Living in the In-Between

Found here

We are all on the edge of our seats watching BP as they are trying to fumble their way through the process of stopping a horrible oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The original estimate of the amount of oil leaking per day was 2000 gallons. It has now been updated to 200,000 barrels per day. The pressure behind this leak is 70,000 pounds per square inch (psi). Imagine the amount of oil that is mucking up our oceans and coastlines.

As someone from my church leadership wrote in the last 24 hours, this oil leak could completely wipe out all living creatures in the entire ocean (this prediction based on the word of a former ocean oil drill engineer).

Is this the beginning of the end of the world? Could it be one of the first of the seven last plagues listed in the book of Revelation? Will this completely ruin our economy? Will it crash? Is this a portent of things to come? What should we do?

This kind of world event makes those of us whose lives have been focused on the "watching and waiting" commands of Jesus, become quite alert. And yet, it is also easy to tell oneself that these things have happened before and will always be present in our world. So why get worked up and panic--as many Christians do?

It is easy to fall at one or the other extreme end of this conversation: either it doesn't matter that these things happen, and they have little eschatological meaning, or else they are a portent of immediate danger that calls for an immediate and decisive response. It is rare to hear anyone articulate a middle of the road, or more moderate opinion on these kinds of things. Interestingly enough, if Christians from my subculture don't immediately respond with a sense of urgency, they are thought of as nominal Christians. If they do, those who are on the other end of the continuum think of them as religious fanatics. In this, as in many, many other arenas, I ask the question, Where is the moderate, thoughtful response to things like these? Especially when the issue is extremely charged?

Just tonight, as my class watched the videotape of one of the students conducting therapy with a woman who had been convicted of child abuse crimes, we noticed that she reported behavior that was either above reproach--almost too good to be true--or else she was suicidal--all bad. There was no in-between. I reflected to the class that people who abuse others are often so emotionally fragile themselves that on a deep level they can't admit that a part of them is flawed or broken. To do so would put them at the "all bad" end of the continuum. So they try to live at the "all good" end of the continuum, at least in public view. This is how the "pillar of the community" can be a serial killer. It is quite difficult to bring such therapy clients to the place where they can recognize and admit that they are a combination of good qualities, behaviors, and thoughts, and bad tendencies, behaviors, and thoughts. It is an all or nothing proposition. Until they can claim any portion of "badness," they split off the objectionable parts of themselves in their minds and manifest only the superlatively good side. Or, when they can no longer ignore the bottled up "bad" parts of themselves, they act them out without impunity. Their behavior is absolutely evil sometimes, because it is undiluted with goodness. They are at either one end of the continuum or the other, but can't seem to live in the middle.

It seems that it's more of a human quality to try to lean toward one extreme or the other, and that's true in both the emotional and spiritual aspects of our lives. It is more complex to work our way into a more moderate stance. We see the results of this kind of polarizing behavior in America's political climate. We align with either Democrat or Republican and tend to villify the other--everything about them. Again, it is difficult to pick and choose from the variety of legislative initiatives to align with without feeling that we need to embrace the extreme of one side or another.

How do we live in the in-between? Is it a bad thing? Is it worse than throwing out the baby with the bathwater as many of us have done as we skittered to the extreme end of an issue? This is not in any way to disparage those who disseminate religious, political, or other scenarios that seem to polarize. It is an honest question. Is moderation a goal for which we should aim?

I would like to suggest that it takes considerable internal fortitude to be able to sift through options and ideas with which we are presented, whether religious, political, or emotional. It is much easier to scoot to the extreme end, to be caught up with what people are whispering about with furrowed brows, rather than laboriously think about issues that are full of emotional charge. And yet when we fail to do this, we lose out on the good that can be found at both extremes: the "bad" extreme is rejected for it's complete odiousness, and the good extreme, which can't be fully enjoyed because it is rigidly held in its extreme form without being able to see that nothing can be all good. Thus, people at the "good" end actually embrace the negative portions of their ideas at that ideological endpoint, and eschew the good parts of the opposite end of the continuum.

In Part II I will talk about differentiation, what this is, and how it applies to situations like these. Because every single one of us struggles with this in some form or another. No one is exempt.

