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. 

Reading a A History of Pastoral Care in America by Holifield

A History of Pastoral Care in America : From Salvation to Self-Realization by E. Brooks Holifield 

I found myself entranced by Holifield’s book, so much so that I read the first 4 chapters in addition to the 3 assigned. The thematic focus of how pastoral care shifted over time from self-denial and salvation to self-realization and acceptance added clarity to my understanding of history and how we can have such diverse factions within Christian theology and practice today. I want to focus on the height of colonial power and the influences towards pastoral care and justice.

Holifield traces the social and economic changes happening during the 1890s to 1910s. While he gives genuine thought into the arrogance of the educated and elite of the time, there is plenty to expand upon. Holifield lists 5 influences to perceptions of self and pastoral care: shifting to interest in biology, increasing language and perception of technology as power, post Civil War’s cult of masculinity (and reverting to efficiency, realism, individualism), economic consequences of technology, and a popular cultural mindset of physical fitness and strength (165-168). The predominant theological perspective that existence is naturally organized and patterned by God, reinforces and is reinforced by these cultural perspectives (ref. Bacon, Thomas Reid). Also within this list, I see the consequences of colonialism and patriarchy.

The shift to biological sciences was still rooted in “inductive rational science” (i.e. phrenology), producing conclusions about race, gender, and sexuality that still haunt us today. It seems as if the consequences of the Enlightenment and the Second Great Awakening happening during (or because of?) radical shifts in social structure (like factory capitalism and shift to urban centers) led to religion and psychology playing perpetual catch up. The same inductive rational thinking applied to race, gender, and sexuality that still exist today are also applied to the bible to justify fundamentalist worldviews. It continues to be very problematic towards achieving both personal and social justice.

I find the intersections of technology, economy, and the cult of masculinity and virility fascinating. I wonder how much of the imperial colonial mindset is a part of this as well. Americans colonized through territories, but it is essentially the same concept. Wrapped within it all is a hierarchy of oppositional binaries that places men, civilization, technology, success and power on one side and women, savagery, affective experience, deprecation and powerlessness on the other. While reading about the expectations of pastors to be virile and physically fit and strong, I kept thinking of Marcus Borg’s reflection on the Superman myth and Jesus. From Wikipedia, I learned Superman was created in 1933 and published in 1938. That means the creators of Superman were children during this transformative period emphasizing masculinity, virility, and power. Holifield demonstrates how over time the tension between reason and sentiment expresses itself.

Mission work and social work were also infected by these perceptions of self and the world. The mission societies allowed women to find a place to express their value that did not step on male virility. The biological justification of the patriarchal colonial hierarchy allowed acts of charity and conversion to appear as religious expressions of faith. As long as those being helped are inferior, whether by race, gender, or culture, then the hierarchy of power remains intact.

Reading this view of theological history, the stance that Tillich and Niebuhr brothers took makes much more sense. My primary awareness being the discussions within feminist theology challenging Niebuhr’s concept of the sin of pride makes sense coming from the end of colonial era and post-WWII. It also makes Saiving’s argument for women’s sin of self-deprecation even more poignant. Women, as part of the negative side of the oppositional binary can easily internalize with all that is powerless. As these thoughts develop, then we see that the experience of white educated women also contained elements of power and privilege. This reading has pieced together how important the heuristic development of theology and philosophy is. Holifield demonstrates in some ways how theological and psychological thought transformed and grew to the point that constructive postmodern perspectives became possible as part of social construction.

Early Pastoral Care - The Rule of Monastics and Sinners

Reflection on Pastoral Rule, Irish Penitentials, and Shepherd of Hermas

               

                Rules challenge contemporary ideals of individualism and independence, especially rules with punishments. An alternative vision of the texts selected for this week, sees how written parameters may prevent even worse abuses of power, one that can be referenced if harsher punishments are suggested, one that suggests repentance is possible and actually preferred by God. These texts provide a way to insist upon compassion during a time when those in authority could take away your life and your salvation. As the monastic rules evolves, the practice of humility reflects a value for compassionate thought, encourages contemplative living, and expresses itself not only through works of charity and service, but through exquisite pastoral care.

