The Helpless Shopper

My father never was a gift giver. Many were the times when he bought us candy, doughnuts or eclairs. But I can count on one hand the actual gifts he gave me: a silver pin in the shape of the Scottish thistle, some vocal music, and the night before he died, a hideous multi-colored ceramic worm-type character which he had painted himself. It wasn't that he didn't love me. It just never occurred to him to buy things for me, since Mother purchased the essentials for the family.

Apparently, I was not the only one who found this difficult. After they got married, Mother looked forward to her birthday, Valentine's Day, Christmas, Mother's Day--dreaming of the surprises she would receive from Daddy. Shock was more like it. She didn't get a thing from him for the first two years of their marriage. Finally, she blew up. He apologized and immediately bought her a dozen long-stem red roses that they could ill afford. Mother was apoplectic.

After about 25 years he figured out that she would be very happy if she received a corsage on Christmas and Mother's Day, a bouquet on her birthday, and a single red rose at random times. For some reason, he got the idea that she would like new panties for every occasion. I was never told of the conversations behind this, but I suppose Mother commented that other women sometimes liked gifts of lingerie. As Daddy was oblivious to lingerie on or off Mother, he settled on a practical gift: panties. We are not talking about sheer, exotic-colored, silk, or frilly panties. I mean plain cotton or tricot panties--up to the waist and down to Bakersfield. Problem was, he never seemed to know her size.

I remember shopping with him for these when I was about 10 years old. It was an adventure and I was thrilled to be sworn to secrecy (I don't know why, because it certainly wasn't a secret to Mother after all those years). We stood at a sale table on which were arranged pastel nylon panties on sale. Now what size should he buy for her? "I want five pair," he announced, holding up a lavender pair by the elastic as if it were a dead rat. "Does this look like her size?" I had no idea. Always resourceful, Daddy glanced around the lingerie department for help. A rather large woman stood at a rack of underwire bras several feet away. Daddy smiled and stepped over to her.

"Excuse me, could you help me?"

The woman glanced around at him. Daddy had adopted an awkward, boyish, "HELP ME!" expression on his face. "Of course" she said, smiling.

"I'm trying to buy some panties for my wife and I don't remember what size she wears. She's about your size, I think. Can you help me know what would fit her?"

"You think she's my size?" the lady asked, her brow furrowing.

"Yes."

"That would be a size 12." She looked pleased that she had helped a clueless man. "What a nice gift," she added wistfully.

"Thanks!" Daddy sang out, turning back to the panty table. Turning to me he said, "Wasn't she nice?"

And to the good Samaritan, "Thanks again. My wife will be very surprised!"

She was, too. Mother wore a size 5. "Raiford!" she exclaimed, exasperated, looking at panties that could hold two of her. "What, pray tell, size do you think I am?" Whenever Mother punctuated her sentence in this way, we knew she was beside herself.

"Well," Daddy began to stammer. "I thought the woman standing there was about your size and she told me what to buy." His eyes were twinkling and he would start laughing when Mother held the large panties up to her diminutive frame.

"Oh, my soul!" she would exclaim, laughing uproariously. "Honey, you need your eyes checked! And you can't be asking women what size panties they wear. Someone is going to think you're out for no good."

"I didn't know what to do and she was a pleasant looking woman. She didn't seem to mind me asking what size she wore."

"Well you just can't do that. Kindly return these... size 12!"

It was a yearly joke that never seemed to get old. Mother would exchange them herself and have a good laugh with the store clerk about it.

I don't think Daddy bought Mother any panties recently before he died. I would think she had enough to start an underwear store out of her bedroom after so many years. He had progressed to flowers by that time, which that suited Mother better.

As the holidays get closer I think fondly of those wonderful memories. As I spirit away gifts in the guestroom closet, hidden until Christmas, I wonder if the holidays will surprise me in any way.

I wish that I had more things from my father so that in the using of them I could feel that he was closer to me somehow. Alas, it is not to be. But at least, I had him. That was gift enough.

Failed!

There is no particular pleasure in failing a student at the end of an academic term. Students bellow, threaten to involve their parents, other students, or legal counsel. Parents call and beg or use all sorts of inappropriate arguments to try to coerce you to change a grade ("Didn't you ever get a grade you didn't deserve?" "I thought this was a Christian institution!" "He's tried so hard," ad nauseum).

University administration, on the other hand, send out missives about grade inflation and the ethics of assigning grades that students don't deserve. There is a subtle message given that students should have to really work hard to get an A in your class--don't make it so easy. How else will the academic standards of the university be upheld? I agree.

But the business of failing a student--an advanced, doctoral student--can be an intimidating prospect for someone like me. It never fails to surprise me that a number of students feel that if they showed up for class, they deserve to get an A grade. Not to merely pass, but to pass in the top 10% of the class. Amazing. I don't like to have people angry with me, and they are typically very angry when they know they received a failing grade. I find it hard to turn off the therapist mode and move into teacher mode ("I didn't do this to you. This is the grade you earned, and I suggest that you consider that carefully before you say anything else disrespectful or inappropriate to me.") I always have to brace myself for the onslaught of tears, tirades, or threats.

As you may guess, I failed a student this quarter. Tuition is expensive and the class was a four-credit hour class. It met four hours per week and let me tell you, those were some very long classes! We had debates, in class activities, student presentations, discussions; we reviewed articles and talked about all sorts of things to break up the time so students wouldn't die in class. It can be hard to sit there for four hours at a go for 10 weeks. One thing I don't tolerate well is to see students surfing the web on their laptops in class. Worse yet, wearing an ear bud and listening to an IPod. My syllabus states, "Professional conduct of students is anticipated. Repeated tardiness, listening to IPods or surfing the web on laptops during class will result in a reduced grade at the discretion of the instructor."

I dropped two students a letter grade last year. They were livid.

My failed student has left the class to take phone calls many times; surfed the web and responded to emails most classes; and giggled and whispered with another student every single class period, most of the time.

Because it was a survey of research course and covered a lot of ground--and most students are intimidated by research, I told the class that I would give them one main assignment for the class. I wanted them to work on their dissertation proposals or perform a critique of literature on their topic of choice. In addition to daily participation and frequent conversations in class about the issues that arise in the writing of their papers, they would discuss four articles for five minutes each, over the course of the term. I would rather have them leave the class learning something useful than to do busy work that prevented them from really applying themselves to the process of research. The main assignment would be due on the last day of class, when they were to present their work to the class using PowerPoint, handouts, or other visual aids of their choice. They were thrilled. I encouraged them to email me drafts of their work throughout the quarter so I could provide feedback and help them craft a defendable proposal.

The day before the last day of class, Failed Student called to tell me that she didn't think she would have her paper done. "It's been just one of those busy times of life and I haven't had time to work on my proposal." Why then didn't you tell me this earlier in the quarter? Why didn't you drop when you realized that you couldn't do the work? Why do you think this is an acceptable excuse for not doing what is expected here?

"Well, this is the only real assignment and you have had the whole quarter to work on it. You have not emailed me anything to look over, and have not asked any questions pertaining to the proposal process. So you will need to turn in a product tomorrow and as you know, your grade will be dependent on the quality of the work."

There was lots of conversation about wanting it to be perfect before it was turned in, writer's block, missing just one thing (the lit review!!!), too much life happening, etc. I maintained my "broken record" message that communicated her responsibility for the outcome.

The grade she earned was 23/70. She has failed the class.

Scrutiny of the "properties" tab for her document indicated that she started writing the night before it was due. While other papers were 45 - 60 pages long, hers was 20. It was really bad.

So I notified her as well as her advisor, that she has failed the course.

Why am I writing this? Don't most professors go through this, and why is it a big deal? I think I have a harder time with this because I've never had children--never learned how to deal with the rolling eyes, disdainful teenage glances, opinionated comments of kids ("How can you look so dorky?") I've never had to set limits and have kids buck them--send them to their rooms for being mouthy, or say, "Because I said so!" with a sense of maternal entitlement. My choices and behaviors are guided by well researched principles that I have learned and taught to many parents. I can institute them pretty well and people don't know that there is any hesitation on my part about setting limits, being quick on my feet about what is happening, and call kids on what I see. But I do it from principle, and not from that place most mothers have--a visceral knowledge that their children will still love them in the end and that they are doing the right thing by discipline, motherly critique, or issued imperatives. I am a stepmother. I have four years of experience dancing around these issues and never quite knowing on a gut level that what I am doing is the right thing or best thing for the kids or for me. There is no guarantee of love or loyalty to me in 30 years when I am old. I can be rejected outright if my ideas of discipline, behavior, manners, or ethics are too different from those they have grown up with. I can be viewed as eccentric with old maid ideals, inexperienced and even stultifying to their healthy development. I have to watch whatever I say because I can be judged to be unfair, mean, heartless, unfit. "I don't think of you as a stepmother. You're my dad's wife." (I corrected that on the spot, but it still rings in my ears). There is very little entitlement in my position and I have no experience tolerating kids pushing back against me. All the hugs, kisses, and "I love you"s that I hear can't entirely erase my concern. I operate as a stepmother out of two parts intuition and one part principles learned in books. I suppose that no biological mother can ever say with great certainty that what she is doing with her kids is a failsafe method, so maybe I'm not such an outlier as I think. But I am filled with consternation when I either set limits in class or fail a student because it is all attached to the issue that makes me feel most vulnerable in life.

