If I Were A Rich Girl

This is probably not heading where you think it is.  I wrote my mother’s obituary and it appeared in the Richmond Times Dispatch and the Mechanicsville Local.  When I talked to the paper they asked me if I wanted them to send a copy of their pricing guidelines and I said no, that it didn’t matter.  I basically knew what I wanted to write.  I wasn’t going to go crazy overboard but I also wasn’t going to skimp.  That simple obituary cost me $478.  I don’t regret it, not for one moment.  I have some feelings about obituaries being classified as “ads” but I digress... I understand why they make it cost prohibitive.  Otherwise we would have novels for obituaries. But how do you summarize someone’s life in just a few, short lines?  So here are some of the stories and details I would have put in her obituary if I were a rich girl.

My mom was a dancer.  She took a lot of dance classes when she was young.  My grandmother worked in a car dealership and my grandpa was a coal miner.  My grandma sewed a lot of the dance costumes to save on the cost of dance classes for my mom.  School was never really her thing.  According to my dad, she just didn’t feel like doing the work.  (I may or may not have been worried he got me and my mom confused in that moment but...) She moved to (possibly) New York (dad can’t exactly remember and I am not sure I ever knew) to be a flight attendant.  She didn’t make it through flight attendant school, she said it wasn’t for her.  She left there to be a typist for the CIA.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my momma worked for the CIA.  She worked for them during the race riots in DC.  She told me she remembers bomb sniffing dogs having to inspect the buses before anyone was allowed to get on one.  She remembered watching some of the city burn from her building.  Which, oddly enough, brings me to how my parents met.

My dad was working at a drug store in Northern Virginia.  It also had a 100 seat cafeteria.  My mom was a frequent customer there though she had not seen my dad.  She was in her secret floor when she looked out and noticed the air conditioner on the roof of the drug store was on fire.  She called down to the store and my dad answered.  My mom always told me she thought he sounded cute but my dad recently relayed the opposite, that he thought she sounded nice.  Maybe it was both.  But he told my mom to introduce herself the next time she was in there and he would buy her lunch.  So I guess that was their first “date”?  But soon after, my dad took her over into Georgetown for a proper first date.  He went into work the next day and told his employees that he was gonna marry her.  It is unclear to me what happened in the months between that date and when they got married.  Both of my parents are extremely tight lipped about the engagement story.  I can only assume it was something sexual and gross that I don’t want to know about.  This fact (that my parents won’t tell how it went down) was brought out at the meeting with the pastor to plan mom’s service.  My brother had no idea.  But anyway, one other thing that was brought up at the planning of the service was the fact that my parents always had good communication. When they were dating, my parents would sit on the balcony of my dad’s apartment and just talk for hours.  Often my mom would look at her watch and say “oh crap it’s 2am!”

In any event, my parents were married in Arlington Temple UMC in Arlington on April 14, 1973.  They lived in Seminary Towers Apartments.  My dad’s former boss kept trying to get him to move to Richmond but because of my mom’s job, he declined.  One day my mom came home from work and calmly said to my dad that they had 2 choices.  Move to Richmond or move to Turkey.  Mom had been with the agency 5 years and they said it was time to move her.  Of course she declined and they moved to Richmond.  They lived in a townhouse on the West End because they weren’t sure they would like the town.  They decided to settle in Mechanicsville.  The doctors told my mom she wouldn’t have kids so they bought a tiny house on Fullview Ave in downtown Mechanicsville.  It had all the space they needed and it allowed them to pursue their love of going to the beach often.  They paid $29,000 for that house and were told they were “crazy” for spending that much on a house in Mechanicsville.  At some point, my dad became a paramedic with East Hanover Volunteer Rescue Squad and my mom became a dispatcher.