                My experience practicing and contemplating the Benedictine rule informs my reading of these early pastoral texts. In Heart of Flesh: A Feminist Spirituality for Women and Men, Joan Chittister, OSB, reveals how radical self-acceptance is not only a feminist concept but also one of contemplative life. Because of the focus on humility and obedience in Benedict’s rule, Chittister has contemplated and written extensively on this thread of Christian tradition. In Illuminated Life, Chittister narrows the contemplative life of monasticism down to four dimensions of humility:

1.        Recognize the presence of God in our lives

2.       Accept the gifts of others (wisdom, experience, direction)

3.       Let go of false expectations in daily life

4.       Receive others kindly.

                While there is much to deconstruct and challenge within our readings of Gregory the Great, Hermas, and the Irish monks, there also is the thread Chittister speaks of within them. Attached to this email is an essay from Chittister’s Heart of Flesh, reprinted in 2009 in her regular column with the National Catholic Reporter. In it, she says, “Pride is patriarchy played out in a democratic world to remind its underlings who’s really in charge. Humility brings us, instead, to the presence of God, the wisdom of others, the authenticity of the self, and the esteem of the other that make life, the world, a good and gracious space.”  Chittister convincingly argues throughout her work that such texts actually prevented further abuses of power, by codifying not only compassion from leaders, but also possibilities for repentance and absolution for sinners. This does not detract from the grave consequences of the oppositional binaries of pure/good and sin/evil, not the least of which is the deprecation of women and sexuality.

                However, as Chittister spoke of Benedict as having a feminist soul within the most misogynistic macho of worlds, so to do the writers of these missives appear to strive towards restricting the absolute authority of a few humans in power and opening (previously shut) doors for redemption. Without the years learning from the nuns at Mount St. Scholastica in Atchison, Kansas, this anti-establishment Gen-Xer may have never reconciled the difference between the teachings of humiliation from my fundamentalist upbringing with the teachings of humility as a spiritual practice, humility not as diminishing or degrading, but as connectedness, relationship, and mutuality, aspects that inform my chaplain ministry daily.

                For my practice, humility is the cornerstone of pastoral care as well as social justice. Chittister also challenges the stereotype of monastic life being isolated and removed. Humility leads to compassion and compassion leads to action. In this way, justice is as important to contemplative life as humility is. She writes, “From contemplation comes not only the consciousness of the universal connectedness of life but the courage to model it as well.” Reading her words again after seminary and years in ministry, I see how she challenges patriarchy and colonialism by encouraging practices of compassion and care. So to, weaved within the directives and prescriptions for punishments, there is a thread of compassion and care within the Pastoral Rule, Irish Penitentials, and visions of Hermas.

Works referenced:

Chittister, Joan. 1998. Heart of flesh : a feminist spirituality for women and men. [S.l.]: William B Eerdmans, 1998.

Chittister, Joan D. 2000. Illuminated life : monastic wisdom for seekers of light. [S.l.]: Orbis Books, 2000.

Chittister, Joan D. 1992. The rule of Benedict : insights for the ages. New York: Crossroad Publishing Company, 1992.

Chittister, Joan D. 1990. Wisdom distilled from the daily : living the rule of Saint Benedict today. [S.l]: Harper, 1990. 

“When love awakens in your life, in the night of your heart, it is like the dawn breaking within you. Where before there was anonymity, now there is intimacy; where before there was fear, now there is courage; where before in your life there was awkwardness, now there is a rhythm of grace and gracefulness; where before you used to be jagged, now you are elegant and in rhythm with your self. When love awakens in your life, it is like a rebirth, a new beginning.” 

― John O'Donohue, Anam Cara 
Artwork: Tanya Torres 

The Magnetic Poles of Love and Fear

   I know so many people whose very foundation of being in the world is love, people who strive every day to defy the pressure in society to be not love.  No matter how often I contemplate it, I never lose my fascination over how such a simple concept can be so complex and difficult to live out. After all I’ve been through the past few years, how do I find myself, once again, moving closer to this truth about love?  While I dreamed of escape from the misery I lived in, three years ago my faith ran on fumes.

   Three years ago I lived a life of fear. Every day I woke up, went to work, consoled others about their fears, and came home to the embrace of complete terror. My heart and soul was locked into a commitment to be a mother. All around me I saw the puzzle pieces of my life falling into place, showing me that I could have a “normal” life, settle down, be a part of community and family, find meaning in helping my local community, and be happy. Except for one problem. One huge enormous barrier. My own fear.

