In about 10 minutes, a BARC van will leave with Maria and three members of the BARC staff who will drive her to her new home in Tallahassee.  In about 3 hours, the movers will get here to pack. Tomorrow they load up our stuff and head with it to Alabama.  Last night was the last here.  We will be staying at someone’s condo until Thursday when we head out as well.  The list of to-do’s is endless right now and I am still trying to find time, even if it means getting up at 4 in the morning, to stop long enough to give thanks for all that has been and all that will be.  Our life here, though not always easy, has been extraordinarily privileged.  Today, I give thanks for this house that allowed Sherod and me to offer hospitality in so many different ways. It has been a good home.

When María was entrusted to our care, she barely cried.  She could express distress, she knew how to throw the mother of all temper tantrums, but weep, or express sadness?  She couldn’t do it.  That’s one of the realities of reactive attachment disorder.  How can you allow yourself the vulnerability of tears when you are a toddler and responsible for your own emotional integrity?  How can you allow anyone to be a source of comfort when adults leave you over, and over, and over again?  No, this young woman Luz Maria has not wanted to have anything to do with sorrow.  Rage is way more safe.

Tonight, the three of us and our dogs were invited to a goodbye meal with a group of dear friends.  Maria was uncomfortable from the beginning–you could see the withdrawn anger etched all across her face.  The discomfort grew as more people arrived until all of a sudden, she asked to be taken back to BARC immediately.  We had not walked all the way out through the front door before the tears started falling, big fat tears running down her face.  In the car she was scared because her nose stung, it was hard to swallow and she couldn’t stop.

As her mother, I know that adult attention is Maria’s crack cocaine and I have to calibrate my responses to any emotional expression of her’s carefully–what starts as genuine, coming from the depth of her being, can quickly become another means of manipulation that is first and foremost harmful to her.  I have learned two things:  to make sure she does not hook into any of my own emotional responses and to be very low keyed in my response–I acknowledge what I see, I try to help her name it, but I work incredibly hard to not give any indication that it is in some way affecting me.

Years and years of practice have made this almost second nature for me.  Along with that careful response, I have to compartmentalize–carefully tuck away–my own feelings.  When I saw my woman-child weep like she wept this evening, I wanted nothing more than to gather her into my arms, to hold and soothe her, to comfort her.  We held hands and I talked about what it is like to cry, reassuring her that the physical components of crying are OK, that we all feel those things.  I told her that a number of times this week, including out of the blue at least once, I have had to stop and weep, grieving the end of my pastoral relationship with St Ambrose.  I described what that had felt like in as much detail as possible.  We even managed to laughed about how gross all that snot can be if you don’t have a kleenex.  But I made sure to give her plenty of space to keep weeping.

When we got to BARC, two staff women were there to receive her.  Like me, they are highly trained to walk carefully with Maria.  One of them, a tall strong woman, simply gathered her against herself and Maria sobbed.  I kissed my girl good night, I promised her I’d see her tomorrow and I walked back out to pick up the pieces of a life that keeps shattering and rearranging itself inside me constantly these days.  After I had allowed myself to acknowledge just how hard that drive had been, I quietly rejoiced:  That Maria is able to grieve means my girl is also able to love.  In a time when I slip into questioning if I have accomplished anything in these past 8 years, it is something to say I have loved this child enough to open spaces for her to learn to love.  Tonight I am grateful that she has come to know the gift of sorrow–that she has loved and been loved by many in the years we have had here in Fort Lauderdale so that she, like I, is so very sad to leave..

Getting ready to leave includes going back and sorting through old pictures.  I have had a busy, good day here in Austin. I came back to my room from a great dinner and lively conversation to find this picture of a trip Sherod, Maria and I took from Fort Lauderdale to Elliot Key on the good sailing vessel Promise.  Sherod had sent it to me earlier today.

We had such a wonderful time on that trip–we were so adventurous.  And look how little our girl was…

Episcopal Seminary of the Southwest

It’s been a long time since I came to Texas.  I forgot what dry heat feels like. It prickles.  I forgot about the trees here in Austin.  They are lush and full of character and beautiful.  I also forgot to pack the clergy collar buttons that attach my clergy collar to my blouse. Not good, given the importance of the work I’ll be doing tomorrow.  A friend and former parishioner from All Saints is a seminarian here so at the airport in Fort Lauderdale, I sent him a desperate Facebook plea:  Hunter, he’p me, he’p me! I need to find some clergy collar buttons for my meeting tomorrow.  So he did.  By asking the president of the seminary if I could borrow a pair of hers.  Aaaaargh, I am soooo embarrassed.  With all this traveling and having to wear clergy collars, I am going to keep an extra pair always packed somewhere in my suitcase.  But that’s a small problem to have and, considering I was in tears a good part of the early morning, still sorting through this business of leave-taking, I am glad for new sights and sounds and problems.

