Forgiveness

During Minnesota winters the world becomes hard. The earth is shrouded in snow; the lakes are covered in a pall of ice. There is a crispness to the light, a biting edge to the wind. Death and desolation appear to be the only realities.

Such hardness characterizes my brokenness. I spent my undergraduate career in a little town in Kansas, where winter is mild in comparison to Minnesota. The temperature generally remains above zero; snow comes and then melts within a few days; it is not safe to walk on lakes that appear to be frozen.

But this isn’t a story of comparative winters.

It’s a story of forgiveness.

When I went to college I expected an atmosphere of academic openness where ideas would be sown, tended, reaped, and sown again. In some places they were. Where I need them to be—in the realm of theology—they weren’t.

My introductory theology class was taught by one of the most celebrated professors on campus. Students loved him, respected him, and admired him. I expected to feel the same way. Until I arrived at the first class meeting.

Professor Thomas lectured passionately. He commanded the room, his voice as authoritative and definite as church doctrine itself. His eyes flared with excitement. The lesson: Adam and Eve, of course. And with that came original sin and, therefore, purgatory. My hand went up. Professor Thomas stopped short, looked at me, and asked if I had something to say.

“Yes, Professor,” I began.

“Please wait until after class or come see me during office hours.” And then he proceeded with the lecture.

The next class period, another question, the same response.

After that I dropped the class. In order to do so I had to contact Professor Thomas so he could sign my drop slip. When I went to see him he asked why I was getting out of his class.

“I’ve been raised to ask questions,” I replied. “I don’t doubt my religion, but I certainly need to question it. You won’t let me do that.”

“Really?” he asked, baffled.

But Professor Thomas wasn’t the only one who discouraged questions. The student body was equally dismissive of theological conversation. They took in Professor Thomas’s certainty about church teaching and let it define them. They defended themselves with the Catechism, prayed for an end to abortion and the beginning of the Iraq war, and scorned religious women who did not wear the traditional habit.

I did not fit in. And I didn’t want to. I read Joan Chittister’s books openly, talked about women’s ordination and homosexuality in the church, wrote about interreligious dialogue, refused to attend liturgies on campus, preferring to worship at the women’s community across town. I stopped saying the Creed during Mass, the foundational statement of who we as Catholic Christians are. I was no longer sure I believed any of it: the virgin birth; the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic church; the one baptism. My questioning had been cause for people to say I wasn’t a true Catholic, that I didn’t really believe. So rather than profess faith I would stand silently and listen to others proclaim the faith that was taken from me, that I had allowed to be taken from me.

It was not until I moved to Minnesota that I realized how much I had allowed my religion to be tainted by woundedness. My anger at the lack of compassion of my peers made me shut down. My frustration about Professor Thomas’s celebrity and his unwillingness, as I experienced it, to entertain alternate interpretations of what it means to be Catholic hardened me. I came to graduate school to study theology uncertain of why I had chosen this field other than that, as a sophomore in high school, I had said that I wanted to be a religion teacher. I stayed Catholic out of stubbornness, not necessarily out of faith.

It was here that the ice began to melt. Questions were met, not with scorn or certainty, but with questions. As a woman, my experiences were validated and appreciated. Respectful debate among students and faculty was accepted and encouraged. I found home.

Sometimes I wish to see Professor Thomas again, to see if we could perhaps converse, both out of love, about this church we call home. Sometimes the thought of running into him again turns my stomach.

As winter comes and goes, the lakes freeze and thaw, so too my own forgiveness.

For My Mother

This week's theme: Gratitude.

Did you know that phrase "spittin' image" means more than doppleganger?

Spittin' image is a good Southern phrase and it means that you are the "spirit and image" of another person. It means that you not only look like the other person, but you also embody a part of the other person's personality.

I am the spittin' image of my mother.

For a long time, I wasn't proud of the fact that we resembled one another so closely. I hated my curly hair and short legs; that I loved bluegrass and country music; that I am eternally disposed to keep on the sunny side (about ten years ago I equated sadness with depth); that I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Our relationship from the time I was eleven until the time I was seventeen was awful, and we both admit it. I was a terrible teenager--smart, but incapable of applying myself to subjects I didn't like (everything aside from English classes); grouchy; uncomfortable in my own skin; and obstinate as all get-out. To this day, I'm still not sure how she found the grace to put up with my many and varied mood swings, or how she managed to know that drawing a flower in marker on my lunch bag every morning was something that would get through to me and remind me that she loved me.

The older I get, the more grateful I am that I so closely resemble Mother Prosen. We have the same sense of humor; the same choices in food and smells; the same habits for dealing with stress; the same taste in old movies; the same laugh. Moreover, I am grateful that I still get to have my mother in my life as a close friend.

I often worry that I don't tell her how important she is, or how grateful I am that she didn't give up on me when it would have been so easy.

I love you, Mom.

