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Fostering Afterword

“How has this experience changed you?”

That was the question a friend asked me about my first foster placement. My brain spun, searching for an answer, but I couldn’t find one for him. Months later, I still can’t. I know I’ve changed, but knowing how I’m changed is not that important to me. Right now, I’m focused on mending after a season of trauma.

Trauma scrambles the brain and the emotions, making truth-telling so much harder. This story has been locked inside me for months; I’m just starting to find words to pray. I’ve tried to write about my experience, even just for my own processing, but the story was locked up tight behind a wall of confusion and tears. Things are finally loosening up and now I want to share a bit of my story with you.

When I took in a young girl last year, I also took in her history. It was fed to me by social workers and therapists in tattered and disjointed pieces that, when gathered, told a story that no child should have to live. There were generations of family dysfunction, major traumatic events, and a chain of broken promises and misplaced blame. Every adult in this girl’s life failed her in big ways. Past trauma and present uncertainties made her anxious, angry, scared, and depressed. Those big emotions led to difficult and unpredictable behaviors, and to some unsafe situations. Every day was a battle. I fought for her and she fought me.

She was desperate for her family, for love, and for a sense of control in a fractured life, but she would have none of that. A judge determined the course of her future. She would never have the life with her family that she desperately prayed for every night at our dinner table. In her loss and grief, she could not accept the love I offered her. It wasn’t personal — I’m simply not who she wants. Somewhere in month four she declared me a primary villain in her tragedy and began to lash out in both passive-aggressive and openly aggressive ways.

I want you to know that love her. Yes, my heart broke over her history, but my love did not grow out of sympathy. I love her because of who she is underneath the PTSD and challenging behaviors. I wish you could have seen and known her as I did in her purest, happy moments. (And I weep that pure, happy moments were so few.) For all her quirks and difficulties, she was goofy and hilarious, shy yet curious, courageous and sweet. She enjoys lip-synching, spontaneous dance parties, YouTube, slime, drawing, unicorns, science, and hip hop music.

I battled for this brave, precious girl every way I knew how. I did my best to parry her behavioral and emotional sword thrusts with calm, patience, empathy, compassion, redirection, healthy boundaries, and reassurances of understanding and love. I tried to teach and show her that I was her ally, not her enemy. I tried to build up her sense of safety and stability. I advocated for all aspects of her wellness — physical, mental, relational, emotional, and spiritual. I sought the advice and skills of experts. I kindly but firmly battled a frazzled case worker who didn’t take our crisis seriously because, apparently, there were emergencies that took precedent. Maybe if things other than hearts were breaking, the case worker would have responded appropriately.

I spent every inner resource I had seeking help, but the stress of our daily life was too much. She was stuck and heartsick. I was stuck and physically depleted. Help wasn’t coming. My hardy immune system failed, succumbing to three major infections in two months. You can only live and battle hour-by-hour for so long. Eventually, I made the most difficult call of my life. I asked them to find her a new home.

In the foster care world this is called a disrupted or failed placement. I hate those words. I hate this reality. I hate that I had to make that phone call.

I hate that children are victimized. I hate that adults are weak and selfish and broken and sick, and don’t or can’t protect their children. I hate that trauma can rewire the brain and while healing is possible, I hate that it is slow. I hate that the best therapies we have don’t always work. I hate that “the system” is underfunded and mismanaged. I hate that social workers suffer an undue burden when all they want to do is help, and I hate that they don’t or can’t always help.

But most of all, I hate that she might hate me.

I mourn that she couldn’t accept my love and that she couldn’t love me back.

I wish that love was always enough.

I am heartbroken that our story together ended this way. I wanted more joy for her. More healing. More friends. More stability. More laughter. More smiles that reach her eyes. I wanted my home and family to be a place where she discovered so many more good things. Now I fear that she’s left my home with only the aftertaste of rejection and remembers nothing of the good and the love. So now I surrender my broken heart and broken hopes to God. I picture her future in God’s hands and pray that there will be overflowing goodness there.

I’m a bit broken but I’m also healing, slowly. I’m through that first, overwhelming wave of grief where you can’t think or see straight. Now I contend against the smaller (and sneakier) crashes of grief. They’re like waves at the beach that look like nothing on the surface but suddenly smack you off-balance, pull you under, and spit you out on the sand. I’m being swept over right now. I’m crying as I write this, dashed hopes stinging my eyes like salt water.

As hard as this was, I know a few things. There was and is some good in this story.

I know this was not a failure of love or resolve. I did everything I possibly could to keep us together and keep us well, but I’m not Jesus. I’m not super-human. I’m not a mental health professional or a child development specialist. I’m just a Jesus-follower who was called to work for justice by loving a vulnerable child. I’m an ordinary woman with a big heart and a spare bedroom and lots of time and life I want to share. So I got licensed and trained. I opened my home and fought wholeheartedly for as long as I could. But I’m human. I have limits and I reached them. It’s good to know your limits and to listen to them. I did my best, and my best was very good, but she needed more than I am equipped to provide.

I don’t regret that I spent my life and love this way. Sometimes good, valuable things are monumentally painful and costly. I know that I didn’t make the wrong decision — to be a foster parent, to love her, or to make that phone call.

So here I am. I’m a post-failed-placement foster parent. I’m rung out and a bit salty but getting back on my feet. I’m changed though I can’t say how. And I’m healing, though the process is slow and lonely. I know I’m going to be ok.

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Everything I Cannot Do Alone

I’ve been fostering for five months now. There’s a reason they mark our certificates with the title “therapeutic” foster parents. These days, I’m in the thick of that therapeutic part. Last week, a friend told me that I look sleep deprived. Surprisingly, I still get 8-9 hours of sleep a night on average, but now I deal with much more stress.

