The Promised Land

This is the "Promised Land."  To stand where Moses, or Musa as Muslims call him, stood was an unexpected gift.  On this mission I expected to work hard and hoped I'd maybe be able to travel just a bit.  I had no idea that each week I'd get to see so many things.  Anyway, in the distance of this view, starting from the left, are The Dead Sea, Bethlehem, Jerusalem and Jericho.  While historically it is an absolutely amazing vista, my twenty-first century eye wonders what is so appealing.  It is dry and barren with just a hint of lushness.  But, to Moses and his people it must have been too lush for words.  I guess we each have our own promised land.  

Two days after I started this mission trip my brother Jamie killed himself.  After high school, Jamie left home and never looked back.  He left before Dad died but remained loosely tethered to us.  Jamie lived in Charlottesville when I was in college.  If I appeared at his work he wouldn't shoo me away, but he didn't exactly welcome me with open arms.  When I married, Jamie and I reconnected. When Jack was born, Jamie was around more and more.  Jack's birthdays were always more special because Uncle Jamie was involved. And, when Mom died Jamie was with me at the most basic level.   After this, he started slipping away.  

Mostly Jamie and I talked whenever UVa was playing football or basketball.  We'd listen to the games together and lament the outcome.  Our last conversation was a year ago .  I texted him every other week or so after that for the last year.  He answered me twice.  The day before I left for Jordan I texted him to let him know I'd be gone for a month and that I loved him.  Two days later John called to tell me that Jamie had died.  I did love and do love and will always love Jamie so much more than I am able to describe.  For so long, he couldn't stand me, but we worked it out.  I admit that I was an awful little sister, but he was an awful big brother.  

This gets me to the promised land.  What IS the promised land?  Where is it and who defines it?  For Moses it was different than it is for me.  Jamie's was different than mine and I'm not even really sure what mine is.  But, I believe mine involves here and now.  It involves us living our lives to the fullest and loving our neighbors as ourselves.  This is no easy task.    

Let's face it, the road to the promised land is littered with burdens that can not be easily swept aside.  Jamie was not a traditionally religious person, but he was a moral one. I know that I could not have kept him from making the choice he did.  I hope that he knew that I loved him that much and that I held him where he needed me to.  That's all we can do for anyone.  

My spirit is taking a little trip.  Will it be an odyssey?  I hope so, though I hope not as long as Homer's...

Monday night I leave for Amman, Jordan, where I will be working with veterinary students at the Humane Center for Animal Welfare and the veterinary school north of Amman in Irbid. And, while I desperately NEED to be getting things done here like emailing forms, filing taxes and packing, I can't stop my mind from wandering...

Six years ago, I went on the first of four mission trips to the Dominican Republic. That trip unsettled my spirit and it has yet to recover.  Bible School is not my cup of tea in this country, but I decided to go and try it in another. Guess what?  It still isn't my cup of tea,  but the experience of intentionally focusing on people and being with them where they are changed me.  I came home from that trip wanting to change everything I do.  Thanks to all of you who are with me as I go down one rabbit hole after another.  First, I wanted a Masters in Public Health (maybe I still do...), then I wanted to be an RN and so on.  In there somewhere Mom died and I started going to therapy which is undoubtedly the BEST decision I've ever made (after marrying John, of course).

I had already been on two mission trips by the time I met my therapist.  I know she secretly rolls her eyes when I say I want to sell everything, pack up my family and move to a Costa Rican rain forest to be a missionary.  The problem with that is that I never feel like I know enough about the Bible or church to actually do it.  One day she introduced me to the four-year program called Education for Ministry (EfM).  The first two years are spent studying the Old and New Testaments.  Currently I'm in the third year and studying the history of Christianity.  Last year we talked about the idea of vocation.  I was struck by the realization that, at the moment, I don't feel that my job and vocation are aligned. This is why my spirit has been struggling for so long.  I just want to help people who truly need help.  I don't want a price tag attached. And, because of my deep belief that the human-animal bond is one that should be protected, I do struggle at work sometimes.

Enter CVM (Christian Veterinary Mission).  I know people who have gone on trips with them and loved it and I visited their website after that first mission trip.   The very idea of veterinary mission makes me happy, but the on-paper descriptions of personal belief make me uncomfortable.  If nothing else, EfM has made me somewhat more skeptical about blanket statements and until now I have been unwilling to take a step with them.

The attractiveness of this trip lies in the fact that it's in Jordan, a Muslim country.  Proselytizing is against the law.  I cannot use the words crusade, evangalism or missionary.  Whew!  I don't currently use them, so that's a relief.  I  can go and be a veterinarian and if someone asks me about what I believe, I can share it.  The true gift of being on a mission trip is that you can be 100% focused on the trip and not have to juggle the distractions of everyday life.

