The Fiery Furnace of Relaxation

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't know how to relax. I come from a family that doesn't know how to relax. Growing up, we never took family vacations to the beach. We're not beach people. No, we always vacationed in the mountains. When I was younger, it was in tents, and then later in a pop-up camper, and in more recent years, in semi-remote cabins. But it was always in the mountains. And we didn't just retreat to the mountains. We hiked those mountains. Miles on end, up the mountain tops to breathtaking views, down in the valleys to gorgeous waterfalls. Several hours a day, until our calves were numb and our lungs were shredded. That was, and is, how my family relaxes. Not lounging on the beach, reading some trashy novel and playing in the waves, but by pushing our bodies beyond their physical limits in an attempt to capture as much natural beauty as we can. I admit, as my parents have grown older, and now that my mom and I both have chronic back problems, our hikes have grown shorter with more breaks. Whereas we formerly gave no thought to a five mile, one way strenuous hike, we now have to discuss whether our backs can handle a moderate two mile loop. This, however, isn't a sign that we are finally learning how to relax a bit, but rather a sad commentary on the rapid deterioration of our bodies. 

This summer was no different. I wrapped up my job as the Summer Session Program Assistant on August 16, and my parents arrived the following day to whisk me off for a week to a cabin about 20 miles outside of Yosemite with no internet, no TV and barely any cell phone reception. On Monday, we decided to go to Yosemite and, at my mom's insistence, stopped at Hetch Hetchy. As we left the reservoir, we missed our turn and were thus re-routed by our GPS to take a more scenic road. It was at this point that my dad noticed what he referred to as a "really cool cloud formation." He proceeded to stop the car multiple times to photograph these clouds, which were fluffy and white on top and had a red glow coming through underneath. I had a growing suspicion that these "clouds" were actually a forest fire, but I didn't want to panic my mom, so I didn't say anything. As we proceeded along this scenic road, we passed a fire truck blocking a road, and my mom made a comment about someone hiding out and avoiding work until it was quitting time. My suspicion grew. Then we passed an "Incident Base," filled with fire engines, police cars and personnel. My dad remarked, "Look, they are practicing putting out forest fires!" At that point, I knew that there was indeed a forest fire, but I was still hoping we would make it back to the cabin before I had to tell my parents. 

No such luck.

As we went to turn on to the highway, we were greeted by police and fire trucks, informing us that the fire had just jumped the highway. It was only then that it really sunk in for my parents that what they thought were clouds was actually a forest fire. We were re-routed, and what should have been about an hour drive became a three-hour detour.

After that, we began scouring the news (parked outside of the public library in order to access the internet), carefully and diligently tracking the fire's growth. At first, we could only see the smoke lingering on the horizon from our cabin, but by Thursday, all we could see and smell was smoke. Ash twirled in the air, landing gently on the porch, on our car, in our hair. Despite all of this, we not only stayed at our cabin but continued to trek out each day and hike. Between the combination of the smoke and high altitudes, I could barely breathe. We watched as the evacuation advisories spread closer and closer to our cabin, but no one even thought of suggesting maybe we should end our vacation early. Finally, on Saturday, the day we were scheduled to return to Berkeley, the advisory reached where we were staying. We were more than halfway back to campus before the air cleared up. My dad's boss, who was on business in Reno, NV, reported that the smoke from the fire was so bad there that things were being shut down.

Being the biblical studies scholar that I am, the forest fire of course reminded me of the Book of Daniel and the stroll that Daniel's friends Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego take in the fiery furnace after refusing to worship the statue of the king. Like them, we came out of the fire unscathed (although my voice is still recovering), but I thought to myself, half-amused, "My family tries to relax and we end up in the midst of a fire!" Not only in the midst---my dad was actually (essentially) trying to chase it! Or perhaps, because we do not relax, we end up in the midst of a fire.

These are the kinds of adventures on which my family embarks. We randomly turn on a side road and discover a lake. We miss a turn and end up in the heart of a forest fire. These are the kinds of adventures which define my life. Intent on attending a very conservative bible college, I instead wound up in an academic religion program at a private, largely secular school. Convinced of my calling to (parish) ministry, I fell in love with academia. Left at home with the dog while my parents took my older brother on family vacation, I decided to move halfway around the world to Jerusalem for a school year. Entrenched in the rigorous demands of biblical studies, priding myself for being so "hardcore," I discovered the experiential application of Christian Spirituality was what I had been missing.