I was reflecting that I simply could not manage my new life without the help of others. I’m trying to keep up on handwritten thank you notes, but the reality is I have very little time and brain power to spare. So I’m going to take some space here to name and thank as many of my teammates as I can. Maybe it will give you a little window into my world.

To my “support friends” team, a group of individuals from my church who are committed to offering practical and prayer support. Thank you for grocery deliveries, dropping off dressers, hanging out with the kiddo when I have evening meetings, the hugs on the church patio, your faithful prayer, IKEA trips, detailing my car, and most especially for those of you who took the kiddo for the weekend so I could go on a retreat!

To Parent Child Connection, my foster/adopt support group. Thank you for making me meet you for coffee to process the hard things. For offering your homes as places of respite. For letting me vent and not being alarmed, but “getting it.” For helping normalize my daily life and these wild emotions. For helping me benchmark what is “normal” in the foster world and helping me discern what I truly need to be concerned about. For sharing your own stories, failures, and successes.

To all the women who brought a meal the first two months. It may have seemed strange to bring a meal to a family who does not have a new infant, but this support helped me greatly when I was overwhelmed with details and paperwork and drives back and forth to the county offices.

To Sarah and Jake. Thank you for listening. For caring with your hearts and hands. For sharing your trampoline and your wine. For random dinners and Christmas Eve movie night. For Costco runs, and meat, and gifts of homemade ranch dressing. For bedtime back-up, and music therapy, and Thai lunches. If I were a scuba diver, you’d be my air tanks.

To Leslie G. Thank you for shopping for school supplies that first week when my head was spinning. Your easy friendship is constantly refreshing.

To the Zeisler family. Thank you for puppy therapy, holding my spare key, checking in, praying, and for keeping your door open to us.

To the Bell family. Thank you for Christmas lunch; we needed a place to go and make the holiday as happy as possible. And for loaning us a ski outfit for winter camp!

To Alma, Carolyn, Rolana, Holly, Jana, and Roslyn. They say the future success of foster kids directly correlates to the number of safe and loving adults in their lives. Thank you for truly loving this girl and changing her future.

To the Krehbiel family. Thank you for moving into my apartment complex and then sharing your home, your cookies, your baby, your movies, and your hearts with us. Please never move away. And please keep going on dates so I can have regular baby therapy.

To Jessamy. Thank you for mending that wretched Halloween costume 86 times.

To the Neschleba family. Thank you for gifting us a bigger dresser. The girl’s got clothes!

To Kip, Paul, and Jake. Thank you for being my on-call handymen when I can’t or don’t have time to fix something myself. The doorknobs, grill, towel bar, and front door are all working well.

To PWP, my women pastors support group. Your constant humor, love, and encouragement make ministry easier to bear at church and home.

To Ruby and Amy. Thank you for December 27-29. For using your air miles to spend those wide open days with us. For keeping us occupied, and positive, and laughing, even when we lost the car in the parking garage.

To Stephanie. Thank you for checking in so often. For making the time to call me across our 3 hour time difference and amidst your 3 kids and a random work schedule. For remembering me in prayer. For being there when I need you.

To Liz and Monica. Thank you for making our yearly reunion a priority. For your laughter now and across these 20 years of friendship.

To my fellow pastors and Jerry. Thank you for listening to this new and often bewildering story. For your patience when I cry. For your encouragement. For your continued energy in ministry.

To Alyssa, Blanca, Krissa, and Kylie. Thank you for sharing your expertise, tips, and reading lists with me (for free) via text, messenger, and over lunch. I’m so blessed to have friends who are social workers and therapists.

To my family. Thank you for your support, even if you had, or still have, concerns about me fostering. For the ‘welcome to the family’ care packages, Christmas gifts, and birthday cards. For your prayers, listening, compassion, and love. I know my decision impacts us all, so thank you for giving me the room and grace to follow God’s call on my life, even when it’s on the wild side.

I may be single, but I am not fostering alone. Each and every one of you mentioned here, and those I’ve forgotten to name, are an integral real part of our daily lives. You sustain me. Thank you.

 

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Love, from a Mom

You may have noticed that Pastor with a Purse has been pretty quiet this year. I’ve been spending a lot of what used to be my creative writing time praying, resting, and scooping up fresh motivation.

But life has also fundamentally changed. The good news is that I’ve accepted my first foster care placement. Those of you who have been with me for years know that I began this adventure back in 2008. There’s been a lot of discerning and waiting and praying and preparing to turn the dream of fostering into a real person who now shares my home and life. You can read more about how and why I got here in Mother One Day and Today is the Day. Now, I can say with profound gratitude and a dash of trepidation–the wait is over.

Almost four weeks ago, on an ordinary Wednesday, I got a call about a young girl in need of a new home. We met on Friday and she told her social worker that she wanted to live with me for two reasons: I’m nice, and she wanted to go to church. She visited my home on Sunday and she moved in on Monday. Two days later we had her registered at her new school.

The past month has been a flurry of phone calls, appointments, social worker visits, emergency team check-ins, back-to-school night, emailing teachers, finding new healthcare providers, and adjusting to our new normal.

I’d love to chronicle all the new experiences, struggles, joys, and fears, but one challenge of being part of a foster care story is that I can’t legally share any details about her on the internet and social media. There’s a chance that one day she may legally be my daughter, but there’s also a likelihood that she will be a temporary daughter. Only God knows that bit–the big, uncertain future–but I’m content to live each day simply focusing on her needs here and now.

Rather than fret about things I can’t control, I’m focusing on the fundamentals like her knowing I will always feed her and provide her with clothes and school supplies. Academic “success” in the pressure cooker of Silicon Valley? That doesn’t even make my list of top 25 priorities.

