(s) and was trained in the hospital computer system. Fortunately, I've had to enter stats on a daily basis before, so I know the routine. (Thank you, MFP.) All the other change that will come soon floats all around my mind. I'm reminded of something Elizabeth Johnson, C.S.J., wrote about medieval map makers. "When [they] came to the limit of their knowledge of the known world, they ofttimes wrote in the empty space, 'Here be dragons.' There is something frightening about moving into the unknown, which might harm or devour us" (Quest for the Living God, p. 5). When we don't know what lies ahead, it is easy to make stuff up or concoct anxieties that might not ever exist in our impending experience. At least I know this to be true for me. And for anyone who has heard me talk about my nerves about CPE, you know this to be true about me as well. We are human-- we tend to be afraid of what we don't know. As I have already learned with CPE, it's important to be able to name what you're feeling. And as my favorite 6 year old tells me, "Feel your fear and act anyway" (Chloe Robberts-Mosser). And so I take a take a breath (or two), I say a prayer (or two), and I jump into the dragon- filled unknown.


As for the name change... it used to be "own the mystery." But with my next post, you'll see why I changed it away from the language of ownership. I have changed it to "hold it up to the light" after one of my favorite songs by David Wilcox. You can listen to it here. It is one of those songs that have helped me in my discernment of... everything. It seems appropriate as I head into the sea of dragons. 


"I said ,'God, will you bless this decision, because I'm so scared here with my life at stake. And now I see if you gave me a vision, then I would never have reason to use my faith.'"