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This note came up as a memory on my Facebook page. Perhaps you need to know you’re enough…I did today.
M: MVNC, Michigan, Misfits, and Maturity
One of the greatest enemies to my relationships is thinking I’m not worthy or I don’t belong. I have spent my life battling with “I-don’t-belong-syndrome.” So, the irony that M should land on this day is not lost on me. Today has had plans in it for a very long time, plans that God made that superseded anything that could have been done by me. Today is the 30th class reunion of my college graduating class. I was excited to go and see people and reminisce at my Alma Mater. Trouble was I didn’t write the dates on my calendar. I read material from the Alumni Association, but the dates never penetrated my brain. In the meantime, a friend from high school came up with a wonderful idea to travel to Michigan to see another one of our high school friends. When the miracle happened that we all had a Saturday off together I rejoiced and marked that date on my calendar. A final piece of material came from MVNC that was meant to remind me of the reunion and it hit me that I had made the mistake of not marking my calendar. Now what a mess that was! Or was it? Today seems to be a day to deal with my own demons of feeling like a misfit and wanting instant maturity.
Feeling like a misfit goes way back into my childhood. I recognized it most at Christmas each time when I watched the Rudolph Christmas special. I would sit and listen to the misfit toys sing their woeful song and then get all excited when in spite of their differentness they were able to find joy and love when they were reunited with the other toys. Even the “Bumble” found usefulness and meaning. As I grew I seemed to always find ways to lock into the group where I never felt like I fit in: I was never quite smart, talented, pretty, rich, or loveable enough. Those were terrible monsters to battle and I know that those feelings are a part of teenage angst and from a developmental psychology perspective I was struggling to find my identity. Throughout the process I felt like David in Saul’s armor: nothing seemed to fit. But unlike David, I didn’t know how to throw it off and find myself.
The other component that made life that so difficult for me was that I wanted instant maturity. I remember standing on the stage at the end of the Miss Teenage Columbus Pageant. I had actually made the top five. I was now going to have to answer a question that would determine my place among the winners. I was given a list of characteristics and told to chose the two I felt were most important and why. I distinctly remember that one of my answers was wisdom and I think the other was happiness. I wanted wisdom because I knew it was knowledge well used. At seventeen I wanted to have all the answers and the ability to function wisely. Now perhaps that seems like a good thing, but in my answer I see my propensity to want to short-circuit the process. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that someone finally helped me realize the importance of process, the need to value the process not just to strive for the end result. So now in my fifties, I feel like a kid just sucking the life out of the process and it feels weird and people look at me even weirder.
As I was thinking about all of this I was prompted to pick up my copy of Warren’s “The Purpose Driven Life.” I was required to read this at work several years ago and while I found pieces of it interesting, I was at such a different place spiritually than my co-workers that it wasn’t a good experience for me. I chaffed against it to be quite honest. So this morning I was flipping through some of the pages and I found a section on the misfits of God—imagine that!
Here’s what Warren writes:
“What matters is not the duration of your life, but the donation of it. Not how long you lived, but how you lived. If you’re not involved in any service or ministry, what excuse have you been using? Abraham was old, Jacob was insecure, Leah was unattractive, Joseph was abused, Moses stuttered, Gideon was poor, Samson was codependent, Rahab was immoral, David had an affair and all kinds of family problems, Elijah was suicidal, Jeremiah was depressed, Jonah was reluctant, Naomi was a widow, John the Baptist was eccentric to say the least, Peter was impulsive and hot-tempered, Martha worried a lot, the Samaritan woman had several failed marriages, Zaccheaus was unpopular, Thomas had doubts, Paul had poor health, and Timothy was timid. That is quite a variety of misfits, but God used each of them in his service. He will use you, too, if you stop making excuses.” (p. 233)
Speaking of maturity, Warren also refers to the process of maturing fruit and vegetables. He writes: “When you try to ripen fruit quickly, it loses it flavor. In America, tomatoes are usually picked unripened so they won’t bruise during shipping to the stores. Then, before they are sold, these green tomatoes are sprayed with CO2 gas to turn them red instantly. Gassed tomatoes are edible, but they are no match to the flavor of a vine-ripened tomato that is allowed to mature slowly.” (p. 217)
So what does this all have to do with going to Michigan instead of MVNC? I’m glad you’re still with me to ask the question. Today I’m spending the day with the woman who was class president and so popular I didn’t realize she even knew my name. She has a life that I used to dream would be mine. And today by the grace of God I call her my friend. And we’re going to visit the woman who won that Miss Teenage Columbus Pageant when I was fourth runner up. She is one of the smartest, most gifted women I know and God has blessed my life with her friendship as well. Today I’m marveling in a process that has taken way more than 30 years to effect. Three of us will enjoy the day together, but there are multitudes who have made it possible for me to do so. I can’t name you by name here, but know that you will be in my heart there. Today there is no misfit. Talk about maturity.
