Squished

"Squished," found at this interesting blog

I can't believe that it's been nearly a week that I've not been back to my blog. I've been pushing myself very hard since I have an article due on Friday, and have been working day and night to get all the revisions done. Oh, and I also have a book chapter to submit on Friday. So that's what I've been about. My free time has become squished and I am squashed under all of my responsibilities. It's a time when I wish I could be teaching instead of running a clinic, teaching courses, supervising students, making site visits, doing research, and writing.
Next week I can hang Christmas lights around the house, put up the Christmas tree and start making Christmas gifts that need to be done in one month (say it's not true!)
Don't go away! I'll be back Friday night (with great relief!)

Thanksgiving Reflection

Yesterday as I was baking my annual pumpkin cake, I heard a loud popping sound. Otis jumped and looked worriedly out the back window. I saw a wisp of smoke coming out of the neighbor's chimney and chuckled to myself about what he must have had in the fireplace to make that noise. A few minutes later I noticed another neighbor going around the house, knocking on all the windows and yelling, "Steve, are you there? ...is anyone home?" A small stream of smoke was now coming out of the back bedroom window. The vertical blinds over the sliding glass window had melted and were in a pile on the floor.
An hour and two broken windows later, the fire department and my neighbor were picking through the burnt items on the back bedroom floor by lantern light. Something had exploded in that room--his computer, I think. So today, Steve is thankful that he still has a house and that he just has smoke damage, not a total loss.
Snug in my own smoke free house this morning, snuggling Otis and inhaling the warm smells of good things in the oven, I am grateful for many, many things. May all of you have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, and bask in all that you are privileged to enjoy.

Incidentally, you might enjoy this cake. I can't make a crust to save my life, so a pumpkin pie is an ordeal in my book. But this cake is like a custard with a lovely crust below and above. It's from my friend, Martha and it has no calories:

Mix 1/2 cup melted butter and 1 egg with 1 package of dry yellow cake mix. Set aside 1 cup of this mixture. Press the rest into the bottom of a 9X13 glass baking dish.

Mix 1 large (29 oz.) can of pumpkin with 1 cup sugar, 2 eggs, 2/3 cup milk, and 3 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice. Add a dash of salt. Pour into baking dish over the cake mix crust.

Mix 1/4 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon and 1 cup of saved cake mix mixture. Crumble over top of cake. (optional: pour 1/4 cup melted butter over the top of the cake and swirl around--this really adds to calories and doesn't appreciably improve the cake, so I'm not sure why it's recommended).
Bake at 350 for 50-60 minutes, or until the cake doesn't jiggle in the middle when gently shaken. Serve warm with non-dairy topping or whipped cream.

This cake can be frozen or will store in your refrigerator for 2 weeks. Enjoy!

Old hands, new hope

From a most excellent blog with beautiful photography

Since I moved to this town five months ago, I've been making regular visits to see an elderly couple. Etta has had a stroke and doesn't get around well. She spends most of her time in a recliner chair in the den. Jack however, is a going concern. Every morning he drives 2 miles to pick up the young woman who cares for Etta, brings her to the house and then takes her back home at 11:00 a.m. Then at 8:00 p.m. he picks her up again, brings her back home, where she helps Etta get ready for bed. Jack then drives her back to her own home at 9:30.

Jack is 94 and Etta is 95. They have been married for 73 years.

When I met these folks, my heart went out to them. They have no children and have lived alone in their own home for all these years. They have a beautiful condo in a gated community, and their house is spotless and comfortably furnished. No one should have to live by themselves like that with no one related to them to help them. Being the bleeding heart I am, I was immediately concerned when I first visited them. What if Etta falls on her way to the bathroom? Jack couldn't pick her off the floor. What if Jack has a heart attack while he's driving, or plows into someone with his huge boat of a car? What will she do if Jack dies? I realized that there are lots of qualities they have that my parents had: they are affectionate and live as a team. One lives for the other.

One afternoon during a telephone chat with Jack, he told me that he was grateful they could still be together in their own home. He had the slightest edge of concern in his voice as he added, "It now takes Etta 15 minutes to get to the bathroom and back. But we have to look at all that we've been given over the length of our lives, not just now."

When I visit these folks, there is not one iota of self-pity or concern about themselves. Life is what it is. They are content. Etta called me the other day to tell me that she'd found an ad in the local university paper that she felt I needed to investigate.
"Here's what it says. [I could hear papers rustling in the background]. Are you ready to write it down?"
"Yup."
He-he..."It's one of those computer addresses: double-ya double-ya double-ya dot homeseeker dot com. Does that sound right?"
"I'll check it out."
"You never know Barbara, it might be just the ticket."
"That would be wonderful."