My brother was born in 1980 and then I was born in 1984.  It became clear that the little house on Fullview wasn’t going to work any more.  They decided to build a house which is the house mom died in.  They had requested a bay window in the front but the builder didn’t think my parents would get the financing so the builder went with what the other couple interested in buying the house wanted: two windows in the living room and not a bay window.  Once my brother and I were born, my mom took odd jobs around town but never held anything really steady.  She devoted her life to us and dad.  I have a lot of fond memories of my mom picking us up from the bus stop and taking us to McDonalds or we’d come home and there would be a scavenger hunt waiting for us.  Mom was really creative and she had a lot of talents that she kept hidden.  Some of my fondest memories of her were when she took me and Cory to Kings Dominion.  She had an adventurous spirit, she rode the scary rides with me.  One fateful day in particular, she convinced me to ride Diamond Falls with her.  She had no idea (or so she said) that the drop at the end was so steep.  I was so scared and she just rolled with laughter (and apologized).  She also chaperoned my chorus trip to Disney.

Speaking of choir, she was a huge music fan.  She played saxophone in the marching band and even appeared in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade when she was in high school.  We definitely didn’t agree on most music.  She loved Big Band and Van Halen.  There really wasn’t anything in between.  She also loved NASCAR for reasons unknown to me.  She also loved animals.  She never met a dog she didn’t like.  She was always taking care of stray animals too.

In the coming weeks and months I am sure more and more memories will come flooding back.  And I will do my best to write them all.  It’s cathartic and I want to remember it all.  Thanks to the Coronavirus I have plenty of time to write and reflect.  But for now, that is chapter 1 of my momma.

Cry and the Whole World Cries With You

I know that’s not the saying, it’s supposed to be “laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone”.  But there is something interesting about grief when the entire world shuts down.  Tongue in cheek, my mom *would* die right in the midst of a global pandemic.  That way everyone has to stop and mourn her.  I’ve been thinking about this for the past few days.  Part of me is glad that life is different right now and the other part of me is scared shitless.

I am fortunate to have experienced relatively low levels of grief in my life.  Everyone has died in order and my grandparents died in their 80s.  But one thing I know about grief is how freaking hard it is when people are just walking around, living their lives when for you, time is standing still.  Laughter is piercing because you are falling apart inside and everyone else is living like they have no cares in the world.  You want to scream at everyone that they need to be more sensitive to you and your grief but you also know how insane that sounds.

But for now, the world is feeling what I am feeling.  Grief, uncertainty, anxiety.  There is no more “normal”.  As time goes on we will adjust to the new normal.  And truth to tell, I am not sure whether I find comfort or discomfort in all of this.

The Things I Said to My Dead Mother

I hope to God that this is the most morbid post I ever make.  8 days ago my mother dropped dead of a probably massive heart attack.  My brother was with his daughter at the father daughter dance and my dad had run to the store to pick up dinner and came home and found her on the floor.  The paramedics worked on her for 30 minutes and never got her pulse back.  I was at home with Chris when my dad called.  Time stood still.  I don’t enjoy reliving the trauma of that night but I want to preserve these memories.  I never in a million years thought that I would be burying my mom when I was 35.  She had me at 38.  She didn’t even live long enough for me to get to the age she was when I was born.  I had just talked to her a few hours before.  She had a cold but other than that she was normal.  In some ways I take comfort in that. As hard as it is, I am reminding myself that I didn’t have to see her deteriorate any more than she had.  I never had an experience where she didn’t know who I was.  I never had to make tough medical choices for her.  I didn’t have to worry about bankrupting myself or any other family members by having to have around the clock care for her.  But with that said, this really, really, really sucks.  The corona virus is spreading, things are uncertain, and all I want to do is talk to my mom.

One of the things that hurt the most is that I didn’t get to say goodbye.  We met with the funeral home on Monday.  The guy had a confederate flag lapel pin and a Hampden Sydney College coffee mug.  I thought to myself that I could not possibly hate this man more than I currently did.  I will think you kindly to refrain from telling me how you feel about the confederate flag, that is not the point of my post.  He offered to write my mom’s obituary and I quick, fast, and in a hurry said I would.  Even without the pin and the mug, I still would have a lot of feelings about someone who had never met my mom writing her obituary.  He asked if any of us wanted to be present when she was cremated.  I stayed quiet because I was worried that would be my only chance to see her.  But as it turns out, we had to “identify the body”.  We all broke down when we saw her.  My dad and my brother didn’t want to stay.  They wanted to remember her as she was.  And I certainly don’t fault them for that.  I pulled up and chair and sat by her.  Of course she didn’t look exactly like my mom, she was bloated and discolored but she was still my mom.  Sitting with her was one of the hardest things I have ever done but I am so glad I did it.  Again, that is not a slight to my dad or brother.  It is just that for me it brought some closure and for me, it was the right thing to do.  As best I can remember, I am going to write the things I said to her.

