Where You Do Not Wish to Go

It occurred to me that I threw out this statement at the beginning of my last post, and never truly unpacked it.

"I don't know that I'm the same person who wrote in June."

Well, I'm still a 50 year old woman, I'm still a pastor, I'm still a mother of two adult-type young people, I'm still in a relationship with my Beloved, still living in the same place, etc, etc.

And I still have an aging father with health concerns.

But now I am his caregiver, in many very tangible ways. For better or for worse, the reversal of roles that is often threatened, resisted, bemoaned between adults and their elderly parents--- it has happened. It is, more or less, complete.

I have made decisions for my dad (with my brother's help, of course) that he was not able to make for himself in the last year.

The week he was in the hospital was probably the most frightening week of my life. I awakened every morning an hour or more before the alarm, my heart racing. "I'm not ready for this" ran through my head on a continuous loop. "If only" was a close second in frequency, though my wise Beloved helped me to stop that in short order.

At the point at which I was told he would need rehab, I knew with complete clarity what had to be done. He needed to be near me. I couldn't imagine him in a rehabilitation facility with no family nearby to stop in daily, to encourage him, to let him know he wasn't alone. My brother agreed, and it was done. One day, in a very lucid moment, even my dad agreed, though the narrative has shifted since for him. He is convinced that he was kidnapped.

I imagine that's exactly how it felt. One day in a life he knew intimately, in a house he'd inhabited for about thirty years, with a view that was etched on his heart, and all his memories encircling him like a blanket. The next, in a completely new place, with, sure, some photos on the wall of children, grandchildren, himself and my mother. But even more than that: with the dramatic loss of ability.  He went from being able to walk (with great difficulty) unassisted, to needing a walker and/ or a wheelchair, and assistance from nurses and aides. He needs to wear a webbed transfer belt whenever he needs to stand and move himself (with help) from one place to another.

"Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.”

So my dad has had to go where he does not wish to go, and so, in total honesty, have I. I now have a host of responsibilities, financial, legal, medical, and moral that perch somewhat uncomfortably on my shoulders. But this is my life now, and this is my role.

I try to see my dad at least every other day. I was going daily, but a good friend (who happens to be the chaplain at the facility where dad is living) told me that it might actually help the transition for me to give dad a day in between. So I do.

The learning curve for me in terms of what my dad's dementia means is steep. I was recently truly shocked to find that a move from one end of a hallway to another end of an adjacent hallway was utterly confusing and anxiety provoking for him. I was also not shocked, but surprised, to learn that he conveys more happiness and contentment with his situation to the staff and other residents than he does to me. The family, it appears, hears the unhappiness. I'm the safe person, and I'm also the person who might be able to help.

I think the biggest change for me, though, has been one of attitude. Before his hospitalization I spent a lot of time feeling very frustrated with my dad, even angry, at his unwillingness to make changes. Once he had his fall, once the clarity came, it's as if I had an attitude transplant. Now, the whole point is, is he ok? Is he being well-cared-for? Is he happy? Or, is his unhappiness something I can help with? Or, perhaps this: Can I at least hear his unhappiness, let him know he has been heard?

In a strange way all this trauma has brought my dad and me closer to one another. I know he no longer considers me a meddling kid who's trying to cramp his style, though I suspect he has discomfort with the role reversal (as have I). But we are both trying, struggling, muddling through, even though life has taken us where neither of us wanted to go.

What's Been Up

I don't know that I'm the same person who wrote in June.

But that is probably a good thing.

In the middle of July my dad had "the fall." The one I had been hoping we could avoid, if only... Well, as Beloved told me when I called from the hospital in New Jersey, the time for "if only" is past, and the time for "what's next?" has arrived.

What came next for my dad:

A week in the hospital.

Several weeks of rehab in a wonderful facility in my town--midway, as it happened, between my work and my home. He loved it. He loved the people. He  loved the food. He loved Physical Therapy.

