A Re-Call to Righteous Anger

I’ve been doing some Lenten reading from a favorite book of mine, A Season for the Spirit, by Martin Smith. It was a gift from my friend, Lisa Ware, many Lenten seasons ago. I believe this is the 4^th time I’m reading the forty daily essays. I remember the first time through, being quite intrigued with the idea of the many selves of the self. Not selves in a schizophrenic sense, but the many faces, or masks perhaps, that I utilize in my daily l life.

Some years ago, I became familiar with the Enneagram, another gift from Lisa. I am a huge fan, and have found it to be extremely helpful with self-awareness, as well as an invaluable tool in parenting children whose personalities are often at odds. For those of you who are acquainted with this ancient form of identifying personality or inner essence, I am a One. Consequently, anger is the emotion that I most frequently go to as a reaction to what’s happening around me.

Over the years I have worked at turning criticism and judgment into compassion. I try to step back and examine why I’m angry or conflicted about someone or something, and figure out what’s at the beginning or root of my anger, and not simply denying and suppressing it behind false smiles. When I feel angered by words or actions of a co-worker or a family member, I'm learning to look at their life as a whole, and see them as someone who God loves and values, instead of jumping to harsh critique of their lack of insight or failure. This helps in parenting as well as in work and family relationships.

So anyway, back to the Lenten readings. This week one of the readings had to do with anger—entering God’s kingdom violently (John 16:16). Jesus demonstrated that aggression can be holy. He showed that it can provide the energy for us to assert the primacy of love, to cut away all that is not love, to differentiate the important from the trivial, to provide the strength to separate the authentic from the false and pretentious. Martin Smith’s challenge was to recognize the anger that becomes activism. To be open to God’s conversion of my anger into a righteous cause—a cause for love and justice.

When I was working with Spencer (my late husband) in a ministry of racial reconciliation in Jackson, Mississippi, I was not aware of how anger was driving me. As I look back, I realize that resentment and bitterness toward white people (especially southern white people in that setting) fueled my energy for justice and healing. It was a good thing. And along the way, I learned to have compassion and mercy on people who were caught up in the false assumptions and lies of separation and prejudice.

And what I now realize is that the compassion that I feel and demonstrate toward the co-workers, family and friends in my life, is only one side of the coin. What’s missing is the burning in my gut—the indignation at the injustice around me, that stirs me to action and mission. I miss that. I feel the anger, and can eloquently state my opinions, but the words seem an end to themselves.

Thank you, Martin Smith, for reminding me that while showing love and compassion in my ordinary life is a grand part of my personal conversion story, it’s not all the story. And so part of my prayer this Lenten season is that God will continue to open the eyes and ears of my heart to recognize and seize the opportunities to fight against the status quo, to embrace righteous anger, and to make a difference.

Johnathan

After I posted Peridots and Diamonds, about my daughters, Johnathan's comment was, I get one next. Unbeknownst (what a great word) to him I already have one that I wrote about him when he was about to graduate from high school. Here it is.

My son, my firstborn

My boy.

Soon he leaves my nest

Oh, he has been stepping out for days, now

But the pillow that cradles his head at night

is still in my house.

This child, this precious gift from God

Has brought me so much joy

Out of the pain of loss

He has gained strength and maturity

Stepping bit by bit into

the responsibility offered

he has gained the trust of family and friends

Off he goes

With fight and fire in his soul

He will take on giants

He will slay the dragons

He will change the world

And he will always keep my heart.

Graduation from High School May 2004 

Peridots and Diamonds

April and Jubilee

I have two jewels in my house

I live with them every day

They are my two daughters

They are oil and water

Not cut from the same cloth

Striving to understand and embrace

Facing off with indignant difference

They are my treasures

Filling my house with music

Fragrance of homemade cookies

Jubilee and April

Watching them grow

Reaching out with grace

Toward trust and faith and the

Possibility of friendship

When they are gone

I will think of them often

With smiles of knowing

Hello...It’s God Calling

Friday afternoons at work are sometimes so hectic. Why do patient’s always wait until Friday at 4pm to call for a return-to-work note for Monday. As if I can just pull one out of my proverbial hat.

Did you think to ask the doctor when you saw him yesterday?

I forgot.

Well, I have to have the doctor’s okay in order to write a note for you, AND THEY ARE ALL GONE FOR THE WEEKEND!

As I took yet one more call from a patient who couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just write a note for him, I turned to a co-worker and said, Don’t give me any more calls—unless it’s God calling.

She very sweetly turned to me and said. Who do you think has been calling you?

I wish I’d thought of that.

The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion

I was sitting in church. It was in a large auditorium, not unlike the Masonic Temple where Voice of Calvary (Jackson, Mississippi) met for several years during my earlier years in Mississippi. Many of my extended family members were there, as well as church members from the church I have most recently belonged to, (but not attended very regularly over the past year, I must admit), Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Rev. Bailey, my pastor at Bethel AME, was in the pulpit, wrapping up the service with some announcements.

