SELF-INJURY

Sometimes it takes a while to figure out how to live in a painful situation.  Katrina Kenison had a groin injury. She was a daily runner and when this happened to her, she could not run. It not only effected her physical health, but her emotional and psychological health. She taught yoga but the injury kept her from sitting positions that helped her center and know the peace she desired. She hurt whenever she did little things like dressing herself or getting in and out of her car.

Then one day when she went out to try to walk, she stopped.  She tightened up in anger when the pain came, but then she stopped herself and said, "soften, soften, soften." And then taking very small steps very slowly, she began to relax.  Her muscles eased some.  She said,  For weeks, I realized, I’d been angry.  Perhaps moving forward really meant moving beyond that impotent, helpless anger and surrendering instead to everything I couldn’t fix or control.  I’d been annoyed at my body for letting me down; why not be grateful to it for still holding me up? I’d been disappointed by my failure to cope with grace; why not acknowledge that I’d done the best I could? I’d been secretly disgusted at myself for not being invincible; why not yield at last to my own tender humanness?

I can identify with this experience. When I am ill or injured, I am not much fun to be around.  I get angry at my limitations. I get angry at myself for not being able to resist the illness. After reading this blog, I realize that my anger probably doesn't do much to expedite healing.  In fact, it may lock pain in place and not allow the healing flow of grace to move through by body.

Katrina has learned through this experience that she does better when she allows her anger to dissolve in a pool of gratitude. She has been made aware that she will not always be able to do what she wants but is grateful that her body holds her up now. 

Gratitude isn't necessarily a feeling.  Sometimes it is a decision. Sometimes it is looking not at the injury or the limitation, but at all the things that we can still do and being thankful.

To read Katrina's blog, copy this link and put in your browser:  http://www.katrinakenison.com/2014/02/27/coping-injury/

A RED CHECKERED BLANKET

It is a haunting image. The moment, captured by Kristina Guerra (Indianapolis Star, Monday, February 24, 2014) reveals a little 7 year old girl kneeling on the ground, wrapped in a red checkered blanket, being consoled by her mother.

The little girl's friend had died last night in a house fire that claimed all 6 members of her family. Surrounded by stuffed toys at the make-shift memorial, little Jade wept on the ground, embraced by a red checkered blanket and the loving arms of her Mommy.

When life seems to fall apart, when the people who seem to make your life normal are not there, it matters that you touch the ground. This image embodies some of those things that help ground us when we feel scattered and in chaos.

There is the winter ground--the base on which our life is built. We are sustained by the earth. Some people love to garden--to kneel down and get their hands in the dirt. Some like to hike--putting their boots on the hard soil of stability. Some like to lie back on the hillside and create characters out of the clouds in the sky. Some kneel on the ground in prayer. 

In the image there is a warm wool blanket secured by the warm arms of a mother's hug. When we hurt, we seek out someone who can simply hold us while we work through our pain. Companions on the journey of grief are vitally important. There are certainly times we need to be alone in the company of our own thoughts, but there are other times when the wrapping presence of strong friendships help hold us.

And the stuffed animals anchor the photo.  There on the ground, representing the comfort of the familiar are teddy bears and candles. When things seem to be coming apart, the presence of those things that comfort our soul are important. They may be symbols of love we have received from those who are no longer with us. They may be stories of life that has been lived. They may be symbols of a religious tradition that grounds our chaotic, wandering mind in a larger family of faith.

All these are captured in this powerful image--reminders that we are not alone.  While we may not have answers to why, we can have the presence of others with whom to wait till we have the strength to get up off the ground.  And when you think about it, that is quite a lot.

VSP

I didn't know what VSP was till a few weeks ago. And I have some strong feelings about it. VSP stands for Voluntary Separation Package. It was offered to 12 of my colleagues and friends at Christian Theological Seminary where I spent 15 years working before retirement. Today six of the twelve accepted the package.

