Gorillas in the Garden

Not my circus. Not my monkeys. 

Over the past year, I have become aware of a phrase that have given me much peace. Purportedly a Polish Proverb (although I can't seem to find any evidence other than people on the internet saying it's "An Old Polish Proverb"...), this phrase is simple: Not my circus. Not my monkeys. 

Two sentences. Much Peace.

I've come to embrace this phrase in my daily living and in my life as a pastor. When the chaos of the world is going on around me, when people try to pull me into their anxiety and problems or make their anxiety my own, I repeat to myself, "Not my circus. Not my monkeys." Remembering these simple words helps me to remain calm, self-differentiated, and a non-anxious presence. It helps me recognize that, while I can have compassion and care for someone in their problems and in their struggles...their problems and their struggles are not my own. I don't need to take them on as my own. I don't need to own them or allow them to affect my life. 

Having said that...

I had a dream. 
I know, that's one of those things that people hate to hear someone say, because usually what will follow is nonsensical and meaningless...but bear with me. This one kinda makes sense.

It was the night before a difficult meeting, one where I knew we would be discussing difficult things that have been the root of a great deal of conflict.. I went to bed, stressing out over the issues and topics we would be discussing, and praying for wisdom and discernment and, yes, patience. 

I tossed and turned most of the night, but when I did start to dream, I dreamt about gorillas in my garden. 

In my dream, my neighbors had pet gorillas. They kept them in their backyard, which is only separated from my backyard by a simple chain-link fence. The gorillas were there, day in and day out, and minded their own business. And then, one day, they started intimidating us whenever we would be out in our backyard. They would swing at us, keeping us away from the fence, which we figured was just a territorial/keeping us away from their yard kind of thing. 

And then they jumped the fence and came into our yard, forcing us inside of our house. From my window, I could see one of the gorillas pick up a big rock that we had pulled out of our garden that we're creating, and use it to kill a fawn that was in my backyard (which, in my dream logic was my pet deer) and eat it. 

Next thing I knew, the gorillas had come into my house. After they had killed my deer, I was terrified of what they might do to us, so I told my spouse and child what I was going to do next: Sneak out of the house and go next door to talk to my neighbors to make them get their gorillas under control. 

I snuck out of the house, so that the gorillas couldn't see me leave, and ran next door to my neighbor's house. My neighbor was on her front porch, haggard and frazzled and stressed out. She was juggling a visit from the Department of Health and Human Services who were evaluating the daycare/preschool that she was running while trying to take care of the hundreds of kittens that she had in boxes and buckets and cages for the kitten mill that she was running. (I feel like I need to make a statement here, my neighbors are nothing like this. They are nice and quiet and definitely don't have a preschool or a kitten mill at their home...).

I begged my neighbor to do something about her gorillas. Begged her to take them home and make them behave. 

But she looked at me, and shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Yeah, they intimidate us, too. We don't go in the backyard anymore because of the gorillas. So, sorry. Can't do anything about them."

I woke up as I was walking home, calling animal control on my cell phone to come and get the gorillas. I was terrified that my neighbor would be mad at me for doing so, but I knew that it had to be done and if she wasn't going to do it, I needed to. 

What a dream, right? I woke up, shaken and frazzled and almost looking out into the garden to see if there was a gorilla there. 

Now, most of the time, my dreams are chaotic jumbles that I have a difficult time making sense of. But this dream...this dream...it made so much sense.

It was about the monkeys, other people's monkeys, and their circuses. It was about how sometimes those monkeys, when unattended and avoided, can grow into something bigger and more dangerous. It was about how sometimes, if other people refuse to deal with their monkeys turned gorillas, they can start to have an impact on my life, even despite my own best efforts to the contrary. It was about how sometimes, in order to take care of myself, I need to do what I need to do regarding those gorillas. 

The truth is that sometimes, people are so overwhelmed by their troubles or their problems or their anxieties that they simply don't know how to manage them, or even where to begin. Sometimes people have such bad boundaries that they spill their anxiety and their stress out into the world around them, and it starts to affect the people around them, without them even knowing it. And sometimes people have an attitude that "someone else will take care of it." 