I’m tossing aside conventional parenting expectations to meet the most basic and important human needs: to feel safe, to be loved unconditionally, to build trust, to care for our bodies and our hearts, to know what to do with the nasty emotions that make sneak attacks and leave us reeling, to be free to be a kid after your childhood is stolen from you, event by painful event. If I had to do a 30 day review, I’d say we are doing pretty darn well.

There are so many feelings and so much exhaustion. Here’s what I posted to my Facebook wall last night as I lay curled up in bed, limp and weary but wired:

This is the most significant thing I’ve done with my life to date. I’m mostly living hour by hour, flexing my life around the ever-changing and delicate needs of this precious human that has taken over my house and my time and will likely take over my heart. I sink into my beloved mattress at my new bedtime of 10pm and gulp in the stillness and quiet, and take lots of deep breaths and think–this is so big, and good, and scary, and fun, and motivating.

I’m doing ok, good even. We’re alive and safe and functioning well (despite a head cold for her and a virus for me and a wicked heat wave all over the holiday weekend). We are laughing over board games and our hundredth game of Uno, learning to let loose as we lip sync to Selena Gomez, taking bike rides and shopping trips, braiding hair and negotiating what clothes are age appropriate, and tackling homework to mixed reviews. There are so many thoughts and feelings and appointments that my brain is now constantly leaking details, but what is most important in this life is not being forgotten.

Each day feels a bit like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon–you know, the parts of the park where there is not a guard rail or even a frayed rope between you and the sheer cliff? It’s wildly beautiful, awe-inspiring, and terrifying all at the same time, but that’s life.

So now it’s 42 minutes past my bedtime and my eyes are telling me I’m too old and too parental to be up this late. So, off I go to the wonderland I call sleep. 6am comes too soon, but there’s never been a better reason to get up early.

Before I became a parent, I worried that I would feel constantly watched and judged by other people’s expectations of my child or their expectations of me as a parent. I also worried about whether I would feel like I was constantly failing. I so often see Facebook statuses and blog posts and articles about family life where moms are tossing about “mom fail” jokes, which I suspect often cover insecurity.

What has surprised me most in this new, wild place is that I feel nothing but satisfied with my efforts. I’m far from perfect. I don’t know nearly as much as I could to help this child thrive. But I’m giving her and myself heaping amounts of grace. There’s freedom to learn, and wide columns for mistakes. There’s open range to ask questions so we can both do better next time. I’m often shaking before some of these new challenges, but I keep looking back at all I’ve overcome in my life and remembering all I’ve seen God accomplish through my simple obediences, and then I’m able to move my trembling feet forward.

I guess I’m being brave. In case you didn’t know, that’s not just for children.

Half the time I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m texting friends and professionals a lot for perspective and advice. I’m asking for prayer regularly. I’m asking for practical help more. But at the end of the day it’s me and her and the Holy Spirit in our little home now packed with a second life’s worth of goods and baggage. So I’m telling myself every day–this is important. You are doing well. She is safe. Build from there. That is good. That is enough.

So Pastor with a Purse may have gone quiet, but there’s a whole lot of good going on under the surface. Hopefully I’ll be back soon to share with you more victories and more of what I’m discovering.

Until then my friends, be brave. Be obedient to your call even when it seems crazy and outlandish, and even when people you love discourage you with their concerns. Give yourself an embarrassing overabundance of grace in new and wild places. Never forget what is most important.

Love,
Corrie, the new mom/mum/mama

 

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The Strange and Hopeful Summer Reading List

I’m an avid fiction reader. Spending 2-3 hours reading in the evening is both how I unwind and how I engage my imagination. Well-written stories are alive and vibrant. They have that same crackle of energy as actors spitting their lines across a stage, aiming at the hearts of their audience. Through story I am quickly transported to new or hidden places. I encounter ideas and people very different from me. Reaching ‘The End’ of a good story is not an end or an exit at all. It is an invitation, a continued path into a potentially bountiful garden of reflection.

Lately however, I’ve found myself growing a bit bored or restless with fiction. Maybe it’s the turbulent American political climate of the past year that’s left this gnawing feeling in my gut. Or perhaps it’s the unpredictable and startling challenges of ministry that’s heaped me with questions and concerns that stories cannot easily answer. Something is making me crave a different kind of engagement, a new way to be soothed and assured that things will turn out better than I see them now.

As a way to address this new restlessness, I’ve compiled a summer reading list that’s quite different to those of innocent and lazy summers past. I’ll lay them out for you and then tell you why I’m drawn to them.

My first two picks are Ojibway Heritage by Basil Johnston and Seasons of Change: Labor, Treaty Rights, and Ojibwe Nationhood by Chantal Norrgard. The first book is a compilation of Ojibway ceremonies, rituals, songs, prayers, and stories. The second book zeroes in on the particular era in Ojibwe history when native culture was jarringly sifted by colonialism.

My father is an enrolled member of the Ojibwe or Chippewa Tribe, the largest tribe in the state of Minnesota. Dad has always been a storyteller, often sharing bedtime stories borrowing native names and themes, but he grew up outside of the reservation in a thoroughly white culture and was mostly disconnected from Chippewa culture. Still, dad’s stories always made me curious about this strand of my heritage. I grew up in white, suburban Ohio. I am not Chippewa the same way as someone who grew up on the White Earth Reservation in rural Minnesota. But if we go back just a few generations, our stories would co-mingle on the shores of the same lakes. My childlike curiosity over native bedtime stories has grown into something more serious as an adult.

Soon there may be a day that someone with even my diluted native blood will be an official member of the Chippewa Tribe. I’ve been wondering what that will mean. Will I enroll if given the opportunity? Would I contribute to any more loss for our native people if I did so? What responsibilities would I take up if I did enroll? Questions like these are not quickly or easily answered from northern California, but they continue to rattle around in my head.