Hole-y people

Found here

When I grew up I was taught to revere the leaders of my church. We often had pastors who were sent to our little set of city and country churches who either weren't wanted elsewhere, or who were just getting started. Let's put it this way: we were not the most desired congregations in the state. Even though my parents moaned and complained about some of the terribly put together sermons that we endured week after week, we still tried to be gracious to these men who served us. When I started speaking and I became the butt of criticism, I appreciated the values my parents tried to instill in us.

I knew that a number of the pastors I had contact with had problems with their kids. And some of the pastor's wives were somewhat problematic socially at times. But we were still careful about all of these things because these people lived in the public eye and this added another level of stress on an already burdened family--trying to be examples and still be normal people.

Imagine my shock then, when I began counseling Christian university students and started to hear about what happened in the homes of some of these clergy. One day, I learned that one of my childhood Christian heroes had had an affair with the parent of a client. I was stunned but couldn't let my feelings register on my face while I tried to console this girl and help her come to terms with the awful news she had just learned about her mother. The whole time I was trying not to be distracted by my inner review of the writing of this man, wondering if I could have seen a clue of this in his book(s).

It is difficult to have someone fall from grace in our mind. Sadly, it happens rather often. We would love to think that someone, somewhere, has it all together. They have a scintillating personality, are warm, always know what to say in challenging circumstances, have a high level of devotion to God but have both feet firmly planted on the ground, and their personal integrity is above reproach. I know very few people like this. There seems to always be a glitch, even though we can see them doing their best.

The man who was my spiritual father--whose speaking really touched my heart while I was an impressionable college student--he had affairs over the course of his ministry. He was never caught but talked about a lot. And what about a Christian leader whose professional innovations were Christ-centered? He had one affair after another, too. Then there are those good-hearted friends and family members who are well meaning, warm hearted--just the kinds of people you love to be around--and something happens and our trust in them is shaken.
This is much worse when it comes to those representatives of God whose great faith and knowledge of the scriptures we have admired and tried to emulate.

I suppose these things happen because as long as we live in this world there really is no one person whom we can hold up as the standard for perfect behavior. We cannot be those perfect conduits from God to the world that we think we need to be--the earthen vessels that hold within us the glory of God. We are like a drinking pitcher that is full of holes. It is amazing that we are able to hold anything good within us, given the varied issues with which every one of us struggle.

There was a time when I was fit to be tied about this: all these so-called godly people with glaring personal problems. But over the years I have learned that people's mistakes and weaknesses do not invalidate the truth of God's word, or the magnificence of His plans for us. I wish I knew this about 10 years ago, when I left this town for graduate school, just irate about the shortsightedness and lack of social awareness of some of my administrators. I didn't go to church for six months because I was resentful and didn't want to be associated with people who acted the way these two individuals had behaved. They had hurt me deeply. And both were classified as a Christian "Somebody". Couldn't prove it by me.

This flashed before my eyes yesterday when a student tearfully told me how shaken he was after reading a book about missionary children who were molested by their teachers. He wondered aloud about mission work, the gospel, and those who profess to be Christians. He had been so distraught after reading this book that he couldn't work on his dissertation for four days.
I found myself telling him that offense is bound to occur at the hands of those whom we trust. But it does not change the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It makes those who profess Jesus Christ to stink sometimes, but it does not, cannot diminish the perfection or truth of the Gospel.

We are hole-y people. What a marvel it will be to finally be in heaven when we can look back on the ways that we constantly fell short, but still we find ourselves in heaven. Should we aim to be perfect and emulators of Christ? Yes. Just as Abraham, who 'was as good as dead' was able to create an entire nation, we, who are recipients of the New Covenant, and who are spiritually as good as dead, are able to participate in the perfect plan of God. We extend grace to those who are just like us: trying to hold on to the glory of God as it leaks out of our earthen vessels.

Both will fall into the ditch

Can the blind lead the blind? shall they not both fall into the ditch? (Luke 6:39).

I once heard a man tell the story of the time he visited another congregation and found the people there to be extremely cold. "No one would speak to me!" he said indignantly. And off he went on a rant about Christians of other congregations, other denominations who are unpleasant and exclusive to outsiders. He ended with, "Does it really cost anything just to be pleasant to other people? We're all Christians, after all!" he lamented.

Today, the same man just about went through the roof when a minister from another church gave the sermon at his church. "I resent that man being in the pulpit today!" He sputtered. "If I wanted to hear an Anglican minister, I'd go to an Episcopalian church like the one where I was raised." And he stalked off in a huff.

