Employment

Yes, that's right, folks. As of last Thursday I became UNC's newest chaplain resident. It's a 1-year (PAID) internship.
I can't believe it... a year of CPE.

Keep posted... or don't.
:)

Revelation in the brokenness...

I went on retreat in May to one of my most favorite places on the planet. It is a tiny retreat center located in the back fields of Georgia—hidden from city hubbub and cell phone signals. One of the reason I like this place is because of the discoveries I have made there. That is the place where I met my love for monasticism, regular prayer, and silence. It's not just the conceptual discoveries that I have enjoyed. Every time I go back I make physical discoveries as well: bees, fields, small books of prayer, origami peace cranes… This time around I was spending time in the chapel when I came upon a small framed statement— Frango ut patefaciam—I break in order to reveal. I loved this quip. I wrote it in my journal, and took that thought home with me to paint. This, to me, was such a great statement about the eucharist.

I think when one of my colleagues asked me about my views of God this past Tuesday (which was the mid-unit evaluation in which I described God as both "love" and "m-f'er") I forgot to talk about the Christ I meet at the table. My call was formed out of a drive to give little hunks of bread to kids at a summer camp, and from there eucharist has taken so many meanings for me. The biggest of which is where I find healing in its truest form—the broken Christ + my brokenness + everybody else's brokenness = some kind of hope for a resurrected wholeness. To add patefaciam into the mix brings on a whole new part of this equation. It isn't just hope for a resurrected wholeness, it's revelation of a wholeness. It's this broken, resurrected Christ living within all of us, and therefore able to be revealed in all of us (whether we are communion takers or not).

This statement went in a different direction for me this week. In the course of an hour on the Tuesday of mid-unit evaluations the group found some of my breakable surfaces, and together we broke. I never felt violated—I let the breaking happen—but I sure did feel vulnerable. Actually it felt a little bit like everyone had x-ray vision, and nobody would let-up with the staring. But I found out that the breaking was not a breaking of the whole me, rather it was a breaking of some layers that I had used to keep myself guarded. It was frightening to be that out there with no cover. Frightening, but it was a safe place for brokenness.

Frango ut patefaciam: I break in order to reveal. I'm being revealed because parts of me are being broken. This was something that I did not think myself nor others were ready for, but through the rest of the week, I have found inner moments of empowerment and strength. This week I called myself a chaplain for the first time—not intern, just chaplain—and really felt okay with it. I also had an incredible job interview, and not because I went in there knowing the interviewers. It was incredible because I got to mention some of the things that I'm learning in CPE, and I realized I'm learning a lot—not just in pastoral care, but a lot about myself.

This has been a hard week. Hard to be broken. Hard to be with the broken. It's tiring to be in the act of breaking, and then to look around at the pieces. But I'm noticing small differences—the way I listen with friends, the way friends listen with me, a small growth of faith among us. I think I'm finding hope a more optimistic word.

द्रौपदी

The past two weeks have been FULL.
There have been a couple of times when I thought that maybe I can't do this chaplain thing after all. But there have been such life-giving moments intertwined with those.

So I sit here today deciding not to give you a whole reflection paper. Just a story.

There was a woman named Draupadi who was the daughter of king Draupada. She was known for suffering well and being of good virtue. It is said that she was born of fire because of her determination and thunder because of her strength. In jealousy of her virtues, many people despised her. At one point she was brought in before the Kurava court, where they decided to humiliate her by slowly tearing off her sari. She called out to the emperor, to priests, to the prime minister, and to her five husbands. None came to her aid. So she cried out to Krsna. Many people say that she clung to her sari, crying out in fear, “Krsna, help me!” Nothing happened. Then extending her hand, she cried out in need, “Come to my aid, Lord!” Still, nothing happened. Finally Draupadi let go of the now loosely hanging sari to which she was clinging, threw up both of her arms, and cried out unconditionally, “help!” Because she let go—of her fear, of her needs, of control in general—Krsna came quickly to her rescue. As the sari was dropped, Krsna wrapped an unending sari around her. The master of the court tore and tore and tore at Draupadi’s sari, but her body was never uncovered, and she was never humiliated.