It's hard. The students have no idea what comes up for me when this happens--nor should they. I just spend several days stewing and second-guessing myself to be sure I've said and done everything fairly and as kindly yet firmly as possible.

I think I'm getting better at it. Perhaps the day will come when I can issue fair directives and completely ignore the "stink-eye," etc. When an F grade will truly be about the student and not about me.

Found here

This morning's devotional reading caused a startled jump. It was the story of Ananias and Saphira: the social climbers of the early church. Apparently, they wanted to get in on the philantropy and esteem from the community that came from providing for the fledgling church--and all those who needed their support. Apparently many people had been disowned when they embraced a crucified Christ and were living communally with other church members. They were dependent on the goodwill of those with wealth in their midst.
So as they people sold property and gave the proceeds to the apostles to distribute as needed, Ananias and Saphira decided this would be something good for them to do. Perhaps their motives were pure in the beginning. They made a pledge to sell a piece of property to support the early church. Except they decided after they had the money in their hand, to keep back part of it. I've had thoughts like this before. Have you ever sold a large item, or gotten a very large bonus check? When we sold Mother's house and I held the check for the amount in my hand, I confess that my mind flitted to numerous projects that the money could be used for. It wasn't mine, to start with, and second, it is funding Mother's life and must be tucked away and invested wisely. So I did that and have not looked back.
To hold a large sum of money, or to think that you may receive a large sum of money, can drive people to behave in uncharacteristic ways.
This must have happened to Ananias and Saphira, because they decided that they would hold back some of the money from their property sale. That in itself wasn't awful. But what was, was that they indicated to Peter that it was the full sale price (lying), and presenting it as a way to maintain standing in the community (hypocrisy). And down they both went, dead.

It is a shocking story. I'm sure that the early church was stunned. The Bible says that "great fear came upon the whole church and upon all who heard of these things" (Acts 5:11). No kidding. Can you imagine what the church would have become if other people decided to follow their example? Heartless philantropy, performed to make themselves look good, not to provide honest, good-hearted service. Their treasure was not in heaven, it was here.

I hadn't read this passage for some time, and I was again reminded that God expects honesty, purity of motives, and obedience in all things. As I was thinking of this story, I wondered, "But what about grace? Why was God so hard on these people? Didn't their gift count for anything? After all, the early church depended upon such generosity. Did these people have time to confess their sin before they died? How would God view what they did in the light of their eternal destiny?

There are probably a variety of responses to this question. What I learnt again this morning is that God expects obedience and purity of heart. Anything less is not pleasing to Him. And that what we have here in terms of wealth and holdings, are not just to consume on ourselves. These blessings are expected to extend to others, both for the relief of suffering, and for extending the Gospel commission. This seems to be a law of the Kingdom of Heaven: don't withhold what you have promised to God. By giving away what we have, we gain more than we could imagine. By becoming poor, we become rich. Being smart with what God has given us (investing or sharing it) is God's intent for us.

Food for thought at this time of year when everyone is thinking about what they will get, not what they can give.

Right and Wrong

Is it a sin to overeat? she asks me.
I think it is. Our bodies are "bought with a price" and we are told to honor God in our bodies.
What about telling white lies as a way to avoid hurting someone's feelings? Is that wrong?
I look at Briana's upturned face, intensity burning in her eyes. Is there a perfect answer? I hedge. Well, providing appropriate information for children, for example, is often preferable to absolute honesty about things they don't need to hear or know.
Oh. I hadn't thought about that.

I'm thrilled that Briana is asking these sorts of questions. I want her to think about right and wrong, about good choices and the ethics of living in a less-than-neatly-packaged world. She seems temporarily satisfied and quickly flits off into reveries about a Gray's Anatomy character.
Here today, gone tomorrow.
I smile to myself.

I think back to the early days of graduate school. Some of my questions about ethics in complicated human dilemmas at Bible study had been met with more than a frown and slap on the wrist. I had been told by well-meaning but rigidly entrenched, conservative religionists, that if I kept studying counseling I would lose my way spiritually. Pretty soon I'd be on the slippery slope to perdition--a humanist agnostic whose postmodernist leanings had made me so deconstruct the notion of God that I had become morally and spiritually destitute in a relativist world. What a picture!
No, they reasoned--you must learn how to use the Bible in therapy and encourage people to become baptized Christians. Otherwise, your work is worthless. Worthless! (Wonder what they think about doctors who don't pray with their patients!) But they were so glad that I asked about these issues so they could set me straight.

It is anxiety that makes people talk like that. Fear that differentness, a kind that they don't understand, is somehow the enemy. Concern that another way to view life is incompatible with faith in, and love of, God. That if the skills of science and the human mind are called into practice, that God as Ultimate Healer has been set aside. So they denigrate and discourage. This is somehow acceptable, but my way of working with human relationships so people can view God as loving, warm, always faithful--this isn't a good thing.

This makes me chuckle now, although in the early days it caused marked consternation. We are only as important and powerful as our enemies. Some railing and upset is like a feather in the cap, apparently.

I may have written about this before in this blog, but I am thinking about this again and it bears repeating. We all have a list of life issues that we feel are either odious to God or absolutely morally unacceptable. Non-negotiables. There are people who become quite exercised over things like returning tithe to God, or eating certain kinds of foods (or not), or divorce, or the politics of morality in this country. But while these folks focus on these issues, they privilege other issues or behaviors that are oftentimes much worse than what they are lobbying against. In the end, what does that say about us as humans? We try to be clear about what is right and wrong, try to live by those ideals, and yet while we are looking at the "mote" in our brother's eye, our heads are obscured by boulders we can't see around.

There is a movie that speaks to this: Priest. I haven't seen it for several years, but it is a movie that had a profound impact on me. It is the story of society's privileging of issues. Very moving and a must-see for those who are interested in seeing a thought-provoking movie.

More and more I see that we all embrace sin in one form or another. We can't not do it. "For with my mind I serve God and in my flesh, the lusts of the flesh." (Romans 7). We are cut from the cloth of imperfect humanity. As such, it is difficult to see with clear vision how God sees us and this world.
I am so grateful that he is the judge in the final analysis.

Unrequited

"With Longing" found here

Friday morning on the way to work, my drive took me past a large medical office complex. As I sat at the red light, a familiar form hurried through the crosswalk. A 20-something young woman was on her way inside to work. Because it was raining, her head was tucked down into her chest and the hood on her coat hid her face. But I knew it was her.

She had the same profile when she was sitting on my couch, her head tucked into her chest, tears rolling down her face. "I don't know what to say to him," she had said over and over. Her black hair falling over her eyes, her mouth flexing open and closed as she sobbed.

She ended up leaving her husband after coming to terms with his cheating on her. She came to therapy for almost a year and a half, "just to get my feet under me," she apologetically said. She didn't think she could have made it otherwise, she said.

I hadn't seen her for a good six months since we ended our work together. We had said our goodbyes--she looked so victorious and happy when she left. I told her how much I had learned about courage, perseverance, and hope from her. I felt honored to share her struggle and victory. She left, smiling. I had a lump in my throat as I finished the paperwork for her file.

I remembered all of this, sitting in my car at the crosswalk. I wondered how she was doing. Had she ever garnered support from her critical parents? Or did they still attribute the divorce to her refusal to behave like a Southern belle? Had she gotten up the courage to start going to church alone? Or start volunteering at the tutoring center like she always wanted to? Had she been able to hold firm to her boundaries with her ex-husband? Was she happier now? There was no way to know. I couldn't exactly call her to find out what was going on in her life now. I was just grateful to get a glimpse of her again.

Most people think therapists sit back in their chairs, adjust their glasses, and think of questions to ask like, "What do you think of that?" "Is that okay with you?" "How is that for you?" and, "Can you say more about this?" Many therapists, however, move the conversations along in ways that get to the crux of the issues, knowing that the questions they ask will bring temporary discomfort to the clients whom they love.

Love. Not in a forbidden, romantic, sense. Rather, as new stakeholders in our client's wellbeing.