   Deep within, under the signs of a good life, the fear became a mantra, its own living breathing creature. I am not good enough. I don’t deserve to be happy and loved. I will screw up everything. I could not let go of the belief, irrational as it is, that being able to conceive was the only true sign that I was worthy in the eyes of God. Now to me, God doesn’t sit on a cloud and decide things. But the order within the universe, the structure amongst the chaos, it has meaning for me. And if all the infinite variables leading toward conception merged to create life within me, then somehow, I would be anointed and blessed as whole, good, and worthy. And bypassing that crucial step by adopting or fostering a child, well, then, I would be avoiding the judgment of God. I would be living a lie that I was whole and happy while the conviction that I don’t deserve any of it festered in my heart.

   The fear of not being worthy of love, I see now that it is a common human affliction, one that doesn’t really make anyone special or unique, except in our own minds. But the ghost-like tendrils of doubt and anxiety affected my decisions and choices. I lived in fear of that one moment when the world, through one person, a group, an event, would show that the blanket of love and acceptance I lived under was a lie. Bizarre, strange thoughts limited the choices in my head as my spirit and my fear battled inside me. The battle was gruesome and exhausting. The battle immobilized me from participating in my own life. The need for acceptance conflicted with my fear of being found unworthy. Not unworthy for a simple smile or a laugh, but judged and condemned in an ultimate, uncompromising way.

   The opposite of fear is not fearless. The opposite of love is not hate. Somewhere, somehow, in the chaos of infinite possibilities, exists these poles of love and fear. The lure within the magnetic field of existence, drawing us towards love or towards fear, influence every aspect of our lives.

   Letting go of the dream of conceiving life released me from one of the strongest lures towards fear I’ve ever had. I was stuck in a maze of my own making. As long as I clung to the fear I needed to conceive to be worth something, then I had to find “natural” ways to deal with the stress, anxiety, and depression… as if monkeying with the hormones of a woman is “natural.” Not only did I sacrifice my sanity to the god of artificial hormone drugs, I exposed my deepest vulnerabilities and pain at the same time. Once again, my body became a thing to control, reward and punish. No longer the subject of my own life story, my body became the object I had spent years deconstructing. Years of resisting the messages in society to reduce myself to a thing and all it took was the inability of getting pregnant for me to fall off the wagon. OK, that is a lie. Acute onset hypothyroidism, PCOS, insulin resistance, and chronic pain kinda tipped the scale. With all that happening, how in the world is one supposed to NOT be drawn into the web of fear?!

   The thing is, even with all that fear and doubt, I could never truly convince myself that I had no choices. Even as I lied in bed in a fetal position, unable to move, I wanted to move. I KNEW I could move. Living in constant fear is a path I’ve walked before.  So, I did the work, in fits and starts, two steps forward, ten steps back, 15 steps forward, 8 steps back… until the suffocating quick sand of fear had less pull.

    As I spend more time and energy focusing on love, there is a weight lifted, a gravity released, and a freedom to live fully and wholly. I find myself at times feeling giddy with freedom. It’s not as if the insecurities disappear or the fear vanishes. But the choice, the option to move towards love, becomes easier. As love becomes the driving force behind more and more of my actions, I find myself becoming increasingly bold and prophetic in its witness. It’s not courage or pride bolstering me, but a kind of “Why not? I’ve experienced another piece of hell, been through the fire” and all that.  I tried to mold myself into something I am not; I tried to be something limited and restrained, but that time is done. Now is the time to be bold and to be loud. 

   It’s an interesting place for a trained chaplain to find herself in, being bold and loud. It’s not so much that we are a quiet lot, though some are, but more that we train with intentional focus to mute our “self” in order to hear more clearly the person in front of us. Sometimes there is a misperception that means suppressing our own beliefs. However, if done well, it doesn’t have to be. There was no denying of myself or my beliefs, because the very act of being open and accepting is the heart beat of my faith. I strove to embody my theology every day by working on being open, hospitable, loving, accepting, relational, and compassionate. There was nothing insincere about it. Even in the moments I couldn’t really feel it for myself, I never doubted my love for others. How crazy is that? And somewhere within the practice of loving others, I also helped my own heart, mind, and spirit.   Honestly, that practice, the intentional loving of others, saved me. It was the light that led me through the darkest of nights.

