So here I sit with association. And reflection.

I am proud to be American. And I am embarrassed to be American.

I am proud to be Christian. And I am embarrassed to be Christian.

I am proud to be human. And I am embarrassed to be human.

I have ideas about the sorts of associations that I want and seek; and a disjunct with the associations that I actually have.

The oxymoron of “Christian hate mail” brought this to mind.  Someone was talking about having received “Christian hate mail.” And I knew exactly. Exactly. What they meant.

I think you do too. 

You know… the religion is such that there’s a Son of God written about who, when asked directly about what needed to be done to enter into heaven stated, “Love the Lord your God with all your Heart, Mind and Soul. And Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Yup. You missed it, didn’t you? The subtext that says “and write self-righteous religious based hate mail to anyone who you deem deserves it because they deviate from your interpretation of the religion you’ve named Christianity. And make sure that your hate mail includes a lot of damning to hell.”

So of course I worry. I worry about how these sorts of things reflect on me.  I want to be Christian too. I want it without having all these other Christians out there, using the same “name”, and that I think are behaving terribly. And wrongly.  And worse, they think that *I* am likely behaving terribly. And wrongly.

I say “Christian”. It could be “American.” It could be “human.” Sometimes I’m bursting proud of these associations. Sometimes the shame runs so deep I don’t want to admit that I have any associations at all.

But here we are.

These families that we join -- they sustain us and they fail us. These families that we are born into --  they sustain us and they fail us.

My biggest personal struggle for a good number of years, and which began well before I recognized it as a struggle, is to make ‘relationship’ the goal of most of my interactions with others.  Not only am I introverted, and I am – but almost all of my interactions were ending up that I would listen to what others had to say, see what came out of my head and mouth too, and check for the earliest convenient time to end the interaction.  Worse, I was so worried and self-fretting about the things that I did not have “that I should be working on”  - a spouse, children, a thin body, clever answers, you name it – I do not have it – that I couldn’t wait to be able to get to my own space so that “I could work on these things about me”; or more likely – ignore them, but on my own time and in my own privacy.  

I’m not sure what ‘clicked’ – but maybe it was when I realized two things: how serious I was about community, and that every relationship in my whole reality required my presence.  I needed to not just show up physically; which in fact, is one of the very most single important things that I believe with my every ounce that we can all do – but I needed to show up physically and plan to actually be there to relate to others.  I can spend my time fretting about not having children, or I can spend my time noticing the endless number of children all around me that would love my attention.  I can spend my time wondering if I have any clue how to help someone, or I can simply make sure I actually find that person and talk about it, and even better, offer concrete help that I suggest myself.  I can attend a neighborhood meeting and talk about weighty things with a diplomatic tone, or I can attend a neighborhood meeting and begin to see what it is that we offer each other as neighbors, and that we truly, truly, teach each other.   I can daydream and tune out and look for the first out, or I can listen and tune in and be the one that gathers.

But to be the one who wants to relate; well…some of the ways we relate is by association. And I’m learning quick that every association we have puts us in contact with the beautiful and with the ugly – and yes, that fully depends on one’s personal point of view.

“Christian hate mail.”

We are so petty.

The umbrellas under which we gather are so large. So large.

Family. Community. Church. Group. Association. Nation. Race. Beliefs. Education.
We can’t see from one umbrella tip to the handle. 

All we can do is see what we share with the person standing next to us.  Both of us trying to stay dry.  We’re quite allowed to be embarrassed by the others standing under the umbrella. For some, that will be quite enough reason to go find a different umbrella, or just head out try to enjoy the rain – the rest of you umbrella people are crazy to stay so sheltered… And we naturally gravitate to the people under the umbrella that share our ideas and that we aren’t embarrassed to be with, and that’s shelter too. Little umbrellas under big ones. That’s good. The big ones seem to always have some leaks. 

But the fact is, that no matter where under the umbrella you choose to stand (and I mean you, humanity – try to leave THAT umbrella) and how much effort you make to disassociate with “those” people – you’re standing closer to the person on the other side of the umbrella than you think.