Draupadi has been with me this week as I have listened to patients, staff, and interns including myself cry out. We’ve all had different reasons, but they have all felt much like a sari being ripped from our bodies. But as I have gone through these weeks--weeks of ripping, tearing, pulling, forcing--I find many of us becoming Krsna for each other, and safety taking on a whole new meaning.

ps

Oh yeah...
I believe a picture was promised.



These are the wonderful women from my first year spiritual formation group
L -> R: Me, Miriam, Kara
:-)

a long and boring reflection

Well, I figured since I haven’t shared much lately, I’d let you in on one of the reflections I recently wrote for CPE. I’m doing a summer unit at a state mental facility in Butner.
Pax,
LMK

Week number one: Clinical Pastoral Education
May 25, 2007. I figured it would happen, but I didn’t think it would be this soon. I have officially attempted to open the door to my house with the master ward key.

CPE is very quickly becoming a regular part of my daily life. The obvious response to that is, of course, it would have to because I’ve committed to spending an estimated 42% of the hours I’m awake with CPE (either at JUH or working on writing). This reflection comes a day after admitting to myself and the group that there are going to be parts of this that hit really close to home—that from what my ears have heard from the doctors and the staff having to do with history, occasional behaviors, and general mentality, I stand a higher eligibility for “patient” status over “chaplain” status.

I felt encouraged after the group stories. I thought that perhaps many of them would think I was over reacting or incapable of doing this work. Instead I felt very supported. Of course, I still do not feel “changed” or “different,” but I feel a little empowered for this ministry and a little more confident in myself (although I’m sure that even forty years into ministry I’ll still feel like I have not got a clue about how to “do this” well).

When we attended report on Wednesday, one of the nurses on Rehab reported that there was a gentleman who said he was Jesus. Earlier Marion mentioned that we get a few who sometimes say that they are Jesus. It occurred to me as those of us present laughed about it that a patient saying he is Jesus speaks a huge element of truth to me. I learned a while ago that if I can treat people like I want to be treated, or better yet, treat them like they are Christ here in front of me, then I could get along okay in Christian vocation. (Or at least I saw it in many email forwards about Jesus showing up as a beggar or a bum.)

On my way home from seeing a variety of patients on Friday, I again thought about that man who said he was Jesus. I have no idea who this person is, but I have a huge respect for anyone who makes that claim. “Other” sense of reality or not, I sometimes have a really hard time showing the “Christ” part of Christian, and I give kudos to those—mental illness or not—who mention him that boldly. I also thought about the faces of Christ that I saw all day—some wounded, some joyful, some broken, all beautiful, all Christ—they are children of God. Then I also realized that when I stepped out and offered my fear of not being any different from our patients, I also (in a way) made that claim of being Jesus. I deserve to treat myself like a child of God because I am one. In that car ride home, I began to feel presence again. Not mine, but God’s. And it felt good.

Back to the key. I got home, fumbled through my wad of keys, and tried twice before I discovered why the key I selected did not fit. I laughed out loud, surprised by how quickly the routine of unlocking doors at JUH were conflated with my own routines at home (I’ve also turned a key the wrong way to lock my door). But then I paused. On the way home, I had such comfort and assurance of God’s presence, and the feeling of self-love like I love God’s children. I gave myself permission to treat myself like I would want Jesus to be treated. And in that moment when I paused I lived in the gap of my own life—in the past and now in the present. There was a time when my own mother never trusted me with keys, and now her keys are not only clipped to the same carabiner that mine are, they are next to keys that house some of God’s most cherished fragile friends. What an honor and a privilege. In that moment when only a few minutes earlier I had become re-aware of God’s presence, I felt like my feet touched ground again.