   So, now that I am once again basking in sunlight, something within me is more than ready to voice my experience.  This morning I read a quote on http://www.henrinouwen.org/. Nouwen wrote in Here and Now, “My hope is that the description of God’s love in my life will give you the freedom and courage to discover God’s love in yours.” I’m feeling more ready to proclaim what I know, deep in my bones, to be wrong. I’m ready to try to name what I see as truth and shout it from the mountaintop. My sense of truth isn’t in any way ultimate or universal. But I think there are people out there who may find their truth complements mine and mine theirs. And I will forever be grateful for the light of others who led me through to this place. Love is all you need.

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.

 

Why back to school? grad school reflection

Since the beginning of my discernment, my call to ministry has been to ease spiritual suffering. I continue to passionately believe that the environmental, social and physical suffering in this world will never heal if we do not first address the spiritual suffering. If our sense of self and sense of community were fully realized, how could we live in voluntary ignorance and destructive apathy? After 6 years of answering that call in chaplaincy, I wish to grow as a caregiver and scholar. Participating in the cultivation of theologically and pastorally trained leaders is a natural progression of my call to ease spiritual suffering in the world. To do this, I am seeking a PhD program to study and expand my base of knowledge in pastoral theology, cultural anthropology, psychosocial theories and pedagogy. As a pastoral theologian and scholar, I want to expand the conversation in postmodern theology and to make it applicable to today’s society, especially within the realm of fertility and infertility.  The school I'm applying to has a progressive postmodern voice that is important to me and to accomplishing these goals.

The path to finding a spiritual calling can be an interesting one, but looking back, each step along my path led me with a clear and passionate purpose towards the work I now do. Even before I could name it, discovering meaning and purpose defined my life’s path. The spiritual abuse I received as a child in a fundamentalist Wisconsin Synod Lutheran church steered me towards science and as far away from religion as possible. However, by studying and working with science, I discovered that religion is not the only place cognitive dissonance lives. During that journey, I found my best conversation partners were with progressive Christians.

My healing did not solely happen by leaving the place of abuse or by discovering a replacement faith system. Through secular counseling, I learned how to pull apart my emotions and thoughts, how to distinguish self from group, and how to empower myself and others to live fully. Through earnest and honest seeking, I discovered the joy and peace that the spiritual experience brings. Spiritual direction, monastic retreats, and many other experiences also helped heal my connection with God.

Then, after all that, seminary helped me dismantle and deconstruct hidden precepts and assumptions not only about religion, but about life. I began seminary with a passion for biblical interpretation, seeking to dismantle not only the misconceptions I was raised with, but also to address the assumed authority and power scripture has. My past may have taught me that scripture was the key, but seminary taught me that history of church, theology and even pedagogy are just as key.

Seminary is  a place of crucial integration. By increasing contextual awareness and understanding in many subjects, a person with a call to help others turns into a beautiful  kaleidoscope of skills.  However, my time in CPE and working among professional ministers and chaplains revealed a genuine lack of theological integration with the pastoral care they give. How people view God affects how they view themselves and the world.  As pastoral care providers, I feel we are called out not only to have a clear understanding of our own theology, but also how it relates to traditionally held beliefs. Often, when people have holes or inconsistencies within their theology, it can be due to lack of language to describe their feelings and thoughts about it.  As we listen to people, we should be able to reflect back confusing thoughts with different and hopefully clear language. In order to do that, however, we must do the work of theological construction and integration long before the conversation happens.

Many who seek such understanding attend seminary and labor through CPE, hoping and anticipating some of the theological and spiritual fog will clear. I help with Mid-Year Consultations for CPE residents and each year I’m assigned to a student from an evangelical background, often with a theology that creates separatism and exclusivism. The struggle and pain this brings them is hard for me to observe. I have no desire to convert the world to my way of thinking, but I do desire to ease these spiritual leaders’ suffering. I desire to aid them in exploring the struggle that exists for a theology that may give comfort in some ways, but cause conflict in other ways.  I want to help them discover not only how to fill their own theological gaps, but also how to minister to the diverse world compassionately and competently.

Professional chaplain gatherings also revealed to me several things.   I observed that many chaplains who teach and lead come from faith traditions rife not only with visible cognitive dissonance, but also with moral conflict. In addition, I noticed that chaplain leaders from progressive faith backgrounds often redirected or avoided uncomfortable theological subjects by encouraging religious diversity and focusing on psychosocial or ethical theories.  The field would benefit from more leaders who bring integrative and constructive postmodern theology not just to the discussion table, but to the practitioners in the field. I desire to expand my knowledge of theology and how the work in pastoral care interacts with it. My passion is for the postmodern voice, one that is steeped in understanding modern logic, but acknowledges that to authentically reflect reality, the voice of experience and context must always be heard.