"Healing occurs in the in-between." This, from Gestalt literature that informs us that healing and growth depends on the quality and strength of the relationships we form with our clients. Some therapists put on "therapist face" every time they enter the therapy room. But some of us take a moment to check our hearts to be sure we are capable and eager to emotionally connect with our clients before we see them. We enter into their experiences with them. We hear things that they can tell no one else--things that make them feel terrified, dirty, faint, ill. Even though we don't necessarily focus on the magnitude of pain so much as the moving along of growth and change, our hearts are wrung at times, as they only can be, so close to rawness of lived experience. We also enter into their terror, shame, overwhelm. We bring all that we can muster to the job of working through unpleasantness and challenge. We become closer to our clients than any other soul can be at times. It is emotionally expensive sometimes. It is also a sacred privilege. It just doesn't last.

Nor should it. When our clients either feel they have gotten what they came to therapy for, or we mutually decide that it's time for them to move on, we part ways. Hopefully, we both have good memories of hard work and that slow, almost imperceptible emotional and mental shift that happens as the clouds begin to lift and life's path is more clear. They move out of our offices, off our schedules, and into lives that are hopefully more ordered and liveable than when they first came to see us. We stay behind, wondering and hoping that they have received enough to help, and that they will make good choices with the tools offered in therapy. That they will realize that someone, somewhere, believed in them and thinks of them warmly. It's just that we seldom ever know for sure, what happens in the long run.

My therapy students struggle with this. There have been many times when, after saying goodbye to a long-term client or family, they have returned to the supervision room and broken down. "I learned so much from that family!" "Do you think they are ready to stop coming here?" "Isn't there any way I can ever see them again?" We talk about legal and ethical principles that we adhere to and how we can't intrude on our clients to check in with them, nor can we even acknowledge, in a public place, that we know who they are. Otherwise, their friends will ask, "How do you know her?" and the confidentiality that we guarantee our clients will be compromised. We do our best with the time we have and the motivation our clients bring. It is often a crapshoot, what will happen. But we are obligated to bring the best of who we are and what we know to the table. Then, it is time to let go, to give our clients wings and send them off with a sense of accomplishment. Students aren't so sure. They had no idea that they could feel so strongly about clients who may have driven them crazy with resistance or the "yes-but" syndrome. And now that they are gone, the student may be surprised by the strength of their feelings of loss.

"We are paid intimates," I hear myself telling students over and over. People pay us to listen and understand them. To walk through a period of life with them and help sort through emotional and social issues. But mostly, to be on their side and to engage with them. It is a silent care that is part respect, part hope, part protectiveness, part admiration and part fondness. All together, it feels like altruistic love. Many clients we become attached to of in spite of our objective detachment. But most of the goodbyes are forever.

So our responsibility, I tell students, is to be sure we have people in our personal lives whom we can love openly, with abandon. People who don't come and go--who we talk to as much as we listen, and who are more intimate with us than our clients are. People who share our homes with us, rub our backs at night, share all our secrets, fears, and hopes (but nothing about our clients!). They are our anchors and we can't do our job without them.

Sitting at the crosswalk, the faces of many clients moved across my mind: Sal, who had been inappropriate with a young man at work; Julie, whose husband was an utter brute; Linda, who was so ill that I didn't know how long she could keep going; Mel, whose affairs left him guilty, ashamed, and still unable to find love in the right places. I cared deeply for all of these people. Only, they will never know it.

Maybe they did know and that's why they kept coming.

The grey hoodie of my former client bobs through the crowd of medical staff going through the front doors. I watch until I can't see her any more. Traffic begins to move and I drive on through the intersection. There are new people in and out of my office doors every week. I step on the gas. I have a 9:00 appointment and I don't want to be late.

New Information on Myself

This week is course evaluation week.

I HATE COURSE EVALUATIONS!!!!

After I handed them out to students and left the room, my good upbeat mood crashed to the pits. What horrible things will those people say about me? Will my good intentions, herculean efforts to provide a well-rounded education, and good faith, be hammered into nothing? My mood plunged and I have fought feeling sad for the rest of the day.

Perhaps I am harking back to some years ago when I received incredibly shocking evaluations: "Barbara is condescending and hard to approach. She shouldn't be teaching." "She is stiff and unapproachable." "The instructor doesn't have the personality to be a teacher."

I wasn't surprised. I was floored. I had almost always received positive teaching evaluations. If people didn't like me, they did like the class at least. These evaluations were something completely different than anything I'd seen before. While there were two students in the class who had skipped out often and got bad grades on substandard work, others were collegial, interested, motivated, and participatory in class. Suddenly I felt stabbed in the back. I had no idea. And the ideas expressed were extremely denigrating. It was not the academic requirements, assignments or tests. The problem was me. I couldn't believe it.
I still don't.

No one is perfect, especially me. But the comments made about me didn't come close to reality, nor were they merely opinions of students. I wondered if they came from a disgruntled individual who wrote in her comments onto student surveys before they were sent in to central administration. But since they were then sent on to an outside agency for compilation and analysis, it was not possible to get them to examine so I could prove my hypothesis. To this day I feel the shock and overwhelm I had when I opened those evaluations.

So today, when I returned to the classroom after the evaluations were taken off to the department secretary to deal with, I slumped into an emotional heap on the inside. Yes, we continued to laugh and have an animated conversation about research. But I had then, as I do now, a feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. How horrible a person will I be described as now?

Of course, this is just a reaction to an earlier unfortunate experience. But I do not think my experience is unique, in that a round of really bad evaluations can be devastating. I doubt that many non-academics understand how vulnerable and helpless a professor can feel in the face of course evaluations regardless of whatever experience, credentials, publications, or other scholarly characteristics one may have. Suddenly we are at the mercy of students--some of whom are angry because you held them to the line. Others, because they chose to share something of a private nature in class and you moved the class along because it was neither time nor place to have that kind of conversation. Still others were angry because they did not think that their internet surfing in class for the entire quarter qualified them for a drop in their grade. So we do what we think is right and wait for the onslaught. We finish up the semester on a high note, feeling pleased that so many students earned high grades, or that the papers were of superior quality. Students give hugs as they leave and thank us as they leave on the last day, citing events in class that have been formative in their thinking. Then we get their evaluations a month later and wonder how we could have missed what they have charged us with.

A story by a client illustrates the shock, shame, and confusion that is associated with these evaluations. Kay* grew up in a modest home outside New York. Her father was a mechanic for a famous singer; his mother a laundress. There were three active, happy kids in the family. Kay remembers her young life as very happy: mass every week, family meals and traditions, grandparents and lots of aunts and uncles on the weekends. One day her father came home with the Famous Singer who took a liking to her very quickly. "Can I take your picture with me?" So Kay stood next to him, held his hand, smiled, and had her picture taken with him. He was gone right after the picture was taken, but Kay was so dazzled by being with a famous person--who wanted to be with her--that she didn't mind. Life was good and Kay grew up feeling very satisfied about her young life.
Two weeks ago Kay decided to go through a big box of family memorabilia that had been left behind when her father died. After looking over several packets of papers, she came across the picture of herself and the Famous Singer standing hand in hand in her front yard. The caption under the picture read, "Won't you help unfortunate young girls? Without your contributions, Kay doesn't stand a chance." She had been the poster child for poverty prevention in New York City. She'd had no idea. In one moment, she slid into doubt about everything she had ever known and felt about her life.

The magnitude is different, but the idea is the same. Things that creep up on a person are not easy to take, especially when that information causes one to question everything they know about themselves. So whether that is a course evaluation, finding a letter from one's parent after their death, or an old newspaper clipping. There are good reasons that evaluations sit in a drawer unread until teachers no longer remember the names on the course roster that year; or why we don't examine and memorize everything that our parents leave to us. It is an interesting life, this. And how we think about ourselves can be a fragile thing sometimes.

*Kay is a pseudonym.

Look, look, look!!!

Found here

I am truly annoyed. Today I checked my former employment email account, only to find a TON of unsolicited nonsense ads. Here are some of them:

Eat More, Exercise Less, and Still Lose Weight!

Make Her Worship You!!

Feel Young Again!

Clearance Blowout! 30% Off 100s of Items!

Get Fit With Hollywood's Fitness Guru!

Experience Impossible Healing in Only 10 Days!

Of course, there are the seamy ads that make me wonder about decency in this country:

Your Insatiable Man Will be Full of Pleasure

Take Part in a Sexual Marathon With Our Help

Then there are those ads that make no sense. Apparently, the authors of these think that sane people will be so filled with curiosity that they will click on the ad to see what it means (I hardly see how...):

I Detunaed that ocean

1islv

fiwuxor acowinetsivrnepw?

But perhaps the one that grinds my gears the most is this one:

Bye Bye Belly Fat!

As If I could forget I have belly fat.

It's all salesmanship, but it is intolerable.

