My Medical Choice

I don't miss an opportunity to encourage friends, church members and sometimes random women who's conversations I overhear to check their breasts. I have been known to explain exactly how to do a self breast exam, when you should do it and why. I may have had visual aides. I mean, that might have happened once or twice. It's not just because my mother died of breast cancer, but that this disease really could strike anyone. (That's right gentlemen, even you.) I appreciate anytime that someone is brave enough to bring this conversation out in the open so that I can put away my visual aides.

Angelina Jolie did just that today in an Op-Ed in the New York Times. She tells her story about her kids, her husband and her choice to have a mastectomy. It's a choice that she makes because she has the BRCA1 gene. This isn't the only gene that carries the high risk of developing breast cancer. There's also the BRCA2. The article doesn't talk about this first decision -- the one that I have struggled with for years -- the decision to be tested for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene. Jolie only mentions its prohibitive cost. And it is. It's a very expensive test, but it's not the only cost.

Jolie doesn't talk about watching her mother die. She doesn't talk about what it feels like to fear that she might meet that same fate. She doesn't talk about the fact that women still get this awful disease without carrying the gene. The test will give you an answer, but it will leave you with more questions. It's the reason I haven't decided to take the test. Because I don't know how I would live after it.

Because I would still worry. It wouldn't be a simple surgery that has me back on my feet in nine days that would put my mind at ease. I would still be pulling out my visual aides and freaking out at every pimple on my breast. The risk of breast cancer would still be there. It's why I won't take the test. Not today anyway. Because I can't decide if it's better to know how you might die. We all know that we will die one day. I have had that sense of my own mortality since my mother died. I am well aware that this disease could kick my ass. My challenge is not how I will beat breast cancer, but how will I choose to live? Breast cancer may be embedded in my DNA. Or it might not. There is still a high risk that this disease could be my demise, but I have doctors that understand this. I get my annual mammogram. I check my breasts. It is a elaborate process but my doctors assure me that this test is not required. They, too, encourage me to embrace this short life because there is so much life to live.

Jolie's story is not my story. My story doesn't speak for her. Neither one of our stories will speak for every woman trying to make this decision. It's a tough one, but it is a choice we each make. I choose to live as fully as possible with the help of an awesome medial team.

Mother's Day

The posts began to appear early this week. One by one, friends started to post on Facebook this article by Anne Lamott. Then, this article appeared. I'd read the first when it was initially published. I waited until now to read the second article. I so appreciate these words even though I really don't want to read them. I would really rather hide under my covers until Monday morning. Because I'm having one of those lonely days where I'm checking Facebook way too much. So, I watched today as my friends profile pictures changed to include snapshots of their mothers. This is apparently a thing where we try to comfort ourselves by surrounding ourselves with internet community. But, it doesn't work. Especially now. Because Mother's Day is tomorrow.

Tomorrow morning, I will have to lead worship and try to praise God when all of these wonderful women I serve will be talking about breakfasts in bed and special treats from their little ones and husbands. And I will think of my mother. I will think about how much I wish I could surround her with that love. And I will feel a little empty as I do every year. Because my mother died when I was seven years old. She was sick when I could have burnt pancakes for her. I don't have any sweet memories of this day. Not with my mom.

My wonderful stepmother, my serious dad and me.

But I have a stepmother. I was blessed with this wonderful woman who has loved me when I can't bear to call her "mom" because I'm afraid of losing that connection to a woman I lost at 7 years old. She has been my mother for more than 20 years. And I am so completely grateful for that love. So, three weeks ago, when the cards first appeared in the supermarket, I tried to choose a card for this wonderful woman. But I couldn't. Because none of those pink, frilly cards said what I needed to say. I searched high and low for a card for a step-mother or an adoptive mother. Or something like that. But there wasn't anything like that. I only found those words that we always say about mothers -- those words that feel so hollow and foreign to me. Those words that are so full of my own grief that I can't reframe them into the blessing I have received. I didn't buy a card. I walked out of the store in tears.