So, no, I don't relax. I take adventures that lead me in wildly different directions than I even imagined. But in the midst of the fiery furnaces, as the flames begin to lick my heels, an angelic presence appears to walk alongside me and to pull me out. My friends -- this lovable bunch of master students who I try to mother half the time -- come and grab me and make me play with them before the clutches of academia have completely consumed me. My friends -- my fellow PhD classmates, as equally as insane as myself -- take a lap with me through the flames, encouraging me to continue and to embrace the unsuspecting turns that my studies are taking. My friends -- this FB hodgepodge from various times and places in my life -- journey with me, reminding me that I am never alone.

And perhaps, one of these days, I will finally learn the art of relaxation, so I can avoid the fiery furnaces altogether!

Saying Nothing

I have nothing to say. I have all these thoughts but I have nothing to say.

I have been starting and deleting posts for weeks.

My job is exhausting. It is so extremely, unbelievably exhausting being nice and pleasant to people all day long. And then I come by to my room and study German and will myself to actually care about learning the language. It doesn't work, but I try.

To keep sane, I do art. I draw. I paint. I sing. I play piano.

I complain. I eat fro-yo. I watch way too much mindless TV. I do logic puzzles. I wonder if I'll ever make it out of this program alive. I sneak gluten until I'm sick, like I'm a little kid.

My grandma calls and tells me I need to come home and find a man to keep me. I tell her there aren't enough decent guys. She agrees.

I pray. I think about praying. I do research about praying. And then I pray some more.

Even though I have nothing to say, I still pray. Prayer doesn't require words. God doesn't need me to be articulate in order to understand me. So I pray without words, without saying anything, letting God listen to my thoughts, and listening to God.

I have nothing to say. And so I pray.

On Being Doh-Dah

The greatest joy of my life is being doh-dah (דודה), which is Hebrew for "aunt" and what my adorable goddaughter calls me.  My mom and I made the long drive to central PA last week to visit her and her family. Unfortunately, I have to be back to Berkeley before her 3rd birthday - which is Sunday - in order to start my job on Monday, but we were able to spend several days with her and celebrated her birthday early. I had kept in touch with her and her family via Skype, Facebook, email and text, but it had been 10 months since I had seen her in person. She looks essentially the same, only bigger, but she has such a little personality! Of course, she already had her own personality last summer, but oh my how it developed in a year!

Within a day or two of our arrival, my goddaughter changed her loyalties; rather than wanting to play with doh-dah, she suddenly wanted Sharon (my mom).  Whereas previously she wanted to play kitchen and hide'n'seek with me, now she wanted to "hide" upstairs with my mom -- to go upstairs to her room and play. She would refuse to let me enter, telling me she didn't want me and to go away. I may have stooped to holding Baby (her favorite doll) hostage so she would let me in. (Low, I know, but I was desperate for time with my little girl!) Despite only wanting to play with Sharon, it was still doh-dah who got called on to go "tinkle" or when she had "snots" or even when she "did a stinky" in her nap-time diaper. Sharon was not allowed to participate in any of these activities. It was all doh-dah. This included multiple trips to the bathroom during meals -- particularly twice during birthday cheesecake, during the ice cream social and four times at Long Horn (most of which were false alarms).

When I commented about my goddaughter only wanting me for all the less-than-pleasant tasks but not wanting me to play with her, her mother (my seminary classmate) said, "Welcome to motherhood." I tried to point out that I am not a mother, just doh-dah, but that didn't really change the facts. And despite my protests, I really didn't mind. I loved being part of the potty-training process and was so proud of how well she did. Her parents even joked that if she reverted when I left, they were going to make me come back because she did such a good job for doh-dah. It was even cute how she would blow her nose! Of course I wanted to play with her, and I did get to play with her quite a bit, but it really touched me how she wanted me to take her to go potty and all that.

I am not a mother, and I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I love kids, have always love them and always wanted kids, but one thing being doh-dah has taught me is that one does not need to be a parent to have kids. Being doh-dah, being a godmother, is a big responsibility -- helping make sure my goddaughter grows up into a beautiful, happy, well-mannered woman -- but being doh-dah has given me at least as much as I have given my goddaughter. Being doh-dah has taught me how to live and how to love, how to put another life before my own, how to be a person worth imitating, how to just be. I am in a PhD program, I have been in school for something like 23 years, and I have learned a lot in the classroom, but the real lessons in life, the ones that really matter, are taught elsewhere, in the course of living -- in the course of being doh-dah.

Coming Home

I went to the church I grew up in this morning. As I sat there, I kept thinking about something one of the graduating seminarians said at New Spirit last week. He talked about how growing up his mom always told him no matter what he did, no matter how long he spent in jail, he would always have a place to come home to--and that was what New Spirit was to him, the church to which he could always come home, no matter how long he'd been away.  That was how I was feeling this morning. I came home, home to the church that raised me, home to the church that has always loved me, home to the church that has supported me and prayed for me throughout the years.