Rose

70 years ago, Rose Marie was born in a very poor Italian-American family in the ethnic ghetto of New York City. There is an interesting story about her that I heard many times in my growing up years. Rosie was a cheerful, talkative child who was your typical toddler. She had beautiful black hair and dark eyes, and a lovely olive complexion, just like her father. One day she fell off the stoop and broke her arm, only the family didn't realize that was what had happened. She favored her arm, but she used it. But after a week or so, she was obviously in pain. What to do with an injured child when there is no money for a doctor and no such thing as health insurance?
The parents did the only thing they knew to do. Medical interns from Bellevue Hospital had been allowed to set up clinics in underserved areas. And they were affordable and sometimes even free. So off they went with little Rosie to get her arm fixed. The intern examined her as she whimpered, held on her mother's lap. "I can fix this," he told them. "You folks just go on down the hall and I'll take care of this. She'll need a cast." He took the squalling child and sent the parents off. Before they walked around the corner, the father turned to look back at his child. What he saw enraged and horrified him: the intern had taken Rosie's arm and snapped it in his hands. "It needed to be rebroken before it could be set" was his explanation.
Rosie was never the same after that. She withdrew and hardly spoke. When she did, it was repetitious and irrelevant most of the time. Although her parents were heartbroken about her mental condition, anyone with mental illness in those years was considered an embarassment. She was often told to go in the other room when company came to visit. Hence, she was kept isolated and alone for much of her life.
Rosie is my aunt. I have often wondered how her life would have turned out had she received psychiatric services and had not been traumatized as she was. The image I have of her when she was an adult, is of a tall woman with dark circles under her eyes, wearing a loose house dress, and pacing the floor. "Oh well," was her refrain.

Neither my grandparents nor my parents taught us to respect or nurture Aunt Rosie. Nor were we ever encouraged to speak with her and give her the pleasure of a relationship with someone outside of her home. For many years I never thought about her. She was a non-person to me, I am ashamed to say. Then a couple years ago I awoke out of the family culture and realized that she is a real person who needs love, affection, tenderness, and relationships with her family. So I started writing her letters and sending her small gifts: stamps, pictures, cards, etc. As with many mentally ill people, she warmed to me immediately and began to write to me faithfully. Aunt Rosie lives in an Christian extended care facility in North Carolina. She seems to be happy there, getting the mail and distributing it every day to the other residents. Her sister and brother visit her several times weekly and she is very close to them.

Recently Aunt Rosie has had to be hospitalized several times for angina. She has heart disease, which runs in the family. I don't know how much longer I will have her. Rosie can't talk on the phone, so I can't hear her voice. And I haven't seen her in at least 35 years. But she has been a true gift. Why? Because there is something about her that is so innocent and trusting, like a child. Her love is guileless and pure. The tone of her every letter is positive and sweet, even though she writes in one-inch letters that have been sketched over several times. She has never met Sam but she asks about him in each letter. Rosie so much wants to be part of a family and be loved. And she is.

Dear Barbara,

I feel well today. How do you and Sam feel today?

I hope you and Sam feel well today.

I pray for you and him every day.

I love you and him.

Have a good day every day you and Sam and a Happy Thanksgiving and a Merry Christmas day and a Happy New Years Day when the days come.

You and him are nice persons.

Thank you for nice picture letter card.

From Rose.

Perhaps one reason that I especially enjoy my relationship with Aunt Rosie right now is that it feels to me to be a sign that I have reached a certain age. When we are growing up, through those troublesome teen years and the early adult struggles, we try to distance ourselves from anything or anybody whose presence we fear will define us. The nerdy people who are really quite nice but whom we dread being compared to, the boys who are clever or obnoxious who we secretly admire, the parent with the oddball behaviors. Indeed, I have had several men lose interest in me after they met my parents when I was younger. I have been compared to my siblings in ways that have made me cringe. A former boyfriend's arrogant opinions about my being a nurse made me deeply ashamed of my profession. But there comes a point in life where we realize that our family members contribute to the way we are: both positively and negatively. It's how we manage what we ended up with that matters, how we conduct ourselves in relation to others, and how we love. Then, the imperfections become only proof that we are cut from the cloth of humanity.

I keep a picture of Aunt Rosie on my desk. She is sitting on her bed, wearing a flowing house dress in a dark navy floral print. Her hair is dark and has fewer gray hairs than I have. She is smiling sweetly, even a bit impishly looking at the camera. Rosie is a dear, dear part of my family and I am happy to be her neice. I pray for her health and happiness. One day, we shall live in that great forever where we both shall be whole. I am grateful for that hope, and thankful for what I have learned by being her friend.

Selfness

Yesterday upon the stair

I saw a man who wasn't there

He wasn't there again today.

Oh how I wish he'd go away

There are many people who, when we look at them, appear to have no one home. No, these are not people who are sharing a joke with themselves and playing invisible drums on skid row. These are people who have not put down roots inside of themselves. Sound abstract and confusing? Read on.

One man I know comes from a family where he was not wanted. He couldn't create a strong sense of self since he felt he was defective. If he were not, his parents would have been kinder or more interested in him, he believed. So while he developed ways of thinking and doing things, he never really felt settled in how he did things because after all, his ways had never been valued or validated. He hoped that when he found the perfect woman, she would do that for him and he would then be a self. In fact, we teach couples this, don't we? "My other half" "One plus one equals one"?

He did marry a wonderful, beautiful woman. Being with her gave him a sense of purpose and strength. She believed in him and actually adored him. He became resolute and strong in his opinions and approach to life. Mostly. Unless she was not close at hand to run his ideas by or get approval for his thinking. Then he waffled helplessly and sank into despair. But as soon as she was available and gave her opinion (which she was wont to do quite readily), he was up and on his way again. It was a good deal for a few years. Then the children came. He was able to care for those children and receive their unbridled enthisiastic love. Those were wonderful years: a wife and children, all who made him feel strong in himself. When he left to go on trips for a long weekend, he often felt despondent and worthless. He was socially awkward, as he often tried to get the validation and approval he needed from strangers--something that called for him to be a buffoon or else an apologic attention-seeker. As soon as he got home and was surrounded by people who worked hard to affirm him, he perked right back up. It continued that way until his children became teenagers--the age all parents become "dorks"--and then he clung to his wife for validation once again. He eventually fell into despair when her needs prevented her from providing what he needed to feel worthwhile.

There are so many people in this world who have not started off in a positive home environment. They could not get the emotional or social beginning that could make them feel worthwhile and valid. They have gone through their lives trying to either prove their value by disconfirming the messages they received as children (which means grandstanding or killing themselves to achieve success), or challenging anyone whose message makes them think that in fact, the earlier messages about them were correct (beligerant and highly reactive. They become extremely high maintenance people because they are always trying to borrow "self-ness" from everyone else.

These unfortunate individuals see their children as possessions and are loathe to allow their children to form individual selves for fear they will be abandoned and without what they need to be a self. So the children become enmeshed with the parent, trying to provide for what becomes an emotional bottomless pit. When their children grow up, self-less parents do not celebrate their children's much awaited passage into adulthood. They grieve for a long time and feel that something unfair has happened to them. They become resentful for any achievement or advancement of their kids. The children in turn, feel guilty for any differentiation and sense of self they are able to form.
From somewhere far way on the inside, non-selfed people recognize that something isn't quite right. But there are no words for it, and to try to quantify it is too terrifying. They keep trying to stay attached to someone or something that provides them what they need. Sometimes that is God or religious adherence. Sometimes a spouse or child or sibling. But it is quite a painful situation, regardless of whether it can be voiced or not. Because if they lose their attachment object, they are back to being a nothing--a no-self.

So what does this all mean? Some people are like empty graves that we walk over. We tread lightly because it appears that someone is there. But only a few emotional parts are there. It is not their choice--the designation of a no-self person is almost as capricious as a throw of the dice. They are all around us: people who make scenes to get attention; who are always asking for affirmation; who may be self-deprecating or wildly narcissistic (they are attached to almost delusional notions about their value). But they are in pain, and often lash out in the most irrational, vitriolic manner. They may be diagnosed with a personality disorder, or just be someone who is just a bit socially off. And they fill the offices of therapists and social workers, who try to help them with attachment, skills, and meaning.

I imagine that while Jesus was on this earth, He had quite a following of no-self people. I wonder what He would have said to them. Probably something like, "Are not two sparrow sold for a farthing? And yet your heavenly Father loves you more than these." Or, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven." I wish I could have watched Him fill the unfillable and know what He did to help them feel more attached, valued, affirmed. Perhaps one glance could do it. I don't know. I only know that for us mortals, it's a process that occurs over a very long period of time: limitsetting, affirming, educating, attending. Whew.

Perhaps at the Second Coming, when Jesus comes in the clouds of glory and the dead of earth shall rise to go home forever, everyone will get a strong self along with their new body. An unshakable, attachment to God, a visceral knowledge that they belong to the One who will never leave them. There are so many people I know who struggle with selfhood. I don't think it will be long before all shall know as they are known, and have nothing to cause regret, fear, or pain.

