For those who know my story of transition from Christianity to agnosticism, there is bound to be some curiosity as to how I reconcile my aversion to religion with a job that is, at times, ministerial and often heavily religious in nature . The simplest answer is that (as it should be for anyone) my personal belief system and my ability to maintain professionalism are in no way mutually exclusive.
The slightly longer answer:
I've long been persuaded that all religion really comes down to is who you choose to list in the credits as the end of your life's movie. This job, in many ways, has confirmed that notion. Since my first funeral service in January, I have assisted with Baptist, Methodist, and Lutheran memorials, several Catholic masses, and a handful of completely secular receptions and ceremonies. The differences can be huge from a logistical standpoint, but the content? Not so much. Whether there's a sermon/message/homily or just friends and family offering encouragement, everyone is saying the same things --"We are hurting. We are missing our friend/spouse/child/parent. We are hopeful that they are at peace. We need each other to get through this." The rest is just a matter of packaging it in the way that gives us the most reassurance.
Death, the great equalizer, doesn't care one lick which god you serve. It doesn't care where, how, or if you believe your loved ones exist after their departure. It neither favors nor spares the members of any religious affiliation. It takes without discrimination and distributes equal heartbreak in its wake. Recognizing this is in large part what allows me to do this job. Pain and grieving after loss are universal. So should our compassion be. Someday it will be our pain. Our loss. And we will want that compassion extended to us.
So, I see myself in this role of funeral director as a witness. I get to be a fly on the wall at the close of someone's story; to witness the moment that will forever divide life into "before" and "after" for those who remain. And I can respect, observe, and even participate appropriately in whatever comfort from religious belief or cultural custom a family leans into as they walk that path. That's how I do it. 💗
Thanks for tracking with me...
because death is a weird space to live in.
(Trying out a new tag line. Let me know what you think. =))
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Firsts
I have lots of experience getting people dressed. I've been dressing myself, at least somewhat successfully, for many years now. I've dressed babies. Lots of babies. Oh.so.stinking.many.babies! I've helped dress a family member suffering from temporary paralysis, a grandmother in a nursing home with soiled bed sheets, even a complete stranger in a dressing room once while working retail. (Prom dresses can be a challenge.) Still, I can't say with confidence that any of this prepared me for my first time dressing a body.
Being around the dead doesn't bother me, so when Heather (my supervisor) said "let's go get Mrs. A (not her real name) dressed," I knew I'd be fine from a purely practical standpoint. We put on her bra and panties, her soft knit dress and matching sweater. We had to wet her hair and then blow dry and curl it a bit to get it back to her normal style. At one point, Heather had to leave and told me to go ahead and put a second coat of nail polish on her fingernails and as I did so, I made a deal with Mrs. A. I promised that I would keep her secrets if she would keep mine. (As far as I know, she's holding up her end of the bargain.) Everything went as it should and then we were done and went back to office stuff. And I was fine. Until...
I got in my car to drive home. I started crying. I cried all the way home. I cried as I told Tim about the experience and I cried some more as I texted Heather wanting to know "is it normal to be a big fat cry baby?!" I shared with her that, despite the fact I couldn't seem to shut off the faucet, they weren't tears of sadness -not like the ones her family would shed for her. I didn't know her. They weren't the kind of tears you might shed when something has traumatized you. I wasn't freaked out by it. I just couldn't get past the sheer overwhelm of the privilege, this truly intimate privilege that those moments held. So, I cried and I still cry when I think of her and I cry when I talk about her and yes, I'm crying while typing this blog to tell you about her. And maybe I always will because she was the first.
As time passes, it's highly unlikely that every encounter will have such profound effect on me. There will be lots of firsts as I'm starting this new career. First dressing, first embalming, first infant/child funeral, first... Eventually the firsts will become par for the course, I guess. But I'm writing this blog and bringing you on this processing journey with me so that I can always look back and remember these firsts and never take for granted the high level of respect and responsibility that comes with this intimate privilege.
