ENDSTATION

 “I don’t know how to die,” my mother told everyone as she approached the end of her life.  When she was diagnosed with a serious heart condition in her sixties, she expected death to be just around the corner.  Her body refused to comply.  She nursed her husband through chronic emphysema and depression.  After his suicide, she moved from Southern Ontario to Saskatchewan to watch her grandchildren grow up.

 At the age of seventy-three, she migrated to Victoria to escape the ice and snow. She vowed to make two new friends for each one who died.  She cruised the Inside Passage to Alaska, bus-toured through the Rockies, and explored Vancouver Island.  When she was eighty-five, she returned to Ontario because the cost of living in her senior residence was outrunning her income.  She moved in with my husband and me, and outlived him.  When she was ninety, she moved into a subsidized supported living facility in order to have a more independent lifestyle.  She coped fairly well between trips to the hospital.

One day, she took a taxi to her favourite mall and shopped her way through the stores.  We were both elated that she was able to manage without me.  Four days later, she was found unconscious on the floor of her apartment.  She spent the next ten days in the hospital stroke unit, paralyzed on one side and speaking in tongues.  Her final coherent sentence was, “I don’t know anything anymore.”

            As the shadow of death darkened over us, I wondered how I would ever survive in a world without her. She was the only person I had known all my life, my anchor in every storm, my cheerleader in every race.  She insisted I was the best thing that ever happened to her.

She is still with me.  She peers back at me from every mirror. My hair is not as thin as hers, and I don’t use a walker all the time, but the resemblance is unmistakeable.

            I am seventy-six years old now, hungering to start a new chapter, find new meaning, new friends.  I have transitioned through three different apartments since I sold the house.  Inflation is nibbling away my buying power.  Many of the people I love are dead or going through painful passages of deterioration.  Everything I do takes longer, hurts more, and is more difficult to remember.  Worst of all, I seem to have outlived my usefulness.

            My mother often said that, if she only had the energy, she would write a book about what it is really like to be old.  The so-called experts are too young to know what they are talking about.

            My mother’s mantra was, “I will try any wine once.”  She dreamed of one big last fling.  One more trip, one more party, one more kick at the bucket list before settling down at “Endstation” to await the inevitable.  I acted as her brake, reminding her that her resources might be needed later.  “I wish I knew how long I have to live!” she exclaimed.  “Then money would just be a math problem.”

She liked to start her day singing vigorously, driving away the demons of decay. I rarely sing any more.  I prefer to live in denial regarding the creeping imperfections of my decaying voice.  I escape the harsh reality of mornings by stringing together words for a story I want to write – the ultimate story that will leave deep footprints in the sands of time.

            I have three plastic totes full of paper, my legacy to the next generation.  One contains my published hard copy -- small press magazines and anthologies.  Another is stuffed with two unpublished novels and a cornucopia of stories, poetry and random bits and pieces that seem too precious to discard. The third tote contains two versions of my mother’s World War II memoirs, fictionalized to protect the guilty and avoid complicating the lives of the innocent.  She worked on the project for over two decades, revising and reorganizing, searching for the truth and never finding it.  It became her personal albatross.  I tried to help her with editing, but she wanted to tell her story exactly as it flowed from her heart.

When she decided to give up her quest, she stuffed the manuscript into a drawer of her filing cabinet.  The drawer broke, scattering pages everywhere.  She said it was time for a bonfire.  I offered to assume custody.  I planned to bring order out of chaos and create a digital copy of a single version.  Every attempt ended in failure because I became overwhelmed by sadness. Those mixed-up pages are my albatross now.  Hitler and the Holocaust left deep wounds that never healed.  Destroying the evidence will not change the inherited guilt and confusion.  I am the keeper of my mother’s stories now, and will continue to tell them as long as I live, following her through the twists and turns of the labyrinth of lies that shattered her innocence.

Growing older is much more complicated than adjusting to an annual accumulation of birthdays.  It is often a time of great grief.  We who are approaching death are relegated to fodder for a lucrative caretaking industry.  We are not expected to contribute to society, except to pay bills. 

The White Tsunami has arrived, overwhelming public resources.  Many are entering the Golden Years burdened by an unsustainable lifestyle based on treating credit as income.  The good times are all gone, and poverty is knocking at the door of people who have no idea how to make do with less.

Maggie Kuhn, the founder of the Grey Panthers, visualized the possibility of multi-generational living where people of all ages would pool their resources and share their wisdom, labour, and love.  This is much like the old-fashioned extended families, which were essential before retirement pensions were the norm.  The old kept dragon-like control of whatever property they had, forcing the young to dance around them in hope of a fine inheritance someday.  The ones who had nothing left were at the tender and often brutal mercy of family and friends driven by duty; love or guilt.  Once old people had regular pensions, the new gospel prescribed leaving eldercare to paid professionals. That set nuclear families free to pursue power, prestige and property, leaving the older generation ghettoized in the hands of complete strangers.

