Ordination

This is a poem written by James A. Autry from Life After Mississippi.  One of my theology professors, Martha Moore-Keish read this to our theology class in seminary. Love, love, love.

Brother Jim Thompson came,
The oldest,
With overalls and a white shirt buttoned at the collar.
With a walking cane and a Bible
That had stood fifty years of pounding,
And with that old fire burning through his cataracts.
Didn't need no seminary
Always preached the Bible
and the Lord Jesus Charist
Crucified and buried and
raised from the dead.

Brother Hamer came
And Brother Ewart
And the three Walker boys,
Preachers all.
They came through rain,
Wrestling the wheels of their out-of-country cars,
Sliding in ruts so deep the tail pipes dragged.
They parked under the trees
And along the road,
Picking their way along the high spots
Like children jumping puddles.
Into the church of their fathers,
The place they had all felt the call.
The old home church
Where thousands of hands had pressed
On the bowed heads of new preacher boys,
Of sun-reddened young men called by the Lord,
called from the cotton fields to preach the word.
They had felt the hands,
These old preachers,
Felt like blunt-fingered, work-hardened hands,
Felt them like a blessing,
Like an offering,
Like a burden.
Felt them at wedding and baptizings,
Felt them in the heat of a summer revival sermon,
In the agony of a baby's funeral,
In the desperate prayer against some killer disease,
In the frustrating visit with a mind gone senile.
And now the old preachers came to lay their hands
On the head of a new kind of preacher,
A preacher from the seminary,
A preacher who studied the Bible in Greek and Hebrew,
Who knew about religions they never heard of,
Who knew about computers
And memory banks full of sermons
And many other modern things.
A new kind of preacher.
And yet,
A preacher who would still feel on her head
the hands
Like a commandment
From all the preachers and deacons who ever were.

Committees, Laughter, & Pretzel M&M's

I wrote a blog back in March about what it would mean to me if I did not pass my candidacy committee on my road to becoming an ACPE supervisor.  I reminded myself that it is perfectly ok to fail and, in fact, failing can be a strength because it can help me see the places where I most need to grow.  Well, I met my candidacy committee in late March.  It was scary…empowering…anxiety-producing…eye-opening.  I went into the committee wanting to acknowledge my strengths while being open to my growing edges (how’s that for CPE language, folks?)

The committee included five people from the southeastern region of ACPE.  I sent off a notebook of materials to them one month in advance.  One member of the committee is called “the presenter” and wrote a presenter’s report about me that would be the starting point for meeting my committee.  My supervisor was allowed in the room, but he was asked to sit out of my line of sight and he could not talk nor could I look at him...hello, awkward.  The committee gathered and met for 30 minutes, then I met with them for 1 ½ hours, and then they sent me out of the room for 30 minutes to vote on me and write an action report.  I thought I presented myself well, but I did not know what all they were looking for.  I knew that about two thirds of the way through, I got mad at a committee member and the committee invited me to verbalize what I was feeling.  I told him I was angry with him and I thought his comments to me were unfair.  He thanked me for my boldness.  Seriously people, where else do you get thanked and receive validation for expressing your anger at a committee member who is voting on you??  They were grateful that I was able to say what I was feeling and not shy away from it.  Moral of the story: I passed my committee.  It felt wonderful.

The last paragraph of my blog from March said: “[What will I do] if I pass…well, I’ll  have to get back to you. But it will definitely include chocolate.”  Well, it did include chocolate – pretzel M&M's to be exact.  And a card signed by my chaplain colleagues.  And cheesecake.  And a celebratory beer...the fancy one with the blueberries in it.  And a big ole' bear hug from my husband who witnessed my sleepless nights leading up to committee.  And many congratulations from people who knew what passing meant.  And confused looks from friends who thought I got a promotion.  And sympathetic pats on the back from people who found out I still have 3+ years in this certification process.  I was proud of myself.  And it felt really good.

But here’s what else passing committee meant… It meant I got to supervise a group of summer students without another supervisor in the room (although I still have to videotape every session).  It meant I got to create the entire summer program which included coordinating over 20 didactics with topics ranging from grief to family systems to interfaith dialogue with a Muslim, Buddhist, and Jewish spiritual leader to pastoral care in the neonatal unit to pediatric psychology to the viewing of surgeries.  It meant working with an amazing supervisor who challenges me and encourages me to challenge him.  It meant I got to find the same excitement in the classroom as I find in patients’ rooms.  It meant I got to smile when my students had light bulb moments and I got to cry when I felt like I was failing them.  It meant drawing parallels between their process and mine.  It meant trusting enough in my knowledge and experience to supervise someone almost 40 years older than me.  It meant sitting with students in their stuck-ness and not rescuing them, but instead creating the space for them to get themselves unstuck.  It meant laughing with them amidst the difficulty of all of our journeys.  It meant reminiscing about my journey through CPE and appreciating just how far I have come.

