shaped by our heritage

How do we become who we are? I remember a small group question that asked what our families told us about their hopes for us before we were born. A co-worker, who is now a hospital chaplain, said that his mother dreamed that he would be a man who would lead people to God.

The first stage of faith development, according to several theories, is learning who we are. Are we safe? Are we loved? Are we a Smith, or a Jackson, or a Robison? What does it mean to be a member of that family? Does our family have hopes and dreams for us?

Three stories have run through my mind today. One is that of a blogger friend who told about the stories she grew up with about a dad who was her hero, until she found out at seventeen that they were lies he'd told to make himself look good. He had been in trouble with the law, rather than the bold, adventurous, entrapreneurial spirit she'd learned to love. Her own life had taken on those same positive traits.

The second story is about a man who was in a group I mentored. He had previously belonged to a fundamental sect and believed the Bible to be factually true and the inerrant word of God. As we studied Hebrew Scripture, the Old Testament, he was appalled to read that seminaries teach that Adam and Eve were not two particular, real people, and that Moses didn't really write the first five books of the OT. He said that he felt like an orphan, that all the old Bible characters had been like family to him and he'd just found out he was adopted. It was truly a painful experience for him, but one that was necessary in order to grow spiritually.

The third story is about a baby who was born in Seattle a few years ago. She had a congenital condition of the brain that meant she would not survive, would not ever progress beyond infancy; in fact she was had not been expected to even be born alive, but she lived for six months.

The family had previously been a part of a fundamentalist church, but they had moved and had not made any connection locally. The other children in the family made friends, and the parents of those friends heard about the situation. They offered help, compassion, emotional and spiritual support, and the family joined their church, a different sect entirely. When the baby died, the family had found a sense of meaning in this tragedy: the baby's mission, from God, was to convert this family to this religion.

Here's the question: are any of these people worse off for believing something that was not, or may not be, true?

the play's the thing

Daffodil’s Debut

the snow is almost gone
and, though I’ve had no time to practice,
today is my day to shine

“Stand up straight.”
“Be brave, little daffodil,
you’ll do us proud.”

here I am,
watching the grass grow,
waiting nervously for my cue

"Spring."

I heard it! I’m on! Ta Da!
I am here to fill your heart with joy!


Tonight is the dress rehearsal of HMS Pinafore, in which my husband is starring in a leading role. So, naturally, a dramatic image came to mind when I saw this beautiful prompt from Abbey of the Arts at Christine's Invitation to Poetry

Have you had your playing time today?

a lovely day for a drive...

Spring has arrived on the east side of the Cascades, and it was a beautiful day to have a job that doesn't keep me inside!

introducing Mavis and Margot...

Mavis and Margot are two of several characters I’ve written in my writing.com site blog. Sometimes I’ve used them to make comments on things I don’t want to say myself, or even things I have said. Sometimes they’re just for my own entertainment.

Margot was headed for her driveway when she spotted Mavis, sitting on the front porch, enjoying the first warm day of spring and reading a book. Changing directions, she slid her new car in beside Mavis’s Prius, turned off the ignition and strode across the lawn.

“How do you like it?” Margot called. “Isn’t it super!”

“It’s terrific, and it certainly suits you, but I thought you said you’d gone green. It isn’t a hybrid, is it?” Mavis asked.

“Well, it’s British racing green. That’s good enough for me.” Margot made a face, and Mavis laughed. “Want to go for a ride?”

“No, not right now, I don’t think. I was just finishing this page, and then I need to get the potatoes peeled for supper. Maybe tomorrow though, if you’re up for it. I’d love an excuse to go up to the lake if the weather is as nice as it is today.”

“I think I could manage that, if I finish up with my client by lunchtime. So, what are you reading? Anything I might want to borrow?”

Mavis replied, “Oh, I don’t think it’s anything you’d be interested in.”

“Too intellectual for me?” Margot chided. “Try me.”

“It’s Thomas Merton,” Mavis said. “Here, I’ll read you this bit. I think it’s rather wonderful.”

My Lord, You have heard the cry of my heart because it was You Who cried out within my heart.
Forgive me for having tried to evoke Your presence in my own silence: it is You Who must create me within Your own silence!

“Is that about enough?” Mavis asked.

“No, go on. It’s a bit over my head, but I want to hear the rest. There isn’t much more, is there?”

