Some people do not attempt to filter the expressions that show up on their face. It is not uncommon for them to look at others with utter contempt when they hear a sentence that doesn't make sense to them, or that irritates them to have to hear again. Their face says, "You idiot! How stupid can a person be to not even have any idea of what I'm talking about here?" When I receive looks like that, I want to fight, regardless of the content of the conversation or any other thing. Some expressions, if unfiltered, almost always breed hostility and distance.
John Gottman, founder of the "Love Lab" at the Gottman Institute in Seattle, has studied couple interactions for years. Because of his astute observations, he can watch a couple and predict within five minutes, whether or not they will get a divorce. He is 95% accurate. Sobering, isn't it? So what is he seeing that we don't see and that no one teaches couples who are contemplating marriage?
Using the imagery of the Apocalypse, Dr. Gottman names the "Four Horsemen" that herald divorce. People who use a "harsh startup" in their arguments have a poor prognosis for a lasting marriage. This refers to the way people introduce the topic they want to argue about. "Why can't you listen when people talk?" "Don't you dare tell me to do that!" (Even writing these things makes me wince). I remember hearing one woman saying, right in front of me, "For an educated man, I don't know how on earth you could do something so stupid!" We all feel exasperated at times, but why impugn the reputation of another, or annihilate someone else's reputation out of anger?
Edit yourself. This means to filter out what comes across your face and out of your mouth. Most of us don't even give a thought to the way we respond to those with whom we share an intimate relationship. A glare here, a look of contempt (which by the way, is another death knell according to Gottman), all these things make one's partner want to pick a fight just to vindicate oneself.
Teenagers are not taught how to save their relationships. I think that every young person should have a course called something like, "Real Relationships 101." It could be about how real dating is, what is realistic for a love relationship: very important, since so few kids are able to distinguish real love from what they see in movies or read in romance novels. Perhaps parents could model good, healthy fair fighting skills, and good communication skills, so that children could later contrast their relationships with what they have seen in their parents. But usually, we get so annoyed with our kids and spouses that we stop filtering what we say and do. Kids don't know the difference. Their typical eye-rolling and hateful looks at one another become crystalized into habits for life. And their marriages will simply not last. If they do, fighting and avoidance of emotional intimacy will be major themes.
Watch your mouth. Watch it. Look in the mirror to see what your face looks like when you say angry things. It's one thing to look angry. It's another to cast looks of contempt. Listen to yourself. A harsh startup, the inability to speak the angry truth in a clean, clear manner, being unable to repair an argument or give a time-out to think: all of these are dangerous. Learning these skills could save the marriages of you and of your children.
August 27, 2006
August 26, 2006
The Beautiful Hills
The view from Mt. Panther in the AdirondacksI talked last night to a dear friend who is 83 years old. She is quite frail and spends most of her time sitting at her window looking up at the view of the beautiful hills in the distance. Although it was only 7:30, she was on her way to bed. Her voice gets very grainy and almost inaudible in the evening when she gets tired. She truly sounded exhausted even though she was happy to hear from me. In our convesation she told me that she didn't want to live much longer. It wasn't the first time that I heard her say this in the last two months. She really is ready to go to sleep one final time and it was sad to realize that the time is closer than I had hoped.
I think of my friend many times each day, looking up at the hills--the one thing that gives her tremendous peace. I pray that God will give her the rest she desires and the peace that she longs for when she looks up at the hills.
Oh the beautiful hills where the saints shall rest
When the Lord has made all things new;
Where we shall forget in the smiles of God
The trials we have journeyed through.
We have seen those hills in their brightness rise
By the eye of faith below;
And felt the thrill of immortal eyes
In the night of our darkest woe.
We dream of rest on the beautiful hills
Where the trav'ler shall thirst no more;
And we hear the hum of a thousand rills
That wander the green glens o'er.
We'll grasp the hands of the martyred ones,
Who have braved the world's rude strife,
And shout with them o'er the victory gained,
And the crown of immortal life.
Our arms are weak but we would not fling
To our feet this load of ours;
The winds of spring to the valleys sing
And the turf replies with flowers.
And thus we learn on our wintry way
That our Father rules as He wills;
And the breath of God on our souls will play
Til we reach those radiant hills.
Then sing of the beautiful hills
That rise from the evergreen shores;
Then sing of the beautiful hills
Where the weary shall toil no more.
(The Beautiful Hills by James G. Clark.
In Hymns and Tunes, 1888)
August 25, 2006
Who are you?
Many of us love the Jesus we read about in the Bible. He is our friend and we can ask Him for anything--the Bible tells us so. He healed people, was kind to the marginalized, was demonstrative with children, and He thought out of the box. And yet, so many people didn't like things about Him. They loved His miracles, but didn't particularly like the new order that He represented. He was friends with all the people who had been cast off by the good folks of the day: prostitutes, tax collectors (read, swindlers), and even women. As far as someone to relate to, He was probably the most magnetic personality ever seen on this planet. People could hardly resist Him. But when it came to recognizing Him as the Lord of all life, the Son of God, that was quite another story. The Person and the Position were not equally welcomed or recognized.
