Movement. G-d. Rhythm.

So I have to bear witness/testimony to this not only for the sake of sharing it with you, or because it's a spiritual practice to share how G-d is transforming me, but because I want to remember this.

As many of you know, I have recently started as the Sabbatical Guest Pastor at Community United Church of Christ in Champaign, Illinois. Their pastor, my mentor, Rev. Leah Robberts-Mosser, is on Renewal Leave for the next three months. The church went through a hiring process and of the candidates they had, they hired me. And I accepted the opportunity with gratitude. As part of the renewal plan for the church, they built in a sermon series of sorts around the theme of "Spiritual Practices." We will be having three guest preachers, who will also lead a workshop, that will preach on a different spiritual practice each: honoring the body, building community, and engaging the creative spirit. Honoring the body is getting the least amount of airtime-- I don't know that it was a conscious decision-- which is unfortunate because we live in the midwest and honoring one's body, much less paying attention to one's body, is not the norm.

So let me start there.

I have been working really hard lately (many thanks to my former therapist, former field education supervisor, former CPE supervisor, and my spiritual director) to feel my emotions, to pinpoint what it  that I feel and to validate that feeling. That also means paying attention to where I feel emotions in my body. So last night I had a terrible stress dream about work that left me feeling angry when I woke up. There was a point in time when I thought I never got angry. That's no longer true. (It probably wasn't true then either.) When I woke up I wanted to throw something against the wall. It was that bad. This doesn't happen very frequently, so it is becoming easier to recognize when I have strong emotions. I'm going to come back to this feeling in a second.

One of the things I preached about on Sunday was the difference in people's needs when it comes to how they do spiritual practices. Some folks need rigidity-- meditation, every morning, for 30 minutes, at the exact same time. Other folks-- read, me-- need a whole variety of practices. I used to think I needed a rigid schedule, but I could never make it work. [And if the shoe doesn't fit, don't freakin' force it.] I have also been working really hard to figure out how I can do all my favored spiritual practices-- exercising, collaging, meditating, praying, writing, drawing illuminated manuscripts-- and have enough time for life.

jellyfish at the monterrey bay aquarium. movement. 

So, when I was preaching on Sunday, I remembered a sermon my friend/colleague/former parishioner, Rev. Donene Blair, preached in Tiburon about the difference between balance and rhythm. She preached about the way in which creation was six days on, one day off; how Jesus didn't pray on a schedule, but rather when he felt the need to do so. And the second to last paragraph was this: "When we strive for balance it is like standing on one foot. When we find our own rhythm in work, play, rest, prayer and silence, we care for ourselves. We open up space, and let God in." Standing on one foot is not sustainable. Balance is not sustainable. But rhythm. Rhythm opens us up to movement.

Movement is fluidity.
Rhythm is not rigidity.
G-d is movement. fluidity. 

Just let me say a quick word about the paradoxical nature of G-d and how it gets me every time. We know G-d in the stillness, the still small voice, the quiet-ness of prayer, the calm of meditation. I think we try to convince ourselves that G-d can only be found there and then convince ourselves that we can't find G-d because we're only paying attention to stillness. 

Guess what: G-d is both/and. Don't ever for a second believe that G-d cannot be in both of those things and more than those two things. Christian spirituality and theology calls us to be paying attention to all the places we find G-d, naming them, claiming them, and telling others about them. We are being transformed by G-d all.the.time. The question is, are you paying attention?

So this morning, when I woke up angry, I discerned the spiritual practice that would help me best work through the anger, the thing that would help me let go of it before moving on to a full day of work at church. And who's surprised that that practice would be running? 

Movement. 

Fluidity. 

Rhythm of steps and breath. 

I turned on my Pandora Dance Cardio radio station and busted up that treadmill. And even though it's been a year since I last ran four miles, and last week I could hardly run one mile, today I was able to run two and a half with ease.  And sort through my anger enough to get on with my day without letting it consume me. 

Holy Spirit for the win. 

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?

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

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. 

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.