Funny, being an outsider wasn't okay when it was someone else, but it was a good thing when he was the outsider.

A woman I know rather well frequently complains in shocked tones about how parents treat their children--things she sees on Dr. Phil and Oprah that about curl her toenails. And yet these very things are the kinds of things she did to her own children. How soon we forget!

The interesting thing to me is that we are all blind, every one of us. All of us have blind spots because of how we are and what our life experience has been. I know a woman who is bitterly opposed to her brother being married to a woman who is rude. Yet her husband is so rude that he is hard to be around for any length of time. I preach tolerance toward people who are not like me, yet I am bitterly intolerant of the intolerant people. As Luke said, both those who are blind and those with blind spots are liable to fall.

This is really discouraging to me. Some of us try so very hard to do what is right, to be open-minded, to earnestly do what we can to help others. Yet we are so tainted by our blindness and our inability to live above those things that we see in others that so vex our spirits.
We are so human.
I know.
I live in the ditch.
I have great company there.

Gendered Language

Found here

I am currently teaching a class this quarter entitled, "Medicine and Family Therapy." It is a primer on medical procedures and nomenclature for non-medical mental health providers. We talk about collaborative care practices, but the most fun in the class is talking about the actual medical procedures: colonoscopies, bronchoscopies, MRIs, PET scans, biopsies, and the like. Each week we hear two students make presentations about an assigned diagnostic test. They are to explain why a person would need the test, what preparation is required for the individual undergoing the test, what the test actually consists of (complete with online videos--you can find anything on there!) and diagrams, common findings, after care, and treatment based on findings.

Last Wednesday we heard 60-something Tom* give a presentation on Pap smears. It was a most engaging experience. Tom wondered aloud why, in a class of four men and three women, he should be selected for this presentation. Then he cleared his throat, started his Powerpoint slides, and began to describe the procedure in a halting and sometimes fading voice:

"Well, this is a procedure only performed on women. Uh...yeah, because they're the only ones who have a vagina. Um...but we all know that." He scanned the room to be sure everyone was following his comments. "Now, a woman has to be undressed for this because there just isn't a way to examine a woman with her clothes on." There were chuckles across the room and Tom turned a shade of pink.
"Now, uh...this thing here, (he pointed at a diagram of a speculum), this gadget is spring loaded and once it is inserted into the vagina, it pops open so the doctor can get a sample." The men raised their eyebrows in approval. The speculum sounded as if it had an element of danger, which they respected. The women's eyebrows shot up also, but in an expression of bewilderment as they probably wondered if they had ever felt the spring loaded device during their last pelvic exam.
"The doctor will take a wooden stick and scrape the cells off the wall of the vagina and put them on a glass slide. Sometimes she'll use a brush to get the cells." Students winced visibly as he continued. "I'm not sure how they get a brush or a stick up there, but that's what all the literature says, straight up." Everyone's forehead was now furrowed in confusion.
"Uh...this procedure takes between 10 - 30 minutes and there is no preparatory medication given for this. Uh...women don't need to take time off work after this and they can return to their regularly scheduled activities."
He bravely continued, "Now, uh...if the doctor sees some wonky cells, she'll get a black light and look up there so she can see them better. It's the same kind of thing that you use to grow African Violets."
"What?!" one woman whispered. We women looked at one another to check for the light of recognition in anyone else's eyes. What was this guy talking about? A black light? Wonky cells?
"Now, if you think about this, it's a really straightforward test. The doctor can be in and out in a short time." One man guffawed. Tom's rejoinder was an attempt to correct this poorly chosen figure of speech: "I mean, it's just an open and close situation." One of the women giggled, "It certainly is!"
"Well, I'm digging a hole for myself here, so let's look at a video of this procedure."
We then viewed a 3 minute teaching video on pelvic exams made for nursing students. We saw the "stick" and the "brush" and even some "Wonky cells" on the glass slide. As the video stopped, Tom turned toward us triumphant in his videotaped vindication. "Now that takes someone who knows what they're doin'!"
He looked around at us all. "Any questions?"
Dead silence.
"Again, I hope I got this right. If any of you women want to comment on your experience having this done, we men will be all ears." The women visibly drew back, incredulous. Trying to help his cause he plunged on, "I'm sure some of you who are older have had hundreds of these. You're supposed to have one every year if you're sexually active, so I know that some of you have..." he stopped, realizing that he was on thin ice again. "Um... maybe I'll just sit down now."
The class burst into gales of laughter, as poor Tom muttered under his breath, "Makes having to bend over and cough for the doctor a lot more tolerable after seeing this!"