Day 3. 5 at St. Davids Christian Writers Conference
I was walking to breakfast this morning, and I began to notice I was walking differently. I felt alive. The air was invigorating. I felt an unusual spring in my step. I must have grown at least an inch taller. And then I heard my mother’s voice, “Stand up straight. Put your shoulders back. Walk with confidence.” The memory made me chuckle.
Why was it always so important to walk confidently, to walk like I was getting ready to enter into an important meeting?
As I reached for the door to enter into our gathering spaces, with this memory and question fresh in my mind, a new awareness came to mind: Mom was encouraging me to always be ready. I couldn’t know who I would meet. I wouldn’t know what important contact would be waiting ahead. The what or who didn’t matter as much as the how.
Our keynote speaker, Eva Marie Everson, drew her morning message from Exodus 3 and 4, The Calling of Moses. There were so many good points, but the one that struck me was the reference to Moses’ response to God in 3:4, “Here I am.”
Moses wasn’t giving a childlike response to a school teacher’s role call. Moses’ answer was clearly, “I’m ready.”
As much as my mother would deny her admonition was God’s message for me, I heard it that way this morning. God used that memory, that feeling as I walked to breakfast to remind me how each time I enter a door I need to be ready. This reminds me of the wise counsel of an elder pastor speaking to a group of us newbies, once upon a time, how we should always have a sermon, a prayer, and a song ready each time we enter a church.
At the very first writers’ conference I attended one of the people I heard speak was Torry Martin. Torry is an actor, writer, comedian, and very wise speaker. He introduced me to the phrase, “divine appointments and holy introductions.”
What would happen if we would walk through every door, enter every interaction with an “I’m ready God for whatever divine appointment or holy introduction you bring my way” attitude? Imagine for a moment that God has people who need your readiness, your message, your encouragement waiting for you to arrive. Truth is: they are there, and they need what you bring.
Confession: I hate unpacking. I’m not a fan of moving either.
Growing up, one of my mother’s favorite Momisms was: a place for everything and everything in it’s place. Trouble for me was I had too many things and never enough places.
Not much has changed.
But I don’t just haul boxes from state to state, town to town, and house to house. There’s this emotional baggage I cart from place to place. And those boxes can be big, and extremely heavy. I’ve been carrying some of those boxes since childhood. And my kind husband has been kind and mostly quiet about the weight and the amount.
I’ve come to understand some of this baggage in new ways over the past two years, and more recently, thanks to Noom.
One of the things in my life that has been skewed and generally out of control has been my response to food and my propensity for overeating and eating unhealthily. It’s not that I haven’t known better (and taught others to do better), but I have lacked both the understanding of why and the willpower to stay committed to eating for health. The lessons provided with my Noom program fee, helped me to see what distortions and unhealthy rules I had adopted and lived by.
And while this isn’t a post about eating rules that sabotage health, the very thought that I continue to live by rules (aka unhealthy baggage) leaves me discouraged and waffling in my hope for things to get better. Unless I decide unpack the boxes, and get rid of the stuff, the thinking, the believing, holding me back from healing and happiness.
But what does it take to unpack the boxes I carried for a lifetime?
Grace. And by this I mean absence of judging and shaming. I’m referring to a gentleness that understands how beliefs are formed, and how they often necessary for survival.
Courage. I don’t see courage as the absence of fear, but as the commitment to move ahead in spite of it. The realization that the goal is important, but so is the process of achieving it.
Support. We were created for relationship. Not a one of us needs to go this alone. I love the biblical image of how during the battle the Israelites were winning when Moses lifted up the staff. When his strength wavered, his friends and family came alongside him and held up his arms. We need to find those who will offer strength and support when feel weak and vulnerable. And we need to find those we can lend support to.
Hope. We have to have that spark that encourages us to keep trying. We have to believe things can be better. One of my favorite movie lines comes from the movie “As Good As It Gets.” The main character wants to see his therapist, but without an appointment. When the therapist holds the line, the character walks out into the waiting room and looks at the other patients and asks, “What if this is as good as it gets?”
Because of the devastation of COVID-19 pandemic, many people are asking when things will get back to normal? When will things get easy and familiar again? When will things stop being so difficult? Why do things have to be so difficult?
Just as there is little sense in carrying around belief baggage that no longer serves, there is very little logic in trying to back in time. Life and time are always moving forward. We can choose to not go along with that, to carry unnecessary baggage with us…but why?
And therein lies my hope. Life is ever moving forward. I was made for life. I was made to move forward. That my friends is what is normal. Not reaching back. Not trying to fix today with outdated strategies from yesterday.
