Choice? Response? Wrest? Accept?

I give these matters a lot of thought.

Do we choose our lives? Or do we respond to (or reject) the invitations our lives present to us?

Do we wrest and wrangle our life choices from a plethora of options?  Or do we gracefully (or not) accept what comes our way?

Do we make our own way?  Or does something or someone greater than ourselves call us, seek us out, offer our lives to us?

Are there genuine differences among the answers to these questions? 

Intriguingly, these two images popped up on my computer this morning, the first from a breast cancer blog and then second from a Facebook friend's post.  

One or the other?  Both?  It depends?

I'm starting to know what I think, believe, and understand about these questions; what about you?

Serious Illness: What Would You Want to Know?

Due to a series of encounters over the past few years, I've come to realize that my own thirst for knowledge (INTP-related, apparently) is not universally shared.

A few months ago, a local pastor asked me to fill in for him while he was away, and so one day I spent some time with a gentleman who was suffering from metastasized cancer.   He was alert and engaging, discussing the national political situation, his recent travels, and his doctor's suggestion that he consider hospice care.  His own preference was to continue with his chemotherapy.

"What does your doctor say about your prognosis at this point?" I asked him.  "What effect is continued chemo likely to produce?"

"I don't know," said the man.  He paused.  "That's not really a question you want to ask."

I sat quietly, thinking, "That's exactly the question I would ask."

The conversation reminded me of several that I had had with my dying stepmother a few years ago.   When her doctor told her that he was cancelling the remainder of her course of chemotherapy, that it was doing more harm than good, she refused his counsel and insisted on a treatment that afternoon.

My stepmother and father and I had many conversations over the short course of her illness, but never, to my recollection, did we have a candid discussion about her prognosis.  I made some attempts, but was rebuffed at every turn.

At the time, I blamed the doctor.  It seemed to me that at the beginning of their relationship, he had built up, or permitted to be built up, her expectations for survival  ~ despite her appearing in his life with three inoperable lung tumors and ten lesions in her brain ~ and that a few months later, his approach caught up with him:  he  had not provided the information and counseling necessary to support an end-of-course change in direction.

But now . . .  I wonder.  In retrospect, it seems that my stepmother was incapable of hearing the words that would have described the reality of her predicament.  And my father as well.  After she died, my father expressed tremendous resentment toward the doctor for not explaining what her treatment would entail, stating that if they had understood how sick the chemo would make her in exchange for a 1% chance at survival, they would have opted out.  But who knows, in the aftermath, who said what and who heard what?

That sort of conversation is not an immediate concern for me personally.  There is no reason for me to expect anything to come of my bout with breast cancer.

But if it were a concern for me, I'm 99.99% sure of what I would do.  I may not be much interested in plastic surgery, but I am very interested in disease progression and outcome.  I am most especially interested in life and death.

If I had metastasized cancer, you can bet that I would insist upon a lengthy conference with my doctor(s), and that I would emerge with a clear picture of all likely outcomes and what each would involve.  And then I would call hospice to arrange a similar meeting.

And if we were talking weeks, or even months, I would put aside everything else for the things I would like very much not to miss in this life.

And I would, I think, be intrigued by and curious about my final months here.  As someone said in a Christian Century article some years back, "Dying is not a medical process.  Dying is a spiritual process."

(And, you know, one of my children is dead.  There is very little left for me to fear.  Other than physical pain ~ I'm not a fan of that.)

My real concern now is not me, however.  My real concern is other people.  We live in such a death-phobic culture that even deeply religious people (and the man with whom I was meeting was a lifelong church leader) approach their own in a state of resistance and denial.

And I'm not at all sure of how to approach that.  

People often make remarks, in funeral homes and at gravesides, to the effect that "He waged such a valiant battle."  And if someone tells his doctor that he's finished, had enough, is headed for home and hospice, those friends of Job say, "Don't give up."  Over and over again in my hospital  chaplaincy did I witness the latter: adult children insisting that elderly parents in what were clearly the last days of their lives "not give up."

I tend look at these situations in a way diametrically opposed to that which our culture fosters.  To my way of thinking, a person who asks to be told what is likely to happen to her, and then insists upon the beach over the hospital, is one with great fortitude.

But I can't slice of gash of clarity into another person's carefully constructed portrait of himself.  I can't assume that, because my own thirst for knowledge is unquenchable, so is that of everyone else.  I have to realize that careful omissions of information that I would angrily refer to as "lies" are can be sources of comfort for others.

What to do, I wonder?  How to listen?

What would you want to know?

Image here.

Trying to Develop an Interest in Plastic Surgery

Actually, I just can't.  Breast reconstruction is simply not a topic of interest to me.

I have an appointment with my plastic surgeon this morning.  His office called to arrange it; I suppose that it's for the purpose of a final discussion of options.

I just don't much care.

I suppose that if I were doing this for solely cosmetic reasons ~ something that I personally cannot fathom but, you know: whatever floats your boat ~ I would be obsessed with every detail, and would be headed in there with a notebook filled with questions.