Tomorrow, as I preach the good news of Jesus Christ, I will try not to let those tears show. I will try very hard not to let my complicated feelings about this holiday cloud the experience of God's people. But, I already know that someone will be disappointed that the only thing I said about mothers was a faint reference to God in the prayers. It won't be enough for them. I know that. I hope that they can find that space somewhere else tomorrow. Because I really can't find the words for it this year, if I ever have.

The Emotional Pastor

This morning, I read this in the CenturyMarks of the Christian Century: 

Rising levels of stress are causing more depression among pastors. Stressors include declines in membership and contributions, personal financial worries (often due to educational debt), and discord in congregations. One of the top predictors of depression is social isolation. Pastors moving from hospital visits to funerals to weddings experience a range of unpredictable emotions—another indicator of depression. On the positive side, some pastoral counselors see an increase in the number of pastors who are willing to seek professional help and are open with their congregations about their emotional difficulties (ABP).

I read this and thought. Nah. Not me. I'm not stressed. That was before my morning meeting. That was before I sat with the small group of loving church members that carefully and lovingly visit those that can't quite regularly make it to church. (We call them shut ins, but it's a strange term.) That was before I was reminded of how hard is to grow old in America. I read these words and thought this brazen thought before I allowed myself to ask again how Christ calls us to care for those that need to be reminded of his love. Because it's the question that I ask myself every day. It's this question that centers my ministry and propels me into this wild work where I stand at bedsides, preside at memorial services and send the wrong article to the stewardship ministry than the one I intended.

I want to live fully immersed in the love of Christ. It's why I do the work that I do but -- as music from Taize flows through my earbuds as I sit down to compose something resembling a sermon in my favorite coffee shop -- it hits me. Tears seem to be just at the brim as I slowly allow myself to admit what I didn't want to confess earlier in the day. I am stressed. But, even as I write those words, I want to edit them. Because it doesn't feel quite like stress. Maybe it's more like the great ordeal that is mentioned in the lection I'll be preaching on this Sunday. Because as we read these words in Leisurely Lectionary this morning, these words that proclaim,

For this reason they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd, and God will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes. (Revelation 7:15-17, NRSV)

I breathed a bit of relief reading these words.

Because I wanted to claim this vision where God will wipe away every tear and lead us to springs of water. This vision where God will be our shepherd. But, sometimes that's hard to remember. I felt that as I got up to preach last week after the roller coaster of events last week that were best summed up in this article in The Onion. Last night, I told my Pastoral Relations Committee how I stood up to preach in the second service this past Sunday and thought simply, I really wish someone else would speak. I really want to hear good news from someone else. They laughed because they understood. We all have that human desire. That wish that someone else will make it better. Someone else will offer that hope that seems so far away. And sometimes all I can do -- in all of my authenticity -- is admit that I'm emotional.

Remember

As I'm reading about the Book of Revelation this morning, this word keeps creeping into my thoughts so that I can't quite focus on the text before me. Remember. It's a word that echoed in my heart and mind all week as I hiked through the amazingly beautiful Yosemite National Park with my dear friend Kasey.

From the top of Upper Yosemite Falls

Kasey and I met 10 years ago when we were thrown together as fellow interns in the United Church of Christ Volunteer Ministry program Faithful Advocates Serving Together. We spent eight weeks together in the tiny town of Martin, Kentucky where the coal mines had long since closed and the community struggled to survive. We were there to partner with the Low Income Housing Coalition toward their mission of providing affordable housing. As interns, we hosted eight different mission groups from many churches (often there were two or three churches in one week) with 50+ volunteers dispatched to different worksites. Each week, we pulled them off the worksite for one full day to talk about economic justice. That summer, Kasey and I lived on top of each other in this tiny one-bedroom apartment down the hall from some Mormon missionaries. (We learned a lot about the Mormons that summer.) On our days off, we went on crazy road trips to learn everything that we could about coal mining and its impact upon the area. Last week, on top of waterfalls in a national park, we laughed at these memories. It was a strange time. It was a wonderful time -- and neither one of us would have ever imagined how it might have changed us. Kasey would join the Peace Corps and later work for the Red Cross. I would go onto seminary in the fierce hope that I could somehow help to end poverty. (I haven't given up on that dream.)