Full of Thankfulness

It is 5:00 on the night before Thanksgiving. We are waiting for the girls to arrive from work and boarding school. Sam has tidied up the kitchen and I have two persimmon puddings steaming away on the stove. Otis is springing around the house, challenging us to a game of chase. It is crisp outside and the mountains were beautifully purple against a coral sky tonight. I had a wonderful walk around the neighborhood before coming in to the warm, good-smelling house. It is so much happier this year than last and I am truly grateful.

Daddy died a little over a year ago. It was our first Thanksgiving and Mother was alone in New York, not doing well at all. The neighbor in the house behind our property had a house fire and lost just about everything. We were still grousing about having to live in this little rental. I was not as happy in my work as I am now. I was waking up at 4:30, tossing and turning until time to get up. So much has changed.

We are much closer to buying a home. I am teaching full time now, not directing a clinic. I am sleeping through the night and waking up with enough time to spend time with God before dashing off to work. An 11-day trip to Peru is coming up in a few weeks. And I just found out that I have the entire summer off teaching so I can get caught up on my writing. Maybe part of spring quarter, too. What relief that will be.

Mother is living here and is doing well at adjusting to life in her new setting. She is not shoveling snow or struggling with wood in her kitchen stove. It was wonderful to see her smiling and chatting away last evening. Her retirement center hosted a Harvest Celebration meal for residents and their guests. Sam and I were delighted to go and be seated across from Mother and her friend, Dottie. Those two chatted happily along, as did Sam and Dottie's son--the mayor of our town. On the other side of Mother sat a teen-aged girl who was dying of boredom. Next to me sat the little man who accidentally climbed into my car one afternoon. A few seats down from him was Marge, the 103-year-old woman who Chris Hanson featured on Dateline a couple years ago. She was weighing in on the political conversation at that end of the table. Mother glowed, so happy to have us come so she could introduce us to all her friends. After dinner we went up to her apartment where Sam oohed and ahhhed about it and helped her with her VCR.

I am grateful that life is so good for us, and that we are happy in our marriage. For one who has worried most of her life about how things will work out, how I would be able to get through the next degree, pay the next bill, find a husband, or know enough to teach anything, life is in a good place. God has been generous and gracious to us. Heaven is cheap enough, and life here has been good.

I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8: 38, 39

Good book

Two weeks ago while I was at Grief Camp, I read most of a book that has been a mind-stretching experience. The Faith Club is written by a Muslim, Jew, and Christian. It is the chronicle of their conversations as the result of their original goal to write a children's book about their religions. Instead, they formed a spiritual support group that they maintained for several years. They recorded many of their conversations, and recreated moments of ideological and cultural exchanges.

I was fascinated to read of the way they asked the hard and awkward questions of each other. Reflecting on their responses to one another, I wondered how I might represent all of Christendom, as one of the women did. The comments of the Jewish and Muslim women still ring in my head. I shall probably not think of these religions in the same way ever again. This book is a must-read.

The Faith Club. Idliby, Oliver & Warner (2007).

You are probably wondering how I am doing on my new health plan. I am thrilled to report that I have felt very sustained and convinced that the timing of this was perfect (even though I would have been happier to have lost 45 lbs a year or two ago!) I was able to wear an outfit to church that I couldn't fit into three weeks earlier, and my students have asked if my hair is different. Then they said sort of off-the-cuff, "Or maybe you've lost some weight." They were embarassed to ask and wondered if I'd mind their questions.

Ask me if I've lost weight!!!

I am very, very grateful and looking forward to continued improvement in my health.

Regrets

Tonight I spoke at length with a woman who feels that her words killed her husband. The day before he died she unleashed a vitriolic attack on him for his actions that she found offensive. She was apparently given to "spouting off" when she was disturbed about anything at all, actually. Her husband had heard many a tirade in the past. But this time he was very hurt by her words. She knew that because that night he rolled away from her in their bed before he fell asleep. That night he died before she could apologize for the words that broke his heart. Now she feels that she is the reason he died and that if she had been more loving, or even held back her frustrations, he would have lived longer. He went to the grave sick at heart because of the words from one who should have been the most supportive, warm, understanding and forgiving.

Guilt is a terrible burden.

Here is what went through my mind as I listened to this woman pour out her heart to me. You wonder what we therapists think about when we sit there nodding? Here it is. My mind was momentarily nibbling around the edges of a story I knew only too well.

I was invited by a congregation in Ireland to give a series of talks about family matters. In order to have some credibility (I was very new in the field at the time), I took along an established therapist to give some of the presentations. She was happy for the opportunity to travel abroad and she is an excellent clinician. What I didn't know however, was that when she is anxious she becomes controlling and she digs her heels in. Whatever the agenda may be, if she is anxious, she becomes very difficult.
We arrived the day before Thanksgiving. We'd planned our trip for that time because it was our vacation and it wasn't a holiday in Ireland. My colleague was exhausted that second day and was also perturbed about the advertising the church had done about us. As she thought about her talk the following evening, in went the heels.

The pastor's wife had invited us over for supper the night after we arrived. My colleague didn't want to go. I didn't know how to navigate the public transportation system there and was embarassed to ask how to use it. About an hour before we were to be at supper, I called and begged out of dinner. I claimed jet lag and every other thing that was within the realm of reality--partial truths. She pleaded with me to just come for an hour. It would be fine if I came alone, even if I were to eat and run. I felt in a real bind, between dealing with my growing anxiety about my colleague and my fear of traveling across the city on my own. So I thanked her repeatedly and bowed out.

We were received quite well by the church and those who came to the presentations. I enjoyed being there immensely and it was a good trip overall. On the last evening we were in town we had supper at the pastor's house along with a number of other folks from the church. Spirits were high and people were singing and laughing in the other room. I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could help with food preparation or serving and fell into conversation with the pastor's wife. In the midst of our conversation she stopped short and said, "Oh, if yeh could only've come Friday night" and she dissolved into tears. She went on to tell me that she had invited all the women in the church and a number of pastor's wives from other congregations in the area, and she had prepared a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner in honor of me. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, onions and brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie. It had been a surprise. Only I wasn't there.

Yes, I can hear you gasp. I feel sick at heart whenever I think of this and wish I could shut my eyes and disappear. It is a guilt that will always be palpable and sickening, apologies notwithstanding.

My client's eyes are full of tears. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach. It is impossible to take back words or actions that have hurt someone else. Humbling evidence that we are dreadfully human sometimes, that our actions make us sick sometimes. That cringe or no, we have to live with what we've done. Reminders that we need to look well to our ways. That there is a high value in being gracious to others. That we can't live without a good dose of mercy. That we hurt people without meaning to. It is one more thing that all of us know, only too well.

The Fool's Prayer
The royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool;

His pleading voice arose: “O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool:
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

“ ’T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
’T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept—
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!
The word we had not sense to say—
Who knows how grandly it had rung!

“Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders—oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Not just for the birds

There is an intersection that I love to see that is near the hospital where I drop off Sam every morning. The wires that transect high over the traffic are full of some sort of birds--a whole flock of them. But it's not just one wire in one direction, it's all four wires across north, south, east, and west-moving traffic. It is as though there is a ring of birds sitting above, watching the cars whizzing down under their feet. What amazes me is not that there are birds there, even though it is a rather busy intersection. It is that all the birds sit at fairly equal distances from one another. There they all are, lined up about a wingspan away from one another.

I wonder how they know, or how they learn what that desirable distance is.

I have thought about these birds many times as I've sat in my car, waiting for the light to turn green. How is it that these creatures know what is appropriate and humans, who are supposed to be capable of higher thought, can't seem to tell this? All those creepy types of men who stand too close in the checkout line at the grocery store, and who, right at your elbow, stare into your purse or almost lean against you. Or women who are not known to you, but they know who you are--feel they have a right to clasp you to their hearts in a fond embrace. Or to speak in a too-familiar style about things that make it hard to know how to respond. Nature knows what is acceptable.

These ideas sometimes swirl through my head as I sit at those stoplights. I have given the birds considerable thought recently. For some inexplicable reason, I think about some of the upcoming challenges I anticipate when I teach an intensive course in Peru in January. Some of my concerns are these: How will I know how to talk in culturally sensitive language about sensitive issues? Will I offend someone unwittingly? (Probably). How can I discuss issues like whether or not spanking is acceptable when I do not know the culture or common ideas? How do I talk about intimate violence when Peru has one of the highest rates in the Americas? What will they think of me when I offer my ideas about what I think is appropriate behavior for married couples in terms of conflict and conflict resolution? Or appropriate sexual expression? Or my ideas about childrearing?

