My mother-in-law was aghast when she heard me say, "I'm really not interested in watching the royal wedding." I am not going to be one of the million Americans who wakes tomorrow at 4 a.m. to witness the marathon news coverage of the event. If my son's stirrings, or my uncomfortable pregnant belly, have me awake at 4 a.m., I will probably keep the tv off. "But there's so much history in the event," my MIL protested. "Aren't you curious about history?" she continued, implying in her thinly-veiled way that I was some kind of country bumpkin, uninterested in the greater events of history and the world.
Perhaps my tepid interest is generational: in my lifetime, the royals have held a rapidly diminishing power and relevance. Perhaps it stems, at least in part, from a darker memory: the same fascination and obsession driving the present media frenzy over tomorrow's wedding was, in fact, at work in the death of the groom's mother. I was too young to watch the royal wedding of Diana and Charles, but I remember very clearly the event of Diana's death. And there is a part of me that wonders if her death wasn't a long, slow, and painful one that began in those frenzied days leading up to her own royal wedding. No one can deny that the grandeur of Diana's royal wedding did little to protect and shield her from the cruelty and destructiveness of the marriage that followed. Perhaps I'm being too cynical. But I'm far from disinterested in the greater events of history and the world: what history has taught me is that we've learned so much about putting together a grand wedding and are still struggling to know how to put together a good marriage.
William and Kate will begin a new life together tomorrow. They will have a wedding that is far grander than 99.9% of couples who marry. But this wedding will not shield them from the experience of every married couple. They too will learn that marriage is a very fragile bond. That the people who toast them tomorrow may not be able or willing to support them in the days and years that follow. That marriage will test them and stretch them in ways that they could never anticipate. That when left untended, it can be a source of destruction. And when tended, it can be a crucible of salvation.
Even as I won't be watching tomorrow's grand event, I will acknowledge the significance of the day: a young couple is about to embark on the "daring promise" (in Gaillardetz's terms) of marriage--and in a way, I will participate in the celebration by tending to my own.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Jumping and Shrieking for Joy" in Lent
My husband John and I, who were talking about our plans for this coming weekend, realized that this Sunday-- already!!! -- is Palm Sunday, which marks the beginning of the holiest week in the Christian calendar, the week in which we remember the passion and death of Jesus of Nazareth. We couldn't quite believe that the Lenten season is quickly coming to an end, and we agreed that we haven't done a very good job of "observing" it this year.
Every year for Lent, John gives up drinking alcohol, and I admit that I don't quite "get it." We are the type of drinkers who have a glass of wine (perhaps two) with dinner, and on Fridays, John will allow himself a martini upon his return home from work and perhaps an after-dinner drink. There is nothing excessive or troubling about our consumption--nothing about which we have reason to feel the need for penitence. And I've always believed that the practice of "giving up" something, or alternatively, "taking on something" should be aimed at becoming more loving, generous, and open-hearted people. I'm not sure I understand how his abstinence helps him to become that. So no, I don't quite "get it." And yet, I know that I have no right to question or critique his personal Lenten choices. Perhaps giving up alcohol really is helpful to him, in that it teaches him, in a very real way, that sometimes abstaining from activities/things/people that are pleasurable to us can be a very good and necessary thing. Still, I have noticed that in the years that I've known him, John hasn't done very well at keeping his Lenten promises:)
And once again, I have no right to question or criticize: I didn't really do anything this Lent. My mind was elsewhere. Especially over the past few weeks, my mind has been singularly focused on getting well, as I have struggled with sickness after sickness (a 24-hour stomach virus here, a fever there, etc). Still , there were several Lenten weeks that preceded these awful recent weeks, weeks in which I did absolutely nothing different. I can't even say that I made a point to be more reflective. My days looked very much like my Epiphany Days, my Christmas Days, my Advent days, etc.
What great luck it was (or maybe it was the universe sending me a Lenten message) that shortly after my conversation with my husband this morning, I stumbled upon this poem, quoted fully in today's Writer's Almanac. Here's "The Best Year of Her Life," by Gerald Locklin (from Men of Our Time, University of Georgia Press:
When my two-year old daughter
sees someone come through the door
whom she loves, and hasn't seen for a while,
and has been anticipating
she literally shrieks with joy.
I have to go into the other room
so that no one will notice the tears in my eyes.
Later, after my daughter has gone to bed,
I say to my wife,
"She will never be this happy again,"
and my wife gets angry and snaps,
"Don't you dare communicate your negativism to her!"
And of course, I won't, if I can possibly help it,
and of course I fully expect her
to have much joy in her life,
and, of course, I hope to be able
to contribute to that joy--
I hope, in other words, that she'll always
be happy to see me come through the door--
but why kid ourselves--she, like every child,
has a life of great suffering ahead of her,
and while joy will not go out of her life,
she will one of these days cease to actually,
literally, jump and shriek for joy.
I read these words and pondered Lent for a while. "Lent is depressing," one of the kids in my Sunday school group said to me a few months ago, before the season even began. "Why?" I asked. "I don't think it has to be." I explained that the word "Lent" comes from the Anglo-Saxon lencten, meaning "spring," first of all, and even as it's a season when Christians remember the events that led up to and include Jesus' passion and death, our reflection always takes place in the light of our belief in the new life that followed it, the life that is stronger and more powerful than suffering and death.
If as we age and in our every day, as the poem above suggests, we become less and less spontaneous and expressive of our joy (and perhaps some of us even become thoroughly joyless), maybe the discipline of "becoming more joyful" is a very appropriate Lenten project. Christians ask for the strength to "change our hearts." Well, how might we be inwardly changed if we spent a little part of each day jumping and shrieking with joy at something, because of someone....