I often tell people I feel like I never have to work a day in my life.  Now don’t hear me wrong – this training is A LOT of work.  Some days I cry; some days I wrestle with myself and with my supervisors; some days I feel like I have no energy left.  But every day I laugh (it's the only free medicine at the hospital...bad joke, I'm sorry).  I embrace the process and what it has given me.  I see my family, my friends, and even strangers in a different light.  I assess situations differently.  I gain perspective and remember that even in my difficult days, others are suffering beyond what I can imagine.  I see that there is always something more to be learned and recognize that every new experience is a doorway into new meaning.  I see the beauty of life and wake up each morning grateful for another day to grow.  I wake up on Monday mornings excited to take on another week of adventures.  At least once a day, I stop and remember what many patients and families have taught me: don't take life for granted.

I will not be supervising students in the fall – I will be writing theory papers.  YUCK.  It’s a part of the process and it’s probably not going to be fun...but it’s a part of getting to where I feel called to be...and where I feel called to be is a place I never thought possible.  That's what makes this journey so exciting.  But amidst the busyness of this journey, I can at least take time to appreciate the small things in life: like committees, laughter, and pretzel M&M's.

- Gifts from the pastoral care dept after I made candidacy -

Open Waters: My Response to the Housing Policy at CTS

To President Steve Hayner:

First of all, I want to thank you for your leadership and for the many ways you have graciously listened to the voices of the community at Columbia Theological Seminary.  You lead CTS with humility and are gifted in your ability to be in dialogue with students, faculty, staff, the board of directors and the broader community.   A few days ago, I learned via social networking that the request to change the current housing policy was denied.  This topic was part of the daily dialogue when I was still a student at CTS and I am grateful to hear that students are still fighting for what is fair and just for the entire CTS community.

In the last couple days, I read many letters sent by members of the CTS community far and wide.  I add my voice to the crowd that declares the housing policy as it is currently stated does not allow for the full inclusion of all students in the CTS community.  I recognize that there are many voices involved in this conversation and that you are only one vote among many.  I write to you because I learned in my time at CTS how much you value the need for open dialogue amidst division.

As a hospital chaplain, I work not only with a diversity of patients, but also a diversity of chaplains, some of whom who define themselves as LGBT.  Through discussion with my chaplain colleagues about the open housing policies at their seminaries, I know this is not only a possibility but a reality for many theological institutions.  I am saddened to share with them that while our seminary is open and affirming to admitting LGBT students, our doors are closed to providing a home in the community to those folks who are both a) being faithful to their calling from God and b) in committed, same-gendered relationships.

While I was a student at CTS, I remember voicing to administration a time of deep hurt I experienced on an Alternative Context trip my middler year.  I use this example not to move away from the topic of housing, but to provide you with an example of when voices spoke out against an injustice they experienced and felt their voices were heard by the administration at CTS.  Laura Mendenhall, who was president at that time, taught the women involved an important lesson through that experience.  She shared with us that it takes a lot of work to move a ship…especially a ship that has been sailing in the same direction for years.  But Laura proudly proclaimed to us that all who speak out against injustices serve as tugboats for the institution.  In that conversation, she empowered me to speak out when I feel there is an injustice present.  This is one of those moments.  I ask this of you and the CTS administration: listen to the tugboats.  I realize it takes time to move a ship, but my hope is that the seminary will be open to the movement of the Spirit through the work of individuals who cry out, “How long, O Lord?”

In closing, I share with you a quote I heard at the 2008 General Assembly in San Jose, CA.  Gradye Parsons offered his breakdown of the Mark 6:45-51 when he said, “Get into the boat. Go across the lake. There will be a storm. You will not die.”  I recognize there is both simplicity and difficulty in these words.  Steve, I ask that CTS would get into the boat with a confident heart knowing that, while there may be a storm, we will not die.  My prayer for you and for those who graciously serve our seminary as staff, administration, and board members is that you listen to the tugboats.  My continued hope is that our journey will be guided not by fear, but by faith and hope in the Living God.  May we get into the boat and journey in a new direction with full confidence that the One powerful enough to calm the seas will lead us to more open waters.

My prayers stay with you and with the CTS community,

Rev. Jenny Sumner Carswell

MDiv, 2010

It's OK to Fail

As my date of candidacy committee is quickly approaching (March 26), I have been invited by one of my supervisors to wrestle with the possibility of failing this committee.  He does not mean it as a pessimistic “glass is half empty” kind way, but I think as a means of blessing.  He is offering me a gift I struggle to offer myself.  He knows me well and knows how much I want to pass committee.  But I know if I go into committee with that attitude, the committee will see right through that.  Instead, I need to be present with them, show them what I know, and acknowledge what I don’t know.  This one vote does not determine the course of the rest of my life (although it sure does feel like that at the moment!).