At the very least, I’m committed to following my curiosity into better understanding. A few years ago I read my first book on Chippewa history, written by a professor who is Chippewa. Eye-opening is a trivial descriptor of that read. I learned much about the history of the Chippewa people both before and after the arrival of European settlers. I was intrigued by the Chippewa understanding of tribal sovereignty, and found their way of relating to the land both unique and refreshing. I encountered stories of injustices brought by a young American government and by people bent on “progress” and “civilization.”

So now, I take up Ojibway Heritage to engage Chippewa culture from afar, and Seasons of Change to know more about the most troubling and painful years of Chippewa history. Will I find more of the same pain and outrage? What will capture my attention here? What new questions or convictions will be produced from these books? I’ll have to wait and see.

 

I recently took part in a racial unity group at my church. I wasn’t there to lead the group as a staff member, but to be a participant and fellow learner. We read Christena Cleveland’s Disunity in Christ, which was a rich springboard for both our group discussions and my personal reflection.

My experience with our racial unity group combined with the current racial unrest in America spurs me on to more. I want to learn more about what is behind the unrest, the injustices, and the inequalities I see. I want to seek out and listen to the wisdom of people who’ve experienced these inequalities and injustices, especially those who have not been destroyed by them, and have something constructive, even prophetic, to say to us today.

I’m disturbed by what I see going on in my country and sometimes in my own community. If I am truly one of God’s agents on earth, meant to be a servant of the Prince of Peace, one who carries the power of God’s Spirit within me, then how might I respond to the turmoil around me? What truths do I need to face or confront in myself? How should these truths change the way I live and minister? How might I as a (mostly) white woman, a person of privilege, be a peacemaker in our land, in my church, and in my family?

These questions lead me to three books: America’s Original Sin: Racism, White Privilege, and the Bridge to a New America by Jim Wallis, Stand Your Ground: Black Bodies and the Justice of God by Kelly Brown Douglas, and The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James H. Cone. All were highly recommended to me by friends who are farther along this quest than me.

That’s it. Just five books. Were I reading fiction, I could tackle 20 or more books in a summer. But this summer I’m giving myself lots of time to read slowly and to reread when needed. I’m building in margins to put a book aside for both internal wrestling-matches and restful prayer times. I guess beyond the restlessness I feel, I’ve also been feeling a bit stagnant. I’m hoping these reads will shape me into a more informed, compassionate, and mobilized disciple and leader.

 

 

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On Crying in Meetings

I confess. I have cried in professional meetings. Many times. In fact, three weeks ago in a meeting I cried so hard that I could barely speak.

A few things to keep in mind. First, I work in ministry. I’m not a PepsiCo executive sitting at a boardroom table crying over shrinking distribution numbers or a software engineer suddenly overcome with emotion because I screwed up a line of code.

Also, I’m not much of a crier in general even though my maternal family is full of criers. My grandpa can never make it through the dinner prayer if any of his grandkids are at the table. My mom has been known to cry during commercials and in restaurants. I may be equally tenderhearted, but I probably cry (the kind with tears sliding down my face) less than ten times a year.

So when I cry, it means something. My soul is engaged. Something I deeply care about is being probed.

As a pastor, I work both with people and for people, as an advocate. I regularly step into messy situations and respond to raw emotions. In 15 years of ministry, I’ve witnessed premeditated acts of hate and their aftermath. I’ve been a first responder to traumatic events like attempted sexual assault. I’ve been the person who showed up in the middle of the night, took the bottle of Advil out of shaking hands, and called for help. In my office, people process some of their most intense experiences — the effects of abuse, the loss of a loved one, rejection, mental illness, loss of faith, suicidal thoughts, and sexual issues.

This is not the kind of work you can do well and remain untouched. You can have great boundaries in ministry and still need to cry. Sometimes tears are the only way to expunge some of the toxins you’ve been exposed to.

My dearest hope is that my “work” reflects the deep love that God has for each and every human being. Since I ultimately serve God, it’s important to me that I strive for excellence in my work. I exercise best practices in counseling. I attend conferences for professional development. I read new research and consult the works of experts in the many fields that affect Biblical studies, ministry, and theology. I believe that ethics are as important to a ministry environment as they are to any other work setting. All that to say, I’m a professional. I try to be the best professional I can be.

But I still cry in meetings.

As a Christian pastor, the Bible is the most important book in my life. I believe its pages tell the story of God’s love for all people and reveal God’s plan of redemption for broken individuals. In a world that is slowly but painfully wasting away, I believe that the message of Jesus is the greatest news. His words are hope for the disillusioned and for aimless wanderers. They are a fresh breath of life for the suffering, the oppressed, and the depressed. They’re a warm light for all the people forgotten in the dark or dirty corners of our streets. God’s story and his life-giving words are precious to me.

Because I love God and his word so dearly, it can be tough to live in a pluralistic society that denigrates the church, the Bible, and the people who worship one God exclusively. Sometimes that makes me cry.

But I think it’s far more painful to be a Christian among other Christians. It’s disheartening to sit down with your spiritual family, to read the Bible together, and to have such divergent views of the same text. This is a book we all revere and cherish because it’s God’s. We are all sincere and loving, and we serve God well in our unique ways. We even love each other. So it doesn’t feel good when we disagree. It hurts to see smirks or eyes roll as someone shares their opinion. It’s painful when people make light of topics or passages that impact other people every day. It’s dismaying when we see each other’s blindnesses but we can’t find a way to gently expose them.

So this month I cried in a meeting.