Seniors fight to make it work.  Some become fiercely territorial volunteers, trying to recreate the familiar atmosphere of their former workplaces.  Some hide from the world.  Some fall into a routine of endless coffee parties, lunches, and movie nights. Others quietly succumb to undiagnosed illnesses and malnutrition.  Too many wear diapers because there is no one available to help them get to the bathroom.

The geriatric poster children earn university degrees, make speeches, learn to dance, and personify unstoppability.  No one knows what happens between their public appearances.  My mother was considered alert and active and “with it”, but she spent many days in bed recuperating.  She had “diddle spells” when she could not walk safely or think clearly.  Her cognition was fading bit by bit, along with her hearing and finally her vision, leaving her lost and afraid and wondering what to do.  On her best days, she felt baby mice crawling up her legs. On bad days, the mice were giant rats with ferocious teeth and claws.  She smiled and persevered and rarely told her doctors what was really going on.  She loved writing cheques because that gave her a sense of empowerment.  Eventually, even signing her own name became too much effort. 

Towards the end of her life, she listened to my problems as she had always done, and responded with “I can’t help you.”  I was frustrated by her litany of helplessness, but I understand it now.  She was reminding herself of her limitations.  Her words echo in my head when my maternal genes demand that I rescue my children.  My fixing days are over.

There is much hoopla about how to die properly, invented by people who have never died.  I have met only two people who seemed immune from the fear of death.  One was the veteran of two life-after-life experiences, looking forward to taking up permanent residence in the beauty he had glimpsed.  The other had been close to death so many times that he just wanted to get it over with, sans medical interference.  He instructed his wife not to call an ambulance until he was well and truly dead.

I am very much afraid of death, both of the process and of the unknown destination.  My mother gave up on religion at the age of ninety.  “Why should I be the prisoner of someone else’s fantasy?”  She expected to slide into oblivion, and hoped it would happen unexpectedly some night while she was asleep.  Instead, her worst nightmare came true – immobilized in bed, unable to communicate, at the mercy of attendants whose availability and competence varied.

On my seventy-first birthday, a nurse asked me, “If the pneumonia comes back, do you want us to give her antibiotics?”  I said I didn’t know, and promised to have an answer the next day.  By the time I had walked to my car, I knew was time to let go.  

When I returned to the hospital the next morning, I asked for palliative care.  My mother’s attending physician was away, so the assessment was done by a locum.  He spent a few minutes interacting with my mother.  He had studied her chart and explained his clinical findings to me in a matter-of-fact way.  He looked around the room and then at her.  “She doesn’t want this,” he said softly, part statement, part question.  I answered, “No. She doesn’t.”  He went off to write new orders.

I told my mother, “We’re going to stop torturing you now.”  She seemed pleased. I held her unparalyzed hand as she drifted into unconsciousness.  She kept pulling it away, reminding me how often she had told me that dying is a journey we all must make alone.  I searched my memories for a hymn I could sing for her, but none seemed appropriate.  Instead, I sang Brahm’s lullaby, which she had sung to me many times when I was a child.  Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht …  She died at three o’clock the next morning, leaving ninety-two years of history behind.

I miss her.  I miss my husband, my two fathers (biological and adopted), my grandmother, my uncle, even my in-laws.  I miss my elementary school classmate Lois who died in her first year of university, and my student Cathy who drew me a wonderful sketch of the Reach for the Top team I coached before the Big C stole her from her friends and family.  I miss my university friend Peter, who died of AIDS. I miss my dog Rusty, and the assortment of cats who succumbed to distemper, diabetes, and unfortunate encounters with farm machinery.  I miss the many parishioners whose funerals I played for during my decades of ministry at my husband’s side.  Every year, there are more voices calling me to the other side of silence, inviting me to touch the face of God.

I would be delighted to be transported swiftly and mercifully to a beautiful place where all my questions are answered and all the loves of my life restored.  I hope for the best. There is no way to prepare for the worst.  All I can do is learn to celebrate the life that I have, grieving my losses without being destroyed by them.  I am on a fearful and difficult journey to a destination I know nothing about.  I am my mother’s daughter, and draw strength from her example.  No matter what it costs, I plan to live until I die.

The Power of No

NO is one of the first words we learn.  It carves out our personal boundaries and proclaims that what we want is not necessarily in harmony with the desires of other beings in our universe.  NO has the power to unleash a wide variety of emotions: resentment, rage, disappointment, disapproval, or relief.

Will you help me with this?

Can we go to the party?

Do you love me?

Do I have cancer?

Will you lend me some money just one more time?

As we mature socially, we often find it useful to wrap our more offensive refusals in a little fuzzy padding. 

I’m already double-booked that day.

I have a headache.

I would love to, but my husband/wife/mother/boss would not approve.

I don’t know – let me think about it.