In my early life, failing meant I did not do enough to get the gold star.  It meant my teachers, my parents, my gymnastics coaches, my band directors – essentially all of my authority figures – expected more out of me.  This has been a pattern in my life as long as I can remember.  It peaked in high school when I tried so hard to be perfect after feeling like I deeply failed in middle school.  In high school, I joined every extracurricular activity I could fit into my schedule and took honors/AP classes whenever possible.  B’s were not an option for me and I remember crying when I found out my senior year that I was getting a B in AP Biology.  I thought it might be better self-care in college to let myself off the hook every now and then.  B’s became ok and after having a semester with 16 credits, 2 part-time jobs, marching band, and commitments to several organizations, I realized I really could not do it all.  While I got better at this practice in seminary, I still struggle with my definition of failing.  My time with patients is helping them see the holiness in their brokenness, and yet I continue wrestling with that myself.

Should I not pass my candidacy committee, it will not mean I failed my candidacy committee.  It will mean I have more things to work on and grow into before I am ready for candidacy.  I know I am my own worst critic and that my continued growing edge is to not be so hard on myself.  But old habits die hard.  I was never punished or guilted when I failed…but often times I was overly praised by authority figures when I succeeded.  What this means now is that when I fail, I feel the need to apologize to those around me as though I let them down.  I took away others’ ability to be proud of me and, in turn, I cannot be proud of myself.  Pride can sting as much as shame does, and I am learning that pride is indeed a form of shame.  If I fail, I did not succeed, and therefore my authority figures cannot be proud of me.

I had a revelation in Orlando last Friday that if I do not make candidacy, I will feel as though I let the department down and that I have to apologize to them.  My supervisor told me point blank that not making committee will not affect the department and its functioning.  At first, I thought hearing him say that was his “quick fix” answer and was a way to move away from my fear.  But instead, he was inviting me into my fear.  What I fear is not external: it is within myself.  He was telling me that if I fail, it does not mean I am a bad chaplain or a bad supervisory education student.  It will not rob anyone from the opportunity to be proud of me.  More importantly: I should still be proud of myself.  It will not mean the department is in shambles.  I won’t get fired.  Quite the contrary: failing in this process can be a strength.  Once I realize that failing is a possibility, it loses its power over me.  Because it is perfectly ok to fail.

And if I pass…well, I guess I’ll have to get back to you.  But it will definitely include chocolate.

Digging Through Life's Garbage

On Fat Tuesday, two chaplains brought in king cake for the pastoral care department.  Yes, we love food.  For those who don’t know, king cake is a Louisiana-style cake that tastes like a cinnamon roll with sugary sprinkles on top.  Somewhere inside the cake is a teeny tiny plastic baby.  Apparently if you get the piece with the baby in it, it’s good luck.  One of the chaplains got the piece with the baby in it.  We knew he got the piece with the baby…but he didn’t know.  He ate his piece and reported nothing back to us about his findings.  Rumors spread around the department that he accidentally ate the baby, but he was adamant that he didn’t.  I asked if he threw any of the cake away and he said, “Yes, just a little piece of plastic that was part of the decoration.”

He began digging in the trash to prove he didn’t throw away the baby.  I then put on gloves and dug through the trash, too.  Sure enough we found a shiny, purple, plastic baby in the trash can.  One of the other chaplains took pictures of us digging in the trash.  When he emailed the photos to me, I was hesitant to show the photos.  What would others think if they saw me digging through the trash?  We take our jobs seriously and work hard and here we were captured in a brief moment of craziness.

But the more I thought about, the more I thought that these pictures provide a metaphor for what we as chaplains do.  We listen as patients, family, and staff share their garbage with us.  We also share our garbage with one another.  The physical, emotional, spiritual garbage that is all a part of everyday life.  Fear of dying…broken family systems…denial about one's own issues...unfinished business…guilt about decisions being made…psychiatric illnesses…anger at God…inability to forgive oneself.  As a chaplain, I not only sit in the midst of patient’s garbage, but I also validate their garbage.  I help them see that their garbage is real and invite them not to move away from it, but to explore it more in-depth.  I, too, carry my own garbage into every visit – some conscious, some unconscious – but nonetheless, I carry garbage around.  Part of the process of being a chaplain is having a peer group and supervisor that help us look through our own garbage.  (For one unit of clinical pastoral education training, a chaplain spends 300 hours on the floors with patients and 100 hours in group time).  It certainly is not easy, but the more we can look at our own garbage, the more we can invite patients into their garbage, too.

We fool ourselves if we think that our life is perfect and without flaw.  Eveyone has garbage.  During this season of Lent, we journey through 40 days of prayer, repentance, sacrifice, and simplicity as we refocus our hearts and minds toward God.  Hopefully in this time, we will all become a little more aware of the garbage in our own lives.  I invite us all to embrace that garbage because it is a part of who we are…baggage and all, we are truly beautiful people created in the image of God.

So here I am doing what we do best…digging through life’s garbage.

