Let the Circle Be Wide

Some of my favorite people are neurodivergent. Most of them actually. I used to joke that if you shook my family tree, mental illness and autoimmune disease would fall out. Little did I know…

When my then-husband and I were in our early forties, he agreed to get tested for attention deficit disorder (ADD) on condition that I be tested too. Growing up with siblings with ADD, I recognized his symptoms yet was surprised when the counselor’s report indicated that I was mildly affected by ADD (but when not under stress I could generally compensate). Twelve years later, I was again surprised when a psychologist indicated that I have Asperger’s Syndrome. Wow! Even as an older adult, this affirmation – that my odd ways are simply the way I’m made, that I’m not defective – has been a game-changer.

Clinicians had long been trained to look for Asperger’s, and autism in general, only in boys. Since it presents differently in girls, half the population that might have benefited from diagnosis was never examined. I can’t say how other women were affected by this oversight but it shaped me. While many people hate injustice, are outspoken and emotionally sensitive, I also struggle to make eye contact when talking and don’t swing my arms when I walk. Social awkwardness though is my greatest challenge. Non-verbal communication – facial expressions, body language – eludes me. I cannot act or lie convincingly if my life depends upon it. Blunt and honest to a fault, I’m often considered rude. And forget small-talk!

When people look past my – or another’s – oddities, they can find a loyal, caring, capable person. But this requires effort. And many people, in the workplace or elsewhere, don’t take the trouble. They see only the difference. This brings me to my second great challenge: the fear and rejection (even just perceived rejection) that comes with living differently. I wrote last winter about making the choice, as a teen, to let myself be vulnerable rather than risk missing out on life. (You can read it here.) The jury is still out on whether this was a wise decision but I don’t think I could have done differently.

I’m gentler on myself these days. Sometimes I’m able to remove the masks that helped me to fit in and be a little more myself. I’m less patient now with the subtle (and not-so-subtle) messages that being myself isn’t enough. And with the people who send them. Someone who would never slight a gay or trans person will not endure a person whose mind works differently than theirs does. This has to stop! Getting past the messes that we are – locally and planet-wide – will require the participation of all of us. Leaving some out would limit the creativity, passion, and stamina that can be put toward finding better ways forward.

May is Autism Awareness Month. And awareness is needed. Acceptance, too.

Being part of the Christian tradition, I’ve often heard about the need for us church insiders to make room at the table for the ones not present. It’s an important reminder. How do our ways make it hard, or impossible, for an outsider to join us? Irish folksinger, Tommy Sands, offers another perspective. I heard him sing by the water one summer day in Minneapolis. In his lyrics, my sense of privilege was laid bare. Is it my table? Our table? (And I’m not speaking about the table of Holy Communion which is Christ’s table.) What if we invert our assumptions about making room? Here’s his refrain:

Let the circle be wide 'round the fireside

And we'll soon make room for you. 

Let your heart have no fear, there are no strangers here, 

Just friends that you never knew.

The circle needs to be wide so that there’s room for me.

my “hope for humanity” tale

The house I’m living in was built in 1921. The garage may be of a similar age but with old shiplap on the exterior rather than the steel siding that was more recently added to the house. Someone, probably after buying a big car, lengthened the garage a few decades ago. My Prius fits easily with room to spare.

Old houses need attention, garages too – in this case, a new coat of paint which (until I broke my foot) I’d planned to address last spring. Last week, having given myself the weekend to clean up garden beds, I planned to begin scraping the south garage wall on Monday. Planned.

Monday morning, I was preparing for some errands – buy paint, return the dented kitchen sink I’d ordered online, look at hardware for the kitchen cabinets we installed the week before. The sink box was big enough that I had to put down the car’s back seat in order to close the hatch. I loaded everything, got in, and, observing that it seemed dark, started the car and backed up. Hearing a crunching noise and feeling an unexpected resistance, I braked. Looking back I realized I hadn’t closed the door after putting the seat down!