Under pressure, we often say yes when we really want to say no. Some can happily say “No problem!” and forget all about it five minutes later.  Others doggedly follow through, struggling to hide any fermenting resentment, guilt or self-pity. We are often tempted to use a creative excuse to free us from the burden of a commitment. Many have mastered the art of sending double messages that manipulate others into withdrawing their request. The dance of yes and no can easily become complicated and painful. Let your yes be yes and your no be no is good advice, but not easy to follow.

If we make a habit of denying what we really want, our bodies may let us know that all is not well.  Then we suffer the double burden of being sick and feeling guilty for being sick.

I don’t remember my terrible twos, or how I came to the conclusion that saying no was dangerous. I remember feeling frozen in compliance, like a deer in the headlights.  When I was ten or so, I started saying no more often, but I wasn’t able to make it stick. I could not bear the thought that I was disappointing someone else.  Today, I pretend to believe that other people’s emotions are their responsibility, not mine, but I still feel very uncomfortable with the thought that my choices are inflicting unhappiness on others. 

I have come to realize that no matter what I do, I will not please everyone.  That should be liberating – if I can please only one person, it might as well be me.  But I continue to be haunted by the idea that it is my job to keep everybody happy.  The fear of not being able to say no is a strong component of my social anxiety.

When I was a teen-ager, certain things were a no-brainer for me.  I wouldn’t let other people copy my homework (although I would invest a lot of time in coaching them so they could do it themselves).  I wouldn’t lie to my parents about where I was and what I was doing (really!).  My rural lifestyle with no personal transportation protected me from having to face a lot of the traditional teen-age temptations, but when they came, I generally upheld my personal code of ethics.  That caused me considerable distress, because I wanted desperately to belong.  I was very invested in pleasing people, and felt sub-human when I didn’t.

My most painful test came near the end of grade twelve.  I was feeling like less of an outsider that year, a member of my class.  I even had fun occasionally.  Towards the end of the year, someone decided to throw an overnight class party at their parents’ cottage.  Wonder of wonders, I was invited.  When I found out that there would be no chaperones, I said I could not go. The boy I happened to have a crush on asked, “What’s the matter?  Aren’t we good enough for you?”  Over half a century has passed since then, but I still remember the boy’s name and how I devastated I felt.

My mother was very sympathetic.  “Can’t you tell them that I won’t let you go?” she asked. 

“But you would let me go!” I wailed. 

“Of course,” she said.  “I trust you.”    

I stayed home. Maybe it was her trust.  Maybe it was self-preservation. Despite my sheltered existence, I knew enough about real life to be sure that there would be alcohol and sex.  I wasn’t particularly well-versed in human sexuality, but I knew that sex caused pregnancy and pregnancy caused interruption to the educational process, often permanently.  And I was going to university because that was my mother’s dream, one I was determined to carry out at any cost.  It never occurred to me to say no to that, although I would dearly have liked to take a year or two off after high school and experience the independence of gainful employment.

The hardest no I ever said came in my third year of teaching, after my car collided with a van in a white-out.  I spent three weeks in the hospital and came home with two plaster casts, no right kneecap, and a missing front tooth.  My father told me, with great authority, that I would no longer be doing any winter driving.  It wasn’t a power play; he just wanted me to be safe.  It would have been so easy to say yes and avoid all the challenges involved in getting behind a steering wheel again.

I took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry – that isn’t your decision to make.”  In that moment, I realized that I was a grown-up and accountable for my own choices.  If I let other people pressure me, I would be stuck with the consequences. I went on to survive two more traffic accidents.  Every time I take my vehicle on the road, I pray fervently that there will not be another one.  But I am still driving.

In the early Eighties, I endured another memorable NO.  My husband had finally realized his dream of becoming an Anglican priest, and we migrated to Turtleford, Saskatchewan, to be part of a shared ministry of a six-point parish.  I was quickly absorbed into a host of church activities.  One of them was religious education in the town of Livelong. Every Friday afternoon during the academic year, a team of dauntless volunteers invaded the classrooms of the local school for an hour.  Once a month, we would herd all the kids to our little Anglican church and have a worship service.  It was challenging, but not without its rewards.  I was inspired to write my first gospel song during that time, because the kids needed something with a beat and a message, and I heard some of them singing it afterwards.  As the end of the school year approached, I realized how overloaded my schedule was.  I wanted to drop church school.  It was only an hour a week, but it was a stressful hour that required a lot of preparation and a commute.

At that time, I was a newcomer to Anglican Renewal West, so I decided to pray about it.  My conversations with God were pretty one-sided in those days – “listen, Lord, for Your servant is speaking”.  I was startled indeed when I heard a friendly, somewhat amused voice in my head saying, “I can make it work either way.”

This message stunned me.  What?  God can make it work without my dedicated participation?  I am not really needed?  I have to make up my own mind instead of carrying on my merry martyrdom?   