There is not much that my church family says and does theologically that I agree with these days. But they are my family, the people who raised me and the people who have always had my back. As I was getting ready to move to Berkeley, they joked with me about Aurora movie theater massacre, telling me to buy a one-way ticket home if I ever started to feel homicidal. Someone responded, "No, call us and we'll buy you that ticket. Come home and we'll take care of you." I know we were just joking around, but I also know that if I made that call -- if I called and said for whatever reason I needed to get home -- a ticket would be purchased before I got off the phone.

So even though their theology makes me cringe and sometimes I just want shake them, every time I come home, I come home to my church too. And every time I walk through the church doors, I am swarmed by people wanting to know how I am, what I have been up to, what I'm learning, how my family is (as they no longer go the church) and so on. I can barely make it into the sanctuary before worship begins and I am always one of the last ones to leave. I am covered in hugs and kisses and well wishes. It is the picture of love.

I am the golden child who can do no wrong, although that is largely because I know to keep my mouth shut and not challenge their beloved theology.  Whether this is the right approach or not is debatable. It has worked well for me, but I also know that these same people who love me so well would not offer the same opening arms to some of my nearest and dearest friends, the friends who are also my family--the family who supported me through the ups and downs of academic life, the family who always knows what I need even when I don't, the family who understands me and loves me for who I am even when I don't know who that is, the family who teaches me the most important lessons in life (which can never be learned in a classroom). These people are my family, but so are my church. They are both my family, in different ways--in contradictory ways.

There is, of course, also my biological family, which adds yet another complicated level. They also love me in their own unconditional way.

All these families, all this love, all these homes. If only I could make sense of all this love and all the complications they bring. If only I knew what it meant to come home, if I only knew where home was. If only everyone was so lucky. If only everyone had one family, one love, one home. I am blessed with multiple families, multiple loves, multiple homes. Every time these families collide, every time I start to wonder how to make sense of them, I am simultaneously reminded of just how blessed I am. So I may not know how to reconcile my families, but I know they are my families. And I know family isn't about always agreeing with one another but with loving one another anyways. We challenge one another while we also respect one another.

This is family. This is love. This is what it means to come home -- whichever home it is, wherever it is. This is home.

Capturing the Sacred

what do I mean? drifting along, peeling

back the label, scratching at the dust, wondering

how can I be? illustrious, tearing at the sorrow,

clawing at the empty space, the place where you

used to be, ripping the cobwebs away, not knowing

what happened, crying from abandonment,

forsaken, lost, alone,

what do I mean? how can I be?

reality cracked, nothing is, not if

you are gone, not if I am by myself

with him, shivering, ducking behind cover

that isn’t even there, exposed, stretched out

before him, as he grabs me, throws me, I scream

why am I sacred?

Weddings, Cana and the Prom

Last Saturday, I celebrated the wedding of two wonderful people. And what made the wedding even more special was the fact that their love has survived and even thrived against all odds. A straight girl fell in love with a lesbian who is now transitioning to become his true self. It's not exactly the fairy tale we all dreamed of. It's not a love that their families, churches or even the state will acknowledge as legitimate. But it's a real love, a true love, that I hope to one day share with someone. I am honored that I was able to witness their wedding, and to be part of their new family--the family that accepts them for who they are.

Last Saturday was the wedding. Last night was the Prom. At Cana. In true PSR fashion, we broke all the rules and had a prom at seminary, a prom to undo all those traumatic prom memories of not being allowed to take the date you wanted, simply because that person was the same sex as you. Of course, that was not my prom experience. I got to go with the dates I wanted, to both my junior and senior proms, my best friend and then my boyfriend. Overall, my proms were not traumatic experiences, and before it was announced that we were having prom here, I never thought about the ways in which my proms could have been better. But looking back now, I can honestly say that though my prom experiences were not bad, neither were they all that I hoped and dreamed of.

Who knew that a straight girl, whose date was a gay guy, could find healing at a queer prom? Actually, I expected nothing less. At 27, I have finally lived long enough to realize that it's much more fun to look like an idiot and have fun on the dance floor with the people who get me than to play it safe and sit this dance out. And so I danced. And I laughed. And I probably looked like a fool. But I had the time of my life. It was the best date I've ever had, which may just be a sad commentary on my love life, but it was truly amazing. The homiletics prof gave the invocation, but first she explained to us how "dance" is used in the Bible. It is the opposite of mourning and is quite often a form of worship. I think both are accurate descriptions of last night. "Worship" isn't the first word that comes to mind when I think of prom, but living life to its fullest, having an amazing time with amazing people, forgetting about homework and my problems, finding and offering healing to others--isn't that a form of worship, a means of praising God?