We’ll be starting a new adult Sunday School class, he said. It will be centered around The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion. There was no reaction from the congregation—no giggles or murmurs of surprise. Rev. Bailey closed the service in prayer.

Usually after the service, our pastor greets and hugs us as we leave the church; however, this Sunday, he came down from the pulpit, and came down the pew, hugging and greeting each person. When he got to me, he bent down from his height of 6’10”, hugged me, and then whispered in my ear: I want you to teach that class.

Okay, I said softly.

This was a dream I had a few nights ago. It was strange for obvious reasons, but it was also strange because I remembered it so explicitly. I never remember dreams in such detail. I had just finished reading a book called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See, so I’m sure that had something to do with the subject. But why in that particular setting. As I said, I haven’t been attending church very regularly, and it’s been years since I attended Sunday School, much less taught a class.

I’ve struggled with not attending church, first feeling very guilty, then not caring, to where I am now—on a church sabbatical. I miss Rev. Bailey and the members of Bethel. I love them, and they love me...a lone white face in a congregation of African Americans. I’ve tried attending other churches. I can’t accept all the whiteness. I actually sat and cried at one of the churches I visited because, while I liked most of the service, I couldn’t be at peace in such a homogeneous surrounding.

I was reading just this morning from I Corinthians 12 and 13. Paul spoke so explicitly about the importance of the community of believers representing the whole of the world’s community. How has the church managed all these years to skirt the issue and justify a congregation of people who look and think alike? I’m sure I sound pious and self-righteous. (I admit that is a dark side of me.)

I think when I married Spencer and through God’s grace, made the choice to totally embrace his life and culture, something happened to me. First came brokenness—how could all this history and pain and suffering and oppression have happened at the same time that I was deciding what to wear and whose house to hang out at over a weekend. Then guilt. I’m sure I became patronizing as I tried to make up for the ugliness of white America. I was harsh and judgmental to my siblings who tried not to be offended by my accusations of racism. I finally settled into a more hospitable language of white privilege and prejudice. I love being at home in two cultures. It’s double the richness, double the angst; but it’s all good. I wish I could wave my pomegranate wand and make reconciled converts.

So where is all this going? I guess I’m wondering if God is nudging me back to Bethel—certainly not to teach a class on The Pomegranate Tao Rebellion, but to return to the embrace of fellowship. Or, maybe He’s going to lead me to China.

The Myth of Closure

I wrote this as part of a presentation on a weekend retreat in North Carolina in 2009. The context was addressing a group of women from a church, with a theme of "Are We There Yet? Lessons from Life's Journey."

After the horrible events of 9/11, as our nation attempted to recover, one of the predictable reactions was to try to come back to some sort of normalcy. Our eyes were riveted to the TV stories of real people whose lives had been either miraculously spared or tragically ended that day. Gradually the stories of the relatives came before us and the widows and children seemed to especially grip our hearts with sadness. I could identify with those instant widows who were left with children. That sense of panic and incredulity that one’s life could change so dramatically in an instant.

I wished that I could reach through the TV and comfort and reassure, and most of all, offer some insight from my own experience of loss. America hastened to name the terrorists, create a monument at ground zero, and get back to a normal life, all in the name of closure. I believe closure is a western concept, created to avoid or hasten dealing with pain and sadness. Blame, burial, and back-to-work are thought to be antidotes to loss and grief. Speaking from experience, it doesn’t work. It’s not all better. You can’t just move on. When I married Spencer, we became one. How do you become un-one and not have a wound and a subsequent scar? How do children, whose eyes look like their dad’s, whose creative writing skills mirror the writing abilities of their dad, whose fishing skills were gently taught to them from the age of two, whose genetic make up constantly remind me of their father…how do you close that part of their life? of my life? It can’t be done. It shouldn’t be done.

My daughter, April, asked me one day, Mom, will you always be sad? I carefully considered what I wanted to say to her. Yes, sweetie, I will always be sad. I will always miss dad. But I will not always cry when I talk about him. I will not always feel the grief building up in my chest until I can’t breathe and I have to get away to sob and mourn. My raw and pulsing hurt will settle into gentle memories and occasional tears. (Obviously, I didn't say all that to my 5-year old; I gave her an age appropriate version.) Sadness has become part of who I am, part of the fabric that is my life. And it’s not a bad thing. It is a grace and a gift from God. Sadness tempers your need to tear through life, grasping for the next experience and thrill. Sadness offers opportunity to listen and breathe deeply. It makes space for friendship and companionship with fellow travelers. Sadness makes room for reflection and quiet. I love Josh Groban’s song, You Raise Me Up. The first lines to the song go like this: When I am down, and oh, my soul so weary. When troubles come and my heart burdened be. Then I am still and wait here in the silence. Until you come and sit awhile with me. There is something about sadness that opens us up to the voice of God. Fellowship with Him is more poignant. So that even more than 12 years after Spencer’s death, I am so easily moved to tears by verses about God’s compassion and love for me.

