This is an enneagram. I used to think that this was some sort of Satanic pentogram so never took any interest in it. Students and colleagues mentioned them but my mind was turned off and nothing ever registered. Anyone who began to talk about it would only prompt me to inwardly say, "Oh, that" and I'd shut my mind.

Last week one of my students who happens to be a Protestant chaplain in a psychiatric hospital, gave a classroom presentation about how he uses the enneagram in his work. This time I listened and learned something.

The enneagram comes from the time of Pythagoras. It was believed that Sufis used the principles of the diagram to tell people cryptically what kind of idiot they were--something that most of us don't need help with! But there is historical evidence that this symbol was used in South America and was passed along to Claudio Naranjo, who was instrumental in making it popular in recent years. It does in fact, come from mystical components of Judiasm, Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, and Islam. Christians have recognized the seven deadly sins in seven of the points, and have added two more. These seven deadly sins correspond in some way to the strengths and weaknesses associated with personality characteristics. If you have ever taken the Myers-Briggs Temperament Inventory (MBTI), you will quickly see that the findings of this instrument help describe your personal tendencies.

You can read more about the enneagram here. But you might also wish to take a simple, free test here. It's rather fun and interesting. I have taken the test twice and have had minor changes with each result. The test site recommends that you take the test several times and take an average of your results, or see if they change over time.

What do you come out as?

I am Helpful (86%)

Calm (74%)

Perfectionistic (62%)

If you want to know what this means, take the test yourself!

Immunity

Now here's some news I just heard tonight for the first time--even though it made a limited number of headlines two years ago. Sam and I were channel surfing tonight and came across the movie, Deliver us From Evil, a documentary about sexual abuse in the Catholic church. It chronicled a massive cover-up by church officials at every level of the hierarchy in regards to the approximately 100,000 children who have been sexually molested by priests. Well over 500 priests in the Los Angeles diocese have been accused of molestation. However, Cardinal Mahoney has not put forth the effort to investigate these priests or bring justice and closure to the hundreds of victims.

The movie, which was featured at the Sundance Film Festival, showed a psychologist who works with pedophile priests, who stated that 10% of the graduates from St. John's seminary are pedophiles. If 10% of Harvard graduates were pedophiles, something would be done to correct that--or Harvard would be closed down. But not the Church.

The same psychologist pointed out that a number of priests enter seminary at a point when their sexual knowledge and identity are not fully developed. Because of their vow of celibacy they believe that any sexual contact is sinful. It doesn't matter what the sexual contact is--it's all the same and all bad. Having sex with a woman, groping someone, or fondling a child--it's all in the "bad" category with little differentiation. Because many of these young priests have arrested sexual development they seek out someone for intimacy who is at their same delayed level of development--someone younger than the age of majority. This doesn't seem as bad somehow in the beginning--it's just two boys having contact. But it is very, very bad as they become habituated to this behavior. Only about 20% of the molestations ever get reported. Reported, not convicted. Which means that about 80% of molestation victims never tell anyone, tell the right people, or do tell and are told to keep quiet.

The clincher in this movie for me was the final statement that rolled before the credits: President Bush issued immunity to the pope so he could not be tried in connection with a sex abuse case. Apparently, when the abuse crisis hit the church, Cardinal Ratzinger was given the assignment to head a taskforce to deal with child abuse allegations leveled against priests. He was subsequently involved in a conspiracy to protect a known pedophile priest who is now a fugitive. By his actions, he assisted the priest to avoid prosecution. Ratzinger states that the Church's handling of cases related to child sexual abuse are subject to "pontifical secret." His behavior is hideous in terms of the blatant belief that he is above the law and can get away with it. But perhaps more vexing is our own president's decision to grant him immunity. What message does this send American citizens about the moral fiber of this country? About turning a blind eye when to do so works in your best interest? Who is advocating for the safety of children if the Church and even our president doesn't hold abusers accountable? The laws to protect children that we try to put through congress are a travesty if our own president lets an entire system continue to abuse children. Yes, the argument has been made by the Bush attorneys that for them to prosecute the head of the Catholic church would cause political intrusion into a religious organization--something protected by the Constitution.

I am incensed.

The film makes the observation that the way sexual abuse has been shoved under the rug by church authorities is yet one more way that abuse survivors are revictimized. A very thin veneer of piety covers the ugly truths that celibacy does not work and that powerful organizations are more important than the people whom they purportedly serve. And the victims wonder what God, church, and faith have to offer them if this is what they encounter in God's name. Sobering.

Clearing Out

Tonight I'm going to bed with my heart surging and singing. Because today I spent 8 hours cleaning the garage. Yes, it made me very happy. And yes, it was an absolute mess.

We moved here a year and a half ago after living in the Pacific Northwest for nearly two years, and after living in our Indiana house for exactly one year. Because we'd moved rather suddenly from Indiana, things had gotten chucked into boxes. Those boxes got stacked in our garage in Washington. Then, when we moved here, they were added to and stacked in this garage. Because we're in a small rental house, many more boxes of things have been stored in the garage.
Then when I moved Mother out here, her boxes joined ours along with a couple chairs, my great-grandfather's chest of drawers, a bookcase and table. Everything has been hurriedly pushed into the center of the garage floor which, I might add, has been covered with dust bunnies and leaves that have blown in under the door. We have hundreds of spiders--nasty black and brown ones--that have spun miles of webs up against the walls and under the shelves. They all got swept away today.