Here we are. And maybe we’re embarrassed by each other.

Maybe we are proud of each other too.

I’m sure we will jostle for position.

But I’m staying for the work. I’m not walking away.
I’m planning on being present.

And learning how to associate.

At church, where on the mornings I relinquish Sunday sleep and make it to early morning choir rehearsal - I spend the service, then, sitting up in the choir loft (so churchy; itchy white robes and all); and there's a great view of the entire sanctuary.

Our church (Lutheran, for those who care) heavily involves children of different ages in roles within the liturgy - and the youngest group, those just entering the system, are the 6-7 year olds. They are the "bell ringers". The main job here is to, at the Proper Time, during the Proper Words, firmly grasp the ringing bells, and shake them firmly and briefly. Not too much show, not too little respect. Inevitably, there is an older server, usually around the age of 8-11, standing at the side of the bell ringer and coaching them, with the authority of the Liturgical necessities placed fully upon their shoulders, and their shoulders alone, at getting the bell rung. Sometimes, you can even hear the loud whisper, "NOW!" startling the Bell Ringer into a bright ringing immediacy of action.

A few weeks back, the bell ringer was particularly short. And this, her second time as a ringer. Her coach was ready. She, instead of getting up, leaned sideways almost entirely over the bench she sat on, and (NOW!) rang vigorously. Successfully. And then she looked to her coach, the acolyte (I think. Don't quiz me), who beamed at her and they high fived.  Should I maybe mention here, too, that the Bell Ringer was wearing her most favorite Dorothy Got Them In A Storm red sequined shoes?

And in my lofty state, fully ignoring the I'm-sure-it-was-great-but-I-missed-it sermon - I fell in love again with the breath of the liturgy. I'm not a liturgical scholar. I'm not a theologian. I show up sometimes. I'm not sure there's a full title for that. She That Loved Her Last Church So Much Before She Moved that She Will Never Be a Member Here.  She That Sometimes Lets Sleep Win. She That Is Annoyed That the Leaders Aren't As Progressive As She Wishes In Her Perfect Church Fantasy.

 But, back to the breath of the Liturgy - as I saw it in the high five and shoes from the feet of witches: It struck me -

Liturgy isn't a prescription of rules to be followed as much as a framework into which we enter,
and bring ourselves, as we are -
making it of the most intricate and infinite variety.
The words bigger than anyone reading them.
No time ever shared the same.
No words uttered exactly into the same moment.
But the repetition of so many of the actions and the words allows for the eyes to see and the brain to notice the anomalies -
the "other" that is introduced, may it be the thunderstorm, or the child's cry, or the itchy pants, or the particular reflection of the candle.
All is part and all is made new. Like the cycle of days. Each the same; each very very different.
Sure, it's a ritual. And rituals can be as dead as the participants.

Or they can be as alive and changing -
as a book is never read by the same person twice. That person has changed between readings.
You can never read the same thing twice. Because it is you that changes.

 Every time through the ritual a different snowflake.  If, it turns out, you're still a snowflake.

 I know that so many are turned off, or away from Liturgy. I sort of get that. I know that scads of new rituals have been tried, formed, embraced, cherished. I love many of those too.  I have found myself in so many conversations with friends who think I'm a bit odd to want this in my life.  Well, I'm not full sure how conversational they are - there are some things that end up being so very hard to express. At least for now, I see that one of the reasons it may be harder and harder to embrace and even hard to converse about - is that it's subtle.  The inner movements are subtle.  And for right now - for me to hear the subtle rustle, it takes a framework that I can enter. And bring myself. As I am.  The words bigger than anyone reading them.

It's really silly.

But it's one of the best gifts I've ever received.

While we grew up, Mom was pretty strict about how much time my brothers, my sister, and I spent watching TV or playing video games or the like. So, like all things limited, when you get a chance to indulge, you want things to be as good as they can get. In our case, for a formative while - my brother and I thought that this was the Atari 7800. And especially the game of "Joust."