Tonight I am grateful for the lives of those who will be leaving CTS. Each one has given of themselves to nurture future leaders for the church. Each has studied, written and taught in their field to help assure that future leadership in the church is educated and grounded in the rich and complex tradition of our faith. They have given their lives to help others explore the depths of faith that has been expressed throughout history.

Tonight I am remembering each one as they made decisions about their future.  Holly Heron has taught New Testament and I am grateful for her sharing with me her insights as we taught classes together. Ron Summervile taught Church History and was the leader of a life changing journey I took to Ghana soon after I came to CTS.  Frank Burch Brown has taught Religion and the Arts and has blessed me with deep conversations about God in the midst of loss and pain. Marti Steussy has taught Old Testament and I have been enriched by our friendship and blessed by working with her in teaching Licensed Ministers. Rufus Burrow has taught Ethics and has challenged me to be my best self.  Wilma Bailey has taught Old Testament and her quiet and steady presence has grounded me in my life at the school.

Each of these persons is experiencing profound loss tonight. I cannot know what it means for them. But, I know its meaning for me will be revealed only as time goes forward. As I wait for the future to open up and reveal their new life and mine in their absence, I can only say, "Thank you, dear friends and colleagues for the gifts you offered me and so many others." 

PORTRAIT OF A SOUL

It was a few years ago now.  I gathered with my siblings in Kansas City to celebrate the life of our mother, Oma. She had died and we gathered from around the continent to give thanks for her life. Siblings, grandkids, friends. We were there sharing our connection with this one woman.

And we talked.  We talked, remembered, laughed and cried. We told stories of our mother. We shared our experiences, each with different stories of gifts and discipline, of confrontation and affection. Each story was a brush stroke on the canvas of our memories--a stroke bold and dark, delicate and light, soft and gentle, edged and tough. With each story more texture and dimension was added to the memory's portrait of my mother's soul.

When we tell the stories of the moments of our lives we create a portrait of our souls. The moments of our lives remembered are placed on a canvas of memory and we try to understand what it means to be us. With each story we shared at our mother's memorial service, we added to the meaning we were making of our mother's life with us.  As we heard friends talk and tell of her acts of kindness and her commitment to the "least of these" we filled in with color the sometimes faint images that childhood memories have.

It is in the human heart to seek meaning. We siblings each shared stories, painting fresh and complicated strokes on each other's canvases. As one spoke, the meaning of mother's life to the rest of us was shaded with more depth and character. When the story-telling and the memorial service was over, we all returned to our own homes with a portrait of our mother's soul more imprinted on our hearts. We each have our own understanding of our mother's meaning for our lives, and by sharing the stories of our lives with her, we enriched each other's portrait.

SACRED SCARED

When I am open to hear and see, insights come from every direction. A friend posted an article on a blog called Momastery.  In this particular blog, "Our Sacred Scared" author Glennon Doyle Melton says that there are two kinds of people who have one thing in common. "The people who are running the world and the people who are sitting life out are exactly the same. They are all messy, complicated, confused people who are unsure of what to do next. They all have messy relationships and insecurities and anger and blind spots. They are ALL AFRAID."

I find this statement (and the whole blog) to be right on target. When we all get down to the core of who we are, we find that we are complicated and filled with conflicting desires and motivations. Our relationships are often confusing, frustrating and satisfying (sometimes all at the same time). We are afraid of losing ourselves in the midst of sharing in community but we are afraid of not belonging to communities and being left out. (I remember very keenly the longing to be included as a teenager in the "cool" people while at the same time desiring to express my unique individuality). We are all scared.

And as Glennon continues in her blog, there are two kinds of scared people: Those who show up and live in the world and those who are waiting till they get it all together before they show up. She quotes the artist Georgia O'Keeffe who said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every second of my life- and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”  Glennon suggests that when we show up in relationship to each other with the messiness being revealed, we offer encouragement to others to go ahead and live even if they are afraid.  Sharing our fear is a sacred scared.  It creates courage for life.

I don't know about you, but I think life is too short not to show up. And knowing that fear is going to be there, I want to not let it keep me from doing what I choose to do.