A Little Life Lesson from Hemi

I wish I could tell you that I caught Hemi in a brief unguarded moment, but indeed this is daily behavior.  Check it out:

One of Hemi's favorite activities is rolling around on his back: in dirt, in grass, in puddles, in sand.  You name it, he'll roll in it.  He enjoys getting messy.  I watched him today as I was sweeping the front sidewalks (you can't let the sidewalks get too dirty, you know).  I quickly dropped the broom and picked up my phone to shoot this video of him.

Today, Hemi taught me a simple life reminder: it's ok to roll in the dirt.  It can be FUN to roll in the dirt!  Thank you, Hemi, for the wonderful reminder that life is messy, so we might as well enjoy it.

I am a Flight Attendant

Ok, so I'm not really a flight attendant.  But sometimes I want to pretend I am....or something that our culture deems more "gender-appropriate."  As one who often corrects people at the hospital when they exclusively refer to nurses as ‘she’ and doctors as ‘he,’ you should know that I don't believe there are gender-specific jobs.  But some days, when I just don’t have the energy to explain my life story, I think that saying I’m a flight attendant or a teacher or a nurse would be easier than explaining that I am a pastor. Let me give you two examples.

Example #1: Today, I was at Publix (Thursday is the start of the new shopping week for coupons – I saved $60! I digress…).  I was in the checkout line when the bagger started to wheel my cart like he was bringing my groceries out to my car.  I truly believe that shopping at Publix is a pleasure and I love their customer service; however, sometimes I wish they would lighten up on the whole ‘Which way to your car, ma’am?’ talk.  I actually enjoying bringing my groceries to my car and loading them myself.  There, I said it.  But the guy today was insistent, stating that he had to go outside to get the carts anyway.  And thus began the awkward small talk…

Him: “Are you on your way home from work?”

Me: “Yes.”

Him: “Cool.  What kind of work do you do?”

Me: “I’m a hospital chaplain.”

Him: “What does that mean?”

Me: “We’re like pastors for the hospital.”

Him: “Oh wow…so what kinds of stuff do you do?”  (ugh, where to begin?)

Me: “Ummm, we provide support and prayer for people, help families at the time of death, held identify people in traumas....”

Him: “Well, a job’s a job in this economy, right?” (he awkwardly laughs almost out of pity)

Me: “No, I actually love my job.  It gives me life.”

Him: “Oh…ok. Have a good day, ma’am.”

Why, whyyyyy didn’t I just tell him I was a flight attendant??

Example #2: I remember how much I hated getting my hair cut in college because I never went to the same person twice.  Who needs a personal stylist when all you do is cut your hair in a straight line?  So every time I went to get a haircut, the conversation led to something like this:

“What are you studying at UF?”

“I’m studying music education.”

“Are you going to be a music teacher?”

“No, I’m actually going to seminary after college.”

“Seminary, is that where you go to become a chef?”

“No, that’s culinary school.  Seminary is where you go to become a pastor.”

“You’re going to be a pastor??” (HOLD THE PHONE.  SHE’S YOUNG.  AND SHE’S A….SHE.)

Why, whyyyy didn’t I say ‘Yes, I’m going to be a music teacher and wear denim dresses and own lots of cats.’ End of story.

During one of my haircuts in college, I had a man debate me on the meaning of baptism and was insistent that in order to enter the gates of heaven, one must be baptized twice, once in water and then in the Holy Spirit so one can speak in tongues.  I am certainly respectful of other opinions and practices of religion, but WHY are we debating this during MY haircut?  The manager came over and asked him to stop questioning me.  I should’ve given my tip to the manager instead.

There are definitely times in life when I want to be in discussion about my work as a pastor.  I even find it fun if people bring it up to me on a first encounter.  I am in no way ashamed of what I do – I LOVE what I do and truly believe I am living into God’s calling in my life.  But sometimes, you just want to get your hair cut in peace.  Your nails done in peace (yes, pastors get pedicures).  Your grocery shopping done in peace.  Sometimes, you want to fly in an airplane without the person sitting next to you questioning your ability to be a female pastor (yes, in seminary I was seated on a plane next to a Southern Baptist minister who pulled out his engraved, red letter edition Bible and talked scripture with me while I frantically tried to study for a Hebrew quiz I had the next day).

I guess it’s ironic that I am in a field where every day I meet new people.  I still get the occasional “I ain’t never met a lady preacher before!” and “Wow honey, did you hear that? This nice little girl came to pray with us.”  But in almost all my visits, patients/families are grateful for support, for an empathic listener, and for someone who can lift up their deepest needs to God through spoken words of prayer.  We must remember Jesus was dead by 33 – so by Jesus’ standard, I’m in my prime years!

I guess I will continue engaging random people about my work as a chaplain.  It really can spark some interesting conversation.  But in case I’m not in the mood, I can at least locate the nearest emergency exit.

