Reflections on African Women's Theology - On Religion and Health 2

Some reflections on readings for seminary class: Global Theologies of Women of Color 

African Women, Religion, and Health Ch. 9-13

Ch. 9 – “Women Poverty, and HIV in Zimbabwe: An Exploration of Inequalities in Health Care” by Sophia Chirongoma

Chirongoma introduces the reader to the reality of living in Zimbabwe as the health of its citizens is threatened by poverty, insufficient health services, malnourishment, and the continuous spread of HIV/AIDS. She calls upon the church to provide the presence of God and Jesus in the lives of those suffering. She suggests they emphasize sharing one another’s burdens and “seeking corporately to correct injustices that deny access to health care or food security for the poor” (184). My favorite part of her theological reflection was her Christology for women. “Women and all those who suffer from deprivation should find encouragement and consolation in Jesus as the caring compassionate healer who is outraged by the injustices of poverty, violence, inequality, and sickness” (183). Having read Carroll Watkins Ali’s Survival and Liberation this week, I see similar themes of survival and liberation within the stories of these African women. , I’m thinking about the Christology Watkins Ali lifts up from Jacquelyn Grant’s work. The Christ who saves souls is inadequate for people in the midst of suffering. Jesus must be made real through not only being a compassionate healer, but also a co-sufferer. Chirongoma calls the church in Zimbabwe to represent such Christology. Just as in Watkins Ali and Grant’s work, pastoral care and church care in such settings is not only to ease the physical suffering, but to accompany and walk with those who suffer

Ch. 10 “Women and Peacemaking: The Challenge of a Non-Violent Life” by Susan Rakoczy, IHM

Evelyn Underhill became an inspiration to me during my own time in the wilderness, rediscovering what my faith and God looked outside of my fundamentalist and harmful upbringing. She intrigued me on many levels, but mostly the pursuit of spiritual and theological understanding on her own terms. The way Rackczy summarizes Underhill’s transformation into pacificism exemplifies what I continue to admire about her. Seeing faith life as a journey, a process that is ever unfolding as our own self-realization develops was transformative to me and helped me return to Christianity. Without her influence, one that wasn’t only cognitive nor only affective, but both, I probably would have never entered seminary. Pacifism is a concept that I struggle with and cannot claim as my own, despite, admiring so much of its goals. I struggle with it because pacifism would not participate in the culture and society, the capitalistic systems within which I live. I cannot claim to be a pacifist if I participate in the structural destruction of others.

Ch.  13 "Navigating Experiences of Healing: A Narrative Theology of Eschatological Hope as Healing" by Fulata Lusungu Moyo

Such a beautiful piece, one with depth of expression combined with theological thinking. Moyo and I disagree upon some fundamental metaphysics, about the nature of God and creation, but the conclusion we get to is similar… healing takes on multiple forms and we may or may not have control over the form of healing that takes place. I would love to hear more of her musings about prayer and  faith healing vs. miracles. She summarized the premise of chaplaincy and chaplain training in pastoral care when she speculated what kind of healing, what kind of prayer would Solomon have requested if they had only thought to ask. Death is a communal event in some ways, but it is also a personal journey, one that is taken alone, or at least, between God and person. As a hospice chaplain, I’ve helped many people who believe in faith healing and miracles process what it means when death still comes. It is not easy and definitely shakes up faith in God, but mostly faith in oneself. I see myself giving this article to people who struggle in similar ways, to see how one woman processes such a journey.

Reflections on African Women's Theology - On Religion and Health 1

Some reflections on readings for seminary class: Global Theologies of Women of Color 

African Women, Religion, and Health Ch. 4-6

From the beginning of this reading, I was reminded of our class discussion last week and previous weeks as well. Sarojini Nadar quotes Teresa Okure in the beginning of her essay, describing the unique style of theological study for African women, whose “primary consciousness in doing theology is not method, but life and life concerns- their own and those of their own peoples” (78). These readings are striking contrasts to the political philosophy I’m reading in Cosmopolitan Theology and the history of Pastoral Theology in another class. In fact, after discussing last night Homer Ashby’s Our Home Is Over Jordan: A Black Pastoral Theology (2003), I Nadar’s concern that scholars are just not GETTING it when it comes to truly liberating the texts of the bible. Ashby tries to reimagine the exodus story in new ways for African American Christians to rally together in solidarity. While an admirable exercise and a compelling book in other ways, his deconstruction of the biblical text lacks depth when addressing the displacement and genocide of the Canaanite people. The stark honesty that the African women theologians are demonstrating needs to be heard by more academics, by people who influence the ministers and churches that live out the interpreted example of these texts. Women who experience, witness, and anticipate misogyny, sexual violence, abuse of body and of mind, NEED to have the troubling texts of the bible addressed. Women NEED teachers demonstrating that the Bible is not just for the oppressor. The stories of the bible relate to their lives and speak to each of them in their experience.

