The Agony and Joy of Eating

Food and I have a long history. I realize everyone has a long history with food, being needed for survival and everything, but I have a strange history with food. I can't remember when it started but I have always been very self-conscious about my eating. I think it started with the frustration my picky eating caused my parents and the resulting teasing at the dinner table. I dreaded church dinners and we were active Methodists so there were a lot of church dinners. I would take my place in the line in the Fellowship Hall of our church, pass by the rows of casseroles, jellos and salads quietly, hoping to avoid notice would place one roll on my plate before returning to my seat. I was never successful at avoiding notice. It didn't help that I was a super skinny kid so everyone felt they needed to say something about what was, or wasn't, on my plate. I hated it. I begged my mom not to make me go to Wednesday night Youth Club at our church, not because I didn't like it. I loved the crafts, choir and Bible stories but the dinner time was agony. I never knew if I would get a table parent that would make us all finish what was on our plates and I usually didn't like most of the food.

My poor Lebanese mother. It must have pained her. Hospitality/feeding people is basically the number one moral standard in her side of the family. She tried forcing me to eat things, which meant I spent hours at the dinner table trying to psych myself up to chew and swallow cut up bits of steak. She tried explaining that when she was a kid there was no option, they had to finish all their food, she tried the “starving children in Ethiopia” approach, threats of illness from lack of nutrition, and it never made it easier. In my defense I was a super well behaved kid and almost never got in trouble, but when it came to food I just couldn't be an easy, obedient kid. It was too gross!

My mom did pack me delicious school lunches that were the envy of my classmates. And, even though my lunch was always full of foods I actually liked I can remember many times in first grade not eating any of it. Sometimes I threw the food away, sometimes I brought it home and told my mom we didn't have time to eat and one time I remember telling my teacher my mom forgot to send me with a lunch which ended up eliciting sympathy and attention I did not want. By second grade I ate lunch and starting eating more than a roll at church dinners, but I dreaded the eating part of dating in high school. I wished we could just go to the dance without the dinner beforehand.

Then I became a pastor and a pastor's wife, which meant so many church dinners! I do not dread them like I used to. In fact, I have eaten some great food at church dinners. My husband and I have been hosting gatherings with food at our home once per month ever since we became solo pastors ten years ago and I enjoy it. I enjoy having people over and being social.

That's what has made this summer difficult. Part of my weird relationship with food is my digestive issues. Ever since I can remember I have had a sensitive stomach. At least once per month since some time in high school I wake up in the night with horrible stomach pains and spend an agonizing hour in the bathroom while my family sleeps. While it has helped maintain my weight, I would not recommend it. Every trip I have taken, every time we go to a movie after dinner, every long car drive after a meal has been a gastrointestinal struggle for me. This year I decided I can't keep doing this. I am getting older and need to be more careful with my organs. 

When I was in high school I was diagnosed with IBS, ten years later I had my first colonoscopy and was given the same diagnosis but I was never given any guidance on what to eat. So much has changed in the world of food sensitivities and eating that I decided to see what another doctor thinks.

After blood work, ultrasound and a GI doctor I now have a list of foods I can and can not eat. It is pretty ridiculous. Also, when I stopped eating gluten my stomach pain and headaches noticeably decreased so I'm off that too. There are so many things I can't eat if I want to be kind to my stomach and it is annoying but oh my gosh does my stomach feel better!

But, now I am back to being a socially awkward eater. We all know what it is like to have someone with food allergies or sensitivities over for dinner. It is more complicated and the polite/don't want to cause any trouble part of me hates that. I apologize to waiters for asking if anything has gluten and double checking that nothing I have ordered is fried or cooked in cream.

Being a pastor and a pastor's wife involves a lot of social eating. Which is great, after all the pinnacle of our worship is a sacramental meal of bread and wine (fortunately my church has a gluten-free option). In our world of food sensitivities, diets and allergies we have to somehow hold onto the communal meal as a place where we not only come together in our humanity and shared needs but we experience Christ incarnate and ingest the Holy Spirit. So I will brave the awkwardness, hope that the salad doesn't have ranch or croutons on it and keep trying this difficult thing we call community.