Hi Mommy.  You look so peaceful there.  Your hair looks good so I know you’d be excited by that.  I’m sorry for the way I’m dressed.  I can hear you now “is that really what you’re wearing?!” Ariel came and helped me pack and I didn’t think to pack anything that wasn’t lounge clothes or a dress.  And if you had such a strong opinion on my clothes, you shouldn’t have died on me.  Fuck.  Sorry for my language. But you Really have no one else to blame for that other than you.  I wasn’t ready for you to go and I know you probably are sitting there saying “huh. Tell me about it”.  It doesn’t feel real.  It just looks like you are sleeping and will wake up at any moment.  I am not sure how I am supposed to go on.  I am not sure how to carry on without you.  I’m not ready to be motherless.  I don’t know what I am supposed to do with all the love I have for you.  Where do I put it?  Who do I call multiple times a day?  Who do I send photos of roadside potatoes to?  I told Andie.  She’s beside herself.  We all are.  Chris drove me down.  He’s a good guy, momma.  I definitely lucked out there.  I know you did the best you could.  You were a good mom.  And now that I work every day and come home, I totally understand why you got mad when we didn’t take the chicken out of the freezer or clean while you were gone.  I know your main concern is daddy.  I promise to take care of him.  I know you worry about him and truth to tell, I do too.  But I will take care of him and make sure he’s ok.  He’s got a good support system.  And I do too.  We are going to go on without you but I don’t want to.  I never imagined the when we talked on Saturday and I was almost hit by that car that that would be our last conversation.  There’s so much I wanted to know about you and now I will never get that chance.  I know you always thought less of yourself because you didn’t go to college but I will tell you the truth, you are one of the smartest people I ever met.  And I mean that.  Shit momma. Why did you have to go now?  I am really not ready for this.  I could sit here all day and talk to you but I guess I should probably get going.  Save me a seat in heaven and when I get there, we will judge people’s outfits.  I love you mommy.

Sabbath as Privilege

This past week, the Reverend Howard-John Wesley of Alfred Street Baptist Church made a bold confession from the pulpit: that he was tired and felt distant from God.  He even noted that most people think that working in a church means you are good with God.  But nothing could be further from the truth.  And as a result, after Christmas he will be taking a sabbatical until Easter.  A lot of clergy and church folks shared his message on Facebook, me being one of them.  I, and scores of other pastors, applauded Wesley’s honesty and vulnerability.  Too often clergy are supposed to have that stiff upper lip and pretend that everything is ok.  That is one of the reasons that only 1 in 10 pastors stay in the business long enough to retire from it.  The clergy depression rate is astounding.  I fully support Wesley and appreciate his bringing this to light.

One of my clergy friends posted this article and another clergy friend wondered if this was a unique problem to clergy or whether other professions have the same problem.  I know this is also the case with the pharmacy industry.  I could go on and on about what is happening in that industry but that’s not the point.  The point is that my friend’s point got me thinking: sabbath is a privilege.

We agree that the idea of sabbath is a good one.  God even mandated it in the 10 commandments.  But let’s be real.  Revered Wesley is taking a sabbatical because he can afford to.  I am not arguing whether he deserves it, because 11 straight years of pastoring a church that welcomes roughly 4,500 people a week is unfathomable to me, he definitely deserves it.  I am arguing that he is only doing so because he can afford it.  And not just him.  I know several senior pastors who have done the same.  And they all do it because they can afford it.  Large churches can afford to pay the pastor their regular salary and pay those who will be filling in.  Many churches cannot afford this.  And this is going to be an important conversation as more and more churches are unable to pay pastors and pastors move to being bi-vocational.  Speaking from the experience of being a part time church worker, many churches are not prepared to deal with this.