Isabel Allende says of the grief following the death of her daughter, “…sadness is never gone; it lives on forever just below the skin…not a paralyzing emotion, but an awareness of the loss that colored my reality.”

This is not a morbid, wallowing in the pain sort of life. It’s conversation and laughter and memories; it’s songs that bring tears, and movies that spark memories; its pictures on the wall and books that inspire. It’s reassurance that Dad would be proud, that he would approve. It even offers the possibility that one day you may need someone to help you figure out all that this particular loss means in your life. It acknowledges that learning to drive, graduating from high school and college, learning to play the piano…are bittersweet without Dad’s affirmation…but they are good all the same.

Just a word here about remarriage after the loss of a spouse. While I am definitely not opposed to surviving men and women finding love again, I feel that many adults hurry into the next relationship, thinking that it will somehow end the pain of their loss. That it will bring closure, or that it will help them move on. (I hate that expression.) My children were violently opposed to the idea of me dating or going out. And while I never promised them that I would not remarry, I had no interest initially in adding to the hard realities that they were already dealing with in regards to the loss of their dad. I have had women tell me that “you have to think of yourself,” “your children will adjust,” you have to move on.” While I try not to center my life around my children, I do believe that they are a gift to me, to bring to adulthood with the most wisdom and strength I can muster, and my pursuits and wants are secondary to what is, in the long run, healthy for us all.

For me personally, I was 31 when I got married. When I met and married Spencer, he was truly my best friend and confidante. We liked being together more than anything. We never ran out of things to talk about. Spencer introduced me to another culture and another way of looking at life. He was a gift to me, that was short lived, but worth it all. If I am to have another husband, God will have to bring him to me and let me know in very plain terms—this one’s for you.

So while grief work is hard and sometimes so lonely, it can result in a deeper and more genuine journey later on. A journey that is enhanced for having endured the necessary pain. Some of our most memorable and poignant times as a family, are those evenings when we linger at the dinner table, talking about, "remember when..." To me, that’s way more healthy and life-giving than never mentioning it again, and even pretending like it never happened.

Outdoor Cathedral

Outdoor Cathedral

The giant oaks like saintly icons

line the path as I proceed

down the aisle

toward the house

where I will break bread

with other pilgrims.

Nancy Perkins

9/9 Jesuit Center

Respite

As Spring nears, my thoughts have been turning to a place that is very close to my heart--The Jesuit Monastery in the countryside of Wernersville, Pennsylvania. For the past decade, I've been taking a weekend once a year to spend in silence in that place. It's hard to describe my feelings as I pass through the great iron gates that are wide open, inviting entrance into the monastery grounds. I am often accompanied by my sister, and we together breathe a prayer that God will remove any expectations, except that of meeting Him there. I can almost feel a physical cape of grace, as it were, settling over my shoulders and around my arms, binding me in God's promise of love and mercy.

Entering into the great stone main building, I find myself smiling with remembrance and comfort--almost like coming home--if it's possible to feel that way about a place so infrequently visited. Even the small cell-like room to which I am assigned, feels like a warm and comforting little space, just for me. While the room is small, there is a large window looking out over the grounds, and more closely down onto a small garden of fountains and statues of the saints.

You would think that after spending time at this place year after year, that I would go with the expectation that God was going to meet me there in an amazing way, but each year I am actually surprised at that reality. While the specifics are probably too personal to post, I can say that without exception, each year I have explored a specific facet of my relationship with God in a new and humbling way.

This year my reservation is in for the Fall. My two daughters who are presently living with me, will be leaving for college in August--April to Temple University in Philadelphia, and the Jubilee to Belhaven University in Jackson, Mississippi. I feel certain that my time at the monastery in September will be a time of reflection and insight into the new reality of being an empty-nester. How will that play out for me and what will it mean in terms of my relationship with my heavenly Father? We'll see...

Getting Started

I want to write down my thoughts and reflections in a way that is meaningful to me and perhaps to someone else as well. I'm not sure about the whole thing of putting your personal musings out there in cyberspace, but I've been thinking about doing this for a while. So I'll give it a shot and see how it feels.

I chose An Ordinary Life as my blog name, because while ordinary is not necessarily a definitive word, it really describes how I've felt about my life over the past decade or so. And it's a term I've come to feel at home in, and own.

You could say that much of my life was lived in not-so-ordinary circumstances. I grew up in a mennonite home, the fifth child (fifth daughter) of seven. I spent 2 1/2 years in volunteer service in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. I was married for 14 1/2 years to my true soulmate, and for all but three of those years, we lived in an intentional Christian community in Jackson, Mississippi. I'm white. My husband was black. I have been a widow since 1998, following the sudden death of my husband from a heart attack. I have three amazing and beautiful children.

Since August 1998, I have been living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, being a mom and holding a nine-to-five job. In many ways, my present life seems disconnected to my previous experience, but it is full and it is rich...and it is ordinary.