What really tickled my funnybone, aside from his obvious nervousness and awkwardness, was how odd it sounded for a man--a non-medical man--to describe something that a woman would explain in such different terms.

I remember taking one of my Stepdaughters to the doctor for a routine visit involving another part of her body. I explained what a pelvic exam was like, and told her that sometimes the doctor wants to do the exam just to get a baseline. Trying to be the good mother, I asked if she wanted me to be with her in the exam room when she saw the doctor. No, she'd rather have privacy.
So it was funny to me to suddenly receive a call on my cell phone from her just a little while later. "Barbara, she's going to do that exam!" She sounded frantic. "Pray for me!" and she hung up the phone.
That afternoon I took her out for lunch and bought her a box of chocolates to celebrate this rite of passage. She had entered a new phase of life.
This is something that men typically can't understand, what with their rather mechanistic view of procedures and the way they are languaged. Hearing Tom's rather funny discussion about Pap smears made me realize that there are probably a good number of events that happen in the lives of men that I can't come close to understanding or languaging in a way that corroborates their experience. How different we are.
And that's the straight up.

Bobble Eyes

One of my now departed friends, Uncle Lem, used to sing a song called, "My girl has some big bobble eyes" in his Hawaiian accent. It was quite humorous, and I used to wonder what was so enticing about a girl with bulging "bobble" eyes.
Well, this morning I awoke with one. Yes--only one.
Here is what happened last night. After my Lasik eye surgery I developed a bad case of dry eye related problems. After two office procedures and one additional surgery, my left eye was rendered an official dry eye. I have to put gel drops in my eyes twice during the night so they don't dry out and diminish my vision. the downside of this, in addition to waking up to put in the second set of drops, is that the gel makes my eyes stick shut. I have to get up and splash water in my eyes to dissolve the gel goo in order to put the next drops in.
Last night I awoke from a dead sleep with the desire to head to the bathroom. Jumping up in the pitch blackness, my eyes were glued shut as I made haste toward the door going into the dressing area. For some reason, I missed the edge of Sam's dresser as a landmark, and I walked straight into the door frame. With my left eyebrow--BANG! I was so tired that I barely realized what had happened, did my business and went straight back to bed.

This morning I woke up with "an egg" over my left eyebrow. Fortunately you can't see it unless you get a profile view. I'm just so grateful that it's not black and blue.

So now I too, have bobble eyes. At least, one of them is.
;)

Looking for Love

Today is the day, some 30 years ago that Trisha, one of my dear friends got married. None of us knew that the marriage would end quite sadly, but it did. One divorce, and several years of healing later, she is finally interested in meeting someone. At this point, it would be great just to have someone to see a movie with or to have dinner with. She'd love to have someone come by and help her work in the yard--a good companion type of person. So this week Trisha joined an online matchmaker service. "If you can do it, Barbara, then so can I."
But Trisha panicked after she launched her profile with her picture. "There are so many wierdos out there. What if one of them is a pedophile or serial killer?" Of course, she is thinking of the most horrible outcomes possible.

I got several anxious phone calls from Trisha the day after she uploaded her material to the matchmaking site. "Would you please go into my profile and look at it to be sure I haven't said anything really stupid? Then, look and see who might be a good match for me. I can't tell."

It is always fun to look through these kinds of ads--if you're married. If not, it is most uncomfortable! I remember only too well, looking at the profiles of guys with another therapist friend who tends to be a bit suspicious, and who said of one guy, "Why would they even let someone like this on the website?" and "This guy looks like an ex-con." There were never any encouraging words from her. So thinking about this, I decided to try to be as upbeat as possible for Trisha. It might be harder than I thought, possibly due to the area where Trisha lives, and maybe because there are a lot of desperate dorks out there. Here are some of the remarks to introduce themselves or state their preferences that men wrote on their profiles:

Please - no heavy smokers, drinkers or heroin addicts, nut cases, recent parolees, broken hearts on the mend (this rides above all others - too much drama likely), women with a voice deeper then Johnny Cash's, cyber pretenders who fudge facts in their profiles, women with ugly tempers, bad table manners, intoxicated by divisive politics or crazed with emotionally based addictions!

