Please Use Caution When Opening

Please Use Caution When Opening the Overhead Bin 

            as Things May Have Shifted During Flight

The great blue heron stands in the shallow life-giving waters, 

Where fish move and swim and have their being –

Before sustaining the heron in the form of lunch.

 

When the sun burns long for days uninterrupted

And the shallows begin to dry,

When the fish die off for lack of relief

 

And the pond recedes to stagnant algal blooms

Before cracking in thick sheets formed by the unrelenting heat

The great blue heron rises in flight.

 

 

Please use caution when opening the overhead bins

As things may have shifted during flight.

 

 

I took flight several times and found myself

Always returning to the same pond.

The familiarity of the slime and the stench were inescapable.

 

A silent promise, hanging in the air, that things would change

That people could grow and learn as if by accident,

That one day we simply cease to be whom we’ve always been.

 

I searched for new places to find sustenance

In the form of things that moved in harmony with my Self

Rising from the clear and shallow life-giving waters.

 

 

Please use caution when opening the overhead bins

As things may have shifted during flight.

 

 

“Baby, I love you.  I have big plans for us.  You are a queen.

Drink the cool, clear waters of my love as they wash over you

Unmooring you from your own life.”

 

“He beat me.  He broke my nose.  He took my shoes and my car keys from me.  

I walked ten miles home barefoot at one o’clock in the morning.

He pulled me out of a chair by my hair; he threw me off the bed.”

 

 

Please use caution when opening the overhead bins

As things may have shifted during flight.

 

 

“I’m very disappointed she didn’t walk away the first time.

     I thought she was stronger than that.”

Children learn what they live and grow to live what they’ve learned.

 

What did you teach her about walking away, as you stood at the stove

The next morning, the shadows of his handprints wrapping around your neck,

Unhidden, undiminished by the fragrance of blueberry pancakes cooking on the griddle?

 

What did you teach her every day before and since? Forty-four years

Of standing at that stove, interrupted only when he walked away,

But always, always, always welcoming him back?

 

 

Please use caution when opening the overhead bins

As things may have shifted during flight.

 

 

The great blue heron found new shallows of life-giving waters,

Where fish move and swim and have their being – 

Before sustaining the heron in the form of lunch.

 

The sun warms the air and waters

As its reflection dances across the surface

Shimmering like so much glitter when the wind moves.

 

The rains come to refresh the waters

Filling the banks, feeding the reeds, sustaining life anew.

The great blue heron does not rise to flight.

 

 

Please use caution when opening the overhead bins

As things may have shifted during flight.

 

 

The greatest gift he ever gave me was the courage

And confidence, the self-assurance to leave if I choose.

The second is like it: to be a home I will never want to leave.

An Open Letter to My Church

Dear [Church]:

I am sending this letter to the Church Council, by way of the moderator (hi, [moderator]!), though the contents actually address the whole church.

 

I realized this past Monday that it had been a year since our first (very fateful) 2020 Annual Meeting. Evidently, I was not alone in this remembrance as later in the week I received an email from the Communications account at [Church] with the news that the report for this year’s Annual Meeting was ready to go.  I read it with the usual degree of interest (which is not insignificant) and a great deal of sadness.

 

There was no sadness for the contents of the report – in fact, there was much joy at God’s provision in the past year.  There were also a lot of losses and change in the church, which is mostly how life goes.  In times of loss and pain, I have always turned to the church for a bit of shoring up.  An hour in the pews on a Sunday morning is often sufficient to keep the structural integrity of my faith life intact.  This is a funny thing to me, given how little attention I actively pay to the service, fidgeting as I do with my phone through most of any meeting in order to sit more still, listening to the goings on and shouting answers to rhetorical questions asked in the middle of a sermon because I’ve forgotten I’m in the hallowed sanctuary of church and not at the Pub Quiz of the local beer hall.

 

This past year was quite eventful for me as well.  Some of it was unexpected and joyous – as when I started a new job doing the work I love, a full time hospice chaplain; some of it was joyous and long overdue – such as finishing my ordination process at my Ecclesiastical Council and being deemed “Ordination Ready, Pending Call.”  Between the two (the new job and the readiness), I can be ordained at any time – I haven’t done so yet because it’s important to me that it be in person.  Some of this past year was quite painful as well.  And that is where my sadness bubbled up in reading the Annual Report.

 

[Church] is the only church I have known in my four and a half years of living in Minnesota.  It’s where I married Hot Husband on July 6, 2018.  Some of you were in attendance!  It’s where I had my first art exhibit from October – December that same year.  Many of you attended that as well.  [Church] has been my church since I first tried it out – Mother’s Day, May 8, 2016 – when Hot Husband (then Hot Partner) and I came to the cities to buy our house.  I knew on that day that I had found what would be my home church when we moved up later that summer.

 

I needed [Church] to be my church this past year.  The church imploded on January 26, 2020 and not one person from the current Council reached out to me.  Only one person from the entire church initiated contact.  When I finally met with them for coffee just a week before the pandemic shut everything down, I asked why I had been left in the dark about the issues at Olivet and the plans to bring it all to light at the Annual Meeting.  “It was felt that you’re too close to [Former Pastor],” was the answer.  

When asked by another person why I stayed, I answered honestly, “I made a covenant (sacred commitment to the community) in joining [Church].  Though many have violated their part of the covenant, I haven’t been released from mine.”  I have been treated with open suspicion and mistrust - bordering on hostility - ever since.  I continued to show up to the extent my abilities permitted me because I wanted [Church] to be my church.