Later in our conversation I asked her if I could bring over Thanksgiving dinner to them.
"Oh, that's sweet of you, Barbara. Let me ask Jack."
She dropped the phone onto her bosom and yelled at the top of her lungs, "Jack! Barbara wants to bring us Thanksgiving dinner. You have everything, don't you?"
A muffled response from another room.
"Okay."
"Barbara, he has everything for dinner. We're going to have turkey breast, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and string beans. Jack has everything to make a pumpkin pie. So I think we're all set. But thanks anyway!"

That dear old man is cooking their own dinner and is just as happy to do so. They are self-contained. What a miracle that is in itself. But that they can do all that they are able to do is a real testament to positive thinking, healthy living, a good relationship and faith in God. So I moved from my position of pity for them to gratitude for such examples. They don't need me as much as I need them.

I smiled as I hung up the phone. I have to figure out what I'll be cooking for our Thanksgiving dinner.

If music be the food of love, play on!

Found here

Some people seem oblivious to the sounds around them. Others thrive on chronic background music--loud, frenzied, not-listened to, pulsing music. Sam is such a person. He has ADD so having lots of auditory stimulation actually helps him focus. He gets calmer with music going full blast.

I was a single, silence-loving, book-loving, curmudgeon-introvert for 44 years. Sam's music makes me feel like I may lose control and start throwing things.

My father had a degree in music and taught band and choir in private high schools. He had a choir that made a recording of sacred choral music. We grew up hearing music--classical or sacred music--all the time. The worst musical noise we had was the cacophony of drums, bassoon, trombones, tubas, piano, french horn, bass clarinet, and lots of singing full tilt. But there was some predictability and pleasure to it. As children, it was exhilarating to find expression with my siblings with such gusto, although I recall mother blowing smoke more than once about the "confounded noise in this house!"

Sam bought a CD of two guitarist brothers last month after hearing them at an outside street concert. They sounded exotic and invigorating in the open air. But going full blast out of Sam's study, they sound like two manics on speed with ants in their pants. The volume, frenetic repetition, and lack of melody can run me right out of the house.
Oh, I like loud music. Beethoven's 1812 Overture, or Puccini's La Boheme at top levels make for a spiritual experience. I may need some extended silence to soak in the experience afterward, but these are musical numbers that one could conceivably walk away singing in one's heart. Not so with the sheer noise of the wild guitarist brothers.

Of course, not everyone likes my music, either. Sam says the relaxing music I play puts him to sleep, especially if he's driving. So we can only listen in the car to very upbeat chamber music--which I prefer over static-ridden talk shows or worse yet, station scanning (!).

Sunday morning, Stepdaughter #2 came to breakfast with her laptop and set it down next to her plate. It was playing some sort of nondescript whining, bellyaching, juvenile moaner-type singers. I gently pointed out that I had music playing already on the Bose in the corner: Bach motets. She winced, but turned off her computer and ate thoughtfully. I was so grateful to continue breakfast in peace.

My cousin used to have a fit about hearing Bach: all those bewildering chord progressions. While I felt myself ascending heavenward, she was spiraling into emotional oblivion, driven by the angst from the incessant minor chords.

Sam and I once found a wonderful Mexican restaurant in the Northwest. Thrilled to finally be free of the sallow, tasteless "Mexican" foods of the Midwest, we ordered and fell to. Almost as soon as we started eating, we both noticed the music in the place: Carribean salsa. We found ourselves eating faster and faster, gulping and gasping, as the driving rhythm of the music pushed us to speedily eat our food. We loved that place, but the music was intolerable. We eventually found another Mexican establishment that suited our musical and culinary tastes better.

I personally detest band music. Yes, my father was a band conductor and we lived and breathed John Phillip Sousa's music for years. But those tweedling, squeaking clarinets, out of tune, and the volume of band music was just more than I could ever bear.

It's interesting how each of us can be so different. I honestly have tried to assimilate and to meld to Sam's preferences in many areas of life--when they don't offend me or threaten my own tastes. I now like the music of Acoustic Alchemy, and David Benoit--both types of music that would have given my father spasms. And Sam listens to the Brandenburg Concerti and Pavarotti.

As I write, the door to my study is closed. Coming from Sam's study is some kind of drums beating that precipitously gave way to Kiri Te Kanawa singing "Sheep May Safely Graze." My blood pressure begins to return to normal and my shoulders unclench. It's a good world after all.