Mike writes, I am a gentlemen cowboy. I dont play games and dont want any played on me. I am sincere and honest. I know how to treat a lady. I am trying this again to see if it it will work. Ask me anything and I will tell you. I have nothing to hide or prove. i am the real deal.
Easy for him to claim this, but how can we know this for sure by seeing him sitting on the couch of an obvious bachelor pad, wearing a bright orange shirt, and sticking his tongue out at the camera?

Here's another one: Handsome, secure doctor seeks a happy, intelligent beauty. I am looking for a woman who wakes up smiling. Good luck.

One guy whose moniker is, SailinOut confesses in his profile, My experience on the open seas has been limited to driving over the 14th Street bridge. So much for truth in advertising!

Another man whose online name is LakeHoundDog announces, Lone wolf would like to join pack! He then adds, Someone who can sing.. Out of key its ok. someone who can laugh .. even on a rainy day someone who will make love in the hay.. or keep the wolves at bay. This is a discription of you, this is a discription of me. A poet, he ain't, but I suppose that someone would find these comments appealing.

Then there is "Mr. Breeze looking for the wind." This motorcycle enthusiast is shown sitting on his ginormous bike with a Dick-Deadeye expression. He writes, I have no need for drama or a deep understanding of anyone's past, especially my own. If I could see past the numerous red flags that obscure the rest of his comments, I'd tell Trisha to cut a wide swath around this one.

So This has all been quite an interesting romp through singlehood once again. I remarked to Sam last night that I am more pleased than I can ever say that I am no longer single. Seeing that Sam said nothing back to me, I asked, "Aren't you?"
"What do you think..." he smiled at me warmly. "Just like I tell everyone, you are the same as when I first met you. I adore you, Honey!"

I wish the same for Trisha, who for now must swim through the seas of uncertainty. There is land after the many the long swim. Bless her heart!

Mourning Dove

Some months ago I wrote about starting to put out birdseed so Otis would have something to occupy himself with--lurching and swearing at the birds. We have attracted a huge number of finches, sparrows of various types, and now finally, a pair of mourning doves.

They faithfully show up every morning around 7:00, sit quietly on the fence while the smaller birds fight over the sunflower seeds in the birdfeeder, and the sprinklers scare everyone away. But our doves flutter down onto the back patio and seem to find something of interest, because they peck at various bits of things all across the cement.

These birds are quite large compared to the finches that we see here. And they walk with such a funny head-bobbing gait. The male usually shows up first and coos until his wife joins him on the fence. The whistling of their wings tells me that they're fluttering up and down from the fence, then across the back yard, and maybe then up into a tree nearby. They never squabble with other birds, unlike the crows or jays that frequent the yard. Our finches and sparrows have daily fighting matches over the sunflower seeds. No, our doves just go about their business, doing what they need to do according to the Great Black Bird Book in the sky.

Although these birds are sweet looking and shy, they aren't terribly graceful or bright. My father used to refer to them as "disaster birds" since they take off from the ground at wierd angles and a frantic speed, looking for all the world as though they may careen into a building or tree. Our little pair seems to be stricken with panic without warning, as they pick their way across the patio. But they are soon back, their sweet little brown faces looking at me through the wind

Turtledoves are the other name for these birds. Their loveliness has been written about for centuries in poems and music. Ralph Vaughan Williams wrote a lovely choir melody entitled The Turtle Dove:

Fare you well, my dear, I must be gone,

And leave you for a while;

If I roam away I'll come back again,

Though I roam ten thousand miles, my dear,

Though I roam ten thousand miles.

So fair thou art, my bonny lass,

So deep in love am I;

But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love,

Till the stars fall from the sky, my dear,

Till the stars fall from the sky.

The sea will never run dry, my dear,

Nor the rocks melt with the sun,

But I never will prove false to the bonny lass I love,

Till all these things be done, my dear,

Till all these things be done.

O yonder doth sit that little turtle dove,

He doth sit on yonder high tree,

A-making a moan for the loss of his love,

As I will do for thee, my dear,

As I will do for thee.

