Distraction

 

On the Saturday before I left for this European Adventure,

My parents, aunt and I had a delicious meal together.

Afterward, as we were cleaning up, I heard glass shatter.

A Pyrex dish had slipped off the counter, into the sink, and broken into pieces.

Out of reflex, my dad had tried to save the dish, but he got to it just a second too late.

The sharp shards sliced his finger and left him standing there bleeding.

 

He immediately began to apply pressure to the cut.

When he stopped applying pressure, blood gushed from the wound.

It was hard to tell if he needed a stitch, so

I took pictures and sent them to our doctor.

She said, “Oh, that’s not too bad. We can’t do a stitch because of where the cut is located. Just apply pressure and it will eventually stop. But know, finger tips take awhile to stop bleeding.”

 

Just before my dad cut his finger, my aunt had dealt cards for the game that we were getting ready to play.

Realizing that we were not going to be able to play cards with a gushing finger,

We switched gears and played a game that dad could play with no hands.

Two hours of pressure and two games of Word on the Street later,

My dad’s finger finally stopped bleeding.

 

Sometimes, what looks really bad is not as bad as it seems.

 

Sometimes, when we are in distress, we simply need people to sit with us.

 

Sometimes, when someone is hurting, we simply need to distract them.

 

Sometimes, when someone gets tired, we simply need to help.

 

And sometimes, when we think something will never end, we simply need to give it time.

 

I’m happy to report that my dad’s finger is doing just fine.

 

It was just a learning journey to get it there.

 

Dear God: Help us to know when to act, when to sit, when to distract, and when to wait. Amen.

On Death and Dying

I had a rough night last night. Out of nowhere, thoughts of death and dying descended upon my mind and heart and I couldn’t shake them.

It’s not so much that I’m worried about my own death and dying—other than not wanting to die alone and not wanting to leave behind a mess of stuff for unknown loved ones to sort through.

It’s that I worry about the death and dying of those I love. I think about the holes that will be left behind. I fear the silence. I worry about the gut punches that will land every time a memory appears. I think about going through stuff. I think about holidays. I think about traditions. And I am overwhelmed by sadness.

I don’t know when these thoughts began to appear and sit on my chest like bricks. It may have been when I did my unit of chaplaincy and death and dying became so very real to me. It may have been long before.

Regardless, on nights like last night, when the bricks are piled high, I’m thankful that I can look up and see the image of Jesus carrying a man who is exhausted, worn out, and left with nothing to give. I’m thankful to know that Jesus is holding me, letting me cry, hearing my fears, and reminding me to breathe.

Help us all to breathe today, God. Literally and figuratively. And for those taking their final breaths in these days, surround them with your light and love and be peace that passes understanding. Amen.

A Puzzle, A Breath, and A Prayer

The holidays have been hard for quite a few of my friends: Friends missing loved ones who passed this year—some suddenly, some expected; friends struggling through anxiety and depression; friends missing kids (and other family members) to divorce; friends missing kids they are struggling to have; friends stuck in abusive homes; friends dealing with the affects of mental illness; friends who are lonely; friends continuing to grieve the loss of loved ones from years past.

It’s hard to know what to do for persons feeling so much hurt. It’s hard to know how to help. And yet I find myself doing one thing constantly—even when I don’t know how it “works”—I find myself praying.

I made a puzzle a prayer. For the three hours that it took to put it together, I prayed. (And I think maybe my mom did, too, because she knew my intentions for the puzzle.) With every piece that I put in, I prayed. I offered prayers for strength, peace, endurance, light, love, and healing for a friend whose husband recently passed away. I will give her this puzzle when I see her next and every-time she sees it, she can know that someone was and is praying for her as she works her way through grief. I may a puzzle a prayer.

My breath is a prayer, too. So often, when I know nothing else to do, when I’m in the midst of deep sorrow and hurt, I breathe my prayers. According to mindfulness practice, I breathe in the dark, stale air and breathe out light, fresh air. I imagine Jesus filtering out all of the junk and leaving only that which is good. According to Conscious Discipline (CD) practice, I breathe in and then I wish well. CD practice has nothing to do with faith, and yet, one of its main practices is, in my estimation, a prayer—a hope for something more than what is seen—a standing in solidarity—a wishing well. Breath is a prayer, too.

And so is “Dear God…” That’s it. Dear God…and then the thoughts flow…right into the very heart of God…

The holidays have been hard for quite a few of my friends. It’s hard to know what to do for persons feeling so much hurt. It’s hard to know how to help. And yet I’ve found myself doing one thing constantly—I’ve found myself praying.