Here’s a terrific piece of good news! The roadmap I choose to follow, the Bible, teaches that God is making things new…every day. And for each day there is a promise: because of God’s great faithfulness, each new day is met with new mercies (Lamentations 3:23-24, author’s paraphrase).
So while I hate unpacking, I’m ready for a lighter load. And looking forward to what tomorrow will bring.
I’m getting settled. Husband and I have worked together to make our one room (large family room) function as bedroom, living room, office, and exercise space. Cozy. Putting the bed (twin with trundle) together was actually a fun experience. Sleeping in it even better.
Today in Arizona my siblings will be scattering my mother’s ashes across the desert she loved so much. Because of limited finances (neither husband or I have jobs or income), I decided not to fly out and participate. Part of me is sad to miss out, but the practical side of me won out. I will close my eyes and see her smile as she spoke of her love of the desert, and I will be okay.
Many years ago, after my dad died, we scattered his ashes on the 18th fairway of one of his favorite golf courses. At first this seemed odd. I had served as a pastor in several states, performed many funerals, and each one ended in a cemetery. Dad wanted to be cremated: pragmatic and cost effective. No services: too emotional, not his style. So, casting his cremains where he would be happiest made sense. Enough that it then became my mother’s wish to follow suit.
Here’s what makes that extra special in my mind. Every time I pass a golf course (and I did that daily on my way to work for the year after Dad died) I would think of my dad. I would remember his smile and stories of good games and lousy outings when he got home and put away his clubs. My husband golfed with my dad and it has been a special source of memories for him, too. That’s how we remember Dad. Not e don’t have to go to a certain cemetery and stare at a rock. We see him alive and happy.
So today, Mom will become one with the desert, and that makes me smile, but it will forever be owls that will trigger my memories of Mom. Like this little guy, perching on my coffee mug. It will be endless games of Scrabble, or Words with Friends…and I’m sure she would have loved Wordle.
This morning, I’m immensely grateful for the past two years (see previous posts that explain this life change). The cost was enormous. The discomfort, loneliness, distance, and loss immeasurable. I can’t thank my husband, daughters, and grandchildren enough for supporting me and loving me through this.
Once when I was in the throes of a teenager angsty tantrum, Mom and I had words. Exasperated, I went to the garage where my dad was creating beautiful pinecone wreaths. I had barely left the steps when the angry words came tumbling from my mouth, “How do you put up with her?”
He slowly removed his work gloves, set them on the table, and turned to look at me. I swear the moment was developing in the slowest motion possible. I stepped onto the garage floor and waited for him to speak.
“She’s your mother and you will respect her.”
That’s it. That’s all he said and then he went back to work.
I thought about that scene several times over my two years caring for Mom. Her rigid schedule and OCD behaviors could make me crazy in a blink. Her quirky rituals and superstitions most times made no sense…but that’s how she was. And I learned that I not only respected her, but loved her fiercely. And I would do whatever it took to make sure she was happy and well-cared for…to the very end.
I miss daily Scrabble. I miss knowing what day it was and exactly when it would be time to eat…and what. Nine pineapple chunks for breakfast with sliced banana—12 slices and exactly the same size. How to make a half a deli ham and sliced swiss cheese sammich with just the right amount of mustard. Dinner: Monday hotdogs; Tuesday boca burger; Wednesday mashed potatoes with Lloyds bbq; Thursday Gorton’s panko fish portions; Friday pizza; and Saturday grilled cheese. Sunday was up for grabs, but her two favorites were jumbo shrimp from Culvers, or a quesadilla from Chipotle.
I miss so much, but more than things…I have memories.
Two years. So much can happen. So much can change. I’m sure I don’t have to explain that to you…you lived the last years, too. If you’re reading this you survived them, too.
Two years ago I went to the best conference of my life. Connecting with other women clergy within my denomination energized me and encouraged me. I was excited to get back to my congregation. But first a quick visit to get my Scrabble fix with Mom.
Two years ago she got sick and never really bounced back. Her breathing issues were complicated by her anxiety. Or was it the other way around? The cycle was vicious. Then the natural progression of age related dementia began to show up unannounced. Another severe lung infection and we called in support from hospice. She had several infections, but they cleared up with medication…except for this last time.
The day before Christmas Eve was a typical day. Sure, her appetite was off a little. But she was scolding the officials and coaching the teams from her chair as she watched a couple bowl games. Before that we managed to get in a game of Scrabble. All in all, a pretty normal day.
Until bedtime. As she was completing her usual bedtime routine she began to have breathing issues which switched on the anxiety. A dose of morphine, holding her hand for a bit so it could kick in, and then walking her to bed and tucking her in seemed to quell the attack. But her sleep was restless, and she cried out for it all to end. More hand holding and gentle words. I called hospice and was directed to use a med that would help with the secretions. This seemed to bring a little relief and she fell asleep. And then she was gone.