It's interesting that in Bible times, a pair of doves could be used for a sacrifice in place of a lamb. There is something innocent and sweet about these peaceful birds that must be like some characteristic of Jesus. So in the mornings when I am reading the Bible and praying, their fluttering wings remind me of the One who was as peaceful and innocent as a dove.

Marking Time

It happened again this week. A 30-something former student came to see me on Wednesday to see if I knew of any job leads for him. Jerry is a slender young man who looked at me so hopefully. I gave him two contacts and he thanked me profusely. As he got ready to leave, I asked if I could pray for him.
After my prayer, Jerry thanked me profusely. Then as he was leaving he said, "The good Lord knew what I needed. Thank you. You are like a mother to me."
You might be thinking, How lovely! What a sweet exchange! But all I could think was, Am I that old?

I well remember the first time I realized that I wasn't as young as I felt. I was running a counseling center at a university when I was 36 or 37 years old and it seemed that I was finally getting to do what I'd gone to school to do. It was a real pleasure to decorate my first office: a couple chairs that I salvaged and reupholstered, a couch from the warehouse, pictures that I bought and framed, and a huge quilt hanging on the wall at the end of the room. This was both to make it more cozy in theire but also to mute our voices and enhance confidentiality.
One day I stepped into the waiting area to call the next client in. She was a youngish looking 18-year old and her intake form said that she was homesick--a typical complaint of the young girls that I saw. Rebecca walked into my office and looked up at the quilt. Turning to me with quiverling lips, she cried out in a trembling voice, "Ohhh! You remind me of my mom! Can I hug you?" and she burst into tears as she reached for me.
I could have collapsed. I had no sense of being old enough to be her mother, but I suppose it could have been possible if I'd had her at age 18. I don't remember much about that therapy session, but the idea stuck with me that I had aged to the point of being old enough to be someone's mother. A teenager's mother. Whew...

It is part of my experience as a childless woman. Having children seems to mark the time in a way that few other things do. Women often mark off time according to the age of their children at a certain time. I have no such internal timing system. There have been no "diaper years" or "terrible two" years, or schoolage years. Paul Rosenblatt, one of my professors at the University of Minnesota, used to mark time by the age of his last daughter. She was a love child of sorts--a second marriage for him, and his other children were much older. He was the primary caretaker for his daughter, Emily. He used to take her to work with him and his graduate assistant would watch her while he taught his classes. Then he'd return to the little cottage where his office was, and Emily would toddle around the place while he worked. It was like that every day for many years, I'm told. So when I asked Paul a question about what year something or another happened, he stood still and stroked his chin, looking into the distance. "Hmmmm. Let's see...Emily would have been about three at the time...and we would have just started swim lessons." I had never heard a man talk like that. There is a reason he was called a feminist, and I liked hearing a man being so unashamedly mindful of his fatherhood in this way.

Mothers can look at young adults and say to themselves, "He's young enough to be my son--the upstart!" I look at the same person and am more likely to see a peer. I can be easily intimidated by much younger people simply because I've never had the experience of having to take a child in hand--be they 7, 12, or 18--and set them straight. I am therefore, easily intimidated by "bad" behavior in younger people, even though by virtue of my education and clinical experience, I have knowledge of why they do what they do, how they are probably thinking, how they got that way, or what their behavior is attempting to accomplish.

I suppose I do have an internal time marking system of sorts. I reckon time according to the places I've lived, and as a single woman, there have been numerous apartments, rental homes, and condos. My home defined me, I think. So did my job.
One of my always single friends lamented after her hysterectomy that she no longer could mark time by her menstrual cycles. (What a loss...)


I mark time by the pets I have had: Barclay during my early 20s, that miserable little Luigi pit bull-terrier mix puppy (whom I was told was a Great Dane!) for one awful week when I turned 29, Tiersa during my Master's program, Zita from 30 - 46, Otis in my late 40s.

My walk with God has also changed according to decade: my teen years were spent yearning and longing after God, reading every religoius book I could get my hands on. 25- 35 were the most painful and tumultuous years for me. During that time my reaching out for God was more for survival than a wish for spiritual growth. My 40s brought a time of learning spiritual discipline and maturity--going back to many of the ideas and practices I embraced as a young person.

Now I am 51 years old. My knees ache sometimes, and I get out of breath when I try to climb hills. My health might be the new marker of time. My 20s saw me climing all the major peaks in Southern California. My 30s saw me through two stints in graduate school. My 40s were when I married and started a new career. And now...I'm not sure what my 50s hold. But I'm walking with God daily, believing that what I'm doing now was worth all the upheaval and questioning of my younger years.
It will be interesting to see how I define my 50s from the vantage point of being an 80-year old.