Today I went through everything except two boxes: a box that came with Sam from California when he married me (full of old receipts and goodness knows what else), and a box of cable wires, phone parts, and unidentifiable computer parts. As soon as Sam decides what to do with all of that, our garage will be completely packed properly and I will know where everything is. At long last!
Mother's boxes and things are all on one workshelf, covered with a blanket. Her antique chair is wrapped up and the table is protected.

I had no idea how therapeutic it would be for me to clean out the garage. I know that when people feel out of control of parts of their lives, that they do well to manage and straighten up what they can. Not that I can identify anything that is pressing my "control" buttons right now. But it is true that if I'm angry at Sam, I start a cleaning frenzy until everything in my surroundings is in order. At least I can control my surroundings. And by the time things are cleaned, he either ambushes me (he knows that frenetic cleaning in the middle of the week signifies upset on my part) until everything comes out, or I have had time to think through how I want to discuss things. He tells me that while I'm cleaning I hold my mouth funny and he knows immediately that I'm on the war path, even when I try to hold my mouth normally--whatever that is--and not clomp through the house. He always knows. And he usually makes me laugh about it.

Today, I just wanted to clean things up. There is beauty in order. It was drizzling outside most of the day and the cool, moist air wafted through the garage as I sent swirls of dust out into the rain. A whole carfull of "stuff" got taken over to the thrift store. Nice tax write off and good way to make space. I found things in boxes that I had forgotten all about: a little dish from Dublin, Ireland; a series of clay pots made by my friend, Nathan; a letter I'd sent Sam while we were dating. And tons of recyclable paper and cardboard. The trash bins are nearly overflowing. Perhaps what was really wonderful was that not once did I think about or concern myself with school: no grading of papers, reading reports, writing lectures or working on projects. I don't remember when I had a day like today--just me, the dust, and the hope that everything would be predictable and pleasant in that uninviting space.

I suppose this is what God does in our hearts--haul out the useless stuff, scrub the dirty places, make space for Himself. If it took me eight hours to clean a double car garage and storage room, think of how long it takes to clean and renew the human heart. As He clears away the junk, we find emotions and thoughts that have gotten lost on our journey. There is real delight in connecting with those things again.

As I go to bed tired but satisfied, I'm reminded that it is God who does the work--both to will and to do of His good pleasure. Have at it, Lord. My heart has lots of stuff that needs to go.

Happy, Happy Home!

When we were kids, we loved to sing in church. The children's classes all had songs that were age appropriate. One of them was:

With Jesus in the family,

Happy, happy home,

Happy, happy home,

Happy, happy home.

With Jesus in the family,

Happy, happy home.

Happy, happy home.

You can guess the developmental stage of the children who sang this. (I think we would have been about 2-4 years old). It just happened to be one of my youngest brother's favorite songs. He would belt it out in the car on the way to church and then walk through the house singing it after church. I'm sure it delighted my parents to no end to hear their three-year-old singing so enthusiastically.

When it was time to go to church, we would all get dressed up in our good clothes--special shoes, socks, pants, dresses, and what-have-you--because we only wore our best clothes to church. Then out the door we'd go, pile into the car and drive the six miles off to church with Gerald singing at the top of his lungs.

One day, Mother was in the grocery store shopping and Lenora, the children's class teacher just happened to be shopping there. Somewhere in the course of conversation Lenora told Mother that Gerald had shared some surprising information with her. He had fairly danced into the church classroom and went right up to Lenora.

"Look!" he squealed. "I have on my happy home hoos" pointing to his shoes, "and my happy home hocks!"

Lenora followed his pointing finger down to his freshly polished little black shoes. He squatted down and pulled up one pant leg so she could see his black socks.

"See?"

She nodded, tickled by his excitement.

"I only wear my happy home hocks and happy home hoos to church. Only today." He looked satisfied with himself and as quickly as he had run to her, he turned and sat down in one of the chairs in a semi-circle.

And yes, they sang his song that day.

So whenever I am getting ready for church and I reach for my shoes, I hear his little cheerful voice singing "With Jesus in the family, happy, happy home!" and I put on my hoos and hocks with a grin on my face.

Two DVDs

This is one of the most powerful movies I've seen in my life. It is the story of a woman, Angela Shelton, who is a writer and film maker, and who decides to film herself making contact with every Angela Shelton in America.
She is able to meet quite a number of women with her name--Black and White. It is a novel idea, and part of the interest in this story is waiting to see what each Angela Shelton will look like and what her life circumstances are. Each woman tells something about her personal story. We find that a large percentage of Angela Sheltons in America have been sexually abused, raped, or abused by an intimate partner. We hear Angela (the author) say throughout the beginning of the film that she has also been sexually abused by her father.

When she goes to her home town to meet another Angela Shelton, she finds that this woman tracks sexual predators and knows of her father. This is the catalyst she needs to go meet him, but not after she bolsters her courage by meeting with her (abused and abusive) step-sister and step-brother. Then she is filmed sitting on the steps of her father's home, asking him why he abused her. His responses are startling. She remains dignified and composed in his presence--something that few women could do.