Being around the dead doesn't bother me, so when Heather (my supervisor) said "let's go get Mrs. A (not her real name) dressed," I knew I'd be fine from a purely practical standpoint. We put on her bra and panties, her soft knit dress and matching sweater. We had to wet her hair and then blow dry and curl it a bit to get it back to her normal style. At one point, Heather had to leave and told me to go ahead and put a second coat of nail polish on her fingernails and as I did so, I made a deal with Mrs. A. I promised that I would keep her secrets if she would keep mine. (As far as I know, she's holding up her end of the bargain.) Everything went as it should and then we were done and went back to office stuff. And I was fine. Until...
I got in my car to drive home. I started crying. I cried all the way home. I cried as I told Tim about the experience and I cried some more as I texted Heather wanting to know "is it normal to be a big fat cry baby?!" I shared with her that, despite the fact I couldn't seem to shut off the faucet, they weren't tears of sadness -not like the ones her family would shed for her. I didn't know her. They weren't the kind of tears you might shed when something has traumatized you. I wasn't freaked out by it. I just couldn't get past the sheer overwhelm of the privilege, this truly intimate privilege that those moments held. So, I cried and I still cry when I think of her and I cry when I talk about her and yes, I'm crying while typing this blog to tell you about her. And maybe I always will because she was the first.
As time passes, it's highly unlikely that every encounter will have such profound effect on me. There will be lots of firsts as I'm starting this new career. First dressing, first embalming, first infant/child funeral, first... Eventually the firsts will become par for the course, I guess. But I'm writing this blog and bringing you on this processing journey with me so that I can always look back and remember these firsts and never take for granted the high level of respect and responsibility that comes with this intimate privilege.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
History and Privilege
I posted a link on Facebook recently to an article written by Didi Delgado. (A good read. Check it out here.) It is one of many articles I've read about the tension between current women's movements toward equality and the frustration of women of color. They are difficult articles to read because like many of you white chicks out there, I find myself listing all the ways that they can't possibly be talking about me. But they are. And that HAS to be okay. And I HAVE to sit in that uncomfortable reality and regardless of what I consider my "credentials" be willing to listen and learn and FOLLOW. But if you're still confused by the controversies or wondering how to be part of the movement without unintentionally undermining minority women, I'd like to share some stories from history that may help.
(note: these are summaries of events that are well worth your personal research)
In 1961, on Mother's Day to be exact, a group of mixed race, mixed gender protestors formed by CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) began a journey from Washington on two buses. Taking advantage of the 1960 court ruling which integrated intrastate travel, the Freedom Riders mapped out a path through and deep into the heartland of the south to challenge state segregation laws with non-violent resistance. One bus is set ablaze just outside of Anniston, Alabama; its passengers narrowly escaping with their lives. Meanwhile, the other bus is met in Birmingham by a mob of Klansmen armed with both weaponry and the assurance from authorities that they have 15 minutes to do as they wish with the passengers without any interference from local law enforcement. The beatings were severe. Post attacks and with many more obstacles from local whites backed by state officials, the group decided to give up and return to Washington.
Students in Nashville, led by a young woman named Diane Nash, heard that the Freedom Riders were ending their journey and immediately put plans in place to continue the rides. Many interviewed referred to the fact that these "northerners" (the original group) had only gotten a taste of what life was like everyday for black communities in the south and they simply refused to let the cause die at the hand of the KKK. Several members from Washington returned to continue alongside the students, including John Lewis (the man Donald Trump referred to as "all talk, no action." Yes, THAT John Lewis).
In this instance, when a group of outsiders (in a manner of speaking) "got a taste" of the injustices perpetuated against blacks in the south, their (completely justifiable) reaction was to give up. Likewise, white women, under our current administration and throughout his previous campaign year, have "gotten a taste" of what our compatriots have endured for literal centuries. And while the response has been overwhelming; the Women's March on Washington and sister cities across the globe was phenomenal, it stands to reason that minority women are wary of our stamina. They are rightfully suspicious of our staying power. We've only gotten a taste. What happens if those scratches become deep lacerations across your back? What happens if flesh wounds become soul crushing, dehumanizing weights of systemic oppression? The kind that women of color and marginalized groups have been fighting alone for a very.long.time.