But I'm doing it so that I look ok when I'm dressed.  That's my standard: Be able to wear an ordinary t-shirt without causing people to look at me with raised eyebrows or to run screaming from the room.  

There is, quite simply, no surgery that will restore my body.  From what little I've read, each option has its pluses and minuses so ~ whatever: choose one.  In a few years there will be one or another kind of complication, or there won't.  I have no real control over any of it.

And do I care?  Not much.  I suppose that I will care a lot if the silicone leaks and I end up with an autoimmune disorder.  But I have no control over whether the silicone leaks. 

As far as the surgery itself, which takes place in three weeks (if I can get rid of this cold, which keeps coming and going), I feel about the same.  Maybe the pain will be minimal and I will sleep for a few days and then get back to church, all as predicted.  Maybe it will be horrible and I'll have to take unexpected time off.  Again, I have no control over it.  (Same refrain.)

The only positive thing I've been able to do for myself is to look at the website of the local Buddhist meditation center.  Look; that's all.  I may call today and see whether anyone affiliated with it does one-to-one mindfulness meditation instruction.  I think I could stand some help with that "long, loving look at the real."

Basically, I can't believe this.  I have all of Lent to prepare for.  I have my installation service in ten days.  I have about ten people suffering from cancer and its treatment, falls, broken body parts, and various other physical crises.  And I have to think about silicone.

Image: Jean Mannheim, here.

Life as a Pastor

I realized a few days ago that I've written very little about my new life.  Partly, I haven't yet sorted out what I can write about and what I can't.  And partly, and I think that I might be forgiven this, the last few months have been a series of challenges that often snowball into a sense of being completely overwhelmed: call to a church, breast cancer diagnosis, approval for ordination, two lumpectomies, ordination (!) service, mastectomy, several months of enduring varying degrees of pain (no, not "discomfort"),  and of course, overshadowing and often overpowering everything, the terrible loss of Josh.

But yesterday I took some time to reflect upon what I do with my time these days, and realized that while I have my doubts about working, yet again, far from home, I am deeply grateful that a Sunday of mine included:

Leading worship and preaching,

Chairing a nominating committee meeting of folks dedicated to the well-being of their church,

Visiting and getting to know a young man in the hospital,

Visiting a woman in the hospital previous night's shopping trip last night resulted in three breaks in her leg, and

Stopping by to pray with a woman ~ as well as with her daughter and a friend ~ whose cancer has taken an aggressive turn for the worse.

As a bonus, I got to spend a couple of hours Friday with some of my favorite people, as I serve on the advisory board of the program in which I trained as a spiritual director, and then there are the people with whom I am  able to meet again in direction, now that my energy has returned.

And as this week has progressed, there have been more hospital visits and, this afternoon, our first foray into after-school programming.  The three children who are regulars in our church showed up, along with three others, and by the end of the day they were enthusiastically asking whether they might bring friends next week.  After the kids had left and everything had been cleaned up, I sat down for a long and candid conversation with one of the women who'd helped and realized, as we left, that I am beginning to feel at home here.

A few years ago, all this seemed an unattainable fantasy.  Absorbed by my life with God, fascinated by lives in ministry, completely intrigued by the then unknown to me practice of spiritual direction ~ I was filled with longings, but convinced that a complete life transformation for a woman in her fifties with two careers already under her belt and three sets of tuitions demanding payment was out of the question.

Life did not unfold as I hoped, of course, and yet: here I am. Minus a child, minus a breast (and only one of those losses  matters at all, and it matters completely, and neither is a subject for gratitude), and yet:

I am so grateful that my work invites me into the nooks and crannies of people's lives of faith.  I am so grateful that, when it became clear that ministry called, I did not sit around downing margaritas and muttering about how old I was.  I am so grateful that, when matters of discernment loomed large, those spiritual directors in my life never communicated the slightest apprehension about my efforts to move forward.

Last year at about this time, I suffered an enormous disappointment with respect to a ministerial position which I deeply wanted.  I was surprised and hurt by the rejection, and in a state of considerable despair ~ should I just give up? ~ called the Jesuit who has directed my last two eight-day retreats.

I could hear him rolling his eyes over the telephone.  "You're doing just fine," he said.  "What does Jesus say?  'By their fruits shall you know them,' right?  You're teaching, you're doing spiritual direction, people are happy with your work.  Look at the fruits; you're fine."

I'm finally beginning to believe that he might have been right.

Image here.

Writer (That's Me) Needs Help!

Some of you have been following my blogs for a long while, some for less ~ and I think that more than a few of you know something about writing for publication.

I'm ready to start seeking some broader outlets for my written work, and wonder whether any of you have some ideas:  agents, editors, publications?  Can you introduce me to anyone?

Here's what I have going on:

My major project involves transforming what was my Desert Year blog ~ and related posts in my other blogs ~ into a book.  As I blogged away during the first couple of years after Josh's death, my topics were varied and I wrote indiscriminately:  the suicide of a child, the grief of parental loss, the absence of God, pastoral care for bereaved parents, attempts to re-group, seminary and ordination in the wake of unfathomable loss.  