Gelato ... not on my list of "safe foods" but so good

Deep Breath

Last week was a stressful week. On Tuesday morning I woke up to a voicemail from my doctor saying the ultrasound they took to see if my gall bladder was ok showed something on my left kidney. She said it could be benign lipoma or it could be kidney cancer. I have a new phone and a free trial of voicemail-to-text so I stared at that message as my stomach churned and my hands got shaky. I told my husband and we both had so many questions, but I was determined to not Google it since I thought that would stress me out more. I immediately tried calling my doctor, it would be a few hours before I could get a hold of her nurse who could only tell me what was in the message. I tried to get a sense of the likelihood of each possibility but she would only say we had to wait and have a CT scan to find out. I led morning prayer, I cried to my in-laws who were visiting and then I waited.

Just a few days before that, I started reading The Road Back to You by Ian Morgan Cron and Suzanne Stabile. It is about the Enneagram. I had read an Enneagram book before and of course had done the click bait online quiz but the way this book described the type 6 really spoke to me … in a way that made me uncomfortable. It is true that I am a worst-case scenario type thinker. I wish I wasn't and I cringe when I see that “what if” thinking in my kids. But I realized that feeling shame about it or seeing it as a malfunction was not helping me in life. So I was trying to claim it in a positive way, along with my need for assurance and dislike of being alone. I started saying it out loud and finding the ways this type of thinking has helped me in life.

Then I got that message. It was 6 pm before I heard back from my doctor. She said it most likely was not cancer which brought me a lot of relief, but I still had more waiting to do for more reassurance. Wednesday I tried to stay positive but the what if thoughts came. What if it was colon cancer that had metastasized to my kidney (I don't know if that is a medical likelihood but again I refused to Google)? What if I had to tell my kids and they worried about me? The questions popped into my mind at just the right times to tangle my stomach in knots and take away my appetite.

I will say though that I relied on the things that I know calm me down and they worked. Deep breathing exercises for when I felt panic coming on. Conversations with people where I found myself actually talking and thinking about other things. Time outside which always takes a layer of anxiety off my shoulders. Exercise. Prayer and relying on my deep faith that God is always with me.

Thursday morning I was awake much earlier than I needed to be for my CT scan. My husband told me about a call he received in the night, a man from church with two young children whose wife I have befriended, died of colon cancer. We would also find out that day about a beloved church member receiving an unexpected cancer diagnosis.

I went to the CT scan and could barely find my voice to check in at the front desk. As I laid down and put my arm out for the die injection a few tears came down my cheek. I told the very kind radiology tech that I was worried it was cancer and that I have two small kids, she said “I understand, I am a mom.” I went about the day constantly looking at my phone and wondering when I would hear. I took the boys to my mom's swimming pool and set aside my phone so I could lay on a raft shaped like a giant slice of pizza. I just floated along and watched the edges of the clouds, how the pieces of white just evaporated into thin air, and I felt calm.

Friday I woke up and stared at my phone thinking my doctor might call at 7:30 am like she had before. I tried to be patient but called the office a few times until finally at 4 pm I got to talk to my doctor. They were benign lipoma. Follow up is an ultrasound once per year to see if they grow.

Relief. Thank yous to the loved ones keeping vigil with me, to God for staying with me and finally a return of my appetite.

It's hard to post this knowing that others do not get the same good news and that at some point all of our bodies break down and we have to deal with the reality of that. But I will say that as much as I am a type 6 (with all the “what ifs” I have asked and all the worry I do) I showed myself that I can hold it together when I need to. I also saw all of the wonderful people I have in my life who truly care and show me that I am not alone in whatever difficulties life brings.

So now I am back to normal life, except with a few extra medical bills. I recently watched “Right Now” the new Aziz Ansari Netflix stand-up comedy special and in it he talks about how much he appreciates everything more in his life after being confronted with the very real possibility of losing it all. I know that bodies are not perfect, aging takes its toll and there may well be more anxiously awaited test results at some point down the road for me, but right now I gotta say the way the leaves are reflecting the bright sunshine sure is beautiful.

Sustenance

Sermon for Grace and St. Stephen’s 6/30/19 2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14, Luke 9:51-62

 

          A couple of weeks ago I flew to Ohio for my annual conference.  Most of you know that I am a United Methodist pastor and my conference membership is with East Ohio where I grew up and was ordained.  Every other year there is one Episcopal priest who uses a week of his vacation time to go to Ohio and hang out with our kids while I attend conference sessions.  The East Ohio Conference is in the same small community on Lake Erie every year.  In the center of the little town is an auditorium and that is where we have our meetings, worship and ordinations. 