At the last church I worked for, I was asked to go on a mission trip.  I was salaried to work 25 hours a week.  I inquired to my boss how this was going to work.  Do I get overtime?  What do I do about my lost wages at my other job?  Because that too was a part time job and no work = no pay.  Funny how not too long after that, I was invited to no longer work there.  And I never did get a clear answer on how much time I get off.  But they aren’t atypical.  Many churches don’t have clear policies for part time employees. But even with crystal clear policies, church support staff are often overlooked when it comes to vacations and sabbaticals.  I know at least one person will argue that folks get vacations.  But a vacation is not a sabbath or sabbatical.  When you have family, especially little kids, vacations are spent going to theme parks, visiting relatives, seeing things.  It is not a dedicated week to renewal, finding inner peace, or professional development.

This is not a complaint against any church I worked for or currently work for.  This is a plea for church leaders to take in account that they are not the only tired ones.  And to acknowledge that sabbath and sabbatical are privilege.  Once we acknowledge this, we can have honest conversations about changing this.  Because we all deserve a real and true break.

Reclaiming Hope

When I left my job at Trinity I hastily packed all of my things up in whatever box or bag I could find.  Those boxes and bags sat in my home office and eventually made the move to the new house.  Slowly I have begun to put things away and sort through the stuff.  This past week I ran across the mug that sat in my office and was my “go to” mug for coffee.  It is like the perfect mug.  Perfect size, a little extra room to allow for proper amounts of milk or cream but sturdy and good.  It’s a brown mug with a pink inside.  On the mug, scrawled in pink is a butterfly and the word “hope”.  Admittedly, when I saw the mug I took a sharp breath in.  Not being at Trinity and the way all of it unfolded is still a fresh wound.  I considered giving the mug to charity.  Maybe someone could love it as much as I did.  Maybe I could just pack it away again.  I took a deep breath and knew what I had to do.  I washed that mug and it’s now my at home “go to” mug.  

This mug is more than a mug.  Well, I mean it is a mug.  I actually bought it from Cokesbury (RIP) on clearance.  But the mug represents so much more to me.  You see, I decided that no one gets to make me hide my hope.  No one gets to make me donate my hope to a thrift store.  No one gets me to put my hope down, that is of course, unless I let them.  Of course this whole incident has made me think about the first week of advent.  Hope.  That four letter word.  Hope is at the heart of advent, really.  When we are little we hope for the latest and greatest toy.  Some adults still spend advent hoping for the latest and greatest toy.  Even the first Christmas (which did not take place in the winter) was chock full of hope.  As one of my favorite Christmas songs says “a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices”.  Hope is thrilling.  And rightfully so.  Have you looked around lately?  Have you read any news lately?  The weary world, indeed!  As Mary sings in the Magnificat, we have hope that one day all of the systems of oppression will be dismantled.  That the lowly will be raised up and the rich will be sent away empty.  A child will lead us.  We have this hope because of a baby born in a stable (but not in December).  

It’s easy to get discouraged. Again, have you read the news lately?  So hold on to hope in your heart.  And I will continue to hold hope in my heart and in my hand.  And drink some coffee from it.  Advent is upon us, the season of waiting and hoping.  May you hope boldly.  Don’t give it away to the thrift store and don’t pack it away.  Keep it on display. That, my friends, is what a weary world needs right now.

Starting Over

This past weekend my phone died.  You would think my falling into the Potomac River with it in my pocket would have a lot to do with it and while I am sure it didn't help it any, I don't think it did much harm.  See, there had been warning signs in the weeks leading up to the disaster.  I noticed that when I would be on the phone without my headphones in, I couldn't hear the other person.  For a while there I thought I was losing my hearing until I had another person take my phone and they took mine.  The volume was all the way up, too.  So then I fell into the river.  Well, I should say, a canoe capsized and I threw my phone up on the dock to a coworker I thought for sure it was fried. 

For those of you who know me, you know that one of my deepest fears is not being able to get in contact with people, specifically my family.  It's not really about having a technology dependency, it is literally the idea of people not being able to get in touch with me or me be able to get in touch with them is a debilitating fear for me.  It is the reason I bought my entire family cell phones.  When my family was going through financial problems and the house phone was disconnected I got them cell phones because I could not bear the idea of not getting in touch with them.  Yea, I know, I should probably work that out with a therapist.  But back to the matter at hand...