I loved how each chapter begins with a re-telling/re-imagining of a biblical text. My initial reaction to Chapter 5’s opening poem surprised me. I realized that my Americanized (and patriarchal) image of Psalm 23 always implies Jesus as the representative of God, the Shepherd. To see the entire psalm retold, lifting up the incarnation of God’s love and care within another, within a woman scholar, took me off guard. But once I got over that reaction, and the bits of shame that my fundamentalist upbringing still influences my perspective, I LOVED it. Now I want to use that psalm to lift up so many other women (and men) who have shepherded me as representatives of God’s love and care.

Related to Chapter 6, I contemplated my role as healer of souls. As a chaplain, I greatly appreciate the concept of a ritual of cleansing and healing after traumatic violence and violation of rape. I wonder how US culture receives such ideas. I am concerned, though not surprised, that men who act so violently are allowed to participate in the regular life of the church, village, and country without any need for cleansing or healing. While women need ways to process and heal from violence and domination out of their control, the dis-ease of the people continues to fester and grow if society does not see the  need for men to heal and reconcile this within themselves.

Reflections on African Women's Theology - On Passionate Compassion

Some reflections on readings for seminary class: Global Theologies of Women of Color

With Passion and Compassion

I loved this reading. To hear so many different voices whose passion shines through is inspiring. The power of the words of these women scholars derives from the wisdom acquired through marginalization, suffering, even abuse. To hear one proclaim hope in a future free from suffering when she, herself, is suffocating within a reality of oppression, is to hear the Christ-event incarnated, to hear the prophets of God call us to solidarity.

So many quotes stand out, but the opening page of the first essay, “Church Women of Africa: A Theological Community”, describes the situation of the church so succinctly. “The Christian church has suffered and is suffering from a growing cultural alienation because evangelization has not been that of cultural exchange but of cultural domination or assimilation” (3). I knew from that quote, these women, speaking from their own unique worldview, are prophets to the entire Christian world and that I would learn much from their wisdom. At first, the premise of the book to base a Woman’s theology of the church upon the Bible made me uncomfortable. I grew up in a fundamentalist misogynistic church that “claimed”, as so many evangelical churches do, to be directly inspired by the bible. But later, the authors explain that the source of theologizing is not only the Bible, but that “revelation has to be interpreted and applied to our contemporary situations and experiences,” including the particular experience of women (8).

In the second essay, by Dorothy Ramodibe, she posits that women and men cannot work together to build a church based upon the examples of the past and the structures that keep women suffering inequality and injustice. Ramodibe asks “Which church are we building?...Women want to change the church and not simply “improve” it. Women want liberation of the church from men” (15). And, “men also need liberation from their prejudices of masculinity” (20).

Therese Souga, in the third essay on the view of African women on Christ, writes “Christ is the true Human, the one who makes it possible for all persons to reach fulfillment and to overcome the historic alienations weighing them down” (22). This Christology describes a limitless hope for not only personal transformation, but also community transformation. “False images of women persist in the church in Africa and in turn produce certain negative kinds of behavior. Should not Christology question these images in order to question the real situation of African women and subject it to a critical examination in the light of Jesus Christ?” (25). Christology should not just be about confession of faith and forgiveness of sins, it must use the model Jesus provides as a lens through which to look at our everyday lives, to witness, name, and act upon injustice.

            As we continue to reflect upon the influence of women theologians in church and academia, I am inspired to approach each reflection, each project, with the zeal and love for God and God’s vision for the world that these faithful scholars demonstrate.

Reflections on African Women's Theology - On Mercy Amba Oduyoye

Daughters of Anowa: African Women and Patriarchy

by Mercy Amba Oduyoye   Second Half

In chapter 6 of Daughters of Anowa, Mercy Oduyoye says “The framework of patriarchy is constructed on many pillars. Each requires scrutiny, but patriarchy itself is defective and must be torn down” (153). Within the second half of her book, Oduyoye looks at several of those pillars, including the impact of Western ideology’s influence upon patriarchy. She says “ Traditional norms are enforced whenever they serve to silence women, reduce or eliminate their voices. My observation is that these traditional systems have been strengthened by Western patriarchal structures as national governments and institutions have been formed” (151). The horrific irony of this is exasperated by the prevalence of customary law and ambivalence to civil law. Civil law, constructed from Western models, is limited by lack of provision for important existing structures in Akan society, such as polygyny. Marriage and inheritance for children are often adversely affected by interference of misaligned civil law (161-162). Another angle of patriarchy are the oppressive expectations on African women. Oduyoye says “To expect women to uphold all that is humanizing in African culture and yet deny their participation in the politics of family and nation is like asking them to make bricks without straw (171).

