RevGalBlogPals Friday Five: What are you doing for Lent?
1. Did you celebrate Mardi Gras and/or Ash Wednesday this week? How?
I led the all-parish Ash Wednesday service at the largest church in my parish for the first time. It was the same yet different from how I celebrated it for the last seven years in my previous church - fewer people, less music, but the same ashes, the same words of confession, the same steps into Lent. It was good.
2. What was your most memorable Mardi Gras/Ash Wednesday/Lent?
The year I had a miscarriage on Ash Wednesday. Lent truly became a journey for us, stumbling through the wilderness, hoping for the day we would emerge from death into Easter.
3. Did you/your church/your family celebrate Lent as a child? If not, when and how did you discover it?
I remember going to Lenten services as a child, it was just an expected part of what we did as a family, as natural as brushing your teeth every morning. I enjoyed the soup suppers, and remember thinking there was something almost more holy and deep about being at church services in the evening, in the dark. They made an impression on me. I also liked that it meant that we got to be together as a family, and I could sit by my mom and look at her rings.
4. Are you more in the give-up camp, or the take-on camp, or somewhere in between?
When I was young, I was in the give-up camp, mostly because many of my friends were Catholic. It was really more like a game to us, something to challenge each other about, and compare notes on, and see who could hold out the longest without giving in. Now, I think I'm somewhere in between. Balance seems healthier, than going to the extreme in either.
5. How do you plan to keep Lent this year?
Daily Lenten devotions, giving up my chocolate indulgences (that one hurts!), grocery shopping and eating more mindfully overall to what is healthy and balanced and good for our bodies and the environment, getting through my reading list. Staying sane as I lead my congregations throug the season!
Friday, February 08, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Memories
WARNING - This post contains some of my memories of a very traumatic and personal day in my life. I have chosen to do this as a way for me to remember and shed light on a dark day that my husband and I comemorate in our own way every year. It is an experience I am sure we share with many others. But it is not pleasant.
At about 3:30 am on Ash Wednesday morning of 2001, I woke up in our bed and discovered two heart-rending facts at once. I was pregnant, and I was having a miscarriage.
Waking up in a pool of blood on a cold February morning, my cries of fear waking up my husband.
Crying in the bathroom as my insides twist and blood clots work their way out.
The quiet unbelieving ride to the hospital, mercifully short.
Trying to explain to the hospital staff at the door what we need when we don't really understand what is happening and don't know what to do.
Trying to explain extremely personal symptoms and an emotional series of events in a detached way over and over again to the parade of complete strangers coming into the room who all want to examine me, which makes it hurt even worse.
Listening to people talk about me when I am right there in the room, but not helping me as I continued to bleed and twist in pain.
Holding my husband's hand so tight, trying not to cry, trying to listen and stay calm.
Not knowing what to say when the doctor finally comes and is incredulous and patronizing that I hadn't figured out earlier in the night that I was having a miscarriage.
Growing weaker and weaker from loss of blood, from waves of pain that just won't stop.
Being taken to the ultrasound to see inside. Weeping to see what is left of the brief life of my baby, as the technician, who is angry about having to come in early, looks very uncomfortable and hustles us out of the room.
Agreeing with the doctor that surgery is the best option at this point, agreeing with anything that will make it all go away.
Crying and talking with my husband.
Calling my parents to tell them, not knowing how to tell them, wishing so badly my mother was here to hold me.
Crying and talking with my husband.
Being wheeled into a room to wait for surgery. Afraid and alone. Unable to pray. Unable to move. Unable to stand the truth of what is happening. My mind and heart are so choked I find I cannot speak a word or think clearly.
Henrietta, a hospital volunteer and member of my congregation comes in. She comes to my side and looks at me with eyes filled with compassion. She takes my hand, and asks if I would like her to pray with me. I nod yes. She prays in that dark room, and gives my heart its words, gives my empty dry mouth its prayer. She is my angel, my gift of the Holy Spirit, my promise of life in the valley of the shadow of death. She apologizes for the poorness of her prayer, concerned that her laywoman's prayer is a poor offering for her pastor. I try to reassure her that she has spoken with God's own voice, but words have left me. I can only smile and cry as she pats my hand.