Probably some sort of intuitive thought about this has crossed my mind before, but I've never articulated it. Until this week when I found that my person and position are in quite different camps of acceptance, I have been baffled by the firestorm that has accompanied some of my comments in meetings, or the ideas I've presented. Yet outside of those settings, I am met with open arms. There are times when I speak from the role which I hold in my organization in which I have to remind myself that the responses that I receive are not about me, Barbara. They are about me, the director, the new lightning rod. Quite frankly, I find it rather difficult to keep these things separate in my head. I suppose that very good, experienced administrators are able to do this. I'm struggling with it.
I suppose that I am not a monolithic entity, nor is anyone else. We see people for the emotional qualities they have that compliment us or fill some need of our own. We have much more difficulty in recognizing the role or position of that individual as we relate to them.
One of the things that we therapists help people with is this very thing: distinguishing the content of friendships from the process of the relationship. In other words, identifying what the friendship gives a person at face value (companionship, a laughing partner, someone to think aloud with, or to get a reality check from) versus understanding how to relate to the position that individual holds in one's life (a rescuer, support, a triangulated individual, etc.).
Looking up at the sky on my walk this morning, I began thinking about the difference of person and position as it relates to God. It seems that most of my attraction for God is about who He appeared to be when seen through the life of Jesus Christ. But I seldom think about the position of God: the fact that He is the highest level of power in the universe, or that He got the world started in the first place, or that He is the force behind my heart beating every second.
There is a potential problem here. If I only think of God as some sort of invisible friend to whom I can talk at any time, He will take on characteristics of my making. I will begin to take the power and create Him as I see fit. This is seen in all sorts of churches where people say things that put God in a one-down position: declarative things one would never, ever say to a human prelate or ruler. But if I think of God only as some type of impersonal heavenly powerhouse, there will be very little motivation to know or interact with Him through prayerful conversation.
I think it was God's idea to let us know the warm, appealing person of God in the life of Jesus, then to show us the position of God later so we wouldn't be scared of Him. For many people, it's been just the opposite, due to the way they were raised or what they were taught in Sunday school.
I love the story that comes from my religious tradition: A little old lady used to go into the vineyards of St. Helena and visit with the workers. She would take them something to drink and ask about their wives and children. She always had a cheerful, kind word for them. Many times, she told them that God loved them. So they thought of her as the little old lady who loved God. She was delightful company and they looked forward to her frequent visits. When they learned that she had died, they went to her funeral, only to find out that she had written lots of books, was a world traveler, and had been instrumental in establishing a new denomination. They would not have had any interest in her had they learned about her position before they knew her person.
...he that hath seen me hath seen the Father. John 14:9
August 23, 2006
Acid flood
Picture taken from here Today I learned again what it feels like to be in the middle of a flood of verbal turmoil. Adults who are angry, feel unfaired against, and who are trying their best to look after their best interests, all wrangling about in an enclosed, small space. The undertone was emotionally charged and at times, hostile. Being a person who doesn't like conflict, I felt like a caged animal, incapacitated and unable to get away. Old history rehashed and dire prophecies made about the future. At one point I fantasized about jumping up and leaving, but this was a situation from which I could not flee.
It is interesting to me, how God's peace and the knowledge of being in His will can hold and support one during such times. The comments I choked out, that seemed to nearly strangle me as I spoke, and that heightened everyone's anxiety for the moment, was where I found God today.
There's no great lesson here. Only that the power of force, volume, vitriol--none of these things can overcome the protection and peace that God can provide. Thank you, God.
When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Lord will raise up a standard against him. (Isaiah 59:19).
August 20, 2006
Embrazio
Sam is Puerto Rican. So everyone who comes into our house gets hugged either as they arrive or leave. It doesn't matter who they are, they still get a hug: my friends, colleagues, dinner guests--that's what happens. Sam feels that people don't touch enough and could stand to be much closer.
When we were first married I was eager to invite my colleagues over for a meal. They were either stuff-shirt types, who were probably used to eating at the best eateries, or redneck types, who viewed our furniture and paintings on the walls with awe. We happily milled around, eating a wonderful meal and chatting into the night. When it was time to say goodbye, Sam sprung into action. As the first man reached for his hand to shake, Sam pulled him into a back-slapping embrace. The man stood rigidly, arms dangling at his sides. No matter, Sam whopped him on the back and then reached for his wife. She got the hug and back patting too, only she seemed delighted. By the second couple, people seemed to be prepared for it and all was well for the most part. Foolishly, I was mortified and was concerned that my colleagues wouldn't think my husband was very refined, thus think less of me.
I opted not to comment on my wounded ego, but tried to intercept Sam next time we had company. This time, it was the deacon and his wife from church. Bernard was a crusty older man who probably had never hugged his own father. Diane, his wife, was surprised, but hugged Sam back when he reached for her. Bernard hung back, and then jutted his hand out toward Sam. I thought Bernard will pass out if Sam hugs him, but it didn't matter. Sam had already pulled him into a back-slapping embrace. Bernard stood stock still, as straight as a ramrod, his lips pulled taut in a thin line. There was no leaning into Sam or back slapping on his part. In a word, he was flabbergasted. I smiled wanly and saw them out.
No, I can't change Sam. I didn't marry him to change him. I have to learn how to live with someone who can make my friends and colleagues think negatively about me. I made this choice to marry Sam and now I need to adjust accordingly. So think all forty-something first-married women when it dawns on them that they are somewhat defined by the one they marry. I should be grateful that I even got married, and that the man I found is half-way normal. Especially when one sees who is out there for the taking! So I prayed for grace and kept on loving my husband. What a martyr.