The essay "A Coming Home to Myself: The Childless Woman in teh West Africa Space" which is in the tribute to Letty Russell, is another example of the rich prose with which Oduyoye writes. She shares her personal experience of internalized oppression and shame of the familial and cultural expectations for childbearing and most importantly her journey to acceptance and affirmation of God’s love and call for her life, a call without biological children, but with great potential for creative generation of life. Our reading of this article stems from a question I asked in class about how to care pastorally for women within such a communally driven identity. Dr. Mombo responded graciously, replying that the individual’s experience of pain and suffering is always there and suggested this article as an example. I’m looking forward to discussion in class about this essay. Oduyoye describes thoroughly the despair and grief she lived with during her reproductive years and shares her testimony of grace and healing coming from God, from a specific experience as well as from her theological construction. I wonder, then, what her advice to African ministers and women elders who counsel women would be.

The ambiguity of reproductive potential and reality of infertility are at odds within a woman’s experience. Female autonomy means that we are told we choose whether we want to have children or not. But, in a society that views the choice of childlessness as abnormal, how much choice do we really have in our desires? I envy my friends who have come to the decision to be childfree due to a genuine desire to not have kids. My soul longs for that level of confirmation. But, instead, I am left with fibroids, in a similar way as Mercy, and thanks to access to more testing ability than the actual medical understanding of what’s going on, I am aware of multiple chronic conditions contributing to infertility and access to only vaguely understood interventions that did not work. My passion for reproductive concerns stems from my own experience… one that includes walking down state-assisted hallways with limited access to care as well as walking down privatized hallways with access limited only to your checkbook and your privileges in society. Both were hallways of shame, fear, and grief. 

1980s Transitions in Pastoral Care: Smith and the Relational Self

Reflections upon 

The Relational Self: Ethics & therapy from a Black church perspective by Archie Smith (1982)

Dr. Smith is a retired professor of pastoral psychology and counseling from PSR. While his training began in theology and ministry, his studies and work expanded to include psychology. He shares much of his context in Chapter 1. The way he shares shows signs of the self-reflexive exercises of his clinical training. He focuses on parental relationships and experiences within his ministry and work. But he also treads into interesting territory as he shares just a glimpse of the social and historical context of his experiences, which is the point of the book, but I imagine is also breaking into new territory in 1982. Smith identifies himself as neorothodox theology and pastoral care in 1966, but also informed of psychological perspectives that enhanced such a view (35).

Question 2: Pastoral Identity within the Text

Smith argues for several identities for the Black Church, and thus the Black pastor, arguing these identities are relevant to all forms of church and ministers. As he names them, I imagine these are the ideals to which he aspires and desires for his students.

One way he organizes his thoughts about pastoral identity is through the idea of Paradigms I, II, and III. Paradigm I encourages the individualized, privatized, personal salvation of most of contemporary American Christian groups (41). This leads pastors and churches to focus on internal sins, struggles, without complex analysis of social systems. (Smith quotes Ruether on page 49). Paradigm II makes ministry politically aware, socially active, and oriented to changing the systems; it is often expressed by rescuing the victims of social oppression (43). The role of church and pastor becomes one of a mediating structure between society and personal experience. Paradigm III ministry emphasizes the interconnectedness of the web of life, recognizes the social-intentional character of the agent, all aiming toward justice in relation to one another (53). Within the discussion of the three paradigms, Smith names multiple identities for Black churches. Some highlights are:

Mediating structure between individual and society (44)

Psychic support to people while advocating social change

Prophetic voice to injustice (46)

Supporting moral vision of people

Empowering them to transform social structures

Source for transcendent values.

In Chapter 2, Smith lists the historical role of the Black preacher as “bringer of glad tidings, a spiritual and psychological healer, the interpreter of the Unknown, the comforter in times of sorrow, the one who gives voice and picturesquely expresses the longings, disappointments, and resentments of a stolen and oppressed people” (76).

In Chapter 4, Smith posits that Black therapists must be intentional to include social and historical context within their reflexive practice. “The context is operative whether the black therapist or client chooses to recognize it or not” (98). The combined effect of race, gender, class, and other oppressions within social experience should be acknowledged. He also suggests that therapy of “black consciousness selfhood includes acceptance of one’s self and others, respect and self-determination, self-initiation, and responsibility for one’s own life. This implies affirmation, integration, and transformation of the symbol “blackness” (105). While not directly stating so, Smith’s description can be applied as a goal for Black churches, as they continue to fulfill the role of a therapeutic institution. A minister’s role, therefore, as trained in both theology and therapy, would be to empower and foster identity development that challenges and transcends societal norms.