I couldn't have asked for a better date. No, it wasn't the boy I like, but he is a dear friend, someone who gets me even when I don't necessarily get myself. And although I am sure he would have rather been at prom with someone else (perhaps the boy he likes!), he made the night all about me, about making me feel special and beautiful, about making me forget about any negative experiences I had at my high school proms.

I've been learning a lot lately about healing. About unexpected healing, at unexpected times, in unexpected ways, from unexpected hurts. And I've been experiencing a lot of healing lately. At prom. At Taize, through singing and through beginning to play the piano again. At the dining hall. In the class room. Talking to friends about seemingly mundane things. Researching topics of deep interest to me. Snuggling a dog. There are some areas of my life where I know I need healing. Other areas, I don't even realize they are hurt and broken until the healing begins. Yeah, the healing can be painful. It can be time-consuming. But even when it hurts, it is exactly what I need. I'm learning a lot about myself, about being me, as I heal.

And so I dance. And laugh. And sing. And have the time of my life.

Singing, Struggling, Journeying

When I created this blog, I did not anticipate that it would become a space in which I would not only document my journey but also work through issues of faith, identity and other ways of life, to put it as broadly and vaguely as possible. But that is exactly what it has become -- a place where I can share my struggles and to some extent be in dialogue with others -- and apparently some have enjoyed and appreciated my willingness to be open and genuine in my blog. Of course, those of you who know me also know that I tend to be open and genuine in real life, although there is not always time and space for these sorts of conversations.

And let's face it, there have been lots of things I have been struggling with since moving to Berkeley and starting a PhD program, the least of which seem to be the academic issues, although the "personal" struggles have in many ways influenced my academic interests and understandings. In a different setting, perhaps my questions about Christian spirituality, and its adoption and adaption of Hebrew Scriptures, would not have become an issue for me, or at least not a more central issue. So I have been wrestling with questions of queer culture; questions of what it means to be Christian, inclusive, accepting and human (not necessarily in that order or even necessarily as separate categories!); questions of if I am academically rigorous enough for scholarship; questions of gifts and talents and how they correspond to worship and community involvement; questions of my own priorities and desires in life...questions about anything and everything.

My past few posts have dealt with some of the more pressing and perhaps "serious" of these issues, namely, my evolving views and understandings of queer culture and my struggle balancing faith and academia. Something else that I have been dealing with a lot lately, which perhaps is more superficial but still important to me, is singing, specifically as I have started singing in a choir again for the first time in over a dozen years. I know it seems rather trivial, but the underlying question is not dealing with singing per se but with using our gifts (and, in relation, limiting ourselves to our gifts) in worship and other settings. In other words, is church a safe place to explore and develop our gifts and passions? Should we limit our involvement to our gifts, and therefore contain our passions if they are not also our gifts? Thus, this to me is not a simple issue of do I find singing in the Taize choir enjoyable but is rather addressing the wider question of what it means to be church and how the church  functions (or should function) in our lives and communities.

The reason this is an issue for me at all, especially in this context, is because I do not necessarily have a great singing voice. As I say, the last time I sang in a choir was when I did not make my high school Chamber Singers. I then proceeded to be an accompanist for Chamber Singers throughout high school, where I was reminded every day, both implicitly and explicitly, that I didn't belong because I did not make it as a singer. (Of course, it did not help that, while I was a good piano player, I was not a very good accompanist.) But despite my limited singing abilities, I love to sing, especially in worship. For me, worship is about singing, and that is where I experience God--and how I am sustained spirituality for my studies.

And so, after much thought and many discussions, I joined the Taize choir. It's been five weeks now, and I am enjoying it, for the most part. But I am also discovering that I have a lot of issues to work through. I lack self-confidence. I never realized how deeply it was ingrained in me that I cannot sing and do not belong in choir. Most people have been encouraging--encouraging me to join in the first place, regardless of how well I can sing; encouraging me to continue to sing, offering me kind words and support; encouraging me to believe in myself. And there has been much patience and grace as I deal with my issues and insecurities, as ridiculous as they may be.

Most people have been encouraging, but not everyone. I am still reminded that my singing voice is not stellar. Some talk about how we all have our gifts and we should use our gifts...and if we don't have a particular gift, we shouldn't try to use it. Although I don't remember the gift of singing being on the list. God did, however, request a joyful noise. And I do remember reading where Jesus put the Pharisees in their place by reminding them that it is the sick that need a doctor, not the healthy. People don't go to church because they are perfect. People go to church because they are broken. Church is supposed to be a place where we can be put back together again. We're all broken in different ways, and our jagged edges may not always be visible to others. Our paths to wholeness will all differ, but they also intersect. None of us can fit the pieces of our lives back together on our own. That's why we have church, to help and encourage and journey together.