Angela Shelton comes full circle in this movie--able to obtain closure and move on, especially with the knowledge that she is not the only Angela Shelton with this experience.

I showed this to my Child Abuse and Family Violence class last week. It is a 96-minute film, so part way through I stopped the DVD and said we could take a break. No one moved. Finally someone shook their head, no. We kept on.

This DVD can be obtained here for $19.95. Viewers are left deeply moved and motivated, but not in despair.

I got an email last week from one of my students in the Child Abuse class:

Dear Barbara,

Thank you for showing that video.

I will never forget it for the rest of my life.

It was powerful."

Dawn

The second film is produced by Edward Blackoff, a Hollywood film maker. You can go here to see the trailer for the film, The Tragedy of Incest. My students felt that while this DVD was shocking (recovering incarcerated pedophiles were interviewed), it provided outstanding documentation of the Catch-22 that sexual predators face. Where does one go for treatment if therapists are mandated to report them? No place is safe: prison, home, community, family. For those who work with people, this DVD is very helpful and interesting.

Now you know what we are going to process in Child Abuse class today.

Dancing to the Family Music

Found here

I love this picture that I came across while reading adoption blogs. This little girl is taking on a pose that speaks an international language: "Look at me! I like what I have on and it's fun to look pretty and dolled up. Do you like it as much as I do?"

I used to be a little, flirtatious girly girl when I was little. Mother used to make us cute little dresses with crinolines in them. Yes, they scratched our legs, but it was fun to prance around while everyone oohed and ahhhed about how cute I was.

It's been awhile...

The other day I was driving through traffic and it suddenly came to me that I don't like how I've been looking lately. Oh yes, my weight continues to be problematic. But there's more. Today while watching an Oprah episode (so much for working from home) and looking at the way the women dressed, I had a wave of nostalgia. There was a time when I took great care about how I dressed and presented myself. It was during the last couple years of grad school and I was putting my best foot forward. Suddenly I had surgery, got married, and inherited financial and stepchild responsibilities. And the words of Dr. Oz to a show participant resonated with me: "You've been under real stress taking care of everyone else and you haven't taken care of yourself."

I've thought this before, but I've not experientially gotten it before today. It's easy to point to step-children and tell myself that I'm taking on much more than I need to. Or that I'm caretaking people too much, or investing my money in everyone else but me. But it's more. (Warning: this may sound like a harrangue so you may wish to stop reading here).

Some years ago I went on a lifestyle/diet change and lost 35 lbs. It made a world of difference in how I felt physically and emotionally. While the weight was dropping off, I realized one day that I had never felt entitled to looking pretty, sexy, or well dressed. This has never been a priority in my family, even though respectability has been a cherished value. I don't ever recall being told by either parent that I was attractive, or that I was a good catch. I was often told that there were no men good enough for me, but those comments did not encourage or give me any feedback about how I looked or what I could attain because of my charm, intelligence, or beauty. The feeling I got was one of futility: No one is good enough so why get my expectations up that there will be anyone for me?

There was never any conversation about what my parents hoped for me, or the kind of man I would marry. Marriage was never mentioned in reference to me, so I thought it was for everyone else but not me. My siblings made fun of me and how I looked: my body, my clothes, my demeanor. It never dawned on me that others might not share their views.

Several men lost interest in me after they met my parents or siblings. So I thought that it made no difference how I looked or behaved. This idea meshed well with the lifestyle of the farm families among whom we lived. Our neighbors wore jeans and floppy, old work shirts with sneakers or sensible shoes. People in that rural community who weren't farmers dressed very presentably but simply for the most part.

Now I live in Southern California and there is a lot more emphasis on dress, hair, weight, make up. I'm a professor who is the director of clinical training for my department and liaison to community agencies who collaborate with us in providing clinical placements for our students. Every time I go out on a site visit, I scrutinize the clothes in my closet sadly. Most everything is so sensible and frumpy that I can hardly stand to be seen in it. The image of Stepdaughter #1's wrinkled nose and raised eyebrows when she looks at me comes to mind. Stepdaughter #2's comment, "This, you should only wear when you work in the yard," and Stepdaughter #3's remark, "You need to have a makeover" resounds in my head. As I joked to one friend, very little about my appearance represents what I want to project.

I used to be a devoted clothes shopper. It was fun and a very real reprieve from writing a dissertation. Especially when I had the Mall of America and two outlet malls to shop in. Now Sam and I are puffy, well-fed, middle-aged people who are comfortable with each other and caught up in careers and family life. Both of us are considerably heavier than when we got married. So although I've griped about my weight and wardrobe before, I've not taken the time to think about the assumptions that underlie my current emotional circumstances. Do I think about others' needs more than mine? Yes. My assumption is that it's easier to meet theirs than mine. I do for others because it gives me great satisfaction and joy. I think it's my nature. Do I put more money into the family than me? Of course. Most mothers (and some step-mothers) do.

Is this level of self-abnegation and neglect warranted?

No.

Am I still dancing to my "family music?"

Yes.

The little girl in the picture above is pretty delighted about looking pretty and feeling good in her darling little dress. It's time for me to pay attention to my appearance in a new way. I love my job, my life, and my husband who often tells me, "Thank God, I married a beautiful woman!" My students admire me and colleagues enjoy me. Community members look up to me and ask my advice. I would like to know that I am dressed appropriately: up to date, bright colors, nicely put together outfits. I want to be as un-self-conscious in liking me as the little girl in the picture.

