Interview with Author Catherine McNiel

Recently Catherine McNiel published her first book, Long Days of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline (NavPress, 2017). Catherine’s fresh, wise perspective and beautiful language stood out in a culture where books on motherhood abound. If anyone is feeling like they can’t do one more thing as they navigate the years with young children, let me just say this book doesn’t heap on more guilt or add to the to-do list. The book simply offers hope and assurance right where you’re living. I had a chance to interview her recently about her book.
Catherine,
tell us a little about yourself.  
Thank you! I’m a mom with three kids (and a few part time jobs).
I love to read and garden. I love to study theology and ancient cultures. I’m always
trying to learn something new. I’m enamored by
the creation of new life but find that working in the garden is less exhausting
than pregnancy. J 

I found Small Things: Motherhood as a
Spiritual Discipline to be a refreshing look at motherhood. Can you tell us a little about your book? 
In each chapter I tell
stories from our real lives—the seasons and stages of motherhood, pregnancy and
delivery, infant days, sleepless nights, caring for children of all ages—and
the tasks that fill them. I look at spiritual tools that already hide
there—like sacrifice, surrender, service, perseverance, and celebration—and
consider how we can open our eyes to the spiritual boot camp we walk through every
day. Without adding anything extra to our live or to-do lists, we practice so
many disciplines every moment of the day.  

Why did you decide to write Long
Days of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline?  

A
few years ago I was a work-from-home mom with a baby, a toddler, and a
preschooler. These precious, demanding children took me all the way to the end
of my rope…and left me there indefinitely! My life changed in every way, yet I
heard only the same spiritual prescriptions I’d always heard: spend quite
time each day with God. Find 30-60 minutes each day to be in silence and
solitude before the Lord. As I considered the classic spiritual practices
(which I love!)—prayer, worship, fasting, meditation, service, solitude,
etc.—it became abundantly clear that the realities of motherhood meant I was
likely to fail. Or opt out entirely.  

But
my spirit didn’t allow me to do that. I heard a lament rising in the hearts of
the women around me—I have nothing left, nothing left to care for myself or
give to God. But as I looked at the actual seasons and tasks of motherhood,
I was convinced that there was no better “boot camp” for my soul. Each day we
mothers create, we nurture. Each day we are pushed to the end of ourselves and
must surrender, sacrifice, and persevere. Each day we serve, pouring ourselves
out. We empty ourselves for those in our care—and isn’t this emptiness the very
reliance on God that the spiritual disciplines are designed to produce?  

I’m
convinced that motherhood is doing an eternal work on my soul, even if I’m too
exhausted and overwhelmed to notice just now.  

What are the “Practices” that you
describe in Long Days of Small Things? 

At the end of each
chapter, I list three things we are doing already—things like walking, eating,
driving, changing diapers, going to work. And I explore how we can use these
things, already in our daily routines and schedules, to awaken to God’s presence
with us. Moms often don’t have time to add additional tasks and tools into our
days, but that doesn’t mean we can’t use the tasks already there! In fact, in
many cases, I think these natural things are the most effective.  

How has motherhood impacted your
understanding of spirituality?  

We think of spirituality
as something that happens in our minds, in silence. We are taught that our
bodies, our mess and complications and noise hold us back from being with God.
That doesn’t leave a lot of hope for moms, whose pregnant or post-partum
bodies, newborns, toddlers, and van-full of carpool kids have no end of loud,
messy, physical, chaotic needs. 

But God made us, didn’t
He? Genesis describes Him getting in the dirt and forming us from the dust by
hand, then breathing His own breath into our mouths. That’s pretty physical and
messy! Then He actually took on a body Himself. The King of Kings wiggled
around in a woman’s womb, surrounded by amniotic fluid. He entered the world
through her birth canal. God was born, you
guys. That’s our Good News.  

All this physical stuff
that we feel keeps us from Him is the same stuff He used to meet with us, to
speak to us, to save us. 

 So Long Days of Small Things is a book for moms “who have neither
quiet nor time” as the cover says—or dads, grandparents, and other caregivers.  

Describe an experience that first
caused you to understand motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline. 

 I was shopping with
my three kids. Can you imagine the scene? Lugging my infant in one of those
terribly unwieldy baby-carriers. Holding my toddler by the hand, while my
preschooler zoomed around the store. The diaper bag was falling off my
shoulders, and I clenched the grocery bags with the same hand that grasped my
toddler.  

And then…the door. I
couldn’t figure out how to get us all through. The baby was wailing for milk
and a nap, the toddler and preschooler needed lunch (and a nap). I wanted lunch
and a nap too, truth be told. But mostly I just wanted to get us out the door.
No one held it open for me, but plenty of people watched me make a fool of
myself trying to wiggle us all through without banging any heads or pinching
any fingers. It felt like a hero-feat, an epic win.  

