alone

I don't know what it's like:

to be laying there,

alone,

in pain,

and the thing is,

it's your fault.

It is your fault you're there.

This was not an indiscriminate virus.

This was not a freak accident.

But it is also not your fault.

It is the bad luck of genetics.

It is the curse of our dna.

It is the tragedy of life.

That somehow

you are lying there

alone.

And it will either end

Or it will keep going

like this

forever

and ever.

It doesn't matter that it is your fault,

because it is still sad

for you to be alone

and in pain.

It is still sad.

Being angry and assigning blame are ways to avoid the sadness,

but underneath it all,

it is very, very sad.

Love notes

I have been here
for fifteen years.

I used to come, pregnant,
to watch children who are now grown.

I used to bring my baby,
who was dedicated in this church,
to services,
where she would fuss
or crawl on the floor.

I brought that baby to her first day of preschool,
when she was three,
to the preschool renting space from the church,
on a scholarship.

I stood outside the doors and cried,
because that's what some parents do,
when their babies first indicate that one day they will be grown.

My baby fell on the playground,
on the bridge,
and she has a scar on her face,
where it was glued shut,
but we know it's from the playground.

That playground is where we gathered,
where both of my children
met friends,
hunted for Easter eggs,
ate popsicles,
hung upside down,
crossed the monkey bars,
cried when it was time to leave.

I mentored youth,
who babysat my babies.

Now my firstborn is a youth,
who volunteers in the nursery.

They say it takes a village,
and this is my village.

My babies have grown here,
nurtured and supported
by their friends' parents
by their Sunday teachers
by the people who feel comfortable gently correcting them in the halls.

But I have grown here.
From someone who needed more nurturing
to someone who provides nurturing,
with support through my cancer, my degree, the ups and downs,
by my children's friends' parents,
by the pastoral care committee,
by the people who have known me since I was a youth myself, through wider circles,
by those who have seen me as a leader,
which made me become one,
by those who voted for me to help lead this church,
by people who feel comfortable gently confronting me in the halls.

It takes a village to raise a child,
this is my village,
and it has raised me.

Prayers II

I think of coming weary and broken to a God who heals.
But I don't know that God.
I think of the friends who have tried to lead me to their God,
but even though I can see their God,
it is not my God.
(Not that I believe in multiple Gods, just that I recognize that God is not mine -
I think of Laban telling Jacob that Jacob's God had appeared to him,
but Laban had many Gods,
and they are not my Gods either.)
I think of trying to bargain with God,
when I wanted a doll,
and I begged that if God gave me the doll,
I would believe.
I recognize this type of faith now,
when I see bargaining,
someone who wants their mother spared,
someone who wants their child whole,
someone begging a God they don't know for proof that God cares.
But what brings me closer to whatever God is,
is listening to you pray for me.
When I hear each of you pray,
I think about words,
I think about how words don't matter,
because when you are praying,
you are opening your heart,
to me, for me, with me.
When you pray,
I believe in your God.
What has most affirmed my call to ministry,
has not been ministry,
it has been that each of my colleagues
is so beautifully human,
laughs at my jokes,
opens themselves to me,
and makes me feel like I belong among them.
Then I hear you pray,
or I read the prayer you send,
and I know you are meant to be in ministry.
And if I am your peer,
that must also be where I am meant to be.

Prayers

How can I pray for you? she asks us.

And how can we pray for you, I ask.

We ask for prayers for those who are working so hard,

we ask for discernment,

and patience,

and grace,

for ourselves and others.

Someone texts back,

a heartfelt prayer,

may we have what we need,

guidance,

and patience,

and grace.

I did not grow up in their kinds of churches,

ones with prayers and prayer requests,

ones with Bible verses.

I did grow up in their kinds of churches,

with people who cared for me and loved me.

I have not before had a group who asked,

casually,

easily,

sincerely,

how can I pray for you?

And I know that whatever I ask for, they will pray for,

heartfelt and sincere.

We share wine and secrets and gossip,

grief and shame and worry,

and we pray.

Who am I?

I’ve read a lot of articles about how we’re going through a collective period of grief right now. Actually, I haven’t. I’ve read a lot of headlines suggesting we’ve collectively going through grief and giving us all permission to feel grief right now, but I haven’t read the articles. One thing I’ve learned about grief is that it’s all about giving yourself permission. So, I gave myself permission not to read multiple think pieces on how this collective response to a global pandemic is grief.