Fast forward a few years to 1964 and the Freedom Summer Project. This initiative covered a mass of issues but their primary goal was to integrate the political systems of Mississippi through education and voter registration. But before the program was officially underway, three project volunteers disappeared; two black men -James Chaney and Andrew Goodman, and one white man -Mickey Schwerner. After nearly two months of little to no effort to locate the men by Mississippi authorities, Mickey's wife, Rita Schwerner, goes directly to Lyndon B Johnson demanding federal resources to aid in the search. The three men's bodies were eventually recovered in a deep grave but through out the process, Rita Schwerner kept the focus of the search on the greater cause, voicing frequent rebukes that apart from her husband's whiteness, she doubted any efforts would have been made at all to find the volunteers. And in a 2005 interview ("Freedom Summer" documentary aired by PBS) she explained that she knew if she allowed the media to make the story about "a poor white widow" it would have undermined and been offensive to everyone involved in the project.
This, my fair-skinned friends, is what today's movement needs from us. This kind of self-sacrificing, shirking off of privilege, eyes open to the bigger picture commitment; an understanding that my grief is no greater than yours and MAY in fact be lesser because I have only "gotten a taste." The last thing marginalized communities need to be expected to do is to pat us on our crocheted-pussy-hat-heads (yes, I have one and I love it!) while we lick our superficial injuries and say "there, there." They need us to come out of our own pain, some of it absolutely legitimate, and see the mortal wounds being inflicted all around us. We have to get over ourselves and stop thinking that we are the cavalry and become the support, the applause, the lifters of the fallen, the shoulders on which they stand -not so that we can be the hero but because we know that from within the fallen, the heroes will rise and we just want to have been part of the history, part of their story.
(note: these are summaries of events that are well worth your personal research)
In 1961, on Mother's Day to be exact, a group of mixed race, mixed gender protestors formed by CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) began a journey from Washington on two buses. Taking advantage of the 1960 court ruling which integrated intrastate travel, the Freedom Riders mapped out a path through and deep into the heartland of the south to challenge state segregation laws with non-violent resistance. One bus is set ablaze just outside of Anniston, Alabama; its passengers narrowly escaping with their lives. Meanwhile, the other bus is met in Birmingham by a mob of Klansmen armed with both weaponry and the assurance from authorities that they have 15 minutes to do as they wish with the passengers without any interference from local law enforcement. The beatings were severe. Post attacks and with many more obstacles from local whites backed by state officials, the group decided to give up and return to Washington.
Students in Nashville, led by a young woman named Diane Nash, heard that the Freedom Riders were ending their journey and immediately put plans in place to continue the rides. Many interviewed referred to the fact that these "northerners" (the original group) had only gotten a taste of what life was like everyday for black communities in the south and they simply refused to let the cause die at the hand of the KKK. Several members from Washington returned to continue alongside the students, including John Lewis (the man Donald Trump referred to as "all talk, no action." Yes, THAT John Lewis).
In this instance, when a group of outsiders (in a manner of speaking) "got a taste" of the injustices perpetuated against blacks in the south, their (completely justifiable) reaction was to give up. Likewise, white women, under our current administration and throughout his previous campaign year, have "gotten a taste" of what our compatriots have endured for literal centuries. And while the response has been overwhelming; the Women's March on Washington and sister cities across the globe was phenomenal, it stands to reason that minority women are wary of our stamina. They are rightfully suspicious of our staying power. We've only gotten a taste. What happens if those scratches become deep lacerations across your back? What happens if flesh wounds become soul crushing, dehumanizing weights of systemic oppression? The kind that women of color and marginalized groups have been fighting alone for a very.long.time.
Fast forward a few years to 1964 and the Freedom Summer Project. This initiative covered a mass of issues but their primary goal was to integrate the political systems of Mississippi through education and voter registration. But before the program was officially underway, three project volunteers disappeared; two black men -James Chaney and Andrew Goodman, and one white man -Mickey Schwerner. After nearly two months of little to no effort to locate the men by Mississippi authorities, Mickey's wife, Rita Schwerner, goes directly to Lyndon B Johnson demanding federal resources to aid in the search. The three men's bodies were eventually recovered in a deep grave but through out the process, Rita Schwerner kept the focus of the search on the greater cause, voicing frequent rebukes that apart from her husband's whiteness, she doubted any efforts would have been made at all to find the volunteers. And in a 2005 interview ("Freedom Summer" documentary aired by PBS) she explained that she knew if she allowed the media to make the story about "a poor white widow" it would have undermined and been offensive to everyone involved in the project.