Party of One

I go shopping by myself.  I go to the gym by myself.  And sometimes I’ll go eat food by myself.  But for the most part, I’m with people.  I love planning hangouts and spending quality time with others.  Why?  Because I LOVE PEOPLE.  Being with friends gives me more energy than curling up alone with a book (my sincere apologies to all the introvert roommates I lived with in college and seminary).  This is the blessing and the curse of being an extreme extrovert.  I love being with people so much that sometimes it’s easier for me to be with others than it is to be with myself.

A 1,000-bed hospital rarely provides you with alone time.  As chaplains, we’re always with patients, with staff, and with other chaplains.  As a supervisory student, I have students on any given day who have questions and curiosities about pastoral care, theology, and protocol.  If I need to work on papers or do research, I have to go to my office.  It is the only place where I can be (mostly) uninterrupted.  But my office gets so lonely sometimes!  Let me paint a picture for you…

In order to get to my office, I have to go downstairs to the basement, walk past the morgue, walk through the hallway that has pipes in place of ceilings, go through the door of the unmarked hallway with nothing but a ‘ladies restroom ‘ sign on it, go past pest control’s office and unlock my office on the left just before the security guard’s break room and lockers.  I have a wonderful office and I am grateful for the space to get my work done.  But it sure can get lonely for the average extrovert.  On a related but slightly off-topic note, today I was walking to my office with a piece of pecan pie in hand.  I walked past the morgue, looked at the pecan pie in my hand, looked at the morgue door, and thought, ‘How odd it is that people on the other side of the door are dead and here I go with pecan pie in my hand like I don’t have a care in the world.’  This work teaches me something new every day.

Anyways…once I was in my office, I decided I’d go to the Bible and find all the awesome things that happened in the Bible where large crowds were gathered.  This task had two goals: 1) it would help me with the research for my theology position paper; and 2) it would help me see how the extroverts of biblical days found energy and life.  I found many stories: The feeding of the five thousand in the gospels; the rebuilding of the walls in Nehemiah; the coming of the Holy Spirit in Acts.  Boo-yah.  I could definitely prove my point that God is present when we are in community.

But then I read the story of Jacob (Gen 28:10-22).  And Moses (Gen 19:20-25). And the Samaritan woman (John 4:1-26).  And yes, even Christ (Luke 22:40-44).  Example after example of people alone in the presence of the Holy One.  I was humbled.  I wondered if leaders like Moses were introverts or extroverts.  For Moses’ sake, I hope he was extroverted because he was always with the Israelites…and they definitely had no qualms about telling him how they felt on any given day.  And still, Moses is called by God to the top of the mountain in the presence of only himself and God.

And then I had a thought.  I wonder how much better introverts are than me at practicing stillness in the presence of the Lord.  I wonder how much I can learn from being alone.  This is one of my greatest growing edges as I continue my supervisory work.  How can I be alone with myself? With my story?  With my struggles?  With God?  It definitely won’t be easy for me.  But I promise you I talked to no one – not even myself – as I wrote this blog.  Little victories count, right?

Baby, It's Cold Outside

The low tonight is 19 degrees.  That is low considering two days ago, I was sitting around a bonfire in my backyard in beautiful 60 degree weather.  Feeling the cold makes me remember back to my seminary days.  My last year at Columbia, there was a big snowstorm.  Ok ok, so it was a big snowstorm for Decatur, but still.  It was snowing enough for the Atlanta airport to close down because there was no way to remove the ice from the runway.  Lots of us seminarians - young and old - came outside to play in the snow.  We made snow angels and caught snowflakes in our mouths.  We had snowball fights and made make-shift sleds to ride down the hill in The Village.  My favorite part was walking with friends to our professors' homes to built giant snowfriends in their front yards and then knocking on their doors and surprising them with our creations.  I always loved how our professors lived walking distance from the campus and often invited us into their homes.  One of our professors came out of her home with a shirt on that had a manger scene on it and said, "It's a GIRL!"  I really, really loved our professors.

The top of my blog says 'Seasonal Grace' and has a picture of snow.  May seem a little odd for a Florida girl.  But I didn't randomly google this image or find it on a website.  This picture was actually taken in the front yard of Rodger Nishioka's house, a professor of Christian Education at Columbia.  We built a big snowfriend in his driveway that blocked his car in the car port.  As we stood in his front yard, I remember looking at the trees and being amazed how different they looked from trees I had always known in Florida.  They had no leaves and therefore were bare, and yet they looked so full of life.  I just loved the way the snow rested on the tree limbs as if the limbs were some kind of holding place for nature to rest.  It is a beautiful glimpse of God's grace.  I thought I would share this story with you on this chilly night.  As the weather continues dropping into the night, may you feel the gift of love...the warmth of friendship...and the joy of a God who gives us such beauty in every season of creation.

