RevGals: AMAZING!

I just got off the phone after a long conversation with a RevGal who has been in my shoes, more or less.

Breast cancer, surgery plus reconstructive surgery, a congregation, and all the attendant issues that pop up when it's the new pastor who needs care.

I've just been sitting here thinking: Wow.  I have been navigating some incredibly complex territory for the past six months.  And it hasn't even occurred to me that I've done it reasonably well.  As has she.  Maybe more than reasonably.

I feel a whole lot better.   :)

So I went looking for a new window image.  One with two women.  They're almost all of women shopping!  So I found a better one.

Girl Stuff and God Stuff

The title of this post is designed to warn away anyone who might be troubled by explicit breast cancer commentary -- although, in truth, I will not be very explicit.

Last night and this morning, several references have popped up online to Teilhard de Chardin's "Trust in the slow work of God . . ." prayer.  Longtime readers may recall that I used to pray with that one frequently when I was trying to discern whether to leave my settled life behind and go to seminary.  I've often referred to it as "The Grand Canyon Prayer" and, in fact, I typed it on the back of a little card that I made with a photograph of the Grand Canyon that I'd taken from an airplane on the other side.  I found humor in the realization that when I referred to "trusting in the slow work of God," I meant something like "give it three or four minutes," while Teilhard de Chardin, as a paleontologist, was most likely thinking more in terms of the time it took for the Grand Canyon to form. 

Add to the above:  yesterday's reflections on trying to see and understand the priorities of Jesus Christ.

Add to that: the Ignatian concept of "God in all things."

And then . . .  I am six days post surgery and I HATE the results.  I hate the way I look and feel. In reality, no one would know, once I am up and about, but I now loathe my body.  

Last night I explained to some of the women at church the procedures I have undergone and the pain they have caused.   They were curious and sympathetic, but their surprised reaction reminded me that in some ways, the realities of breast cancer are fairly unknown.  We talk to one another and to our families and to our doctors, but in the light of day we put on our clothes and go about our lives.  When I am preaching a sermon or celebrating communion or visiting someone in the hospital, I am not all about breast cancer.  Not on the surface. And I am sure that the same is true of a woman who is teaching a class, or arguing a case, or typing in her cubicle, or driving her kids to soccer practice.

So, I wonder, What am I supposed to do with this?

I have struggled so to give attention to the fact that I've had breast cancer.  Most of my challenges are about the death of my son; it's difficult, in light of that reality, to focus on anything else being wrong in my life.  I've worked hard not to let grief overtake everything else, and I have been greatly blessed by work that I love and the joy of sharing in the spiritual journeys of others.  But I really haven't had it in me to be much focused on breast cancer. That sounds strange, I know, when you think about the time and energy it's stolen.  But the reality is that I am much more engaged with other concerns.

Until now: Here I am.  Very much focused on an outcome that appalls me.  It's the middle of Lent.  I have a congregation filled with people who have major challenges of their own.  I have to preach three sermons this week.

And I have been dragged into an arena of self-obsession by an intractable problem that is going to require months more of attentiveness and no doubt more surgery and  physical discomfort to resolve.  All while I am called to pay attention to other people and other things.

The very slow work of God in all things, indeed.

(I keep posting these images of women looking out windows because I keep hoping that one of them will see something.)

Ignatian Prayer Adventure - Reflection 4

This week over at the Ignatian Prayer Adventure we are invited to reflect upon sin.  And today's reading and prayer draw us into the story of Lazarus and the rich man.

I was immediately reminded of the contemporary version of this narrative which Michelle posted yesterday,  in which she reflects upon her reluctance to engage with the impoverished and homeless of Philadelphia as she makes her way each day toward the lush and accommodating library in which she is spending much pf this semester's sabbatical time.

Michelle ironically entitles her piece "Custody of the Eyes." For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to a practice followed in monastic settings, in which individuals avert their eyes as they pass one another, in order that they not disturb or interrupt one another's contemplative orientation.  In those circumstances, the connotations of the phrase are positive; it implies a stance of humility toward oneself that prevents one from imposing herself upon another.  (It's a practice intuitively followed on silent retreats, in which the customary ways in which we look directly at one another over meals or seek to catch someone's eye while passing in the hallway or out on a walk would be out of place.)

In the contexts of which Jesus then and Michelle now speak, however, custody of the eyes becomes a self-insulating and protective measure rather than a generous and hospitable one.  It creates barriers rather than possibilities; it focuses our attention on discomfort rather than on hope.

I found myself wishing that I had had Michelle's piece before me a couple of years ago when, as a student pastor doing her internship in a mainline urban church, I was asked to lead an adult education class for a couple of weeks on the issue of our response to panhandling.  The video series that formed our platform had been filmed by a Christian ministry organization and was both sympathetic to the plight of the urban homeless and practical in its response to those who might seek to help them.  It did not, however, immerse us in the perspective of Jesus.  I recall clearly my feelings of failure when our class sessions were complete; I had done what was requested of me by my superiors, and acquitted myself well enough to earn the necessary positive assessment of my work -- but I had in no way conveyed the priorities of Christ.