This year's Lent has certainly felt depressing to me. A friend's death. My own illnesses. This interminably crummy weather (with a short reprieve--thank you, weather gods--yesterday). But there is still some time left. And I will do my best to find ways to "actually, literally, jump and shriek for joy."
Every year for Lent, John gives up drinking alcohol, and I admit that I don't quite "get it." We are the type of drinkers who have a glass of wine (perhaps two) with dinner, and on Fridays, John will allow himself a martini upon his return home from work and perhaps an after-dinner drink. There is nothing excessive or troubling about our consumption--nothing about which we have reason to feel the need for penitence. And I've always believed that the practice of "giving up" something, or alternatively, "taking on something" should be aimed at becoming more loving, generous, and open-hearted people. I'm not sure I understand how his abstinence helps him to become that. So no, I don't quite "get it." And yet, I know that I have no right to question or critique his personal Lenten choices. Perhaps giving up alcohol really is helpful to him, in that it teaches him, in a very real way, that sometimes abstaining from activities/things/people that are pleasurable to us can be a very good and necessary thing. Still, I have noticed that in the years that I've known him, John hasn't done very well at keeping his Lenten promises:)
And once again, I have no right to question or criticize: I didn't really do anything this Lent. My mind was elsewhere. Especially over the past few weeks, my mind has been singularly focused on getting well, as I have struggled with sickness after sickness (a 24-hour stomach virus here, a fever there, etc). Still , there were several Lenten weeks that preceded these awful recent weeks, weeks in which I did absolutely nothing different. I can't even say that I made a point to be more reflective. My days looked very much like my Epiphany Days, my Christmas Days, my Advent days, etc.
What great luck it was (or maybe it was the universe sending me a Lenten message) that shortly after my conversation with my husband this morning, I stumbled upon this poem, quoted fully in today's Writer's Almanac. Here's "The Best Year of Her Life," by Gerald Locklin (from Men of Our Time, University of Georgia Press:
When my two-year old daughter
sees someone come through the door
whom she loves, and hasn't seen for a while,
and has been anticipating
she literally shrieks with joy.
I have to go into the other room
so that no one will notice the tears in my eyes.
Later, after my daughter has gone to bed,
I say to my wife,
"She will never be this happy again,"
and my wife gets angry and snaps,
"Don't you dare communicate your negativism to her!"
And of course, I won't, if I can possibly help it,
and of course I fully expect her
to have much joy in her life,
and, of course, I hope to be able
to contribute to that joy--
I hope, in other words, that she'll always
be happy to see me come through the door--
but why kid ourselves--she, like every child,
has a life of great suffering ahead of her,
and while joy will not go out of her life,
she will one of these days cease to actually,
literally, jump and shriek for joy.
I read these words and pondered Lent for a while. "Lent is depressing," one of the kids in my Sunday school group said to me a few months ago, before the season even began. "Why?" I asked. "I don't think it has to be." I explained that the word "Lent" comes from the Anglo-Saxon lencten, meaning "spring," first of all, and even as it's a season when Christians remember the events that led up to and include Jesus' passion and death, our reflection always takes place in the light of our belief in the new life that followed it, the life that is stronger and more powerful than suffering and death.
If as we age and in our every day, as the poem above suggests, we become less and less spontaneous and expressive of our joy (and perhaps some of us even become thoroughly joyless), maybe the discipline of "becoming more joyful" is a very appropriate Lenten project. Christians ask for the strength to "change our hearts." Well, how might we be inwardly changed if we spent a little part of each day jumping and shrieking with joy at something, because of someone....
This year's Lent has certainly felt depressing to me. A friend's death. My own illnesses. This interminably crummy weather (with a short reprieve--thank you, weather gods--yesterday). But there is still some time left. And I will do my best to find ways to "actually, literally, jump and shriek for joy."
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Mystery of Life
In his wonderful little book, Let Your Life Speak, Parker Palmer writes of his personal struggle with depression: "Twice in my forties I spent endless months in the snake pit of the soul. Hour by hour, day by day, I wrestled with the desire to die, sometimes so feeble in my resistance that I 'practiced' ways of doing myself in. I could feel nothing except the burden of my own life and the exhaustion, the apparent futility of trying to sustain it. I understand why some depressed people kill themselves: they need the rest."
I have thought about these words so much over the last few days. Last Thursday, after putting my son to bed for his afternoon nap, I logged on to facebook, and saw a post from a mere eight minutes before. It was a suicide note, written by a childhood neighbor and friend. I read his words with shock, disbelief, and panic: after all, he posted it only eight minutes before. Not knowing his current address or phone number, I did all that I could do: I commented, "Please call me now," and I was able to get in touch with his family who, as his older brother described later, "didn't make it in time." In the period of time between my viewing of my friend's note and when someone called me to tell me that he did, indeed, take his own life, I didn't know what was happening. The only information I had came from comments posted by other facebook friends--comments that went from "Hang in there...we're here for you" to "Rest in Peace." And, of course, there was the note itself, which emphasized that my friend just had grown too tired to handle life.
His funeral was this morning. I had planned to go, along with my parents. But my plans to head to Philadelphia were halted by a sudden and crippling episode of nausea that last the entire day. Perhaps it was a stomach bug--perhaps it was a physical manifestation of my emotional reaction to my friend's tragic death. I can't say for sure. But it was so blinding that I couldn't even care for my son: my sitter, mercifully, rescued me for most of the day, allowing me to get some rest. But over a phone conversation this evening, my mother shared with me that the funeral was "devestatingly sad," but that she felt very comforted by the words of the priest who presided. He emphasized that this was but a tragic moment in an otherwise good life. For as horrible and final as his suicide was, it would not define him, for the truth of our Christian faith is that nothing--nothing--can separate us from the love of God. How different this message is, my mother commented, from that which she heard as a child--that suicide was the "ultimate sin." There could be no Mass for Christian Burial for those who committed it--it was that grave. She left the church reminded of the everlastingness and fidelity of a mysterious love that Christians call "God."