         Tuesday evening I dodged the bugs and entered the humid auditorium in my alb and red stole.  I walked in the procession and found my seat all the while gripping tightly to a beautiful red stole in my hands.  It was handed to me by a young woman who I met 13 years ago when I was fresh out of seminary and serving as an associate pastor.  She was about 14 years old and part of the youth group I oversaw in my role.  Over the years we spent a lot of time together: lock-ins, mission trips, conferences, church events, planning youth group calendars when she became youth group president, long talks about theology, the Bible, faith, struggles … calling.  She graduated, I began pastoring a different church and eventually I was writing seminary recommendations for her … three years later proof reading her paperwork for ordination and then I was sitting there with a red stole on my lap, as she had given me the honor of being the person to go on stage with her, lay hands on her with the Bishop and then place it over her shoulders. 

         At the rehearsal for the service I jokingly said to her “it’s like I’m Elijah and you’re Elisha!” to which she replied “but hopefully without you disappearing on a chariot into the clouds.”  And soon after I did get on a plane and disappeared into the clouds headed back home to Colorado.

         I came back and opened up to the lectionary scriptures for my Sunday to preach and what do I find … the story of Elijah and Elisha.  The passing of the mantle. 

           As I reflected further on this story, particularly in the context of one of our other lectionary scriptures for today- the Gospel reading where Jesus is walking around inviting people to follow him and they are shouting back their excuses- I could hear a clear message of calling and invitation but also in these texts I hear a bold statement about sufficiency. 

           Elijah is a tough act to follow.  Even with the moment of discouragement and despair we read about last week, he stays deeply connected to God, courageously faces powers and rulers equipped only with his assurance of God’s presence and power.  In deep famine he finds sustenance not only for himself but also a widow and her son completely given in to hopelessness.   

         And now Elisha has to carry on, wear Elijah’s mantle, continue his work.  Apart from a similar name, how could he have possible felt prepared for such work?  A life of saying things that people don’t want to hear and having the odds stacked against you.  But, Elisha knows what he needs to do the work ahead.  So he asks for it.  He doesn’t ask for an army, a funding source or even that endless supply of flour and oil that sustained Elijah and the widow.  Instead he asks for that spirit.  Elisha asks Elijah for a double share of his spirit.  Armies get conquered, food fills only until the next meal and fortunes get spent but that spirit,  that deep connection with God, the courage and faith that made miracles, that is what he needs.  Elijah says “ok, but you gotta stick with me until the end.” 

          Elijah soon goes in a whirlwind … but God remains -with Elisha, with prophets after him, with the Holy Spirit and with each of us called in our baptism to do God’s work thousands of years later.  God remains and that spirit carries on.

          And that’s what I saw that night on stage at the ordination, under bright lights standing in front of hundreds of people.  I saw the Holy Spirit, God’s presence with God’s people, carrying on, calling new people in new ways, and providing what we need for building the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. 

          When I went to conference this year I did not have much hope for what would happen.  These are very divisive and uncertain times for The United Methodist Church.  It may be my last conference there and it will almost definitely be the last conference with the denomination looking the way it currently does.  When I entered I saw a lot of retirees, heard a lot of strategizing, agendas and opposing views.   Pillars of the conference have died, many of my mentors have retired and the young people were underrepresented.  And this is not unique to just that area or that denomination.

          While we here at Grace have a vibrant community and so many wonderful faith filled young people, many churches in America are struggling and trying to hold on to what is familiar while realizing that change is inevitable.  In many churches the number of funerals far outnumbers baptisms.

          But God’s spirit is still moving.  God is providing sustenance.  God’s spirit was alive and present at that conference- the young woman I stood on stage with is bold, deeply faithful and courageous in her calling.  And whether or not a denomination changes, she is a reminder to me that God is still at work and providing what we need.

          There is a tradition every year at the end of the ordination service.  The congregation in that big auditorium sits down and sings while some representatives stand at the front.  An invitation is put out for anyone who may feel called by God to ordained ministry to come forward.  And then we wait.  We sing and we wait to see if any brave souls will walk to the front to be prayed over.  I have been worshiping at Episcopal churches long enough to feel a little awkward at this altar-call type experience, but despite initial awkwardness after a few minutes I, like everyone around me had tears down my cheeks.  