I think that I've finally got some focus and direction, a framework for revision of those many pieces of writing ~ but I would be really happy to find someone interested in publishing it!  Perhaps Lauren Winner has just done it better (!), but we all have our stories to tell.  My current version contains so much of  (1) Ignatian spirituality and (2) persistence in ministry despite catastrophe that I think a small religious publisher, Jesuit or Presbyterian (yes, my life is always one in which unusual combinations materialize), would be a likely destination for my work.  Any ideas?

I'm also starting to formulate some articles/essays/small books/whatever in my head on the interface between various Catholic and Protestant spiritualities.  That interface is where I live ~ an Ignatian-trained spiritual director/Presbyterian minister, a pastor of a federated Methodist-Presbyterian church, a Protestant who makes retreats with Jesuits. I know a little about Benedictine, Carmelite, and Ursuline spirituality and nothing much about the Domincans or Franciscans; I know something about Wesleyan and Reformed spiritualities but a lot more about that of Ignatius.  I'm working on broadening my exposure and knowledge, and I would love opportunities to make it all more accessible to others.

So, you published writers out there: Can you help?

The View from the Basement

I am cleaning out the basement.  I have a plan.  To prevent myself from being overwhelmed by the accumulation of twenty-eight years, I have plotted it out in small sections and I'm trying to make my way through one section a week.  This is the second week,  and so far I have produced about twelve bags of trash, six bags of clothing for the City Mission, and several neatly stacked file boxes.  The Christmas materials are well organized and marked, and the camping equipment is at least in one place.  I think that the full job will take twenty weeks.  And that means twenty weeks of pondering.  As follows:

I found a sentence written by a sixth grade Josh in the context of an assignment to write about his family.  "So far our family life has been twelve years of delight!"

**********

Last night I read this blog post, a powerful homily and meditation on the topic of suffering.  I've been pondering that.  Anyone who knows me would know how deeply this sentence resonates with me:  "I have been so angry with God I would not even talk to him for stretches of time and I derided God for his lack of power and his lack of concern. I have poured out my heart far from the kindest of ways because I wanted to let God know of my supreme frustration and my utter doubt in God's care of me and my loved ones."

**********

I found some photographs Josh took when he was in high school, some that I don't recall at all.  Like me, he was much enamored of the nearby cemetery.  One of his images is of a huge monument with the name "Bond" carved on the side.  He mounted the photo for an exhibit, and underneath it he wrote, "Oh, James . . . ". 

**********

This morning I read this post, and I've been thinking about it a lot, too.  I am always astonished by the fact that there are people who make it to midlife without experiencing much in the way of life's harshness and bleakness.  Of course, they are a very small minority of the world's population, but in the western world there seem to be a lot of them.  I wonder whether I am assuming too much here; perhaps there is more that meets the eye.  And then I remember the good friend, a wonderful mother and gifted artist, who has experienced so much heartache in the past 15 years, and her weary assessment one day as we walked: "Life has been such a terrible disappointment."  And I know that she, like me, would be horrified by the little poem that appears in one of the comments.

**********

There are a few records of family trips in the basement (most of them are in albums upstairs).  We tried to introduce our children to as much of the natural beauty and human culture  and human need of this world as we could.  Canoe trips in Canada.  The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower.  Hikes and overnights in national forests and parks.  The view from the top of St. Peter's Basilica.  Volunteering deep in the city for Habitat.  The Orchestra.  The agencies with which they volunteered as Montessori middle school students.  Old Faithful.  Starfish along the Atlantic Coast.  We tried to show them everything.  We tried to involve them in as much as possible.

**********

I have been wondering, as I've sorted and discarded and saved: Has God been treating me in the same way as I tried to raise my own children?  Has God been trying to show me everything, life at its most joyous and life at its most sorrowful?  

I would have called that good parenting.

Has God been trying to offer me the experiences of both the mountaintop vistas and the sludge at the bottom?

There's a contemplation toward the beginning of Week Two of the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises about that . . .

Hairdresser

"A little shorter?" she asks, and then tells me about some of the challenges of last summer's drive to the Outer Banks with a three-year-old and a newborn.

I chime in with a story about the time we drove all night so that the kids would sleep through most of the trip to Florida, and then had to plunk them in front of the television for the first day because we couldn't stay awake.

"How many kids did you finally have?" she asks.

"Three," I respond gingerly.  

"I'm expecting my third," she says. "Did you have boys or girls?"

"Two boys and a girl."  This conversation is veering dangerously off track.  

"In that order?"

"Yes."

"That's what I wanted!  But I had a boy and then a girl, and I think this one's a boy.  So the order got messed up."

"It doesn't matter at all."

"No, of course not.  As long as they're healthy and they love you."

Indeed.

"Do your kids live around here?"

"Yes," I say.  That's true, for the ones who are alive.

"Have they all graduated from college?"

"Yes."  That's true, too.

She looks excited.  "Do you have grandchildren?"

"No," I respond.  This girl is curious.  I need a new topic.

"Do you have any plans for the week-end?" she asks. 

Thank God I do.