About five years ago, Tim and I both returned, as adults, to the homes of our parents. I was broke and broken after a failed engagement, poor decisions, and a fall out with friends. He, too, was looking for "new life." He had done the Wall Street thing and found that it "wasn't me." He was back in school, studying to become a nurse. He was most passionate about health and wellness, he had said. "Seems incongruous that one so passionate about wellness would take his own life," an acquaintance remarked. But he was obviously in great pain, and perhaps cultivating this passion was an intentional way of combatting his inner demons--and he just got too tired of the fight. In our walks to the bus terminal together several years ago, I remember a thoughtful, gentle, and hopeful Tim, who was doing all that he could to make his own life--and the lives of others--better. As God gathers the whole of Tim, I hope that these moments, too, are gathered.
After describing his own battle with depression and flirtation with death, Parker Palmer continues: "I understand why some depressed people kill themselves...But I do not understand why others are able to find new life..." I understand--in the sense of having a deep compassion--why some people take their own lives. But there is a part of me that will never fully "get it," because there is, within me, a hopefulness and resilience that has carried me through some pretty dark moments. Like Palmer, I don't understand why I am able to find new life and others aren't. But that is part of the mystery of life--a mystery that can't be "figured out," but can simply be pondered, with reverence and humility.
I have thought about these words so much over the last few days. Last Thursday, after putting my son to bed for his afternoon nap, I logged on to facebook, and saw a post from a mere eight minutes before. It was a suicide note, written by a childhood neighbor and friend. I read his words with shock, disbelief, and panic: after all, he posted it only eight minutes before. Not knowing his current address or phone number, I did all that I could do: I commented, "Please call me now," and I was able to get in touch with his family who, as his older brother described later, "didn't make it in time." In the period of time between my viewing of my friend's note and when someone called me to tell me that he did, indeed, take his own life, I didn't know what was happening. The only information I had came from comments posted by other facebook friends--comments that went from "Hang in there...we're here for you" to "Rest in Peace." And, of course, there was the note itself, which emphasized that my friend just had grown too tired to handle life.
His funeral was this morning. I had planned to go, along with my parents. But my plans to head to Philadelphia were halted by a sudden and crippling episode of nausea that last the entire day. Perhaps it was a stomach bug--perhaps it was a physical manifestation of my emotional reaction to my friend's tragic death. I can't say for sure. But it was so blinding that I couldn't even care for my son: my sitter, mercifully, rescued me for most of the day, allowing me to get some rest. But over a phone conversation this evening, my mother shared with me that the funeral was "devestatingly sad," but that she felt very comforted by the words of the priest who presided. He emphasized that this was but a tragic moment in an otherwise good life. For as horrible and final as his suicide was, it would not define him, for the truth of our Christian faith is that nothing--nothing--can separate us from the love of God. How different this message is, my mother commented, from that which she heard as a child--that suicide was the "ultimate sin." There could be no Mass for Christian Burial for those who committed it--it was that grave. She left the church reminded of the everlastingness and fidelity of a mysterious love that Christians call "God."
About five years ago, Tim and I both returned, as adults, to the homes of our parents. I was broke and broken after a failed engagement, poor decisions, and a fall out with friends. He, too, was looking for "new life." He had done the Wall Street thing and found that it "wasn't me." He was back in school, studying to become a nurse. He was most passionate about health and wellness, he had said. "Seems incongruous that one so passionate about wellness would take his own life," an acquaintance remarked. But he was obviously in great pain, and perhaps cultivating this passion was an intentional way of combatting his inner demons--and he just got too tired of the fight. In our walks to the bus terminal together several years ago, I remember a thoughtful, gentle, and hopeful Tim, who was doing all that he could to make his own life--and the lives of others--better. As God gathers the whole of Tim, I hope that these moments, too, are gathered.
After describing his own battle with depression and flirtation with death, Parker Palmer continues: "I understand why some depressed people kill themselves...But I do not understand why others are able to find new life..." I understand--in the sense of having a deep compassion--why some people take their own lives. But there is a part of me that will never fully "get it," because there is, within me, a hopefulness and resilience that has carried me through some pretty dark moments. Like Palmer, I don't understand why I am able to find new life and others aren't. But that is part of the mystery of life--a mystery that can't be "figured out," but can simply be pondered, with reverence and humility.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
More notes on grace...
I am aware that it has been almost two months since my last post. No, I have not lost interest in blogging, and I have not become lazy (well...maybe a little, but for good reason). There are a number of reasons why I lost steam in mid-January.
One reason is that I have just been so busy. Keeping up with my almost 21-month old takes a lot of energy, as I am sure you can imagine. With each new day, Aidan is more energetic and more mischievous. Some of you heard of our recent toilet incident: we had to get a new toilet, as a plumber was unable to extract a long wooden train from the innards of our toilet, which had been flushed by my little darling one day. It may well have been when I was taking a shower, because God knows that I can't take a shower unless Aidan is in the bathroom with me. I certainly did not know that said train was the cause our toilet problems until it was extracted, once the toilet was cracked in half. The cost of my darling's curiosity? Two visits from plumbers, a new toilet and installation = $850.