Currently, my ministry entails working in hospice as a chaplain and bereavement educator. The time spent as a child ministering with my grandmother in nursing homes and to elderly church members imprinted not only an awareness of, but also a comfort around physical limitations and end of life.  So, here I am, walking the path with many, a path we all will or have taken: facing our own limitations and mortality. My personal limitations currently involve fertility, conception and pregnancy. When I faced accepting infertility, I had to search deep inside myself for the balm to my spiritual suffering. I had no ready way to process it.

My Master’s thesis combines feminist and process theology, so it should be no surprise that the language of co-creator is comfortable for me. It makes sense for a woman with a biology degree and healthy suspicion of power structures to want to find a theology that not only supports but empowers the individual. Accepting that I am unlikely to conceive life felt like I was sacrificing the very foundation of my faith system as a co-creator, not because I cannot envision other ways of creative being, but because the sacred unique creation of life is no longer within my grasp.

When I studied biology and biochemistry, they 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?  A piece of writing or the influence I have on people's hearts or minds is not the same as creating life. 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. Therefore, the loss of such a sacred identity means infertility is not just a loss of function, but a complex web of experience. Infertility is not just a disorder or a dysfunction, it is not just a loss of anticipated future, and it is not just a loss of identity. It is all of the above combined with constant ethical and moral dilemmas, decision making that determines the rest of one’s life, and continual exposure to familial as well as societal pressure and judgment.

 I want to develop a way for pastors and chaplains to approach this rapidly growing area of spiritual discernment among individuals and families. I want to make the language of fertility issues normalized and eliminate the negative repercussions of shame and guilt. Above all, I wish to find an integrative postmodern theology that not only provides comfort to the infertile, but also provides a spiritual and ethical compass during a difficult time. I have my own thoughts and experiences, of course, but I want to dig deeper as a scholar and as a chaplain to add this particular context to the training of our pastoral leaders.

My call to ease spiritual suffering continues to evolve and I greatly desire to be a postmodern theological and pastoral voice in our world. I wish to not only contribute to scholarship, but also to the transformation and growth of pastoral care providers. The PhD program at this school combines the crucial elements of respected scholarship with the spirit-filled mission to cultivate competent and compassionate pastoral leaders. I request approval for admission to the PhD program for Pastoral Theology and Pastoral Care.

The Song of a Spiritual Midwife

There's a part of me that cringes at making comparisons about birth and death. I'm 34 and I am not a midwife ushering in the hopes and dreams of new life, but a midwife to a journey that reveals to us only the end of this mortal experience. Everything in my being can be convinced that the end is the beginning of something terribly wonderful and unimaginably beautiful, but I don't get to see that beginning. I do not get to witness the blossom of a person's life after death or watch how she grows into her true self. All I see is the labor of death, all I can do is hold her hand while she makes that journey on her own.

Here I sit, a spiritual midwife to hundreds of people who labored through death. I witness how precious life is, how precious love and connection are. I desperately want to be a part of this cycle of life. I want to watch a life begin, grow and blossom. I want that life to be one I helped create. But, I will not be creating a baby, a new life within my own body. However, I have so many options for fostering and adopting and watching a life grow and blossom within my care. I'm sure many wonder why I don't just push forward towards those options. I'm not sure why myself at times. I could claim it is the inherent wisdom of a hospice chaplain to honor the time of grieving an unattainable dream. However, I can only say my heart is not ready.

Meanwhile, I spend much of my time with people close to death by singing softly to them. That which calms and quiets the fears of those new to life, also creates peace for those at the end. Tonight as I was perusing books about infertility, I came across the title Unsung Lullabies and it felt like grief was stabbing my heart. Of all the images that break my heart, the worst is the dream of singing my baby to sleep. What an intimate moment of connection. So full of meaning. It is not just that image, but of singing to my baby in the park, in the car, throughout life.

Singing is more than a balm for restless nights. Singing connects an experience with our emotions, our memories and our spiritual selves. While singing Amazing Grace to a patient, not only are memories and emotions evoked, but perhaps even her experience of the sacred. Someday I may hold a baby and sing a lullaby to her and calm the fears of being new to life. Yet, I already am singing lullabies each day to someone new to dying. It is sacred, this role of midwife, whether for birth or for death.

