Healing the world, healing ourselves

The news is not good.  I don't have to go beyond my Facebook feed to be assaulted by the brokenness of our world.  A local elementary school is on lockdown due to a phoned-in threat, there are polarizing diatribes about the riots in Baltimore due to repeated racial injustices, and the death count continues to rise in Nepal.  In the school I serve (and in all of higher education), students are struggling with increased stress and mental health concerns.  Meanwhile, in our own home, we have a sick little girl, and a boy about to do battle with SOL tests.  I know our problems are small in the greater scheme, but we can't control our worries.

Sometimes it feels like too much.  I'm a highly sensitive feeler, so it's easy for me to take on others' pain as my own.  It makes me an empathetic minister, but also leaves me susceptible to my own struggles with depression and burnout.  My impulse is to turn off the news and bury myself in a cozy cocoon of oblivion.  But I know that retreating is not the answer.  I want to be engaged.  I want to make a difference.

Yet I know that to do this, I must take care of myself first.  I can not help others if I am not coming from a place of health and strength.  I often remind my students that flight attendants on airplanes tell us to put on our own oxygen masks before helping others.  How can we care for ourselves when things are difficult?  This looks different for everyone, but we all need to eat healthy food, get plenty of rest, and exercise.  We need to engage in activities that renew our spirit, whether that be praying or meditating, spending time alone or with others, or engaging in hobbies.  Sometimes we do need to turn off the news and go for a walk with a friend.  Sometimes the homework can wait, and sometimes we need to be productive so the weight can come off of our shoulders.  Once we are intentional about caring for ourselves, we can look to support the needs of others.


I believe that we are each called to care and serve in different ways.  I watch the news clips of the clergy marching in Baltimore and I want to be that brave.  I have clergy friends that have been arrested for protesting injustice in their own areas of ministry.  I would like to think I would have the courage to stand up and fight, but I fear my trembling legs would give out from beneath me.  I would like to speak passionately and eloquently, but my voice is not that loud and my platform is not that large.  I don't know enough to understand the issues at hand, and so I listen, and maybe that is my gift.

In the past week, I have been asked to support efforts in Nepal, to be involved in local diversity efforts, and to support the work of numerous projects and work of students, colleagues, and charities.  All of these are worthy causes.  And yet my time and resources are finite.  How do we choose?

As a minister, I try to start with prayer.  I know that this can be a way of avoiding responsibility for doing the work (just hoping God will take care of it instead of me doing my part to make the situation better), but sometimes, I need clarity about what I can and can't fix.  Last night, this was my Facebook prayer:

"Sending prayers globally (for Nepal and those who are connected to the disaster there), nationally (for racial unrest and injustice, particularly in Baltimore), for our community of scattered friends (particularly for Jeff and Becca Stables and their family in Jeff's battle with cancer), locally (for my stressed students), and for our household (and our sick girl).  So many hurts and needs that only faith and acting in faith can heal."

So how do we act in faith when it seems overwhelming and hopeless?  I believe that we are all given our concerns, gifts, and passions as a way of connecting with our world.  We can all be the change we want to see in the world when we do our part where we are.  We cannot individually fix all the world's problems, but when we reach out to work on the causes closest to our heart and build community with others who are doing the same, I believe that God empowers us to make a true difference.  

Jane Goodall recently spoke at Hollins, and it was inspiring to hear of her almost 60 years of activism.  NowI don't want to live in the jungle like she did or travel for 300 days a year at 80-years-old like she does.  But she shared advice that can work for all of us.  She talked about how we are told to think globally but act locally.  "But if you think globally, you will only end up depressed!" she retorted.  Instead, she talked about the Roots and Shoots organizations she has started all over the world, empowering young people to be agents of change for the specific issues they face in their own communities.  It was encouraging to hear of the many diverse concerns that are being met through the enthusiasm and gifts of young people.  There can be tremendous power and change when we start with ourselves, work from our heart, and reach out where we are.

I think of my friends who live and minister in Charlotte, building a ministry of hospitality in their own neighborhood through the QC Family Tree.  I see our Nepali students who are organizing fundraisers to help their family and friends back home.  I listen to our students of color who are speaking up to make our community a more welcoming and inclusive place for all.  I reflect upon my ministry, which sometimes takes place at Hollins, and sometimes in my own home.  I remember that my first duty is to see what there is to nurture and change within myself, and always try to act from love.

May we do what we can where with are with what we have.  I will continue praying as I discern how to help and serve, seeking God's grace and strength.  Will you join me?

Changes

He cried when they took the old couch away.  I moved to hug and comfort him, but he pushed me away in anger.  "This is your fault!  You know I don't like change.  I liked the old couch and you bought a new one on purpose!"  The reasoning and logic of an 8-year-old is not always sound, but his heart is true.  Never mind that the springs were broken on our old furniture from years of bouncing children and many forts.  Never mind that brand new furniture was on the way.  The old held the crumbs from many movie night snacks and the memories of us snuggled together reading books.  It is the furniture that has always been in this house.  I know that it is so much more than an old worn couch, and in the quiet moments after the anger has given away to sadness, I get it.

It's so hard growing up.  I forget that in all the silliness of their play, in how each day seems so carefree, full of wonder and possibility for them from my perspective.  But I'm an outsider.  I've made my way through childhood and have arrived at adulthood.  It all seems so simple looking back, watching them.  I have forgotten how time seemed to stretch impossibly through childhood and everything I wanted was always "later", days or years away, out of my reach.  I have forgotten how it felt to have so little control and say in life, that everyone made decisions for me, about me, that I was supposed to just accept and "get over it".

He likes to remind us how he hates change, and there has been so much recently.  He moved from the fun of first grade, where he excelled and was cherished by his teacher, to second grade, where each day was a struggle, the workload grew exponentially, and he was just a face in the crowd.  Our beloved pastor at church resigned, the only pastor and church he remembers.  Over the past few years, I began working longer hours at a new job that I love, and daddy became the primary caregiver at home.  We lost our dog of ten years.  But if you ask Brady, he will tell you that "It all started when Maryn was born."  Ah yes.

I remember being ready to go to the hospital to have our girl and being suddenly struck with such guilt and fear over what we were about to do to our small son's life.  He was only two, and had been the center of our world.  He had no idea what was about to change and had not asked for his life to be so radically shifted.  After her birth, I asked that he not be brought to meet her until the next day.  I was still reeling from a dramatic delivery and didn't want him to have to see me in the state I was in.  I honestly was struggling to come to terms with the changes already evident in our lives.  It was my first night away from him; the first night of our family of four.

It was the biggest change we had ever faced.  It was tough and painful and redemptive and beautiful.  It was lots of tears, long days and nights, and John sleeping on the floor with Brady for months while I slept with Maryn in my arms.  It was dying to our selfishness each day and realizing it was not about us (sometimes begrudingly); it was wondering if we would ever find our way back.  We still have those hopeless days, but not nearly as often.  The thing about change is that it changes us.  It's not just our circumstances, but our selves that are transformed.  Sometimes, like Brady, we mourn those old losses, the familiar bits that we want to cling to.  But if we are willing to surrender, something much more beautiful finds room to grow.

The empty living room echoes without the furniture and rug as we wait for the replacements to arrive.  Maryn is thrilled, running laps around the room at any opportunity, laughing at the sound she creates.  Brady stays away glowering for much of the day.  But when it was time to wind down before bedtime, they brought their bean bag chairs in and watched a movie together, side by side. Their laughter filled the room.

Sometimes change is like that.