But no matter who I am with when I cry in meetings, I usually walk away feeling a little embarrassed. Our culture isn’t very welcoming to public displays of emotion, is it? We’re even less accepting of emotions in the workplace. There’s an unspoken belief that strong emotions are a sign of immaturity, or weakness, or irrationality, or overreaction, or instability, or of (said in a hushed tone) being hormonal. And those things don’t fit the excellent or professional persona, so tears are generally unacceptable at the office. Instead, our culture champions clear logic, precise speech, and undisturbed rationality.

After I cry during a meeting, I worry that people think less of me. That they will regard me like a whiny puppy who just needs a pat on the head to be quieted. And I hate thinking that my tears may make others disregard my words altogether.

But here are some things that I believe are true about emotions. All human beings have them. We all have a wide range of emotions that we can experience: from rage to sorrow to utter joy. I believe God designed us this way. It’s we humans who choose to either express or suppress our emotions. Which way is healthier?

I also believe that God gave us brains capable of keen intellect, logic, and impressive creativity. The same brain that houses these things also houses our emotions. We are all both rational and emotional beings. Both things make us human. Both reflect the image of God.

So why is laughter safe and respectable in a meeting, but tears are not? Why do we prize rationality but look askance when people express their emotions? And why do we always talk about rationality and emotions like they are the opposite ends of a spectrum? They may be closer together than we think. We might be wise to consider that they are linked.

There have been times in meetings when I was crying and thinking clear thoughts at the same time. Imagine that! Now, sometimes it is hard to verbally articulate my thoughts amid the stirring emotions, but that doesn’t mean I am just a puddle of messy feelings. My identity is not reduced. Instead, what you are witnessing is a powerful moment of realization, something deeply true that finally crystallizes, or a strongly held belief that’s been triggered. Such moments are rarely emotionless.

When I cry in a meeting it’s because my mind is engaged. In these moments I am, perhaps, more fully human because I’m experiencing and expressing thought and emotion at the same time. My brain is firing on all cylinders. You may think it looks messy, but maybe you could learn to see the beauty too.

When I cry, I hope you will learn to read my tears. This is what my tears might say — this is a very important topic to me. What we are talking about has very real implications for me, or for you, or for people who we love. That thing you just said? It was either deeply true or it missed the marked, but it certainly moved me to respond. Sometimes my tears say that I’m grieving. Sometimes they say that you’ve caused me pain. Emotions are a language all their own.

So rather than avoiding eye contact or patting me on the head, would you offer me an equally human response? When you see my tears, would you sit up and pay better attention? Would you consider, or even ask, what my tears are saying? Would you be patient if it takes me time to get the words out? And would you offer me more compassion than I’ve come to expect, and not think less of me?

I cry during meetings. When I was a young professional I would apologize profusely, swipe away the tears, and try to tamp down my emotions. I rarely do that anymore. I’ve learned to be kind to myself and to not be ashamed of being a human being who feels. I’ve come to accept that this is just a part of who I am.

I love and serve a God who grieves when his people suffer, and when they wander far from him. I think my tears are often a reflection of the heart of God. 

When I cry, when I express any emotion, I’m being human. I’m resisting the tight bindings of cultural norms because there are just some things that need to be expressed. Triumphs and tragedies call us to respond. I want to be the kind of person who listens and responds well to the needs of the world around me. I hope my tears invite others to be and do the same.

I cry in meetings. If my tears make you uncomfortable, so be it. I’m being real. I probably won’t stop any time soon. And we might all be better for it.

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The Wind and the Tumbleweeds

It was back when I had a contract job as a data collector for the CDC. I drove around the state of Arizona conducting surveys at junior high and high schools. I went to spots so rural that GPS was useless, street signs were minimal, and directions came as a series of landmarks like “go a mile past the police station and jail” and “turn right at the blue house.”

That morning, I left Winslow at dawn and drove through the wild flatlands of northeast Arizona, passing the rugged, breathtaking vistas of First and Second Mesa. When I arrived at the main school of the Hopi Nation in Keams Canyon (population 206), the sun was just beginning to warm the air. I checked in at the office. Two students escorted me to my first classroom.

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View from the Hopi Reservation by Biotour13 on Flickr.com

I’d been in dozens of schools by then, facilitated surveys in hundreds of classrooms, and I immediately sensed something different at the Hopi Junior/Senior High School. Though energy buzzed in the hallways as the students moved from class to class, the voices were much gentler than you’d find in the average teenage hub. All the students were well-groomed and most wore simple, neutral colored clothing. Both the boys and the girls had long, glossy black hair, often past their waists, none of it dyed or spiked like I’d seen at other schools.

I stood out among these people. I’d come, in a way, representing the federal government that had not been kind or just to their people. But rather than ignore the stranger, the students made eye contact and greeted me as they passed. Even more delightful, they took the survey seriously. They didn’t sleep through my presentation, tear holes in the scantron sheets, draw fire-breathing dragons or phallic symbols on the questionnaires, or fill in random bubbles to make patterns down the page. They listened. They read. They asked questions. They completed their surveys without the usual teenage angst.

That day I noticed the dignity. The Hopi teens carried themselves well, with unique confidence. There was no stiffness or awkwardness, at least not that I could detect. Theirs was not a defiant dignity hefting the weight of a troubled history. They had a shared, quiet surety, like they knew who they were and were happy to be so. Spending the day with them made me feel calm. Their gentle way wrapped me in a silky cocoon of peace. (Or maybe it was a nest of their long black hair.) I could have stayed in that peace for an age.