I am not a patient. I am not a chaplain. I am part of the present active universe in which God is also present and active.

pomp...

So... to all three of my loyal and devoted fans, I apologize for my lack of blogging.

Turns out taking four really hard courses in your last semester of seminary is a very stupid and time-consuming thing to do.

But here's the hard-to-believe news:

I'm
graduating
tomorrow!!!!

(Big jaw-drop)

Pictures to be posted later.

iConsumerism

So much is going on, including a new addition to my life: MacBook. Behold, it is beautiful, splendid, and completely, 100% addictive. The only thing absolutely depressing (besides Mac's total and complete disregard for mother earth) is iCal. Why? Glad you asked. Because with all iCal's beautiful colors, incredible capabilities to remind you of when your next meeting with Carolyn is or even to set up your next BSU gathering, it shows just how little space is left to
sit.

This year I told myself I'd take Sabbath. This year I told myself I'd treat myself to a day without homework. January wasn't so good for that.
Maybe the new year should start in February. At least, I'm telling myself that it will get better in February.

Lent--that will be a good time for beginning a new year...

In other news, I just found out that one of my photographs has been put in the running for the cover of Logia, the Divinity School's Annual Creative Arts/Writing magazine. That's pretty neat. One of my poems has also been selected for another Duke publication. Strange--artist, poet--names I rarely go by except in my head. Now, where can I go to publish some haiku?

I will close this chapter with this: I'm spending the summer doing CPE at John Umstead, which is a mental hospital. When I went for my interview, the supervisor asked me if I could explain the difference between myself and the patients.
Good question.
I told her, "not much." It was honest.

She hired me that day.

New year, new semester

I see this option:
Computer menu "help" drops
Can't answer my heart.



Well, it's another new year. A great time to assure myself that this last semester of seminary will be different than the others--that I'll read more, complain less, stay on top of my homework, and begin writing before everything is due.
And then I laugh because I know I will accomplish probably as much as I did in '06...

With this in mind, I reflected on the year I had. There were some big happenings...
I took a small course with Tim Tyson, a local author, awesome individual, and brother-in-law to Bishop Ward of Mississippi (I've seen him cry; he's seen me cry--it's big).
I went to Africa.
I changed therapists.
I covenanted to join a small women's support group.
I significantly made my global footprint smaller (except for the whole plane to Africa thing).
I led two student organizations on campus.
I changed back to my old therapist.
I totaled my car.
I lost 25 pounds.
I bought a car (with someone else).
I spend Christmas away from my family.
I lost two really dear people in my life.

The list goes on.
I'm proud of the list. I've lived the list, and I have those memories, and those experiences have affected who I am.
This semester is my last semester. I'm in a spiritual writing class that I have made myself take because I think it will be healthy like eating carrots. Even with a blog, I'm still insecure about writing (mainly because I often feel like my thoughts are too fragmented). Even with experience, I'm still insecure about sharing (yes, i know, blogs "defy" that, but it's different in an 8-person seminar).
Okay, so what am I saying? Nothing, right now, really, except that I'm preparing myself to write a "memoir" that I don't intend to publish nor share with anyone except nine of my colleagues--and I'm already exhausted.
It's brutal, this story telling thing.

And I like to preach!
eek.

I'm giving myself a headache...

Conversations with Carolyn

“So what you’re saying is that you feel strange because you’re praying and going to counseling?”

“Yeah, I feel like there should be more crinoline and discussions with caterers.”

“I like that you’re praying.”

“It’s your job to like that, you’re my spiritual director.”

It's about time! (is that even appropriate to say?)

Happy new year, happy waiting!

An update on the cat: Readers' Digest version

The cat with no name attached to his chip has a home!
Actually, he has three.
He was adopted in Raleigh in 2004. These people were the people with the account attached to his chip when the APS did a small investigation.
These people gave him away last year because they had small children, one of which did not learn how to be nice to the kitty.
So the second owner was a woman in Garner, about 50 minutes from Durham.
She gave away the cat after about a year because she did not think she was a good pet owner.
The last owner was a guy in my neighborhood who has a daughter. He's a busy man, and apparently was quite flippant about his cat being missing for a few days.
So the lady in Garner is coming today around two to give the cat and herself a second chance...
And Magnolia still hates me.