Dear God…*Breathe in. Breathe out. Wish Well*…May this puzzle give strength, peace, endurance, light, love, and healing…*Breathe in. Breathe out. Wish Well*…Amen.

In The Aftermath of Murder

Maybe I’m a bit OCD, but I don’t like to have notifications lingering on my phone. So on Friday afternoon when I finally had a chance to look at my phone, I immediately opened Facebook to address the 12 notifications that were alerting me. After clearing the notifications, I absentmindedly began scrolling down my page. I liked a few pictures, skimmed past a few advertisements, and then stopped when I got to a post by my friend Sarah. Sarah had posted a tribute to her mother, whom I knew, and I was curious to know what occasion we were celebrating—a retirement, a major birthday, an award, something else? As I read the tribute and felt somewhat encouraged by the impact that an elementary music teacher and active church member and mom had made on the writer’s life, I suddenly found myself stunned into disbelief by the following words: “Mrs. Carol was murdered in her home last night.” For the next fifteen minutes, I sat in my elementary music classroom with my jaw dropped in shock.

……

A few years ago, Sarah’s dad died suddenly from a heart attack. He was on his daily run when he crumpled onto the side walk and died. When I visited the house and funeral home in the days following that loss, the family was deeply saddened and shocked. But this?! Mrs. Carol hadn’t been sick, or didn’t have a major stroke or heart incident, and she hadn’t been in tragic accident—all of those things horrible in and of themselves. She had been murdered. Killed. On purpose. In her home. In the house where I had last seen her. In the house where I had spent countless hours in the early years of my adolescence before my family and I moved two hours away.

……

My friendship with Sarah was actually a bi-product of my friendship with her older sister, Ellen. Ellen and I came to know each other through piano and band competitions, and we later spent a summer together at Summer Ventures in Math and Science and visited with one another a couple of times during college. I played my horn in Ellen’s wedding and visited her home in Charlotte after she had her first child. Over the years, as is too often the case with those we love, we lost touch, yet Ellen often comes to mind. She once wrote me a very silly song that I can still hear her singing: “Dee! I love you, Dee! I really do! I love you. De-ann-a!” When I look at those words and hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.

And Sarah. Well, Sarah, the younger sister who I imagine looked up to the older sister and her friends, once gave me a poem that endeared me to her forever: “To live you must be loved. To be loved you must love. To love you must know the Lord.” That poem hung in my room for years until it made it into a book of quotes that profoundly influenced my life. Sarah and I reconnected at her dad’s visitation. We have been friends on Facebook for the past four years. For whatever reason, her posts are ones that often come up on my newsfeed. I am glad. I like to see how she is changing the world.

I fell asleep thinking about Sarah and Ellen (and their brother Max) on both Friday and Saturday nights. I fell asleep trying to make sense of their mother’s horrific death. I fell asleep praying that unexplainable light surrounded her and somehow calmed her spirit and lifted her pain in the midst of unspeakable evil. I fell asleep knowing that every person who is senselessly murdered has a family left in the aftermath and I fell asleep with my heart breaking for their heartache and grief. I fell asleep angry yet full of love and prayers for peace.

……

When I arrived at the visitation yesterday, I knew that I had nothing to say. What do you say? No amount of pastoral counseling or chaplaincy training prepares you for something like this. So I just hugged Sarah, and I held Ellen’s hand, and I stood in the family’s presence silently sending out light, love, strength, and peace as I watched grief finally settle upon the children after being strong for well over two hours of visitation.

Then I drove away sobbing. The dam that had been holding back the tears since that moment of disbelief on Friday afternoon had finally broken. And then I wrote. Haiku. Because I didn’t know—I don’t know—what else to do.

Two hours is nothing ~ The pain of this tragedy ~ Is overwhelming

I have no words. (Pause) ~ That’s okay. There are no words. ~ You have hugs and tears.

I don’t understand. ~ A life devoted to Love ~ Senselessly murdered

Assault on women. ~ Attack for sport. Turns him on. ~ Where did life go wrong?

Brother and sisters ~ Too soon without a mom. Gone. ~ Weeping arm in arm.

…….