When I finally got
everyone home, fed, and sleeping, I sat down to read an article I’d been
saving; a short biography of a favorite Christian teacher. The biographer
described this hero of the faith as so spiritual, he radiated peace just by
walking through the door.  

This stopped me in my
tracks. The memory of how I looked
going through a door was so fresh in my mind. I realized that if spiritual
growth entailed developing an aura of peace and radiance, I was never going to
arrive—at least not without getting rid of these precious babies!  

The contrast between this
teacher and myself was so stark, and I realized he and I were simply on two
separate paths. I was seeking God through the chaotic but life-giving seasons
and tasks of motherhood, and this was going to look entirely different from the classic spiritual practices. “Results
may vary” as they say. 

How is this book different from all the
other books and conversations out there regarding motherhood today? 

There are so many books
out there for moms on the topic of devotion and spirituality.  Almost all of them have this in common: after
admitting that moms are exhausted, stretched too thin, without any margin or
time or energy, they look for a few extra minutes here or there which might be
harvested for God; or offer a Bible study or prayer list that might fit in the
tiny slots. Get up at 4:30am before the baby wakes at 5am! Read two minutes of
the Bible each day! 

I’m all for doing these
things when it works, but I’m convinced that we don’t need to exit motherhood to have a spiritual
life. Our children are what we
create, and this is where our Creator God
meets us. I’m certain of it. Without adding more “should’s” or “to-do’s” to
our days, we can open our eyes to a unique spiritual journey, made just for
us—and find him here. We’re already doing it. All that waits is for us to
breathe deeply and being to drink.  

What are your hopes for the moms
reading Long Days of Small Things? 

I told my publisher and
editor so many times: I want the title, the cover, and every word to convey
that I’m not saying you should do more. You
are enough. You are seen. You are loved. You are doing so much already, and
there is value here. God is here already. These long days of small things make
us feel shunted to the side, second class, invisible.  

But I’m certain of one
thing: this is the very place God meets us. That’s why we practice spiritual
disciplines—to arrive at this place. I’m confident that every flowing,
bleeding, dripping, sticky, crying, dirty, wet, exhausted piece of motherhood
is a piece that God made and loves, a place where He came, and place where He is.  

If moms can hear me say
that, and accept the invitation, and find Him there—I will be overjoyed.
Thank you for your words, Catherine! You can find Long Days of Small Things here and visit her website at Catherinemcniel.com.

How Do You File Memories?

These four walls, painted quiet green to invite calm,
hold so many memories in drawers and on shelves, telling the story of a life
through its contents. A much needed cleaning, purging and organization finally
took place last week, drawing out forgotten moments and lessons.

 How do you file memories?

Home office and sometime guest room, exercise room, storage
room, and sacred space. Keeper of my son’s memorabilia and pictures and
adorable handwritten creative writing. Holder of a cartoon reminiscent of our
oldest songwriter son. Host to so many of my books. Storer of financial
documents, former teaching materials, research for writing projects, graduate
school notes. Nearly 30 years of life including mortgage papers leaving a trail
of all our homes, telling a wistful story of a young couple buying a handyman
special house and then another, moving and moving and moving again until suddenly
we found ourselves moving in the other direction, down-sizing in an emptynest.

Folders hold poetry written by others and some
written by my awkward non-poet hand, like this one called “You Two” written for
a former roommate after the death of her young husband, a dear man who
influenced my husband’s decision to be an electrical engineer:

Who
would’ve known that when you were young
and life was a rolling laugh
that it would end too soon?
Who
would’ve known when I watched you two
swim in days of promise decades ago
that the promise would be short-lived?
But
you would’ve said “yes” anyway,
wouldn’t you?
You would’ve said “yes” to limited years and brief days
so as not to miss the chance at love,
so as not to miss the chance to call
with your soft voices to
children listening for you two
from heaven and across the sea
“Come to me,” you summoned,
as they ran into your world and hearts
and home.
Who
would’ve known?
Another folder holds poetry written for
us by old church friends at a going away party before moving to Chicago from
Virginia, like this adaption from Judith Viorst poem, “When Hannah Moved Away,”
aptly changed to “Since the Mackillops Moved Away”:

The
tires on my bike are flat.
The sky is grouchy grey.
At least it sure feels like that
Since the MacKillops moved away.

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes.
December’s come to stay.
They’ve taken back the Mays and Junes
Since the MacKillops moved away.

Flowers
smell like halibut.
Velvet feels like hay.
Every handsome dog’s a mutt
Since the MacKillops moved away.