I feel the book would benefit from further extrapolation about Smith’s view of a Christian Black liberation ethic. I found myself left with lots of questions about the practical application of such an ethic. While I skimmed Chapter 8 to see if he applied it in the Jonestown case study, I wonder if more could have been done. It seems that a model of care based on therapy and ethics should describe more clearly how the moral objective of freedom is enacted. I also am struggling to pinpoint the places of departure between his theology and my own. I sense that Smith is or similar to an Open Theist or Free Will Theist, which shares many aspects of process thought, but maintains an all-powerful supernatural (or perhaps 19th century natural) God. This thought of God is often used within neoorthodox liberation theologies and helps many connect their modern scientific understanding and postmodern relativism with more traditional theological language. It is not convincing for my own theological ponderings, as I feel there is still a layer of false consciousness, or perhaps cognitive dissonance, within such a model. But the science education most people obtain within dominant structural systems does not encourage expansion beyond a modernist perspective. I find it interesting that liberation theologies use Marx, or in this case, Mead, who were raised theists, but whose philosophies were not. It seems inserting assumptions about God’s nature into a philosophy without God can produce many points of tension. Those tensions, however, do provoke intriguing questions and do disrupt/disturb/push the oppressive structural systems.

Upon further digging, George Herbert Mead, his primary source for the development of the relational self, is a contemporary of Whitehead and they influenced each other’s thoughts and language in compelling ways. What is interesting to me about Mead and Smith’s use of him is the focus on psychological and social behavior. I’m also curious about how the development of thought in the 1930s contributed to the social/academic atmosphere of later decades. Did the work of these philosophers reflect the work within society’s thought process that eventually led to the civil rights movement and feminist activism of the 60s/70s… or perhaps did their contributions pave the way for more serious reflection and openness to include silenced voices at the table? I’m not claiming that the path to today’s academia was premeditated or that there wasn’t open hostility towards those who pushed us towards it. However, these minds were poking holes all over modernity… before World War Two, before the Holocaust. If time travel ever becomes possible, I’d love to listen to the conversations brewing. 

Embracing my difference and celebrating yours

In the early 1990s, when I was 16, I participated in a youth leadership training to be a part of a “Multicultural Panel”. From what I can remember, the training was developed by Friends University and included a day or two long workshop that assisted youth to contemplate, describe, and learn about their own cultural experience. Say what?! Learn about your own culture first? Yep. Our job was to be able to ad-lib a 2-3 minute talk on our culture and respond to questions by the audience about the various cultural experiences of the panel. At each presentation, the panel would represent about 5-6 types of cultural diversity including race, gender, class, and physical abilities.

My expectation of the class was to learn about everybody else’s culture, because what did I, a white girl from Kansas, have to contribute? My culture was The Andy Griffith Show mixed with Full House sitcoms. I entered with the assumption that my culture was so overexposed to be non-existent. I felt guilt and shame for being part of the privileged masses. It took quite a while and some petulant teenage angst to acknowledge that my cultural experience had complexity and value. Instead of asking the privileged white kids how they are scared of or adapt to differences, the facilitators taught us how to name our own value in a way that did not de-value someone else. Not only did I learn positive and enriching language and conversation skills, I also learned listening and interrelational skills with those different than me. I discovered solidarity in a group not because of race, gender, class, but because of a common openness and ideal. I learned more about stereotypes and assumptions within myself, groups, and society than I had in any other context. I also shed much of the shame of my own differences, whether as a representative of the majority, of geeky science girls, or of children living with poverty. Before, I saw the community I grew up in as boring and my identity in it as a freckled Irish/German American Kansas girl with glasses as being a dime a dozen. I valued any difference from my normative experience as more valid, interesting, and meaningful. I felt invisible.

What I discovered is that my peers had never had bierocks and had no idea what a Volga German was. I learned that my family history mattered and that I knew very little of it. And as I worked on reforming my family and cultural narrative, I discovered my family history had experiences of marginalization and oppression, some not so long ago. I realized that I had embraced the caricatures created by St. Patrick’s Day and Oktoberfest without truly understanding my own heritage. My family was no longer an assimilated melting pot with no cultural identity but what the media promotes. I no longer fell for the biggest lie our society and media feeds us.

In 1881, Irish caricature:

from: http://irishmemory.blogspot.com/2013/01/irish-industries-cartoon-1881.html

 

2012, t-shirt:

from: http://irishamericanheritagemonth.com/why-we-need-irish-american-heritage-month-the-2012-winner-of-the-know-nothing-award/

 

 

 

found on: http://imgur.com/gallery/FXugjVI

 

The experience with that Multicultural Panel revealed I was connected to and a part of a universal, global, human story expressed in unique communities and individuals. By embracing my own difference, I realized that my neighbor’s difference was valuable as well. I cannot claim that I embraced my value as a female so young. In fact, I kind of ignored it as long as possible. However, a first step to understanding occurred there.