They wheel me into the cold surgery room. I am so afraid. Tears run out of my eyes and past my ears as they give me the anesthetic. The surgery team says little as they prepare, so the main sound I hear is my voice, which has come back as a whisper. I can hear my dry cracked voice whispering "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..." Then there is only sleep.
Recovery was a long slow process. Physical recovery for me. Emotional and spiritual for both my husband and me. My congregation members were gentle with us, and loved us well. My mother-in-law, who had had a miscarriage before she had my husband, was so helpful. She came and took care of us and showed us a depth of sensitivity and gentleness and caring that we had never seen before. My parents, my brothers, and friends were supportive and saddened and bewildered by our experience. We felt loved, yet battered and fragile for a long while.
Miscarriage affects people in different ways. For some, it's sad, but just a bump in the road. We found it quite traumatizing I think because we had been trying for so long to get pregnant, and because I ended up losing a lot more blood than usual and had to be hospitalized. When I did get pregnant again, it was a fearful time, especially for the first three months, while the spectre of miscarriage loomed over our shoulders.
Seven years later, my husband brings me flowers and chocolate on Ash Wednesday, and gives me a big hug, a kiss, and a deep look. I cry a little when I'm alone as I look at the flowers and offer up a prayer of thanks for my beautiful daughter who is 4. Some day we may tell her about her big sister Grace who almost was.
I am grateful for so much. At the time, I wondered if I would ever know joy again. I have known so much joy and so much sorrow in the seven years since that day. Each year as I remember, something new has been added to the wisdom and experience I bring to this time of remembrance and meditation. It's a complicated mix, life is. Nonetheless, I am grateful.
At about 3:30 am on Ash Wednesday morning of 2001, I woke up in our bed and discovered two heart-rending facts at once. I was pregnant, and I was having a miscarriage.
Waking up in a pool of blood on a cold February morning, my cries of fear waking up my husband.
Crying in the bathroom as my insides twist and blood clots work their way out.
The quiet unbelieving ride to the hospital, mercifully short.
Trying to explain to the hospital staff at the door what we need when we don't really understand what is happening and don't know what to do.
Trying to explain extremely personal symptoms and an emotional series of events in a detached way over and over again to the parade of complete strangers coming into the room who all want to examine me, which makes it hurt even worse.
Listening to people talk about me when I am right there in the room, but not helping me as I continued to bleed and twist in pain.
Holding my husband's hand so tight, trying not to cry, trying to listen and stay calm.
Not knowing what to say when the doctor finally comes and is incredulous and patronizing that I hadn't figured out earlier in the night that I was having a miscarriage.
Growing weaker and weaker from loss of blood, from waves of pain that just won't stop.
Being taken to the ultrasound to see inside. Weeping to see what is left of the brief life of my baby, as the technician, who is angry about having to come in early, looks very uncomfortable and hustles us out of the room.
Agreeing with the doctor that surgery is the best option at this point, agreeing with anything that will make it all go away.
Crying and talking with my husband.
Calling my parents to tell them, not knowing how to tell them, wishing so badly my mother was here to hold me.
Crying and talking with my husband.
Being wheeled into a room to wait for surgery. Afraid and alone. Unable to pray. Unable to move. Unable to stand the truth of what is happening. My mind and heart are so choked I find I cannot speak a word or think clearly.
Henrietta, a hospital volunteer and member of my congregation comes in. She comes to my side and looks at me with eyes filled with compassion. She takes my hand, and asks if I would like her to pray with me. I nod yes. She prays in that dark room, and gives my heart its words, gives my empty dry mouth its prayer. She is my angel, my gift of the Holy Spirit, my promise of life in the valley of the shadow of death. She apologizes for the poorness of her prayer, concerned that her laywoman's prayer is a poor offering for her pastor. I try to reassure her that she has spoken with God's own voice, but words have left me. I can only smile and cry as she pats my hand.
They wheel me into the cold surgery room. I am so afraid. Tears run out of my eyes and past my ears as they give me the anesthetic. The surgery team says little as they prepare, so the main sound I hear is my voice, which has come back as a whisper. I can hear my dry cracked voice whispering "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..." Then there is only sleep.