About a week after my colleagues had come over for dinner, one of them stopped by my office to see me.
"How's Sam?" he asked.
"He's doing fine," I replied, bracing myself for a comment about the behavior that had left us both chagrinned.
"He's a wonderful man, Sam. So warm." His eyes misted. "You don't find that everyday."
I shook my head, mutely.
"You landed a great guy."
"Thank you. I think so."
That Saturday when we saw Bernard, he leaned into Sam, whopped him on the back and laughed nervously. Ever after, he sought Sam out for conversation. He and Diane became some of our dearest friends. Never did a visit go by without a hug, and Bernard initiated most of them.
I'd like to think I've learned a thing or two in life. Maybe grown up a bit.
People don't get touched enough. Many walk around with a bad case of skin hunger. There is something very attractive about people who live large and unapologetically. Their hearts show through. They are not bound up with notions of being appropriate. They are tuned into life. And I am all the richer for Sam and his hugs.
When we were first married I was eager to invite my colleagues over for a meal. They were either stuff-shirt types, who were probably used to eating at the best eateries, or redneck types, who viewed our furniture and paintings on the walls with awe. We happily milled around, eating a wonderful meal and chatting into the night. When it was time to say goodbye, Sam sprung into action. As the first man reached for his hand to shake, Sam pulled him into a back-slapping embrace. The man stood rigidly, arms dangling at his sides. No matter, Sam whopped him on the back and then reached for his wife. She got the hug and back patting too, only she seemed delighted. By the second couple, people seemed to be prepared for it and all was well for the most part. Foolishly, I was mortified and was concerned that my colleagues wouldn't think my husband was very refined, thus think less of me.
I opted not to comment on my wounded ego, but tried to intercept Sam next time we had company. This time, it was the deacon and his wife from church. Bernard was a crusty older man who probably had never hugged his own father. Diane, his wife, was surprised, but hugged Sam back when he reached for her. Bernard hung back, and then jutted his hand out toward Sam. I thought Bernard will pass out if Sam hugs him, but it didn't matter. Sam had already pulled him into a back-slapping embrace. Bernard stood stock still, as straight as a ramrod, his lips pulled taut in a thin line. There was no leaning into Sam or back slapping on his part. In a word, he was flabbergasted. I smiled wanly and saw them out.
No, I can't change Sam. I didn't marry him to change him. I have to learn how to live with someone who can make my friends and colleagues think negatively about me. I made this choice to marry Sam and now I need to adjust accordingly. So think all forty-something first-married women when it dawns on them that they are somewhat defined by the one they marry. I should be grateful that I even got married, and that the man I found is half-way normal. Especially when one sees who is out there for the taking! So I prayed for grace and kept on loving my husband. What a martyr.
About a week after my colleagues had come over for dinner, one of them stopped by my office to see me.
"How's Sam?" he asked.
"He's doing fine," I replied, bracing myself for a comment about the behavior that had left us both chagrinned.
"He's a wonderful man, Sam. So warm." His eyes misted. "You don't find that everyday."
I shook my head, mutely.
"You landed a great guy."
"Thank you. I think so."
That Saturday when we saw Bernard, he leaned into Sam, whopped him on the back and laughed nervously. Ever after, he sought Sam out for conversation. He and Diane became some of our dearest friends. Never did a visit go by without a hug, and Bernard initiated most of them.
I'd like to think I've learned a thing or two in life. Maybe grown up a bit.
People don't get touched enough. Many walk around with a bad case of skin hunger. There is something very attractive about people who live large and unapologetically. Their hearts show through. They are not bound up with notions of being appropriate. They are tuned into life. And I am all the richer for Sam and his hugs.
August 16, 2006
Surprise!
An acquaintance of mine works as a nurse in a urologist's office in a large metropolitan area. Laughing hysterically, she called her sister and told her the following story:
She saw an elderly man into the exam room and left him there with his wife, who would help him undress. He was given a paper gown and told to take off his clothes, put the gown on, and sit up on the exam table. A few minutes later, the nurse went by the room and heard the woman shouting at her husband about what he was wearing. His underwear was awful. Apparently, he found a pair left out on his dresser or something, and put them on while he was dressing for the doctor's office. They were his old shorts that his wife had been using to polish the furniture with and they were a picture!
She saw an elderly man into the exam room and left him there with his wife, who would help him undress. He was given a paper gown and told to take off his clothes, put the gown on, and sit up on the exam table. A few minutes later, the nurse went by the room and heard the woman shouting at her husband about what he was wearing. His underwear was awful. Apparently, he found a pair left out on his dresser or something, and put them on while he was dressing for the doctor's office. They were his old shorts that his wife had been using to polish the furniture with and they were a picture!
August 14, 2006
Love stories
Many years ago when I was a practicing nurse, I worked in the post-surgical recovery room. Typically, each nurse was responsible for two patients. I had a nursing station with monitors on each side and a desk between two gurneys where sleepy people woke up after surgery. I really liked this job: patient in, patient out. Family members weren't allowed due to the proximity to the sterile surgical suites. Most people slept or were quiet until they were awake enough to be moved on to their hospital rooms. For an introvert, it was a perfect place to work: quiet, no crowds, and only one or two people to talk with at a time.