This reflection bubbled up while preparing for my re-entry into academia. As I read essays that repeatedly stereotype European American and Western thought, I felt the resurgence of guilt and shame for being lumped into such a category. There is more discomfort while reading these pages than I thought there would be. Who am I supposed to identify with if I am a complex unique individual who exists with both privilege and marginalization?  Perhaps if we even have one area we feel tossed aside, not important, or directly attacked, we should be able to recognize a similar struggle in someone else. Even if our struggles do not match in content or even degree of oppression, perhaps there is still a way for us to relate to, sympathize with, and value each other.  

I have many other thoughts related to this, including pre and post modernity and caricatures of scientific thought, gender value, and how can this white woman learn about her heritage and history of women and pastoral care in the church and society.

The Shaping of the Hollowness of Me

Mother Wisdom Speaks

by Christine Lore Webber

Some of you I will hollow out.

I will make you a cave.

I will make you so deep the stars will shine in your darkness.
You will be a bowl.
You will be the cup in the rock collecting rain.

I will hollow you out with knives.

I will not do this to make you clean.
I will not do this to make you pure.
You are clean already.
You are pure already.

I will do this because the world needs the hollowness of you.

I will do this for the space that you will be.
I will do this because you must be large.
A bowl.
People will eat from you and their hunger
will not weaken them unto death.
A cup to catch the sacred rain.

 My daughter, do not cry.

Do not be afraid.
Nothing you need will be lost.
I am shaping you.
I am making you ready.

Light will glow in your hollowing.

You will be filled with light.
Your bones will shine.
The round, open center of you will be radiant.

I will call you Brilliant One.

I will call you Daughter Who Is Wide.
I will call you Transformed.

 

As I travel through the tangled experience of deep grief, I’ve been trying to find the words to describe how it feels to be healing and transforming. Even as I talk to others about the experience, the words sound so trite and hollow, the words that mean nothing when the grief is still raw, the words that at one time seemed they could not be true.

Society has long attempted to marginalize and set apart the darkness of spiritual life. Grief, despair, anger, and fear are the antithesis of a good spiritual life, experiences to overcome and conquer. There is great irony within the postmodern experience that the aspects of religion we judge as harmful are also the places within our souls we hide and deny. So often we talk of a death denying culture, but really, it is a darkness denying culture. Sterilize, deodorize, and bleach out the parts we don’t want to acknowledge. Yet, no matter how much detergent we apply, it cannot eliminate the fundamental life experience. Every time I’ve peered deep into the looking glass to understand the source of my dark emotions, the same area appears. A shadow of darkness that is a subconscious certainty I am nothing, I am useless, worthless, unloveable, and unredeemable, a certainty that I deserve all the suffering in my life. There was a time that I considered this shadow to be a remnant of learned behavior and definitions of self I blamed on misogynistic harmful religion. But the thing is, this inherent sense of suffering is not unique to one religion. It is not even unique to one philosophy or culture. Across the globe and throughout time, humanity describes these same feelings of worthlessness and a sense that suffering is inevitable, deserved, even destined. I no longer am certain these are learned ideas.

Within the realm of progressive postmodern thought, so many want to skip ahead to the joy and peace and rainbows. In fact, progressive social activists will ridicule those who embrace theologies that try to explain suffering, claiming that to explain the origin of suffering, intentionally or not, causes harm. For us, suffering is something to deal with, cope with, handle and manage. The resulting emotions of grief, despair, anger and fear are byproducts of an unhealthy spirit, of not “handling” the suffering well.

This just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. It does not make sense to cut off and deny a good portion, even half, of my own human experience as pointless. What are the options, though? On one hand, I cannot really say anymore that suffering is pointless or meaningless. However, when I try to say there is a reason for my suffering and attempt to explain it, I fall flat on my face.

Ultimately, there is a mystery in the spaces of meaning making. There is a limitation to our ability to communicate and reason through the human experience. I want to pull it apart, observe and describe this space, but it so often eludes me. The attempts by others often bring me comfort, however. For over a decade the poem shared above has aided me and reflects how I desire to see the space of suffering and meaning.

 

Peace to you for Christmas

pray peace by Cheryl Lawrie

peace does not always come in the shape of a baby
in a season that abounds with fertile miracles
pray peace for those for whom every breathless, wondrous mention
of babies born
will bring only unspeakable pain.
pray peace for the Elizabeths who will not get pregnant,
for whom no miracle will occur, at any age
who know themselves only as cursed.
pray peace for the Marys who are pregnant and who do not want to be
for whom every movement inside is a reminder of fear and despair.
pray peace for the Marys whose partners say ‘no’.
pray peace for the Rachels whose babies have died
and whose cries will go unheard
in the clamour of christmas bells and carols.
and pray peace for the unnamed women
whose stories are not spoken out loud in the bible
the women who ended pregnancies
the women who miscarried
the women who will never have the chance to have children
pray peace for the women for whom this Christmas story is only a reminder
of the inadequacy
and failure,
the grief
and the guilt,
they feel every month.
peace does not always come in the shape of a baby.
peace does not always come in the shape of a baby.