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.

A fellow spiritual caregiver in hospice shared this today...

A Blessing for One Who is Exhausted
by John O'Donohue

Original Language English

... When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken for the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

Choice C: Neither Evil Queen Nor Innocent Maiden

I love watching these old fairy tales I learned thorugh Disney's distorted eyes be reinterpreted and given twists to keep the story fresh. Watching Snow White and Huntsmen sparked reflection about gender roles and Disney princesses. The most basic theme to draw from this movie is that the only power females have are purity and beauty. And the ultimate power is to have both. Purity and beauty is the inspiration for men to war, for people to unite, and the only way hope transcends despair.

That in and of itself is enough to make watching a beautifully put together story torture. But I started wondering  what the allure was for watching Disney princesses as a young girl. I remember the stories taught me a very twisted view of gender roles, one that I thought empowered me and made me truly stronger and more powerful in my submissive and secondary status.  Brute strength and domination were okay for men, because, really, they can’t help themselves. I was taught to almost feel sorry for the simple and primal natures of man and celebrate how women can be above such earthly things.  Women gain power and control through purity and beauty. The catch is, of course, neither of these things are always in our control, are they? A man can force himself on a woman and her purity no longer exists and preferences for physical beauty are at the whim of those who control public favor. And while men and boys are comparing themselves against an impossible caricature of physical strength bringing them power, women are striving to perfect some ideal of beauty and/or purity that society told them would also bring them power.

Today, we recognize, yet are still trapped within, the twisted and tangled  sexualization and objectification of such roles and desires.  But, as a young girl, I wasn’t thinking with my hormones, I was thinking with my heart and my mind. I wanted acceptance and love. I wanted respect and attention, and I was learning how to achieve those things through mimicking the role models given to me. In Snow White, the two women are both beautiful and gain power from the inspiration such beauty gives those around them. However, the impure Queen has an insatiable appetite for strength over men and being in control,  while Snow White is the epitome of purity suffering through darkness and wins the hearts of men through selfless acts of sacrifice and goodness.  The righteous and pure woman who has beauty and desires to never have power will be given the most power and respect. Snow White did not earn her throne, it was given to her by those who felt she was worthy, while the Queen stole the throne from the King by killing him.  A woman who is empowered is impure and evil. Snow White's more acceptable journey into queendom is through maintaining her innocence despite temptations and exposure to reality. She woos men of all kinds with her innocence and beauty, the power she holds with these  traits conquers the evil of an empowered decisive woman destroying the kingdom.

 Keep your head down, work hard, be pretty but not slutty, be selfless and compassionate to the point of self-harm, and never expect any good to come to you… and then all the riches of the kingdom, all the loyalty of men and society will be yours. How in the world does that make sense? And, yet, ask many of the women raised on these Woman's Day post-World War Two emphasized gender roles, and they will recognize this twisted sense of shame and subversive empowerment.  Not that this illogic doesn't run farther back into the past, but these are the current interpretations.

 

So they can put Snow White into pants and armor, they can even give her a sword so the huntsman can spank her behind with it, but the story doesn't really change. Women have their roles to fill and men as well. Women and men can both have power, but the only good power women can have is through beauty and purity, never through intelligence, strength, or control, all of which will corrupt girls and women. That is the lesson these stories teach us.

 As a young girl, I already realized that those stories of princesses were a fantasy that did not match reality. I already had learned that we do not always control things such as beauty and purity. I learned hard truths that gender roles others may want us to have are not conducive to survival or real life. Women must take care of themselves, must protect themselves, and make decisions that are not always sweet and innocent. But, oh, how I longed for them to be true! I longed for there to be a dashing Prince Charming that would take all my cares away, if only I could live up to that ideal of perfect beauty and purity. And, oh, how easy it was to embrace the simplicity of such a way of thinking, a way that explains why it felt like no one loved me or paid attention to me… because I'm not pretty, special or sweet enough. Such twisted logic provides meaning and purpose without having to do any real thinking.

 The question is, then, how do we fight such pervasive models within society? Like a cigarette ad implying that smoking will bring you sex appeal and fortune, these gender roles both are persuasive and appealing -- even though they make no sense.