This is a short trip.  My fellow sojourner Ron and I are here to forge relationships and continue to explore what it means that the model of ministry in the Church that at least appeared to work for so long is buckling under in many places.  Even 3 days ago, there was a fairly hypothetical feel to this new work of mine.  The painful process of extricating myself from the ministries I have served in since my ordination exposed painfully that I kept too many of the plates spinning in the air by myself, that a clergy-centric model is seductively simple and theologically and practically impossible for the long haul.

The work I am doing now is becoming increasingly rewarding.  The team I am a part of does not pretend to have all the answers and we are finding our way forward through a great deal of conversation and communal discernment.  We know that folks getting ready to be ordained as clergy in the Episcopal Church need more basic skills and tools to help foster teams that are faithful, actually do the work of the kingdom, not just talk about it, and hold themselves to standards of excellence through mutual accountability.  We are here to explore how we can collaborate with seminaries to engage ‘baby priests’ in this effort.

Elsewhere in this blog, I wrote about the fact that when I was a little girl, one of my favorite phrases was “Ya casi es mañana”–It’s almost tomorrow.  Actually, tomorrow is already here for me.

This morning I had to return to St Ambrose because last week I had to schedule a meeting that only fit in today.  This afternoon, there has been a life-and-death pastoral situation that drew me in as well, at least long enough to tend to a faithful person until we got longer-term support in place.  And because staying busy right now is important, I did some packing this evening, putting away all my vestments.

I am not big on liturgical vestments–I have always been most comfortable in an alb and stole.  And here, I confess my weakness.  I love my stoles.  Before putting them away, I laid out the ones I still have with me in the order of the liturgical year of the Episcopal Church.  One, my Virgen de Guadalupe stole, hand made for me, already awaits me in a POD in Alabama.

I got the Advent stole for my first Christmas at St Ambrose. The white stole was a gift–a hand-me-down, actually. It was designed and sewed by a very well known liturgical arts artist for another priest.  A change in plans left the stole and a chasuble that goes with it orphaned and I was the fortunate inheritor.  It’s sort of cosmic. The green one was a gift from the altar guild of All Saints.  The purple one for Lent is hand woven, the gift of one of the most insightful, deep pastors I am honored to know.  I have used it next to so many death beds now.  On the night of my ordination to the priesthood, Sherod helped me vest and when it came time to put on my red stole, he took out the one I had given him for his ordination to the priesthood 19 years earlier.

The next two are my ‘all seasons’ stoles. The one at the very end was given to me by a very dear friend–I have not had a chance to wear it as much as the others, but I will. The one just before the last one was a gift from St Ambrose.  The day the Sr Warden gave it to me, we all still deeply distrusted each other.  If my memory is correct, the Sr Warden at the time gave it to me at the end of the service one Sunday soon after it became clear we were going to hang in with each other, St Ambrose and I; receiving it was as close to an installation liturgy as I got and all I can really remember was how uneasy I was, along with grateful.  This past Sunday, I know several people would have liked a bit more vestment pomp and circumstances–at least a chasuble as well as stole.  There was no question that I would wear anything other than stole, now well-worn, a bit tattered, beloved. I stood in my stole and alb and gave the same person I received my stole from (he is Sr Warden once again), my letter of resignation.  A circle closed.  I still ache thinking about the moment a little later when it was time to take off that stole.

Somewhere in my education for the priesthood, I heard that one function of the stole is to remind me of the invitation in the Gospels: “My burden is light and my yoke is easy”.  Serving in this community has helped me understand what that invitation means. Tomorrow I fly to Austin, still required to wear a clerical collar whenever I am on official business, but not going to a place where I can wear these liturgical vestments I love so much and tell my story.

Looking at the stoles this evening was looking in the rearview mirror.

St Ambrose and I have said our good byes. We had wonderful guests whose presence moved me deeply.  There were lots of children.  One of the air conditioners froze up over night and it was a typical muggy Florida day.  We had a young pianist parachute in to lead the music for the service and he did admirably. But I saw how hard that job is if you don’t have a clue of how church music works.  We baptized three gorgeous children and right before distributing communion, I got to bless all the little children who have made my days bright and beautiful.  And then, at the very end, we did the liturgy of leave-taking of a pastoral relationship.

