Monday, January 19, 2004

God in Our Losing


Yesterday on my rounds at the hospital I talked with half a dozen patients about the upcoming Colts game. The whole city was excited--even a nun at the hospital held a pep rally in the entrance last Friday before she headed east for the AFC championship. Patients who were struggling with various kinds of cancers, who waver understandably between fear and faith, all seemed single-minded in their belief about the Colts' victory: Our team would win. They were going to the Superbowl.

As I watched the game unfold yesterday and saw the Colts being dominated by the Patriots, I experienced a sinking feeling. So many people had hopes for that game. People were praying, desiring, looking forward with anticipatory hope. What now, as we see our team playing poorly? Where is God in our losing? Didn't he hear our prayers? Didn't he care to answer them?

It struck me that that's a theological question, one we wrestle with throughout our lives in big and small ways. When we feel blessed and strong, it's easy to feel that God is with us. But what about the times when our health fails, the car breaks, we experience a personal or professional failure, or our hopes are dashed? What about when things happen in our communities, in our nation, that bring people pain instead of peace? Where is God then?

I know the answer lies somewhere in the knowing that God is with us always--no matter what outcomes present themselves. But it struck me yesterday, feeling my own disappointment and worrying about the patients I care so much about, that I need to spend some time with that question--for others, and for myself.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

The Difference


Thank you to all of you who sent words of encouragement in response to my last post! I appreciate being able to struggle out loud here--and your loving words lifted me up and comforted me.

This week I have begun my new work and it feels good. God's grace is sufficient for me. I know that I have much to learn and that the coming months will take me time and time again outside the world I'm most familiar with--a world of sunlight and dogs and children and the sound of Mario games playing in the background. It's also taking me beyond a world of words--the world in which I've made my living for 20 years--and putting me, face-to-face and heart-to-heart, in touch with people. The second half of my career is moving me out from behind the computer screen and giving me the gift of presence. I know myself well enough to know it's something I yearn for and also something that will stretch me more than I can imagine right now. It's a big step. It's a big risk. And it requires a big belief: If God leads us to it, He'll lead us through it.

The most important thing I learned last week came in an AHA! moment. It's this: The difference between pain, which all of us have to greater and lesser degrees throughout our lives, and suffering, which is intense pain with little hope of good in the future, is that suffering is pain in isolation. We may not be able to do much about another's pain except go through it with them, but in so doing, we each have the power, through compassionate care, to cure another's suffering. By simply being with them and listening, we keep their pain from becoming suffering. Isn't that a powerful thought?

Thursday, January 08, 2004

The Starting Point


I have been thinking and feeling a lot, and writing only a little this week. I am near the end of the orientation week at a city hospital, where I am entering the Clinical Pastoral Education program and will be serving as a chaplain intern for the next four months. My heart and spirit led me to this point--now my brain is absorbing all the procedures and protocols; my fingers are taking notes; my eyes are reading manuals. I've been sitting in meeting after meeting, trying to absorb the most important parts of this awesome responsibility. I think of families in pain; in panic; in grief; in fear. Will I know what to do, what to say, how to be? What does the hospital expect of me? What do the doctors and nurses want? How will I ever, ever measure up to all the expectations and remember all the important things when I'm on call tomorrow night with a seasoned chaplain, responding to emergencies?

Driving home, brain-weary and struggling with huge waves of self-doubt, I prayed and prayed a wordless prayer. Will I know what to do? How will I know? How, God, how? I absently directed the car in the late rush-hour traffic. I passed under a bridge. Something inside me gently spoke. Just love the people, the voice said. Start there.

A huge sense of relief washed through me. That I can do. That I already do. In the presence of pain, something tender inside me reaches. The protocols and procedures--the paperwork and the directives--those things may take some time to learn. I may not get that right, right off the bat. I may lose a form or forget the phrasing I've been taught. But I can surely love God's people and be present while He loves them Himself. That's where I'll start.

Friday, January 02, 2004

Our Way to God


Once upon a time, a long time ago, I grew up in an alcoholic home. It took years for us, the family, to sort through and understand what that meant, and each of us, in our own way, still carries the legacy, challenges, hurts, and gifts of our unique and sometimes chaotic family life. But as is true of all difficult things in life, I moved through that time with tools and learnings and sensitivities I might not have had otherwise. And one flower of understanding I carry with me today still blossoms because of the strong roots it has in my childhood: the Serenity Prayer and the beautiful accepting philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous.

When I was 13, my mother wanted me to go to Alateen and participate in the groups, but I was both shy and independent and preferred to go it alone. At the time, I didn't really think the alcoholism affected me much because the alcoholic in my life was my stepfather and not my biological father. I didn't learn until 20 years later that patterns are patterns and that what I grew up with I would expect from the world. And so it was.

But I think knowing the 12 step philosophies at an early age gave me a blueprint for life, an understanding of the way people can stand up and take responsibility for themselves and their situation, while developing a real, vital partnership with God. I still live by the Serenity Prayer. I still read, every morning, a little devotional book called In God's Care, which is published by the Hazelden Foundation. Today's devotion was so touching to me that I wanted to share it with you in its entirety:
    Each of us sees and experiences God in a way somehow unique to us. No two people see things exactly alike. That's why our program has no dogma. Each of us is encouraged to follow a spiritual path that seems to have been created for us. And we need not worry if we're on the right one, because every path leads to God. Would God let us lose our way? Of course not. We will know if a course correction is needed, and God will lead us to it.

    Each of us understands God in a way no one else does. There's a place in God's love for each of us. And out of that place we bring light to other people, just as our own special people have brought their light to us.

It's amazing to me that something that was so hard to live with then has such power and grace to comfort me now. Only God could ensure there's always a candle burning in the dark for us somewhere. No matter what our circumstances, good will come of it. We have God's promise.

Our Way to God


Once upon a time, a long time ago, I grew up in an alcoholic home. It took years for us, the family, to sort through and understand what that meant, and each of us, in our own way, still carries the legacy, challenges, hurts, and gifts of our unique and sometimes chaotic family life. But as is true of all difficult things in life, I moved through that time with tools and learnings and sensitivities I might not have had otherwise. And one flower of understanding I carry with me today still blossoms because of the strong roots it has in my childhood: the Serenity Prayer and the beautiful accepting philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous.

When I was 13, my mother wanted me to go to Alateen and participate in the groups, but I was both shy and independent and preferred to go it alone. At the time, I didn't really think the alcoholism affected me much because the alcoholic in my life was my stepfather and not my biological father. I didn't learn until 20 years later that patterns are patterns and that what I grew up with I would expect from the world. And so it was.

But I think knowing the 12 step philosophies at an early age gave me a blueprint for life, an understanding of the way people can stand up and take responsibility for themselves and their situation, while developing a real, vital partnership with God. I still live by the Serenity Prayer. I still read, every morning, a little devotional book called In God's Care, which is published by the Hazelden Foundation. Today's devotion was so touching to me that I wanted to share it with you in its entirety:
    Each of us sees and experiences God in a way somehow unique to us. No two people see things exactly alike. That's why our program has no dogma. Each of us is encouraged to follow a spiritual path that seems to have been created for us. And we need not worry if we're on the right one, because every path leads to God. Would God let us lose our way? Of course not. We will know if a course correction is needed, and God will lead us to it.

    Each of us understands God in a way no one else does. There's a place in God's love for each of us. And out of that place we bring light to other people, just as our own special people have brought their light to us.

It's amazing to me that something that was so hard to live with then has such power and grace to comfort me now. Only God could ensure there's always a candle burning in the dark for us somewhere. No matter what our circumstances, good will come of it. We have God's promise.