Additionally, Aidan is talking a blue streak these days--making sense of his many words, likewise, takes a lot of energy. He inititates conversation quite a bit, but he also repeats anything and everything we say. Earlier this week, we were in the car, on the way to visit some friends. From his seat in the back, Aidan screamed out what sounded like "FUCK!" I was horrified, wondering if he had heard the word slip from me or my husband in one of our rare moments of deep frustration. Luckily, after a minute or two of nostop "FUCK" sounds, I was able to see him pointing out the car window to a flag--for him, "FLAG!" sounds very, very similar to "FUCK!"
Another reason is that I'm busy with school. As some of you know, I am back at Fordham University, only this time, I am taking classes in the Pastoral Counseling program (instead of Theology). Honestly, I am not thrilled with the program, even as I think the pastoral counseling is the right path for me. The class I am taking is painfully easy. For it, I have only one paper (less than 6 pages), a group presentation (which are professors' way of sucking up class time), and an oral exam which counts as the "final" (can you tell that the professor doesn't want to have to grade papers?). Why, then, have I been so busy? Well, it's because I've already read all six of the required books in two months' time. I love the reading: Gerald Mays' Addiction and Grace, Kathleen Greider's Reckoning with Aggression, etc.
The final, and perhaps most important reason, is (as many of you already know) is that I'm expecting another baby, due September 1st. I'm at the four month mark, which means that this pregnancy will likely succeed. The first three months of this pregnancy, as you might imagine, were marked by "morning" sickness (that lasts throughout the day), extreme fatigue, and an even more crippling anxiety that was born of two devastating miscarriages that preceded this pregnancy. Even as I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, waiting for the 12-week nuchal translucency ultrasound, I found myself mentally preparing myself for the worst. After all, I had been in the same hospital room of the Methodist Advanced Maternal Care Center more than seven times over the course of the past six months, and in each of those visits, heard only bad news: "The heartbeat is abnormally slow...," ""There is a heartbeat, but it doesn't seem that this pregnancy will be viable," and finally, "There is no longer any fetal heartbeat." Both of my miscarriages were long, drawn-out processes that ended in surgeries. And so when the ultrasound technician squirted the cold gel on my abdomen, I asked, "If this doesn't work out...." Thankfully, she interrupted me: "Let's see what's going on first." And what we saw was a beautifully growing baby, bringing its fingers to its forehead, performing what seemed to be somersaults. With a beautifully beating heart....at 12 weeks.
At 16 weeks, I feel much more energetic--hence my ability to pick up blogging once again (even as I won't make any guarantees that I'll get back into a regular groove). My blog, as you know, is called Grace Notes. I wanted this blog include my reflections on grace, as I think about grace almost all the time. And many times over the past nine months, I have asked myself, "Where has there been grace in my experience?" I am certain that my understanding of this will continue to evolve, but I will attempt (and this is only my first attempt at articulation) to describe my present understanding.
For my pastoral counseling class, I recently read Gerald Mays' Addiction and Grace. The late Mays was a psychiatrist and spiritual director who believed this about the human condition: we are all addicted. It is true that some of us have never been crippled by alcoholism or drug addiction, but Mays believes that addiction is nevertheless a disease that afflicts us all. Perhaps we are addicted to work, to stress, to our own negative self-image, to criticism, etc. But we are all addicted, standing in need of grace. What interested me most about Mays' book--in relation to my own experience of miscarriage-- is his view of how grace operates: when the addicted person ends an addictive behavior, he or she experiences a great sense of loss and emptiness, but it is precisely in that emptiness that a spaciousness is opened for the flow of grace. It is, indeed, an extremely painful space, but one of great potency. If any "addiction" was uncovered in my experience of miscarriage, it was an addiction to my sense of control, over my life and over my body. But the experience of loss--not only of my two hoped-for children--but of that control I thought I had, was extremely painful but nevertheless opened me to depths (especially in relationships) that I had not known. I won't expound on this except to say that one "change" within me is my growing sense of compassion for the millions of women who experience the pain of miscarriage and still, even today when there is so much more knowledge and awareness, do not feel that they can speak openly about their pain. Their pain gets silently buried within them, and they never experience any true healing.
Very sadly, some are told, again by well-meaning others, that they will "surely be able to have another child," when it's very possible that, in fact, they won't. What they need most, it seems to me, is the assurance not that they will have the child for which they so long but rather the assurance that they will be loved and cared for whatever befalls them.
What my own experience has deepened within me is my conviction that our experiences of pain and emptiness can be the crucible of transformation and new life. In a deeper way, I have come to see the "truth" of my Christian faith--the truth that darkness might always be pierced by light and that death is always transformed by new life. What I have just written is a far cry from the conventional wisdom (which often calls itself "Christian") that "Everything happens for a reason" or that our experiences of pain and loss are "part of God's plan." I am sorry to say that quite a few well-meaning people spoke these trite and unhelpful words to me when I shared my experience of miscarriage. First of all, from a strictly medical standpoint, I underwent a battery of tests after my second miscarriage that revealed no identifiable reason for my losses. The tissue showed no chromosomal abnormalities. I tested negative for lupus, diabetes, thrombophilia disorders, autoimmune disorders, etc. The medical reasons for my miscarriages might forever remain a mystery to me and to my very knowledgeable and thorough medical practitioners. Second, I do not and cannot believe that there is some deeper, theological "reason" that these miscarriages "had to happen." I do not and cannot believe that there is such a thing as a "God" who has some kind of master plan in which the details of our lives are already mapped out. My own sense of "God" is that this is simply a word used to describe the mysterious reality that in spite of and even in our experiences of loss and grief, the invitation to a deeper, fuller life seems to present itself so faithfully. "I came that they might have life and might have it more abundantly...." I guess the sad truth of our existence is that so often we fail to see, ignore, or even outright reject these invitations....
I am not sure that I have said all that I wish to say on this....and perhaps there are pieces of my thinking that have been left out....but as I mentioned above, this is the first articulation of what promises to be an evolving understanding.....