I think it will take some time, but I'm going to.

Regret

A student has made a formal complaint against me because I failed her last quarter. How dare I grade her down after she started to write the only major assignment the night before it was due? How could I "criticize" her writing as being inferior ("comparison to other students") or assert that her research design was methodological soup (phenomenological in-depth interviews, focus groups using an action research approach and grounded theory on top of that, plus comparison groups using a snowball sample. Good grief)? And how dare I accuse her of reading email and surfing the web in class? Even though her eyes were following something across the computer screen most of the time and her "note taking" appeared to have no relevance to what was being discussed in class.

It is a long, tangled story. She was going to have to wait an entire year to take the course again, thus falling behind her graduation target date. As a redemptive measure, I offered to teach an overload this quarter by offering the course again--as an independent study class. She enrolled but when she saw that the requirements would hold her accountable and force her to do the work she should have done last quarter, she braced for battle.

I got called in to my Chair's office and had to provide a written response with supporting documents. Of course, I had her support. But then I had to face off with the angry student, listen to her, and try to work out some compromise. Or not, and refer her on to the Dean to make a formal grievance at a higher level. The Chair assured me that this student didn't have a leg to stand on, but intimated that she hoped we could work things out without sending her up the ladder.

I'm not sure how or why this happened, but I completely caved in and capitulated to the student's wishes. There is something about having someone accuse, posture, and insist, with a smattering of "poor me" and "you're so unfair" --that knocks me sideways. After several minutes of hearing her accusations of how insensitive I was to her in class, and how she asked early in the class for exceptions, etc., etc., I began to second-guess myself. Not a lot about her comments resonated with me, but they did intimidate me on a very deep emotional level. I did not have it in me to say, "It's unfortunate that you earned an F on your paper last quarter. How do you propose to complete the assignments this quarter in a timely manner?" Or when she said she didn't have enough time to devote to the requirements this quarter, say "Maybe you should consider whether or not you should be signing up for a four-credit course if you can't devote the required time to it," or, "You will need to decide if you can do the work required in a doctoral course or not." Even, "Oh well..." would have been at least a response that pointed out that her request was unreasonable. I can respond to every single complaint and assertion she made--in hindsight. But at the time, I was filled with dread that perhaps she was right. I must be a heartless, partial, inexperienced, punitive teacher with excessive authority issues and who knows what else.
I asked her, very evenly, "What is it that you want?"
She told me in a rush of words.
"Well then, do it."
I turned to the computer, wrote down everything we discussed, printed it off and handed it to her.

I had lost patience and was fed up with the whole process--annoyed that I felt cowed into a corner by someone who was the most undeserving of grace at that moment. Fearful that the allegations I've heard from undifferentiated people in the past about my directness or academic standards, are unreasonable and cause pain. And I caved.

There are many reasons why. There have been many stressors lately: I've been sick and am not 100%. Mother's 195/98 blood pressure that elicited a panicked phone call moments before, only to find out that she hasn't been taking her medication. Exhaustion from helping another family member all weekend. My concerns that I'm really not doctoral education material. Acting as the liaison and quality assurance person for all of our students doing field work (this includes site visits to about 30 places each year--clear from Ventura, to San Diego and as far East as Indio). Putting together a medical family therapy certificate and trying to get it through the university red tape. Administering a $50,000 grant that I haven't enjoyed. Supervising therapy students working in doctor's offices. Teaching six classes this quarter--three of them brand new to me. Having my office books in boxes and working out of a small, chaotic space for two months while my new office is vacated.
But more personally, I have a long history in my family of facing serious consequences if I disagreed, pointed out problems, or challenged the status quo. There have been three times when I was essentially disowned by one or more family members because of choices I made or things I said--in sincerity and with good motives. The ensuing accusations have been outrageous: very painful and difficult to resolve. I've never had anyone else even hint in their behavior or words that these accusations can be correct. But they hurt and I don't want to feel that hostility leveled against me again. So I say nothing and fade into the background in order to avoid being wounded again.
It's true what the Bible says: "The anger of man does not work the righteousness of God." So I am justified in not flying back at people when they are unreasonable. But I feel as though my legs have been shot out from under me and I can't respond in a wise, firm, and calm way to those who use emotional means to intimidate.

It's easy to let things get to oneself, easy to become worn down with all the cares and stresses in life. At those times it's hard to hold the line. The student fairly danced out of my office with her new plan (new to me, but what she wanted all along). This was followed by me being fired as the chair of her dissertation committee. Amazing. She will be hard pressed to get other faculty to serve on her committee.
Her determination paid off, but the outcome is not in her best interest.

In retrospect, I know I made the wrong decision. This is someone who has consistently tried to slide by a number of academic requirements already. She has a reputation. Unfortunately, she won this battle. Perhaps. It all depends on how she writes her remedial paper (which other faculty members will be weighing in on gradewise, I assure you).