This, my fair-skinned friends, is what today's movement needs from us. This kind of self-sacrificing, shirking off of privilege, eyes open to the bigger picture commitment; an understanding that my grief is no greater than yours and MAY in fact be lesser because I have only "gotten a taste." The last thing marginalized communities need to be expected to do is to pat us on our crocheted-pussy-hat-heads (yes, I have one and I love it!) while we lick our superficial injuries and say "there, there." They need us to come out of our own pain, some of it absolutely legitimate, and see the mortal wounds being inflicted all around us. We have to get over ourselves and stop thinking that we are the cavalry and become the support, the applause, the lifters of the fallen, the shoulders on which they stand -not so that we can be the hero but because we know that from within the fallen, the heroes will rise and we just want to have been part of the history, part of their story.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
The Political Side of Football
Who knew football could be a platform for political activism?
Colin Kaepernick, that's who. But he's certainly not alone.
Remember Super Bowl 50? It was just last year, of course you remember. It was also the year white people were shocked and dismayed to find out Beyoncé is black. I mean, come on, we all knew she was black but we didn't think she was black black, right?
(Side note: we did the same thing to Whitney and to Mariah and probably a dozen more. Seriously, white people. Stop it, already!)
But in 2016 Queen Beyoncé showed us in no uncertain terms that black is not only beautiful in straightened hair and ethereal sun glow (Halo, 2008) but in Black Panther throw back militant formation (and even wielding a baseball bat -Lemonade)
And then came Super Bowl 51. Trump is president. Executive Orders are flying out of the White House like those horrifying winged monkeys flying out of the Wicked Witch of the West's castle. The whole world is on the edge when from the Edge of Glory (yeah, you saw that one coming) steps Lady Gaga. Perched quite literally on the edge of the NRG Stadium in Houston, Gaga begins a masterclass in arena-packed, all eyes watching, activism.
From an on-high proclamation that "this land belongs to you and me" to her Poker Face (which I believe was a sequin-studded wink-wink to the network executives who thought she was being compliant) she was saying it all and she was just getting started.
"No matter gay, straight, or bi
Lesbian, transgendered life
I'm on the right track baby
I was born to survive
No matter black, white, or beige
Chola or orient made
I'm on the right track baby
I was born to be brave"
Somehow in the midst of the lyrics being belted out of her golden throat, the conservative world took a collective sigh and said, "Oh thank goodness! She's just singing her usual songs and not getting political." Maybe they were dizzied by dude's 360 degree piano (what?!) or maybe just confused by the all the pyrotechnics but she wasn't done yet.
There's no reason to think that "Telephone" or "Just Dance" were shrouding deeper messages, I suppose, but surely I can't be the only one who draws to mind this SNL sketch of world leaders handling Trump's phone calls when she sings "you're breaking up on me, sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kind of busy..."
Then came those sweet, touching moments; those beautiful little daggers into the hearts of discrimination and ethnocentricity: A shout out to her mom and dad and with it a nod to her lineage of Italian immigrants. This followed by Lady Gaga embracing a young girl in the field audience. According to all accounts, the hug was unrehearsed but for many watching, the act of wrapping her arms around a beautifully brown girl of unknown ethnicity to the rest of us while singing the words "why don't you stay" in the days of huge walls, threats of deportations and registrations, and disregard for refugees of a certain skin tone...felt like our heart's cry and it was downright moving.
And so it would seem that Lady Gaga would simply close the night on a classic. Maybe that's all she did, maybe that's all she intended. OR MAYBE she knew that as many of us have felt quite helplessly "caught in a bad romance" fraught with "ugly, drama, horror, psycho, revenge" whether we wanted it or not. An anthem to America and it's bazaar Stockholm syndrome with the current administration.
Mic drop, indeed!
The first time I heard Lady Gaga sing, I was an uptight, religious twat who didn't "get it" and thought "if she would just lose all the weird stuff, she has an amazing voice." I was right about one thing. She has an amazing voice. But that "weird stuff," that freak flag-inclusive-recognizing-accepting-celebrating-glittered-bombed weird stuff is what makes her an amazing human. And made her half-time show an amazing political statement that could hardly ruffle any feathers because it was so consistent with who she has always been. That's hard-core activism right there!