And those priorities call us in all situations ~ not just in the interactions of those of us who live financially  comfortable lives with those who do not, but in our interactions with all kinds with all people.  Lazarus does not necessarily take the shape of a destitute man on the street; his appearance may be quite the opposite.  In either case, do we look the other way, change the conversation?  Or do we see and reach out? 

Lord, so many eyes, including mine, turn from you.  How often have I noted that even the slightest glance your way might have altered the course of a conversation, an interaction, a relationship, a life's pursuit, a life itself?

What others do and say ~ that I can ponder and analyze, but it is not for me to judge them.  As I observe them, my questions should be: what can I learn?  Can I practice and model an alternative?  And for myself, the question becomes:  Do I?

Image: Lazarus ~ Source Unknown.

Daily Photo 33 - Cemetery Stained Glass

 

There are small mausoleums scattered throughout the cemetery where I walk.  Many of them harbor stained glass windows, windows which almost no one sees.  And why is that the case, that almost no one sees them?

For one thing, not that many people spend time at the cemetery.  And those who do tend to be walking or running, or visiting the graves of those they love, or perhaps stopping in to see the Garfield Monument.   They aren't pausing to do more than glance at the smaller buildings.

And the windows are usually on the back side, often covered with protective grating.  Even if someone were inclined to walk around to the back, she wouldn't see much.  You have to walk up to the front door (all of them locked) and peer in, hoping that the sun will illuminate the window from the back. If you and the sun both co-operate, you may be rewarded with a view of a small, hidden treasure.

The Censored Version (Breast Cancer)

So . . .  on Wednesday, I had what I was hoping would be my one and only adventure in reconstructive surgery.  Here's a highly edited version of my response to same:

A total mismatch.

A loooong incision.

I still can't lie down to sleep.

I hate how I look and I hate that I now have to consider additional surgery.

I feel as if I were duped.  I totally bought into the idea that this would be the easiest solution and that I would look fine. I thought that my expectations were at least borderline realistic.   I was not looking to be a cover model for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

What I got were months of painful procedures and an appearance that is not acceptable.

My only goals were to look unremarkable and to put this all behind me, and I could not even accomplish that much.  I am utterly discouraged, and not least of all by the fact that, cancer-free and relatively healthy, I have no business complaining, and yet: I am very, very unhappy.

Ignatian Prayer Adventure - Reflection 3

Back to the examen!

It's been examen week over at the Ignatian Prayer Adventure (see sidebar).  Loads of reflections and articles have been posted; even the most reluctant pray-er should be able to find something of use.

Yesterday I ventured out to a presentation on the examen by one of the Jesuits from the Campus Ministry at John Carroll University.  (No, I couldn't drive one day post-surgery, but I felt pretty good.  I actually feel more discomfort today, probably because I have abandoned the narcotics.)

Anyway.  A fairly large group of us ate lunch and talked at our tables.  We were supposed to be discussing ways in which we might use the tools of the examen with students, and in particular with students who are making major life decisions.  An excellent topic.  But most of the people at my table are administrators who have little contact with students, and so we talked about our own prayer lives.  

Several people in  my group shared their frustration at being unable to maintain regular prayer schedules, or fears that they are "doing it wrong."  So here's what I shared:

I sleep restlessly.  I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the nights I have slept straight through since September 2008.  None at all for the past six months.  And yet, when I pray the examen at night, I tend to doze off.

It finally occurred to me, as part of my renewed examen practice, that when I wake up in the night, I can just pick up where I left off.    So my examen practice goes something like this:

Around midnight: Pray for a recognition of God's presence and light, and pray with gratitude for what there's been in my day that seems to warrant my gratefulness.  Fall asleep.

Around 2:00: Pray through my day,  looking at those places and times in which I have felt drawn toward God, and those in which I have not.  Fall back to sleep.

Around 4:00: Pray for healing where regrets are concerned.  Back to sleep again.

Around 7:00:  Look at that!  It's time to pray for help with the next day and it's time to get up.   What perfect synchronicity!

Now I am sure that many people would like to tell me that I need to get my act together and stay awake and focus for fifteen minutes.  

But one of Ignatius's favorite words was "accommodation."  For a spiritual director, that means to meet people where they are, rather than insisting that they move to where you are.

For myself, it means accommodating my prayer to the realities of my life.  

The results so far are quite wonderful.  When I awaken in the early hours of the morning, I don't have to dial up the anxiety meter and stare at the ceiling for hours on end,  worrying about all the things I have to worry about.  Instead, I pick up the pieces of my prayer and continue to quilt them together.

And would you take a look at what popped up in my reader tonight?

"For anyone else awake in these pre-dawn hours, these words from a seventeenth century Anglican vicar:

 

'Now is the soul nimbler, subtler, quicker, fitter to behold things sublime and great…. Midnight prayers strangely incline God’s favour.' - Anthony Horneck (1641-97)

[Quoted in Evening's Empire: A History of the Night in Early Modern Europe, by Craig Koslofsky; Cambridge University Press, 2011.]"

(HT to Jon M. Sweeney)

Take a Look!

I have a photo on Picturing God today!