Re-Gifting the Spark: A Theology of Co-Creation for the Infertile

My last entry described a process I went through after a moment of grief I had upon watching the movie Brave. That moment not only helped me to let go of some of my guilt for stopping fertility treatments, it also helped me contemplate how to find my place as a co-creator when my body cannot create life. It is a question about identity, but it is larger than gender or sexual identity.

The reason I love the images of co-creation in theology is that it is active, life affirming yet in an empowering way, not one of dogma and doctrine. Many popular theologies are passive, waiting for or learning how something or someone acts and interpreting how we should react. My identity as a co-creator with God, as a crucial part of creation but also only one piece of an infinite puzzle, means that I am actively seeking my way in the world, actively seeking meaning and purpose, and also actively living my faith, promoting the goodness I desire to see in the world. What challenges this type of theology is in the more corporeal aspects of creation, the primal and practical aspects of survival in a very vibrant and visceral world. The desire to conceive and birth new life is about as primal and visceral as it gets.

For some people facing infertility, it is enough to realize that they are redirecting their love and energy towards raising adopted children as their own. Or at least that is what people tell me I should feel, so I assume someone must take comfort in it somewhere.

 On that night of cogitation, I berated myself, asking why I couldn't just let go of the birth obsession and focus on how I could love and raise some of the beautiful children in the world? Surely  it is a simple answer for a disciple of Christ, a minister whose life's work is to help reduce suffering in the world. Does it really matter if my children have my DNA or someone else's? Of course not. But…. I still feel betrayed. I still feel like my identity was snatched away from me.  I am not alright with God.

  If God is the ultimate Creator of all life and I'm made in the image of that, why is it I cannot create life and others can? If that is the truth, then I must be flawed, broken, and not truly in the image of God. Is that punishment? Is that deliberate so I make sure to realize that God holds all the power  and I'm really powerless?

Either way, I'm not convinced that the phrase "made in the image of God" really explains who we are or who God is. What I do believe is that our ability to be creative, unique, and complex reflects how creative, unique, and complex the entire universe is.

So, here I am, a person who will not conceive life in my own body. Let's imagine that the potential for life is within me; that potential is creative energy. Yes, I can redirect my creative energy to other forms of creating, such as writing. Yes, that creative energy can be directed towards other relationships and the creation of bonds between myself and others. But how can any of those compare to the energy and process of creating life? I don't believe they are even close. Yes, it all has value, but we must acknowledge the unique and complex process of creating life and the sacredness of such creativity. We cannot deny that all life is sacred and that the ability to create it is sacred as well.

 My undergraduate studies were in biology, especially biochemistry and developmental biology. I spent a lot of time contemplating the origin of life, how life evolved, and wanting to understand the mystery of existence as a sentient living being. My questions were not always so popular to my scientific-minded professors and  I discovered that the fundamentalist church I grew up in is not the only population to live with cognitive dissonance.

 I mention all this because when I studied biology and biochemistry, it fed my desire to understand and revel in the mysteries of life as a creative and distinctive process. It laid the foundation for my understanding of who we are and how we relate to God and the world. What happens when someone with such a foundation finds out that she is not part of the cycle of life, that her unique existence will not be contributing towards the building blocks of future generations? There will be no tangible contribution that will continue on after I'm gone. A piece of writing or the influence I have on people's hearts or minds is not the same as that. It is so different. Notice, I'm not placing a hierarchy of value on any of them, only pointing out that recognizing and valuing  the difference between them is important.

 So, where does that potential for life go if not utilized by my body? Creating life is a different energy than creating ideas or caring for others. One could argue that the particular form of energy for creating life can be transformed into a different kind of energy. That there is a way to change it within myself, like making a specialized cell convert back into an undifferentiated cell (think stem cell). Perhaps it sounds beneficial in the long run. But I'm not sure it is very efficient, let alone even possible.

 So, what I imagine is that this energy to create life is within me, I just don't have the working parts to go through the process. While I have limited control over whether my body can generate new life, I do have control over how that life creating energy is used. Instead of transforming it into the creation of inanimate or intangible things, I want to release it. I want the creative energy within myself to be used elsewhere, within someone else. I want that energy to still be used to create life, the mysterious and miraculous unique process of creating a human being. I don't want to transform it into writing a dissertation or developing better skills as a chaplain. I want the distinctive spiritual energy that sparks life within another to be gifted back to the universe, to be redirected to another who will create a beautiful soul.