But you know, every group knows, too. Each group has norms about what is appropriate: too much, too little, just about right. About where the line is that none should cross. I mustn't have all the answers, because the Peruvians have norms about what is acceptable. They have an old civilization and they can determine how to take in my words. One only has to look at the birds on the wires to realize that the good Lord has put some notion of normalcy and acceptability into every collection of creatures on this earth, from avian to homo sapien. What an interesting God.

Inspiring

Here is something I was emailed that has really touched me. I think you will also be moved by it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flRvsO8m_KI

Eternal Rest

It was a memorial service for the mother of an agnostic Jewish woman. I'd never been to a Jewish service and was eager to see what this would be like. Only about 20 people were seated in a Jewish mortuary waiting for everything to begin. An officiant wearing a black silk yarmulke rushed in and hurriedly drew a gold brocade curtain across the room to partition off a pine casket that appeared to be open. A moment later he burst through the curtains into the seated crowd.

"We're about to close the casket. Before we do, does anyone want to view?" His voice was raspy and monotone, yet full of urgency.

"Anyone?" His eyes darted across the crowd. "No one?"

No one moved. I personally, was shocked by his demeanor, which had the same amount of emotion one would have if asking for directions to the DMV.

"All right," he continued. "We will proceed momentarily." And he disappeared back behind the curtain.

Meanwhile, those sitting around me chatted away about various community news items. There was no meditative music, no hushed whispering or reverence. The family members stepped back through the curtain and seated themselves on the front row facing the officiant.

"Okay," he stated. "Let's begin then. I never had the pleasure of knowing Idilah Steinmetz in life and it is unfortunate to make the family's acquaintance at this difficult time. So I can't speak about her from personal experience. Who better can talk about her life than her family? We will hear from them in a couple minutes." He intoned flatly, "Let us proceed by reading together the selection in the middle section of the program" (which I was not given when I came in).

We flew through Psalm 23, the Shepherd's Psalm. Never have I recited that Psalm so quickly. Two family members stood and spoke at length about their mother and grandmother who had died the day before. One remembered the deceased fondly. The daughter gave a rambling monologue about how one family member with psychic powers, had chosen to cut off from the family and was not there. "But I'm sure he's lurking around the cemetery somewhere. He's probably looking in the windows now." We all instinctively glanced at the windows. She continued by telling us that when her father had died a year earlier, someone told her that her mother would die soon thereafter because their relationship had been so enduring. "Ironically enough," she continued, "Two months after he died Mother started insisting that he was gay! And that he has been gay for years. She hated him and she reminded us of that every visit."

"--She did not!" a woman in the middle of the group said aloud. "She never said that. Don't say that about her! She wouldn't say that."

The daughter forged ahead. "We had a very complicated relationship, and there's a lot I could say, but today I'll only say good things."

Her remarks sort of trailed off. She ended her comments by shrugging her shoulders and sitting down next to her husband. He stepped up to the front of the assembly and read to us something that his father-in-law had read to him at his wedding. It was an obscure passage from an Eastern guru's writing from the middle 16th century. I couldn't follow it because it seemed somewhat circuitous or something.

The son-in-law sat down and the officiant stepped back out from the curtains at the side. He announced that there would be a private burial service later in the day, but that we were all invited to eat over at the Odyssey restaurant. "Take Rinuchio down two blocks. Turn left at the stoplight. You will turn on to SeaBreeze and go for two blocks. Take the next right and half-way down the street, you will see the restaurant." It was all said without any feeling or enthusiasm.

"And now we will tie on the k'riah ribbon." He uttered a monotone description of the symbolism of these ribbons, pinned them on the family members, then shredded them in his hands. "Wear these for 30 days. But on the 30th day do not wear it for more than one hour because our fathers told us not to mourne for longer than 30 days." Without taking more than a catch breath, he continued, "Now we will read together the Kadish found on the last page of the program."

I didn't have the program and couldn't join in the Hebrew reading, although as I listened, I wished I had the opportunity to see if I could keep up with everyone else. I didn't have long to wait til it was over. The officiant tore through the reading, doubletime.

"Now we're finished. May the name of Idilah Steinmetz be a blessing in your mouth every time you say it." The family nodded. "We now commend you to eternal rest. You will live on forever in our hearts." And he turned and walked out.

Everyone just got up and walked out.

I don't know how much of that funeral was typical for Jewish services and how much was due to the unique family situation. But it left me very disturbed, on many accounts. I've described some of the quirkiness. However, what troubled me the most was the lack of anything about the life hereafter. There lay a dead woman in a casket and no one had the belief that they would ever see her again, or that she would ever be alive again. According to the prevailing ideas, Idilah was dead and that was the end of her life--ever. Eternally.

Most of Christendom believes that at death a person's spirit leaves the body and goes up to God. For many, that means that the essence of the individual lives on, though their body remains in the ground. Because of Augustine's ideas of the separation of matter and spirit, it is assumed that a person can exist aside from her physical body. So that the loved one is up above in heaven, watching and sometimes helping those on earth. My beliefs are different than that. I believe in soul sleep and a body-soul connection. If one dies, the other does, too. At the resurrection, the body and soul become immortal and live forever in heaven, in the presence of God.

But whatever the details of the "hereafter belief," Christians have something to look forward to. We know that death is not forever for many people. God, in His mercy, has prepared much greater things for us than we can even dream of. The attendees of the memorial service seemed to take everything in stride. Death, funeral, family. That is how it is. They all went out together and had a meal, sharing their humanity by grieving and sharing stories of the deceased together. I drove home thanking God for the immeasurable Gift we have been given: Eternal life, not eternal rest.

Camp Good Grief

This weekend I served as a volunteer resource therapist at Camp Good Grief up in the Angeles Oaks mountain area. This is a weekend experience for kids ages 9 - 14 who have lost a family member due to illness. There were many very sad children, recounting their stories of watching family members die, or paramedics try to revive their fallen loved ones. It was a heartwarming experience, as it always is. We had about 30 kids and at least 30 staff, giving the kids one-to-one experiences with many of us. The weather could not have been more perfect, and thankfully, the incoming Santa Ana winds didn't start any fires or create problems for us.

There were a number of my students there, so I merely circulated around the various group meeting sites to be sure everything was going smoothly. Camp Cedar Falls is up about 8,000 feet high or so. All the adults got winded just walking up to the lodge after eating in the cafeteria. It was almost enough to make me want to skip meals! Kids were roiling around, up and down the hills, halls, trees--you name it. No fatigue there, unfortunately.

One very precious moment is still clear in my mind. I went to the young boys' group to help lead an activity. We had little white plastic flowerpots that snapped down into a larger clear pot. The inner and outer surfaces could be decorated with colored tissue paper and decoupaged on. It's a real dorky activity for teenage boys, but the 9 - 10 year-olds were immediately interested. There was tissue paper being pulled in all directions as they looked for just the right color and pattern to put on their pots. We told the boys that they could take a Sharpie pen and on the outside of the inner pot, write a message in honor of their loved one who had died. They fell to, busily writing in newly learned cursive writing: "In loving memory of ________" and "I love you, ________."

One chubby little guy with glasses was busy working on his flower pot. I could tell, just by looking at him, that he was taking this endeavor very, very seriously. He carefully wrote in bright blue, "In loving memory of Yadira" (not her real name) with big loopy, cursive letters. Then he sat quietly looking at the pot, his hands almost caressing it. A moment later, he sat studying the various tissue papers. Sorting through the stack of zebra print, butterflies, hearts, and miscellaneous patterns, he finally settled on a large floral print. The other boys were by this time talking together and trying to best one another in how they cut out their pieces of tissue. This little boy didn't talk to the others, but very slowly and methodically cut out several large pink lillies and put them on the outside of his pot. I couldn't help myself.

"Wow. Your pot has some beautiful colors on it."

He smiled without looking at me.

I watched several minutes and asked him, "Who are you making your pot for?"

"My sister," he said very softly.

"Oh. When did she die?" I asked.

"A couple years ago."

There was no need to say the polite, "I'm sorry." All our groups had been through that already, and everyone up there had lost someone recently.

"How old was she?"

"Nine. I was only seven." He said it so matter of factly, but in a soft little voice.

"Oh."

"Did Yadira like flowers?" I asked.

He nodded. "Pink ones."

He wanted to get more color on the inside and outside of his pot and didn't know how to put the decoupage glue over it. The activity took only about 15 minutes, but the whole time I sat with him, we hardly spoke. I'd just point to something and say, "How about that?" and he's nod and keep on working. It was a grave expression on his face, and I could see that his little heart was very hurt.

He worked at it some more and when the group leader called the boys back to their seats, he held his decorated pot up for me to see. He had left a little window where the words, "In loving memory of Yadira" could be seen on the inner pot. Big pink lillies were backlighted with bright blue paper underneath. One purple butterfly flitted across one side of the pot.

He looked at me questioningly.

"That is beautiful!"