One reason is that I have just been so busy. Keeping up with my almost 21-month old takes a lot of energy, as I am sure you can imagine. With each new day, Aidan is more energetic and more mischievous. Some of you heard of our recent toilet incident: we had to get a new toilet, as a plumber was unable to extract a long wooden train from the innards of our toilet, which had been flushed by my little darling one day. It may well have been when I was taking a shower, because God knows that I can't take a shower unless Aidan is in the bathroom with me. I certainly did not know that said train was the cause our toilet problems until it was extracted, once the toilet was cracked in half. The cost of my darling's curiosity? Two visits from plumbers, a new toilet and installation = $850.
Additionally, Aidan is talking a blue streak these days--making sense of his many words, likewise, takes a lot of energy. He inititates conversation quite a bit, but he also repeats anything and everything we say. Earlier this week, we were in the car, on the way to visit some friends. From his seat in the back, Aidan screamed out what sounded like "FUCK!" I was horrified, wondering if he had heard the word slip from me or my husband in one of our rare moments of deep frustration. Luckily, after a minute or two of nostop "FUCK" sounds, I was able to see him pointing out the car window to a flag--for him, "FLAG!" sounds very, very similar to "FUCK!"
Another reason is that I'm busy with school. As some of you know, I am back at Fordham University, only this time, I am taking classes in the Pastoral Counseling program (instead of Theology). Honestly, I am not thrilled with the program, even as I think the pastoral counseling is the right path for me. The class I am taking is painfully easy. For it, I have only one paper (less than 6 pages), a group presentation (which are professors' way of sucking up class time), and an oral exam which counts as the "final" (can you tell that the professor doesn't want to have to grade papers?). Why, then, have I been so busy? Well, it's because I've already read all six of the required books in two months' time. I love the reading: Gerald Mays' Addiction and Grace, Kathleen Greider's Reckoning with Aggression, etc.
The final, and perhaps most important reason, is (as many of you already know) is that I'm expecting another baby, due September 1st. I'm at the four month mark, which means that this pregnancy will likely succeed. The first three months of this pregnancy, as you might imagine, were marked by "morning" sickness (that lasts throughout the day), extreme fatigue, and an even more crippling anxiety that was born of two devastating miscarriages that preceded this pregnancy. Even as I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, waiting for the 12-week nuchal translucency ultrasound, I found myself mentally preparing myself for the worst. After all, I had been in the same hospital room of the Methodist Advanced Maternal Care Center more than seven times over the course of the past six months, and in each of those visits, heard only bad news: "The heartbeat is abnormally slow...," ""There is a heartbeat, but it doesn't seem that this pregnancy will be viable," and finally, "There is no longer any fetal heartbeat." Both of my miscarriages were long, drawn-out processes that ended in surgeries. And so when the ultrasound technician squirted the cold gel on my abdomen, I asked, "If this doesn't work out...." Thankfully, she interrupted me: "Let's see what's going on first." And what we saw was a beautifully growing baby, bringing its fingers to its forehead, performing what seemed to be somersaults. With a beautifully beating heart....at 12 weeks.
At 16 weeks, I feel much more energetic--hence my ability to pick up blogging once again (even as I won't make any guarantees that I'll get back into a regular groove). My blog, as you know, is called Grace Notes. I wanted this blog include my reflections on grace, as I think about grace almost all the time. And many times over the past nine months, I have asked myself, "Where has there been grace in my experience?" I am certain that my understanding of this will continue to evolve, but I will attempt (and this is only my first attempt at articulation) to describe my present understanding.
For my pastoral counseling class, I recently read Gerald Mays' Addiction and Grace. The late Mays was a psychiatrist and spiritual director who believed this about the human condition: we are all addicted. It is true that some of us have never been crippled by alcoholism or drug addiction, but Mays believes that addiction is nevertheless a disease that afflicts us all. Perhaps we are addicted to work, to stress, to our own negative self-image, to criticism, etc. But we are all addicted, standing in need of grace. What interested me most about Mays' book--in relation to my own experience of miscarriage-- is his view of how grace operates: when the addicted person ends an addictive behavior, he or she experiences a great sense of loss and emptiness, but it is precisely in that emptiness that a spaciousness is opened for the flow of grace. It is, indeed, an extremely painful space, but one of great potency. If any "addiction" was uncovered in my experience of miscarriage, it was an addiction to my sense of control, over my life and over my body. But the experience of loss--not only of my two hoped-for children--but of that control I thought I had, was extremely painful but nevertheless opened me to depths (especially in relationships) that I had not known. I won't expound on this except to say that one "change" within me is my growing sense of compassion for the millions of women who experience the pain of miscarriage and still, even today when there is so much more knowledge and awareness, do not feel that they can speak openly about their pain. Their pain gets silently buried within them, and they never experience any true healing.
Very sadly, some are told, again by well-meaning others, that they will "surely be able to have another child," when it's very possible that, in fact, they won't. What they need most, it seems to me, is the assurance not that they will have the child for which they so long but rather the assurance that they will be loved and cared for whatever befalls them.