I was pretty sure that this was God giving me the freedom I needed, not what my self-importance imagined was expected of me.  Even so, it was hard to say yes to what I wanted to do.  I would disappoint and inconvenience people who were depending on me.  I took comfort in the fact that they would have two months in the summer holidays to recruit someone to take my place.

They refused to hear my no. You’re doing such a great job.  Of course you’ll be back.  Every attempt to voice my decision was met with more praise and optimistic predictions that I would find it impossible to desert the cause.

When school started the following fall, I was faced with many expressions of consternation. 

You weren’t at church school!  What happened?

I am not doing that any more. I told you that last spring.

Of course you are!  We need you. 

Armed with the conviction that God was on my side, I held firm.  It was November before they realized that I was serious and a replacement was found.  From what I heard, she did a good job and all was well.

I am still learning how to say no effectively.  Every time is a mini-crisis for me, tormenting me with guilt and defensiveness.  It is a little easier than it used to be because I understand more clearly just how important it is not to live in Shouldville and be true to myself.  It is impossible to say yes whole-heartedly without the freedom to say no.  A commitment that is made under duress will crumble sooner or later.  It is impossible to love at gunpoint.

Every YES in our lives is supported by a network of NOs.  When we marry, we promise to “forsake all others” and cleave to only one.  When we are confirmed, we make a covenant to renounce the world, the flesh and the devil, and follow only one Lord and Master.

Even simple, everyday tasks require us to say no.  When I wake up in the morning, I generally think of fifteen things I could or should be doing that day.  But until I decide on one and let the other fourteen go for the time being, I am paralyzed.  Whatever I invest in will grow in value over time.

Our free will may feel like a burden at times, but it is a sacred responsibility.  When we come to a fork in the road, we have to choose a path, even at the risk of being wrong.  If we don’t, we will never get anywhere.

The Red-Eyed Monster

I am a very angry person. 

Generally, I keep it under cover.  When I talk about it, I use words like “resentment”, “frustration”, “discomfort”, or even “concern.”  Mostly I stew silently, hating myself for being a wimp.

I’ve read the books.  I’ve listened to the stories, cheered the successes, cried over the failures.  I’ve even coached people in anger management. 

I’ve been lectured, punished, prayed over, and exorcised.  I have pep-talked myself, bashed myself, rationalized and justified, self-soothed, and tried to escape. But the red-eyes monster is a permanent resident in my life.  In my moments of sanity, I realize that it is a terribly frightened part of me that needs love and attention.

In a glorious display of uninhibited self-expression, I once threw a full-length mirror down the stairs.  I will never forget the feeling of satisfaction and release I experienced when the glass crashed and splintered.  That was my personal primal scream, serving notice on the universe that I was a dissatisfied customer and wanted a refund. But the relief was short-lived, and the mess took a long time to clean up. I decided that breaking things and people was not an adequate solution.

Anger is a useful and necessary part of our emotional immune system.  It gives us the strength to set boundaries, to say no in the face of disapproval, to carve out our own territory and defend it.  It can send us on perilous quests for justice and fill us with determination to accomplish the impossible. It empowers us to protect the people, ideals and property that are the most important to us. And, like electricity, fire, or any other manifestation of powerful energy, it can get us into terrible trouble.

Early in life, I learned that permission to be angry was related to the chain of command.  Anger came from above, and could only be passed on to someone or something further down the hierarchy of power.  Even that could be risky. 

If someone bigger than me became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  If I became angry, I would probably suffer violence.  The safest thing was to numb out what I was feeling and jump through the hoops of compliance with a smile.  The result was akin to an auto-immune disorder.  A gift that was designed to protect me began to destroy me from the inside out.  For the first fifty years of my life, I was convinced that my existence was a mistake and the universe would be better off without me.

My mother often diverted her anger into helpless weeping, but under the right circumstances, she could become an unstoppable force of nature, like a tornado.  She grew up in the streets (those were the days when children were sent out to play when they were not needed at home), burdened with the responsibility of taking care of her baby brother, who was very good at picking fights.  When she was cornered and knew she could not win, she did as much damage to her opponent as possible on the way down.  She once won a fight against a much bigger boy while she had a broken arm, using her plaster cast as a weapon.

My own early life was much more sheltered. The streets of post-war Germany were not considered safe because so many buildings had been reduced to rubble, with the added hazard of unexploded bombs.  I spent most of my time with adults who were suffering the aftermath of terrible losses, and struggling daily for food, fuel and shelter.  My interactions with other children were almost invariably a disaster.  They dictated what we did and how we did it, trashed my toys, and borrowed things with no intention of returning them.  I had no idea how to defend myself.  I believed that people would always take what they wanted, and it would hurt less if I offered no resistance.  Despite my best efforts, I was never safe from unprovoked attack.  I almost lost an eye from a close encounter with a beanpole wielded by a boy I did not even know.