I hope to be checking in here while I'm gone.  It'll be an amazing trip.  Thanks for all your support.

Here's a secret.  I. Am. A. Mess.  There I said it.  I've been a mess for most of my life, though it's only just become apparent to me in the past four or five years.  And the most horrible thing is, I keep getting messier.  Maybe it's because I'm approaching 50 years old.  Maybe it's because I'm hormonal.  Maybe it's because I really, truly, want to live the next 50 years of my life not second guessing every movement and thought I make as I have in the previous ones.

The death of both my parents has inextricably shaped me.  First by the unexpected death of my father when he was 51 and I was 15, and then by my mother whose death was long and painful when she was 77 and I was 45.  I've been a part of both sides of the equation and neither of them are good.  I absolutely hate that their deaths twist and turn me into a person who can't be rational at times.  But, that is the way it is.  And, in a way, I feel that that is why I have started feeling so passionately about certain things.  And, probably because I'm a snake in the Chinese horoscope and a Sagittarius in the more traditional horoscope, I have let my very definite ISFJ Meyers-Briggs personality rear its emotional head more often than not. 

Today, started out as a challenge before I ever got out of bed.  I needed to transport five indoor/outdoor cats to the my clinic to board while we are on vacation.  No cat carrier could ever house any of these streetsmart felines.  It's grab and go.  My biggest concern was capturing Squiggy, earstwhile brother of Lenny, who shares his time between our house and an across-the-street neighbor who feeds him very well and wears a very distinctive cologne.  Last weekend I subjected Squiggy to some needed grooming which he did not enjoy, so I was worried that he would be MIA for a while. Luckily, because my husband and dogs can't sleep in on MY day-off, I was up early enough to see him patiently waiting for food that he had already decided to snub.  I appeared calm and pretended that I had his best meal ever before I snagged him and brought him inside so I could corral the other cats. The end of this story is that all five cats miraculously made it to the clinic in one trip.  I am only slightly scarred from the drive and they entertained fellow travelers with their prowling in a moving car.

The next obstacle was making sure that the mounds of records I hadn't signed off on were complete before going on vacation.  In this "pile" are so many emotions that don't translate into a medical record.  Not only have I euthanized several of my most favorite patients recently, there are two who are soon ending their days with us.  Bottom line is I managed to get all of this done in time to get home and head downtown to our local bookstore where a friend was promoting her book.

So, this is where today's mess comes in.  When Kristen announced her book publishing I was ecstatic because she was writing about the history of our hometown where public schools were closed to keep black children from being educated.  It is a a horrific chapter of history.  I have struggled with that legacy for a very long time.  In my mind, she was writing my story.  Only, she didn't.  She does an excellent job of recounting history because she is an accomplished reporter. My story is about the children who had no say in where they went to school who grew up and didn't continue the thinking and bigotry that kept black children from being educated.  My story is about that community grappling in a very real and honest way that few communites today attempt.  My story is about here and now and moving beyond the pain.  And, it is very personal to me.  

Suffice it to say, I am disappointed.  Last night, Kristen and I had a "conversation."  She said that nice people didn't matter and that if one person would have stood up that could have made all the difference.  Yes, it could have.  But, apparently that didn't happen.  Move ahead. I hope I am nice and I am standing up now to defend the goodness of the people who raised me, and it was a village of people.  I am not in anyway defending what happened or dismissing the horrible atrocites of families who were torn apart by this period of time.  I will never do that, but at some point we need to start looking ahead instead of behind.

God, The Past and The Kingdom

I just finished three books - Help, Thanks, Wow by Anne Lamott, Something Must be Done about Prince Edward, by Kristen Green and Searching for Sunday by Rachel Held Evans.  I've read Lamott's book before.  It's a quick read about the only three prayers you need in life...   that speaks to me because Lamott writes what is truly in her heart.  It is her willingness to reveal her vulnerabilites that appeal to me as a human being struggling to just get by every single day.

Last week, I waited for my copy of  Something Must be Done about Prince Edward to arrive. I couldn't wait to read it since I have known the author, Kristen, for forever it seems.  Her mother's bridal shower was the first I ever attended at age six. I babysat Kristen and her brothers. Anyway, her book, which is on everyone's must read list this summer including Oprah's, is about the public schools closing in 1959 to keep black children from going to school.  The white who opposed desegregation opened their own private school with support of many prominent segregationists.  This is the school I attended.