The sights and sounds were interesting, too. There was a good amount of retching and groaning in pain. One patient got up on one elbow and regaled us with bird calls for about 15 minutes. Another repeatedly asked where we had hidden his cows. One elderly woman did a slow stiptease with her pale blue hospital gown, grinning drunkenly at me. But most people rested quietly and chatted with me to pass the time.
One of my favorite questions to ask elderly people was, " How did you meet your wife?" Most people would perk up and respond with a lively story that was their own fairy tale. They'd laugh and tell me all the sweet little details of how they first noticed one another, their first date, and their first kiss. They often told me things about marriage and their lives that they'd not verbalized to anyone else. Some told me that they didn't recommend marriage but that it was nice to have someone waiting for them while they were in surgery. One man told me, "I'm married to a fat little angel. I love every ounce of that woman!" As a single person studying family therapy, this was all very fascinating.
One day an older woman came through the recovery room who had some emergency surgery like having her gall bladder or appendix removed. She hadn't the time to do anything with her hair and she looked like most of us do when we hope no one will ever see us outside the house. She was badly in need of a perm and her white frizzy hair stood straight up on her head. She looked so awful that she was cute. Her dentures had been removed and she sputtered happily in response to my comments.
"So how long have you been married?" I began the usual conversation.
"PFifty-eight yearffffph" she sputtered.
"And how did you two meet?" I eyed her sideways while I wrote in her chart.
At this, Mrs. Patient became quite animated. Her eyes widened and her face took on the look of someone who was about to tell me the greatest secret in the world.
"I met him in the canteen."
"No!" I exclaimed, trying to see how hyped up I could get this lady.
"Oh whyefffph!" she began. "Pfffeee, I uphfed to work in the canteen pfhelling drinkpf and the pfhoda counter." She swallowed. "oooh. I'm pfhitting cotton!" I gave her a sip of water and she continued with an air of great mystery and drama.
"The boyfph ufphed to come in there jufpht to fphee how pretty I wafph."
I looked at her for a long time trying to imagine that, as she looked like she'd been shot out of a cannon.
"Fphee, the boyfph came in to get their daily cofffphee and they brought thifph new boy becaufph they told him, 'hey, you fphsould fphee the new girl in the canteen.' Fphso in they come. I fphseen him and yup, he wafph a looker, too. When they come to the counter to pay for the coffphee, he done it. He looked me right in the eye and laid a dime in my hand."
She pulled herself up on one elbow and reached for my hand to show me how he had given her the dime.
"He had a nickel, but he wanted to toucfph my hand fpho he afphsked for phchangphe. And when hifph fphingerfph toucfphed my hand," her eyes were wild with the telling, "an electric fphshock phfshot fphtraight up my arm." Here eyes looked as though she'd just backed into a hot stove. "An I knew I'd marry him, and fpho did he."
She stared into my eyes for a long moment and lay back on her pillow with a dreamy smile on her lips. "We got married two weekfph later an we never been apart fphinfph."
I put down her chart and looked into her little wrinkled face. "And you never have regretted it, have you?"
"Never!" She jabbed me in the arm with her index finger for emphasis and settled back onto the gurney. Her face wore the expression of satisfaction.
That night I mused for a long time about my patient's delightful story. After I'd finished chuckling about how she looked, I thought how fortunate she was, tucked into bed with him in their home. They'd only slept apart twice during their marriage. There was something important for me to learn from her and I didn't want to miss it: what began as a romantic notion had grown into something beautiful. That was her story and she had stuck with it all these years.
There is something romantic about wartime bride stories during my parents' era. People saw each other across a darkened room and determined that they'd grow old together. They might dance together and feel safer in each other's arms than they'd ever felt before. Fifty years later, they'd still be dancing. And these were the stories I heard growing up and later, from old men and women who were only too happy to share them with me.
All of these marriages could not have been happy all the time, as most said they were. Maybe Betty complained that her Joe wasn't good with kids, or Mary wished her Bert was more handy like Sarah's Hugh. That's how life was and if that was as bad as it got, then they had nothing to complain about. But as they aged, they remembered more and more the positive, good things about each other and their lives together. Tense years and discordant phases of their marriage were not even remembered as they told me about how much they love one another. I've seen this phenomenon in my own parents. They look fondly at each other and tell me they'd do it all over again, a hundred times over.
Selective memory. In these stories, only the good stands out. No looming memories about the time she felt he talked too long to the woman neighbor, or when she threatened to leave him and take the children. Selective memory means they have forgiven each other for sometimes being unkind, insensitive, reckless, or unthinking. Their love overlooks these things and they have made peace with all the rough patches. Their love has endured and still shines through. That is why I can't hear enough of the love stories of our elders.
The sights and sounds were interesting, too. There was a good amount of retching and groaning in pain. One patient got up on one elbow and regaled us with bird calls for about 15 minutes. Another repeatedly asked where we had hidden his cows. One elderly woman did a slow stiptease with her pale blue hospital gown, grinning drunkenly at me. But most people rested quietly and chatted with me to pass the time.