Big in the head

Marvelous drawing, found here

My dear friend Olga, joined Sam and me for lunch yesterday. While I was finishing up with the salad and we were alone in the kitchen, she hurriedly told me that she thought she was dying. With tears and sighs, she recounted symptoms that proved that she was hanging by a thread: bad taste in her mouth, bloating and gas, a 22 pound weight loss in two months, grinding pain under the right part of her ribcage--it all added up to her imminent demise.

I don't mean to poke fun at Olga, because if those things were happening to me and I had no medical knowledge, I could think I was dying, too. The problem is that she has paid $300 in physician visit copayments in the last month, and is getting nowhere. Her doctor has told her that she is being hysterical, that it's all in her head, that it is gastritis, etc. When she told the doctor that many of her friends are physicians, he relented and ordered an ultrasound. "No gall bladder problems, see?" was his only comment after noting that there were no stones in her gall bladder. When Olga asks questions he acts as though he doesn't hear her. He doesn't respond to her comments and often, doesn't give her eye contact. He has in a word, grossly mismanaged her care, in addition to misrepresenting a noble profession.

I took out my 1977 medical-surgical nursing textbook and read to Olga all the symptoms of gall bladder disease. I recalled my rather straight-laced nursing teacher saying in a hushed voice, "Fat, forty and farty--the cardinal symptoms of gall bladder disease." We had cracked up to see Mrs. Reinbaum say farty.
"That's everything I have!" Olga exclaimed, after hearing the list of symptoms. "What's wrong with the doctor?" She has told him all of her symptoms, asked about various forms of treatment, and asked for a referral. She has even begun reading medical textbooks. As the problem has only increased in terms of pain, lack of appetite and bloating, she has gone back the doctor several times. She only gets responses grudgingly--nothing for pain, no anti-inflammatory, nothing for the "gastritis" she supposedly has, no concern. Since Olga is an immigrant, she is especially vulnerable to being taken advantage of. I won't stand for it.

Needless to say, I'm going with her to her next medical appointment. There is no excuse for what has happened to Olga. It is classic litigation material and I have no reservations about expressing this. This physician practices out of an HMO that has a reputation in the community for stringing patients along, taking money for needless tests, not providing good care to their patients. I anticipate a huge lawsuit one day that will shut down the entire enterprise.

The lesson I take from this is the realization that when we don't talk to other people and keep everything inside, the issues we hold close to us becomes "big in the head." That is, they take on lives of their own and become overwhelming. Since we don't have the opportunity to get a reality check from anyone else, we think the worse, assume that we are somehow to blame, and begin trotting out all of our weaknesses and propensities just that implicate us. As we circle the drain, so to speak, we recite our beliefs about the issue, our history, and all the facts because we can hardly believe what is happening. Nonetheless, we still go down the drain.

It is also at such times that people do rash things to try to relieve themselves of the angst they feel at carrying about such a story of doom and gloom in their head. People become suicidal, strike out in violence at other people, become hermits, tell someone off, begin planning their funeral service. Anything done to deal with a huge story in one's head will fail because it is no longer possible to think objectively or rationally about the facts. The response comes from the bigness of the problem, not the problem itself.

Children who grow up in abusive homes often have trouble with this. Shame keeps them from finding out from someone else how the rest of the world lives, how parents behave, and what is typical relational behavior. Instead, they develop sensitivities to anything that reminds them of the abuse. They may be people we consider "touchy" or they may be standoffish: they don't want people to think they're less than anyone else, or that they come from a dysfunctional background. Or they might become abusive themselves as a way to feel less vulnerable to being victimized again. Such people also don't know that what has happened to them doesn't necessarily mean that they're defined by it. They believe that the family issues that loom so large on their horizons--complete with all the pain and emotional blind spots--are visible to everyone else. But it is just the irrational, touchy, lashing out behavior that tells people something deeper is amiss.

Stories of where we come from can indeed become very big in our heads if we don't invite anyone else into our lives.

So Olga realizes today that she is not dying. She has epigastric pain, but she knows what it is now. The story in her head has gone from watermelon size to the size of a pea. I am revved up to take on her doctor. I imagine that she slept very well last night. I know that I did.

Concrete things

This is what my yard looked like after I went after it yesterday. For some of us who work with our heads for a living, and whose work does not always give immediate results, it is gratifying to do various types of physical labor. Because then one can see a product--something concrete and satisfying from one's labor. For me, that means cooking. It also means hacking and chopping tree branches.