I was eight years old when I boarded the HMS Fairsea with my mother in search of a better life in Canada.  I knew about illness, death, critical fuel shortages, violence, homelessness, and missing limbs.  I knew that even the animals in the zoo were hungry, and their keepers were grateful for every scrap of food we could collect and share with them. I knew nothing about politics.  I was too naïve to realize that the adults who were kindest to me were part of the mysterious Enemy who had killed my father and destroyed so many homes and families. I had no idea that my mother’s job as a live-in maid for British army officers was a serious social disability.

I know now that the teacher who beat his pupils so brutally was a war veteran with serious mental health issues.  I know that people stole my mitts because they were cold, and that my mother sometimes cried because she had no way of replacing them until she had time to knit more. She did without food and cannibalized her body by giving blood too often and thanked God for the Swedes who set up feeding stations so that children could have at least one nourishing meal a day. I often rode on her back during black-market expeditions to barter with farmers who were willing to hide some their produce from the government system. 

When I was an adult, my mother often apologized to me for abandoning me to questionable child care.  I assured her that starving to death in her arms was less romantic than it sounded, and I was grateful for everything she had done to ensure our survival.  But while I was living through the daily horror, with no control over my life and often with no idea where I would sleep that night, it was an ongoing nightmare that made no sense.  I tried to look cheerful because it was expected of me.  But I was often shaken awake during night by concerned adults who told me that I had been screaming in my sleep.

During my teens, when my life had become less chaotic, my emotional numbness began to thaw out.  I was still shutting down during a distressing situation, but after a couple of days, I would start ranting and raving.  Most of my tirades were about injustices others had suffered rather than difficulties of my own.  I am still much better at defending others than I am at advocating for myself.  

I often fantasized about martyrdom – one glorious moment of defiance for the cause of freedom and justice and universal harmony, followed by swift death before I had the chance to recant.  Then, perhaps, my life might mean something.

My step-father, a life-long farmer, was wise in the ways of animals.  He taught me that there were times when we had to back off and wait for a beast to calm down. This was especially true if the animal was panic-stricken.  People are not much different.  In time, I learned to cut myself some slack and take steps to solve my problems while I was in my right mind.

My anger surfaced increasingly during my twenties.  I was in my thirties before I could become angry without being swept out of control.  I thought I was cured.  Twenty years later, I discovered that my anger was still alive and well, but buried more deeply.

I was already a mother when I experienced the practical usefulness of anger for the first time.  I was taking a walk with my two-year-old son when we were accosted by a snarling dog.  I picked up my child and stood still, talking to the dog soothingly.  This had no effect whatsoever.  The weight in my arms became heavier and heavier while I waited.  Finally, I decided that my only option was to kill the dog. I had no idea how I was going to do it, but I was absolutely determined not to let him hurt my child.

I took a few moments to gather my strength for the battle.  Then I put my son down and faced the dog with a mighty battle cry.  The dog ran away.  I imagine I looked much bigger and more dangerous once my anger obliterated my fear.  I probably even smelled different. This was a major revelation to me.  I realized that I was not condemned to be a prisoner of learned helplessness for the rest of my life.

One of the things I learned in my journey was that I need to be healed where I was hurt.  Talking to third parties can be a helpful prelude, but final freedom can only be found in confronting the what – or whom – I perceive to be the source of my anger.  There are times when I have to speak up or implode, even if the outcome might turn out to be inconvenient.  

My expression of anger does not have to be dramatic or harmful, but it does have to be authentic, and forceful enough to be taken seriously. I can’t claim to have an impressive success rate, but when it works, it works well.

During the empty nest phase of my life, while I was riding a city bus in Victoria, one of the passengers wanted to exit from the front door.  The bus driver told him that he had to use the back door.  This unleashed a tide of profanity that was so violent that my inner child became terrified as the man approached my seat near the rear exit.  I knew that unless I did something, I would be upset for the rest of the day, and I would find it harder to ride the bus.  While the man was waiting for the door to open, I interrupted his stream of profanity with my most authoritarian teacher voice.  “Sir – it is illegal in this country to engage in abusive behaviour in a public place.”  (This was inspired by an incident reported by a friend who was working in a convenience store.  When a customer was shouting at her on the phone, a policeman who was waiting in line to make a purchase asked her to hand him the receiver. He identified himself as a law enforcement professional and threatened the upset man with dire legal consequences if he did not hang up immediately and change his style of social interaction.)

The man stared at me and snarled, “Mind your own business.”

“It is ALL our business!” I proclaimed. “We have the right to ride this bus without being subjected to this kind of behavior.”

The bus had grown very quiet.  Time stood still.  Then, just before the door opened, another passenger said, “She’s right, you know.”

The man got off the bus with no further comment.  I felt strong and unafraid.  I liked myself.  I had made my statement and I had been heard.

When I saw the same man later in the day, I felt no animosity towards him.  Just compassion.  I was sure that there was more wrong with his life than a bus driver who refused to bend the rules for his benefit.  We were both caught in the same web of rage. Perhaps, in time, we could help each other find a way out.