I don't recall ever feeling like I've hit a brick wall this hard. I was so determined to hold this student's feet to the fire, and when I reached inside for the wherewithal to make it happen, there was nothing. Humbled, annoyed, and hopefully wiser, I can look back on this with some insight. It is not a good thing to become overwhelmed with "life stuff." Being tired, sick, or anxious about non-academic issues can make it almost impossible to make good decisions or do good work. I must also resolve some hidden hurts. Additionally, students do not have to like me or agree with me to get the best educational experience that I can offer.

There are times in life when situational challenges converge and threaten to paralyze a person. It is then that the mundane things like predictable meals, self-discipline, enough sleep, reflection, recreation, faith, and self-care, make a big difference. Perhaps this is one reason that while on earth, Jesus often headed for the hills to get away and to pray His way through issues, to find strength to keep doing what He was here for. It seems to be one of those Kingdom-of-Heaven-rules: invest in God in quiet time, slow yourself down, give everything over to God, pray for wisdom, and do less--so you can do more.

This is why I've been so quiet lately. I've been busy beating myself up and wringing my hands about how to manage issues in my life that are tough to deal with. Perhaps an early morning conversation with God about family history and my needs for the new day will enhance inner healing and strengthen the inner core of resolve. I hope so.

Black History Month

Today I sat across from a client who told me the following story:
A well-known lecturer visited her school to give a seminar on some topic of his. The room began to fill up with about 40 students and teachers while the host and speaker chatted together in the front row. When it was time for the meeting to start, the host teacher walked to the podium and surveyed the room thoughtfully for a moment. She noticed that a number of people sat in a group in the front seats, and that about five Black teachers and students sat in a row at the back of the room against the wall.
"Come on up and sit here," she addressed the group of Black attendees. "You don't need to sit in the back anymore."

It was deathly silent. She looked around, smiled apologetically and said, "I hope no one is offended by that comment. It's just that you don't need to sit clear back there."

People of color were deeply offended, especially since this occurred right after a Martin Luther King celebration the day before. Making reference to civil rights struggles are not funny to a people whose blood was once spilled in the streets for no good reason. My client was shocked by the comment that had been made, and cited numerous other ways that she experiences marginalization every day. Another teacher frequently quotes White students in her class, but never repeats comments of Black or Hispanic students. Emails to White students are warm and humorous, but are cryptic and abrupt to Black students. And this teacher has the power to flunk her students. So it is no surprise that this client feels hypervigilant and sometimes sick to her stomach with anxiety in this teacher's class.
"Barbara, why does this still happen? It's at such a subtle level that no one can really attack the problem. Because if you do, you look like you're splitting hairs. But in the context of all the inequality and things like nooses that have been found hanging on the doors and in the lockers of upwardly mobile Blacks, this is frightening. It's making me ill."
I was impressed that a student her age could so clearly explain her response and articulate what was happening. But then, she has had years of watching this happen, receiving it, and thinking about what it is. I have not.
As I told her, I am White and I have White Privilege. I don't get questioned about my motives or intentions. I don't get stopped when I'm driving my car just because I'm in the "wrong" neighborhood. No one discriminates against me because of my race or ethnicity. I am recognized readily in classroom settings and my comments are not subject to scrutiny, nor are they marveled over skeptically with a "how did you know that?" People don't cross over to the other side of the street when they see me coming. I don't have the legacy of knowing that my family tree cannot be traced because my great grandparents were sold down the river.
I felt terrible about what Kimberly was experiencing. It may not sound like much to a White person, but a it would if it came in a reasonably steady stream and provoked one's anxiety.
We talked for awhile about my client's feelings of impotence and frustration. We discussed how she might decide if she should confront the teacher, or speak to an ombudsman, or the school principal. There is clear risk in each of these actions--risk that I may not be aware of because I would not have negative responses should I approach any of these people. But she very well could.

It was interesting for me to reflect on my experience as I helped Kimberly clarify what had happened and how she was affected by it. I felt a rush of shame that someone like me had offended her. I couldn't make up for it but I wanted to somehow. Yet this is the way life is. I can't protect her, only empower her to advocate for herself, think about her options, and move toward life experiences that fulfill and value her for who she is. At the same time, I feel some annoyance that life has to be so complicated and that people have to watch everything they say. That we have to worry about saying or doing something that is politically incorrect. Our country didn't used to be so pluralistic--it was all White, Protestant, hard-working, patriarchal, English-speaking, family-oriented, heterosexual. Now, everything is different and we must view reality through the eyes of many other kinds of people than how we used to.

I remember living in Hattiesburg Mississippi during the civil rights era--1961 - 1964. Even though I was a sheltered little girl, there was an awareness that the world was not a safe or pleasant place. We went to a Sears store one time in Jackson--my older sister, brother, parents, and me. As we were shopping, my sister saw a drinking fountain and helped herself to a good, long drink. She was too young to be able to read the "Colored" sign that hung over the fountain where she was drinking. A pipe came from the wall and split into two directions: left to the "Colored Fountain" and right to the "Whites Only" fountain.
We all stood by while Dana got her drink.

