A young woman died yesterday. I didn't know her well, but I did know her name, her face. The loss is not mine, really, but it's closer than those tragedies I read of in the newspaper. She woke up one morning healthy- loving her daughters, being loved by friends, family, her community. Today she is simply gone- erased from the earth but for the devastation her sudden death leaves behind.
We have all read those inspiring quotes about living each day as though it is the last, because one day it will be. We smile, nod at the truth of the words, then forget them mere moments later. We go about our lives, more focused on the irritations and aggravations than those simple moments of love and joy.
I wish I could say that this time will be different. That the lesson of this young woman's death will settle into my heart and remind me daily to celebrate more and complain less. Chances are, though, that soon this loss- once removed from my life- will fade into a sad memory, and with it the lessons that today seem so obvious, so real, so heartbreaking, will fade as well.
Today I hope the people who loved her, who can't comprehend that the story of their lives will continue without her to write on every page, find peace and acceptance in the midst of their grief.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Faith, Church, and Belonging
I went to church today. I realize that, for most people, this event would be barely worth noting. But my relationship with organized religion (religion in general, if I'm honest) has been nonexistent and complicated. But mostly nonexistent.
When I was eight or nine I asked my mom what religion I was. Her answer was concise, "Lutheran." Apparently that was enough for me, because I don't recall asking any follow-up questions. Other than a few experiences with Bible camp in the summer (thanks to well meaning family friends who were probably, looking back, concerned for my soul), my exposure to God was minimal. Having no real frame of reference I didn't really mind, although I do believe that somewhere in the dim recesses of my childhood brain I understood I was lacking a common awareness and experience that most people take for granted.
Fast forward through middle and high school, where a few classmates casually commented that I was probably destined for hell because I had never been baptized and didn't belong to a church. Their asumption was that I was a non-believer, and who knows? Maybe they were right. I had no clear idea of what I believed. I did know that I could never believe in a God who sent people to hell because of the choices made for them by their parents, and my feelings toward people who did were dark, judgemental.
I was married in a church- my husband's. We baptized our daughters, mostly because he likes the traditions associated with the church. I felt nothing. It was just words- something I did because that is what people do. Signs of religious hypocrisy- hate, judgement, using God as a weapon- had convinced me that religion was something to be wary of and to avoid.
Like many parents, children changed my mind. Despite my own hesitation, I don't want my girls to feel the same unease with all things religious that I do. So we chose a church and signed them up for Sunday school and confirmation class.
While I doubt I will ever become devout, the service today was nice. The message- Success should be determined by service, not status- resonated. And the story of members of the congregation singing to a young woman dying of terminal cancer literally moved me to tears.
Perhaps I was wrong, all these years, to only notice the negative, the dark side of religious fervor. Perhaps I've found a place where the message of God is one of hope, light, and inclusion. One of tolerance, acceptance, and love. One where the shadows of hate, judgement, and exclusion can be chased away. One where I belong.
When I was eight or nine I asked my mom what religion I was. Her answer was concise, "Lutheran." Apparently that was enough for me, because I don't recall asking any follow-up questions. Other than a few experiences with Bible camp in the summer (thanks to well meaning family friends who were probably, looking back, concerned for my soul), my exposure to God was minimal. Having no real frame of reference I didn't really mind, although I do believe that somewhere in the dim recesses of my childhood brain I understood I was lacking a common awareness and experience that most people take for granted.
Fast forward through middle and high school, where a few classmates casually commented that I was probably destined for hell because I had never been baptized and didn't belong to a church. Their asumption was that I was a non-believer, and who knows? Maybe they were right. I had no clear idea of what I believed. I did know that I could never believe in a God who sent people to hell because of the choices made for them by their parents, and my feelings toward people who did were dark, judgemental.
I was married in a church- my husband's. We baptized our daughters, mostly because he likes the traditions associated with the church. I felt nothing. It was just words- something I did because that is what people do. Signs of religious hypocrisy- hate, judgement, using God as a weapon- had convinced me that religion was something to be wary of and to avoid.