Rules, Rules, Rules, I'm so Sick of Rules

Rules rule.  They tell us where to drive our cars, what to wear, how to conduct our social relationships, how to do our jobs, how to preserve our health, how to play our games.  Some are written in stone, others in sand.  Some are flexible enough to bend; others break easily. Some seem to fall from the sky; others are the fruit of debates and votes.  Some support traditions which seem arbitrary.  The worst kind are the unwritten ones, which lurk below the surface like land mines, ready to explode without warning.

I learned an important unwritten rule on my first day of school.  I had been seriously ill, and was not able to attend school until the academic year was well under way.  My mother tried to help by teaching me to read, which annoyed my teacher because she thought that was her job.  All the other children had slates and chalk; I had notebooks and pencils, which were rarely used in that classroom because they were too expensive and hard to get.  The teacher finished the day by having us gather around her while she told a fairy tale.  I thought this was rather strange because I thought everybody knew the same fairy tales I did.  But she seemed to be enjoying herself, soaking up the adoration of her listeners, so I tried to be as adoring as I could.  She concluded by saying, “If you like, you can draw a picture from this story.”

When I arrived at school the next day, I was horrified to discover that all the other children had drawn pictures on their slates, and were showing them off proudly to the teacher.  I had interpreted “if you like” literally, not realizing that drawing a picture was an order, not a suggestion.  I don’t recall what consequences, if any, I suffered from the misunderstanding, but I do remember how utterly stupid I felt.  I learned that teachers and other authority figures don’t always mean what they say, and their utterances have to be interpreted.  “If you like” is a veil over power – let’s pretend that you really want to do what I want you to do, and we’ll all feel good about ourselves.

I was taught that “please” is a nice word to use when we make a request.  But it actually means “if you please”, which implies freedom to refuse.  In situations of unequal power, it means absolutely nothing.  The underdog can comply with a smile, or snarl in expectation of being compelled to submit.  Sometimes manipulation is a strategic alternative.  But we always know who is holding the gun, and fantasize about the day when it will be our turn.

My confusion about rules was deepened when the teacher announced that a dentist was going to visit our class to demonstrate correct tooth-brushing technique, and we were all supposed to bring a toothbrush to practise with.  My grandmother absolutely forbade me to take my toothbrush to school on the grounds that it was “unhiegenic”.  As often happens in situations like this, she did not discuss the matter with the teacher, but left me to bear the brunt of her displeasure.  Torn between two layers of conflicting rules, I risked being struck by lightning no matter what I did.  My inability to solve the problem reinforced my growing belief that I was a stupid, unworthy person who would never get things right. Long before being exposed to any theology, I was haunted by the ghost of original sin which could never be erased.  Not good enough.  No matter how hard I tried, I would never be good enough.

The existence of a rule implies that there must be a rule-maker – someone with enough power to reward the compliant and make life unpleasant for transgressors.  Penalties vary from torture, imprisonment and death to social disapproval and loss of status.  If the law-giver is God, the menu of carrots and sticks extends even into the after-life.

Rules have one thing in common: they awaken resistance.  Almost anything becomes attractive once there is a rule against it.  We want to flex our muscles, test our power, find out what we can get away with.  Perhaps it is way of testing where we fit into the pecking order.  It feels empowering to frustrate the minions of law enforcement.  Those who can break rules openly without being challenged are virtually gods.

If we curb our rebellious impulses, we expect to be rewarded.  If we do everything right and still don’t get the brass ring we expected, we wail, “Why is this happening to me?”  Why is the vending machine of blessings not working as it is supposed to?  Did I overlook something?  Is the Rule-Maker unjust? Or is everything random?  Since the time of Job, just about every theologian has taken a kick at that particular conundrum. But the questions continue.

In 1973, when I was a newly-minted confirmed Anglican, my parish priest asked me to teach the confirmation class. I told him I was completely inadequate for the task.  He said, “You have just been through the course.  The curriculum is so complex that it requires a university degree to understand it.  And you have teaching skills.  You are the best qualified person available.”  Because I had not yet learned that no is not a four-letter word, I took on the role of spiritual guide for half a dozen twelve-year-olds.

Before the first class, a woman I had never seen around church delivered her red-headed daughter, pronouncing “It’s time to get her done.”  I smiled and kept my thoughts to myself.

My pupils sat passively around the table, waiting for the magic to happen.  If they showed up for six weeks, they would get confirmed.  Photos would be taken and documents would be signed.  Their parents would be happy.  As far as they knew, that’s how things had been done from the beginning of time.

I tried to get a conversation going.  Their faces were blank, reminding me painfully of my first day of teaching.  Clearly, my skills were not up to the task.  I would have to rely on the wonderful curriculum which required a university degree to understand.

Suddenly, the red-headed girl broke the spell.  “Why should we believe in God?  How do we know there is a God?”