He smiled faintly but continued to look at it as though he wasn't sure.

He turned it in his hand one way and then the other, checking to see that his message to his sister was visible. He looked around at the other boys' pots and then back to his own. He seemed uncertain.
"Honey, if Yadira liked flowers, she would love this pot. It's very, very pretty and just right for a girl."

The rigidness of his stance relaxed a bit and he nodded, putting it down on the vinyl papercloth to finish drying.

"Thank you," he said. And he walked over to join the other boys who were waiting to start a moment of silence. He sat down in his seat and shut his eyes. Then they flew open and he looked back at his pot, as it to reassure himself that it was still there. His eyes searched my face then and I smiled and nodded at him as if to say, "It's lovely and you did well."

He smiled a huge smile at me and put his head down for silent reflection.

Events like this don't come every day. What a tragedy that all of these children had been left without sibling, mother, or father. Their teary eyes and tense bodies said volumes about what they had gone through. They didn't choose to have these things happen to them. They were just trying to manage the best they could.

When they left today, their steps were a bit lighter and they looked more peaceful than when they came two days ago.

As I was packing up the van with boxes of supplies, my little friend, who was walking past, paused to catch my eye. Although he stood only three feet away, he waved at me, holding his flowerpot carefully in one arm.

"Bye," he said softly with a sweet smile on his face.

"Bye. See you next year."

And God bless you, precious one.

With Fear and Trepidation

It is November 1, 2007. It is an important day and even more important that I talk about why.
For months I have not been feeling well. I am overweight and have all the health and wellness issues that come from being sedentary, overweight, and stressed: gastric reflux, fatigue, obesity. And very few clothes feel good on me. It's time to get healthy and lose weight. 50 lbs, to be exact.

I have had plan after plan of how to drop this weight. Nothing has "stuck" and I am heavier than ever. Last month I spent a night in the ER because of chest pain. My health has become a matter of life and death. I MUST straighten up and get serious about staying alive and in good shape. Because if I've learned nothing else over the last few years, it's that at my age, I'm not going to have improved health and physical shape by accident.

Here is my plan: I will be eating no more than 1500 calories daily for the first 30 lbs of weight loss. I am not allowed bread or potatoes for the first six weeks. No sugar of any kind is allowed. Should I get tired of counting calories, I can eat all I want for one day--provided that no bread, fat, or sugar is involved, and that these "free days" occur no more often than one day per week.
In addition, I will be walking four days per week, for a minimum of 20 minutes each time.

I can do this. I've done it before. Now that it's written down and I'm acknowledging this, I must be accountable. Food has always been a comfort and coping device for me. Now it's time to change lifelong habits and grow into the person I was meant to be. I'll try not to discuss my eating and weight here because it can be really tedious and feel a bit intrusive having to read my inner process regarding food. But it will be an enormous struggle.
Please remember me in your prayers.

Newlywed Flu

Hot, prickly skin
Hair matted to his scalp;
Sweaty back, florid face.
Heave-ho, “Jason, hasten…”
All over the rug.

“What did you cook for him?”
“Is he allergic to peanuts?”
Anxiety crescendos from my parents;
Their voices strained with concern
Over my week-old marriage,

“I told him I love him.”
Pleased at my fawning over him,
As they leave to celebrate the
morning 52 years before
when their marriage was birthed.

“It happened to him, too”
and mother winks at daddy.

Written in April, 2003 after giving Sam rice cakes and peanut butter.
He will never eat rice cakes again, I am sure!

Catupuncture

I called to get an appointment for Otis' health checkup. It's been over a year since he's seen a vet and he needs his next round of vaccinations. So I called the vet who used to treat Zita when she was alive.
Dr. Madge's assistant answered the phone.
No, Dr. Madge's practice has undergone significant change, she told me in a hushed, breathy voice that bordered on the mysterious. We perform wholistic health for pets: accupuncture and chiropractic, and use of herb dietary supplements for total health.
I was appalled.

Perhaps it's because I grew up in the country surrounded by the neighbor's farm animals. Animals were what they had because it was a practical thing: they made money for the farmers. The barnyard cats were there because they kept down the rodent population, which saved money on grain and machine parts that typically got nibbled down to nothing in the cold winters. The dogs were to ride on tractors with the farmer, run to get the paper, keep the sheep in line, and help rounding up the cows at milking time. Every animal had a purpose.

It was not unusual for farmers to shoot the calves born with congenital defects, or to do other things with unwanted litters of kittens. But mostly the farmers I knew were kind souls who would never willfully hurt an animal for no cause.

But herbs and chiropractic for Otis? He can barely tolerate me massaging him unless he's almost dead from being sleepy. I can't visualize him stretched out on a padded couch, accupuncture needles sticking out of his neck, a vet stretching his legs and working his abs whilst inhaling in lavender or vetiver--things that makes him turn his head and retch every time I offer him a sniff. He would come home and roll around on the floor to try and get the smell off himself, ears flat to his head, shaking his head in disgust.

It was a very funny image. I'm sure there are those whose pets benefit from these treatments, and I quite understand the need for alternative medicines than the same old thing therapy. But juxtaposed against the backdrop of 25,000 acres of burned down homes, businesses, churches, and wilderness areas, questions arise about use of resources and priorities. Dr. Madge is only a vet and can't be responsible for FEMA procedures or helping people get on their feet again. And I don't begrudge her the opportunity to practice vetinerary medicine the way she chooses--and with obvious benefit. But it seems that our society has been turned on its ear. People in dire straits, who have lost all they have in wildfires, can walk past Dr Madge's office, look in, and see cats and dogs getting treatments they themselves could benefit from but can't afford. Or that seem superfluous in the face of their losses.

Otis is going to Dr. Taverstock, who will see him, give him his shots, pat him on the head, and send us home. And that's more medical attention than many children in this country get.

It's an interesting time in Southern California and in our world.

Dirty Laundry

The email message was cryptic: "Dawn's mother died this afternoon. She will be out of the office next week." I picked up the phone and called her to see what I could do to help her. Dawn's mother lived with her. So do her daughter and two grandchildren. She is the pillar of the household and of late, a very tired one.

Her voice sounded like she'd been crying. I almost didn't call her because I was afraid she wouldn't really want me to call her, or would wish to be left alone or something. But no, she was glad I called. Would she allow me to bring her supper? She was thrilled. So a couple hours later, I pulled up into the driveway armed with beef ravioli, salad and fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies. She probably wouldn't be able to eat much, but the kids would be happy for something good.

Dawn and her daughter, Suzie, were sitting in a darkened livingroom. Kids were running in and out of the house playing (mostly) in the back yard. When I reached to hug her, Dawn clung to me. A few moments later she shared with me that both of her siblings had already preceded her in death. Her father has Alzheimer's and lives in a board and care facility. She is my age.

She invited me to sit for a few minutes and she told me the whole death story. Her mother, who had severe emphysema, diabetes, and an amputated limb, had with great difficulty gone into the livingroom to sit for a few moments before she got her breakfast. That is where the caretaker found her at 2:00 in the afternoon when she let herself in the house. Mom looked like she was having a very peaceful nap.

As we sat in the front den I noticed mountains of what looked like dirty clothes in the chairs. Bags of clothes were all over. "Dawn, let me take all your laundry home and get it taken care of for you." It was a struggle, but numerous negotiations later, I triumphantly drove off with dirty laundry in the trunk and back seat, obscuring the rear view mirror in my car.

Her mother's bedding smelled like urine. But her sheets were brilliant blues and fuschia colors--crisp and light. Her damask bedspreads were pretty navy blue and sky blue. She had enjoyed good taste. The kids' socks were filthy--just as all socks get when you run around on a tile floor without wearing shoes. Their darling little outfits filled six paper grocery bags.

It wasn't until I had begun to fold the million or so washcloths that I realized that one must really trust another to hand over their dirty laundry to them. You can tell a lot about a person or family by washing their clothes. All these washcloths must have been used by Dawn's mother for a variety of reasons. She had been a very sick woman with many special care requirements. Washing her clothes, bedding and washcloths made me feel like I was able to do something for her. She would have been grateful.

It's humbling to handle garments that need mending, or have raggedy edges, or stains. Because I have clothes, old towels, mismatched sheets, filthy socks, just like Dawn's family has. One could find all sorts of regular dirty laundry in my cupboards and hampers. It seems to be the great leveler: soiled clothes. Everyone has some.

Cleaning our clothes can be a dreaded chore or it can be a reason to pause and reflect on the people who wore them last. I suppose that mothers around the world have been doing this for centuries. But on this day, as I folded up the umpteenth load of laundry, I was the one thinking about how much I really do care about Dawn and her family. She is all alone--without sibling or parent who can help--trying to arrange the service, get the obituary written, plan a reception at her home following the burial. It reminded me of what happened in my life one year ago this week when my own father died. The helpful hands and hearts of others made it possible to endure the aloneness that I had to face. It may have been only running an errand or picking up something from the cleaners or taking over a small detail. But it was one thing less that I had to concern myself with.