              It makes sense to need to name what we’re going through – “grief” – because many of us are struggling with who we are in the middle of a global pandemic. I say it aloud a lot, sometimes adding expletives, “global pandemic,” because it is so outrageous a concept. I also have a virtual folder of memes regarding the global pandemic. It’s one way I’m coping with the global pandemic – to name it and to mock it.

              Struggling with who we are is part of the human experience. Years ago, I was in a mass communications class at a community college and the instructor said that all communication from the dawn of time was meant to convey the message: “I am.” He used an example of a handprint on a cave. This is the only thing I remember from that class because it was a message that unified all of humanity – that we want to say to the world that we exist. Philosophers have struggled with this too, but I don’t enjoy philosophy enough to go down the rabbit hole of whether or not we actually exist.

              It makes sense then that if we want to communicate that we are, we need to know who we are. Most of the time, we explain who we are through our roles or relationships. I am my spouse’s partner. I am my child’s parent. I am a student, a lawyer, a nurse, a teacher, a bagger at a grocery store. I am a neighbor, a child, a sibling. Right now, part of our great upheaval is that the roles are shifting. Are we essential? (What a loaded question! No, I am not essential in terms of being out of my house right now.)

Am I now unemployed? Did I go from my primary identity being my career role to my duties as a parent taking over everything else? Am I someone who plans ahead or runs out at the last minute to grab something? Am I social or a homebody? Am I someone who watches a tiger documentary series? Who am I in the middle of a global pandemic? Is that who I’ve always been or am I different now?

All of this is fine. I have a child who is a teenager, so I am very comfortable with the idea that identity is flexible. We contain multitudes. Our identities can flex to encompass who we were before a global pandemic, who we are during a global pandemic, and who we will be when we are not right in the middle of a global pandemic. Maybe what we’re all experiencing isn’t quite grief, or not just grief, maybe what we’re experiencing is also growth.

Growth is often uncomfortable, but what I see right now is not an overabundance of sadness and grief. What I see is an overabundance of beauty and stretching to be the best versions of ourselves – neighbors going out for neighbors, people putting out tables of canned goods for neighbors, famous and not so famous musicians and artists sharing everything they can, individuals sewing masks for those on the frontlines of this global pandemic. I click on every single one of these headlines and read every article. Apparently, in the middle of a global pandemic, I am an optimist.

divinity

When we are all made in the image of God,

if everything we are is holy,

then everything we do is ministry.

When you are bagging groceries,

you are preparing communion for me,

because everything is holy,

you are feeding me.

When you are sharing pictures,

that made you laugh,

chortle, chuckle, guffaw,

you are spreading joy and love in times of darkness.

When you are connecting people,

finding ways for us to be together,

though we are apart,

creating poetry from our complaints,

you are weaving us together.

When you are

holding your child,

making a schedule,

disregarding a schedule,

locking yourself in the bathroom for five sanity-sustaining minutes,

you are part of this story,

you are doing what it takes,

you are holding it together,

or not,

it’s okay if you aren’t,

then you are setting the example for others,

that it is okay if we are fragile,

we are only human,

even when we are divine.

my nest

I want to buy things,

to entertain myself,

to entertain the kids,

to have something else to do,

like a crow,

collecting shiny things,

worthless shiny things,

because my nest is full enough of shiny things.

What I need to be doing

is settling into this nest

that is already cozy enough

with my wings around my babies

that are happy enough

and stop planning for the tree to disappear up from under us.

Even if this is the end of a way of life,

a way of life that I like,

because I am the type of person who takes air mattresses on camping trips,

much to my husband’s chagrin,

even if this is all coming to a close,

something else will be next.

And padding my nest with more shiny things

is unlikely to be what is needed next.

plague poetry 1

I look at my child and follow the lines of her face

I see imposed on her the girl she was

telling me I was the best mom ever

for taking her to the ER at 1 in the morning because she could not breathe

I think of the steroids,

the nebulizer,

the doctors and nurses and child life specialists.

I think of holding my sweet girl in the bathroom with the shower running hoping I could help her

and I buy a humidifier online, just in case.