          People came forward.  From all walks of life and all ages, they came.  They came not because the church can promise them wealth, security or armies of support, but because they believe that the Spirit calls and sustains us.  And I thought back to many years ago when I was a young teenager and took that awkward walk to the front of the auditorium, in front of all of those people, to say that I felt called to ordained ministry. 

          I thought about what that calling has looked like over the years since then. Some of it has been in church ministry, some of it has been through friendships, volunteer work, parenting and casual conversations.  Some of it has been through loneliness, doubt, depression and uncertainty.  Some of it has been through places I never expected, I didn’t expect that I would be standing here in an Episcopal pulpit in Colorado.  Some of it has been through deeply painful deaths and saying goodbye to the people who supported me.  But all of it has been sustained by that spirit, that spirit of God that moved over creation, passed from Elijah to Elisha and fills this room now. 

          It is that same spirit that we taught the children about one week ago when they filled our space with the songs they learned in Vacation Bible School.  The spirit that enables them to be strong and courageous even when the lions roar.  It is the same spirit that stirs within us when we see injustices that break our hearts in the world.  When we see the faces of children suffering.  The same spirit that moves within us when we are tempted to throw our hands in the air with helplessness, overwhelming guilt, or silencing despair. 

          And this is why Jesus says “follow me.” Because he knows that we can.  He knows the spirit sustains us.  He knows nothing in the world can quench the fire within us.  And so we are called to the difficult places, the pains of the world and the challenges of each day with courage, faith and hope.  Knowing that God is enough and the spirit of God will never leave us.   

Four Years

Four Years.  Today marks four years since I walked into that Hospice room and sat with her … since I whispered love and encouragement in her ear between goodbyes from people who loved her so much that they could barely breathe between tears … since we last communicated through a look, one last moment of eye contact before her eyes saw things I haven’t yet seen. 

It’s been four years and I am still unpacking what I learned from that experience … from her life and her death.  Soon after she died and every year since on this day I have written about it and I have said that watching her die pushes back on all my fears about death.  Those final moments were peaceful, full of love and beautiful.  But also watching her live taught me a lot about how I want to live.

Some days I find myself caught up in worry.  I worry about something happening to my kids and I worry about something happening to me or my husband.  Some days I let the fear take up more space than it should and my thoughts are colored by anxiety and “what ifs.”  The only way I can get back to a place of peace is through prayer.  Prayer where I admit I am not so good at prayer - honest, vulnerable, messy prayer.  And when I begin to hear the rational thoughts again, when my mind settles enough for breathing and wisdom I think about how Laura lived her life when her body was falling apart despite all her best efforts and the efforts of her doctors.  She lived a life worth fighting for.  With her head pounding from another round of chemo she cherished moments she could watch her children playing, hugs from loved ones and glimpses of the Holy Spirit at work within and around her.  She was still planning fun things, sharing moments of closeness with friends and loving everyone she could.  When there were so many very real reasons for her to shut down emotionally, let go of hope and drown in sorrow she didn’t.  Even until the day she died, she held on to her faith and in her vulnerability and brokenness was so incredibly strong. 

Four years later and I am far from the places and faces she knew, but I still feel her in my heart.  I remember her fierce support and belief in me on days when I doubt myself, I remember her unconditional love for her children as I kiss mine goodnight and I try to honor her by being open, vulnerable and faithful. 

My husband asked me when I wanted to preach next and gave me the choice of a few dates.  I picked June 30 right away.  I picked it because I knew my heart would be softer and more open today and also because when I preach I feel her close to me.  She is the Woman at the Well on my stole, the sassy, honest, questioning, strong woman who knew Jesus. 

When is the bake sale?

When I walked into my first PTA meeting I expected to find rows of cardigan clad moms discussing the next bake sale.  What I found instead was a few teachers and a few parents working tirelessly to make each child's elementary school experience fun and memorable.  I met women who had devoted countless hours to the PTA for ten years.  The lists of things they planned and carried out during the school year amazed me, being that there were so few people involved in the PTA.  