One of my favorite questions to ask elderly people was, " How did you meet your wife?" Most people would perk up and respond with a lively story that was their own fairy tale. They'd laugh and tell me all the sweet little details of how they first noticed one another, their first date, and their first kiss. They often told me things about marriage and their lives that they'd not verbalized to anyone else. Some told me that they didn't recommend marriage but that it was nice to have someone waiting for them while they were in surgery. One man told me, "I'm married to a fat little angel. I love every ounce of that woman!" As a single person studying family therapy, this was all very fascinating.
One day an older woman came through the recovery room who had some emergency surgery like having her gall bladder or appendix removed. She hadn't the time to do anything with her hair and she looked like most of us do when we hope no one will ever see us outside the house. She was badly in need of a perm and her white frizzy hair stood straight up on her head. She looked so awful that she was cute. Her dentures had been removed and she sputtered happily in response to my comments.
"So how long have you been married?" I began the usual conversation.
"PFifty-eight yearffffph" she sputtered.
"And how did you two meet?" I eyed her sideways while I wrote in her chart.
At this, Mrs. Patient became quite animated. Her eyes widened and her face took on the look of someone who was about to tell me the greatest secret in the world.
"I met him in the canteen."
"No!" I exclaimed, trying to see how hyped up I could get this lady.
"Oh whyefffph!" she began. "Pfffeee, I uphfed to work in the canteen pfhelling drinkpf and the pfhoda counter." She swallowed. "oooh. I'm pfhitting cotton!" I gave her a sip of water and she continued with an air of great mystery and drama.
"The boyfph ufphed to come in there jufpht to fphee how pretty I wafph."
I looked at her for a long time trying to imagine that, as she looked like she'd been shot out of a cannon.
"Fphee, the boyfph came in to get their daily cofffphee and they brought thifph new boy becaufph they told him, 'hey, you fphsould fphee the new girl in the canteen.' Fphso in they come. I fphseen him and yup, he wafph a looker, too. When they come to the counter to pay for the coffphee, he done it. He looked me right in the eye and laid a dime in my hand."
She pulled herself up on one elbow and reached for my hand to show me how he had given her the dime.
"He had a nickel, but he wanted to toucfph my hand fpho he afphsked for phchangphe. And when hifph fphingerfph toucfphed my hand," her eyes were wild with the telling, "an electric fphshock phfshot fphtraight up my arm." Here eyes looked as though she'd just backed into a hot stove. "An I knew I'd marry him, and fpho did he."
She stared into my eyes for a long moment and lay back on her pillow with a dreamy smile on her lips. "We got married two weekfph later an we never been apart fphinfph."
I put down her chart and looked into her little wrinkled face. "And you never have regretted it, have you?"
"Never!" She jabbed me in the arm with her index finger for emphasis and settled back onto the gurney. Her face wore the expression of satisfaction.
That night I mused for a long time about my patient's delightful story. After I'd finished chuckling about how she looked, I thought how fortunate she was, tucked into bed with him in their home. They'd only slept apart twice during their marriage. There was something important for me to learn from her and I didn't want to miss it: what began as a romantic notion had grown into something beautiful. That was her story and she had stuck with it all these years.
There is something romantic about wartime bride stories during my parents' era. People saw each other across a darkened room and determined that they'd grow old together. They might dance together and feel safer in each other's arms than they'd ever felt before. Fifty years later, they'd still be dancing. And these were the stories I heard growing up and later, from old men and women who were only too happy to share them with me.
All of these marriages could not have been happy all the time, as most said they were. Maybe Betty complained that her Joe wasn't good with kids, or Mary wished her Bert was more handy like Sarah's Hugh. That's how life was and if that was as bad as it got, then they had nothing to complain about. But as they aged, they remembered more and more the positive, good things about each other and their lives together. Tense years and discordant phases of their marriage were not even remembered as they told me about how much they love one another. I've seen this phenomenon in my own parents. They look fondly at each other and tell me they'd do it all over again, a hundred times over.
Selective memory. In these stories, only the good stands out. No looming memories about the time she felt he talked too long to the woman neighbor, or when she threatened to leave him and take the children. Selective memory means they have forgiven each other for sometimes being unkind, insensitive, reckless, or unthinking. Their love overlooks these things and they have made peace with all the rough patches. Their love has endured and still shines through. That is why I can't hear enough of the love stories of our elders.
August 12, 2006
No Fear
This morning I was reading Martin Luther's commentary on the book of Galatians in the Bible. I had gotten up out of bed rather early, with a sincere desire to connect with God by meditating on His Word. So I opened up Galatians and started in. It had been awhile since I really spent time meditating this way, and my soul was starved for God. I could understand how the Psalmist, David, wrote so many times how his "heart and flesh cry out for the living God," and things to that effect.
I have also noticed that when a person is well read or well educated, much of what is read cannot be taken at face value, period. There are so many other theories or ideas, or experiences in the mind, that one becomes distracted by trying to make it all fit together. So the most simple scriptural declaration is food for equivocation. When this happens to me, I often find my mind wandering off onto other areas and latching onto other oblique issues. It keeps my mind busy, but I can't quite capture the true meaning of the verse, for example. It's similar to the experience one has when looking into the sky on a sunny day. It's easier to see what is in the sky when not looking directly at it, but sideways, or with peripheral vision. This is my experience reading the Bible. It makes me wonder if I have ADD sometimes because this behavior feels like that characteristic distractibility must feel.
