I Believe in Miracles

"Everything's going to be okay."

"Don't worry, it'll all work out."

"It'll get better, just be patient."

"Just trust in God and it'll all be okay."

I hear these phrases all the time.  They are what you say when something terrible has happened.  They're what automatically comes out of your mouth when you don't know what to say.  They are meant to comfort, to support.  Maybe you believe them; maybe you don't.  Until I worked at as a hospital chaplain, these were the phrases that fell from my mouth when things went wrong for friends.  "It'll be okay," I said.  "It'll all work out."  And I think I believed those words.  After all, there were very few times that I'd seen things not work out for my friends.  Why wouldn't I trust that things would work out this time? 

After a few weeks as a chaplain, my thoughts on this changed.  Suddenly, I stopped saying "It'll be okay," to the patients and their families.  I stopped promising that "Everything will work out."  Because I didn't know.  I couldn't make a promise like that.  Telling these things to families was not comforting them or supporting them.  It was lying.  It was ignoring the problem.  It was ignoring the reality of the world we live in, which is that things do not always work out.  People get hurt and do not recover.  Children get sick and do not get better.  Families break apart.  Pregnancies end in loss.  Sometimes, things do not get better.

I didn't really believe in miracles before I became a chaplain.  I subscribed to the "every tree/puppy/baby is a miracle" belief.  I read about "miracles" in the news and thought "Well, that's pretty amazing...but is it a miracle?"  It didn't seem like the miracles of the Bible. 

My thoughts on miracles have changed, too.  I've met parents of a child born at 24 weeks who was happy and healthy.  I've met babies who weren't supposed to last a week, but who have gotten stronger and stronger as the months have passed.  I've met parents who haven't lost hope after months of living in the hospital with their child.  I've met children who, despite scoliosis, spina bifida, amputated limbs, etc. are smiling and happy.  They are the ones who make me happy when I go into their room.  These are miracles. 

Families ask me to pray for miracles.  Some are simply asking - and why not?  There is no harm in asking God for a miracle.  Others sit, refusing to believe that their child will not recover because God will provide a miracle.  I admire the faith of these people, but I mourn for them. 

A year into life as a chaplain, my beliefs and my words have changed.  When I see a family struggling through their child's illness or traumatic injury, I reach out and pray with them.  I pray for strength, for guidance, for healing.  I thank God for the care given to the child by the hospital staff.  I thank God for the child, for the joy he or she brings to their family.  But I do not promise the family that everything will be okay, because it is a promise I cannot keep.  It is a promise that only God can make, for only God can keep it. 

I believe in miracles. I do not expect them. If we expected them, they would not be miracles. 

I wonder...

I've been doing a lot of wondering lately.

I blame Godly Play.  I was introduced to this amazing storytelling technique earlier this year as part of my chaplaincy program at Children's.  In it, children (and adults) are invited to "wonder" about the story, allowing them to step into the world of the story and find ways to connect it with their own lives.  (You can learn more about Godly Play here if you're interested.)

When telling parables, we wonder with the kids about what things really are.  We wonder how things connect.  We wonder where we are in the story.  In telling these stories, I have heard some amazing responses from children that make me wonder why I had never seen it that way before.

In my own life, I have been wondering.  I wonder...how do I connect the pieces of my calling?  It seems they have all been falling in front of me lately, but I am still struggling with how to fit them together.  It's as if I have a hundred puzzle pieces in front of me, but no picture on a box to show me what it should look like.  Is this green a tree, or grass?  Is this a bird, a fish, a flower?  I wonder what the puzzle will look like when it is finished.  I wonder if I will ever finish it.

Like with the parables, it is helpful to look at each piece of the puzzle and wonder what they mean.  What are the pieces of my calling?  I know that I am called to work with children and their families.  I know I am called to be an advocate for those children.  I know that I am called to share God's Word with them.  I know that I am called to teach.  I know that I am called to help those in need.  I know that I am called to share my story and to help others share theirs.  I know that I am called to help children find the Holy Spirit in their lives through the art of creation.

Right now, it seems like I am constantly trying to put the pieces together, only to realize that they don't fit.  Am I missing pieces?  Do I have two puzzles mixed up together?

There is no immediate answer for these questions, for these wonderings.  I don't have a simple solution.  I just don't know yet.  But I suppose that is why we wonder.  When we wonder with children in Godly Play, we aren't seeking a RIGHT answer.  We are simply wondering, playing with ideas to see how they fit.  But as an adult, it is so hard to wonder!  I pray for the ability of a child to wonder without seeking an answer, to wonder simply in search of understanding.  That's all I can do.