Nothing’s
fun to laugh about.
Nothing’s fun to play.
They call, but I won’t come out
Since the MacKillops moved away.
How
do you file goodbyes?
The folders also include the hard stuff. Paperwork from
my grandfather’s estate when I served as the executrix 20 years ago tells a
heart-wrenching story with its inclusion of a legal document signed by my troubled father saying he understood he was being cut of the will. My father’s signature
offers memories of him in better days with its lovely and elegant curves. I hold
the paperwork in my hand, wondering whether I keep the painful reminder,
recycle it, or burn it in the fireplace. Reverently I return the folder to the
drawer.

How
do you file heartache?

The files tell a story of success and failure.
Degrees earned. Writing rejections received. Relationships lost. Children and
friendships celebrated. Sons departing for other states.
I begin most days in this room, fighting the persuasive
call of Facebook and email in order to begin my day with silent prayer—for me,
for others. I write at the computer, review manuscripts for work, or exercise with
weights or an exercise ball. I live life in between these four walls in this
small room.
Tossing out unneeded documents and ordering the
files and books suddenly makes living here more calming for me, not only
because I can find things in their neat folders and places on the shelves but because
I’ve found articles and pieces of my life I want to remember forever. I need
every person represented here, whether in my address books, pictures, letters,
notes, journals. I need the writing samples to show me how I started awkwardly on
this journey of honing a craft so that I continue down that road of editing, revising,
listening, recording and telling stories until I take my last breath.  
I cleaned out the space to make room for new
projects and more of life, to fit in all the future holds. But the space feels
so full today I can hardly imagine forcing one more picture into the albums, stuffing
one more note into a folder, sandwiching one more book between the others on
the shelf without overcrowding these very full and sacred walls.

Review of The Year of Small Things

The older I get, the more I find myself hungry for a simple, downwardly-mobile, radical lifestyle, one that honors and cares for the least of these and the hurting, and one that finds my husband and me living in strong community with other people of faith. I also secretly wish to be the person who sold everything and moved to the inner city like the people who are my heroes. But my husband’s job is out here in a Chicago suburb. We’re planted here.

Then along comes Sarah Arthur’s and Erin Wasinger’s book, The Year of Small Things, telling how they worked to apply these very principals – the principals of new monasticism – while living in the suburbs.
New monasticism focuses on America’s forgotten urban centers
while forming intentional Christian communities, as defined by the authors. The
Arthurs came from a background of intentional living in North Carolina where
they attended grad school at Duke. They spent years showing hospitality to the
marginalized and the stranger in the inner city while sharing their meals,
possessions and living space with others. After a move to the suburbs to answer
a call to pastor a church, Sarah and her husband Tom struggled to apply
their former lifestyle to their new living situation in a homogenous suburban
neighborhood where the folks all seem to be fine.
When they met the Wasingers, the families discovered their common passion
and life philosophies. They decided to meet
weekly, sharing their lives with brutal accountability, and creating a covenant
to apply one principal a month of radical Christian living and new monasticism
to their lives in that place where they lived.

 The result included some successes and some
challenges. The authors
offer much grace and much confession about their own awkward fits and starts on
their journey, giving readers the same grace and permission to work through a
new, simple lifestyle marked by generosity to others and hospitality, and care for the earth, all while  living in an accountable community.

Underneath many of our lives lies a hunger for this kind of
radical call to shake up the status quo. The
Year of Small Things could be transformative in so many ways, to so many people, in so
many places despite just offering “small things” to do. The book is a great read for individuals,
couples, or small groups interested in a life resembling the early church.
“We’re pretty sure we’re not changing the world. But we’re
letting God change us, which in turn points us toward the change already
happening in our church and city. One small thing at a time.”

 

Well-Acquainted with Grief

“Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop on the heart until, against our will, in our own despair, comes wisdom from the awful grace of God.”

~ Aeschylus

I collect certain people. Pack them into life’s travel bag, looking them up at the first sign of hardship and pain. I speed dial them in search of the comfort brought by their voices and presence.

These are my friends who are well-acquainted with grief.

 Grief tumbles off the page when I look at the assaults on their lives. Suicide of a parent. The death of a brother to AIDS.  Brain tumor in a grandson. Painful marriages and divorces. Emotional, physical and sexual abuse. Tragic death of a child. Painful betrayal by trusted people. But they have taken pain captive, these strong ones, looked it straight in the eyes, and gifted others with hard won comfort because grief talks to grief.
I seek out members of this tribe during my own seasons of struggle.
They display strength in the worst moments of life while remaining gentle and empathetic enough to respond to the pain they see in the rest of us. The hard moments leave a mark, but that mark isn’t named bitterness, or self-pity, or cold-heartedness.
Not everyone manages this feat.