Recovery was a long slow process. Physical recovery for me. Emotional and spiritual for both my husband and me. My congregation members were gentle with us, and loved us well. My mother-in-law, who had had a miscarriage before she had my husband, was so helpful. She came and took care of us and showed us a depth of sensitivity and gentleness and caring that we had never seen before. My parents, my brothers, and friends were supportive and saddened and bewildered by our experience. We felt loved, yet battered and fragile for a long while.
Miscarriage affects people in different ways. For some, it's sad, but just a bump in the road. We found it quite traumatizing I think because we had been trying for so long to get pregnant, and because I ended up losing a lot more blood than usual and had to be hospitalized. When I did get pregnant again, it was a fearful time, especially for the first three months, while the spectre of miscarriage loomed over our shoulders.
Seven years later, my husband brings me flowers and chocolate on Ash Wednesday, and gives me a big hug, a kiss, and a deep look. I cry a little when I'm alone as I look at the flowers and offer up a prayer of thanks for my beautiful daughter who is 4. Some day we may tell her about her big sister Grace who almost was.
I am grateful for so much. At the time, I wondered if I would ever know joy again. I have known so much joy and so much sorrow in the seven years since that day. Each year as I remember, something new has been added to the wisdom and experience I bring to this time of remembrance and meditation. It's a complicated mix, life is. Nonetheless, I am grateful.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Icy Flow
This picture was taken by Ed Johnson, along Sunday Gulch in Custer State Park area, in the Black Hills of South Dakota.
He calls this "Icy Flow"
He calls this "Icy Flow"It reminds me of the time I spent in the late winter on the creek near our home when I was growing up. As a solitary child who spent much of my time alone, I loved to wander around the woods and in the creek in all seasons, but the creek had a special magic at this time of year. The ice took on amazing shapes; bulbous and flowing, curvascious and bubbly. It (actually, I thought of it as she) engulfed trees, rocks, enbankments, and anything else that stood in its way. This humble creek, really just more of a trickle normally, became a grand place, one that dominated its landscape. For me it was alternatively a skating rink, grand ballrooms, and mystical fantasy lands where all the creatures of my dreams lived. I spent hours twirling and dancing and racing around on its slickness, tracing its patterns, and admiring its beauty. It was one of those special places, hidden in the heart of a little girl, etching its loveliness and naturalness in such a way, that a picture of icy flow sent by a friend some 30 years later can bring tears and remembrance and gratitude.
Thank you God, for icy flow, for winter afternoons playing outdoors, and for warm families to come home to. Thank you for my own little girl who loves the snow, who laughs and twirls on ice, and calls for me "Come on, Mommy!" to join her in the sheer joy of it.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
On the verge of Lent
Wow. I am really behind in blogging. Funerals and your back going out will do that to a person!
I'm in the midst of Ash Wednesday preparations. I look forward Lent, and yet I don't. It's such a good spiritually deep time, where you can truly get serious about important life and death things. And that is precisely why in some ways I don't want to go there. It's easier NOT to go deep, it's simpler to stick to the candy-coated version of life, the Disney version of spirituality. Lent means hard work, it means effort, it means it will probably hurt at times, and it will mean undoubtably that I will change. Which sucks. And which is also awesome. All at the same time.
Tomorrow night I will put ashes on the foreheads of my parishioners. This is such a meaningful act for me. Some of these saints I smear with ashes now, I will bury before my tenure at the parish is over. The hardest yet sweetest is putting it on the children. Because it's hard to think of them as tied to death too. But they are. Yet because of Christ, they are tied to life, as surely as the elderly woman who struggles to get down the aisle with her walker. It's such a tough and deep and strong and bracing step into Lent, this Ash Wednesday business.
Tonight I will mix the ashes with the olive oil in preparation. I know that Lil' Princess will ask me what I am doing and why. She will want to understand. And she will have even more questions after tomorrow night. I know I'm going to have some of those parental moments when you just hope and pray you are able to open up an idea and the world in a way that helps your little one grow and learn. God give me the words and the understanding to help her, help myself, help the people of my parish, understand what this all means.
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
I'm in the midst of Ash Wednesday preparations. I look forward Lent, and yet I don't. It's such a good spiritually deep time, where you can truly get serious about important life and death things. And that is precisely why in some ways I don't want to go there. It's easier NOT to go deep, it's simpler to stick to the candy-coated version of life, the Disney version of spirituality. Lent means hard work, it means effort, it means it will probably hurt at times, and it will mean undoubtably that I will change. Which sucks. And which is also awesome. All at the same time.