Friends: Please keep Sarah, Ellen, Max and the rest of the family in your thoughts and prayers. Also pray for the neighbor who found Mrs. Carol’s body and everyone who will feel her absence so poignantly. Mrs. Carol was stabbed to death and her car stolen by a man who had broken parole and previously been convicted of assault on women. Pray whatever else you will, too. And then make it your commitment to Love in such a way that broken lives are transformed and healed. If Love is going to win, then we must make it so…We must follow in the footsteps of the One who has already made it so…

Loving Can Hurt

I collect orange fish. My mom collects piano figurines. Finley The Brother-in-Law collects Rubik’s Cubes. Whenever I see a Rubik’s Cube that looks like it belongs in Finley’s collection, I buy it for him. This Christmas added two new cubes to the collection—a pastel cube like I had growing up and a tiny cube deemed the world’s smallest Rubik’s cube. I thoroughly mixed up each cube, then Finley promptly solved the puzzles. I have no idea how he did them, but he did. He said that there is a series of tricks and moves that makes solving the cubes possible. I believe him. I just don’t have the spatial and/or logical intelligence to see them.

I remember attending a workshop on different intelligences during my early years of teaching. That workshop was the first time I’d ever taken an intelligence inventory that listed musical intelligence as a real thing. I silently chuckled as I checked every indicator for musical intelligence and realized, for the first time, that the things that I think are perfectly normal—like harmonizing with the hum of an air conditioner or composing a full rhythmic composition to the sounds of the Wal-mart check out line—are only normal to those of us with a musically geared brain. The rest of the teachers at my table thought me a bit odd.

Other than musical intelligence, my intelligence indicator leaned toward both intra- and inter-personal intelligences. As an intuitive feeler, this makes a lot of sense. I genuinely care about and want to know people. I genuinely want for people what makes them the best versions of themselves. I read about these things. I study them. I stay in counseling. Yet my intelligence and my desires are where I fear that I struggle as much as I excel. Sometimes in my desire to be genuine with people and have them be genuine with me, I often go wrong—cross invisible boundary lines or fail to meet unspoken expectations—and I sometimes invoke equally as deep hatred and love in those around me.

I just got back from having my legs waxed. Some of you will remember that I embarked on my first leg-waxing journey over spring break this year. Since this December has been unseasonably hot, I decided that I’d end the year by returning to the place where my journey started. I wanted to start the new year with clean-shaven legs. Out with the old. In with the new.

As I lay on the waxing table and felt the warm wax applied to my legs, I knew what was coming next. I knew that in a few seconds I would hear and feel a rip and that it would hurt. Yet I still jumped every time the hairy wax came off my legs and I still inwardly winced, “Ouch! That hurts!”

I knew what was coming. I set myself up for it. Yet it still hurt.

I know that loving people is hard. I know that most relationships—however close or distant—will one day end—or at least fade into the background. I know that each time I open up to someone, share a bit of my story, or take a bit of someone’s story into my heart, that we each run the risk of getting hurt. I know that one day I could find myself unfriended and blocked from Facebook. I know that trust can be betrayed and my stupidities used against me. I know that out of nowhere I can receive a message telling me that I am no longer respected, that I ruined someone’s life, or that while I am a great person, I think too much and ask too many questions.
I know what could happen. I stay prepared for it. And yet it still hurts. Every time.

As 2015 comes to a close, I have over 1,100 friends on Facebook. I am surrounded by real-life friends, family members, coworkers, and church members who love me and whom I love in return. I am blessed. I am grateful beyond measure. I truly am. Please hear that. And yet the seven people who have completely blocked me from Facebook over the years are the ones that keep haunting me today.

Joe The Counselor says that this is human nature—to focus on the one 8 on the scorecard of 10’s—and I know that Joe is right. I know that relationships are two-sided. I know that I am not solely responsible for everything that happens between two or more people. I know this. I know it. I know it. And yet having a connection forcefully ripped from my life still hurts and makes me wonder if something is terribly wrong with me. Joe says that this is human nature, too—to wonder if we’re good enough even though we know, in our core, that we, in our fumbling nature, are.

Finley has the spatial and logical intelligence to solve a Rubik’s cube. The steps are clear. The tricks are straightforward. The puzzle can be solved. It is complicated, but it can be done. I don’t have that intelligence. And my inter- and intra-personal intelligences don’t come with tricks and steps that make solving problems easy.

Yet this much is clear:

I know the risks of love. Of wanting the best for people. Of building relationships that very well may fall apart. I know I will do stupid things. I know that things and people may be yanked from my life with little to no preparation while I know that other things and people will stay and fight not to be removed like the stubborn hair that grows on my toes. And so. As 2015 ends and 2016 begins, I will keep on loving. Because it is all I know to do. And it is what I want to do.

As Ed Sheeran says in song Photograph: “Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes. But it’s the only thing I know. When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes. It is the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

Keep loving with me, friends.
For God is love.
And Love really is the only thing that we know.
And it really is the only thing that keeps us alive.
Love is…