I silently thanked God for her presence, anticipating a lively discussion.  Self-disclosure, sharing of secret thoughts, perhaps even a teachable moment or two.

The highest-status girl in the group fixed the newcomer with a withering stare.  “You just have to, that’s all.”

This statement of the Rule of Blind Faith put an end to the matter.  It was above discussion.  I surreptitiously looked at my watch, wondering how in the world I was going to survive the rest of that hour.

The red-head never returned.  I didn’t investigate, hoping her mother didn’t realize that she was skipping class.  I wasn’t familiar with the concept of spiritual rape at the time, but I was convinced that the worst thing that could happen to that girl was to be dragged to the communion rail for the hocus-pocus of laying-on of hands in the name of a god she had not been introduced to.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the confirmation curriculum might as well have been written in ancient Hebrew.  In the weeks that followed, I tried to shed some light on the basics – the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, the ten commandments, highlights of the catechism.  My charges waited quietly for it to be over.

“These kids don’t have a clue!”  I told the priest. “No way are they ready to be confirmed.”

He shrugged and invoked the Rule of the Expediency of Jumping Through Designated Hoops.  “They go to class, they get confirmed.”

Horrified, I made a pact with my husband that we would not permit the confirmation of our unborn children until they were at least sixteen and willing to question the status quo.  Some years later, I volunteered to give confirmation lessons, provided it could be a two-year program, the first year on general Christian belief, lifestyle and service, and the second year exploring the specific peculiarities of the denomination.  My offer was declined.  I was not surprised.  For the convenience of the patrons of the church machine, the most important commitment anyone will ever make is carried out like a shotgun wedding.

Sometimes our rules serve us; sometimes they break our spirits; sometimes they lead us to perdition.  But they will never leave or forsake us.  Even in Paradise, we need to know on which side of the road to drive our cars.

The Edge of Eternity

ON THE EDGE OF ETERNITY

Sometimes, it only takes a single sentence to change the way I see life.

Recently, I was whining to a friend that I was, once again, on Square One of a brand new game board.  She looked at me with complete lack surprise and said, “All days are like that.”

She was just stating the obvious.  But it was not obvious to me.

My childhood keepers taught me that if I worked really hard and obeyed all the rules, I would be successful and would be rewarded accordingly.  So I set out to work hard and discover what the rules were.  I had absolute faith that one day, after I had laboured mightily and mastered all the rules, I would play a flawless game. Finally, I would be grown up, and know exactly what to do in every circumstance. Life would be gloriously domesticated.  No bumps, bruises, or bug bites.

My lack of progress convinced me that I was stupid and lazy.  I overworked everything, and avoided challenges that I was not confident of conquering.  Ultimately, I gave up on myself and decided that serving other, more deserving people was the only way I could justify my existence.  I conceived a romantic scenario about achieving immortality by dissolving myself in others.

One day, I read a sentence that punctured my balloon.  “If I am here to serve others, what are others here for?”  I suspect that this was supposed to be a joke, but it hit me hard.  If serving is such a privilege, and it is more blessed to give than to receive, shouldn’t everyone have a chance to do it?  Isn’t it actually a kind of exploitation to do things for people just so I can feel better about myself?

I gradually started asking questions like “What do I really want?” “Does this really work?” and “Is this in the best interest of all concerned?”

I also noticed that the rules were not as durable and universal as I imagined.  A passionate young clergyperson informed me that rules cease to be valid when they no longer serve the people for whom they were made.  I was unable to integrate that thought into my world view, but it left a dent in my delusions.

When my mother died the day after my 71^st birthday, I no longer had anyone’s needs to juggle but my own.  The questions that had been brewing in the back of my mind migrated to front and centre.  Welcome future shock.

The rules are not what they were.  Nothing is certain but uncertainty.  I can’t control anything that is worth controlling.  Every day is a leap of faith into the unknown.

Scary stuff.  But it is also an adventure.

Every day, I am standing on square one of a new game board.  My mission, should I decide to accept it, is to discover what works for me today, and what doesn’t.

Let the game begin.  I'm not ready, but nobody ever really is.

THAT'S WHAT WE DO

(Sermon delivered by Christine Richardson at her husband Doug’s memorial service in May 2012)
One day, Doug and I were preparing to anoint and pray for a man who was in desperate need of God’s love and light.
He was crying. He asked, "Why? Why do you bother?
Why waste your time on a piece of garbage like me?"
While I was still trying to figure out a fancy theological answer to that question,
Doug answered.
"We care for people. That’s what we do."

During his life, my husband was most fully alive
when he was reaching out to people in trouble.
At those times, he forgot about himself,
his problems, and his insecurities.
He freely offered the unconditional, unlimited love of God
and his own love along with it.