Like many parents, children changed my mind. Despite my own hesitation, I don't want my girls to feel the same unease with all things religious that I do. So we chose a church and signed them up for Sunday school and confirmation class.
While I doubt I will ever become devout, the service today was nice. The message- Success should be determined by service, not status- resonated. And the story of members of the congregation singing to a young woman dying of terminal cancer literally moved me to tears.
Perhaps I was wrong, all these years, to only notice the negative, the dark side of religious fervor. Perhaps I've found a place where the message of God is one of hope, light, and inclusion. One of tolerance, acceptance, and love. One where the shadows of hate, judgement, and exclusion can be chased away. One where I belong.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Just Because I Talk To Myself...
A few days ago one of my students asked if I talk to myself a lot. He probably oberved me having one of my animated conversations with absolutely no one as I walked down the hallway of the middle school where I teach. I had two thoughts before answering his question.
1. We are clearly still in beginning-of-the-year mode, because if he had been in my class for more than a few days he would know that I talk to myself all the time. It's not a secret.
2. The hesistant manner in which he asked the question reminded me of the way I used to tiptoe around my mom when she was in an a remarkably bad mood- as if she could snap any moment. This poor adolescent child was really concerned for my mental health, and he was afraid I would turn on him in an instant. Poor kid.
I gave him my usual response- something flippant like "Of course. If I want to have a meaningful conversation what other choice do I have?" But it did start me thinking- why exactly do I have a penchant for engaging in full on discussions with myself? Could I stop if I tried, or is the habit so ingrained that it is now simply a part of the fabric of who I am? Perhaps most importantly, do I care?
Not really.
The truth is, I like talking to myself. It helps me form coherent thoughts, logical arguments, and realistic solutions. I never have to wait until I'm available to have a conversation with myself, and I am never critical of my own ideas and opinions. If I do say so myself, I am quite the conversationalist. I see no reason to stop now.
Well, except for one. Some people might think that I'm the tiniest bit crazy. We've all seen the stereotype of the crazy woman with long tangled hair who wears an old housecoat (What exactly is a housecoat anyway?) and mutters to herself as she picks up random bits of trash to carefully place in her battered shopping cart. I'm pretty sure I don't exude the crazy/homeless vibe, but life can be a slippery slope. Talking to yourself one day and dumpster diving the next.
Perhaps this little blog will take the place of my need to talk to myself. More likely I'll just start discussing with myself potential blog topics, but it's worth a shot, right? Either way, I'll just have to keep in mind that just because I talk to myself it doesn't mean I'm crazy.
1. We are clearly still in beginning-of-the-year mode, because if he had been in my class for more than a few days he would know that I talk to myself all the time. It's not a secret.
2. The hesistant manner in which he asked the question reminded me of the way I used to tiptoe around my mom when she was in an a remarkably bad mood- as if she could snap any moment. This poor adolescent child was really concerned for my mental health, and he was afraid I would turn on him in an instant. Poor kid.
I gave him my usual response- something flippant like "Of course. If I want to have a meaningful conversation what other choice do I have?" But it did start me thinking- why exactly do I have a penchant for engaging in full on discussions with myself? Could I stop if I tried, or is the habit so ingrained that it is now simply a part of the fabric of who I am? Perhaps most importantly, do I care?
Not really.
The truth is, I like talking to myself. It helps me form coherent thoughts, logical arguments, and realistic solutions. I never have to wait until I'm available to have a conversation with myself, and I am never critical of my own ideas and opinions. If I do say so myself, I am quite the conversationalist. I see no reason to stop now.
Well, except for one. Some people might think that I'm the tiniest bit crazy. We've all seen the stereotype of the crazy woman with long tangled hair who wears an old housecoat (What exactly is a housecoat anyway?) and mutters to herself as she picks up random bits of trash to carefully place in her battered shopping cart. I'm pretty sure I don't exude the crazy/homeless vibe, but life can be a slippery slope. Talking to yourself one day and dumpster diving the next.
Perhaps this little blog will take the place of my need to talk to myself. More likely I'll just start discussing with myself potential blog topics, but it's worth a shot, right? Either way, I'll just have to keep in mind that just because I talk to myself it doesn't mean I'm crazy.
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