The book centers around Kristen's realization that her beloved grandfather was one of the men involved early on in the fight to prevent desegregation.  Not too long ago, I read a now out-of-print book called They Closed Their Schools by Bob Smith which retells the events of  the schools closing.  In my 7th grade Virginia history class we studied the opening of our school.  While we learned about the sacrifices people made to open the school and the respect the first students had for the campus, we never once learned about the circumstances leading to that opening.  We were also never taught to hate or disrespect anyone. I admit that when I read Smith's book, I was astonished to read the names of so many people I had known and even gone to church with.  I read furiously to see if my own father was mentioned.  He was not, though I'm sure he was involved at some level.

Kristen does a phenomenal job in covering all the different aspects of this history.  A recurring theme she writes about is that local folks wish she'd just leave that part of the past alone.  It's over.  Why do we need to keep talking about it?   Obviously there are people who were alive then who who still have racist feelings.  There are also those who were alive then who don't.  And, it is evident that there is progress toward some sort of healing if  people will allow it.  I personally had nothing to do with the school's closing.  I am sorry that they closed and I am sorry that slavery existed in the south and indeed still exists around the world today.

I am also so sorry and sad that Christinity has been marginalized by some to keep people out instead of inviting people in.  This leads me to my last book Searching for Sunday.  In a lot of ways, Rachel and Kristen share the same story.  They struggle with their past,  their roots.  Rachel left her conservative evangelistic upbringing in search of a Christian community that is accepting of more open ideas about God and the church.  She and her husband eventually land in an Episcopalian church and it is through this church Rachel tells her story.  She does not overlook the negative aspects of the church, but she comes to a conclusion that I think Kristen missed.  She writes, "I can no more break up with my religious heritage than I can with my parents....  Like it not, I've got skin in the game."

I knew Kristen's grandparents and loved them as my own.  Much of  Kristen's story surrounds her grandmother, fondly called Mimi, and Mimi's housekeeper Elsie.   I used to venture through the tiny woods that separated our houses to play and just hang out before Mimi had her own grandchildren.  I refer to her Mimi because she offered it when my cousin Jay wouldn't share our own grandmother.  Though I called her Emma Lee, she was forever Mimi in my heart, especially the morning she ventured through the woods and hugged me long and hard after my dad died.

My point is this.  Our past is our past.  What we do with it is our charge.  I went to a segregationist school.  I was never taught to do anything but respect others by my parents, by my school and by my church.  I, like Rachel, have ended up in an Episcopal church.  Sure I notice differences in people, but more than that I look for commonalities.  Jesus did not start the church, his disciples did and that's where things got sketchy.  People disagree and get mad and stop talking and it's happened from the beginning of time.   But, the neat thing about Jesus, believe in him or not, is that he said the kingdom isn't a destination, it's here and now.  So, even though so many hurtful things have happend in the past, we can choose to learn the lessons we were actually taught to us by our elders - treat everyone with respect.

I consider myself a pretty positive person, but I have realized that I really am not when it comes to my own life.  I can be a cheerleader for anyone in any situation, but not for me.  Self-doubt and feelings of unworthiness drag me down in most situations.  This is not a new thing, mind you.  I realize that this goes way back as long as I can remember.

I am always looking for ways to be better.  I look at others, actually, judge others who struggle in a way that is obviously detrimental to them and those around them and easily "tsk" at them because of their poor choices.  In fact, I am exactly the same, looking for something outside of me that will make the inside of me feel happy, peaceful, fulfilled, worthy...  My choices are not as public or as easily shamed, but they are poor choices nonetheless.

I have been obsessed the past few days with an idea, a test really.  My cousin has cancer.  It's bad and she won't live.  None of us will live forever.  Anyway.  She knows that the end is near and our family will be gathering with her for a celebration of her life in a couple months.  I really want to ask her to find my parents and send me a sign of some sort that they are ok, that "it" is real.  See, I have faith that there is something good out there beyond where we are now.  But I don't know.  And, any hint I can get will make me feel better.  One of my favorite writers is Anne Lamott.  She quoted one of her teachers as saying, and I paraphrase, "the opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty."  That makes me feel somewhat better.  I have so many questions that there are no answers for.  Worrying about those keeps me from living today.

An example.  I have taken this week off from work.  Lots of people know about it, but the two people who are closest to me do not.  AND, a snow storm is predicted for tomorrow.  So, instead of going to a retreat I had planned for today, I stayed home and fretted all day about how horrible tomorow and Friday will probably be because I don't get to stay home by myself again.  See?  Instead of being excited about a snow storm which is what I do absolutely love, I have wasted a whole day being negative, not enjoying the quiet of my house that is semi-clean.

Where is God in all of this?  I think he (and I hate calling God he, but I'm not farther along than that) is laughing at me.  Really?  Generally, I do not believe that God is involved in the day to day activities of all of us, unless...  Unless what?  See?  There are no answers...