Tears

My whole life, I HATED crying.  In my early years, I cried when my brothers picked on me.  I would run to my dad and he would come to my rescue.  I cried in second grade when my friends would purposely buy their lunch when I was bringing mine so they wouldn’t have to sit with me.  For several weeks of that year, I sat with the special needs kids because I was afraid to sit with anyone in my class.  (And yes, at the time I had a bowl cut, a speech impediment, and a KILLER Peewee Herman fluorescent purple jumpsuit that I wore on school picture day.)  I cried in fourth grade when some of my classmates said they wanted to start an “AJAS Club” (AJAS stood for “Against Jennifer Ann Sumner”).  In middle school, there were days when my friends would take bets on who could make me cry first in the day.  Now before you feel too bad for me, you should know I had my share of bullying others as well.  Making others cry made me feel better because it meant I wasn’t the only crier.  It was a defense mechanism and a way to feel cool, and trust me: I would do anything to take back the hurt I caused others.  Even in seminary, I cried in the middle of a lecture when my professor could remember the names of everyone in the class except mine.

My first unit of supervisory training ended last week.  This unit has been an incredible time of growth and learning.  One of the greatest things I have learned this unit is that old habits die hard and I am still learning to embrace my tears.  I thought I would outgrow my tears - and in some ways, I have - but I have learned that tears are just part of who God created me to be.  I struggle with my tears because I don’t feel like I cry at the right times.  I don’t cry when others are standing at the bedside of their sick loved one, or when I am called to a death, or when I deliver the news to a family member that their loved one was in an accident.  I certainly feel compassion and empathy towards the person, but that is not when my tears normally fall.  Instead, I cry when I am angry, when I feel powerless, or when I am passionate about something.  I cry when I feel invisible and when I feel I don’t fit in.  Part of my supervisory process is not running from my tears, but embracing them and talking through them.

Just this last week, I got angry with my supervisor over something and I started crying.  You know those tears that start in the privacy of your office and continue into the lunch line with bright fluorescent lights shining on your swollen eyes?  Yes, those.  I told him at first that I was just frustrated, but then I told him the scary truth: I was actually angry.  He calmly listened as I shared.  I was trying to shy away from my true feelings and he was inviting me into them.  After I spoke with him, he thanked me for telling him I was angry and for being authentic in my feelings.  I thought, ‘Hmm, what a weird job I have that I get thanked for telling someone I am angry with them.’

While tears used to be one of my greatest fears, now I am learning to make friends with them.  Tears are not my weakness – they are one of my strengths.  As one of my supervisors says, they are a gift from God just like all our other emotions.  I have wrestled with the projection that my supervisors are thinking, “Oh no, we made the little emotional girl chaplain cry again,” but I have learned they do not think that; even better, they don’t react negatively at all to my tears.  No handing me a tissue, no stopping the conversation, no awkward look like they’ve inflicted unnecessary pain on me.  Nope, the conversation continues like nothing even happened.  And their behavior with me is exactly how I am with patients in their tears: calm, quiet, present.  They have taught me to be present with others in their tears; now I am learning to be present with myself in my own tears.  It will continue to take time, but I am getting there.

My supervisor wrote in my evaluation, “Jenny’s perfectionism is tamed by her vulnerability. She makes it easier for people to be with her and to know her.”  I hope others have gotten to know me better.  I definitely have gotten to know myself more.  Tears and all.

Ornamental Chaos

Brian and I already have all our Christmas decorations up.  Inside, outside, front yard, back yard.  Our neighborhood puts up lots of decorations, so we really had to bring our A-game.  We have done lots of our Christmas shopping and made our Christmas cards.  We bought our tree the night of the UF/FSU football game (I needed something to do during that painful game).  We have a tradition of picking out our tree together and then decorating it with a collection of ornaments that we have gathered over the years, some that we bought and some that were gifted to us.  Our tree doesn’t look uniform nor does it follow one color scheme – it actually looks somewhat messy.  But what I love about the messiness is that each of the ornaments has a meaning.  Here are some of my faves:




An ornament from when I was born: 'Baby's First Christmas' (1984)

  

The Greatest Gift of All - church cantata (1990)



Made by a Michael's Arts & Crafts employee - my first job in high school (2000)

  


Given to me by an AHS band member (2001)

 


From Nuremberg Germany - a gift from my parents (2007)

 



Hemi's First Christmas (2008)

  


Olive wood Nativity scene I bought in Bethlehem (2009)

 


Our First Christmas - engagement ornament (2009)

 


An ornament I gave Brian - a deer in construction clothes (2010)

 

From Ten Thousand Villages - a gift from my parents (2010)

 


Gator Nutcracker - from Sarah (2010)



  

Just Married (2010)

 

Obviously, I could go on and on with more of my favorite ornaments!  I remember as children, we would have a tree decorating party.  We would pull out the step stool when we were too young to reach the top and put our ornaments up as we shared stories about them.  I loved putting up the Wizard of Oz and Winnie the Pooh collections of ornaments - I enjoyed hanging them all together like a family.  I also remember wondering why we put the old, worn down ornaments on the tree, especially the ones that lost their glitter, their hooks, or were broken.  They were put up because they held memories.  And now as I am married and Brian and I started our own lives together, I am eager to put up the ornaments, both old and new, that carry memories in our hearts.

