Shortly after the election I read somewhere that the word Christian had become a political term. This was the writer's opinion of course, and I found myself agreeing. In the greater public realm, Christian has come to convey a lot of bigotry and judgment, because Christians have sounded -- and been -- bigoted and judgmental.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
My Father Is Disappearing
I try to call my dad every few days. Lately it requires a deep breath before I make the call. I never know exactly how he'll sound, at least not anymore.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Spoken Word
Last week a friend and I went to hear Anne Lamott -- one of our favorite writers -- speak. I left with a lot to think about. But one of the things that really struck me was not something that she said. What struck me was the power of the spoken word.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
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