A store clerk--a man of about 35 or so--rushed over to us. "Don't let her drink out of that fountain!" he fairly shouted in a panic. "It's the Colored Fountain!"
My very Northern father quietly said, "But it comes from the same source as the White Fountain, so what's the difference?" Daddy studied the man with a bit of challenge in the way he held his head.
"Get out of here!" the man demanded. "We don't need your kind in here! N--lovers!"
Daddy demured.
"Get out! You will not get service in here." He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at us. I was scared to death and started crying.
I don't remember more than that, except that it was awful. Daddy was livid and Mother was indignant. They sputtered all the way home in the car. And as an adult I'm incensed at the humiliation and unnecessary segregation and pain that was leveled at Blacks during those very dark years. But I didn't do it. My people did--and that makes me feel silenced sometimes when called upon to respond to things that are happening. I either want to apologize for centuries of anti-Black behavior, or ignore that it exists altogether.

Discrimination still happens, only at a very different level. In defense of the teacher who made the comment at the beginning of this post, she makes terrible verbal blunders on a regular basis. I know this because I know her. She often says things without thinking about the implications of her words. She doesn't filter what comes out of her mouth very well. But she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body. In fact, she feels that she is a champion for diversity. She talks a lot about power differentials due to gender, race, socioeconomic status, etc. But it is hard for her to put it into practice all the time. She has no idea of how she has put the Black community off by what seemed to be a humorous comment.

As we reflect on Black History Month events, perhaps it is useful to think about our own individual journeys in terms of embracing people who are different than we are. All of us bring life experiences to the table: events in which we were harmed or had a negative reaction to a person of color. Or when we were resentful that we have had to move over and make space for someone who previously was not invited to the table. It is hard sometimes to learn new table etiquette and converse in culturally sensitive ways. However if we were all the same, life would be pallid at best and intolerably boring at worst.

I hope my young student finds grace as she begins to openly address these issues that look very different from her perspective.

Zerephath

"But in truth, I tell you, there were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, when there came a great famine over all the land; and Elijah was sent to none of them but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow. And there were many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha; and none of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian." When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with wrath. And they rose up and put him out of the city, and led him to the brow of the hill on which their city was built, that they might throw him down headlong.

An acquaintance of mine, whom I'll call Sylvia, went off to another state to go to graduate school (no, this isn't a story about me). She had a hard time finding a church to fit into because most of the ones she visited had rather proscribed ideas about the role of women. And as she is an extremely intelligent woman with strong ideas, she found it very hard to be minimized and have her voice silenced by patronizing comments every week in church. She didn't go very often therefore, even though she had a rich spiritual life with her colleagues at the university.

One week she decided to go to a little church nearby. It was hard to miss out on fellowship week after week when she was accustomed to participating in church. Sylvia went just about the time that the class was starting and the pastor was teaching it. Maybe it would be a good discussion.
In fact, it just happened to be about a topic that she was studying at the university, and she was eager to weigh in on it. So was everyone else. She raised her hand and waited to be called on. After nearly 30 minutes of having her hand up and listening to everyone else's comments, she waved her hand at the teacher. "Little lady, we don't have time for your remarks, so we're going to move on." The pastor smiled at her and brought the class to a close with prayer. He was probably a bit younger than Sylvia was, and it had felt strange to be called, "Little lady."

Sylvia was really discouraged, actually. She had come to church hoping against hope that somehow she could have spiritual fellowship--even that someone would simply want to have a conversation with her. It had been very difficult to live where she knew no one else and it was hard to live in a world of silence--no conversations outside of the classroom--for this long. She came to church running on empty. There was no reserve left to cope with feeling overlooked again. She felt tears coming with her head bowed during prayer. The pastor finished praying and dismissed the class. No one on the right or the left of Sylvia greeted her or acknowledged her presence.

"I'm going to sit right here until someone speaks to me," she thought. She was really lonely and had an empty house to go back to after the service. She wondered if it was worth it emotionally, to be so far from home. She could go back to her accounting job with people she knew and was comfortable with. It was hard to even get to first base with these people. But for now, she couldn't stop the tears from coming down her face. So she sat quietly, wiping her tears from her face, looking around at the close little knots of people chatting together. As they slowly drifted out of the fellowship hall into the sanctuary, she was left sitting in the middle of about 50 empty folding chairs.

The pastor's wife and another woman, however, were still talking at the edge of the room. They were talking about how important it was to get the room ready for the potluck that was to follow the service. They began taking the chairs away, one at a time, folding them and stacking them at the side of the room. Sylvia stayed in her chair, her head down, wiping away her tears.

The women folded and stacked chair after chair, moving them back away from the middle of the room. Their voices rose and fell as they walked across the room, away from one another. Almost all the chairs were stacked and they were engrossed in conversation about a potluck dish when the unbelieveable happened. There were only three chairs left--and Sylvia was in one of them. One woman took the chair to the right of her, and the other scooped up the other chair--without losing a beat in their conversation. They neither stopped to ask Sylvia what was wrong, or to greet her. They didn't even glance back at her sitting in the only chair in the middle of the room, her head down. And they walked out into the sanctuary foyer to join the others.

So there Sylvia sat, alone. It was a deeper sense of loneliness than she had when she'd walked into church that morning. It would certainly not be relieved by staying, either. Her face wet with tears and her eyes reddened from crying, she walked out of the room and headed toward the front door of the church. There stood the pastor.
"Are you leaving us?"
"Yes."
"I hope you found a real blessing here."
Sylvia paused. "Are you serious?" She invited him outside the church where she explained what had just happened and how painful it had been for her. He of course, was horrified. "I just thought someone else was going to talk with you." But it was too late to fix what had already happened and Sylvia couldn't regain her composure. She thanked him for at least taking the time to greet her, and went home.