Yesterday afternoon, I came home early and wanted to crash. But my grief had me feeling pent up inside. I needed something to work it out. Our rental property just happens to be covered with trees, bushes, and all manner of vines, and overgrown whatnot. The man who owns the property told us to have at it and do whatever we felt we wanted with it. So I had no end of branches to cut off. With a small handsaw I chopped down a 20 foot Hibiscus tree. The flowers were lovely, but the roots go under the foundation and the branches almost completely obscure a window at the side of the house. After that, I hit the tangerine tree with pruning scissors and saw. That tree has been full of old dry leaves in clumps, all through the branches. I went after it with a broomstick and knocked down dust and bits of twigs and leaves. It now looks like a half-way normal tree.

The dead peach tree went down with little fanfare. I started hacking at what used to be someone's Christmas tree. It had become half dead and had very snarly branches with lots of dry, dead pine needles. Fortunately for it, the blade on my saw gave out before I could chop it down. I'll save that for another day of horticultural Rambo frenzy. For now, the backyard is littered with heaps of dead branches, leaves, and logs.

I went to sleep last night around 9:00 p.m., completely exhausted.

I miss my father, and the knowledge that I can't call him tomorrow afternoon as I usually do, leaves me feeling empty. It seems that grief makes abstract, higher thought almost impossible. My head feels vacant, and I've been having a difficult time attending to very complicated tasks at work. This surprises me, because I have almost always felt invincible; that nothing could ever knock me sideways. But the death of my father has left a gaping hole in my heart and I marvel at the depth of my sadness.

Thankfully, life is full of all sorts of concrete tasks that I can accomplish. Today my office manager took a day off. I went after the office cupboards (that probably haven't been cleaned for four years). Three huge trash barrels later, and many amused guffaws from my students, the place was much cleaner and in order.

It is evening now, and I've cooked up some Moroccan Stew: eggplant, zucchini, currants, cinnamon, yams. Another concrete activity. It smells lovely.

Otis is on my lap as I write, occasionally batting at the cursor moving across the computer screen. I put a piece of scotch tape on his toes and his wild foot slinging to get rid of it makes me laugh hard. I still feel Sam's hugs from an earlier snuggle. Life goes on--just more slowly and thoughtfully. And I am grateful for all I have to enjoy.

Delicious!

Today I stayed home from work. My brain is in denial that anything significant has happened to me. My body tells a very different story. One could push me over with a feather. I was awake last night at 1:30 and couldn't go back to sleep. So I opted to stay home from work just to rest.

Something that has always been therapeutic for me is baking. I made the most wonderful persimmon chocolate chip cookies. You might want to try them:

In a blender, mix together 1 cup persimmon pulp with 1 tsp. baking soda. This breaks up the pulp and integrates the soda. It will turn into a congealed mass in a few minutes.

In a bowl, mix together 1 stick of butter (1/2 cup) or margarine; 1 cup brown sugar; 1 egg. Cream together until smooth. Add persimmon mixture and blend well. Add 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1/2 tsp. cinnamon; 1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg. Mix well. Add 1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts and 1 1/2 cups chocolate chips.

Drop from teaspoon onto greased cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes.

Next time when you'd like to make something special, try these. And have some free therapy in the baking of them!

I knew better

Hotflash found here

Last night Sam stated, "I'm craving ice cream. I'm going to Cold Stone." Not wanting to be left out, I asked for ice cream, too. "Something chocolate with nuts." And so 20 minutes later, I sat in front of the TV with my chocolate nutty ice cream watching a show about sex change operations. Since I took control of the remote for a change, Sam sullenly watched the election coverage on his computer in the study.

It seemed idyllic, but I had to pay for it. I'm menopausal. I had a hysterectomy 10 weeks before Sam and I got married. The resulting hot flashes almost ended our marriage. I couldn't stand him getting close to me in bed because I'd be too hot. I'd wake up in the night with perspiration pouring off me and shove Sam over away from me. There was no cuddling, none of the cozying up and sleeping on his shoulder that I had for so long dreamed of. On those occasions when I'd throw an arm over Sam during the night, he'd soon push it off with a phrase I heard over and over that first year: "You're sticky!" I didn't want to use hormone replacement pills because our family has a history of breast cancer. But after Sam told me that his girls complained, "She's hot all the time when no one else is!" I decided that I had endured enough. So I got a prescription for Premarin and was a happy camper for a long time.