Then, the flood. A fairly terrifying (though very well-executed) evacuation from Wonderful Facility to another place--place that, like all subsequent places, would be compared (unfavorably) to Wonderful Facility.

A week later, a move to another wonderful Assisted Living facility.

Three weeks later (we're in late September now), two hospitalizations, one after another, for undiagnosed episodes of unconsciousness that resulted in our being told that dad need a skilled nursing facility.

Finally, an move to said facility, the dementia unit, because that seems to be progressing rapidly.

Dad is doing ok. He is at that stage in which he knows something is wrong ("Will I ever get my brain back?"), and is distressed about it. He can no longer walk unassisted by either a walker or helpers. He is encouraged to be as independent as he can, but help is a buzz away. He is encouraged to take part in all manner of activities, which he does, they tell me, with a very open and fun-loving nature.

When I see him, what comes through is his sadness and distress.

Today I am several hundred miles away, at Petra's Parents Weekend, the first of her college career. As of a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling fairly burned out by an intense summer of transitions and my new role as caregiver for my dad. On top of all this, my church was affected by the flood, both to our physical structure (many thousands of dollars  in damage, plus damage or total loss to the homes of many members) and to our lives as a community. I had cut my study leave short in the summer (when my dad had his fall), and Beloved and I had cancelled our September vacation together, scheduled as it had been immediately after the flood.

I learned of a conference in a city roughly halfway between my town and Petra's college. I signed up for it. And so I took three days of study leave, followed by three days of vacation. I am on day five of my time away, sipping a skim latte in the coolest coffeehouse I've ever found. (Petra tells me I've logged enough hours here to officially be considered a student.) We will meet (for her breakfast and my lunch) in a little while.

Tomorrow I will drive home, to my Beloved and my church community, and, energized, I will begin preparations for Reign of Christ/ Thanksgiving Sunday.

Next time: Life with Petra in the Land of the White Squirrel

So Many New Days

As I write this the ink is just about dry on Governor Andrew Cuomo's signature on the bill legalizing marriage between persons of the same sex. And in just fifteen days, the Presbyterian Church (USA)'s newly constituted Book of Order will go into effect, including Amendment 10-A, of which I have spoken/ written before.

So, now GLBTQ persons may marry whom they will in the state of New York. And there is no anti-gay litmus test in the PC(USA) Book of Order.

It's like waking up in an alternate universe.

Did I mention that today is Beloved's and my anniversary, of the "date, not a date"? Seven years since the beginning of what has become... so much more than words can express.

I am most truly blessed.

Ahead: preaching, Petra's high school graduation, and dinner with the whole (local) family. It is a new day.

Where Do I Begin...

"...to tell the story of how great a love can beeeeee...."

Oops. I thought it was 1970 and I was in a movie theater in Fort Lauderdale seeing "Love Story."

Well, since we talked last, much has happened.

Lent ended, Easter came. Thanks be to God.

Holy Week this year was a deeply satisfying experience for me... which I know is a possibly-missing-the-point thing to say. We offered the full range of services for the first time since I have been at St. Stoic, from a beautiful and moving Palm Sunday cantata, through a wonderful (and better attended than recently) Maundy Thursday Service, the already-discussed Good Friday Service, and then another first: an Easter Sunrise service, before the regular Festive Easter Service.

Whither my deep satisfaction? Well, for one thing, offering the full banquet. Holy Week is a narrative, a very particular story being spun, and to leave out any significant chunk (Good Friday????) is to leave out a part of the story. And, yes, I know, not everyone came to every service. Just like not everyone is handy with a socket wrench. The fullness of the story was told to the community-- the narrative was shared in its entirety, which means the Good News got out to the whole body. And as the pastor, that felt really wonderful. It felt as if it is something I want to make sure continues to happen.

As Easter approached, I was certainly skeptical that my own enthusiasm had resulted in my grossly over-committing myself. I worried that I might feel resentful if the Sunrise service, for instance, were to have only a handful attending. In situations like this, my rule is: Lower those expectations! So, I made 20 bulletins for Sunrise, which represented a "wildest dreams" number for attendees. We had 22 people... which felt absolutely great.