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/

Choosing Happiness

Whenever I am depressed/angry/frustrated/overly emotional, my instinct is to sit on the couch, cover myself in a blanket, and watch episode after episode of Gilmore Girls, The Tudors, West Wing, or some other comfort show.  I'm not one of those people who grabs the nearest comfort food and eats; when I am feeling down, I usually forget to eat.  I don't want to leave the couch.  I just want to snuggle with my blanket and my dogs.

Two weeks ago, I was in the midst of one of those moments.  That day, I had met with the ordination committee for a second ordination interview, only to be told for a second time that I wasn't ready, that they would not ordain me.  I was frustrated, angry, and depressed all at the same time.  That afternoon, I'd played Monopoly with Colin and a friend in an attempt to get my mind off of things.  But now I was all alone in the apartment.  Vegging seemed like a fantastic idea.

Vegging was the option I frequently took.  It's easy.  It's comforting.  It allows you to feel better in the moment, to forget whatever it is that's bothering you.  There's nothing wrong with vegging with things are bad.  

But then I looked over to my sewing machine and my most recent project.  It was a peplum blouse that I had eagerly been working on the day before my interview.  I was particularly excited about this blouse, because I'd made it twice before, and was in love with the pattern.  Not only that, but the blouse's fabric was a cute cotton print with bicycles on it.  All that was left was the finishing, my least favorite part.  Buttons, buttonholes, and hems.  Blerg.  

I decided to sew.

It may seem like a small thing, deciding to finish my blouse instead of laying on the couch.   But when you struggle from depression, like I do, and you find yourself feeling down, you have occasionally have a choice.  You can take the comforting route, the easy route, and feel momentarily better.  But I've found that later, I don't feel better at all.  I lecture myself for being lazy.  I think of all the things I could have accomplished.  And all the good feeling I got from snuggling with my dogs and watching Gilmore Girls vanishes.  

Choosing to sew, wasn't simply choosing to do something instead of sitting on the couch.  It was choosing to not let my depression overwhelm me.  It was choosing to push through the bad feelings and not only be productive, but feel productive.  It was choosing happiness.  

Now don't get me wrong - feeling down and being depressed are two different things.  But for someone like me, noticing that moment when you are feeling down and catching it before it becomes something worse can make all the difference.  When you are deep in depression, that decision is not even there.  Sometimes, the depression has already overwhelmed you, and you can't even imagine happiness, even when it is close by.  Choosing to be productive is not an option, because you are drowning in emotions that you cannot control.  But sometimes, occasionally, you are given a gift.  You are given that choice.

And that night, I chose to be happy.  

When I grow up...

When I was a child, I imagined (quite naively), that there would be a point at which I would be officially "all grown up."  It was the point where people would no longer ask me what I wanted to be when I "grew up," but instead simply asked who I was, and what I did.

Silly me.

It took years of trial and error to realize that this imagining was not quite true.  I watched my dad continue to use the phrase "when I grow up" to talk about what he wanted to do with his life, and realized that, perhaps there is a bit of Peter Pan in each of us.  In our own eyes, we are never fully grown up.

What do you want to be when you grow up?  

That answer changed for me at several important moments in my life.  When I was seven, I would have told you I wanted to be a violinist.  At thirteen, I might have said I was going to be a writer.  In college, reality setting in, I would have said I wanted to write, but would be a librarian to pay the bills.

At twenty-one, as I sat in my mom's car with tears welling up in my eyes, I told her that I wanted to go to seminary.  I told her that I wanted to go into ministry.

It was a sharp change from the future I'd imagined for myself since high school.  For one, it meant a further four more years of school.  For another, it did not (I thought) involve the arts.

I attended divinity school and became convinced even further that ministry was what I would do "when I grew up."  I even imagined that, upon graduation, I would achieve that place of being "all grown up."  I forgot that real-life sometimes (often) gets in the way of our hopes and dreams…or at least sets them aside and reminds you that reality is important, too.

After graduating, I didn't get a job.  In fact, I couldn't even find a job outside of ministry.  I went from taking 12 hours of graduate classes and working as a part-time children's minister, to sitting at home in my pajamas at one in the afternoon, watching Law and Order: SVU.  I hadn't arrived at the magical "all grown up" place.  I was far from it.

That was where I was about a month ago.  I've filled my time a little better since then (sewing, knitting, watching Project Runway…), but still find myself wondering and worrying.  What am I doing with my life?  Was I wrong to go into ministry?  Was I wrong to spend so much time (and money) on a Master's degree that is currently getting little use?