 It's a really weird game. Here's the premise (Thanks, Wikipedia):

The player controls a knight armed with a lance, mounted on either an ostrich (player 1) or a stork (player 2), who battles waves of computer-controlled enemy knights mounted on giant buzzards. These knights have three different speed and agility levels. The game screen is static; its only features are five platforms hanging in mid-air (some wrapping around the screen), the ground, and a pit of lava beneath.

 Yes. Yes. We liked nothing better than to play a game where we were knights jousting on top of giant birds, destroying the "bad knights" and the eggs (yes, there were eggs) that they laid before the eggs became more bad knights. And you want to know how this translated on the screen? If you "jousted" head on and equally, you would bounce off each other, but to get the upper hand, literally, you simply had to land on top of the flying evil knight. But really, beyond all that amazing adventure, you want to know the best part of the game? The part that we loved most of all?

It was a two-player game in which you could....wait for it....destroy your teammate as well.

 Oh ho!!!! An adventure where you were not only having to keep your fast flying ostrich out of the lava pits and knocking over evil eggs and landing on top of evil knights flying buzzards, but got to LAND ON TOP OF YOUR BIG BROTHER AND KNOCK HIM OVER???!?!?!?!?!? 

 I'm telling you. This was a good game for us.

 And I can't remember exactly when, but let's say when I was in my late-20s and my brother was in his late-20's, and all this was ancient ostrich knight history, he gifted me an Atari 7800. With about 30 games. Individually wrapped. Not only that, but it turns out that he wrapped them all the day he had to stay home with a bad head cold.  I'm telling you, big brother landed on top of his kid sister and knocked her over with this one.

 I was reminded of the whole system last night. It's been in a box since I moved into my house five years ago (a 100-year old house! To fix up!). But I got it out last night, to try to hook to the TV....which promptly fell over. Landed on top of it. And smashed it into 7800 pieces. Looks like the TV wins this joust.

(As a side note: to add insult to injury, as I picked up the TV this morning, and swept up all the plastic bits, I had been using my drill to reinforce the screws on the TV stand, and in one fell Rube Goldbergian motion, stepped on a ripple in the rug, knocked over the drill, which hit my cup of coffee, spilling it in a fantastic spray all over the carpet. But well, someone had to do it.)

So there it is. And as I pick it up and mop it up, I'm actually really enjoying all over again the gift that is was to me and the spirit in which that gift was given. I can't imagine a clearer way for brother to have sent all the messages that he sent. Each individually wrapped package.  

"I love you."

"It was so amazing to have enjoyed so much of each other growing up."

"You and I will always share this silly sense of humor and laugh harder than anyone else in the family at crazy games like this, because we somehow have always understood each other at that level."

There's about 30 messages along these lines in this box of dusty technology.

 And I can wrap and unwrap them any time I want.

Because it’s likely in everyone’s best interest that I do not.
Because I am not sure how exactly and completely I can help.
And I want to be ready to help.

Let me take a step back.

Oh, Haiti.

Of course, you are on my mind. You are on my mind. Your images of grief and loss and the broken and the soon to be broken are devastating in scope, in disaster, in our poverty of ability to respond.

You are having to share my mind with a good friend, whose three month old is waiting for corrective heart surgery. With the neighborhood that I live in that fights its own daily battles. With those seeking shelter in the cold winter months. With the daily crisis that all we touch know and live with.  Even with joyful needs, like my good friend around the corner with her new baby, learning how to be a mother one day at a lesson at a time.

And all of these have my love.  My love. And sometimes my help.  And, if I’m paying attention, my support.

What a serious tone I have! But all day, here I have been, pondering.
What is active support when your actions are limited?
What does it mean when you cannot help?
When there is nothing to be done?
When is there something to be done?
Is it harmful to go ahead and order a Starbucks coffee and take the roadtrip and live life as normal?
Is it all meaningless?

It occurred to me that I need to pay some attention to how ’active’ my support for those I love is, and how ’active’ I want it to be.  What is it that will cling my attention to a person, family, neighborhood, country - in an ongoing fashion - the kind of clinging that allows one to not need to solve the thing all at once immediately, but to be aware and work towards a support of any movement towards improvement. 