One friend opened her farmhouse to strangers over the past year. The family of a man suffering from a brain aneurysm needed a place to stay while he received treatment in a nearby hospital far from their home. My friend soothed this frightened and hurting family, hosting them for two weeks during their season of turmoil, introducing them to horses, goats, chickens, and a paddle boat on the pond. Wonderful distractions from the worry.

The visit would not end well.
The young mom would find herself an unexpected widow, and her children would find themselves fatherless. My friend offered all she had – her
kindness and prayers and her home situated away from the sterile hospital environment. They fed the animals, paddle-boated on the pond, romped through the fields.
It’s messy to step into someone else’s loss. Words fail us, coming slowly. We feel awkward, unsure. But a person well-acquainted with grief knows what the hurting long to hear.
 Nearly 50 years ago when Martin Luther King was assassinated, riots erupted throughout the country. But one man, well-acquainted with grief himself, calmed an Indianapolis crowd in a poor section of the city. The crowd waited to hear Presidential candidate Robert Kennedy, but they hadn’t heard yet about King’s assassination. Kennedy shared the news with them, connecting to the crowd by referencing his own pain experienced after the death of his brother, President John F. Kennedy. Then he recited one of his favorite poems:
Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
until, in our own despair,
against our will,
comes wisdom
through the awful grace of God.  ~ Aeschylus
Many other American cities burned that night after King was killed. But calm descended on Indianapolis. Kennedy’s grief spoke to their grief, helping to usher in calm.
Eventually we all experience loss and grief. No one gets out of this life without scars. Some lives just seem more battered than others. But I love these battered people with all their beautiful wounds and scars and wide-open hearts that have eyes to see and ears to hear the sometimes unspoken pain in others.“A man of sorrows, well-acquainted with grief.” My favorite description of the Incarnate God, unflinching in the face of hardship and death.  These folks emulate Him.

 

 

A Broken Furnace Vs. Homelessness

Whine. Whine. Whine.

My furnace went out this week. I woke up Monday, just as my husband’s car pulled away to take him to Southern California for five days, noticing the house was a bit chilly. And silent. The furnace wouldn’t come on. No problem. I’d call our Heating and Air Conditioning service, and they’d have it fixed by lunchtime.

“I’m afraid this is going to be really expensive,” the repairman told me.My roll-with-the-punches smile drooped. “Like how much?”

“Like, you might as well buy a new one, because I’ll charge you $1000.000 to fix this and it might break down again in February. It’s 15-years old. But if you want a new one, furnaces are on backorder. It might be a week.”

“A week!” The forecast predicted temps below zero for the next couple of days. So much for heat by lunchtime. “How do I keep my pipes from freezing?”
“Electric heaters.”
Fears of a house fire danced through my head. I told him to order the furnace after consulting with my hubby. The Heating service found a non-emergency customer willing to let me have their slot on Wednesday. I could manage without warmth for several days.
For three days, I moved space heaters from room to room, stoked the fire in living room, and slept with a pile of blankets over me. The
bone cold air clung to my clothes even when I went into work for a few hours. I wondered how people lived this way centuries ago. Not only was my body cold, but the walls exuded cold. The dishes were freezing when I went to make a cup of coffee. The shower tiles were frozen even after a hot shower. The floors were unspeakably cold.
I wore a down vest over my clothes with a scarf around my neck and my bathrobe topping off that lovely ensemble. To comfortably read in front of the fire, I wrapped blankets around all those layers and still felt chilled. Forty-six degrees, the thermostat on the space heater read in the mornings.
In addition to the cold, I continued to worry about burning down the house. Did I know how to use the fire extinguisher? Would we die in our sleep? So much to lose if the space heater shorted. Those senior pictures of my sons framed and hanging on the walls. All their sweet notes written to me over 25-30 years. The oil painting of my father when he was a handsome teenager. His wallet and watch in my top dresser drawer – the only possessions I hold of his. A lifetime worth of letters and cards stashed in the trunk at the foot of my bed. Souvenirs from my lifetime.
And then I worried about the paperwork. A fire would destroy all the important papers on file, the list of passwords that keep us running efficiently, the computers with so much stored information and writing projects. Possessions and information and data complicated our lives. Their destruction would complicate it even more.
The birds of the air do it without sowing or reaping or gathering into barns. No accumulated belongings piling up, at risk of destruction by fire. They depend on their Creator who provides for all their needs.
By Wednesday afternoon, the house was warm again, despite 10 degree weather outside. I gladly wrote out a check, and invited my son to a celebratory dinner at a favorite
Italian restaurant in the next town. I parked the warm and toasty car, grateful for a parking space close to the entrance, providing a quick run to get inside the warm building.
Then I noticed the bundle of possessions on the sidewalk outside an empty storefront. A roller suitcase. A pile of bags and some
blankets. And then the blankets moved.
 “Is someone in there?” I asked Kenzie.
Someone was camped on that freezing cold cement for the night, backed up against the frozen storefront walls. We walked to the restaurant, and tears warmed my cold cheeks. We ordered our dinner, and I ordered an extra pizza to go. “With lots of meat. Meat might keep them warm.”
“Hope they’re not a vegetarian,” Kenzie said, as new customers walked to their seat carrying the freezing cold outdoor air thick on their clothing.
On our way to our warm car, which would take us to our warm house, I stopped and greeted the bundle of blankets, offering them a pizza. “And here’s some napkins on top,” I said.
Eyes peered at me through goggles worn for protection from the cold wind. And then the bundle spoke.
A woman.
She expressed exuberant thanksgiving, and we left for our car. I drove away, watching her bury her head in the pizza box, wondering about the birds of the air, sowing and reaping and eating.