So I had to wait until my coworkers came back in order to get my phone which was not fried.  It worked just fine.  I was elated.  I took it home, plugged it in, tried to play music to sleep to, and the sound wouldn't work.  It said there were headphones plugged in.  Now the previous issue made more sense.  Fine.  I can sleep without music but I sure do sleep better with it.  I was concerned the alarm wouldn't go off so I tested it and it would so I went to sleep.  Somewhere around 3am I get up and I see it's at like 92%.  I figure the charger fell out, no big deal.  When I wake up again for real I realize it still hadn't fully charged.  So I try another charger.  Nothing.  I try another charger.  Nothing.  I text my family to let them know what happened, I go to work, and between services I go to the Verizon store.  The super nice sales rep confirmed that my phone was toast.  He was hoping I had everything backed up.  I didn't.  But the truth is, my phone wasn't healthy.  Not only did it have that sound problem, it was also overheating a lot.  Apparently that is also a warning sign of near death.  I ignored the warning signs.  After all, my trusty phone and I had been through a lot and it was still functional.  Until it wasn't.  We tried to get it backed up before it died but it was futile.  I started with like 39% and it died before we could get it backed up.  The most recent backup was 2017.  If I am ever able to get the phone to charge I can back it up, wipe the new phone clean, and have all my stuff back.  So we turn on the new phone.  I open the pictures and there are all my photos!  Even ones from being on the boat.  And then, inexplicably, they disappeared.  Poof.  Gone.  Even my photos from 2017 and before were gone.  All of my photos of Doofus the dog were gone.  He hasn't even been gone a month and all of my photos of him are gone.  Yes, I uploaded a lot to Facebook and Instagram but literally in the blink of an eye, everything was gone and there is nothing I can do about it.  I literally had to set it aside and focus on the now.  Because I had another church service to get through.  And I did.  Then I went home and tried to process everything.  And that is where the idea for this blog post came from.

Because the reality is that even though this is a true story, it is hauntingly similar to the events that led to my no longer being with the Methodist church.  I had to start all over again.  But having my phone die a horrible death and leaving my dream job are not the only times I have had to start over.  There was also the house fire where my family had to start all over again.  I am sure if I sat here long enough I can think of many more times that I have had to start over again.  And I can almost promise you that all of those instances have the same thing in common: I did not choose them and I hated them.  Starting over is the actual worst. 

I think we get this false sense of... whatever... that we get a clean slate.  No.  The slate is never clean.  Even before we are born.  Because we are born into someone else's narrative.  And with every "new beginning" we carry our baggage and bias.  It doesn't even have to be bad stuff.  It can be good stuff.  Like "hey, the church I worked for bad a blessing of the backpacks and it went over well.  I think we should try it here".  Ok, obviously I phrased it a little differently but the Blessing of the Backpacks will be the last week of August.  Tell your friends.  But we do.  We carry our past failures and successes with us.  But we have no choice.  Life brings us to new beginnings whether we ever ask or not.  Because trust me, I would ask for a new beginning never. 

I am keenly aware that you grow through new beginnings, that not much grows on a mountain top, more things grow in valleys, God is with us, God already knows the ending, God completely erases our sin, we have friends to help us through the tough times, etc but it doesn't make our grief any less real.  It doesn't make that period of mourning any more comfortable. 

I am reminded of some advice I gave a friend a few years ago.  I love yoga.  Every time I get in a new pose, it usually hurts the first time.  It's a stretch.  Literally.  And inevitably the yoga instructor says "relax into the pose".  That means the more you are in that position, especially when focusing on your breathing, it becomes more comfortable.  And that's what life is.  A series of new poses and stretching.  I cannot tell you how many times my words to that friend have come back to bite me.  Because I know they are true.  But it doesn't mean I have to like it, especially at first.  So my new job and I are getting to know each other better, I am figuring out this way too fancy phone, and I will be moving yet again.  I am focusing on my breathing and relaxing into the pose.  So here's to new beginnings, if I have to.  I guess.

Carrie_On.

Nothing: A GC Wrap Up

Before we get started, let me state that these are my feelings and my attempt to begin to process what has happened.  They may not be the views of others nor are they endorsed by any church in particular, especially if I use "bad words". :)

(Also, this ends up being a little more rant-y and less "well organized thoughts and feelings" so I apologize for that).