  Then as I accept that my genetic material will not be part of the future, I can envision that the spiritual energy, the spark that starts life, is out there, somewhere, conceiving and giving birth to an amazing life. The energy within myself is not wasted or minimized or made to be something it is not. I can choose to gift that energy out to the universe, back to the Creator, and ask that it be give to someone who needs it. I can still be a part of the cycle of life. Yes, it is still as intangible as ideas or feelings, but it makes more sense to me.

 I choose to release the life creating spiritual energy back into the world. When my husband and I adopt, I choose to receive and accept back the miracle of life reflected in someone else's genetic makeup, but perhaps with the spark that I helped form and create.

  I find this concept also helps me contemplate how I will talk with my future adopted children about how I became their parent. I will not just say that I had love to give and chose to give it to them. Instead, my body could not make a baby, but my spirit sent out not only the desire to have a child, but the actual spark that helped create a child's spiritual self. OK, I won't say it like that, but that is what I will mean. I gifted my creative spirit to another so they could be born, or so another child could be born for someone else who greatly desired a child. And maybe, just maybe, the energy that sparked my own children's lives will be from me.  Either way, the potential for life is not really wasted. My power as a co-creator is not diminished because of an inability to conceive. Perhaps this perspective doesn't make sense to anyone else but me. Perhaps someone has already said it better than I. Or perhaps when I go back to school and analyze it under a hermeneutical microscope, there will be no shred of logic, no shred of philosophical thought that will back this idea up. I don't mind. Because it works for me. Because I now feel affirmed and reassured of my role as a co-creator once more.

Sacrifice, being brave, and letting go...

My husband and I went to watch the Disney movie Brave. The story triggered a moment of grief. When I saw the mom defend her daughter no matter the cost, even at the risk of her own death, I had this sudden realization. I would never get the chance to prove that kind of love for my own birth child. Why can’t I have that chance? I would willingly sacrifice myself for my own children. I would fight, kill, and use the last breath in my body to make sure they are safe. The sorrow is so profound at those moments. One more thing about being childless that limits my world experience. The question here is not about whether I can have children by means other than through my own body. It is about mourning the possibilities, the future that held my birth children in it, the future that says I will sacrifice everything for them. I cannot conceive. In the car on the way home, as I'm silently crying my heart out, I thought," Did I really do everything in my power to conceive and carry my child?"

 I chose to stop after 2 years of fertility treatments. That is not a long time compared to some. We chose to stop with IUI, artificial insemination, instead of continuing on with IVF, in vitro insemination. It was extremely scary for us to make such a decision. I had desperate moments where I even considered moving to a state that requires health insurance to cover IVF. I thought about weight loss options that I NEVER considered to be healthy options. The truth I took so long to process is that I was compromising my own ethics and morals. In fact, I was already uncomfortable with the amount of resources I spent trying to force my body to do something it did not want or was not able to do.  It’s not about God’s will or fate or destiny. It is about the simple fact my body can’t do something.

 I do have choices and options, many more than the majority of people suffering with infertility. Am I cheating the lives of my future children by not pursuing these options regardless the consequences? The decision I made for myself, the choice my husband and I chose for our family, is that not only am I not cheating them, I am choosing to protect them. The drugs and procedures I used on my body have consequences on my own body. Besides the risks involved in prolonged fertility treatments, there is also the issue of my overall health affecting my pregnancy and the health of my child. Granted, all the potential issues I may have can be managed well most of time with advances in science. However, NOTHING about my situation is "most of the time."  I no longer assume the statistics are in my favor.

 So, while I started out tearing up my soul with thoughts I didn't do enough, I eventually came to the conclusion that I committed the ultimate sacrifice a future mother can make… I chose to stop. The genetic makeup of my children is not significant enough of an issue to torture my body, risk the future health of me, my children, and our family. I realized that I did limitless amounts of research, that I spoke with at least a dozen health professionals, addressed every obstacle and health issue that blocked our road ( and what a relief to finally KNOW  and be able to treat what chronic illnesses I have), I went to counselors, specialists, dieticians. I realized  that I did do everything in my power to conceive and give all that I had to those future children. And when faced with a choice of how far I would go, out of love, I chose to let go.

 Bravery isn't just about facing an obstacle and conquering it. Sometimes bravery is about choosing another path. Sacrifice isn't just for  something  or someone you already have in your life, but sometimes, it is for something or someone you may never meet.  So, thank you, Disney, for helping me realize that I'm not a coward, that I'm not weak, and that I chose a path that causes me more immediate pain, but has great potential for a wonderful future.

My ruminations did not end there, however.  But, enough writing for now.