...and they say my life is not interesting...

By the way, the cat's name is Ruffles.
Tough life--three owners and a name like Ruffles.

The lost and found cat

I do not like your kitty speak
I do not like your kitty squeak
I do not like it here nor there
I do not like it anywhere
I do not like your kitty sound,
I do not like it, Mr. Lost and Found...

It's a good thing I'm not Jesus.
I'm no good in the business of lost and found cats.
I have one that I innocently found crying around the neighbor's yard last night. He walked right up to me and purred.
I took him to Linda's (the neighbor)--thought he might be hers.
He's not.

So I kept him in the crate in the laundry room for the night
Where he meowed and meowed and meowed and meowed and meowed and meowed and meowed and meowed and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and MEOWED and meowed and... you get the picture.

This morning I took him to the vet to get scanned for a micro chip.
I would feel bad about putting him in the pound without checking first.
He has one!
Yay! I shall give Mr. Chatty-Cat back to his people!
Called the Home Again services...
No people have registered him.

...Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow....

So, now I have a cat
Back home in a crate again.
Dont worry--it's a big crate.
Magnolia hates me
And I have a meowing cat who needs a home.
Or has a home but needs an address.

Of course, now that I finished this blog, he has fallen asleep.
And it's time for me to leave

This afternoon, I'll call back home again who is doing an investigation of where his chip came from. Then maybe I'll call the Durham Animal Rescue...

He talks in his sleep too.
sigh.

Have you voted yet?

Don't read this until you VOTE! Do it, do it, do it!

My class was reminded today by Dr. Teresa Berger that some women struggled hard and were even imprisoned for other women's rights to vote, and if we have to opportunity to be a voting citizen we (especially the female "we") should seize it.

It's five minutes, and it's way more fun than the dentist. Do it!


And then after you've voted, you should be reminded of how cute my cat is.




I can't help it... really.

Par-tay

So, when you go to a divinity school Halloween party, don't expect the normal monsters...
Expect:
Pope Fabulous and Cardinal Sin!


And also a very tall, very hairy, very white Tina Turner.

I, on the other hand, went as myself in a dress... truly unusual indeed.

Oatmeal, Special Days, and Voting

Yeah, as I'm looking at this blog, I can tell it's mid-terms, and life has gotten a little hectic.
Last week I ended up working most of the week for the Pediatric Palliative Care Conference that the Institute put on, so it wasn't much of a fall "break," but I did get the opportunity to work with an amazing group of people who do amazing things...

A few weeks ago we welcomed William Holden to earth, and even though I've not yet met the kid, I love him something fierce. My next trip to FL is now something very special to look forward to...



This morning I made a pot of pumpkin spice coffee, a bowl of oatmeal, and I ate in the sun room with a little bit of music and Eragon (a book I reccomend to anyone with imagination) to keep me company. It was a luxurious way to start a day in which I celebrate 6 years of clean veins and (sometimes) clear thoughts.

In other news, I picked up my local voter's guide yesterday, and noticed that half of the candidates were supported by Elizabeth Dole, which (instead of freaking me out) made November 7--an already very important day--even more important. Y'all get out there, educate yourselves, and vote! :-)

Things I do instead of papers...

Basketball Campout

Too much beer by some
it's worth the b-ball tickets--
that puke on my leg.

(Photo a la Kara Eidson)

I went to the shrine of my other religion--Cameron Indoor Stadium--where I paid homage 26 times at a check-in line-
Sometimes at 3am, sometimes 7am, sometimes noon.
But my group secured tickets for a season of fanatical blue hair-dying, screaming, chanting, and occasional (very occasional) crying.
Yes, I am a Cameron Crazy again.
I figure I should get it while I can because parish life won't be like that at all--
the blue hair-dying, that is.