So I struggle off and on, annoyed with myself for always getting my mind hijacked. I've seen preachers who can quote Bible verses--huge portions of scripture--and my mind is a perfect blank. I can quote a few Psalms, and a couple portions of chapters that correspond with Handel's Messiah. But other than that, there's not a lot that is immediately accessible to me. I can quote along with other people who are reading the Bible aloud, so it's not unfamiliar to me. But to bring it to mind when I want it makes me go blank and I wonder if I really know anything at all in the Good Book. It is easy to lose the assurance of salvation if you can't bring to mind enough verses to support what you know in your heart is true.
With this feeling of despair that I will ever be a good Bible student, that I will never be able to explain to anyone else why I believe what I do, or help anyone along their spiritual path, I picked up my Bible this morning and turned to Galatians. I should be so lucky to get it straight in my own mind why I believe in God and believe that there is hope for me as a sinner.
"Oh foolish Galatians..." I'd read this so many times before.
That's another thing. When you grow up a Christian and hear hundreds of sermons about every conceivable thing, it's hard to read the Bible with a clear, unbiased mind without hearing the chorus of voices intoning numerous interpretations and meanings about what you're trying to read. In a few minutes I was distracted by Otis. He always wants to play first thing in the morning and he yowls until I flick his feathery toy around on the couch for him to chase. In a few minutes I was miles away from Galatia. I really needed something to anchor my thoughts and bring me reassurance for the hope that I have. On the internet, I found Martin Luther's commentary on the book of Galatians. It helped me stay focused. Here is a statement that leapt out at me and that was so concrete, specific, and clear that I immediately felt relief, hope, joy, and gratefulness all at once:
By His resurrection Christ won the victory over law, sin, flesh, world, devil, death, hell, and every evil. And this His victory He donated unto us. These many tyrants and enemies of ours may accuse and frighten us, but they dare not condemn us, for Christ, whom God the Father has raised from the dead is our righteousness and our victory.
Jesus is my righteousness and my victory. It is not my faulty memory, my distractible mind, my insufficient scholarship. Jesus is my righteousness. There is nothing more complete than Jesus, no lack of anything in Him. He is also my victory. My habits of self denial or self-control, as good as they are, are not my victory. Jesus is. My talents and ability to do some things has nothing to do with my acceptability with God. Jesus is my righteousness and my victory--even though I'm a sinner and sometimes feel as though I'm falling apart at the seams. He is all that I need. What more is there?
I have also noticed that when a person is well read or well educated, much of what is read cannot be taken at face value, period. There are so many other theories or ideas, or experiences in the mind, that one becomes distracted by trying to make it all fit together. So the most simple scriptural declaration is food for equivocation. When this happens to me, I often find my mind wandering off onto other areas and latching onto other oblique issues. It keeps my mind busy, but I can't quite capture the true meaning of the verse, for example. It's similar to the experience one has when looking into the sky on a sunny day. It's easier to see what is in the sky when not looking directly at it, but sideways, or with peripheral vision. This is my experience reading the Bible. It makes me wonder if I have ADD sometimes because this behavior feels like that characteristic distractibility must feel.
So I struggle off and on, annoyed with myself for always getting my mind hijacked. I've seen preachers who can quote Bible verses--huge portions of scripture--and my mind is a perfect blank. I can quote a few Psalms, and a couple portions of chapters that correspond with Handel's Messiah. But other than that, there's not a lot that is immediately accessible to me. I can quote along with other people who are reading the Bible aloud, so it's not unfamiliar to me. But to bring it to mind when I want it makes me go blank and I wonder if I really know anything at all in the Good Book. It is easy to lose the assurance of salvation if you can't bring to mind enough verses to support what you know in your heart is true.
With this feeling of despair that I will ever be a good Bible student, that I will never be able to explain to anyone else why I believe what I do, or help anyone along their spiritual path, I picked up my Bible this morning and turned to Galatians. I should be so lucky to get it straight in my own mind why I believe in God and believe that there is hope for me as a sinner.
"Oh foolish Galatians..." I'd read this so many times before.
That's another thing. When you grow up a Christian and hear hundreds of sermons about every conceivable thing, it's hard to read the Bible with a clear, unbiased mind without hearing the chorus of voices intoning numerous interpretations and meanings about what you're trying to read. In a few minutes I was distracted by Otis. He always wants to play first thing in the morning and he yowls until I flick his feathery toy around on the couch for him to chase. In a few minutes I was miles away from Galatia. I really needed something to anchor my thoughts and bring me reassurance for the hope that I have. On the internet, I found Martin Luther's commentary on the book of Galatians. It helped me stay focused. Here is a statement that leapt out at me and that was so concrete, specific, and clear that I immediately felt relief, hope, joy, and gratefulness all at once:
By His resurrection Christ won the victory over law, sin, flesh, world, devil, death, hell, and every evil. And this His victory He donated unto us. These many tyrants and enemies of ours may accuse and frighten us, but they dare not condemn us, for Christ, whom God the Father has raised from the dead is our righteousness and our victory.