The ratty familiar blanket of grief

Grief is like an old blanket surrounding me. Its comfort isn't from softness, but from familiarity. Actually, it kind of chafes and often suffocates, but its an old friend by now. No matter what, it never leaves me. A constant in an ever-changing world. Through the weave of my blanket, I see the world distorted. When I should see the happiness in others, all I can see is what is not mine. I distantly recall others talking about how selfish grief made them feel, but I didn't truly understand. Now with every pregnant belly and smiling pictures of young families I see, I feel bitter, bitter feelings. Envy. Rage. Jealousy. Vicious and Cruel, it beats up my heart and soul.

No matter how hard my life was, I never wanted to be someone else. I never regretted my past. When I was flat on my back, looking up from where I fell, I would wipe the tears, smile, and get back up, looking forward to a better time. But in this dark place, I have begged and pleaded within my heart, that somehow, someway, I could be delivered, replaced, released from where I am now. There have been moments of despair so strong, I see what makes one bargain with the devil.  My heart is not allowed to make decisions for me these days. I cannot trust my usually sharp intuition about people, places, and emotions.

It is not in every moment that I feel like this. In fact, I have some very amazing, sun-drenched, soul-healing days. And moments that I see so clearly, even through the fabric of grief, that I can feel the acceptance and love of the universe deep within my bones. But the dark times are more terrfying than they ever were. They well up from within, like a geyser of black oil.

I'm not sure where to go, now that I've found this violently cruel place in myself. How does a mystic, a seeker of truth and beauty, turn so dark inside? Where is redemption, where is solace, where is forgiveness? I am not short-sighted or blind. I know my suffering is almost trite and so utterly common. There is  limitless amounts of suffering in this world.   But, it is now my turn to struggle with the experience. The grievances in my past, though some are terrible, seem so petty now.

The truth, ah yes, if I'm honest with myself, is in my anger. How can I feel connected to a universe I feel so betrayed by? Because I CANNOT accept that my infertility, my broken body, isn't someone's fault. Either it must be mine, or it must be the universe's. This is not some fluke, some accident of converging factors. This is my life. This is my future. There is NO freaking mystery here. It's not sacred or divine. It is pain and suffering. Out of the trillion and one threads of the future that lie before me in this moment, none of them are really in my control. The LURE that is supposed to encourage me to make positive choices is not present in this moment, because the choice is taken away from me.  And, yet, the universe is not something I can just ignore. It is all around me. I am made of it, body and soul. So I rant and rave at it, like a petulant teenager who wants to be free, but can't leave home.

Let me tell you the irrational and crazy thoughts that wrap around my strangled heart. One, I'm unworthy. Somehow the universe sensed this darkness in me, even when I didn't.  Two, I really am meant to be a vessel, a tool, for the universe to use. Therefore, I am allowed only so much happiness to distract me. Or perhaps, to be a better tool, I needed to be worn down with a bit of my own suffering. Three, from what the doctors told me, I really did have a choice when I was younger. I could have easily gotten pregnant at 20. I made my choice, now I have to live with it. And of course, this leads to thinking of infertility as a punishment for wrong choices, doesn't it? Four, I am a burden to my husband, I am broken and barren. What kind of partner makes him suffer for my problems? Five, I was made for this... to be a hospice chaplain, a preparer for the journey of death. Life and creation don't belong with someone like me. That is for other people. Six... well, the list is endless and ever changing.

I found myself thinking thoughts that would give up all my ethics and ideals just to be given the chance of conceiving. And with those thoughts, my anger, hurt, and despair now mingles with guilt and shame. I do not believe we are meant to be selfish creatures. We are meant for more than that.

The balm to my soul? The place I've found that allows me to keep moving forward? It's not a pretty happy place with rainbows and flowers. It's the rough, burlap blanket of grief that comforts me. An acceptance that pain and suffering is just part of me now. It's not bravery or courage, not really. Just the hard reality that this is who I am now. If by some fluke I became pregnant tomorrow and had a life with several of my own birth children, this pain would not disappear. It would still be a part of me. I may find a future that has more happiness than there is in this moment. I may adopt and surround myself with people to give my love to, but this blanket will never leave.

Where is my hope now? It is that this blanket may someday be a mantel, a cloak I wear with pride and love, as a place that I have been, a place I visit occasionally, but never have to linger as long as I am now.

Prayer for times of Physical Suffering

This is a prayer I use a lot with my patients. They seem to find comfort from it.

Prayer for times of Physical Suffering
( I think i got out of Episcopal or Methodist Prayer book)
Lord Jesus Christ, we come to you sharing
the suffering that you endured.
Grant us patience during this time,
that as we live with pain,
disappointment and frustration,
we may realize that suffering is a part of life,
a part of life that you know intimately.
Touch me in my time of trial,
hold me tenderly in your loving arms,
and let me know you care.
Renew us into our spirits,
even when our bodies are not
being renewed,
that we might be ever prepared to dwell
in your eternal home,
through our faith in you, Lord Jesus,
who died and are alive for evermore. Amen.