It was time for school to let out. I was wheeling my materials toward the main entrance through a thin crowd of students when a sudden, violent wind swept through the hallway. Gusts pushed through, one after another, so strong that all the doors blew open. Then tumbleweeds three and four feet high barreled in and smacked against walls and students, leaving broken bits of twig along the hallway.

tumbleweed-2

Tumbleweed, by Natasha Monnereau on Flickr.com

It was difficult to walk into that wind. I narrowly avoided the ragged edge of a tumbleweed. I leaned my body forward — my hair stinging my face as it whipped around, blinding me — and pushed toward the exit. Soon tears streamed out of my eyes. I yanked hair out of my mouth. I laughed. There was nothing to do but laugh.

I looked at the students around me expecting to see some of the shock I felt, but none of them seemed fazed. There were a few lowered eyelids, a slight smile or two, but no major reactions. They just kept moving. I guess gale force winds and indoor boulder-sized tumbleweeds can’t shake the calm of Hopi teens. It must be their way in their natural environment.

I remember this today because I’m trying to borrow some Hopi calm and dignity in a gale force week. This weekend I’m leading a retreat for 100 women. I have a team of volunteers to mobilize, a speaker to host, and guest band coming in, and dozens of details to chase down a handful of rabbit trails. My hope is to get to the retreat with some stores of energy — It’s a terrible feeling to be exhausted at the starting line.

I want to enjoy the retreat as a participant. And I want to be a warm, welcoming presence to the many newcomers we’ll have. But I’m just not sure I’ll have it in me.

I’m doing the best that I can. I delegated better than I ever have before. I’m being careful to not over caffeinate as a means to survive. I’m drinking lots of water. I’ve made myself go to bed early every night this week. I’m taking breaks to rest during the work day. I’m praying and using positive self-talk and taking deep breaths, but there’s still stress.

Last night I went to bed at 10:30pm but was still awake at 1:30am because details were whipping around in my brain. This week has been full of very difficult conversations in ministry and there are more to come. This morning, someone called me “just a little girl.” Recently, I spoke out of turn and hurt a friend; today I understood, felt sick about it, and called to make it right. Meanwhile, sheets of rain fell for hours as I worked and ran errands. The irony is that we’ve hardly had rain here in years, and now we’re in the middle of a weeklong winter storm. Flooding and mudslides may be a real part of my retreat weekend. I certainly hope not, but at the very least I expect to tiptoe through unavoidable puddles and have wet socks.

So, what I need right now is the calm and peace that I experienced among the Hopi people. They live in a rugged, sometimes harsh landscape and yet they are unmoved by the winds that pushed me back and brought tears to my eyes.

What I want is to arrive with my dignity intact. I want to shed this stress and have peace, to allow the details to play out in a fine concert of imperfection and be satisfied. Fully satisfied. (And then I want to return home, sleep in, have a late coffee-and-donut breakfast, and then walk the sugar off in the sunshine.)

Surely there are tumbleweeds heading my way this weekend. I hope I have the resilience to dodge them, laugh, and carry on unfazed.

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Pieces of A Christmas Sunday Service

I had the honor of leading our worship service this Christmas Sunday. Here is how we began and ended our service.

Call to Worship     (written by Cheryl Lawrie of holdthisspace)
We are here because we have heard a promise of peace
      and we have faith its day will come.
we have heard a rumor of justice
     and we have faith its day will come.
we have heard a whisper of hope
     and we have faith its day will come.
we have heard a hint of love
     and we have faith its day will come.
we have heard of the birth of the Christ-child
     and we have faith his day is here.
Welcome to Christmas.
Welcome to worship.

Prayer
Father God, we thank you for sending your Son to earth to live and minister and bring new life to the lost—to us. How wise and wonderful you are to chose this way, the humble birth of a baby, to dwell with us forever. We look forward to unwrapping more of this wondrous mystery today.

Jesus, on your birthday, we welcome you again into the human story, and into our lives. We are deeply grateful that you came as the Prince of Peace and we grasp tightly to your promises of peace, of justice, of hope, and of love. We confess that we need you and your gifts to live this life. May we not forget to open our hands and hearts to share your promised gifts with those around us.

Holy Spirit, you are with us always, everywhere, reminding us of God’s big story of love, and our part in that story. May we know your presence today, and your wisdom guiding us tomorrow. Continue to teach us how to be your disciples, your storytellers, and your just and joyful witnesses to the world. We celebrate that you are here now, joining in our worship. May all that we do, say, and sing, be a blessing to your kingdom come. Amen.

Benediction
Now go, wrapped in the deep love and great blessing of God, your Father. You hold the gift of the Christ-child in your hearts. So go, give it away. Amen.

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When Someone You Love has Chronic Pain

A decade ago I suffered a bulging, herniated disc in my back. It took months to get in to see a specialist, get a diagnosis, and find a treatment plan that worked to heal my body. For a year I dealt with constant, moderate-to-severe pain in my lower back, hips, and right leg.

Within weeks of my injury, I hardly recognized my life. The pain upstaged everything with its constant nagging. Sitting was particularly excruciating so my world shrank to a ten-mile radius around my home. My otherwise sharp and creative brain was scrambled into an unrecognizable slop. Sometimes the pain was so bad that I had trouble finishing sentences. My joyful, focused, and friendly personality morphed into something more impatient and irritable, always distracted, and often discouraged. Engaging with cherished friendships and hobbies became work, and that made me feel ashamed and frustrated.

A new back injury sustained this summer has me thinking of that dastardly year. As I make another slow and difficult climb toward wellness, I find myself drawing on lessons learned a decade ago. Coincidentally, I have several friends struggling with chronic pain right now, so it’s time to resurrect the “When Someone You Love” series. Here are some thoughts and tips on caring for people with chronic pain.