Before Doug became a priest,
he would drag all kinds of people home,
expecting me to feed and comfort them.
As the children were growing up,
they got the idea that it was normal
to get involved with people in trouble.
That was often inconvenient,
but those were the times when I felt really proud of my family.
We cared for people. That’s what we did.

Ordained ministry slowed Doug down a bit.
In small communities, people were not that eager
to have the neighbours notice their vehicle in our driveway.
Respectability crept in, bit by bit.
But from time to time, something drastic would happen,
jolting Doug back into an understanding of who he was
and why he was here.
The core of his identity was that of
an outcast reaching out to other outcasts.

We are all outcasts at some level.
We don’t fit in because we are not rich enough,
not clever enough, not popular enough;
because our skin is the wrong colour
or we grew up on the wrong side of the track.
Even those who are fortunate enough to be classified
as beautiful people and pillars of society
experience private agonies that often explode
into destructive behaviour.

Even Jesus, the sinless lamb of God,
was an outcast.
He was conceived out of wedlock.
He was a refugee in Egypt.
Instead of leading a normal, predictable life,
he became a wandering maverick preacher
who turned people’s ideas of success upside down,
criticized the religious establishment,
and spent quality time with people who needed his help
rather than people who could further his career.
Scripture tells us that he was despised and rejected of men,
a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.
(Isaiah 53:3)His friends ran away when he needed them most,
and he was executed for blasphemy.
Perhaps the pain he felt
when he was misunderstood and rejected
made him especially tender around those who were sick and needed a doctor,
those who were lost and needed a shepherd,
those who were spiritually dead and needed a Saviour.

When we surrender our lives to Jesus
and call ourselves Christians,
we don’t have to look far to see
who we are and why we are here.
Holy Scripture makes it plain that we are children of God
and we are here to do God’s work on earth,
just like Jesus did.
The Holy Spirit works in us and through us.
Like Jesus, we care for people. That’s what we do.

Our baptismal covenant comes in a variety of forms,
depending on our age and religious tradition.
In one way or another,
we confess our need of a Saviour,
renounce the lure of the world, the flesh, and the devil,
affirm our belief in the Christian faith,
and promise to participate in the business of God’s church.
In the Anglican tradition,
these promises are made on our behalf by sponsors
when we are adopted into the Body of Christ as infants.
We reaffirm them for ourselves
when we are old enough to understand what they mean.

One of the baptismal questions
in the Book of Alternate Services is:
Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons,
loving your neighbour as yourself?That question cuts right to the heart of the matter.
All our preaching, teaching, healing, helping, and reaching out
has a single focus: finding Jesus in everyone we interact with.
Jesus said that whatever we do to the least of people,
we do to him.
When we seek and serve Jesus in another person,
we are doing the work
that Jesus has called us to do on his behalf.
Our power to do good is the greatest power
we have on the human level.
When we carry the power of the Holy Spirit,
we share in the ultimate power in the universe,
God’s very nature.

Saint John wrote boldly,
No man has seen God at any time.
If we love one another, God lives in us,
and his love is perfected in us . . . 1 John 4:12
God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God,
and God in them. 1 John 4:16b The power of divine love is transformative.
The Spirit we share has the power
to change a person from the inside out.
When we remain in Christ and work in His strength,
anything can happen.
　
As Christians, we have been given the mandate to
preach, teach, baptize, and heal.
The visible church on earth is a sacramental sign
of the Body of Christ alive and at work.
We have built gathering places,
formulated liturgies and prayers,
composed music, drama and dance.
We have ordained and commissioned specialized workers,
argued over theology and forms of worship.
We have even gone to war to prove who was the most righteous and pleasing to God.
Sometimes Christians get so involved in servicing the system
that they forget
why the system was developed in the first place.
Keeping the doors of a building open
can become more important
than keeping people’s hearts open.
When a church community
measures its success by numbers --
how many dollars, how many people, how much staff –
it is terminally ill.
It is a body without a soul, a zombie.

For the last ten years or so,
Doug foresaw that the institutional church would collapse under its own weight
and be reborn.
His work as a priest was not to tell people what God was saying to them,
but to help them find out for themselves.
He worked to encourage God’s people to reclaim their heritage as children of God,
living stones in God’s temple,
kings and priests actively engaged
in furthering God’s kingdom.

This diocese, like many other parts of the church,
is facing loss.
What worked yesterday isn’t working any more.
What we thought we had is falling apart.
At a time like this, we must ask ourselves
how God is calling us to respond.
Is this our time of renewal?
Are we dead, or are we just asleep?
Have we forgotten who we are?
Where is the path?
What do we need to walk it?

What are the minimum requirements to be a church?
Jesus Christ, plus at least two people
who are willing to let him into their circle.
The church is not an organization.
It is an organism – something alive.
As long as there is life in it, it will grow.

How do we begin?
We put God first in our lives,
and follow where Jesus leads us.
We seek and serve Jesus in others,
and reveal Jesus to those whom we serve.
We care for people. That’s what we do.