I recognize that for some of you, Christmas is not a joyful time: it can be sad time, a stressful time, or an anxious time.  And each year, the holiday season looks a little different for everyone.  With all the changes that happen in my life at Christmas, I just love the chaos of the tree.  I think it’s a little bit like our lives.  As hard as we may try, life often doesn’t look neat and organized.  Life happens in the chaos.  Life happens in the busyness of shopping and traveling and cooking and caroling.  Life happens in the reading of 'The Night Before Christmas.'  And life happens as we read the story of a women named Mary and a man named Joseph who frantically looked for place to deliver - and all they could find was a manger.  But take heart that what came from that chaotic situation was Emmanuel: God With Us.  So from my chaos to yours:

I wish you a blessed Christmas season.

What I Do

I haven’t written a blog in a while.  It’s not that I don’t have things on which to reflect.  In fact, being in this supervisory process, I have to reflect theologically about almost everything I do.  Perhaps it's the fact that I do so much written and spoken reflection at work that I feel like I have no creative juices left to write blogs!  But on many occasions, I am asked what exactly I do as a supervisory education student.  So here is where I am in my process:

I still work as a chaplain on the floors, but I am with patients 15 hours a week instead of 40 hours a week.  In those 15 hours, I still carry the on-call pager and deal with traumas, codes, deaths, and other crises.  While I have been doing this work for over a year, I still find myself involved in tragic cases that surprise me in their level of difficulty.  It's crazy how much I can handle now.  At the same time, I am happy that this work has not made me emotionally numb and that I still have the ability to feel and express emotion.  For example, a couple weeks ago, I dealt with my most difficult case yet as I watched a mother and unborn child die suddenly from a tragic accident.  So, so sad.

In the other 25 hours of my week, I focus on my supervisory process.  I have weekly individual supervision just like I did when I was a resident.  I also silently observe my supervisor as he guides a group of five interns through their process.  Every other Friday, I drive to Orlando to meet with a group of supervisory students and supervisors in North and Central Florida.  We present verbatims and case studies and have our work broken down through questions, curiosities, and insights.  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like for an outside person to sit in on one of our meetings.  They would likely think we’re crazy as we analyze every thought and question.  Being in the hot seat is tough, but they are helping us prepare for when we meet committees.

I have begun working on my theology theory paper and plan to go for Candidacy in spring 2012.  If I make candidacy in the spring, I can begin supervising students in the summer without a supervisor in the room – I just have to video tape every group and individual meeting.  If I do not pass committee, I will continue growing in  my process and try again in fall 2012.  During that same time, I will also begin researching and writing my education and personality theory papers.  I have to pass all three papers (theology, education, personality) before I can go for the next step called Associate.  But that won't be for a couple years.  This process - start to finish - varies in time, but is usually in the ball park of 5 years.

So there you have it – an update on what work life is like for me these days.  Just like any kind of parish work, this career path is definitely a calling.  Friends, I’m not gonna lie: this process is tough.  It produces tears and frustrations, but also the excitement of self-discovery.  But in all the chaos and difficulty of this process, I love this work more than anything I have done before.  To put it simply, it gives me life.  It so exciting to discover the reasons I do what I do – to work on my theories, and then practice them with patients and students.  And it is an honor and a privilege to be with people in their grief and to be with students in their learning process.

So all is well right now.  Work is great.  And life is amazing.

Why is ‘Why’ so Awkward?

This week in class, I listened and observed as the fall interns discussed a particular case involving the question of theodicy.  In its basic form, theodicy involves the question of where evil stands amidst a God who is believed to be all-loving, all-powerful, and all-knowing.  Theodicy questions include things like, Why does evil happen in the world? Does God have the ability to stop it?  Is God a vengeful God, a forgiving God, or perhaps both?  These questions used to be too complicated and distant for me to consider.  When I first started seminary, I did not like theology.  I thought theology to be a time where ancient, abstract concepts of God were brought into conversation with each other.  However, once I began my work as a hospital chaplain, I saw theology come to life and have loved it ever since.  Because the questions of life and death are a part of people’s everyday lives, and instead of discussing ancient theologians’ answers to the questions, we help families look at their own stories and seek to find an answer to their own grief.

In this conversation with interns, we talked about a mother whose son (in his mid-20s) was on his death bed after a car accident.  His brain was bleeding and his death was imminent.  In my interpretation, this son was the glue that held this somewhat dysfunctional family together.  And here they were, watching it all unravel in a split second.  The mother asked several times, “Why him?  What did he do to deserve this?  He is a good kid!”  There was a fear among some of the chaplains in the conversation that this mother was going to ask the age-old theodicy question, “How could God let this happen?!”  The fear grew as some of the chaplains wondered how they might answer that question.  How do you answer the question as to why God would let this happen to her son?   I had an easy answer: you don’t.