I titled this entry "Nothing" for several reasons.  First, I have so much to say but then again I have nothing to say.  I am hurt.  I am angry.  I am tired.

I bought the idea that love wins.  I bought the idea that the "good guy" always wins.  Ok, I mean I know I am being a little hyperbolic here but I have to admit I thought General Conference would have a different outcome.  I know the story is not over.  It is so fitting that we are heading into the season of Lent where death tries to have the last word but God vanquishes death.  But we have the benefit of being able to flip the page to the victory part.  There has never been a time in our lives where we actually question whether Christ is going to rise on the 3rd day.  We can be as somber as we want during Holy Week but we have the assurance that come Easter, we will hear the Good News.  That is the essence of the gospel.  The disciples didn't have that luxury.  They couldn't fast forward through the yucky parts.  They literally heard Jesus say he was going to rise and they still didn't believe it because they couldn't see it.  And right now, I admit, I can't see it.  I can't see the empty tomb.  All I can see is death.

Now I am sure at least one of you reading this is thinking "omg but the United Methodist Church is not God".  Fair point.  Something about "kings and kingdoms will all pass away..."  And you are right.  There are other churches.  There are other denominations.  But they don't suit me.  Yes, I was born into a Methodist Church and currently work for a Methodist Church and I got my Master of Divinity from a Methodist Seminary but I have looked at other options.  I can't be Presbyterian or Baptist any more than I could magically make myself Miss America.  That is not a dig at our brothers and sisters of other denominations, they just aren't where I connected.  Methodism is my home.  So to my friends saying "[my denomination] will welcome you with open arms!  Come on over!", please save it.  The wounds are too new.  Maybe some of us will change but not right now I will not.

It is a bitter pill to swallow for me personally because of the current political climate.  This may come as a shock to some but I am not a Democrat.  I am a Republican.  Donald Trump and those trying to run with him are not Republicans.  The political party I belong to has been overrun by those who seek to divide, exclude, and judge.  And that is how I feel about the denomination I love.  I know drawing those parallels could be seen as incendiary but hear me out.  I am not calling all Republicans, all Trump supporters, or everyone who voted for the Traditional Plan anything.  It is that their views don't align with mine and until recently I thought they didn't align with most people's views.  I feel homeless politically and in my faith.  And that is hard to accept.

I am sad to see the number of people who today asked for their name to be removed from various UMC membership rosters.  But I don't blame them.  How can we ask abuse victims to stay with their perpetrators?  So many wonderful people have left or are leaving.  Again, I don't blame them.  But I will continue to fight.  I will fight because I am called to pastoral ministry and I want to be colleagues with the best speakers, writers, interpreters, and theologians out there and I'll be damned if believe that someone is or isn't equipped for ministry based on their sexuality.

For whatever reason, we seem to have an unhealthy obsession with human sexuality.  The WCA (conservative "Methodist" group) allows women and divorced people to be in their group; two topics of which Jesus had more to say about than homosexuality.  The hypocrisy is overwhelming.

I will also continue to fight because I believe there is room at God's table for all people.  Full stop.  There is room for me, you, our LGBTQ+ friends, those that voted for the Traditional Plan, airplane clappers, those that talk in theater, and those that are bad tippers.  We do not limit the table.  Why?  Because we believe in grace in all of its forms.  When we do communion, we acknowledge that the table is open for ALL, not just heterosexuals.  How dare we serve as God's gate-keepers?  I think God has that part under control.  God did it for millennia without us, God doesn't need our help in that starting now.  We are not God.  Much like John the Baptist, we are not God.  We simply point others to God.


As I sit at my desk and write, Jason Mraz comes on the radio and I hear these words:

We all make mistakes, no, we're not perfect yet
Maybe God made us all from an accident
And the question that sits on everyone's lips
Is why should we pick ourselves up and start over again

There's only one answer that matters
Even if your heart has been shattered
Whatever you want, whatever you are after
Love is still the answer
Love is still the answer

And all the while I have been reflecting on Romans 8:38-39
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, ³⁹nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord

And that is truly the Good News.  I don't know all of what is going to happen in light of all the things that happened at General Conference but we have the assurance that nothing will separate us from God.