Mavis laughed. “All right. Let’s see….
You are not found in the Temple merely by the expulsion of the money changers.
You are not found on the mountain every time there is a cloud. The earth swallowed those who offered incense without having been found, and called, and known by You.
If I find Him with great ease, perhaps He is not my God.
If I cannot hope to find Him at all, is He my God?
If I find Him wherever I wish, have I found Him?
If He can find me whenever He wishes, and tells me Who He is and who I am, and if I then know that He Whom I could not find has found me: then I know He is the Lord, my God: He has touched me with the finger that made me out of nothing.

“There, what do you make of it?”

“I’ll give it a go. He’s saying that God doesn’t come to us on our own terms, and we can’t find him wherever and whenever we might want to. God is bigger than all that. Am I close?”

“I’m impressed.”

“You won’t be when I go on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think God is like a cat, and we want him to be like a dog, waiting for us and wagging his tail. Instead, he comes if and when he chooses. Like my cat Chloe, who occasionally graces me with her presence. Rascal wants my attention full time, to keep throwing the ball for him. I don’t think God’s like that, do you?”

Mavis stared at her a minute. “Hmm…” she said, “Not exactly.” Then, noticing her friend’s expression, she continued, “That’s very clever of you. I’ll have to think about it. Maybe I’ll bring the book along tomorrow on our ride.”

“Oh please don’t. That’s enough philosophizing to last me for the year. But it was fun. Thanks for not laughing at me,” Margot said.

“I hope I would never laugh at you when you were being serious. I won’t bring the book tomorrow, but I might tell you why that passage is important to me.”

“Well, maybe. But I might rather get away from thinking and just go have fun. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, as she turned toward the car.

light through the window of grief

I mentioned last week a video the hospice staff watched of Naomi Tutu. In it she talked about ritual, particularly the ritual of South Africa. When a person dies, the bed is taken apart, and the mattress is placed on the floor. All the matriarchs of the family come and sit on the mattress, and they stay there until the body is buried. As callers come to pay their respects, the women tell the story of the person's life and death, over and over, over and over.

We are a culture short on ritual; and, due to a growing lack of religious interest, the rituals we have are fading too. Fewer people have funerals or memorial services. Fewer still have wakes. Even the family gatherings, the bringing in of casserole dishes to the home, and the calls and cards are less frequent than twenty years ago.

The adult grief group began last week, with a poor showing of five people. One dropped out, thank goodness, and one will be absent this week, so I'm praying for a few late starters to show up this week. (Thank goodness because she wasn't ready to be in a group yet, had too many issues to work out for the group to handle, and would monopolize the time at best and might scare other group members from talking.)

One of the things they'll be doing is journaling, and they have a book designed just for that. Beyond the exercises in the book, I've been thinking about other ways to journal that would be helpful to people who are grieving a loss. Here's what I've come up with, sort of off the top of my head:

1. Go through old pictures, and, choosing one or two per journal entry, write about the situation the pictures were taken in. What was happening? Who took the pictures and why? What did you want to remember from that time, whether or not it showed up in the picture? Is the picture a good representation of how the loved one looked, or one of his/her* better moments? Did he like that picture of himself? How does it make you feel to see it now? (*From now on I'll refer to the loved one as a 'he' for simplicity's sake.)

2. Using the same pictures, or memories without pictures, revisit the places where the pictures were taken: the beach, the back yard swing, the dining room table, wherever. Maybe take another picture. Write about what you're feeling in that same place now.

3. Journal about something that has happened to you this week, and what would have been different if your loved one were still alive.

4. Make a record of the times of day you find yourself missing him most, the scenes and scents that tug at your heart, maybe giving you a grief attack. Imagine him there, and write about what you feel.

5. Think of things the two of you didn't agree on, but you went along with anyway. Maybe you watched football because he liked it, or bought Crest because it's the kind of toothpaste he wanted, or ate Captain Crunch because it was easier than buying a box you liked instead. Maybe you liked to take walks but didn't very often because he wouldn't go with you. Make a list of things you like. You may find this easier than you expect.

6. Make a list of his annoying habits, and forgive yourself for being annoyed with him.

7. Describe him in your journal, in as great a detail as possible, using all your senses to imagine him. Linger with that sense of his presence after you've written, before you go on to do something else. Write about that experience.

Oops, I've exceeded the obligatory (arbitrary) list of 5. Well, maybe it's like a baker's dozen, one extra suggestion in case one of the first 5 wasn't any good. No excuse for number seven though. :( :)

I've just begun this train of thought, so please feel free to add to it.

burst into song!