Because heaven and earth both know that it is not in my capacity to solve anything. I can barely dress myself correctly. There are days when I'm not sure I'm feeding myself, let alone others. Because heaven and earth both know that I am limited. But they also urge me on, because they also know I am not useless.

So, it helped me to start small. To look at how I best want to support someone close to me that I love, someone who may have an illness or situation that I cannot affect in any way, but I care about this person, and I would do anything I could think of to be of use. Likely, I have no clue, and they have no clue, what will actually "be of use." We're only guessing, after all.  

So, for my friend, I want to just...be there. Available. Not even with the right thing to say or do. Just to be. And I often end up telling myself a series of statements like this:

There is nothing I can do to help.
I don't have any money to give.
I can not be there for them.

 And then it dawned on me. Well. These things are true. All true. There is nothing I can fix. But what if I modified these statements like so:

There is nothing I can do to help (yet).
I don't have any money to give (at the moment).
I can not be there for them (right now).

This awareness for me is important. I know my limitations Right Now. I know them well! But why write off the possibility of (later), of (something just came up), and (I had no idea that was even possible), and even better (not as I expected to)? Even if your hands are tied up and you are tied up and you may even be encased in cement right now. But that is Right Now.  If I want to offer my support, my support is not about Right Now, it has to be about (yet). About looking for the opportunity of a different now. Or perhaps simply looking for a different opportunity Now.

So, I am finding that it's better if I don't lose sleep over Haiti. It's better, in fact, if I keep moving. Not "moving on" but "moving with." Not only "moving with" but "moving toward." It's better for me,  not actively involved in the crisis, or in the emergency relief to keep doing what I do, for the most part. To help in any small way as I can, but unless I am equipped or part of an organization equipped to be actively involved in the rescue operations and relief efforts, to be ok with living as I will - but amended with compassion. Instead of "moving on", I will be "moving with" and "moving toward."  And I will want to be ready to support in ways I have not even dreamed yet. In the meantime, my thoughts and prayers help solidify and define my support, and my realization of need, and of love. To help ensure I don't walk away from it. And if the opportunity presents itself  - perhaps I will be ready (then) or (differently than I expected). Having slept even while others don't have a bed, having eaten when others can't find food, having been safe when others are not. Perhaps this is what will have me at my most ready, when it is (then) or (differently than I expected). And also, I think, to seek out the sacrifices that must be made.

Moving on in active support may bring with it a need to move on (for now) because I can’t help (yet). But (yet) and (for now) implies that my future will interact with this problem again. At a later time perhaps, when things have changed, when people need different support. When those who can’t fly helicoptors or organize food drops or donate thousands or tens of dollars aren’t as needed as those who can offer rebuilding support or emotional support or hospitality support should hospitality be required. And this means actively scanning for these new opportunities.  I can’t help in Haiti (now) (yet), but I don’t not know about (later) (how).

I guess what I know to be important, is that it's worth raising the question - again and again - and to listen to every answer. Some of the answers will be 'no' or 'not now' but if the question stops there, I have cut myself off short. I have ended my involvement prematurely.

 While I was half through writing this, I received a note over Facebook from a friend that I had worked with in Pittsburgh. She was passing on the word that the Pittsburgh Red Cross was seeking volunteers to help fill babysitting and caretaking shifts at the Children's Hospital for the Haitian orphans who have recently arrived.  And I immediately thought: there it is. A new way of helping. Again, not mine to fill, but perhaps there is nothing I can do to help (yet). But this was a way to help that (I had not thought of before).

There is nothing I can do to help Haiti (yet).
I don't have any more money that I can give Haiti (at the moment).
I can not be there for them in person (right now).

But does Haiti have my support? Yes, yes they do. I look forward to finding out what that will mean. 

tonight i drove back from chicago

eating two tangerines in the dark

spitting seeds into the palm of my hand

returned to laundry

the cat demanding her due attention

clean dishes stacked on the counter like mayan temples

and a new space

and perhaps you're already here ahead of me. 

 thanks, beth patterson for inviting me here, to converse with you all. i look forward to meeting you and to joining the conversation.