Whatever it is, when your neighbor's gorillas come into your garden, when they come into your home...when they start to affect your life and your family and your well-being, the truth is that you have to do something about it. 

The question is: what is the responsible way to manage it? I think that it's really dependent on the situation. You want to avoid being an enabler, but you also need to make sure that you are assisting where assistance is truly needed. Whatever is done needs to be empowering to the owner of the gorillas, giving them the strength and the courage and the tools to manage or handle them. It needs to be done with grace and dignity, so that the person is not diminished by the action. But, most of all, it needs to be done, before the gorillas destroy their life and yours. 

So, whether it is direct action, a "come to Jesus moment", an intervention, or something else entirely, I pray that you may find the wisdom and the courage to address the gorillas that have come into your garden (and the wisdom and the sight to see any monkeys in your own life, and deal with them before they become gorillas themselves).

A Difficult Morning

Sometimes, mornings are hard. This morning was hard. Little Man was having an emotional and, quite frankly, dramatic morning. Everything, and I mean everything, was a Tragedy. First, it was that he didn’t want to put his socks on, and then it was that he wanted to put his socks on by himself. Then it was that he didn’t want to go to the car, and then it was that I didn’t get to the car fast enough after he decided it was time to get in the car. Then it was that he didn’t want to listen to music, but then he wanted to sing, without any help from Mommy. And then…
By the time I got him to preschool, all he wanted was for me to carry him to the classroom, simply because it was a hard morning and he needed a “wiggle” (which is what he calls a snuggle) from his mommy.

Life is hard when you’re three going on four years old, isn’t it?

I understand that a good portion of it is that he doesn’t yet have the word power to describe or explain what he going on in his little brain. And I understand that a good portion of it is that he’s three years old, and three years old have “moments”.  (I have long been told that it’s less the “terrible twos” and more of the “terrible threes” that drive parents nuts.)

But, at the end of the day, I think that it’s really important to recognize that the majority of it is that he’s just what I call him, a little man. He is a little person, fully formed and developed (although he’s still developing and growing in emotional, spiritual, physical and developmental maturity). And like all people, he has days when things just aren’t right.

The other day, I sat in my office and, after a few hours, walked out to the outer office and said to the church administrator, “I just can’t seem to get my wheels under me today.” Because it was a day that nothing seemed to be going right, nothing seemed to feel right, and it seemed that I just couldn’t get anything done. And, truth be told, if it wasn’t socially and professional irresponsible and unacceptable to throw a fit and cry about it, I may just have.

In our world and our society, we don’t like to admit when things are hard. We don’t like to talk about the things that are wrong. In fact, the most common greeting is “How ya doin’?”…but the acceptable and accepted response is nothing more detailed or descriptive that, “Good, you?”

But, I think that we just need to start being a little more like Little Man. Not the screaming and crying and throwing of fits, but the being honest about when things aren’t going right. When we’re not feeling well. When things are upsetting, angering, or just plain wrong. I think that we need to start saying “How ya doin’?” like we really mean it, and listening, truly listening, to the answer. I think that we need to start sharing our lives with each other in honest and vulnerable ways. Because then, and only then, will we be able to start recognizing the humanity of those feelings, and recognizing that they are nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about….they are just a part of who we are.

#abookaweekforlent The End of Lent

When I was young...like, really young...my parents would have to hide my books, place me outside, and lock the door on me. (Don't fret, it was a fenced in back yard, in full view of the kitchen window. Plus it was the early 1980's. No worries). They would do this because they loved me, and they wanted to make sure that I spent time playing outside.

Let me repeat that: My parents would hide my books and lock me outside to make sure that I played outside. 

I share this story simply because I think that it illustrates how important reading has always been to me. How much I love reading. How much I love the knowledge of non-fiction books and the worlds and people opened up to me through fiction books. How important books and reading to me have always been. 