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Labels
(Perhaps this blog should be called the bi-annual morph. Change happens daily -writing about it? Not so much. Shrug.)
Labels are great!
On food products, medications, chemicals, even in your pantry, bathroom, craft room, and other places you crazy label-maker lovers have been known to leave your mark. (You know who you are!) Yes, all of these represent useful, appropriate uses of labeling. Go labels!
But what about labels we attach to people?
When I was a "believer" (label) I refused to put anything on my van to indicate such -no bumper stickers, no personalized plate, no little fish, no praying Calvin. Nothing. Partly because I just don't care for those things, but mostly it was because I knew that on any given moment I was capable of being more human than "Christian." I was just as likely as the next guy to run a red light, or speed, or cut someone off in traffic, whether intentionally or not. And you won't find anything on my van now indicating my beliefs or lack thereof. I just don't think my life is easily summarized by a single word or symbol. I doubt anyone's life is.
We use these labels against each other. If you fly around me in a no passing zone with an Ichthus fish on your bumper, I'm probably going to think to myself, "Well, there you go. Hypocrite!" And likewise a Christian who gets cut off by some dude with a Darwin fish on his bumper may think, "Well, there you go. Lawless baby-eater!"
The truth is Jesus fish dude is not behaving like a Christian. Nor is the thinking fish dude behaving like an Atheist. They are both acting like humans and well, really crappy drivers. The labels perpetuate our assumptions, stereotypes, fears, separation. You think the "caution: hot" warning on a McDonald's coffee cup is silly?
Now more than ever it's easy to get caught up --Republican, Democrat, Liberal, Conservative, Gay, Straight. I'm guilty. So are you. Sucks doesn't it?
At the very least, let's agree to try, TRY, to limit the labeling to one we can all agree on and none can escape: human.
Selfishly selfless, lawfully rebellious, perfectly flawed humans.
Labels are great!
On food products, medications, chemicals, even in your pantry, bathroom, craft room, and other places you crazy label-maker lovers have been known to leave your mark. (You know who you are!) Yes, all of these represent useful, appropriate uses of labeling. Go labels!
But what about labels we attach to people?
When I was a "believer" (label) I refused to put anything on my van to indicate such -no bumper stickers, no personalized plate, no little fish, no praying Calvin. Nothing. Partly because I just don't care for those things, but mostly it was because I knew that on any given moment I was capable of being more human than "Christian." I was just as likely as the next guy to run a red light, or speed, or cut someone off in traffic, whether intentionally or not. And you won't find anything on my van now indicating my beliefs or lack thereof. I just don't think my life is easily summarized by a single word or symbol. I doubt anyone's life is.
We use these labels against each other. If you fly around me in a no passing zone with an Ichthus fish on your bumper, I'm probably going to think to myself, "Well, there you go. Hypocrite!" And likewise a Christian who gets cut off by some dude with a Darwin fish on his bumper may think, "Well, there you go. Lawless baby-eater!"
The truth is Jesus fish dude is not behaving like a Christian. Nor is the thinking fish dude behaving like an Atheist. They are both acting like humans and well, really crappy drivers. The labels perpetuate our assumptions, stereotypes, fears, separation. You think the "caution: hot" warning on a McDonald's coffee cup is silly?
Now more than ever it's easy to get caught up --Republican, Democrat, Liberal, Conservative, Gay, Straight. I'm guilty. So are you. Sucks doesn't it?
At the very least, let's agree to try, TRY, to limit the labeling to one we can all agree on and none can escape: human.
Selfishly selfless, lawfully rebellious, perfectly flawed humans.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Why is "death with dignity" so disturbing?
I opened the computer this morning to find that Brittany Maynard ended her life Saturday and I was awash with varying emotions. I was sad. Twenty-nine years old. Dang. Really sad. I was proud of her and for her, and her family, for the end of the struggle not only with her illness but with the decision and the media. And honestly, get this...
I was jealous. Yeah. Jealous.