I took a picture and texted it to a friend. Could they ask around for a handyman referral?

What happened? I explain.

Is the corner post intact? I check. “Yes.” 

And how is the car? I respond, adding “And I’m feeling very foolish.”

The garage should be a fairly simple repair (with the possible exception of lining up the track). But I can’t assess the car door or bruised ego :-) I breathe a little easier.

Late that afternoon though, I was feeling overwhelmed as I studied the mess. The garage door track wasn't allowing the frame to return to position. This was outside my realm of experience and knowledge. I resisted impulsive action (a good choice, as it turned out) but what was I to do next?

I’m at a loss… I’m on my way over.

Oh, don’t do that. I’m just looking for feedback. (Turns out, they were already in the car.)

We examined the mess together and made a plan. I went out and bought a house jack. 

The next afternoon we raised the door frame enough to slide the framing back into place and adjusted the bent rail. Plenty of work yet to do but functional.

A short while later, I was talking with the next-door neighbor while they were waiting for their puppy to do its business. I commented that I could close the garage door again.

“What happened?” I explained.

They volunteered, “Last week, I broke the tail light on the car. I was backing out of the garage and I ran into the corner of the house!”

… 

That’s it for the story. Now to focus on a couple things.

My initial distress what caused – in fairly equal parts – by damage to the garage and car and by having made such a mistake. (I couldn't blame it on my illness. I wasn't feeling fatigued; the brain fog wasn’t bad.) I felt terrible.

My friend’s concern grounded me. Their comment about a bruised ego was especially helpful. It put things in perspective. (Oh, that’s what it is! I can let it go now.) Their assistance – while I really appreciate it – was tied as much to their curiosity and a joy of working on homes as to friendship. (I'm sure they'd help strangers just as eagerly.) Their readiness to be present with me in the moment and to offer “moral support” was of tremendous value.

And what about my neighbor? They didn’t need to tell me about their own accident. I’m sure it was just as embarrassing for them as mine was for me. We are not close. We barely know each other. They only moved in last year and, while we’ve enjoyed some over-the-fence conversations, we have little in common. Yet in telling me their story, they eased my burden. We shared a vulnerability and let our humanity show.

People sometimes post about experiences that give them hope for humanity. (Are we capable of navigating the current crises or will we collapse under them?) This week, a friend and a near-stranger offered me a lesson in humanity. With gratitude to them, I will choose to practice being more hopeful.

when it comes to faith, what really matters?

I was a good student, especially of English. Unlike my children, I loved literary analysis. I could delve into theme and motif and metaphor with the best of them. I learned what all the big classical symbols meant. … I just always thought they applied to fiction, not real life stories. ~ Karen, journal entry, November 2007

I know the writer only through others' stories and her writing. The first time I read her autothanotography (an account of thoughts and reflections on living and dying in the days and months following her cancer diagnosis), I recall thinking that she and I were alike in a number of ways – except, while I was a good student and loved language, literary analysis baffled me. When an English teacher asked, “What was the author thinking?” my inner response was “How could I know?!”

Funny thing, once someone explained that much of the Bible is metaphor (and reminded me what metaphor means), this set of books made so much more sense. Since my teen years, my literal way of interpreting had clashed with my science-loving mind. A growing understanding that these writings reflect the ways that an earlier people made sense of God, the world, and their connections to both as well as to each other did wonders for my views of the Holy. Written during good and bad times, they reveal their context as well as the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of the writers and the people they served.

Armed with new knowledge, I could find comfort in some of the psalmists’ words:

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I am

      because you have been my refuge (61:2-3)

without being incensed by others:

A blessing on the one who seizes your children

      and smashes them against the rock! (137:9)

Not everyone appreciates my Biblical interpretation. Even though I toned it way down, it was a thorn in the sides of some of the folks in the churches I served. And I think a colleague may have used one of my recent posts to support their decision to move to the Global Methodist Church.* Yet, to quote Martin Luther, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” No longer pastoring, I can speak my truth without masking. And it’s a relief.