Believe in Pain You Cannot See
Unfortunately, we humans often only pick up on, and respond to, obvious signs of suffering: scabs and angry bruises, someone grimacing or limping, a limb wrapped in a brace or cast. Physical signs of pain trigger our compassion and helpfulness. But consider this—there are hundreds of conditions that cause physical pain which are invisible to others.

It can be difficult to accept that someone is in pain if you can’t see changes or limitations. So here’s your first opportunity to care well—believe your loved one when they say they are in pain. Tell or show them that you believe them. Ask how you can make adjustments or accommodations to make daily life more manageable for them.

Affirmation over Easy Answers
For many, chronic pain leads to challenging side effects: isolation from beloved friends and activities, irritability, physical and emotional fatigue, and loss of mental sharpness. Simple, everyday tasks become arduous challenges. Getting dressed winds you like running a 5k. Writing a daily report has the gravity of a dissertation. When you roll this nasty jumble of side effects together, you’re left feeling discouraged and disconnected. Less alive. Less you.

If one of your beloveds is in pain, then YOU are one of the best caregivers they could find. You’re even better than their doctors because you know who they are underneath all this pain. You can see what has changed and what has not. So, in real moments, tell them how you see their spirit or their strength shining through the pain. Have they done or said anything lately that displays their unique personality? Simply letting them know how and when you see them will be life-giving.

And please, steer clear from clichés or easy answers like “it’ll get better soon” or “God won’t give you more than you can handle” or “focus on the positive.” Caregiving clichés are like wielding a velvet hammer. Despite good intentions, they make suffering people feel like they are failing or inadequate, and they often amplify feelings of weakness. With some careful thought you’ll be able to do something much better—speak words that are true about them. Words that are empathetic and truly soothing.

Connect with Coping Skills & Self-care
Back in my chaplaincy days, I often asked my patients to reflect on times of pain or difficulty in their past. With those in mind, I’d then ask what worked, and what didn’t. How did they face those challenges head on? What things helped them get through an hour, a day, or a week? What kinds of practical support did they need from others?

This reflective process acknowledges that they are an important voice (even an expert voice) in their own care, and it reminds them that they already have valuable internal resources from which to draw.

Chronic pain may be new for your loved one, but you’ll find that coping skills and coping support are amazingly flexible. They tend to adapt to new scenarios. Help your loved one remember what’s worked in the past and encourage them to try it out now.

Other than coping skills, chronic pain sufferers need to practice self-care. Over the past three months, I’ve spent hours resting, and icing and heating my hurting back—otherwise known as caring for myself—but I’m often emotionally drained. Self-care for me right now is not the things I do everyday to get through the pain. Self-care is doing the things that nurture my soul when I’m healthy.

Last week I had what I call “a good pain day” so I went out, bought a movie ticket and a lime Diet Coke, and settled into the local theater’s leather recliner. This is one of my favorite me-time things to do. Unfortunately, the chair was too soft for my back so I didn’t make it through the whole film before I went home, but I was sublimely happy that I got out of the house and enjoyed half of a good movie. That outing restored my positivity for several days.

What does your loved one normally do to nurture their body/soul/spirit when they are healthy? Can they continue that self-care routine despite their pain? If so, encourage them stay engaged in these things.

Beware Treatment Suggestion Fatigue
Treatment Suggestion Fatigue is my evil pet name for a very real thing for chronic pain sufferers. When we share about our struggles with family and friends, these well-meaning people barrage us with advice.

“Have you heard of Dr. Adams and his revolutionary treatment?”

“Have you ever tried cryotherapy?”

“You should ask for vicodin. That’s the good stuff.”

“I just read about the wonders of fish oils!”

“My grandmother’s chicken soup cures all.”

“Physical therapy helped me after I broke my leg.”

Please hear this, friends. You all have different opinions of what is best, and what worked for you or your grandma. But what worked for you might not work for me. The pain of a broken leg is very different from nerve pain. You might rush toward prescription narcotics, but I may have five very important reasons why I won’t or can’t use them. So be cautious of how and when and what you suggest.

As a rule of thumb, ask a question before you make a suggestion. The questions “what have you tried?” and “are you looking for suggestions?” are far more caring than any sentence that starts with “you should try” or “for me the answer was…” Pain sufferers will hear the difference in your words. Asking questions first shows that you respect them as the intelligent, intuitive keeper of their body.

Special Note: When Chronic Pain is Here to Stay
Sadly, there are many painful conditions and diseases that last for years, even lifetimes. While most of us will celebrate an end to our chronic pain, for some pain will be part of their new normal. This type of chronic pain is a different beast altogether and deserves its own post, but I want take a moment to address this reality.

Overall, I encourage you to be compassionate — both to your loved one and to yourself — to be flexible, and to be keen listeners.

I’ve noted that dealing with pain effects mood and personality. It’s also true that long-endured struggles tend to change us. When chronic pain becomes lifetime pain, it will likely alter your beloved’s personality permanently. (Pause and read that last sentence again.) You’ll need to wrestle with and accept that they may never return to the same person you knew before the pain came. They may be more irritable, less positive, or have a new edge to their humor. But don’t give way to discouragement! The changes won’t be all bad.

My bouts with chronic pain have made me more sensitive and compassionate to others in pain. They’ve helped me let go of my need to be in control. I’ve learned to acknowledge and accept limitations, to be kinder to myself, to ask for help, and to really believe that needing help doesn’t mean I’m weak or pathetic. It means I’m human.

All of this ultimately encourages and challenges me to entrust more of my life to the all-powerful, loving God I worship. And in doing that, I become more whole.

May God bless you, caregiver, with abundant grace and peace. May you use the overflow to nurture your beloved’s health — body and soul. I pray for swift healing and for many moments of joy in the waiting.