What is your path?

I teach a practicum class for all doctoral marital and family therapy students in which we explore appropriate, ethical ways to address religio-spiritual issues in therapy. It's usually a really wonderful experience, what with all the religious diversity we have in our program. There is a richness that can only emerge when there are differences to compare your own beliefs against.

Our clinic was in the process of moving to a new location last week, so our practicum class site was in an uproar. we had no DVD player and there were boxes stacked up around the room. Students are required to share at least three videotapes of themselves doing therapy with clients, in which they explore or somehow address spiritual practices or beliefs of their clients. Well, it just wasn't going to happen in that mess of a place we had last week. So thinking quickly and creatively, I asked students if they would be willing to share their own spiritual journey up to that point. There were only six of us present, and it seems that everyone was in the mood for opening up.

One after another stammered through stories that included incredible pain and loss, confusion, family trauma and breakups, and uncertainty about organized religion. There were lots of tears. A student would confess, "I've never said this to anyone before--I've been so mixed up and ashamed..." only to have another student tag onto their comment with a similar story of their own. We all shed tears at one point or another. I found it incredibly moving. Students divulged beliefs that to me are heretical, but that have real meaning for them. Yet somehow, it was clear that they are all reaching forward toward God in one way or another. And everyone present was respectful and eager to hear their stories.

As we were ending class two students pointed out that I had not shared my spiritual journey. Would I be willing to talk about this to the class next week? How could I say no?

Surprisingly (to me), I cried all the way home. As I reflected on my spiritual journey, I could see that the times of the greatest spiritual learning were the times when I was suffering the most. I wonder if that is how it is with most people. There is something about feeling helpless and overwhelmed with pain that makes a person lean on God. Maybe, it makes us cling to God because there is no one else. The review of the losses and disappointments was quite painful.

Tonight on the way home from work, I talked aloud, preparing to tell the students my story tomorrow night. Pain is awful. Yet it is also the vehicle for God to become real to many people. I am grateful, even as I lick my wounds.

We Launch Away

Found here

I have rarely been so taken by song lyrics as I have by these:

There is a land of pure delight,Where saints immortal reign,

Infinite day excludes the night,And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,And never withering flowers:

Death, like a narrow sea, dividesThis heav’nly land from ours.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling floodStand dressed in living green:

So to the Jews old Canaan stood,While Jordan rolled between.
But timorous mortals start and shrinkTo cross this narrow sea;

And linger, shivering on the brink,And fear to launch away.

O could we make our doubts remove,Those gloomy thoughts that rise,

And see the Canaan that we loveWith unbeclouded eyes!
Could we but climb where Moses stood,And view the landscape o’er,

Not Jordan’s stream, nor death’s cold flood,Should fright us from the shore.

Written by Isaac Watt in 1707, this song captures the reliance on the forward-looking attitude of the settlers in America. Life expectancy was much shorter than it is today: 35 - 40 at the most. I would be dead by now, were I a Puritan.

Going back through the old cemeteries of New England, the focus of people on the heavenly realm was readily evident. Death was a daily experience. So many women died in childbirth. A simple cold could progress to pneumonia and death, without antibiotics. A puncture wound from a nail would turn into lockjaw and subsequent death. It was not infrequent to sit at the bedside of people who were dying, without the technology that we have today. It was a process of fever, delirium, coma, and death. People could just drift off to "eternal rest." Therefore, these individuals realized that it was important to focus on what came after death in order to survive emotionally.

This is the context of Isaac Watt's lyrics.

It is also quite possibly why I feel closer to God at a funeral than almost at any other time. The current chapter of the story is over. The little soul is resting until the Resurrection, when they shall stand in the sight of God. Or, as our Pilgrim parents believed, "launched away."

I've been driving around singing this along with the recording of Early American hymns that has this on it. Every day, my heart swells and I too, become future-oriented. What we experience here isn't the end of the story. While our Puritan parents were living in the most austere circumstances and dying quickly from now-treatable medical problems, they learned to look forward. We too, gain much for looking for that Great Day. May we not be timorous souls, but hearty lives, straining ahead for that perfect Land.