It is a difficult place to be in, and I won't pretend that I am the only person who has ever been there.  I had spent time, money, energy, prayer…so much on an education that would enable me to become a minister.  But I sat at home doing very little - I was not ordained, not employed, and not sure of where my life was going.

In this in-between time, I've been thinking about why I decided to go into ministry in the first place.  Maybe, I thought, I'd simply moved on to the next thing.  From ministry to…who knows what.  But I didn't think I was that fickle of a person.  So I considered the reasons.

• I went into ministry because someone had been kind enough to love me when I needed love most, and because I wanted to share that love with others in need.  

• I went into ministry because I craved knowledge and learning.  I wanted to learn, and to teach something meaningful that would impact myself and others in our daily lives.  

• I went into ministry because I loved God, because I believed deeply in the power of Christ's love, and because I wanted to learn how others' lives were touched by that love.  

These are reasons I still hold close to my heart.  No matter what I end up doing "when I grow up," I want to do these things.  To share love with others in need.  To learn and teach meaningful and impactful things.  To hear the stories of others who had been touched by God's love.  

Over the past month, I've been learning how to be a chaplain at a children's hospital.  It isn't a role I was completely excited to take on, though I was willing to try it out for a period.  But as I've learned about what it means to be a chaplain, and the importance of that role in the life of a hospital, I've realized that all of my reasons for going into ministry - pastoral ministry - could be said of someone wishing to go into chaplaincy.  

There are so many paths before me right now that I am often overwhelmed.  But looking at the list above, I know that if I stay true to those life goals then I will be fulfilled, satisfied, and joyful, no matter which path I choose.  

Rays of Sunlight

I suffer from depression. 

This is a fact I have come to accept in my life.  It is something I realized after many years of not understanding why I sometimes wanted to curl up under a blanket and escape the world, why I could not bear to talk on the phone, why I found myself crying over things that should not upset me, why I worried so often that I was not good enough and would never be good enough.  I have been through quite a journey of emotions with my depression, and while I am embarrassed by some of my reactions, they are a part of who I am today. 

I know that I am not alone in my depression. A 2011 NPR article says that 11% of Americans are prescribed antidepressants, and that many more Anericans suffer from depression but are unwilling to tell their doctor for fear of being prescribed antidepressants. But the strange thing about depression is that, though there are many of us, we suffer alone.  We feel that we are alone, helplessly so, even when we are surrounded by friends and family and those who suffer as well. 

When I am depressed, I push people away. Friends, family, even my wonderful husband. I push away God, too, unable to form prayers in my mind to a God who allows me to suffer so much. I want to be alone because I feel safer.  I alone understand my own inner pain. It is strange that part of suffering from this disorder is to push away the things that might help me to feel better.  

In my most recent struggle with depression, I found that my social life was not the only thing suffering. My spiritual life, which in the past few years has become an incredibly important part of my life as a whole, was almost completely gone. It wasn't simply that I wasn't praying or talking to God. I was not knitting, not spinning, not creating. In curling up on the couch and watching TV, I was pushing away the practices that help me to connect with my inner self, and with God. I was, again, pushing away the things that would help me to feel better. 

I was recently assigned a paper for my Spirituality class where we had to find a character from the history of Christian spirituality to write about. After some searching, I fell upon Therese of Lisieux.

Therese of Lisieux was a young Carmelite nun who struggled many times throughout her life with what she called "the night of my soul."  Toward the end of her short life of 24 years, she suffered physically as well as spiritually, and at time considered suicide as a way to escape. She wrote of dealing with this struggle in her autobiography, The Story of a Soul. 

"When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal possession of God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I wish to believe. Sometimes, I confess, a little ray of sunshine illumines my dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant, but later, the remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling me, makes the blackness thicker still."

I have considered this passage many times over the past week.  It is both profound and simple. Act out what you wish to believe so that you might experience a "little ray of sunlight."  Though Therese writes that remembering these moments "makes the blackness thicker still," I strongly believe that we must experience these little bits of light in order to make it through the darkness. It's like walking through a dark hallway. When you use a flashlight, it makes the going easier for a while. But when you turn off the light, the darkness is even darker than before. But eventually your eyes will adjust to the blackness, and you will find your way to the end of the hall. 

Depression is a part of who I am. It will always be a part of who I am, even when I am not directly suffering from it. However, if in those moments of sadness I can find my friends and hold them dear, I will remember that I am appreciated. If in those moments of struggling I can allow myself to hear the struggles of others, I will remember that I am not alone. If in those moments of pain I can bring myself to talk with God, I will remember that I am loved.
 