The Princess Tent (a.k.a. "Beverage Castle")

The Weekend

(I just finished typing this, and I feel better. That said, I know I'm not perfect, nor is what I say. I'm still posting it, though.)

I think they wanted me to go to the UMC conference on HIV/AIDS because I just got back from South Africa, and I still wear my little beaded AIDS bracelet around my wrist.
So, I went. I was glad for the chance to drive with a favorite professor, glad for a chance to get to hang out with an energetic 4-yr-old, glad to get to know two other travelers a bit better.

We got there. No hitch. Got into the room--no problem. Got to the registration desk...and now it gets a bit tricky. Sheila and I only had one registration between us. We figured we'd swap child care help, so we only really needed one name tag. I asked if they wanted me to register anyway. The woman running the gig, clearly stressed, opened up a verbal can of whoop ass. Negative, I thought to myself. That's okay. I'm still allowed to go to the big group things.

Fast forward. Dinner time. Sheila and I aren't too hungry. We'll share a plate.
Not without a nametag. She wasn't allowed in without a nametag. Not even if we're sharing. Sharing is what we tell our children to do--adults, apparently, don't share.

So, that was the conference. I did get into dinner that night, and even got my own chair and salad because there was too much food for the "over-crowded, standing room only" dining room.

I think the thing that got to me was that people stood up crying the first day, talking about how the practice of hospitality is so important, especially when it comes to HIV ministry. Heck, I was even surprised as some brought up the reconciling movement, and one man even said that hospitality even extends to the LGBT community. Yet here we were, the body of Christ, not even practicing hospitality within the doors of our own conference! I mean, if you want my honest opinion, I'll tell you that I think we are light years away from being able to even grasp the concept of hospitality within the confines of many churches.
But I didn't need a conference to tell me that when there are friendly reminders like paragraph 304.3.

Ah, I digress...

Anyway, I am not sure where I'm going with this except to say that if we cannot practice things among ourselves--love, acceptance, hospitality, sharing--then we shouldn't kid ourselves into thinking that we can do better in different situations.

I know I'm rambling a bit, and I no doubt will hear from a wiser being about how it is harder to show compassion and care among the people we love most, etc.

I have some polity to read and some sandwiches to make before parking lot camping on Friday. I'll stop typing now...

On a Preaching Sunday

Sunday I preached at all three services at St. Matthew's, Hillsborough. It went very well. I realize now that my nervousness about writing the sermon was not because of stage fright--I mean, I was more afraid of not getting the processional choreography right--it was my fear of not conveying the message of the gospel well. (Okay, and it was really, really important to have a good first sermon at a church I love so much.) A nerdy reason for my fear, indeed! But everything went really well, and I think the Divine showed up.

But the feeling of exhileration regarding Sunday was not about my capability to sermonize, affirming as it was. My feeling happened because of the presence of the holy, mysterious love that I encountered at the Eucharist. I don't know exactly what it was, but there was something amazing and colossal about serving each individual--about watching each person's reflection in the chalice as they made their personal encounter with Christ--about seeing how each individual has their own interesting or quirky way of taking communion--and about somehow being a part of all of it. I can only describe it as the same feeling of wonder I felt when I was in the delivery room as my friend gave birth to her son. It was that kind of mysterious to me--that kind of inspiration in my heart. Yesterday I mentioned it to someone whom I look up to very much, and she said that this feeling probably will not happen every time Eucharist does, but my prayer is that I and we as a church can continue to be aware of the holy mystery that is offered weekly (monthly, annually, for some).

I leave you all with my opinion for the night...Whoever says that the Holy Spirit does not exist in institutions like the Episcopal Church has yet to darken its doors.

community?

I think this haiku will change this year. I hope it will. I pray it will.



Community when?
We rarely look at the part
That says "Unity"