Tomorrow night I will put ashes on the foreheads of my parishioners. This is such a meaningful act for me. Some of these saints I smear with ashes now, I will bury before my tenure at the parish is over. The hardest yet sweetest is putting it on the children. Because it's hard to think of them as tied to death too. But they are. Yet because of Christ, they are tied to life, as surely as the elderly woman who struggles to get down the aisle with her walker. It's such a tough and deep and strong and bracing step into Lent, this Ash Wednesday business.
Tonight I will mix the ashes with the olive oil in preparation. I know that Lil' Princess will ask me what I am doing and why. She will want to understand. And she will have even more questions after tomorrow night. I know I'm going to have some of those parental moments when you just hope and pray you are able to open up an idea and the world in a way that helps your little one grow and learn. God give me the words and the understanding to help her, help myself, help the people of my parish, understand what this all means.
"Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
Monday, January 14, 2008
Yikes!
Lent. It's hard to focus on Epiphany and really get into the spirit of "the light shining" when breathing down our necks is...Lent. So close.
Need
to
get
Lenten
planning
done!
Must
get
organized!
Must
NOT
freak
out!
Aah, yes, Lent. I recognize it by the smell of pastorly anxiety and anticipation in the air.
Need
to
get
Lenten
planning
done!
Must
get
organized!
Must
NOT
freak
out!
Aah, yes, Lent. I recognize it by the smell of pastorly anxiety and anticipation in the air.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Christmas From the Eyes of the Children
At the largest of the three churches in the parish, the Christmas Sunday school program was on Dec. 23rd during worship. The little lady in blue on the right is Lil' Princess, playing Mary. The youngest girl and the youngest boy get to be Mary and Joseph, and did she ever take her job seriously! In case you were wondering, the white blobs in front of the manger are sheep. Poor things were pretty abused by the end, the older boys enjoyed using them as projectiles and pummeling objects.
The boy on the far right is a bit of a cut-up, and decided to wring all the dramatic potential out of being one of the wise men. When they brought their gifts to the manger, he did a full face-on-the-floor bow, and paid some serious homage to the Christ child. It made me giggle!
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Montana Adventures Come to an End...For Now!
We're safely home after a lovely visit with the relatives. This was one of those warm fuzzy times of life, and I look forward to whenever we get to repeat the experience. That said, it will feel so good to sleep in our own bed tonight!!!
We got home around 5 pm. Unloaded. Cooked supper. Wrote some dates in my new 2008 calendar (yikes!). Gave Lil' Princess a bath, snack, bedtime stories and a big kiss.
And then it was right back into the parish to-do list. Sigh. The most pressing thing at this moment (and the reason I'm blogging and procrastinating) is my Annual Report. Due ASAP. So I guess I should just stop dithering and get it done. Then maybe I can clear my mind and start getting some thoughts for Sunday's sermon.
"We three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts we traverse afar..." The Gospel of Matthew is so very Jewish-orientated, it's interesting that this is the one that tells us the story of these three Gentiles from far away who show up, make trouble with their questions to Herod, and then skedaddle out the back way after delivering some unique baby shower gifts. Huh?!? We'll see what rabbit hole this one leads me down.
We got home around 5 pm. Unloaded. Cooked supper. Wrote some dates in my new 2008 calendar (yikes!). Gave Lil' Princess a bath, snack, bedtime stories and a big kiss.
And then it was right back into the parish to-do list. Sigh. The most pressing thing at this moment (and the reason I'm blogging and procrastinating) is my Annual Report. Due ASAP. So I guess I should just stop dithering and get it done. Then maybe I can clear my mind and start getting some thoughts for Sunday's sermon.
"We three kings of Orient are, bearing gifts we traverse afar..." The Gospel of Matthew is so very Jewish-orientated, it's interesting that this is the one that tells us the story of these three Gentiles from far away who show up, make trouble with their questions to Herod, and then skedaddle out the back way after delivering some unique baby shower gifts. Huh?!? We'll see what rabbit hole this one leads me down.
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