It may sound like avoidance, but hear me out.  I think our hearts and minds have a way of eventually processing out why things happen in our lives - it is our way of grieving.  Let me be clear that I do not believe we always get a cut and dry answer; sometimes our answer is settling on the fact that we just don’t know why.  That being said, I do not think God created us to grieve and process all the same way.  For example, when my grandfather died, each person in my family grieved his death differently.  The beauty of our family’s grief was not that we grieved uniformly, but that God created the space and presence for each of us in our varied grief.

Another example from my experience came when I told someone about the death of an unborn child in my extended family.  That person had the nerve to say to me, “Well, I’d bet God took that baby’s life because God knew something would be wrong with the baby if it was born. But now you have an angel waiting for you in heaven.”  I wanted to slap him.  Seriously, do you think you know why this baby never got a chance to live?  And more importantly, do you honestly think THAT answer is helpful??  Perhaps you have had a death or some sort of loss in your life experience.  How did it feel when someone came to you and told you why it happened? 

I think when we answer questions of this nature, it is out of our own anxiety, or even avoidance, about the topic at hand.  I see it happen all the time at the hospital (yes, I sometimes find myself doing it, too, without realizing it).  The other day, I was with a family member after her long-time boyfriend suddenly died.  Perhaps out of his anxiety, I heard the physician say to the woman, “My only explanation is that God must’ve wanted him more than we did.”  In an effort to provide an answer to an answerless situation, I believe the physician gave a potentially harmful statement for this woman to carry with her: God must’ve wanted him more than we did.  Translation: if you wanted him more, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.  I cringed a little on the inside.

I don’t think the physician who said that meant any harm by it.  But I do think we as humans want to give an answer that makes people feel better.  So why is the ‘why’ question so awkward?  I think because the question stumps us.  And it is hard for us as people to admit we don’t have the answer to everything.

As a chaplain, I think my role is to create the space for grief.  It is a common misconception that we as chaplains come to explain why something happened to someone.  I don’t know why something horrific happened any more than the next person.  I have no idea why unborn babies die, why perfectly healthy people are suddenly diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, or why a good and loving person can suddenly die in a fatal car accident.  But giving families the space to cry out the “why” questions, and equally as important, allowing the space for the silence of the unanswered questions, helps remind me that I am not God and I have not begun to understand why bad things happen to people.  But I believe that in that awkward silence rests the presence of God, encompassing the space for every felt emotion.

My closing statement to the interns was equally helpful for me as I continue to wrestle with the question of why bad things happen: “The beauty of the chaplain’s role is that we don’t carry the pressure to answer questions of theodicy…but we do carry the privilege of entering into a family’s grief with them.”  And that, to me, is what makes the silence a little less awkward.

Time

On Tuesday, September 6^th, my year-long residency came to an end.  Time sure flew by.  The residents came together and we shared memories of the years and the ways we have grown together.  We cried and we laughed…oh, did we laugh.  We were always great at that.  I will forever remember the wisdom this group brought to each other and the ways they have helped me grow into the chaplain I am today.  Because I am now a Supervisory Education Student at the hospital, I did leave my badge, my keys, and my pager in the pastoral care office as I left on September 6th.  But I still felt like I left a part of me there that day.

It sure felt different coming to work September 7^th and finding a new group of residents, a new crowd of faces who are overwhelmed by curiosity and anxiety over protocol, class assignments, and schedules.  I look back on my year and remember us all feeling that way our first days.  I look forward to teaching the new students and working with them as they find their way in through the hospital.


I remember last year that as our own fear subsided, we embraced the role of 'chaplain' in many ways: through responding to traumas and deaths, watching surgeries, blessing babies whose lives were gone all too quickly, going to workshops and training programs, assisting people with Advanced Directives, being a listening ear to patients, seeing part of an autopsy, praying with the living and with the families of those who died, going deep sea fishing, sitting with families filled with fear and anxiety, working to bring comfort to staff who care for patients day in and day out, and even creating a fun and educational board game called "Spiritual Pursuit" to help future students learn about our hospital protocol.


This last year serves as a beautiful reminder that life is filled with moments of disorientation and orientation, fear and hope, anxiety and confidence.   And I find comfort that we worship a God who journeys with us through all of those emotions.  At the change of this season, I am drawn to the text from Ecclesiastes 3.  For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to have your picture taken with your supervisors.

A time to gather for sporadic hallway photos.

A time to wear scrubs and watch surgeries.

A time to stealthy take your picture whilst wearing

scrubs, goggles, and hair nets.

A time to become certified Palliative Care

Resource Professionals.

A time to plank on your department’s TV cart.

A time to train and embrace 11 summer  interns.

A time to go deep sea fishing in hopes of catching dinner.

And finally…a time to accept the beautiful gift of hand-made stoles made for us by an incoming resident.

We came as strangers and left as friends.

And more importantly,

we came as timid residents and left as pastors.