***

For My Mother

My mother brings me warm ginger ale,
takes another blanket from the cedar chest,
heats me chicken soup and adds saltines.
She gets The Philadelphia Story from Blockbuster
and checks to make sure my cell phone is charged.
"Call me at work if you need anything." she says,
kissing my forehead goodbye.
I am twenty-four. Fiercely independent
and living hundreds of miles away for years now.
Today, however, I am on her couch,
sick with the flu during my yearly visit,
and so weak I can't stand without her arm.
Drifting to sleep, I worry about the day
when I will do this for her. The blankets and broth.
The Philadelphia Story and ginger ale.
The pharmacy visits and late night temperature readings.
That day will come too soon. For now,
I'm happy to sleep on her couch. Eat her soup.
Let her love me.

Peaceful

This week's theme: Forgiveness

I struggle with insomnia and have for most of my life. When I say I struggle with insomnia, I don't mean that I have occasional sleepless nights. I mean that there is at least one and more often three or four nights a week that I don't sleep more than three hours. It's not because I've napped during the day, exercised too late or too little, or had caffeine after 3:00 PM. I've managed to teach myself to avoid all of these things in my quest for better sleep. I am simply sleepless. When I do manage to sleep, I sleepwalk all over the house or have dreams from which I wake unable to differentiate between what was going on in my dream world and what is happening in reality.

All of these make it difficult for me to share a bed or a room with someone. This is to say nothing of the nightmares I have; the talking I do in my sleep; the fact that I steal all of the covers; don't like to be touched unexpectedly; and when I'm particularly exhausted, sleep with my mouth open and drool all over everything. I think its better when someone stays over to have one of us sleep on the futon, despite the fact that my room is warmer and my bed more comfortable. I'm unwilling to keep them awake all night or show the kind of vulnerability that it takes to drool all over yourself while unconscious and trust that the other person won't wake up, see you, and find you repugnant.

I hope that someday I'll get to the point where I'm comfortable and happy to share my sleep and my vulnerability with someone. For the time being, I'll keep extra blankets and pillows on the futon.

***

Peaceful

I don't love lying awake and watching you sleep. Forgive me, but I don't even love sleeping next to you. Your mouth is almost always open and you drool all over everything--your hand tucked under your cheek, the book you brought to bed with you, my pillow, your pillow. You steal all the blankets and then kick them to the floor in the middle of the night. Then there's the insomnia. The tossing and turning until 4:00 in the goddamn morning. I have to go to bed hours before you to get half a night's sleep. There's the talking and crying out in your sleep. Sometimes your legs move like a dog dreaming of chasing a car. There are those night though, usually Fridays, where you come to bed early and fall asleep immediately. Mouth closed, blankets shared, utterly silent and still all night. In the morning, after I've slipped downstairs to get coffee and the paper, I'll return to find you curled on my side of the bed, only half awake. "How'd you sleep?" I'll ask handing you your coffee and the Arts section. "How can it possibly matter," you'll reply, reaching instead for my scruffy face. "When I get to wake up to this?'

Food--Sort Of

Many people recall the moment they first encountered their life’s work: photographers remember their first pictures; teachers reminisce about gathering siblings and friends in playrooms to “teach” them; writers treasure the moment they realized what it was like to shape words on a blank sheet of paper. So too with me and theological discussion.

I attended a Catholic grade school from first through eighth grade. A few students came and went, but mostly we were the same group of thirty-six kids for those eight years. By seventh grade I was ready to move on; I needed new people, new friends. One of the boys in my class, Randy, was particularly antagonistic. My father had died when I was five, my mother was in a relationship with a woman, and there were many strong female role models in my life; the strength of the women around me influenced my young worldview. My feminism was not appreciated by Randy.

One day in art class we sat at separate tables in the section of the cafeteria that was designated for the development of our right brains. “You know, Lauren,” Randy said, “the Bible says that women are supposed to be submissive to men.”

And we were off. The women I knew were not submissive. Of course I didn’t think they needed to submit to a man in order to have value. Somewhere along the way our conversation shifted from humanity to divinity. “God can only be a man,” Randy said. His reason: “The disciples peed standing up.”

This logic didn’t work for me; it was faulty and crass. Consequently, we argued for the rest of the class period about the nature of God. I’d not thought about this before. If God is everything, why couldn’t God be woman too?

When school let out that day I ran over to the parish life center where my mother was helping Sister Joellen with some computer work. “How was school today?” Mom asked when I came into the office.

“Randy and I argued about God,” I replied. “He said God can only be a man, but I think God is a woman too.”

Joellen immediately affirmed my uneducated, untrained thoughts; she told me about the Holy Spirit, about Wisdom, about Sophia. She told me about God. From that day, I sought to encounter this Wisdom Sophia, this Divine Feminine. I prayed to her; I read and talked about her.

By the next year, my last in that small group of people, I was wholly invested in this mothering God. In short, I was a zealot. That year we had to give speeches in our English class. For the persuasive speech, I decided to persuade my classmates to recognize God as a woman. I approached Joellen for help with my speech, wanting to interview her about Sophia. Joellen gently suggested that I take a more round-about way of talking about this newfound God. An interview would be fine, but it was to be a different one than I had envisioned.