The vestry was up at the front with me. I am leaving the ceramic chalice and paten I received at my ordination, asking the community to remember that both are needed for Eucharist, just as the English speaking and Spanish speaking parts of the community can become the body of Christ if they work together.  I turned over the worship registry, and my keys.  And finally, I handed copies of my letter of resignation to the representative of my Bishop, Archdeacon Bruttell who joined us for the service, and to the Sr Warden of our vestry.  And then, it was truly, really over.  Not half an hour later, the skies broke open and an apocalyptic deluge with raging winds and white hot lightening had us all standing in the parish hall staring out in amazement and a little apprehension.

I hope for rainbows and I know God abides in the promise of new beginnings and second chances.

I despaired a year or two ago, when I realized I had lost the electronic copy of the sermon my wonderful friend and fellow sojourner, Michael Wyatt, preached at my ordination.  Today, I spent the morning packing and clearing out of the office I have been privileged to occupy at St Ambrose.  In one on my files, way in the back of the closet, I found a copy of the bulletin from the night of my ordination, and tucked in it, the copy that Michael did a few last edits on, in his amazing script, and then read from the pulpit.  Today, the day before I preach my last sermon at St Ambrose, perhaps my last 24 hours as a parish priest, it was good to stop and read what was said to me on the evening of my ordination.

After a stunning reflection on the call of Isaiah Michael said,
Isaiah…throughout his life, stood there, between the people and God, the one in the middle, the one who dares both the vertigo of divinity and the doldrums of humanity.  Priesthood, Rosa, is this mystery:  to be unafraid of both sides and to undertake to love them both.  The priest stands, as Isaiah did, between the silted sullenness of the community and the shuddering tempest of heaven, between flesh & spirit, the priest stands at the site of the soul.  A priest knows where those border crossings are and can usher others, night after night, across them.  A priest awakens that ability in others, in individuals and in communities, awakens in them the power of their own prayer and the fullness of their own ministry.  The priest’s own faithful devotion and service holds others up to walk, an arm around their shoulder, until they run in the strength of God.

God grant that the days of your ministry, Rosa, not be days of hard hearing and dim seeing, but days of healing for our church, days of justice–not the excusing of the rich, but the protecting of the poor, not the endorsement of the powerful, but the incorporation of the disenfranchised, not the imposition of patriarchal norms but the discovery of God’s joy in all that God has made.  Remember, the challenge of this mediation is always the mystery of the flesh, which we fear and call unclean–but salvation falls short if it is not of the flesh as well.

Then, as we always had  during the long, incredible conversations I was privileged to engage in with Michael, he broke into Spanglish.

Rosa, ponte the pie (Rosa stand up).  You are fortunate to know already what it is like to live between worlds and entre culturas.  Entendemos tú y yo, el don y el costo de esa vida. (You and I understand the gift and cost of that life).  To be constantly displaced is to be enabled to remain awake and to know that all the world is the household of God. Esto lo has aprendido en tu cuerpo desde tu niñez (You learned this in your body from childhood).  These gifts of compassion for the one on the margins, of insight into the relativity of all cultural solutions, of patience and courage and determination in your own life, walking without fainting across your own wildernesses, of already defending and loving those whose suffering you see, have tempered your vocation.)

Ahora entras en el sacerdocio, donde lo que Dios pide de ti es una confianza sobrehumana: la capacidad de alzar tus manos, levantando las plegarias de un pueblo y distribuyendo el consuelo y la bendición de Dios por medio de los sacramentos.  Creerás de un momento a otro, que no eres digna, que hay algo impuro en este atrevimiento.  Pero ya el serafín, si te atreves a creerlo, te ha limpiado en el brasero de tu vida.  Cree, a la vez, que lo que has sufrido te ha simplificado y abierto y es, con paciencia y humildad, el tesoro que depositas en el templo (Now you enter the priesthood, where what God asks of you is a superhuman trust:  the ability to raise your arms, raising the prayers of a people, and distributing the consolation and blessing of God by means of the sacraments.  You will believe from time to time, that you are not worthy, that there is something impure in such daring.  But already, if you dare believe this, the seraphim has purified you in the crucible of your life.  Believe as well that what you have suffered has made you more simple and open, and that, if you practice patience and humility, is the gift you bring to offer at the Temple.)