Soon after I was approached by my son's teacher about running for PTA President.  I felt completely out of my comfort zone, having spent all of my professional career and all of my adult years immersed almost solely in the Church world, but with the current officers moving on with their children to middle school and a small pool to draw from for new leaders, I felt I was needed. 

I said yes, ran uncontested, and the next thing I know I am having my photo taken in a hotel lobby for my name badge at the state PTA convention.  I fell in love with PTA at that convention.  Not just because of all of the free stuff from the vendor's tables, but also because of what I learned about PTA.  What the organization does is what I feel passionate about.  It is all about advocating for the needs of not just your child, but every child everywhere.  PTA has advocated for things like playgrounds, free lunches, and free all day kindergarten.  There were sessions on various social justice issues along with things like fund-raising and recruitment.  

I also got to know the three other brave women who signed on for officer positions with me.  We did not know each other at all but between whispered conversations in session and personal sharing over meals we soon connected and found many areas of common ground and shared struggles.  

Throughout the year we did a lot!  We accomplished some new things that I am really proud of and I had some failed attempts that frustrated me, but it was a rewarding experience.  I discovered that the kids at our school know the PTA, they get excited to see us, they treat us like part of the school and they say thank you A LOT.  The teachers and staff treat us as valued members of the school team, brainstorm with us, and say thank you A LOT.  Over this past year I have learned so much about educational systems.  I have felt enraged at the injustices I see in the ways our country does public education and I have felt overwhelmed with gratitude at the ways in which our schools are caring, nurturing, and educating our children.  I know that teachers have many frustrations too and yet I have been blown away at the genuine care, concern, and passion I have seen over and over again in the classrooms of our school.  

I am about to start year two of my two-year PTA presidential term and I feel both exhausted and excited at the thought of it.  I wish more people would join their local PTA.  It is not about volunteering but about being informed and having a say in the decisions that will effect your child.  

There have been a few times when I will say I am the PTA President and the person I am talking to will chuckle or snicker.  I get it.  It conjures up images of gossip, stressing over bake sales, and overbearing parents, but when I tell people about my PTA involvement my son doesn't chuckle, instead he beams with pride.  He loves it and I feel like he and I are working together to do what we can to help the school.   And after a year of fund-raisers, events, volunteering, important decisions, and learning we still haven't had a bake sale.

Cutting Ties

So … what are you going to do? Are you going to wait and see what this Adam Hamilton conference proposes? Go to another denomination? Hope for a breakaway denomination? Or stay and work toward change? It's a question I have asked others and spent a lot of time thinking about myself since the decisions of General Conference.

One of my Lenten disciplines was to be in discernment for where God may be calling me vocationally. This meant: prayer, meditation, reading, conversations with friends, conversations with Bishops and forcing myself to refrain from jumping to a plan. As Lent concluded and Easter came I still had no answer, which I suppose means my discipline was a success, although it didn't feel like it.

Even though I am living in a different conference, East Ohio conference has always remained my home conference. The Bishop that ordained me and that allowed me to serve in another conference advised me to keep my connection to East Ohio conference and so I have. I have lived in two different conferences since then but remain tied to my home conference, travelling back for that big family reunion at Lakeside we call Annual Conference. It has felt good. I look forward to jogs by Lake Erie, conversations on the cottage porches of former colleagues and mentors, meet-ups for ice cream and the beautiful sound of voices in unison singing “For All the Saints” as we gather not just with each other but the great cloud of witnesses.

When I pull into Lakeside and see the lanyards with name tags, smell the water and watch the kids eyes widen with joy I am flooded with memories. I remember sitting on the shore when I was a preteen on a confirmation retreat and making a promise to always be best friends with the woman who is still my best friend, I remember the flood of candles in the dark when I was a youth leader and brought teens to Youth Annual Conference, I remember big welcoming hugs from saints who have gone before me, new friendships made, late night walks home from ordination parties and of course seeing parishioners and family members stand in support as the Bishop laid hands on me and called me pastor.

I made vows to my beloved church, vows I hold dear and have worked to honor. So now here I am at a crossroads, with so many others I have sat beside in the sticky wooden chairs of Annual Conference. What will I do?