While I now attend churches of other denominations and find that they too have both conservative and liberal, one of the things I’ve long appreciated about The United Methodist Church is its “large umbrella” which welcomes many ways of believing. While the jury is out as to whether that welcome will someday include all the people God loves, it’s still my hope. I lament the harm which continues to be perpetuated on those for whom this welcome is only lip-service. At the same time, I remind myself that churches – and denominations – are as imperfect as the individuals who fill their ranks. Maybe this is a cop-out. I’m too close to say.

My former husband used to tell me that I took things too seriously (and I did). I think he meant to suggest that I lighten up – and I’m working on it, slowly – but I’m one of those people who believe that, while some things aren't important, some are not being taken seriously enough. Like caring for the most vulnerable, human and otherwise.

We’ll never all agree and that’s okay, maybe even good. We’re better when we live amongst, and dialog with, people who see the world differently than we do. It's uncomfortable but we grow. What we need is to relearn how to engage in civil discourse. To initiate the new conversations and commit to stick with them even when we’d prefer to get up and leave. 

I don’t mind if you believe in a 6-day creation (God rested on the seventh day) or in reincarnation, I just ask that you recognize that (as I express it) God loves everybody – in fact, all of creation. The queer and the straight. The fundamentalist and the progressive. The intellectual elites and the red-necks. The Muslim, the Buddhist, and the Christian. And also the bees and coyotes, magnolias and kudzu.

Be well.

* The Global Methodist Church is an offshoot denomination of the United Methodist Church (effective May 1, 2022) for those who believed that the only way to live their belief in the wrongness of homosexuality (and other sexuality/gender differences) was to form their own Church.

Resurrection. Alleluia!

No, the title’s not a mistake. In the Christian Church, the season of Easter lasts from Resurrection Sunday (what we call Easter) until Pentecost, 50 days later. So it’s still Easter. I’d planned to write and post this piece last week but during that marathon Lyric Choir weekend another one called to be written.

Perhaps it’s the time of year but recently I was asked what I believe about resurrection. In responding to the question, I seem to have moved the topic from the back of my mind to the front and, though my thoughts are no more complete now than they were before all this, I’ve been considering it further.

Resurrection

1. The act of restoring a dead person, for example, to life.
2. The condition of having been restored to life.
3. The return of Jesus to life on the third day after the Crucifixion.
4. The restoration of the dead to life at the Last Judgment.
5. The act of bringing back to practice, notice, use, or vibrancy; revival.*

As far as hard-to-believe Biblical claims, the Resurrection of Christ is right up there with the virgin birth (Matthew 1), a global flood (Genesis 7), and Joshua’s really long day (Joshua 10). Yet some of those who had known Jesus when he was alive and walking through Palestine, and Paul who hadn’t, experienced Christ’s presence – after he was known to have been executed – in a very real way. And after these encounters with the living Christ, their lives went in completely new directions. They risked, and in many cases, accepted death rather than recant what they had said. An unwillingness to withdraw one’s story in the face of violent death validates (for many, at least) their stories.

So, yes, I believe that something happened, something life-changing. Beyond that, I see no reason to puzzle over it. It’s like what happens after we die. Something happens (or it doesn’t) but until we die we don’t know what, and can’t, so why fuss? Yes, I believe my death will not be the end but I don’t waste life energy trying to puzzle out what that might be. God knows; that’s enough.

But that’s less than 400 words and the definition above offers five (!) understandings of resurrection so now I get to my purpose in writing.

God makes me lie down in green pastures, leads me beside still waters, and restores my soul. Psalm 23:2-3a

Imagine an acorn growing in the green warmth of spring and summer. It knows nothing but the oak tree. In autumn, the only life it has known ends when it tumbles to the ground. As dry leaves bury it, the sun’s light dims and disappears. All is darkness. Winter’s cold comes. Imagine it thinking, “This must be death” as it yields itself to nothingness.