Here we are at Tunnel View

Remember. There was a moment on our last hike -- the one that seemed like it would never end -- when Kasey turned toward me to say, "I love being your friend." She went on to explain how our friendship is really quite unique. I laughed and told her that I never, ever would have believed it if I had been told that we would be this close 10 years after Martin. I never would have thought we would have gone on this adventure together. But, it was natural and easy and so, so wonderful. And so, that word keeps popping up: Remember. It's what God tells us to do after the Exodus and what we ask God to do every time we fear we've been forgotten. Remember.

After this particular vacation, with this particular friend of 10 years, I want to remember what this feels like. To remember what I look like in the eyes of an old friend. To remember the dreams that I still have and refuse to give up on. To remember that not that much has changed from who I was 10 years ago. My laugh is still as loud. My determination is just as fierce. My desire for justice has never abated. My love of my friends has always kept me sane. I want to remember all of that. Every day.

Last Minute Thoughts Before Vacation

Sometimes I make things too hard.

I like a challenge. I like to push myself to spiritually, emotionally and especially as a student of the Bible. So, after the most recent worship planning group at TUCO, I was inspired to preach through sequence of readings in Revelation offered by the Revised Common Lectionary.

So, that might have been a little overzealous. I'm racing to finish the first sermon in that series before I go on vacation and it's not coming together fantastically well. I know. I know. Not every sermon can hit it out of the park. Sometimes the best you can do is write the best sermon you can before you go on vacation so you don't spend the entire vacation working on it.

What this journey through Revelation does offer is the opportunity to dust off some books from seminary. I took a wonderful class with Hal Taussig on the Revelation of John which forever changed my experience of these strange words at the end of the Bible. I fell in love with the imagery and it gave my justice-seeking heart a place to soar. And then, in my second year of seminary, my preaching professor made us read Barbara R. Rossing's The Rapture Exposed: The Message of Hope in the Book of Revelation. I really want to ask every church member to read this book. It's so easy to read and really debunks the crazy stuff that is layered onto this text. But, I won't do that. Not this time.

Now, I'll just countdown to vacation and hope that I don't forget to pack anything. All the while, I'll try to remind myself not to make things so darn hard. It's not always a good thing.

Holy Week Begins

This is my Bible. This is what it looked like sitting in the pulpit during worship yesterday. It caught my attention in the middle of worship. In a service of worship where I -- as the pastor -- actually got to worship. That almost never happens. I'm too worried about making things happen to make enough room for my heart and mind to worship, but it happened yesterday. I actually got to worship.

I found my mind wandering. I believe they call that meditating. My gaze wandered to that beautiful window that is completely out of focus in this photo. And then, I saw my Bible with all of those pink post-it notes going in every direction. 

I had already stood and proclaimed these words. Between those post-its, I had read the words that told the story of Jesus' trial and death. The story of Jesus' passion. The story of this Holy Week. I had already tried not to lose my place as I read from these powerful words. I had already felt the catch in my throat that comes every time I read these words. I had already felt their power. But, as the choir was singing, I saw those post-its and wondered if I had missed something. 

Because Lent has been really weird this year. It's not just my angst. It's that this season hasn't had a whole lot of space for what I really love about Lent. The worship planning group imagined a journey through this season that had a bit more joy in it. It was more active. It wasn't the quiet introspective season that I kinda hate to admit that I love. And it's been good. I heard someone say last week that it's the best Lent they have ever had. But, as I stared at my Bible yesterday, I wondered about how we try so hard to infuse energy and joy into the hardest moments. Because that is what Lent has felt like to me.  It feels so strange.