After we moved here to the Southwest, I realized that I'd have to find a new doctor and get my Premarin prescription renewed. I didn't. So I'm not using Premarin now. And guess what? No hot flashes. Of course, that is because I went off the pills a few days before I went back east when my father died. Mother doesn't eat sugar, and I was eating rather sparingly. I knew that dairy, eggs and sugar all make hot flashes worse. So what did I eat yesterday? An omelette for breakfast (thank you, Sam) and a bowl of ice cream to end the day with.

Not only am I hopelessly congested this morning, I "flashed" all night long. Morning came too soon today. I think I'll stay home from work until my flashes become little power blips. I think the days of eating whatever I feel like, whenever I want, are officially over. We all grow up. We don't all grow responsible!

For those of you who experience power surges every so often, here's an excellent resource for you.

My quilt

My friend Lois made this quilt. Isn't it gorgeous? It's an applique quilt that won a blue ribbon this week from a group of quilters.

I wanted to take up quilting one time. My mother has made quilts out of necessity as we were growing up: quilts to keep us warm all those cold New England nights. Her quilts were heavy and had my dad's wool army blankets inside as fillers. Sleeping under one of those quilts was satisfying and very warm. In fact, I got so used to the weight of mother's quilts that when I visited other places, I couldn't sleep with light blankets over me. Something didn't feel right, so I'd put a throw rug on top of the bed so I could get the right weight over me in order to be able to sleep.

But Lois' quilt is a piece of art. I wanted to learn how to do that, too. Perhaps I will one day.
What strikes me about this quilt is how long it takes to make each square, sew it all together, and then quilt the entire piece as a whole. What tremendous patience and creativity Lois has!

I suppose that life and moving on is like the process of quilting: it is made up of pieces, each that takes time and effort to make. One part is our accomplishments in terms of career or education. Another part is our relationship with family. Yet another is composed of our friendships. Our emotional wellbeing and the efforts we put into that kind of growth is a square.

As I heal from the death of my father, I've been thinking about the kaliedascope of my life. There are several parts of life that need attention: relationship with family members, grief resolution, my own emotional health. Every day I stitch a few more patterns onto my quilt. I pray as I think about all that needs to be done on it. One day, it will be beautiful. For now, it is a work in progress, with seams askew and loose threads. But I do not work on it alone.

Our lives may seem a tangle, but as we commit ourselves to the wise Master worker, He will bring out the pattern of life and character that will be to His own glory. (Desire of Ages, E. White).

Grief

How long does grief take?

As a therapist, I have been asked that many times by numerous people. The answer is that the time required is different for every person who must experience it. And we all respond to losses in different ways. But how long will it take for me? I can't help but wonder as I observe myself, immersed in grief, yet with a lighthearted relief that I have survived a very painful experience. It seems to me that there are worse things than a death. Death is a clean-cut finish and it can be grieved because it will not change. It is final. Resolution and closure are appropriate goals.

I heard some stories yesterday in which grief has gone on and on. People were in a sort of emotional limbo, trying to figure out how to proceed. Yet they were fearful that if they pushed forward, they would lose opportunities or hope that there would be any change whatever.

There are things worse than death.

One man asked to speak with me after the seminar. Stepping into a darkened hallway, he sobbed out, "My wife died three months ago. I had to watch her suffer for years. It was so awful. ...I'm so raw and it's so painful!" I knew that wasn't why he wanted to talk with me, but he couldn't hold back this crucial information. When he saw that it was fine for him to express himself, he cried and sobbed as he explained what had happened. He had been overwhelmed trying to take care of patients whose lives were in shambles, and who could not or would not respond to his attempts to help them. He was clearly so wounded himself that he could not cope with the pain of his patients. He wept for several minutes and we stepped further into the shadows to give him privacy. I was so touched by his sorrow. It would have been second nature to gather him into my arms and hold him. But I just held his hand, listened, stayed with him, and shared his desperation.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave, a woman approached me. "I'm going to start crying and I don't want to, but here goes..." And she burst into tears. We moved into a darkened area and sat down on a bench in the church reception area. Her marriage was in trouble. She didn't know what to do. It was surrounding an issue that she could speak of to no one except her counselor. She could not hold back, and she gasped and sobbed for several minutes as we spoke together. When she finally stopped and regained her composure, she thanked me over and over for listening. Her self-imposed isolation had been broken, and the buildup of her pain had been relieved somehow just giving words to her experience. I prayed for her and she went home.