What my own experience has deepened within me is my conviction that our experiences of pain and emptiness can be the crucible of transformation and new life. In a deeper way, I have come to see the "truth" of my Christian faith--the truth that darkness might always be pierced by light and that death is always transformed by new life. What I have just written is a far cry from the conventional wisdom (which often calls itself "Christian") that "Everything happens for a reason" or that our experiences of pain and loss are "part of God's plan." I am sorry to say that quite a few well-meaning people spoke these trite and unhelpful words to me when I shared my experience of miscarriage. First of all, from a strictly medical standpoint, I underwent a battery of tests after my second miscarriage that revealed no identifiable reason for my losses. The tissue showed no chromosomal abnormalities. I tested negative for lupus, diabetes, thrombophilia disorders, autoimmune disorders, etc. The medical reasons for my miscarriages might forever remain a mystery to me and to my very knowledgeable and thorough medical practitioners. Second, I do not and cannot believe that there is some deeper, theological "reason" that these miscarriages "had to happen." I do not and cannot believe that there is such a thing as a "God" who has some kind of master plan in which the details of our lives are already mapped out. My own sense of "God" is that this is simply a word used to describe the mysterious reality that in spite of and even in our experiences of loss and grief, the invitation to a deeper, fuller life seems to present itself so faithfully. "I came that they might have life and might have it more abundantly...." I guess the sad truth of our existence is that so often we fail to see, ignore, or even outright reject these invitations....
I am not sure that I have said all that I wish to say on this....and perhaps there are pieces of my thinking that have been left out....but as I mentioned above, this is the first articulation of what promises to be an evolving understanding.....
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The God of "Studies"
"Spacing babies close may raise autism risk," suggests a new, preliminary CA-based study, as reported by the Associated Press. A well-meaning acquaintance sent me the link earlier today. Her timing is always impeccable: she knows, but probably didn't reflect much (in her zeal for environmental studies), that my husband and I are trying (and trying and trying) to expand our family, but as many of you know, my body hasn't been cooperating. Did she consider, at all, that we are already feeling somewhat fearful and intensely anxious about having another baby? Perhaps I'm feeling a bit hypersensitive...and perhaps I shouldn't be surprised by my acquaintance's ways: this same person sent me the link, just days after I signed Aidan up for a swim class, to a "study" connecting asthma and children's exposure to pools. Great. Thanks.
These days, I meet fewer and fewer people who profess religious faith, and while I am a committed Christian, I accept that my religious path is just that: mine. Even when I taught about Christian faith at the middle and high school levels, I never expected my students to convert to my way of thinking. I only asked that they be open. Even more, I begged them to be critical. We need, more than ever, people who dare to be self-critical when it comes to matters of religious faith.
These days, I do meet many more people who have replaced religious faith with a more intense and more uncritical faith in "studies." They proclaim the findings of such "studies" with an unmatched zealotry, and they consider heretical any who are wary and dare to question such studies...until these same studies are replaced by....new studies. I am not at all suggesting that there isn't value in scientific research, in "studies." What I do reject is the uncritical dogmatism that sometimes accompanies them.
And never did I myself feel more intensely the pressure of converting to this god of "studies" until I learned, for the first time, that I was going to become a parent. It was then that I was sent (at least once a week, probably more) links to "studies" about autism, breastfeeding, ADD/ADHD, organic baby food, co-sleeping, vaccines, .........., .................., ............... In the end, none of these studies helped me to feel more confident, empowered, and free. Rather, they only contributed to my already potent mix of new parent anxiety and fear.
But if my own faith tradition has taught me anything, it's that this is how the false gods operate....
These days, I meet fewer and fewer people who profess religious faith, and while I am a committed Christian, I accept that my religious path is just that: mine. Even when I taught about Christian faith at the middle and high school levels, I never expected my students to convert to my way of thinking. I only asked that they be open. Even more, I begged them to be critical. We need, more than ever, people who dare to be self-critical when it comes to matters of religious faith.
These days, I do meet many more people who have replaced religious faith with a more intense and more uncritical faith in "studies." They proclaim the findings of such "studies" with an unmatched zealotry, and they consider heretical any who are wary and dare to question such studies...until these same studies are replaced by....new studies. I am not at all suggesting that there isn't value in scientific research, in "studies." What I do reject is the uncritical dogmatism that sometimes accompanies them.
And never did I myself feel more intensely the pressure of converting to this god of "studies" until I learned, for the first time, that I was going to become a parent. It was then that I was sent (at least once a week, probably more) links to "studies" about autism, breastfeeding, ADD/ADHD, organic baby food, co-sleeping, vaccines, .........., .................., ............... In the end, none of these studies helped me to feel more confident, empowered, and free. Rather, they only contributed to my already potent mix of new parent anxiety and fear.
But if my own faith tradition has taught me anything, it's that this is how the false gods operate....
Sunday, January 16, 2011
On Taking the MBTI
INFJ. According to the interpretive report of the Myers Briggs Type Indicator I recently took under the care of my spiritual director, INFJ is the "type" that best describes me. "I," indicating my tendency towards introversion; "N," indicating my preferred intuitive ways of perceiving; "F," revealing my tendency to base conclusions on feelings and relationships; and "J," indicating my preference for decisiveness and planfulness.
I decided to take the MBTI for the second time (the first time was when, as a high school student, I attended a Catholic youth leadership conference in Boston) for two reasons. First, I've been struggling to know better what my professional "next steps" should be. I have probably exhausted some of my friends, "testing" some of my vocational ideas on them. The latest? This week, I begin a course in Pastoral Counseling at Fordham, with the intention of matriculating in the program. Perhaps it will be everything I've been looking for...perhaps it won't. My work with a spiritual director (who is also quite skilled in career/vocational counseling) has helped me to get to this point, and the MBTI is one test that she is qualified to administer and interpret. The second reason I took the MBTI is because it can be a very powerful tool for spiritual growth. And no matter where I am in my life (confident in my chosen vocational path/lost amid the many options, married/single, etc.), I am always called to grow. Maturity is never a final destination. The spirit can always become more expansive.
So a few months ago, I was given a test that took a little less than one hour to complete. There were a series of questions that I was instructed to answer "naturally," "without thinking too hard." Once completed, I mailed the test to an agency that would "score" the report and return it to my Director, who would then help me to understand its results. Last week, for about an hour, my Director and I unpacked the results.