As I washed and folded clothes today I was again grateful for the love of those who make our grief and aloneness endurable. And I was blessed in passing that along to someone else.

Raising Cain

The first time in scripture that animal sacrifice is mentioned is in Genesis 4. A casual reading of this chapter leads one to believe that Cain and Abel knew what God required for sacrifices. Abel presented a firstborn lamb and the best parts of it as a sacrifice. Cain presented God with fruit and vegetables from his harvest.
And God had no regard for Cain's sacrifice.
But God did not accept Cain's fruit.
But upon Cain and his offering, He did not look.

I wonder how God acknowledged Abel's offering. There is speculation by a number of Bible scholars that God sent fire down from heaven to consume the lamb, indicating favor or acceptance of the offering.

A blood offering was required in the ancient sacrificial system because it pointed ahead to Christ's sacrifice. Fruit points toward nothing. Except that it was fruit that was involved in the fall of Adam and Eve. Blood is not aesthetic and killing a lamb would be disheartening, to say the least. But apparently, God told the first family what was expected for sacrifices and Cain thought it would be less offensive to offer fruit and vegetables instead of a dead animal.

Interesting, too, that because God accepted Abel and not Cain, Abel paid for doing right with his life. We do not have any record that Abel chided Cain or that he acted superior because of being right. Maybe he tried to point out to Cain that God expects obedience, and that it is a simple thing to do what has been requested. Unfortunately, the right thing is not always popular.

I was thinking about the importance of obedience when I recently read Genesis 4. For those who think that obedience means legalism, they should look over this chapter. God is serious about the imperatives He issues. There aren't a whole lot of them, but the laws and requirements outlined in the Bible are not optional.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
Seek the Lord with all your heart, mind, and soul.
Be sure to entertain strangers.
Do not lie or behave in deceitful ways.
Don't covet what other people have.
Put your money where your heart is
Remember to keep the Sabbath holy.

Now speaking of our own ideas of what is right--there's a commandment that has been changed to reflect what people think would be better than what God established and lived by while on earth.

I think all of us have some way of turning a blind eye to a command of God and substituting something that is easier, more accepted, more fun, or that seems to pay off more than the old, boring requirements. Exaggerate the truth to make a story more interesting. Allow your mind to wander into forbidden areas: What would it be like to make love to someone other than who I am married to? Say something hasty and unsavory to your parent because their behavior is grating. Deny the name of Christ by your behavior.
We all do it in some way--do whatever we think works better than what God clearly states. Then we are resentful of those who don't do as we do.
All the while, God is at our elbow asking, Is your way going to get you what you want and what is best for you?

The Bible says that although Abel is dead, his blood still speaks from the ground. His example of absolute obedience, whether or not he understood the sacrificial issue or not, is for us today.

Obedience is vital. Would you obey even if it would cost your life?
Food for thought.

Who has the privilege?

Do you ever think about being, looking, or identifying as someone other than the race, age, sexual orientation, or member of your socioeconomic status? See how many of these questions you can answer in the affirmative:

I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty sure that I won’t be followed or harassed.

I can turn on the TV or open to the front page of the paper and see people like me widely represented.

I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of their race, religion, sexual orientation

I can swear, or dress in second-hand clothes or not answer letters without having people attribute these choices to the bad morals, poverty, or the illiteracy of my race

I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world’s majority without feeling in my culture any penalty for such oblivion.

I can criticize our government and talk about how much I fear its policies and behavior without being seen as a cultural outsider.

I can be pretty sure that if I ask to talk to the “person in charge,” I will be facing a person of my race.

I can easily buy posters, postcards, picture books, greeting cards, dolls, toys, and children’s magazines featuring people like me.

I can go home from most meetings of organizations I belong to feeling somewhat connected, rather than isolated, out-of-place, out-numbered, unheard, held at a distance, or feared.

I can be sure that if I need legal or medical help, my sexual orientation will not be a matter of comment

I can choose blemish cover or bandages in “flesh” color and have them more or less match my skin
(Peggy McIntosh in M. McGoldrick’s book, ReVisioning Family Therapy.)

This weekend I shared this list with an audience of about 80 people at one of my workshops. There were a number of people for whom all these answers were "yes." There were five or six people whose Yes answers were less than three. All of them were born in the U.S. and were highly educated, working as therapists in large urban areas. One man shared, "I could only answer yes to two of these questions. I realized that as I was going through the list, that I purposely try not to think about these things or else I couldn't function." This, from the director of a marriage and family therapy-pastoral counseling program.
He went on to share that he finished his PhD in marriage and family therapy and then decided that he would like to be sure that he was qualified for any job opportunity that may present itself to him. So he went to a famous family therapy institute for a postdoctoral fellowship and spent one year studying with renowned family therapists. Just as the year was ending, he was sent a job announcement for the director of an inpatient family therapy program for kids with behavioral problems. It was perfect for him so he applied and waited to be called for an interview. He knew the other applicants and of all of them, he was most educated, experienced, and then there was his postdoc. Weeks went by. When he finally called to find out the status of his application he was told that he wasn't qualified enough. They had hired someone who had experience in another field but who had read a book about family therapy. That man would be heading up the family therapy program.
As I listened to this man share his experience with the group, heads nodded in agreement across the room. One woman explained that she is aware every single day of her brothers and sisters across the nation who cannot respond positively to any question that I had read. These are all American citizens.

I have the privilege. I am a White woman--one of the most protected segment of the population. It was out of fear for "our women" that Whites lynched Blacks in the South, alleging that Black men had threatened either the reputation or purity of White women. It is little wonder that there is such resentment at times from people of color. To be assaulted with fire hoses if you sit in a "White" coffee shop, expected to stand in the back of the bus rather than in the front, to be told by supervisees who are still wet behind the ears, "I refuse to have you supervise me," or that you don't know what you're talking about (and the assumption is that they do), would call forth more than exasperation.

To pretend that I don't have privilege is arrogant on my part. I can walk into any shop, school, church, and be expect some sort of deference. Whether or not I should have it is quite another story. But in this society, I can expect it. Awareness of these things should humble me. I did nothing to be born White and have the characteristics, parentage, that I have. I had nothing to do with slavery. My great-grandfather fought against it in the Civil War. We lived in Hattiesburg, Mississippi during the Civil Rights Movement. It was horrid--even for me at the age of four. My sister drank out of a "Colored" water fountain at Sears and the White clerk rushed over to my father. "Don't let her drink out of that! Use the White fountain." My Northern father reflected a moment, studying the water pipes that supplied both the Colored fountain and the White fountain. "Look here," he said. "The water for both comes from the same pipe. They are absolutely the same." The clerk became enraged, insisting that my sister only drink from the White fountain. My father told him essentially that he was nuts. And we were told to leave the store. "We don't need your kind around here."

Or the time my mother went to the bank one morning. A very pregnant Black woman stood at the front of the line, waiting for the doors to open. When they did open, she went over to a bench and sat down with her children. They had to wait until all the Whites had been served before she could approach the teller. Mother invited her to go ahead of her and she politely declined. The teller became angry with Mother for disupting the law of keeping "niggers in their place." Even writing this makes me cringe.

As an adult, I had naively assumed that the Civil Rights Movement made things pretty good for people of color. And yet, that is simply not as true as one would think. It is little wonder that there were tears, downcast expressions, and halting expressions of experience at my workshop. The term, "cultural sensitivity" doesn't always fall the same way on everyone's ears. People of color can't escape dealing with cultural issues in almost every venue they approach. Being White means that I don't have to.

I didn't bring the slaves here from Africa and the Islands. I didn't abuse them, kill them, discriminate against them. But many in this country did and now we are faced with the difficulty of feeling a collective sense of guilt, shame, and wishing it would all go away. I can't pay for what others have done. I shouldn't be punished for what they did and the dynamics that exist. But neither should people of color have to deal with the impact and legacy of coming from slaves and being despised then and now. We have formulated all sorts of simplistic responses about how people of color should conduct themselves, think about life in the United States, or interact with Whites. But few of us really understand what it is like to be non-White and (often) non-privileged.

We are each accountable for what we do with our lives, regardless of our origins or the difficulty we have encountered along the way. I just think that we ignorantly assume that because Abraham Lincoln stated that "all men are created equal" that this is true. It isn't. We all have the same value in the eyes of God, but we are not all equal, do not all start out from the same place, or have the same innate capabilities and emotional/social tools as others have. We all do the best we can. Awareness and understanding of others who are not as privileged as we are is critical if we are to sensitively interact with others who by no choice of their own, are born to races that are not honored in this country and that have painful legacies.

Have you ever thought about the privilege that you hold?