Jesus is my righteousness and my victory. It is not my faulty memory, my distractible mind, my insufficient scholarship. Jesus is my righteousness. There is nothing more complete than Jesus, no lack of anything in Him. He is also my victory. My habits of self denial or self-control, as good as they are, are not my victory. Jesus is. My talents and ability to do some things has nothing to do with my acceptability with God. Jesus is my righteousness and my victory--even though I'm a sinner and sometimes feel as though I'm falling apart at the seams. He is all that I need. What more is there?
August 9, 2006
Dumb Questions
I was reminded this week of a very funny and perhaps unfortunate story that happened when I was a therapist in training. The way I came to think about it was that one of my students came to me rather sheepishly and blushing, said, "I have a really dumb question that I'm afraid to ask you."
It seems that students think I have always known what I know now, and have always had a sense of self-confidence. I haven't. My student heard this story:
When I was in my first year of therapist training, my supervisor told me one day--not asked, but told me--that I'd be giving a talk on safer sex to a group of pre-teen gang wannabes. What an appalling idea, from a girl who had grown up very sheltered and who had had very little sexual contact with anyone. I think my actual response was, "I'd rather be thrown to lions." Because I came from a nursing background, he felt that I would have more credibility than he would. I hardly thought so. He was cool and the member of a minority group--as were most of the gang group members. I was White, uninitiated in gang life, naive, and I didn't know what kinds of words they used in their world to describe sexual acts. No matter. My supervisor handed me a pamphlet. "Everything you need to know is in this booklet. It's really good. You can do this--I know you can."
Well, I didn't know anything of the kind.
I took the pamphlet home and so anxious was I, that I never bothered to fully read it, or the title, or anything else about it. It was important to find the right words--the street words--that I could use and not be laughed at. I could just imagine myself saying words like vagina, intercourse, ejaculation, and see them howl in derision of me. I just couldn't take that. But I didn't feel that I could use vulgar language, either. Just thinking about it made me more anxious. As I leafed through the booklet, I kept seeing the word, works. It's your works that infect other people. Wash yourself well, especially your works, with chlorox after contact. Wow! So that's how they refer to genitalia, I thought. I never heard that before! Well, whatever.
A couple days later, I sat at the head of a conference room table holding a condom in one hand and my notes in the other. They looked at me warily. I just knew what they were thinking: What does this woman think she's gonna tell us that we don't already know? What indeed. They had probably had more sex at age 14 than I could even dream of, and I was 30! They began squirming and looking at each other with those knowing looks that make older people feel like fools.
"How many of you know how to use one of these?" I held up the condom. Snorts and dismissive noises all around. I'd have to hit them with some fact that would get their attention and respect. "Listen you guys, did you know that if you're having sex without protection that there are things you can do to keep from getting infected with AIDS?" I'd get to the heart of my message right then and there. "The public health people tell us that if you're not going to use a condom, you have to wash yourself with chlorox after you have unprotected sex." The guy sitting closest to me drew back in shock, his eyes squinting at me as though I were an alien. "Chlorox!" he repeated. "Yes," I said with authority. If you aren't going to be safe, you will have to wash your privates with chlorox to be sure there aren't any germs on you." There. I had them, even though I wasn't using the right words. They sat silently regarding me with a mixture of surprise and fear. "But chlorox..." one guy said.
I don't remember much else from that experience. My supervisor told me that I did a really fine job, even though I groaned about how mortified I was to have to talk to these tough little guys about condoms and sex. He said I was great. He must have been asleep.
Nine years later I had just moved to the Midwest to get my PhD. As I was unpacking my boxes of stuff into my new digs, I came across a pamphlet entitled, "Safety for needlesharing partners." I had no idea that I even had such a book. I leafed through it absentmindedly. Half way through, I had to turn it upside down because the other half of the book was entitled "Safer sex for teenagers." Then it hit me. When my supervisor gave me the book I was so anxious that I never noticed that there were two completely different topics discussed. Of course, "works" refer to needle paraphernelia--I knew that. But why didn't I pick that up back years ago? As I sat on the floor of my new apartment by the closet, putting away all those old papers, I had the fantasy of a bunch of young boys in Southern California with bleached pubic hair. "But she said to use Chlorox!"
The moral of this story? Everyone has dumb questions and some dumb questions could save the reproductive health of our clients! The second thought is that it's a good thing to be able to laugh at yourself. Some of us have more to laugh about than others.
Oh, and get your facts straight. I'm still working on that one.
It seems that students think I have always known what I know now, and have always had a sense of self-confidence. I haven't. My student heard this story:
When I was in my first year of therapist training, my supervisor told me one day--not asked, but told me--that I'd be giving a talk on safer sex to a group of pre-teen gang wannabes. What an appalling idea, from a girl who had grown up very sheltered and who had had very little sexual contact with anyone. I think my actual response was, "I'd rather be thrown to lions." Because I came from a nursing background, he felt that I would have more credibility than he would. I hardly thought so. He was cool and the member of a minority group--as were most of the gang group members. I was White, uninitiated in gang life, naive, and I didn't know what kinds of words they used in their world to describe sexual acts. No matter. My supervisor handed me a pamphlet. "Everything you need to know is in this booklet. It's really good. You can do this--I know you can."
Well, I didn't know anything of the kind.