I'm an INFJ. I am not at all surprised by this. When I took the Myers Briggs in high school, and was identified as tending towards "introversion," I was bothered by this identification. In fact, my high school self started to cry (?!?)--I guess this was because I wanted to be more gregarious. I wanted to be the "social butterfly" who was at ease with groups and who could inititate conversations. But deep down I knew that I preferred more intimate relationships (which actually take a lot of time for me to cultivate), that I was reflective and needed a significant amount of quiet time and space, and that I am far more reserved than I let on. I wasn't surprised, further, that I tend to focus on the abstract and conceptual, the "big picture," sometimes at the expense of the concrete and sensible. Even as I wasn't surprised by these things, I was grateful for this opportunity to deepen my self-knowledge and to grow in self-acceptance.
But what I was surprised to discover, with the help of my Spiritual Director, was that spiritual growth involves not simply the acceptance of who I really am (the ways in which I tend to perceive things, the ways I tend to make decisions, etc.). It requires a kind of "dabbling" in those ways towards which I am not inclined--not a betrayal of self, but an expansion of self. The thinker behind the MBTI (although he wasn't its author) was Jung, whose work emphasized human wholeness. Thus, while I am a "planful" person who prefers routine and order, I might do well to allow for some open-endedness and sponteneity. While I am an "imaginative" person who loves the conceptual and abstract, I would do well to dabble a bit in the concrete and the practical.
My husband, John, has agreed to take the test as well. The MBTI, when administered and interpreted properly, might very well be a great tool for couples, who have their own "ways" but must learn to love, live and work with one another. I look forward to discovering more about him and learning to grow with him.
And I'd recommend it for you, too. At the very, very least, it's a fun way to spend a few hours, especially in these winter months, when we all are so longing for new life and light....
I decided to take the MBTI for the second time (the first time was when, as a high school student, I attended a Catholic youth leadership conference in Boston) for two reasons. First, I've been struggling to know better what my professional "next steps" should be. I have probably exhausted some of my friends, "testing" some of my vocational ideas on them. The latest? This week, I begin a course in Pastoral Counseling at Fordham, with the intention of matriculating in the program. Perhaps it will be everything I've been looking for...perhaps it won't. My work with a spiritual director (who is also quite skilled in career/vocational counseling) has helped me to get to this point, and the MBTI is one test that she is qualified to administer and interpret. The second reason I took the MBTI is because it can be a very powerful tool for spiritual growth. And no matter where I am in my life (confident in my chosen vocational path/lost amid the many options, married/single, etc.), I am always called to grow. Maturity is never a final destination. The spirit can always become more expansive.
So a few months ago, I was given a test that took a little less than one hour to complete. There were a series of questions that I was instructed to answer "naturally," "without thinking too hard." Once completed, I mailed the test to an agency that would "score" the report and return it to my Director, who would then help me to understand its results. Last week, for about an hour, my Director and I unpacked the results.
I'm an INFJ. I am not at all surprised by this. When I took the Myers Briggs in high school, and was identified as tending towards "introversion," I was bothered by this identification. In fact, my high school self started to cry (?!?)--I guess this was because I wanted to be more gregarious. I wanted to be the "social butterfly" who was at ease with groups and who could inititate conversations. But deep down I knew that I preferred more intimate relationships (which actually take a lot of time for me to cultivate), that I was reflective and needed a significant amount of quiet time and space, and that I am far more reserved than I let on. I wasn't surprised, further, that I tend to focus on the abstract and conceptual, the "big picture," sometimes at the expense of the concrete and sensible. Even as I wasn't surprised by these things, I was grateful for this opportunity to deepen my self-knowledge and to grow in self-acceptance.
But what I was surprised to discover, with the help of my Spiritual Director, was that spiritual growth involves not simply the acceptance of who I really am (the ways in which I tend to perceive things, the ways I tend to make decisions, etc.). It requires a kind of "dabbling" in those ways towards which I am not inclined--not a betrayal of self, but an expansion of self. The thinker behind the MBTI (although he wasn't its author) was Jung, whose work emphasized human wholeness. Thus, while I am a "planful" person who prefers routine and order, I might do well to allow for some open-endedness and sponteneity. While I am an "imaginative" person who loves the conceptual and abstract, I would do well to dabble a bit in the concrete and the practical.
My husband, John, has agreed to take the test as well. The MBTI, when administered and interpreted properly, might very well be a great tool for couples, who have their own "ways" but must learn to love, live and work with one another. I look forward to discovering more about him and learning to grow with him.
And I'd recommend it for you, too. At the very, very least, it's a fun way to spend a few hours, especially in these winter months, when we all are so longing for new life and light....
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Marriage and the Self
In the NYT's Week In Review Section, there is a piece on marriage, curiously titled "The Happy Marriage is the 'Me' Marriage." The marriages that are most likely to last, "studies" show, are those in which each partner experiences "self-expansion" through the relationship with her/his partner. "For centuries, marriage was viewed as an economic and social institution, and the emotional and intellectual needs of the spouses were secondary to the survival of the marriage itself. But in modern relationships, people are looking for a partnership, and they want partners who make their life more interesting." Some of the relationship researchers quoted in the article insist that "while the notion of self-expansion may sound inherently self-serving, it can lead to stronger, more sustainable relationships."
Ok, I "get" what the researchers are trying to say. It's exceptionally important not to "lose oneself" in a marriage, and in fact, attention to and care for one's needs is an essential ingredient in a healthy relationship. But I have to admit that the article--and especially its title, which is what many will remember--made me feel a bit uncomfortable. I worry that too strong an emphasis on "self-expansion," and crudely put, "the me-marriage" might not ultimately contribute to its sustainability. Rather, I suspect that it might contribute to some prevalent ideas about marriage that are, in fact, destructive to it.