 

A Non-Heated Discussion about Race and Violence

There we were, an interracial, intergenerational group of
about twenty something people represented by Caucasian, Asian, African
Americans and Hispanics, huddled in a large circle in the basement of a pub, having
a rational discussion about the hot button topic of race and violence in
America from a perspective of faith. We were attending part two of a discussion
on this highly emotional topic, and likely there will be a part three, based on
the way the conversation grew in vibrancy and ended too soon. 

We managed to keep emotions in check, but we also had to
admit to the presence of an elephant in the middle of the room, with its large
trunk and body nearly tipping over food plates and drinks, evidenced by the way
the conversation began awkwardly, tentatively, with a palpable fear of
offending someone else in the meeting.  
We touched on Affirmative Action, Christians appearing
condescending when we want to help, the need for whites to give up their power,
show mercy and build relationships rather than appear as the “white saviors.”
I left the talk with more questions than I arrived with, and
I don’t consider myself someone unengaged from this issue. I searched for any
hidden motives on my part for why I give, why I care, why I try and build
bridges to be part of the solution rather than the problem. But this
conversation turned in directions I didn’t anticipate.
Many years ago I read an article in ByFaith Magazine by a
former New Orlean’s pastor, Mo
Leverett, who spent decades in the poorest housing project in that city,
investing in the lives of its residents. In the article, he challenged the
church to “get their uniforms dirty” by serving the poor and under resourced.
The analogy is based on his love of baseball as a child and how the greatest
shame for him would be to walk off the field at the end of the day with a clean
uniform. He wanted to slide into home plate, covering himself in dirt and feel
proud that he had behaved like a warrior.
For years, I’ve held onto Mo’s article and returned to it
again and again, feeling his words to be a call to the church.
At Pub Talk, we touched on the church coming into the city
bearing gifts as opposed to just giving a check. Personally, I struggled with
the idea of giving checks only and forgoing the relational aspect of ministry.
But to quote Mo, “I’ve heard people say, ‘I don’t want to just write a check, I
want to get my hands dirty.’ But it’s a good idea to start by writing checks.”
In the book, When
Helping Hurts by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert, the authors address the
issue of the church (and the government) hurting the very people they are
trying to help. We may have good intentions, but we bring naiveté to ministry and
service which inflicts harm sometimes. Pub Talk was a brief forum for educating
both sides and creating a dialogue among people committed to helping rather than
hurting.
The Caucasians in the group were challenged to consider why
we want diverse churches, why we want to go into the inner city and partner
with minority churches. We were told Black and Hispanic churches don’t look
around on Sunday mornings, wringing their hands, wondering why more white folks
aren’t joining them.  This perspective
felt unsettling to me, and I woke the next morning wondering why I felt so
troubled. I had to do some soul searching, and came to the conclusion
interracial services feel so powerful because they are the very representation
of reconciliation, and not an example of lording power over someone else. They
represent the whole Kingdom of God,
which is not exclusively white.  
We need these discussions because minorities need to know
many people care and want to live intentionally in their communities as friends
and neighbors. Folks want to share in their experiences, seek justice, and show
mercy in any way possible. And Caucasians need to know our help can be
perceived as condescending. Despite the misunderstandings, we need more
awkward, elephant-in-the-room conversations until we uncover the misconceptions
and wounds.
Despite being an amicable group of people who came together over
a common passion, some misunderstandings arose. And if a group of folks
intentionally seeking racial reconciliation could feel a bit out of sorts, then
how much more difficult would it be for people outside our circle to engage in
productive conversation?
Talks are hard work. Listening is hard work. But both are oh
so necessary. 