Beginning, again

Three years ago  I started a blog called "Letters to Betty."  I wrote to help process Mom's death.  And, it helped, it really did.  I'm mostly okay these days.  I still miss her terribly, but her loss doesn't stop me in my tracks like it once did.  One of the things I do miss about Mom is her beautiful spirit.  She was goodness and grace and I'm sure everyone who encountered her felt it.  She believed deeply in God and lived her life in a way that I hope has brought her rewards.  I say "I hope" not "I know" because I don't.  I want to know, but the only way to know is to die, so...  therein lies the rub...

I shy away from proclaiming the fact that I'm a Christian.  It makes me uncomfortable.  I also don't proclaim that I am a Sagittarius or right-handed or love The Portland Cello Orchestra and deviled eggs.  If you know me, you  know these things.  And if you ask me anything about me, I'll answer you if I can. The thing is, I don't have the words to accurately describe the totality of me.   Nor do I have the words to describe God.  I also feel like I am a Taoist, a Buddhist, a Jew.  I don't know enough about Islam to say I'm a Muslim, but I have an idea I could feel like a Muslim, too.  I was brought up in a Christian home, but I have studied other religions and see more similarities than differences.  If God is so big that no one can know God fully, who am I to say what he/she/? is.  What I do know is that Jesus was an excellent example of how I should live and love.

I also shy away from chitchatting with people I don't know.  It makes me very uncomfortable.  My husband and child do not, thank goodness.  Saturday, we met a woman at a metro stop.  I tried to not to chat, but John, being John, engaged her.  Once the train finally arrived, the woman and I sat together.  We started talking about children which is always easy and I learned so much about her. I felt a real connection to her.  She came from Macedonia and lived in Maine which she loved and moved to the area for a job.  She talked about how people in the area are unwilling to interact with each other and how she longed for the warmness of her previous homes.   I am so glad I stepped out of my safe place because I made a friend.  Isn't that what we're supposed to do?

Our destination was the Holocaust Memorial Museum.  We'd never been and for some reason I felt it was absolutely necessary to go.  Was God calling me to go?  Yes.  Maybe.  No.  Pick one according to your belief.  I have no words to describe the experience.  What would I have done if I lived there and then?  I can only hope I would have been brave enough to do what I could.  We are called to act not watch.

Sunday I had to be at the 8am service to serve.  As I was rushing in, I noticed people other than regular parishioners on the sidewalk.  It seemed like two people were assisting a man in a wheel chair and then suddenly they crossed the street.  As I crossed over to enter church, the man in the wheelchair called to me.  Jack was with me and I immediately turned to my natural defense of not interacting.  At 8am on Boscawen Street there is no place to hide, so I let this man talk to me about his stomach virus and how the prescription he needed cost $140, but all he wanted to buy was Alka Seltzer for $11.40.  I truly didn't know what to do because I had cash in my purse which is a rarity. Society has conditioned me to think that this man and the two others across the street were working together.  That they were looking for rich church goers from whom to panhandle so they could go buy something that probably put them on the street to begin with.  I know there are those who take advantage of systems in place, but I am not in a position to judge.  I opened my purse and handed the man $20 because I had it.

The take home message from the morning's sermon was that we are called to use actions, not words.  Was God orchestrating what happened this weekend? or was I just being aware and making those connections myself?  There are those who would say God had everything to do with it and those who would say it was just coincidence and awareness.  I would say I don't know.  Maybe God is coincidence and awareness.  I do know that believing that Jesus was real and showed us how to live our lives in a different way makes sense to me.

So, if you ask me if I'm a Christian, I'll say yes.  I was baptized when I was in the second grade.  Am I saved?  No, and here's why.  The word "saved" implies that the work is done.  That the moment I was dunked in that baptismal pool, my future actions don't matter.  Another issue with that word is that I see it used as a way of judging others.  It seems to me that people who proclaim to be saved are too worried that you might not be and that Christianity is the only route to being saved.  I just don't know and I'm not afraid to say it.

After church, Jack and I had lunch together.  I told him I wasn't sure if I should have given that man money or not.  He didn't know either.  See, the day before, someone in DC had asked for money for the homeless shelter and I had lied and said I didn't have any.  It felt more comfortable to lie there - we were in the big city, at a metro station and we were obviously tourists.  As soon as we passed, I apologized to John and Jack for lying.  Maybe that's why I gave the next man the money.  Maybe it was because the message of the Holocuast Museum will stay with me forever.  Maybe I'm just trying to live life as best as I can and I don't always get it right.  But, I'm trying and that's a start.  This is the Odyssey of my Spirit.