Wrong Number?

I have been thinking a lot in the last few days about the situation that led me to start this blog in the first place: feeling called to pursue the ministry - specifically, as a Unitarian Universalist minister.

How do you know if you've been called? What does it feel like? What happens if you ignore it? Or think you were called but you weren't? Or were but just felt like it was really bad timing?

Another woman at my church, when I told her I had felt called one day during services at the Fellowship, said, "What did it feel like?" She said she asked because she had also felt called and yet wasn't sure she had interpreted it correctly. So she wanted to sort of compare experiences or hear what mine had been in order to contextualize her own.

My guess is, everyone has a different story. While they may have similarities (like so many religions), every person's experience will be affected by his or her filters, perceptions, beliefs, expectations, and interpretations... leading to a myriad of strikingly different but no less valid events leading to a shared conclusion.

And then there are people like me, who know they felt something (maybe even felt it was undeniable), and then rationally look at the prospect of following such a path and find it riddled with complexities and challenges. Not a bad thing, but definitely a harder thing.

My friend who is a pastor described her experience as hearing God directly communicating to her and telling her to go into the ministry. I would have to say, my experience contained no direct talking, no clear detailed instructions, and no sense that any one entity was singling me out and pointing with a divine finger toward a new and spiritually-laden horizon.

Instead, it felt more like an epiphany... an ah ha moment wherein so many heretofore disconnected and seemingly disjointed pieces of my life suddenly settled into a clear and beautiful picture wherein I could see myself... see myself... true and clear and defined and being.

Then my minister recommended I pursue anything else that might make me happy, my husband and I really sat down and looked at the numbers, and my daughter got to an age I knew I would painfully regret missing if I were engaged in pursuits that took me away from her for several more years of schooling.

Add in the fact that we do not attend church every week, I don't read every Unitarian Universalist piece of literature I can get my hands on, I score highest on Lifestyle when taking any kind of values inventory, and I left theatre because I was sick of working nights and weekends... and I'm left wondering if it's okay to pick up the phone, have a short conversation, and then pretend like you aren't home.

Articles of Faith

Andy shared a story with me recently, wondering what my reaction to it might be. Apparently, Obama placed a prayer in the Western Wall during his visit to Jerusalem... and someone removed it.

Not only did this person remove the prayer, but he/she then shopped it around to at least two papers until someone decided to publish it.

My initial reaction was a mixture of anger and disbelief. Jay Torrence once wrote a play about his experience at the wall for Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, and I always felt it was one of the most beautiful monologues about faith to ever grace our stage.

His description conveyed a sense of communal worship that was equal parts collective and individual connection to God. Something sacred, something ritualistic, and something important to each person who made that journey.

Although I have tried to step back in the last couple of days to see if I can feel more compassion for those who made decisions ultimately leading to the publication of the prayer, it is difficult to understand or empathize with such a stark disregard for someone's privacy and personal pursuit of spirituality--no matter who it might be.

I have read reactions stating it was a photo op he took and might therefore be a hollow action, but irrespective of his intentions, the sanctity of the Western Wall and the many prayers placed there should, in my mind, take precedence over everything else.

Every action creates ripples. I wonder what aftereffects will flow out over time?

The Arist, The Canvas (or: meaning against the backdrop of purpose)

I had lunch with a fellow classmate today who is an astounding and inspiring woman. She has lived a varied and exciting life full of great accomplishments in the way of helping, encouraging, and ministering to other people.

One thing she said today that really stood out to me was, "No one is an accident." We had been talking about purpose and meaning and how some people feel lost in their lives or can't seem to find a reason to keep going... they feel disconnected, isolated, or without worth.

In those times, she said, it's important to remember that one's life is not an accident. Everyone's life has purpose and everyone is connected to God (which she and I probably think of a bit differently).

I tend to believe we are all connected to something larger than ourselves... something through which we are interwoven and interconnected, along the lines of quantum physics or string theory. Add in the spiritual and the scientific becomes metaphysical... the space between atoms becomes a deeper and more meaningful place within which something magical or sacred can reside.

It's difficult, sometimes, to find or define one's purpose in life. And I do think the ways in which we find meaning or that which we prioritize and deem important and fulfilling in life (think of Curly's "one thing" in City Slickers) can change over time.

But I love the articulation of the concept that every life has purpose and meaning simply through its mere existence. Sort of a Buddhist idea in the sense that being is the point. Is is the point. And thus no life is without worth or purpose. It is as it should be.

I sometimes think that if you could stand outside of time and see all the lives that are, have been, and will be, it would be like looking at one of those pictures made up of tinier pictures... each distinct image holding its own but also being caught in a pattern much larger - and ultimately more complex and grander - than its own.

I think that would be a rather lovely thing to view. An intentional yet chaotic portrait of this tremendous roller coaster we call life.

Reframing the Unfortunate

I read Andy's post from yesterday, which made me tear up because it was so beautifully written and perfect, and sounded just like him. He's amazing.

To catch everyone up post-surgery (and muddle through some resulting ruminations):

I am home today, having spent the night at Becky's parents' house, and having had a follow-up visit with my eye doctor at the Marion Eye Center. A few facts for anyone who likes to have them:

• Apparently having a detached retina is a pretty darn serious condition. If they don't catch it in time, it can lead to blindness. And, as with any surgery, there's no guarantee they can fix the problem and make it like new again.
• I went into the surgery with very little information as to the procedure itself, possible risks involved, or what to expect upon waking.
• I left Marion Eye Center to come home around 4:30, got into the car with Becky to head to St. Joseph Hospital in Kirkwood, MO a bit after 5pm, and got prepped for surgery around 7pm. Then we waited. Becky has a lovely picture of me with my eyes taped shut and the word "YES" written above my right eye. If we can figure out how to get it from her phone to this blog, I'll eventually share it with you.
• I entered the actual surgery around 9:30, finished around midnight, and left the hospital to go back to the Tadlock's (where I stayed the night) around a 12:45am.