One of my favorite books is A Daring Promise: A Spirituality of Christian Marriage, by Richard Gaillardetz., a theologian at the University of Toledo. In one very interesting chapter, focused on "Marriage and Conversion," Gaillardetz mentions a university colleague who begins his course on marriage in the following way: "'It is a fundamental axiom of marriage that we always marry the wrong person.'" He intends, of course, to shock his hearers into attention, but his basic insight is that as marriage progresses, some "basic marital expectations and relational needs [will] go unmet." This is to be expected and is quite natural, but we tend not to want to let go of the myth that there is such a person, "the one," who can fulifll our every need. As a result, we sometimes end up convincing ourselves that we've made a mistake. This feeling is exacerbated when a third party, who seems to possess the qualities we find missing in our partners, enters the scene. Granted, Gaillardetz is not saying that we shouldn't look for an interesting partner or hope that our chosen partners will help to expand our world, but what he does emphasize, and what is left entirely out of the picture in the above-referenced NYT piece, is this "steely-eyed. understanding" of the nature of marriage, and indeed all relationships. No one person can fulfill all of our needs--that is a fact. But we expect this, even if unconsiously, of our marriage partners. But most often, the source of unhappiness in our relationships lies not in our spouses but within ourselves. Gaillardetz suggests that it is precisely in the moments when we feel, deeply, the "wrongness" of our partners that the possibilities for personal growth and transformation arise. Gaillardetz would most definitely agree that marriage can be the source of "self-expansion," but the self-expansion of which he writes is of a very different kind, I think.
Further, should it really be said that the "happy" marriage is the "me" marriage? As if we don't already pay enough attention to "me," one of the great gods of our culture? My feminist leanings caution me against too strong an emphasis on self-sacrifice in relationships (historically, women have too often sacrificed themselves in entire and unhealthy ways for the sake of their husbands and children, and we are right to emphasize mutuality in relationships); however, culturally, we seem to have lost--to our detriment, I think-- a sense of the importance, even necessity, of sacrifice--in relationships...in just about everything. I have been married two and a half years, so I am obviously a novice, but I've learned from happy veterans of marriage that there are so many times when the "me" must be secondary to the "us."
Marriage is a very "fragile bond," as one writer called it (one of the best recent films which illustrates just how fragile it is, especially when the social supports for it are weak is The Kids Are All Right--I encourage you to see it). But I'm often frustrated by the facile findings of relationship "experts." Such a fragile bond, I think, requires much more wisdom than they are capable of offering.
Ok, I "get" what the researchers are trying to say. It's exceptionally important not to "lose oneself" in a marriage, and in fact, attention to and care for one's needs is an essential ingredient in a healthy relationship. But I have to admit that the article--and especially its title, which is what many will remember--made me feel a bit uncomfortable. I worry that too strong an emphasis on "self-expansion," and crudely put, "the me-marriage" might not ultimately contribute to its sustainability. Rather, I suspect that it might contribute to some prevalent ideas about marriage that are, in fact, destructive to it.
One of my favorite books is A Daring Promise: A Spirituality of Christian Marriage, by Richard Gaillardetz., a theologian at the University of Toledo. In one very interesting chapter, focused on "Marriage and Conversion," Gaillardetz mentions a university colleague who begins his course on marriage in the following way: "'It is a fundamental axiom of marriage that we always marry the wrong person.'" He intends, of course, to shock his hearers into attention, but his basic insight is that as marriage progresses, some "basic marital expectations and relational needs [will] go unmet." This is to be expected and is quite natural, but we tend not to want to let go of the myth that there is such a person, "the one," who can fulifll our every need. As a result, we sometimes end up convincing ourselves that we've made a mistake. This feeling is exacerbated when a third party, who seems to possess the qualities we find missing in our partners, enters the scene. Granted, Gaillardetz is not saying that we shouldn't look for an interesting partner or hope that our chosen partners will help to expand our world, but what he does emphasize, and what is left entirely out of the picture in the above-referenced NYT piece, is this "steely-eyed. understanding" of the nature of marriage, and indeed all relationships. No one person can fulfill all of our needs--that is a fact. But we expect this, even if unconsiously, of our marriage partners. But most often, the source of unhappiness in our relationships lies not in our spouses but within ourselves. Gaillardetz suggests that it is precisely in the moments when we feel, deeply, the "wrongness" of our partners that the possibilities for personal growth and transformation arise. Gaillardetz would most definitely agree that marriage can be the source of "self-expansion," but the self-expansion of which he writes is of a very different kind, I think.
Further, should it really be said that the "happy" marriage is the "me" marriage? As if we don't already pay enough attention to "me," one of the great gods of our culture? My feminist leanings caution me against too strong an emphasis on self-sacrifice in relationships (historically, women have too often sacrificed themselves in entire and unhealthy ways for the sake of their husbands and children, and we are right to emphasize mutuality in relationships); however, culturally, we seem to have lost--to our detriment, I think-- a sense of the importance, even necessity, of sacrifice--in relationships...in just about everything. I have been married two and a half years, so I am obviously a novice, but I've learned from happy veterans of marriage that there are so many times when the "me" must be secondary to the "us."
Marriage is a very "fragile bond," as one writer called it (one of the best recent films which illustrates just how fragile it is, especially when the social supports for it are weak is The Kids Are All Right--I encourage you to see it). But I'm often frustrated by the facile findings of relationship "experts." Such a fragile bond, I think, requires much more wisdom than they are capable of offering.
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