How I would have loved to talk to Michael today.  These unexpected words from him suffice, though. I am grateful for the friendships and companions in the journey I do have and who are so generous–I will talk to my friend Joe in just a few minutes.  The habits and practices of all these years of ministry are about to kick in too–a visit with Maria, a simple dinner, time to walk and reflect one more time on the lessons and early bedtime.  They will carry me.  At about 4:30 tomorrow morning, one last time, I will get out of bed in the dark to sit in the quiet of the early morning, making the final edits on my sermon and gathering myself up to offer those gifts I have such a hard time believing are worthy, one last time, at St Ambrose.

June 5, 2014

On the day my mom died 3 years ago, our last conversation was about the beauty of the sunlight filtering through the old, lovely trees in the front of my parent’s house.  Today, I woke up to an absolutely glorious, sun-shine filled day here in South Florida .  After yesterday’s meltdown and incredibly long, tense day, I came home and took a long walk last night.  And for the first time in a long time, slept well without waking up till 6:30 this morning.

Sherod will be released around lunchtime.  I got a call from the girl Maria who told me that yesterday, her day was F-A-B-U-L-U-O-S and either Sherod and I both, or just I, will get to spend some time with her late this afternoon.  By noon today, the paperwork I managed to get completed yesterday and FedExed, will be in the hands of the law firm that handled the closing of  our house in Lowndesboro (and they already have our money) so that part of the dream has come true.

Not that it is easy, not that there aren’t times when I truly don’t know how I am going to take the next step.  But that the reserves of grace are deep and always available.  I learned that first from my mom, and as much as I still grieve her absence, there is far more gladness for the strength I inherited from her than pain today.  Her favorite phrase was “pa’lante, pa’lante” (onward, onward).  It is a good life motto.

I am sitting in the waiting room of the Cardiovascular Lab while the spouse has a heart cath. I got to go in and see him long enough to make the sign of the cross on his forehead and kiss him. My legs almost buckled under me, standing by his gurney. More than likely this not a big deal at all. Just an extra precaution after unclear results related to the preop testing from last month. I know how to be strong. I know my privilege. Our house here is under such a great contract, with. Really great backup contract just in case. Early, early today, before heading this way, Sherod and I signed an interminable document because it’s closing day for the house in Alabama.

I know how to be strong, and I know my blessings. And my daughter is incredibly frail right now, my husband is in the hands of doctors doing an invasive procedure on his heart, tomorrow is the third anniversary of my mother’s death and on Sunday I have to say good bye to my beloved community. So though my legs did not buckle and in a bit I will go back to being strong, right this minute, right now I am falling apart.

update
Sherod got a stent and will spend the night I. The hospital. He is resting comfortably and I’m still flying. Sort of.

Our girl is holding steady but not at a great place.  That means we haven’t gotten to see her or talk to her since early last week.  That never gets easier.  We have, though, finalized plans for her to move to Tallahassee. In the end, her team and we agreed that it was simply too important for her mom and dad to still get to see her regularly and provide the kind of oversight of her care that she needs. On June 16th, she will be driven up there with her behavior specialist and two more folks to keep everyone in the BARC van safe.  I had so looked forward to a driving adventure with her but this is what will work.

After having the house on the market for only 5 days, and with two really good offers to choose from, we went to contract last week.  We even have a backup contract in place.  Inspections happen tomorrow and if all goes well, we close on June 19th.  We don’t have any reason to believe that won’t happen so the movers are scheduled to pack on Monday, June 16th and load up our household goods and pull out of here on the 17th.  After closing in the morning of the 19th, we’ll drive to Tallahassee.  We hope and pray we will be able to see Maria and also understand that may not be a good idea.  We’ll be up in Lowndesboro on the 20th and the, the moving van will arrive and that part of the move will be complete.  Sherod returns to Ft Lauderdale in the next couple of days after that and I will stay in Lowndesboro.  There is a whole lot of painting in my future.  The master bedroom is painted a Barney purple, just to give you an idea.  That won’t do…

And right now, what is front and center in my life, is the reality that I am facing into the last Sunday at St Ambrose.  We have baptisms scheduled and I love Pentecost Sunday.  But after the eucharist, we will have the Liturgy for the Leave-Taking of a Pastoral Relationship and then, just like that, I will cease to be a parish priest.  I can’t look at that too long or too deep.  I am trying to live in the gratitude for what I have been so blessed to be a part of.  And I am getting through each day taking care of what I have right in front of me.  Because looking out from the roller coaster car, it looks like a free-fall up ahead and there’s nothing gained dwelling on that or anticipating what it will be like.