And this is the hard dance of pastoral ministry. Because I created a worship experience crafted by the community. It was truly liturgy -- the work of the people. I even enjoyed it. It wasn't until this moment on Palm and Passion Sunday that I felt unbalanced. It was only as I tried to shift into Holy Week that I realized that I'm not sure how to make this transition. And the congregation was so grateful for the worship that I crafted yesterday. But, it was a radical departure from what has been in these past five weeks. It wasn't filled with energy and joy. It was hard and slow and even difficult as we moved into this story that we really can't make better. It's just hard. It's awful. And sometimes we need to have permission to admit that. Even though my post-its tried to contain it, the story reached beyond those pink dividers and dug into my heart. And so it shall be. Sometimes we need to admit that there isn't any joy to offer. It's just hard. 

And with this, Holy Week begins.

About Me

It's the end of Lent.

And, of course, that means I feel awful. I haven't been all that faithful in my prayer life. I had a hint of a sore throat earlier this week. I have no idea what to preach for Easter. And I'm feeling generally blah. OK. Not awful. Awful is overly dramatic. Awful is completely and totally exaggerated. I'm just feeling blah. The rain in the Pacific Northwest doesn't help. It's sunny today. But, still. Though, truth be told, I felt the same way in Maine's snow. It's really just that I long for spring. I long for change. I want something to shift -- as Easter seems to promise and I'm not really feeling it.

All of this leads to a frustrated angst-filled cry when I open an application for continuing education that simply asks: Tell us about yourself. It's like they know that this is the one question that scares me most. Because, I really, truly have no idea what to write. I know what I don't want to write. I don't want to list off my qualifications as if I'm spouting off my resume. I don't want to be defined by the education I've earned, the awards I've been gifted or even my standing in the United Church of Christ. I know very well that where I went to college and seminary defined who I am. I know that the jobs and the calls I have said yes to have marked my identity forever and ever. But, I want to be more than my resume. I want to be able to say something else about who I am.

This particular application is for a continuing education opportunity that I really, really, really want to attend. So, obviously, I want this application to kick ass. I want it to be so amazing that the powers-that-be won't bat an eye. They will be so excited to have me because I know exactly how to talk about myself in the box that have provided for that very purpose. The words are important because it's an opportunity to explore my writing. So, words really matter. Really well-chosen words that glimmer would really help. But, I have been staring at this application for a week and I still don't know what to say.

I am reminded of an email conversation I shared with my TYCWP friend Katherine Willis Pershey after she published this amazing essay in The Christian Century. I was blown away by these words. I was inspired by them and they challenged me to remember that part of me that really wanted to write with this level of vulnerability. (Yeah, I'll say it. I'm jealous.) So, I sent my friend Katherine an email to ask for advice. I asked her about her process and her inspiration. And then, after an email or two, I asked her if she thought it was easier to write about these things when you have children. It's something I've noticed in the blogging world. There's an easy comfort -- or even radical authenticity -- that has emerged among mothers who write. On internet pages, they tell the dark side of motherhood. They admit they are slackers. They point out the less than stellar moments. And there's a collective sigh that I read in the comments like a huge breath of fresh air. There's a sense of relief that someone actually told the truth. But, I'm not a mother. I'm not even sure that I'm called to be a mother. I'm a single woman with single girl habits that no one really wants to read about. I mean, there might be a collective sigh. Maybe. But, unlike those moms, there is a truth in my single woman stories that no one really wants to see themselves in. Oh. C'mon. Be honest. There might be laughter but it's the more awkward kind. The kind that reads these words, awkwardly giggling, and can't stop thinking, "Oh, you poor thing." Really, it's OK. I do the same thing. I feel the exact same way every single time I read an article from the Single Rev's Guide to Life -- and I wrote some of those words. I know. I know what you're thinking. You can say it: You poor thing.

But, I'm really not that pathetic. I like being single most of the time. I am fiercely independent and as stubborn as my mother made me. (Actually, my dad has equal credit for that trait.) I haven't given up dreaming. I still think that I can change the world. I haven't accepted that all of that is behind me -- left to someone younger and more idealistic. I still have those qualities. But, how do you put that into words? Because something has changed. I have grown up from the girl that I once was. My dreams have changed into something that I can't quite articulate. The words are a jumbled mess in my head. I can't string them together in any logical way to say -- with complete confidence -- this is who I am and this is what I want to do. And so, the cursor blinks on the screen waiting for me to come up with something brilliant.