So here is the bad news. Apparently, the retina in my other eye is nearly detached as well. So they want to operate on it too, but they want to wait until the right eye has healed to do it. They've said about 4 weeks from now, but if there is a problem with my right eye (which, as of right now, there is), then they'll probably just do it anyway and I'll do my best with little to no vision in either eye... and pray everything heals up over time.

I'm not yet sure what this means with regard to my summer classes, my ASCA conference trip, my hope to help the Neo-Futurists with Coyote Ugly choreography, or other random summery-type vacation plans.

Here's what I do know: I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I would rather lose: my sight or my hearing. I always went with hearing. For a number of reasons. I'm an observer... sight is how I take in my world and make sense of it. It's how I process and the main means through which I gather information. If I lost my hearing, I figured I'd miss music and talking and sounds, etc. - but I could still interact with my world. I could learn ASL and work with hearing impaired clients or work in a school for non-hearing students. Loss of eyesight kind of means loss of the ability to be a counselor, to my mind, because you lose the ability to take in one of the fundamental pieces of information you need when working with clients: nonverbals. It's what we're noticing when we look for incongruencies or want to see the physical impact of a certain topic. I don't know how I would do the job without sight.

Also... to be totally honest... I am prideful about my eyes. Not in an overtly "sinful" way (if you go for such terminology... which I don't... I guess I see it more as ego or attachment), but it's the one part of my body I've always liked... been proud of and really considered special. So, the irony of all this is not lost on me.

But here's what else I know: This seems to be a gift... an opportunity of sorts, because I realized a few things during the several hours between finding out I was in danger of going blind in one eye to finding out I was in danger of going blind in both.

I have always been able-bodied. My whole life, I've been pretty disease-free and relatively healthy. I had no knowledge of what it was like to have a disability, often felt I didn't know what to say or how to act when I met people who did (which is not very helpful as a counselor, btw), and had no idea what it was like to walk into a room and have everyone staring-but-not-trying-to-stare-too-hard because you have a huge patch with tons of tape over your eye with your glasses smooshed over everything and precariously resting on your nose.

It's an incredible opportunity to broaden my understanding of and empathy for one of the many ways our human experiences can vary. If I do get better and can work in a school setting, I will be even more ready and able to help special needs students or children, even parents, with disabilities. I'll have a better sense of what they or their family members are going through, and I'll feel more comfortable talking about it because it no longer feels completely foreign to me.

If I do lose my sight in one or both eyes, or end up severely visually impaired (which, I'm obviously hoping I do not, but the realist in me does not want to be caught totally off guard by bad news), then I can go back and earn my Ph.D. or use my skills to write books geared toward school counselors to use as bibliotherapy, or pursue the ministry, or a whole host of other things. And maybe some of those paths will not ultimately be open to me, and maybe others I've not even thought of will.

For whatever reason, my whole family (e.g., mother, fathers, brother, sister, cousins, etc.) all believe that nothing happens without a reason and everything has purpose. All those folks might give the power behind such things a different name, or label, but the overriding idea is that God (be it the you-God, an other-God, or something that is simply more powerful and more knowing than the "little-I" you) does not give you anything you cannot handle. Nor do things come without a greater lesson, opportunity, or purpose. I do believe that.

So, despite still feeling pretty scared right now, and somewhat disoriented both mentally and physically, I also feel there is a reason. Though I might not see it right now, I will in time. Perhaps more metaphorically than literally... but we shall see. (Ha! There's another one. Hard to get away from that pun potential!) Despite this sorrow, I look for - and believe in - the possibility of joy.

LackLustre

Andy came across a news story last night about a man who had kept his daughter prisoner in his basement for 24 years. She, nor any of her 7 children (he was the father), had not seen daylight of any kind since her kidnapping at the age of 18.

I was trying to find a link for the story today and came across another story about a man who had killed his infant child. Blunt trauma and suffocation.

These things make me not only question my belief in God, but also my belief in humankind. Now... to be a UU you don't necessarily have to believe in God - you can be agnostic, atheist, or any other kind of yea/nay God-sayer out there. And, I suppose, you don't even have to believe in the goodness of human beings. Believing in the possibilty of reason surely helps, but I don't know that it's a firm requirement.

The idea is to live with the seven UU principles in mind. To promise to live with certain things in mind (these are taken from the UUA website):

We affirm and promote...

• The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
• Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
• Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
• A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
• The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large;
• The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all;
• Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.

Which I suppose is the point. Despite the lack of some of these elements within the world... my goal - my purpose - as a UU is to faithfully affirm and promote these principles myself. To respond to hatred, fear, violence, etc. with compassion, respect, acceptance, etc.

One of my instructors talked about using approach statements with group work; in essence, the point is to respond to any conflict with openness and moving in, rather than moving away or shutting down. Not always the easiest thing to do... but it's such a wonderful way to conceptualize response to any negative response or behavior one might encounter.

And to me, it does connect back to God, or my concept of God (albeit somewhat shaken at times). To me, all seven principles relate to an inherent belief that all people are divine. A piece of a larger, interconnected whole that - on a very basic level - must be accepted with openness and an attempt at honest connection or communication.

It connects to counseling too: everyone has a story; everyone comes from a unique past that is unlike any other... and paradoxically, on that insane level of multiplicity and diversity, we are universally linked in ways that make us one.

And some days that is more joyful than others.