We know that an acorn is a seed, a promise of new life. But if we were in the acorn’s “shoes,” we wouldn’t know that. We would see only an end.

I appreciate living in the Northern Hemisphere because a springtime Easter makes it so easy to believe in resurrection. Yet God is about God’s business of renewing, restoring, and resurrecting all the time – “making all things new” as we sang last week. I’ll borrow from Talitha Arnold’s devotion, as we think about the above verse:

“Who is one person who helped restore your soul?
Who has led you to green pastures and still waters?
Who has walked with you through the valleys of the shadows of death?
Who has anointed you and filled your cup to overflowing?”

Do you really suppose that God doesn’t have a hand in the comfort and renewal others provide? If God as Spirit nudges me to be that person – and she does – then surely God leads others to do the same. Maybe, pause here to consider a moment when you have been that person.

Being with Kay for a few days this week restored my soul. After completing a first draft, my cup was refilled as I walked on the Ringle portion of the Ice Age Trail. Mother’s phone call after that led me toward still waters. The word isn’t used in the 23rd Psalm but, as far as I’m concerned, the poem is all about resurrection. Some people find themselves resurrected after a loved one’s death. Some, after mending a relationship. When I left my marriage, I was counting on God’s resurrecting love to lead me into new life. And it has.

This is not to say that the way isn’t still difficult, sometimes to the point of desperation (more on that another time). But for today, I’ll work on resting in God’s green place. I hope you can too.

tough: adjective and noun

Saturday morning.

Toward the end of last night's Wausau Lyric Choir concert (the first of three this weekend) Carla Dul, the director, paused before “Sing Gently” (which I encourage you to listen to) to dedicate that song to her students from the Mosinee High School choirs. Turning to the members of the concert choir who had joined us in an earlier number, she spoke of the challenges they had borne together these last two years. Among other things, she reminded them that they had been ready to do whatever they had to do in order to sing. When told that they wouldn't be permitted to sing unless they wore masks, they had masked up. (Singing in a mask is not easy.) 

One sentence struck me: “When the going gets tough, the tough keep going.” It’s not a new sentiment. I’ve heard variations through the years, even in a truck commercial years ago. I never liked “When the going gets tough, the tough get going” but never considered why. Since last night, I’ve considered it and I have two issues with the truism, both in the second part.

I don’t like calling someone, myself included, “tough.” Tough is an old hen that has to be stewed for hours in order to be tender. Tough love is sometimes harsh and uncompromising. Tough is an unexpected break-up. A well-done steak. A hard truth.

Then there’s the “get going” part that seems to suggest that up until this point we’ve been doing nothing. I can’t speak for you but if a situation calls for activity, I’m already doing something by the time “…the going gets tough.”

Carla’s choice of words eliminated one of my issues. And given the past couple years, I’m willing to yield on the other. Things have been tough; for many of us they still are. Yet we have kept going. We are tired (oh, are we tired!) but we continue. Though sometimes ploddingly, we keep putting one foot in front of the other. Well done!

I’m not suggesting that you should have to do more or even continue as you have. (I gave up “should-ing” years ago.) You know your capacity; don’t let anyone tell you differently. I think what I mean to do is to encourage you to give yourself credit for the stamina you’ve shown, the perseverence you’ve mustered. Maybe you didn’t do all that you expect of yourself. Maybe you weren’t your better self as much as you’d have liked. (I didn’t and I haven’t.) But we have each been through a storm. As communities – local and worldwide – we have weathered a storm like none we’d yet faced. We still are. But like the willow, we have bent yet not broken. Well, maybe a little but in healthy, or at least understandable, ways. Those breaks are life scars that remind us that we are and continue to live.

Keep living. Fully. Gently. Loudly. In whispers. In whatever way is yours. That’s my message for this week. 

This prayer seems fitting...