Longings Never Cease

My son returned from three and a half years in the Peace
Corps and has been living in our home as he searches for the new pieces needed
to rebuild his life here. We are watching his roller coaster adjustment, and
he’s filled with the emotions predicted by the Peace Corps before he ever left
this country all those years ago.
“The return is rough,” he heard from numerous people.    
We’ve all expected his adjustment to be hard, so his father
and I move in close, then slip into the background over and over, trying to
delicately find the balanced dance that will allow him to heal and live here
with a new, bilingual heart that now beats in both English and Macedonian.
And this mother’s heart wants to tell him the pain will
subside, the longings will cease. He’ll move on, and all those people he fell
in love with in those simple mountainous villages will drift into his memory
along with the Call to Prayer he heard chiming throughout the day.
Kenzie with his good friend, Nikola.
But I’m too familiar with longing to know those words would
be false.
I’ve never lived overseas, and the places I long for are
accessible by a very long car drive, but I may never live there again. As a
born and bred New Englander, I feel haunted by shadows of antique coastal towns
with sea kissed breezes, but it’s likely I’ll only return for the occasional
visit rather than the four-seasoned life. Not impossible, but unlikely.  
 Two men playing chess in the mountains
I miss the gentrified Virginia city of Richmond where we
spent eleven years and where one of my sons has found and built a satisfying
life. Some days, I drive imagined roads of the city and remember the rising curves
and falls, so different than these Illinois flatlands. I remember the lilting sounds
of Southern accents and the history so foreign to this Yankee girl.
But living in any place for an extended period of time seems
to invite us to adopt the local history as our own, because who really owns
history anyway?
And even more than places, I long for people who have
passed. People who strongly shaped me and my memories, for better and for
worse. Some days I’d love to tell them how it all turned out, how I healed, how
life became okay. Instead of speaking, I dream of them, engaging in one-sided
conversations from my imagination and wake in tears as I recount the dreams to
my husband.
Kenzie’s original host family. They remain close friends.
So my son will long for friends, for a gentle culture, for
family-centered community that he experienced in Macedonia with many he now
considers “brothers.” He engaged and connected with the unrest from their nation’s
past and now carries their lives within as he makes his new way. 
His longings are invisible to most, but they’re living with
a raw power beneath the surface. The most we can do is walk this painful road
with him, enjoy the memories he chooses to share, encourage him to visit, and watch as he takes their history on as own.
But likely this longing will never cease.

  

An Unlikely Friendship

I loved this article in the recent issue of Time magazine about the relationship between Bill
Clinton and the Bush family. In an era of hostility from both sides of the aisle, this cover
story painted such a picture of grace shown by both men. The article tells how these former
presidents show acts of kindness to each other, even while maintaining their
differences.

Imagine.

When George H. W. Bush
left office after a difficult campaign, he left a gracious note for Bill
Clinton as he began his presidency: “You will be our president when you read
this note. I am rooting hard for you.” Bush had Clinton as a guest
at Kennebunkport, Maine. Bill Clinton escorted Barbara Bush to Betty Ford’s
funeral. George W. Bush and Clinton rib each other and show far more understanding toward each other than the general public often offers.  

Is it just me or do we only hear of the animosity between
politicians?
We have become so partisan and uncivilized in our discussions that
I doubt any of us on any side have maintained the power to persuade. Our
postings on Facebook remind me of people standing nose-to-nose, screaming their
views, but never listening, never caring, never respecting the thinking behind
someone’s stance, often assuming there is no thinking. This isn’t a call for us all to be the same, but could we learn to be respectful in our disagreeing?
At times, I’ve wondered what would happen if all my Facebook friends
were forced into the same room. Would World War III break out, or would we
learn some diplomacy? It’s so easy to write a snarky, disrespectful comment
online, but it’s a little more difficult to do so when looking into someone’s
eyes as you sit across the table from them.
Must we demonize? Must we name call?
Here is a question for all us: When was the last time we
invited “the opposition” into our home for a meal, or asked them to coffee,
just to build a relationship? I suspect for
many of us our panic sets in that we might be compromising our values or
sending the message that we endorse their stances. But if we sat
down for coffee together, could we possibly use diplomacy to find common ground and grow respect for the passion behind
the other person’s views?
Our leadership today certainly models this name-calling
and disrespect. Perhaps the behind-the-scenes relationships are far warmer than
we’re allowed to witness, but we don’t know for sure. We have dysfunctional
leaders who have bred dysfunctional kids. That’s us. We model their behavior by
believing we must say nasty things, assuming anyone who doesn’t think like us
is “an idiot” or “evil.”
That behavior is bad for the country, as Clinton states in the
Time article.
As most of us know about dysfunctional families and systems,
they are generational. The next generation has been barred from seeing healthy
disagreement and debate, which results in more unproductive arguments and
battles—like gridlock, and elected officials who can’t get along. Then, as the
product of this dysfunctional system, we model that behavior in how we speak and
treat one another.
More bad for the country.
So I propose a solution. What if George H.W. Bush or Bill Clinton invited all
of us dysfunctional kids to Kennebunkport or New York for 
a good old fashioned family visit? Either we would learn to find some
commonality amidst the differences—building some unlikely friendships—or World War III would break out. Anyone game?