Much love,
Corrie

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What To Do with all of your Feelings about the Stanford Rape Case

Like many of you, I’ve been reading the daily articles about the Brock Turner rape case. And like many of you, I have strong feelings about Emily Doe’s rape and the fallout. Here’s what is churning in my gut… Compassion for Emily Doe’s pain. Disgust over Turner’s senseless act of sexual violence. Deep angst toward his apparent ignorance of the real issue—his reprehensible rape of a woman—and his lack of repentance for his crimes. Anger at Turner’s attorney for victim blaming during the trail. Outrage at Judge Persky’s sentencing and rationale. Helplessness that we live in a world so selfish and broken that any person would rape another.

All of these emotions leave me feeling very raw and weary. A small part of me wishes that Emily’s story didn’t affect me. I wish I could ignore this whole atrocity, turn away from the news, and protect myself from these terrible feelings; but I can’t. Thankfully, the larger part of my heart doesn’t want to turn away because Emily’s story is important and personal to me.

I live and work three miles from Stanford University. I may have passed Emily in Trader Joe’s. I may have steered my car around Brock Turner as he cycled to class on campus. These young people are my neighbors. Palo Alto is the community where I minister.

These events also feel personal because I worked with college students for six years. The things I witnessed among developing adults motivated me to understand abuse and to later become an abuse educator and victim’s advocate. When I was a hospital chaplain, I met with a few rape victims just hours after they were assaulted. As a pastor, I’ve supported many women who have been raped, molested, and abused in other ways. Reading Emily Doe’s story makes me recall a hundred other stories that I hold in the shadowy recesses of my heart.

Even though I haven’t experienced the pain of rape myself, the people and stories I’ve encountered in my career have ravaged my emotions. Supervisors advised me to keep an emotional distance in these situations. I really tried in the early years, but then I began to wonder—is there a way to remain impervious when a woman sits next to you and shakes as she recalls the most terrifying hours of her life? Now, I don’t think it’s possible to be fully human in those moments and remain emotionally detached. Not when you’ve heard a victim’s story, held her hand, seen her wounds, and shared her pain-filled silences.

I’m human. And when other humans are suffering, I hurt. Emily Doe’s story, and all of the stories that have rippled out from Brock Turner’s act of violence, hurt me. And from the outrage I see across social media, many of you are hurting too.

So what do I do when another horrifying story of injustice rips me open? What do we do with all these wildly raging emotions when we hear a story of such violence being done against a human being—especially when we aren’t directly involved in the situation?

Use them. Use the emotions.

The best advice I can give you is to gather up all of the emotions you feel churning inside you and turn them into fuel. Let the ferocity of your anger and the raised hackles of injustice motivate you to live a transformational life.

Don’t just be a person who seeks to do no harm to others. Be a person who actively looks for ways to protect the vulnerable, someone who steps forward to advocate for victims of all kinds in your sphere of influence—be it big or small. Our impassioned emotions might lead us to protests and rallies, to sign petitions to hold civic leaders accountable, or to volunteer with organizations that are doing their best to spread justice in our communities.

Not all of us will have the opportunity to directly intervene in an act of sexual violence like the Swedish graduate students, but all of us will have opportunities to care for someone who has been abused. In the United States, someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes. If you know four girls under the age of 18, at least one of them has experienced abuse. The same is true if you know six boys under 18.

Statistics indicate that all of us know or will know someone who has been abused in some way—sexually, emotionally, verbally, or spiritually. This fact may outrage and sadden us, but we don’t have to stop at feeling. We can allow those feelings to shape the way we interact with others. You may not know whom in your life shares Emily Doe’s story, but someone does. So it’s best to always speak and act with kindness because you never know the wounds people are hiding.

Choose to be a person who approaches people who are hurting. Listen attentively to their stories and do your best to understand their circumstances. Allow their painful experiences to expand and fill your stores of compassion. And if you are healthy and able, you might even sacrifice some of your time and ask how you might help carry their burdens or stand in solidarity with them.

For those of you who are shocked by Emily Doe’s story and don’t know much about sexual assault, allow your shock and horror to motivate you to learn about abuse—what it is, its prevalence, causes, and consequences.

If you are a parent or someone with direct influence over children, think critically about what language, attitudes, actions, and proverbs you pass on. Abuse is a learned behavior. You can be an adult who raises up compassionate, respectful, peacemaking children, the kind of children who grow into adults who jump off their bicycles and intervene when they see someone being raped.

And speaking of those two Swedes, I’m reminded that it’s not just the dark emotions of injustice that can change us and make us transformational, compassionate people. Along with all my anger and outrage over the Stanford rape case, there have also been healthy doses of inspiration. Every moment and movement of bravery and resilience and justice in this case has brought healing tears.

…we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on…Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy…

Emily Doe wrote that in her victim’s statement to the court. She wrote that to her rapist. That she is even able to think about Brock Turner’s future makes me stand in awe. Emily’s statement shows me that rape and violence and pain have not won. They are not the end of her story. Emily has not been extinguished by what Brock Turner did to her. Instead, she is rising up out of her horrifying ordeal, it seems, with her own expanded stores of compassion and understanding.

Maybe I’ll meet Emily Doe one day as I live and work near her. Maybe I won’t. But I’m so thankful that she had the courage to write and share her statement, her story. Emily, you’ve reminded me again of the beauty of the human spirit. You shine with it. Your story reignites my desire to be an advocate and a peacemaker, someone who is as kind to the grumpy woman in line at the grocery story as I am to someone who comes to my office for counseling.

Thank you to Emily Doe, and to all of the Emilys who have shared your stories with me over the years. Your pain has changed me. Your ability to overcome, and seeing you reemerge to life, has taught me how to endure and learn from my own hardships. Because of you, I choose to live in a way that helps others heal and thrive.

 

Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.