She curled up on her couch and called some friends when she got home. At least she could have contact with people, even if it was over the phone. She didn't tell anyone what had happened that morning because it was really embarassing to her. She was a woman of faith, and many of her friends were not Christians. How could she explain why she kept trying to connect?

Later in the afternoon Sylvia went out for a walk. She lived in a tiny house at the edge of a very bad section of town--skid row. People who were high would scream through the neighborhood, roaring in paranoid rantings at the top of their lungs. Other people slept on the sidewalks or were drunk, lying under trees. Undeterred by her surroundings, Sylvia made her way down the street toward a coffee shop. As she crossed the intersection she noticed a large crowd of people standing around someone on the corner. It was a street preacher. He wasn't the histrionic, arms waving sort of preacher. He was talking in a soft, appealing voice to the group of people who were wearing raggedy clothes and huddled together. She moved closer to hear what he was saying. A large, unkempt man at the edge of the crowd saw Sylvia and motioned for her to come stand in his place. "Come on, honey. There's room for you right here" he rasped around the two teeth he had left. "Come hear what the man's telling. You need to hear it, too."

The man didn't seem to notice that Sylvia's jeans didn't have holes in them and that her blouse was new. The crowd made room for her to stand, and a number of people smiled shyly at her. The preacher was explaining how Jesus loved everyone and that when He was on this earth, He would have spent time with each person in that group.
"You are important to God," he said warmly. "You matter to Him. And even though He doesn't walk on our streets today, you can be sure that He is always right next to you. So when you are lonely, you can talk to Him because He's right next to you and wants to hear what you have to say." He smiled at Sylvia.
"He wants to know what all of you think and how you feel. So talk to Him."

Tears began to form again in Sylvia's eyes, but this time, it was for another reason. She had been welcomed, reassured, included. She could smell the lady next to her, but that lady was smiling at her and patted her arm. She was a tattered wreck. "You come back next week, honey. We're here every Sunday."

It was not "Israel" that had given her a place. It was another group of unacceptable outsiders where Sylvia found spiritual communion.
We forget that it is not always those who say "Lord, Lord" who do the will of the Father. And God's words sometimes come through unlikely conduits.

Hear the word of the Lord.

Prayers

Found here

Sam and I just came back from visiting Stepdaughter #3 up near Santa Cruz. She is at a Christian boarding school right on the ocean--a gorgeous spot, surrounded by strawberry fields under plastic. Yes, the strawberries are planted in long plastic-covered mounds. The irrigation water runs in the trenches between the rows. In the sun these fields look like bodies of water: shiny, bluish-black, huge. Behind the campus, down at the edge of the beach, stands several large fields of flowers: tiger lillies, hyacinths, daffodils, and jonquils. They are part of the campus industry, I think. These numerous plants, plus the rich blackish-brown soil, brought real joy to this country girl's heart. Every time I visit Northern California I fantasize about how wonderful it would be to live in that gorgeous place. The marine layer brings in moist breezes every day. The sunsets over the ocean are beautiful. And the listening to the waves roaring from our guestroom put us to sleep every night. It couldn't have been nicer.

On Saturday morning Sam and I got up early and walked down to the beach. There was a man walking a dog, huge heaps of rolled up seaweed, and a large group of seagulls. Of course, the plovers were running back and forth on their stilty legs, in and out of the waves, putting in the first of their 1,000 miles for the day. The sky was overcast and the waves were pretty rough. We were both wrapped in scarves and heavy coats--it is winter there and between the 40 degree weather and the wind, we were cold.

We didn't do much, just walked a bit, took some pictures and chatted. However, it was a significant time for me. The last time I was there was in 1997. I had gone there alone to pray and think about what I should be doing with my life. My clinical faculty position was good but exhausting, and without tenure there was no possibility of long term security. I didn't have a clue about what to do, but I was getting to the point where I had to do something. I felt stuck. And sad.

I grew up in a household where Mother told the story about praying that the next man in the church door would be her husband--and it was my father. I heard, year after year, ad infinitum, this story of answered prayer. Year after year I also prayed for a husband and there was one comedy of a relationship after another--or even worse--nothing at all. What was wrong with my faith? Was I so defective that no matter what I did, I was hopeless? I'd gone to therapy. I'd asked friends for input about my social skills or if there was something about me that I couldn't see that was scaring off men. I'd prayed and prayed and prayed. And I joined a couple singles organizations, much to my chagrin. I'd gone on more horrible dates than many women I knew. They were disastrous experiences, but I had at least done my part. Now I had to make life plans and there was no one to make them with. Just me. I had very little guidance, no financial support, and few ideas about what to do.

So I walked on the beach every day during my silent retreat. I wasn't interested in much else--just talking to God, thinking about what to do, resting, and reading my Bible. The first day there, I walked down the beach talking to God about how much I wanted to find a life partner.

"They're all broken or the walking wounded" I told God. "Just like these smashed sand dollars. There isn't a one that is whole. They all have chips in them or the bottom is missing out of them."

I walked on in silence as a thought was born.