The Listing of a Year-Long Health Crisis

 

June 2014
Healthy and active gym member
New seizure medication
Severe muscle pain
ER, MRI, CAT scan, x-rays
No diagnosis
Ice pack hidden under scarves at work
Chiropractor, primary care physician, neurologist
August 2014
Pain continues
Useless over-the-counter meds and muscle relaxers
Work at 8 a.m. sharp
Numbness in arms and legs, vertigo, jackhammer tapping in ears
Unable to hold books without limbs going numb
September 2014
Pain continues
Writing packet due to graduate mentor
Heating pads hidden under scarves at work
Pain in sitting; pain in lying down
Reruns of Law and Order while
standing until 1 a.m.
Debilitating dizziness
ER again
Massage therapy
EMG, blood tests
Scary blood test results
Rheumatologist
Tested positive for scleroderma (elephantitis, The Elephant Man disease. Like
the movie, like the play)
Reading due for grad program
Work at 8:00 a.m.
Grateful for legs that move pain-free 
during a walk
Scared and sleepless
Reruns of Law and Order
November 2014

Pain and stress continue
Son arrives home from overseas
Exhaustion
Oxycotin please? Nope.
Change seizure medication
Cancel gym membership for the first time in 20 years.
A second positive test for schleroderma, The Elephant Man disease
Remember gratitude:
Healthy eyes absorbing snow covered trees outside
Healthy ears to absorb music
Kind friends joining me in the ER
And the sound of sons laughter during a visit
Legs that walk pain-free
A sweet, concerned husband
A meal cooked by a thoughtful neighbor
The prayers of many, near and far
December 2014
Everlasting pain?
Heating pads tied to head and neck
Four more MRIs
Walk in the snow like a slow old woman
Magnesium, epsom salts, vitamin B, special diet
More Law and Order re-runs
Work at 8 a.m.
Christmas shopping in pain
Generous co-workers donate vacation time
Christmas in bed
Disheartened, worried, scared, distracted
Stranger in the mirror
Copyedits due for graduate thesis
January 2015
Pain continues
Unable to sit, even in doctor’s office
Third test for Schleroderma. Negative!
Hopeful words from the rheumatologist: “Someday you’ll slowly walk out of
this.”
A laugh
A smile
Hope
Intermittent Family Medical Leave from work.
March 2015
Decreasing pain    
Three steps forward, two and a half steps back
Toxic seizure med clearing my system
Muscles returning to normal
Finish graduate thesis
May 2015
A new chiropractor. Occupational therapy. Physical therapy.
Three steps forward, two steps back
Pain-free sitting, standing, lying down
Three steps forward, one step back
July 2015
The end in sight
Grateful.