While it may seem that media has all the power over our self-image, the most influential voices in our heads and hearts are those we know, those who tell us repeatedly the same message. Our families, especially our parents may help lay the foundation. However, those of us that do not meet other's expectations will often seek out those examples that model who we feel  most comfortable being. We are not passive sponges that can only take the feedback that is offered to us; we are able to take active roles in developing who we want to be. Granted, fears of judgment and rejection are mighty strong barriers, but they are not impenetrable. And there are choices that are out of our hands,  parts of our lives we are just born with or which are determined by others.

I had no choice  in second grade when my counselors pulled me from the advanced math curriculum but kept me in advanced reading. Instead of addressing the issues of my home life, they saw my flagging grades as a sign I'm not interested or perhaps even capable of keeping up with advanced math. But I did have a choice later in high school, when I took the advanced and accelerated math classes and finished high school with college credits in calculus. The class was overwhelmingly male and we all fit stereotypes of nerds and geeks in one way or the other.  But we thrived in a place where we were encouraged to be different. Such an experience helped me to embrace parts of myself other experiences told me were not important or desired in young women.

 Another instance where  I stepped out of my comfort zone, the role as the klutzy non-athletic bookworm, began in college. I took a self-defense class to for practical reasons and discovered true talents and skills in martial arts. I spent my entire life up to that point convinced that I would never be accomplished in any sport or exercise, that I not only lacked the coordination, but also the discipline and desire. But witnessing the 4 women with black belts teaching the class, realizing each one not only was a misfit physically, but also highly skilled and confident in her art, made me realize I could be as well.  Years later, I proved my decades old self-image wrong by obtaining my black belt.

Grief overwhelms me when I think of the tug of war that every child and adult experiences between self-definition and society's definitions. It's not by any means a new struggle. And I'm afraid that it will never disappear, either. But, oh, how I rejoice when I see a child discover the strength of her difference, realizing that which sets her apart is not embarrassing or shameful, but helps define her as important and valuable.

 

Still, the world has changed since I was a child. Embracing diversity and uniqueness are traits present in our society. There are many groups out there that support our struggle for self-definition free of society's pressures. For example, The Princess Free Zone encourages parents and other adults to let their children define their own gender roles instead of assuming the standard is what they are or want to be.

 

 

So while reasons for my grief still exist, there is also hope- hope that we can surpass the easy route of assumption and judgment and embrace values that hold up our unique complicated selves as important and valuable. 

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.

Heavy hearts exist in chaplains too

My heart is heavy today. It has been a week of loss at hospice this week. That sounds redundant, but honestly, hospice is about living, not dying. It is about quality of life and comfort, of course, but it is also about acceptance, normalization of something that can be scary, isolating, and miserable, something that is a part of every living being's existence and yet we as a culture and as individuals try to deny its power over us... death, ending, beginning, loss, change, transition, absence, limitations, waiting and more waiting, anticipation, regret, the list is endless, just as endless as our experiences.
My heart is not just heavy over the loss of the person, but for the heartache left behind, for the misery leading up to the death. I have been in hospice for 5 years now. I have met hundreds of people who have died and even more of families who remain to grieve for them. I miss them all. I'd be lying if I said that I don't miss them. The laughter I share, the tears, the songs and whispers, the hugs, hand holding, prayer sharing, tear-wiping, humble-inducing meaning of life, what wisdom and what courage, what inspiration these wonderful people give me.

My heart is also heavy with the burden so many caregiving professionals carry... the burden that there will always be more that I could have done.. It sounds so trite, but honestly, I was not present at any one of these deaths and it weighs on my heart. Five years is a long time in hospice. I'm considered a veteran of hospice, how funny is that? I would not have made it this far if I hadn't learned boundaries, if I didn't have faith that no one is ever alone in this world, that not only my team look after these patients and families, but also the workers at the facilities they live in. I watch those new to hospice struggle with where to place those boundaries, with the burden of "just one more thing, or just one more visit, or just a few more minutes" and my heart aches for them... while at the same time struggling with guilt and wondering if I'm burnt out just because I set boundaries and stick to them most of the time.

I put in a long day yesterday, 7 visits... including explaining hospice to a man going on service and to a son putting his actively dying mom on service, and 3 people I visited can no longer speak to me and the other 2 have declined significantly. I'm not using that as an excuse, but as an example of when, even with good boundaries, the sorrow seeps into my bones. Tomorrow I will sit with a woman who wins blackout at bingo or smiles for the first time in months to the hymn I'm singing her and I will be healed.