"God, I've never been one to ask for a sign, or for some special miracle when it comes to men (even though to have a man would be a miracle!) I know there are millions of men in this world--probably a hundred or so who would think I'm a good catch. I only need one, God. Just one. The right one--someone who I would be happy with. Someone who is whole--not broken like all these shells. Could I have just one whole sand dollar? And that would give me hope that there is one man left--a good choice--for me?"

There. I asked the hard question of God that I'd never asked before. I felt foolish to be almost 40 and asking this kind of question. But I didn't have to tell anyone about it. I didn't ask about it again while I was there, but I did walk up and down the beach every morning and evening, looking at the sand. There wasn't one sand dollar to be seen.

The whole weekend was one of prayer. I thought I should probably go off for my doctorate somewhere, although I had no idea how I'd pay for it or where I should go. Nor could I imagine that any school would take me. I did want to leave California for some reason. I wondered if I really belonged here, being a New Yorker and all. But leaving seemed to be the direction that came to me during this retreat. I couldn't see my way clear to do it yet, but perhaps in time it would all work out somehow.

Sunday morning came. It was time to go home. I had not found a sand dollar but I'd talked to God about everything in my life that I could think of. Now I needed to talk to God about what the no sand dollar meant for me. It seemed that whatever I was to do in my life, it would have to be done alone. There was not going to be a man in my life at this point.

As I slowly walked down to the end of the beach, I walked past a man and his son running in and out of the waves. They were looking for some kind of shell or who knows--maybe sand dollars. They were empty handed, but kept scanning the freshly exposed sand to see what was there. I concentrated on the sand where I was walking. Okay God, if You are going to answer my prayer, it should be now because I'm getting ready to go home. I strained my eyes and ploughed into the sand with my feet. Surely there could be just one sand dollar on this entire beach.

As I got to the place where I could not pass further, the waves beat on an outcropping of jagged rocks. It struck me that I was going to be alone from now on and God had chosen not to give me any sand dollars. Perhaps there wouldn't be a husband for me. It was time for me to make peace with God about this. I stood on the rocks watching the waves hit the black pointy places and breaking in wild sprays up into the air. I was really disappointed and started crying.

"God!" I cried out. "If I'm not to have a husband and there isn't anyone for me, please just help me not to be bitter. But to live a full life and still do all that is required of me. I just don't know how I can manage it without emotional support. I'm tired and very lonely, and this is so painful. I've felt like such a reject for so many years--been the brunt of so many jokes. But if this is my path, I need for You to walk it with me because I can't... I just can't..."

There are times when all the tears have been cried and the anguish has been expressed, and there is nothing more. This was such a time. I'd been hoping for 20 years.

"Just please help me to be full-hearted and help me to do all that You have for me to do in this life." Then I added, "I know that Your will is perfect and that You have a thousand ways to provide for me that I know nothing about. I'll still trust You and believe in You, regardless. But my faith is little. I need You very much now as I go back and try to do what I'm supposed to do with my life."

It had been a silly thing really, to ask God to give me an unbroken sand dollar. But, I reasoned, He could have done it. And we're told to ask God for things. If my mother's prayer was answered because it was a reflection of her faith, why couldn't mine? I was embarassed by the simplicity of my own prayer, but keenly aware of my need.



I started back to the car. It was packed and ready to go at the top of the path down to the beach. I needed to "set my face as a flint" and go back to the busy life I had, to try to be useful and to make plans for myself to go to school. I was so disappointed though.

As I stepped ahead, my foot hit something hard. I looked down. There was a perfect sand dollar. It was teeny--about the size of a quarter. Hmmm. I smiled.

Thank you, God. It wasn't a stupid prayer.

It was small, but it was perfect and that was what I had asked for.

Smiling from ear to ear, I walked back toward the man and his son, still running back and forth in the waves. In the 300 feet it took me to get to them, I found 11 more complete, perfect sand dollars. Exactly where I had walked every day, and just a few moments before, scouring the sand, turning over every shell, digging my toes down into the sand--where there had been nothing for days. Now I had 12 sand dollars.



Isn't that just like God, I thought. Wait until the last minute, when all human resources have been exhausted, and when we begin to rest in what God can do for us--in faith.
My prayer had been answered twelve times over. I didn't think that just because I asked God for a husband who would be whole, just like a whole sand dollar, that I would suddenly have a husband. Or 12 husbands, or a husband in 12 years, or any other literal interpretation of what had just happened. I had wanted a sign that God could do what I wanted desperately to have done for me, that I couldn't do myself. And He could, and He did. I pictured God smiling over this little event. Yes, I am trustworthy, even when you don't think you can manage any more. And I will give you much more than you asked for. That's how I AM.



Was that the last time I wondered about getting married? No. But I had proof that God could respond to me in a way that I could understand, even if my faith dictated a prayer that others would not have prayed. I came home with my sand dollars and put them where I could see them often. A few were sent off to friends who were struggling with similar concerns. Something within me felt at peace.



So Saturday morning, it was fulfilling to stand on the beach with my arms around Sam, and thank God aloud that I could be there with my Promise.



I know that this story will turn off some people--those who don't believe in signs (yes, I have really been skeptical of these kinds of things, too), or who have other ways of thinking about what happened. But I wanted to share it here, because my prayers, wrung from my very sincere, longing heart, were responded to by a very great God.
He is able.