WORK

 
“All work is honorable.” 
– Bill MacKillop

 
During my college years, I prepared
to go to work at the midnight hour while my roommates prepared for bed by climbing
under their warm blankets and turning off the light. Sunday through Thursday
evenings, I packed up supplies for my graveyard shift job and left the house at
11:45 p.m with 8 hours worth of food and books for studying. I drove the empty
roads of Tallahassee with darkness serving as my only companion, except for the
occasional glow of a television set coming from passing homes, or street lights
illuminating my way. At work, I answered phones all night long at an answering
service for doctor’s offices, plumbers, and AAA. 
Without this income, a higher education
would have been out of reach for me. I accepted the position because it allowed
me to be a full-time employee while attending college full-time by offering the
opportunity to study on the job. Phones don’t ring constantly in the wee hours
of the night. 
As
a former graveyard shift worker, I’ve always loved Edward Hopper’s painting,
“Nighthawks,” even before American Family Insurance brought it to life in a
commercial. The lonely darkness outside that diner resonates with me, as do the
individuals inside, reminding me of my own isolated nights on empty streets,
passing empty businesses where the employees had locked up and gone to a
comfortable home for the night. Alone with my dreams of an easier day. Dreams
propelled my younger self forward when sleep eluded me and classes required my
presence at 9 a.m.
Maybe
I’m injecting dreams into the subjects of the painting, but I wonder if the man
with his back to us is looking at want ads for a job. Maybe the counter help wanted
to open his own restaurant, but couldn’t afford the investment. The couple on
the far side of the diner has no place they need to be and lounge around,
drinking coffee in the midnight hours. The darkened building across the street
from the diner hints of ghosts who only came out during the daylight bustling
business hours.
And
maybe dreams aren’t the subject at all. Maybe the counter help loves serving
folks, making small talk, feeling a connection with customers. Maybe the guy
with his back to us just got off work at a hospital and needs some downtime
before going home. But I tend to attribute dreams to people, because so often I
hear those dreams and longings expressed in conversations. 
A few months ago, our pastor did a
sermon series on work, telling of the many people who arrive in his office for
counseling around their unsatisfying work situation. Sometimes people feel a
call to a very different life than the one they’re living, and they’re
confused. They’re desperate for change, longing for the opportunity to do this other thing, follow that other passion. He counsels
people to look at their jobs as “the economic engine” that allows them to
pursue an art, a passion, schooling, whatever.
For others, the economic engine provides
the opportunity to buy airline tickets to visit loved ones, live without
financial stress, contribute to worthy causes with generosity, etc. For me,
working full-time from midnight to eight in the morning, forty hours a week
during college, provided the economic engine to earn a degree.
But let’s talk about dreams. Not all
hard work guarantees our dreams come true. How many folks really land in the
perfect fitting job for a lifetime? I graduated from college, and eventually
found a job as a television engineer, but I wouldn’t count that as my dream job. All those graveyard shifts
and middle of the night studying failed to produce the path I created in my
mind. But was the work on my part just a waste? I think not. An education is
never wasted. Eventually, I stayed home and raised my sons. Now, that was my dream job. But the sons grew
up and moved away, and I needed to find different work. And the cycle
continued.
Work arrived in the very beginning,
according to the book of Genesis. There was a lush garden and the inhabitants
were told to work the garden – for their benefit. Then that nasty little
incident happened with the apple, resulting in banishment from the garden to go
and work and cultivate the fields forever more outside paradise.
But to the unemployed, would
banishment to work the fields sound all that bad?
Yes, if working the fields meant you
now had thistles and weeds to battle, and poor yields, invading storms, etc.
Haven’t we all experienced those weeds and thistles in the form of unresponsive
management, poor quality products, boring work tasks, shortage of needed funds,
hard work that never seems to bare the kind of fruit you imagined when you
accepted the job?
My husband and I often find
ourselves talking with people about their lack of work, unsatisfying work,
make-do work, and tenuous work—those jobs someone would never choose for
themselves, but that are needed to pay bills for a season. All those pesky
weeds and thistles. Many of us will likely have a season where we must make
ends meet in ways that are less than fulfilling.  So we share the quote above, that all work is
honorable (as long as it’s legal!), especially when someone feels demeaned by
their circumstances. It’s honorable to work at an answering service, in a
restaurant, or a warehouse, or office. It’s honorable to work in a home and
care for a family, forgoing a paycheck. It’s honorable to show up and do
something—sometimes anything—that is deemed productive and helpful in some
capacity.
Everyone should be honored for being
helpful.
What does it say about our work
values if people feel demeaned in certain positions? Recently, I’ve met a limo
driver who was a veterinarian in Poland and a lab tech worker in a hospital who
was a cardiologist in Lithuania. Talk about being overqualified for your jobs.
But I did not detect bitterness because sometimes the work isn’t the only dream
people hold.
Not only is all work honorable, but
work is necessary. We need the workers and positions out there to keep a
country and a world moving, to keep folks fed, and healed, and taught. But we often
morph work into something else: our identity, our place in the sun, our
satisfaction. Bertrand Russell once said, “One of the symptoms of an
approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly
important.”  
But work is important, with the right perspective and a sense of balance. Ask
anyone who hasn’t been able to find work. Ask about their empty days, the hours
that feel endless, the repetitiveness of getting up and watching the hands on
the clock go by while cars pass your house filled with drivers, coffee mug in
hand, traveling to their jobs.
I
know those feelings because my husband has experienced the punch-in-the-gut
experience of unemployment, the phone call announcing your company has been
sold, gone under, decided to downsize, that takes your breath away momentarily
as your son’s college tuition bill passes through your mind. But Bill learned
to stay busy during those brief seasons. He learned to find meaning, to find
“work” that didn’t necessarily provide a paycheck but gave him a purpose at the
start of the day after the coffee pot had been drained. He worked on friends’
houses or on our house, mentored young men, job hunted, and met in a huddle
with neighbors from the high-tech field who found themselves in the same
uncertain season. He just stayed busy.
Leo Tolstoy had it right when he said,
“A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to
people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it
done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature,
books, music, love for one’s neighbor — such is my idea of happiness.”
             If you are one of those folks who find your
job meets with your passion and giftedness, you are blessed indeed. For the
rest of us, there can be a paycheck, there can be joy – or not. But some task that
includes “work which one hopes may be of some use,” now there’s a goal we can
all attain.