I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.” I woke up in a bleak place Saturday. A very bleak place. It wasn’t the place of utter desolation, like the morning after 9/11, but I could not find comfort anywhere. It was raining for like the seventy fifth day in a row. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, refuse to recover from my need for sun bathing, would commit suicide if I lived in Seattle or London, and at times I think I could convert to worshiping Ra, the sun god. I only recall one time in my life when I actually complained about the heat- it was 104 in the shade that day and I was sitting on astro turf. The news couldn’t be worse- North Korea has a ICBM pointed at the west coast, a murder suicide on the mother baby unit at a local hospital, 30% of Irag-Afghanistan war veterans have thought about suicide, the ever looming health care crisis and gas prices are going to rise again. Two of my friends had terrible diseases. One of my friends buried a spouse. Another very dear friend is lost and can’t find herself. And is it just me or is there a new sexual abuse scandal every other day? And A-Rod may get a lifetime suspension from baseball. I am not an A-Rod fan and he should be banned for life along with every other user, I am just frustrated over the sports industry’s apparent inability to get a handle on PEDs. A zero-tolerance policy might be a start. I had just decided to go to nursing school for the third time. After I sat through orientation last week, it occurred to me I just thought round one was tough. When I introduced myself to the three young (young being the operative word) women on my track- they were only 4 years old in 1986. I graduated from nursing school the first time in 1986. One actually remarked that I didn’t look all that old and did we really have to wear caps back then? True story. I didn’t do the math but I think that means I could be their mother. And had I had the good sense to go to grad school years ago, I would have taught them in nursing school. They were lamenting that the night before their hospital had lost power and the back up to back up generator didn’t come on. They didn’t know how to pass meds or chart the old school way much less take a temp and BP without a machine. None of them had ever mixed an IV in their careers or charted on paper or had even seen a four-colored ballpoint pen. And I had a very, very tough interview with an ethics review board coming up. I guess I should pause to say that I am the complainant lest any rumors start flying around. 49 can be tough: my friend Rosemary said to approach my forty ninth year like a frozen gym membership, where I am taking a break. So far, I have not jumped out a window, which during rough patches passes for grace right now in my life. This falls short of heaven, but some days will just have to do. So in the face of all of this, I did the most amazing thing. I got out of bed. I could still walk. I still had most of my mental faculties. A more mature person would say, Thank you Jesus. But I thought, dear God in heaven, my back hurts, my head hurts, my fingers are stiff, where are my damn glasses, I am getting old. Then I ate a bowl of blackberries and blueberries, six Oreo cookies and drank a café mocha breve to level the playing field. Then I picked up the BCP. And it was not good. The readings were long and boring. It wasn’t a feast day. There wasn’t a saint to commemorate and I didn’t know who William Hunnington was. My mind kept wandering and the hymn sucked. I kept looking at the time and checking my face book page for what I don’t know. I Googled William Hunnington. I Googled the Lambeth quadrilateral. I changed chairs four times. I lit a candle. I played Gregorian chants and then gave up and played U2, which is very spiritual BTW. I gave up. I decided that this spiritual discipline was worthless and I was going to close the BCP and never open it again. If I currently had a spiritual director, he or she would say something like “What do you think God was saying to you during that time?” To which I would want respond “Well, gee I don’t know that is why I here, don’t you know?” But instead, I would put on my best good girl smile and say, “Be still???” To which the spiritual director is probably muttering to him or herself, “What new fresh hell is this?” Truth be told, I doubt that good girl smile has fooled very many, ok…maybe one or two. And I have been known to fake an answer or two with a spiritual director. I am fairly certain that lying to spiritual director defeats the purpose of going to see one, but I am also overly confident that the Holy Spirit can compensate for any of my character flaws. Then something amazing happened. I would call it grace, but then I am very easy. It was like when you clean your glasses and put them back on or a deep breath or a cool breeze on a hot day. I suddenly remembered reading in a favorite author’s book on grace, the best spiritual directive she ever got: Don’t be an asshole, make sure everybody eats. And a pastor once said: “I am only a beggar, showing other beggars where the bread is.” There are many kinds of food besides meat, dairy, grains and fruit. There is kindness, compassion, friendship, prayer (if I could ever quiet my mind), joy, and peace. And finally I had given up just enough to realize I was going to get through this disappointing moment in prayer and anyway you have to be somewhere: better here at prayer than say at the dentist office getting a root canal, stuck in traffic or at the IRS. And it is good to practice prayer because it forces you to see yourself and to act slightly more gracefully and it improves your thoughts and thus the world. After I finished reading the psalms, the gospel, the Old Testament reading, saying the Apostle’s Creed, and praying the Lord’s Prayer, I no longer felt like throwing the BCP away and giving up on prayer. So, I was shocked when I spoke to her later that day and she said she loved my smile and how I looked really happy. I am not sure she wanted any secrets to happiness and I am not sure she wanted to hear any of my worthless wisdom, but it occurred to me that perhaps when we are at our worst, when we are frightened, depressed, panicky, anxious, angry, disillusioned, exhausted, lost, hopeless, or just in a bad mood…perhaps that is when God does his best work. Perhaps when we are honest and real and actually stop flailing around inside our heads…God shows up. God can’t clean house while we are still in it. I am not sure she expected the answer I gave her, but I told her honestly I am a wreck and honestly I don’t feel happy but I hope that doesn’t keep me from enjoying whatever moment of joy I find myself. I told her my head is a pretty scary place right now and I feel lost all the time and I don’t know what the next half of my life is going to look like. I think you just have to show up to the life before you…the good, the bad, the ugly, the scary, and the beautiful. Somewhere in all that mess, there are breaths of grace. Sometimes you just have to get out of bed and start. Even if it requires six Oreo cookies, a mocha breve, U2, and Goggle to make it happen. And perhaps the best spiritual directive I could give her on joy: “Let’s just hold hands in the dark and we will find our way from here.”