One night Joellen arrived at our home with a recipe for risotto as well as the ingredients. “My grandmother taught me how to make this meal,” she told me. “And when I think of God, I think of my grandma.” Together we chopped vegetables, cooked rice, stirred the mixture, added cheese. We talked about God and about women of strength, but I remember nothing of our actual conversation. What I do recall is the power of that meal.

It has been eleven years since I first shared risotto with Joellen. It is one of my favorite meals to make and to share. And every time I do, I offer it to Grandma God.

Simplicity

This week's theme: Food

I love to cook.

There are a number of reasons I love cooking, but two stand out particularly. Watching other people take genuine enjoyment out of something I've made is one of the greatest delights of my adult life. The process of making the meal is another.

Cooking is so simple. Even the most difficult recipe can be reduced to its ingredients. I love to work on a really involved recipe after reading systematic theology, or when I'm emotionally overwrought or spiritually dry. Cooking is meditative. It's simple and routine and something which allows me a little distance from my academic, personal, or professional life. I turn on some bluegrass, open up a recipe I haven't tried or still haven't perfected and just cook. I am almost always cooking for other people. When it's just for me I eat a lot of (badly) poached eggs on toast because eating is so communal--Eucharistic really. I hate putting tons of work into something that I have to enjoy without the added pleasure of good company

This picture was taken by Lauren shortly after I sent her a SOS text message on Saturday. A friend of mine has never had my dark chocolate apology truffles (thus named because I make them as an apology for being a vicious hell-beast when I get stressed out). I have been trying to perfect both the ganache and the chocolate shell for four years now, and still hadn't found a recipe that satisfied me. This recipe was intensely involved (48 hours, 57 ounces of dark chocolate, two cups of cream), but turned out splendidly.

Watching people sample these truffles over the past few days has been a gift. In the midst of two weeks full of personal disappointment, here was something small that I had done that was bringing intense enjoyment to people for whom I care deeply. Out of some cream, chocolate, and champagne I managed to craft something that made people pause during their busy lives and focus intensely on one small aspect of their day.

It's so simple.

***

Simplicity

A glass of wine. Some slices of roast chicken.
Springtime vegetables from the garden--radishes, fresh lettuce.

A pie from the last of the frozen rhubarb.
Birdsong through the open front door.
With you, everything is suddenly
so simple.

Unfurl

My thoughts on hope...and March.

Enjoy!

LLM

***

T. S. Eliot says that “April is the cruellest month,” but he is wrong. It’s March—March who taunts and teases, makes me think that all is well, and then declares war against me. I have tried to love him; in fact, I did love him. In his tenderness, he removes the defenses I constructed when the world began to freeze: uncurls my fists to create open hands; rolls my shoulders back so they are not up to my earlobes; lifts my chin; tells me to soften my eyes.

As I unfurl, March remains frozen, cloaked in ice. Breaking through reveals only a frigid stream, an inhospitable ground. Growth cannot happen.

I await the thaw.

March

Our theme for this week: Hope

I love spring flowers.

Fall has always been my favorite season, but there's something about the flowers that come up in the springtime that makes me joyful. Daffodils and lilies have long been among my favorites. I love the exuberance of daffodils. I love their unapologetic brightness as they bloom together. They bloom so early in the spring and are so short lived that they are truly a blessing every single year.

Lilies are much the same. They bloom early in the spring, are relatively short-lived, and are bright and beautiful. However, lilies have the added bonus of Easter symbolism (lilies have long been a symbol of rebirth and renewal) coupled with the fact that they smell outstanding. Despite the fact that they're traditionally funeral flowers (and consequently, I've seen more of them connected with moments of loss and heartbreak than I ever wanted) I still love them with all of my heart.

Yet while these flowers have long been tied for my favorite, the longer I live in Minnesota the more deeply I fall in love with the pasque flower. This remarkable little flower lives on the prairies of Minnesota--a landscape to which I feel myself absolutely unequal. The prairie is not for the faint-hearted. It's miles and miles of nothing except for open spaces. Having grown up in the glacial drumlins of Wisconsin, I'm used to hills and trees. I find the prairie and its open spaces unsettling at best and utterly terrifying at worst. I hate the feeling of being surrounded by nothing. This is a hard landscape; a challenging place to live, to grow, to remain hopeful. But it is a landscape that is capable of breath-taking beauty--the kind of beauty I find in pasque flowers. They're among the first flowers to bloom on the prairie, blossoms often unfolding alongside unmelted snow. They survive brutal winters and come up in these small clumps of white and purple every spring. I am constantly amazed that something so beautiful can bloom again and again from a landscape so unforgiving. Unlike daffodils and lilies which a cultivated by human hands, pasque flowers are part of their environment. They've adapted to the cold and adversity of the prairie to become something which, every spring, both transcends and remains a part of the landscape.

***

March

The pasque flowers hidden beneath the earth
do not know that the forecast for this weekend

calls for another foot of fresh snow.
They know only that the soil is a fraction of a degree warmer,

that the ice is melting and seeping down to where

they are beginning to extend their delicate roots,

and that the sun is just a bit brighter.
They know only that in a few weeks
it will be time to break forward from the hard prairie grasses,
stretch their fuzzy heads to the first spring rains, and bloom.