Which is why I am sad, truly sad, to say that my title for this post is:

#epicfail

Here we are, on the Monday after Easter, and, as I sit at my desk, sucking down the much needed cup of coffee, I must take a moment to confess: My little Lenten experiment/discipline of reading a book a week for Lent was a total and complete failure. I only read two and a half books out of my planned seven. (Well, not a complete failure then, I suppose, since I did get some reading done...)

I suppose that part of it was that I shouldn't have chosen a 400 page autobiography to kick it off (which only happened because I had been on the library waiting list for two months for that book, and there was about a four month long waiting list behind me. I didn't want to lose the chance to read it!). And part of it was the reality of the lack of reading time available when you take a three year old on a train trip to Chicago for a week. And part of it is that the only time that I have to myself is those quiet hours between when Little Man goes to bed and when I do, but that lately he's been fighting that magical time, and wanting me sitting right there beside him as he falls asleep. And part of it was the reality of the busyness of the season of Lent, particularly Holy Week. And part of it, quite frankly, was the fact that I simply set the bar pretty high. 

I know all of these things, and they make pretty good excuses for not doing the reading that I had planned on doing...but I don't want excuses. Because I wanted to read. I wanted to stretch myself to make and find the time in my life schedule to do the reading that I want to do.

I'm always saying that you make time for that which is really important to you....what does the fact that I only got two and a half books read during my planned period of reading seven books because I simply didn't have the time say about the importance of books and reading to me?

It can't be that it's not important. As I illustrated above, books and reading have always been very important to me. But, even with having challenged myself, I just simply couldn't find the time, or the energy, to do the reading that I had wanted to do. 

#graceabounds

But maybe I should have titled this post this, instead. Grace abounds. Because, more than anything else, this little experiment of mine has challenged me to think about that thing that I always say about making time for the things that are important to you, quite frankly often in judgement when others simply state that "I would love to, but I just don't have time". I guess I always figured that it was an excuse. A cop-out. a nice way of getting out of something. But, the reality is that, in our world today, it very much so is a possibility that someone simply doesn't have time to make time for the things that are important to them. Because there's a whole lot of things that are important...we're all just making judgement calls on what is more, or the most, important for us.

Sometimes, we'll mess it up. Sometimes we won't get it right. And sometimes we'll feel as if we're missing out on something that we desperately need, and look with longing on in it. 

But, in the midst of all of that, it's important to remember that grace abounds. 

Grace abounds when we have to make judgement calls about what is more important than something else. Grace abounds when we get it wrong. Grace abounds when others get it wrong. 

Grace abounds...and hopefully we'll figure it out and get it right. 

And now, I will take some time...and read a book. 

A Walk Around the Block

I laced up my shoes, slipped my husband's Red Sox winter hat over my morning head of hair, and headed out my front door. The neighborhood was calm and quiet, post-rush-hour and pre-I've-got-to-get-to-work. I put my headphones in my ears, pushed play on the podcast of the day, and walked down my driveway for a brisk walk around the neighborhood. 

Anyone who knows me, or who has ever known me, is often surprised and a little shocked that I would do such a thing. 

Because, for the first time in my life, I'm intentionally going on walks that are more than walks, but an effort to get and stay healthy. I'm buying exercise gear and actually wearing it out of the house during daylight hours. I've been a member of different gyms, and still try to go with regularity, but I've never made the move towards actually getting out and doing this exercise in such a public way. 

Why? I've been too embarrassed, convinced that people will see me, out and about, sweaty, jiggly, and gross, and they will laugh at me. I've been convinced that I need to be in that perfect toned shape that you see on the cover of running magazines in order to don the gear and go outside with any semblance of dignity. 

We are told in our culture that we're supposed to hate our bodies. We're supposed to want to change everything about them, more in some places, less in others, a different slope of the nose, a different...well, everything. I once had someone look with horror at my calves, sincerely distressed by just how huge they were. How huge they are. (Side note: I can not, and have never been able to, wear those cute knee high boots that come out every winter. My calves are just simply too big in circumference). 