As both of these people left the building, they turned and looked back at me. The man smiled warmly and gratefully. He looked lighter. The woman was embarassed about her red eyes and only nodded as she left. It is an intimate gesture to share such deep grief with another person. I had been honored to be invited into their experiences and glad I could help relieve some of their pain.

This morning when I woke up I couldn't get out of bed. My body is telling me what my mind doesn't have awareness of: that I am grieving myself. How long does grief go on? Why is it that there is no easy way around it? When I had major surgery, I cooked a meal the day I got home. I was driving the car in a couple days (against medical advice). It was easy to bounce back. But this insidious thing holds on and shows itself in unexpected ways at unexpected times. It's pervasive enough that it has made me reevaluate every relationship that I have and every life goal and value that I possess. It's something that makes a person want to run away, to do rash things, to throw off everything that doesn't contribute to happiness or life in significant ways, to start over in some major way, to burn bridges.

In my mind's eye I see the eyes of these weeping souls of yesterday. I know that they went home afterward to put one foot in front of the other: babysteps toward the light. Their tears have warmed and instructed me. Their tears were not in vain. I can do the same.

Forgiveness

Found at Remember Rwanda

This weekend I'm in the Pacific Northwest giving a seminar to a group of Christians about forgiveness. It is interesting to see people come to these workshops wearing their frustration and defensiveness on their faces. At least, as the speaker, I can look out across the audience and see the pain and incredulity they must feel. They don't look at each other, so it's not as visible to them as it is to me.
Something really jumped out at me during last evening's talk, and that is the balance between insight and responsibility. Let me explain.

People who have been unfaired against in some manner tend to keep track of what has happened to them so they have a way of making sense of the flood of feelings they experience. They create stories about who hurt them, what it meant to them, how it has affected their lives, and the practices they have adopted in response to the hurt. People tell themselves these stories often, adding details to bolster why they do what they do or feel the way they feel. Such a story initially helps to make sense of why they feel so miserable. As time passes, these stories can take on lives of their own. It gets trotted out whenever the person feels sad about the results of being unfaired against, and it is told as justification for any number of ills in one's current situation. As it is rehearsed, the teller becomes firmly fixated in the past and unable to move ahead. They mistakenly refer to the past in order to somehow come to terms with the present. The story gets told over and over until onlookers say things like, "He really has issues with authority" or, "She has relationship problems" or "He's one of those walking wounded people." These stories get told to people hardly known to the one telling it, because the story is so tied into the individual's sense of identity that they can't explain themselves without explaining what has happened to them. It is a real turn-off to have to listen to explanations of how a person was hurt, aggrieved, frustrated--over and over and over. Grievance stories are crippling.

We all have some sort of grievance story about someone or something. It is human nature to try to understand why we are the way we are. It is shirking of responsibility to use those stories to excuse ourselves from being accountable for our behavior in the here and now. We remain trapped by the past, waiting for someone else to change before we will grow or be responsible for the way we are acting.

I have seen this happen over and over in therapy. Therapy is a place where people learn how the past has impacted the present, what their natural propensities are, and how to deal with their circumstances. But a number of people enter therapy merely to understand why they are the way they are, and then do precious little to deal with their current unacceptable behavior. They mistakenly think that it is enough merely to gain insight into themselves but they leave therapy without any substantial change. They are still prickly to deal with, abrasive, self-absorbed, and without concern for anyone but themselves. This is not successful therapy. (and many of us have been accused of providing this type of therapy when in fact, the clients drop out of therapy the minute we begin holding their feet to the fire about their resulting behavior. "I'm wounded, can't you see" is their response).

We hear theology that smacks of this idea, too. If you realize that you are a sinner, come to God, and that's all you do. Yes, because we are human we can't muster a whole lot more than that. What gets left out is that we now must walk in newness of life through the Spirit of God. We are responsible for our behavior after we come to God, through His life-changing grace. We don't rehearse how damaged we are by sin without asking God to change us. We work at it while He works within us. That's why it is called a spiritual discipline--it requires something from us.

All of us are wounded. We live in a sinful world where at times we have to come to grips with circumstances that we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies. Understanding how badly we have been hurt is not adequate. Being responsible for the way we subsequently treat others is the rest of the story that needs to be developed.

Today I hope to help our seminar attendees think about how to move beyond their grievance stories and into responsibility for their behavior. When I look into the faces of the hearers and see the "Aha!" expressions and determination to be responsible for themselves, I will know that real growth has occurred.

I'd better get out of bed and get to the church!

Resource