Knitting, Lectio Divina, and the Holy Spirit

The knitting and spirituality class that I taught at my church ended a few weeks ago, and I've been thinking a lot about the group since then.  Although by the end of the six weeks, there were only four or five women coming regularly, I really feel that those six weeks were well spent, and that *something* was accomplished. It is that *something* that I have been thinking about most.

In the third week, once the women felt comfortable knitting and talking at the same time (no small task), I decided to try something new.  Instead of just asking questions like "What is spirituality?" or "How are you spiritual?", I began using Lectio Divina during the second half of the class.  I love Lectio Divina - it is a wonderful and useful practice.  If you aren't familiar with it, you might want to check out the Wikipedia page, which is decently informative.  The version that I typically use is taken largely from Rethinking Youth Ministry.  Even though their version is meant for kids and youth, I find it works really well with adults.

Here is my version.  It is designed to be done in a group setting, but could easily be adapted as a personal practice.

1. Read the passage aloud.
--Meditate on the passage as a whole.
2. Read the passage aloud.
--Meditate on a word or phrase that stands out to you.
3. Read the passage aloud.
--Meditate on how the passage is relevant in your life.

Typically the meditations last for 2-3 minutes, or until people start moving and looking uncomfortable in the silence.  The first week I tried this with the knitting group, I decided to read Genesis 1.  (Fun thing I discovered -  the "Genesis 1" story that everyone talks about actually goes through Genesis 2:4.  Weird!)  It's a long passage - an entire chapter! - but a good one, and relevant to our knitting.  I was worried people would get bored with such a long passage, especially since I was reading through it three times, but something amazing happened - they listened.  They sat happily knitting (and crocheting) as I read the passage three times, pausing each time to meditate.  No one complained about the length.  No one sighed loudly when I read the passage yet again.

When we talked about the experience later, several of the women told me that they were able to sit through such a long reading because they were knitting.  Because their hands were busy and a piece of their minds were already distracted, they were able to listen to the entire passage without becoming bored.

I think that this is why I love knitting, and why silent sitting-type meditations just don't work for me.  When my body is still, my mind cannot help but race 100 miles an hour.  But when my body is moving, just a little bit, my mind is free and able to concentrate better.  I've knit in classes, movies, Bible study, and even worship.  I used to visit coffee shops with my drop spindle and spend time watching people while my hands were busy making yarn.  In each of these experiences, I've found that my mind is more connected with the world around me when my hands are busy knitting, or spinning.

I asked myself after that first week of trying lectio divina, "Where is the spirituality in this?" I can't quote a Bible passage, or explain this to you theologically, but I can say this: Those moments when the restlessness of the human body is quieted, and the mind is able to fully engage in the surrounding world?  Those are moments full of the Holy Spirit.

Teaching Knitting

I learned two important things on Sunday.

1) A circle is not the best chair arrangement for teaching knitting.
2) If you're confident in what you're doing, people will listen to what you have to say.

Yesterday I started a group that for a long time was just an idea in my head.  Knitting is an important part of my life, and I have been wanting to share it with others.  I had many ideas of how this might work: teaching middle schoolers how to knit, crochet, and spin in a one-day workshop; teach knitting at summer camp; offer a Sunday school class on knitting squares for an afghan.

But as I talked about my idea with friends and colleagues, I realized that it wasn't just knitting that was important; it was spirituality.  To me, knitting and spirituality are incredibly intertwined.  When I knit, I get in touch with the spiritual part of myself, the part of myself able and willing to sit quietly and pray, or listen, or do nothing.  The part of me that is usually restless and fidgety is silent.  I often have a problem sitting still; I bounce my legs or tap my foot or finger.  But when I knit, all that frantic, endless movement is transferred into my hands and fingers, which are moving needles and yarn and creating something.  When I knit, I am calm.

(Unless, of course, I am knitting lace.  Lace usually makes things worse.)

The group of women who showed up to knit yesterday was varied, from middle school to sixties/seventies.  But they all came to learn to knit.  I listened to their stories: some had knit before and given up for this reason or that.  Some had never knit.  Many were former crocheters with wrist problems.  As a former crocheter myself with similar problems, I understood.

It is intimidating teaching something new to people who are twice your age or more.  These women had more life experiences than me, more stories they could tell, perhaps even a better understanding of "spirituality."  Why should they listen to me?  Why would they pay attention to what I had to say?  But I sat there and said my piece, explaining why we were there, why I loved knitting, and why I wanted to share this love with them.  And then I taught them to knit.

And you know what?  By the end of that hour and a half, every single woman there was knitting.  Most of them had at least four rows completed.  And all but one seemed eager to come back next week.  And hopefully they will, because I am even more excited and confident now!