 

I left one job and started another – I needed my church to celebrate with me.  I had my Ecclesiastical Council and passed – I needed my community to cheer me on and dance with me.  (To your credit, many of you did attend, but no one offered connection or celebration at any point following).  I had three family members (all of whom have been married for less time than Hot Husband and I) enter a time of estrangement from their own spouses – one of whom is now divorced, two of whom have very young children in the middle – and I needed my church to grieve with me.  When one of those same family members attempted suicide because of a mental health condition that is refractory to care, I needed my church to comfort me.  When another of those same family members became entangled with Child Protective Services because of a long history of substance abuse and mental illness, I needed my church to surround me with love and encourage me to continue making healthy choices and reaffirming my boundaries.

 

I am sure there are ways in which all of these pericopes seem disjointed and unconnected to one another. When Olivet hosted my art exhibit, [Well-known Church Artist] approached me after and said, “I’m so glad you’re no longer suffering.”  It was the first time that I felt seen by [Church Artist] – seen in the kinds of ways that matter and let you know that you aren’t alone in the world and that people can know the parts of your heart that make you incredible and different and that aren’t always available to be seen because they mostly like to burst forth in the middle of celebrations – like a bikini-clad stripper from a giant birthday cake or maybe candy from a piñata or confetti from helium balloons floating above a parade.

 

The important thing about my art exhibit is that it was left unfinished.  By design.  On purpose.  Because as the hobbits sing in their walking song, “The road goes ever on.”  From earliest childhood to 2020, I knew two things: 1) I wanted to be a mother more than anything and 2) I would have to create a radically different life from the one I had been given if I was going to do the first well.  The next part of my exhibit, the next stop on the journey, then next turn in the road of my life was the hope of bearing children.

 

In early 2020, Hot Husband and I learned that our marriage is infertile.  The cause of this infertility is insurmountable– no medical interventions are available to bring the next part of my art exhibit, the next stop on my journey, the next turn in the road of my life to fruition.  I learned this the same day that I learned one of my aforementioned family members was 1) getting divorced and 2) pregnant with her and her now ex-husband’s second child.  This same child was two weeks old when CPS took custody of them and their 1 year old sibling; the same week their mother relapsed and left inpatient drug treatment; the same week my other family member became estranged from their family and attempted suicide; the same week my third family member began the process of separating from their spouse.  The same week I left my previous job and started my current job.  The same week I had my Ecclesiastical Council and was unanimously determined to be Ordination Ready, Pending Call.

 

In the midst of all of this, I received the occasional e-mail from the [Interim Pastor] about what I would need in order to experience healing with the congregation of [Church] following the 2020 Annual Meeting.  When I responded that what I need is accountability, for people to simply be honest with me about their secret planning for the Annual Meeting – I was met with radio silence.  I didn’t hear from the [Interim Pastor] for six weeks – and only then because I initiated to tell him that I didn’t know what to make of his silence since making my needs known.

 

I don’t know, [Church].  There are all sorts of ways this could have gone differently.  All sorts of ways I could have asked you to be my church this last year.  But who could I have asked?  The folks at the table who looked me in the eye and lied to me, insisting that there was no planning for the Annual Meeting, that it was all a big surprise to them as well?  The folks who told me that I was too close to the former pastor to be worthy of consideration?  The folks who expressed pleasure at my decision to remain a part of the church and then treated me with a cold shoulder and inherent distrust when they learned why I have remained?  The new pastor who failed to even acknowledge that I had stated a need – even if it couldn’t be met?

 

Who could I ask to sit with me and drink tea together – if only over Zoom – while I shed tears at the death of a long-held dream?  Who could I ask to reassure me that I am not my family and I can be sad for them and still celebrate my own life?  Who could I ask to help me see that the life I created for long hoped-for children was now a life I would have (GET!) to live for myself?  Who could I ask to mourn and celebrate with me the millions of little griefs and the billions of enormous joys that we encounter in a year?

 

A few of you did send Get Well Soon cards following my bicycle accident(s) and I appreciated the kindness of this gesture.  And the pain of a torn rotator cuff and bruised femur are but a breath when measured against the weight of injury to the soul from infertility.

 

My life didn’t stop being BIG, rich, juicy, beautiful and full of JOY when the change in pastoral leadership occurred.  Terrible things didn’t stop happening in my life and the lives of my loved ones.  Instead, life continued on, just at the road goes ever on.  I just no longer had a church community with me on that journey.  I no longer had wise pastoral counsel.  I no longer had church friends I could turn to for a cup of tea and conversation.

 

My life will keep on being BIG, rich, juicy, beautiful and full of JOY.  Terrible things will continue to happen in my life and in the lives of my loved ones.  Life will continue on, just as the road goes ever on.  I need a church community that is willing to journey with me.  The fact that you choose not to be a community deeply grieves my heart and I feel sad.  I know that church can be SO MUCH MORE.  I know that [Church] can be community.  [Church], you have demonstrated that you do not want to be a part of my community and you do not genuinely want me to be a part of your community.

 

Thus, I formally request that you release me from the covenant I made to [Church] and remove me from your membership rolls.  If you have questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out.  Text first and let me know who you are.  I’m more likely to answer an incoming call if I know who to expect.

Sincerely,

Me