My husband and I had dreamed of somehow being able to purchase Mom’s house and live out our retirement in the beauty and warmth of Arizona. Not having enough means and Nelson needing to be in Ohio for his mom brought me back to Ohio.
In one of our conversations on the long trip home, I tried to express part of what made this obvious choice so difficult for me. I’m nearly sixty-five years old, and this is the first move I’ve made, we’ve made, without knowing where or what, without having purpose or direction. Limbo. Waiting. Trusting. Wondering. I’m living an unsettled sort of peace. And I’ll confess, I’m not particularly fond or comfortable with this strange mix of circumstances.
But I’m home. And we’ll continue to work out all that means, and where that goes. Because that’s what we do.
Today is Worldwide Communion Sunday. I love this Sunday. I loved it when I was a pastor. I observed it in all the denominations I worked with. The thought and feeling of partaking of the Lord’s Supper along with believers all over the world moves me, encourages me, humbles me. Today was no exception.
Today I worshipped outdoors with a group of people I have only met with twice before. The weather was perfect. The message clear and inspiring. Two of the pastor’s points stuck out to me.
First, he described a study that was done in which people were asked what their favorite phrase in the English language were. The number one response was, “I love you.” Understandable. Don’t we all love to hear that? Also high on the list, and pertinent to the message, “Dinner’s ready!”
Time to eat. Come and get it. Come and dine. Come to the table. Do you remember how you were called to dinner as a child? I don’t have particularly fond memories of dinnertime as a child–but oh how precious those shared meals became when shared them with friends in college, and later with community in the church.
The pastor’s text was Jesus invitation to the crowd as recorded in John 6. Everybody was invited. Everyone was included. Y’all come.
Who doesn’t want to hear that? We may need a bigger table.
The second thing that hooked my heart was the concept of remembrance. Living with Mom I’m daily dealing with issues of memory: odd rememberances, distorted memories, lost memories. Hers and mine!
As I sat in the gathering on Sunday morning, one question percolated to the top: What do you want me to remember today God? It seemed like a simple question, but it brought on a whole slew of recollections. They came in waves: communion services from across the years; faces of clergy mentors and friends; different places; and different times.
Sitting alone, in a gathering where I knew no one, I drew comfort in the sense not only of God being present, but with me–speaking my name. Just as the bubbling memories spoke to the how there had been people all along in this journey of faith, the Spirit gave clear assurance that even now when I felt so incredibly alone…I was not, and would never be.
Remembering this, hearing this, feeling this prods me to wonder if you, dear reader might be feeling alone. Jesus calls you to the table. There is clearly not just space, but a space for you. As you take your seat, please remember the times and places where God has brought you into the company of others as a means of assuring you of your place in the family, and God’s great grace and provision for us all.
Y’all, come.
So I’ve been here, living and caring for Mom one year, two months, and eight days. But who’s counting.
Life has been interesting and frustrating. I have spent a considerable amount of time playing mindless games on my phone and ipad. I haven’t been able to concentrate enough to read or write. I haven’t finished reading a single book clear through. And my writing feels pointless and overly repetitive.
So why am I trying again?
This week we began working with hospice. The team is absolutely tremendous, compassionate, encouraging, and gentle with Mom. I don’t feel quite as alone in this process.
The one word I have always associated with hospice and end of life is intentionality. Serious conversations and light-hearted remembering. Laughter and tears. And a clear willingness not to sweep things under the carpet. Finally, naming the elephant in the room. Giving up control. Relaxing a little.
All of those things are happening. And I’m among other things, I’m going to include some of those reflections here.
This morning Mom had an appointment for her pacemaker check. We weren’t sure if we needed to keep the appointment. We did the check and we have a follow-up with the cardiologist next week. We’re going to talk to him about whether we need to keep doing this. And ask him the question our hospice nurse asked: what about shutting the pacemaker off?
After the pacemaker check we went to LabCorp for blood work. This was for the cardiologist, too. They were running behind. Several people were waiting. Mom nearly fell asleep. I’m getting better at maneuvering the chair and the portable but cumbersome O2 tank.
After lunch Mom took a long and hard nap in her chair. She always looks so uncomfortable. She woke up hard. After a trip to the bathroom, when she was settled back in her chair, I checked on her. She was troubled by how long and hard she had slept. She looked at me and asked, “Is this how it’s going to be?”
I told her I don’t know, but we’re not going to go back to how things were. We talked for a bit about how things were changing and how hard it is for her to relinquish control. Her comfort has always been in her rigid schedule. On a MBTI she bleeds J. Her calendars have been the constant proof of her adherence to schedule and routine.
Today she told me to put her calendar away, she just didn’t feel like writing in it any more. So I did.
I guess I’m in charge of the schedule now.
Pot of Manna 