I took the pamphlet home and so anxious was I, that I never bothered to fully read it, or the title, or anything else about it. It was important to find the right words--the street words--that I could use and not be laughed at. I could just imagine myself saying words like vagina, intercourse, ejaculation, and see them howl in derision of me. I just couldn't take that. But I didn't feel that I could use vulgar language, either. Just thinking about it made me more anxious. As I leafed through the booklet, I kept seeing the word, works. It's your works that infect other people. Wash yourself well, especially your works, with chlorox after contact. Wow! So that's how they refer to genitalia, I thought. I never heard that before! Well, whatever.
A couple days later, I sat at the head of a conference room table holding a condom in one hand and my notes in the other. They looked at me warily. I just knew what they were thinking: What does this woman think she's gonna tell us that we don't already know? What indeed. They had probably had more sex at age 14 than I could even dream of, and I was 30! They began squirming and looking at each other with those knowing looks that make older people feel like fools.
"How many of you know how to use one of these?" I held up the condom. Snorts and dismissive noises all around. I'd have to hit them with some fact that would get their attention and respect. "Listen you guys, did you know that if you're having sex without protection that there are things you can do to keep from getting infected with AIDS?" I'd get to the heart of my message right then and there. "The public health people tell us that if you're not going to use a condom, you have to wash yourself with chlorox after you have unprotected sex." The guy sitting closest to me drew back in shock, his eyes squinting at me as though I were an alien. "Chlorox!" he repeated. "Yes," I said with authority. If you aren't going to be safe, you will have to wash your privates with chlorox to be sure there aren't any germs on you." There. I had them, even though I wasn't using the right words. They sat silently regarding me with a mixture of surprise and fear. "But chlorox..." one guy said.
I don't remember much else from that experience. My supervisor told me that I did a really fine job, even though I groaned about how mortified I was to have to talk to these tough little guys about condoms and sex. He said I was great. He must have been asleep.
Nine years later I had just moved to the Midwest to get my PhD. As I was unpacking my boxes of stuff into my new digs, I came across a pamphlet entitled, "Safety for needlesharing partners." I had no idea that I even had such a book. I leafed through it absentmindedly. Half way through, I had to turn it upside down because the other half of the book was entitled "Safer sex for teenagers." Then it hit me. When my supervisor gave me the book I was so anxious that I never noticed that there were two completely different topics discussed. Of course, "works" refer to needle paraphernelia--I knew that. But why didn't I pick that up back years ago? As I sat on the floor of my new apartment by the closet, putting away all those old papers, I had the fantasy of a bunch of young boys in Southern California with bleached pubic hair. "But she said to use Chlorox!"
The moral of this story? Everyone has dumb questions and some dumb questions could save the reproductive health of our clients! The second thought is that it's a good thing to be able to laugh at yourself. Some of us have more to laugh about than others.
Oh, and get your facts straight. I'm still working on that one.
August 7, 2006
Roach House
One of my first memories of life came to me as a snippet--a vignette. I was lying in my crib after waking up from a nap. I was on my back, looking up at a window over the crib. There, on the window, was a cockroach. Nearby was some sort of lizard or salamander. It was very quiet and the three of us were very still. I remember being transfixed by these creatures unsure of what they were, but fascinated by the cockroach slowly moving along the glass and the salamander doing his little pushups on the glass.
I told my mother about this memory one day and asked her where she thought it took place. "Oh, it must have been the Roach House." She shuddered, "Horrible place!"
When I was about a year and a half old we moved to Mississippi where my father was to teach at a new boarding school. It was so new that all the faculty homes had not yet been completed. So we were put in an old house at the edge of the property until ours was finished. We called this transition house "The Roach House" for obvious reasons. It was an unpleasant, rustic kind of existence for two months or so. Then we moved into a cute new 60s bungalow on Faculty Row.
We currently live in a rental home, and the longer I live in it, the more certain I am that it is only a transitional housing solution. Whoever painted the bathroom its garish blue color didn't use painter's tape around fixtures, the shower, or mirror. It is hideously done. The hall and front door moldings are a medium taupe color and the walls are off-white. It leaves much to be desired. Someone spilled liquid vitamins in the cupboards and it smells awful. The mechanical whiz who plumbed in the water line to the icemaker for the refrigerator left a triangle cut out of the drywall, so one can see the studs in the wall if you move the fridge. You can see the light of day when you look under the sink where the water pipes come in. Every faucet either drips or leaks under the sink. Outside, there are potted banana palms next to a dying apple tree. The roots of an enormous maple tree broke up the patio concrete. Someone cut the roots of the tree and it lists to one side, menacingly over the roof. It is truly a disaster waiting to happen, and we will be very happy to leave here in another few months when we buy a home.
There are a number of situations in life that are temporary and that are less than optimal. Some things are good transitional items. A person takes a lower paying job at a good company in the hopes of moving her way up the administrative ladder. Graduate students take a class from a professor in hopes that he'll be noticed by someone he would like to serve on his dissertation committee. We go on dates with people whom we will not marry, but whose company keeps us from feeling in the dumps until we meet Mrs. Right. All of us have Roach Houses: temporary fixes that we chafe against until we get what we are ultimately waiting for. Perhaps we could say that life on this earth is only a waiting time until we will have eternal life and see God forever. It's not always pleasant, but it can be made liveable. So we make life the best we can for the time being, grateful that the Real Thing isn't like this, and that soon we will be in our heavenly homes that are being made ready for us.
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