I know that remaining in a denomination where the callings and gifts of my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters are not welcomed is not an option. I can not stay standing as fellow children of God are pushed out. I will not raise my children in a church where, if they are gay, they will be told one day that who they are is not beloved, precious and Imago Dei. I have seen the lasting pain on the faces of those who were made to feel safe and loved in their home church only to be told it was all conditional.

Does that mean I stay and work toward change, discern if God is calling me somewhere else ... cut ties?

The other day I was asked a question. A question that filled me with both pride and humility, made me smile and cry. A woman that I first met when she was 14 years old and a member of the church where I was the associate pastor asked me the question. She asked me if I would be the person on stage with her when she is ordained at East Ohio Conference this June.

It is a reminder to me of the hope and promise still alive in my home church. It is a beautiful expression of the love I have given and received in my years of ministry. It may also be a beautiful way of saying good bye, knowing that as long as people with her passion, intelligence and courage are working in The UMC then it is in good hands. I don't know. I am still discerning.

One thing I do know is that no matter where I place my ordination, no matter what church I serve, what role I have … the sanctifying grace I have seen, the people I have loved, the church I have vowed to serve … it will always be tied to my heart.

No Answer

After the PTA meeting last night, I got the kids to bed and started watching The Real Housewives shows my husband refuses to watch. My husband had a work meeting and at 9:15 pm texted “I'm on my way.” I watched a few more scenes of fancy lunches at beach houses in the Hamptons and checked my phone. It had been over 30 minutes and he still wasn't home. The drive home takes about 12-15 minutes. I texted him, no answer. I called, no answer. I started to worry. I text again, nothing. I call again, nothing. I had the laptop next to me and I remembered that if he was signed into Google then Google maps would show me where he was. We discovered this once when he called me for help avoiding a traffic jam on the interstate. I click on the location button and it shows him in Pueblo, a city about an hour away. So now I am panicking. The logical thought would be “he meant he was on his way to dinner, which they usually do after that meeting and the location feature isn't always accurate” but my first thought was “someone wanted to steal his car, threw him in the trunk and drove it to Pueblo.” There was a voice of reason inside me trying to be heard but worst case scenario flashes overpowered it. This was all within a matter of minutes before I reloaded the page and it showed he was at a restaurant downtown. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed the computer and thought “I'm going to be a wreck when my kids can drive.”

I have always been a worrier. I can remember being very young and crying because I thought my mom must have died in a car wreck when she decided to pick up a pizza on the way home from work and was late getting home (in the pre-cell phone days). I knew all of this was a risk when I decided I wanted to be a mom. I also knew that my desire to have children outweighed my fears and that whether or not I became a mom I would still have attachments. Being a mortal attached to mortal people breeds anxiety.

I know that my worry comes from my inability to accept what I can't control. The fact that I worry about something has no bearing on the final outcome, but it is hard to avoid. One of my Lenten disciplines this year is to allow myself to be in discernment. I have veered from the path I always expected myself to take since I was called into ministry when I was thirteen years old. I realize that a sense of calling at age 38 may look very different from what it looked like 25 years ago and so I really want to allow myself to be open to whatever God's calling might look like for me right now. Part of that process is reminding myself that I am happy where I am and there is no urgency. I am using tools like meditation, conversations and journaling to try to keep myself open rather than rushing to find an answer.

I am also trying to take fear out of the equation. How many of our decisions are influenced by fear? Part of letting go of fear is fighting that same battle I have fought so many times with worry. I need to stop pretending as though I have control, accept that things change and life is unpredictable and unload the weight of the world that keeps creeping onto my shoulders.

I came across this passage as I was reading The Interior Castle written in the 16^th century by St. Teresa of Avila. She writes:

It's tempting to think that if God would only grant you internal favors you would be able to withstand external challenges. [God] knows what is best for us. [God] does not require our opinion on the matter, and, in fact, has every right to point out that we don't have any idea what we're asking for. Remember: all you have to do as you begin to cultivate the practice of prayer is to prepare yourself with sincere effort and intent to bring your will into harmony with the will of God. I promise you that this is the highest perfection to be attained on the spiritual path.”

My husband came home safely. He had in fact meant that he was on his way to dinner and then accidentally turned the vibrate on his phone off. He felt really bad for worrying me. I was just happy he was home. That worry was over, but a new day brings new risks, fears and unknowns. And so I keep working, discerning, letting go, breathing deeply and doing my best to live this life.