So we offered the fully monty, banquet, smorgasbord for Holy Week.

A week later, we did Holy Hilarity, which, unbeknownst to me, also served as the occasion for a surprise birthday party (for a Big Round Number). It was beautiful, fun, funny, and so very touching. I really am lucky, blessed, whatever you'd like to call it. Life is good.

On the  Petra front: after having accepted the offer from my alma mater, Petra learned she'd made it to the top of the waiting list for Way Cool College. She was (is) overjoyed. She will be in the land of the white squirrel. She recently went to Prom with her boyfriend of about five months, whom I'm trying not to love too much (don't want to exert the dreaded mom-pressure). But he is pretty awesome-- nearly as awesome as my girl.

On the Dad front-- mostly un-bloggable, often difficult, but also filled with little rays of light that worm their way in through the cracks, as they will. Mostly I'm trying to see him as the fragile person he is, and appreciate him for the dad he has been.

On the Beloved front: all is good. Better than. My birthday present will involve a trip later in the summer, which we both need badly.

That's all for now. Nice to see you kids again.

I'm back!

I've started at the private place. But I'll be cooking up a post for here soon, too.

I've missed you!

Evaluating Church

How do we "evaluate" how well (or not) church is "working"?

I realize this is a loaded question for about a trillion reasons. Or, at least three.

1. What business do I have "evaluating" what I believe is the body of Christ?
2. On what basis do I evaluate? Attendance? Atmosphere? Aesthetics? Conversions? New Members? Demographics? Membership increase (or not)?
3. How, exactly, is church supposed to "work"?

Here's what has me thinking along these lines. We had our Maundy Thursday service last night; it consists of Communion (with a meditation) and a Tenebrae Service. So many things go into making this service come together. Seven readers, a choir, the bell choir or bell soloist, weather (because of the space in which we hold it-- light and darkness have a strong impact on the experience), the liturgy itself, choice of preaching passage, the meditation. Some of these things are in my control (I don't include the meditation in that; my sermons are, increasingly, something that seems to happen by another, sub-rational process I probably should address in another post). Some of these things are not in my control.

We started having this service in its current configuration my first year at St. Sociable. Good numbers the first year, slightly fewer attendees the second, fewer still the third. Last evening at 6:50 my thoughts were along the lines of, "We'll see how the numbers are this year, and maybe next year it will be time to try something different." And... the numbers were up. In short, we had a full house, including members of the community who are/ were new to me. Strangers. Glory!

And... the service came together beautifully. I changed up some of the elements of the service, adapting resources from Iona and Janet Morley's wonderful book, All Desires Known. I liked my meditation. I used somewhat unexpected music (unexpected for my congregation). In the end, I left the service feeling that I had worshiped, which doesn't happen automatically when I am in a leadership role.

I am tempted to call that-- the feeling that I worshiped-- a win. Which, I recognize, is only one tiny fraction of the picture, in terms of evaluating. If that's what we're doing.

Today we had a Good Friday service for the first time since I've been at the church. I was ready for painfully tiny numbers, and I was not disappointed. And because a significant part of my role was keeping silence following each of the Seven Last Words... it was a less than worshipful time for me, but my organist came to my office afterward, and whispering, said it was "powerful." She doesn't automatically do that. So, that feels like a win, too, despite the small attendance.

And, sincerely, if there had been just two or three of us, well, I believe Jesus has an opinion on whether that constitutes time spent in his presence.

I guess this is all fuzzy, but I'm in what is probably the most boring and predictable conundrum going for pastors: playing the numbers game, when I suspect numbers are the least helpful way to evaluate whether we have sincerely and thoughtfully tried to open a space for the holy in our little corner of Christ's body.

I'll let you know how Sunday goes.

Stuff's Up

At the other place.

Looking for prayers.