As  a result, we're given guide after guide about how to form and mold and shape our bodies into the picture of perfect ideals. And we strive for it...going as far as punishing our bodies, subjecting them to grueling workouts or undergoing radical surgeries...but also spending  a fortune on body shaping undergarments, reminiscent of the corsets of days long past, or dying our hair, slathering makeup on our faces, or wearing impossibly high heels in order to reach a desired height. We strive and we strive, always reaching for that ideal that we pin up on our wall or our refrigerator as a reminder to not eat so much. 

And as a result, we're so unhealthy...maybe not physically, but spiritually and emotionally. We spend so much time picking out the flaws and the imperfections, and focusing so much of our time and energy onto eliminating those flaws and imperfections from our bodies and our lives....that we forget to celebrate and thank God for what we do have, and the way that we are created. We forget to recognize that we, in fact, are all created in the image of God. No matter what we look like or how we are built.  

We forget to care for the bodies that we have been given, in all their beautiful diversity. We forget to nurture the bodies that we have been given. We forget to embrace and celebrate the bodies that we have been given.

I eat mostly right. I exercise regularly. I am pretty healthy, except for a genetic predisposition towards hypertension that reared it's ugly head in my 36th year of life. But I am short, with huge calves. I have had a child, which has ever changed my body shape and weight distribution (also made some other changes, preventing me from wearing high heels for any longer than an hour or so at a time). I am never going to look like a model...nor am I ever going to look lie the women on the cover of Running Magazine. 

I am thankful for the body that I have, and I will continue to care for it to the best of my ability. I will celebrate the flaws and acknowledge them as as part of me as my height and eye color. 

I will not be ashamed. 

And so, I will continue to lace up my shoes, get out there, and walk...maybe someday jog, but today, I will walk...

And I will do so, huffing and puffing, with my head held high. 

#abookaweekforlent week 1

Pioneer Girl 
The Annotated Autobiography of Laura Ingalls Wilder

When I first heard that this book was going to be released, I was excited. Flat out excited. Like so many women and girls, I grew up on the Little House series, reading and dreaming about life on the prairie in a little sod cabin. When I was young, on one of my family's epic summer vacations, we went to DeSmet, South Dakota, and to the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum there, where we learned more about the life that the Ingalls family lived there. I remember being particularly struck by the description and the demonstration about how the family (and most other residents of DeSmet that winter) would twist hay into sticks for fuel in order to survive, a process that would cause their hands to bleed.

And it's with that memory that I begin my reflections on this book. As autobiographies go, it is beautiful and unique because it, quite literally, is Laura's memoirs that she decided to sit down one day and write. It's not the more polished versions that were marketed to magazines and periodicals (the story of which is lovingly detailed by the editor of this edition), but instead is complete with poor spellings, rambling thoughts, and stories that are out of order. In that way, it is an incredibly nostalgic look at life on the prairie post Civil War, just as the frontier was opening up. It's a look back at a life, a story to share so that the story will not be forgotten. 
It's also nostalgic, in a way, for us who grew up on the books, because it gives us an inside look at the life depicted in the fictional family's life. It also helps us to understand a bit better, perhaps, some of the decisions that the family made as far as the constant moving and changing of careers, locations, and so on. 

But that's where the nostalgia also become so not nostalgic. Because the stories that are shared through this autobiography aren't the polished, moral-laden, children's stories, but instead are the hard and harsh realities that families and individuals really faced on the frontier. Starvation, isolation, death, and so much more. Much has been made in reviews of the stories revealed about Wilder's experiences in Iowa (a chapter of her life that was completely left out of the books), stories that definitely torpedo any illusions that we might have about how idyllic life at the time was. 

The story that is told here is real. It is really real. Beautifully so, as it describes a life that was not only lived, but survived and celebrated. It tells a story of how important family and community and faith are to tackling and surviving the chaos of the realities of life (in fact, I would say that it is safe to say that without any one of these three, the family simply wouldn't have made it, at least not coming out on the other end as strong as they did). It is beautifully real because it is the truth of life, not the polished versions that we like to tell...but the honest truth of what makes us who we are. 

And what a beautiful thing that is.