And as I let myself sit with that feeling for awhile, I couldn't help pondering the possibility that some of the heavy backlash from certain groups may also be rooted in this weird emotion of envy. No one, no one, wants to die a slow and agonizing death. You hear people speak of it, "She went quietly in her sleep," with a hushed tone of thankfulness. We all, ALL OF US, every last one of us, if given the choice for how to pass from this life into death would choose exactly what Brittany chose.
But here's the reality. We don't all get to choose. And I think, feel, believe that most of the naysayers, regardless of how they've packaged it to look more pious than it is, are really just two year-olds standing with red cheeks and stomping their feet because they got the short half of the cookie.
It's just not fair!! Stomp. Stomp.
Some of us will die in tragic accidents, some in violent criminal acts, some in the throes of painful diseases, some of us will die from natural disasters with own houses crumbling atop us. There are as many unpleasant ways to die as there are people on the planet and most of us will never get to make the choice that Brittany made because we won't even see it coming. And I just have this sneaking suspicion that this is why it bugs us so much. We are so. stinking. jealous. Even though we all know and have probably quoted it to our children until we're blue in the face, that life isn't fair. It's just not. It is painfully, uncomfortably unfair. In its living and in its dying. Unfair.
We have to find a way to come to terms with this and I don't think the best method is by creating a religious system in which the deeper our suffering the more righteous and significant we become. But this idea is strongly at play. The fact that John Piper suggests that Brittany's family will have missed an opportunity for really nothing more than self-betterment by not enduring greater levels of suffering is ludicrous.
"And the grieving spouses and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and sons and daughters are not merely watching. They are serving, caring, loving. Yes, suicide spares them the pain of watching. But it also denies them the privilege of serving. There are moments in the tireless care of the dying beloved that are so intense with self-giving love that they would not be traded for any death." (blog - www.desiringgod.org)
Serving the sick and dying is of tremendous value. But there is a big difference between yielding selflessly to serve another during unavoidable suffering and choosing your own piety as a servant over the potential end to suffering. "Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? God forbid!" (NLT -New Living Translation). Shall my loved one suffer longer and more deeply that my own good reputation abound? Hell no! (NAT -New Amie Translation)
And so, what if more people could be given the choice to die peacefully in their home with those they love? Does it mean the world will be deprived of all suffering and us poor living souls will have no opportunities to serve, to extend ourselves for those in need? Of course not!
It means that some of us, perhaps only a lucky few, will have the chance to avoid what all of us would if we could: the pain of seeing those we love suffer on our behalf. As well as a chance to watch in awe as another actively embraces the last step of life with great composure and the dignity of choice.
I was jealous. Yeah. Jealous.
And as I let myself sit with that feeling for awhile, I couldn't help pondering the possibility that some of the heavy backlash from certain groups may also be rooted in this weird emotion of envy. No one, no one, wants to die a slow and agonizing death. You hear people speak of it, "She went quietly in her sleep," with a hushed tone of thankfulness. We all, ALL OF US, every last one of us, if given the choice for how to pass from this life into death would choose exactly what Brittany chose.
But here's the reality. We don't all get to choose. And I think, feel, believe that most of the naysayers, regardless of how they've packaged it to look more pious than it is, are really just two year-olds standing with red cheeks and stomping their feet because they got the short half of the cookie.
It's just not fair!! Stomp. Stomp.
Some of us will die in tragic accidents, some in violent criminal acts, some in the throes of painful diseases, some of us will die from natural disasters with own houses crumbling atop us. There are as many unpleasant ways to die as there are people on the planet and most of us will never get to make the choice that Brittany made because we won't even see it coming. And I just have this sneaking suspicion that this is why it bugs us so much. We are so. stinking. jealous. Even though we all know and have probably quoted it to our children until we're blue in the face, that life isn't fair. It's just not. It is painfully, uncomfortably unfair. In its living and in its dying. Unfair.
We have to find a way to come to terms with this and I don't think the best method is by creating a religious system in which the deeper our suffering the more righteous and significant we become. But this idea is strongly at play. The fact that John Piper suggests that Brittany's family will have missed an opportunity for really nothing more than self-betterment by not enduring greater levels of suffering is ludicrous.
"And the grieving spouses and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and sons and daughters are not merely watching. They are serving, caring, loving. Yes, suicide spares them the pain of watching. But it also denies them the privilege of serving. There are moments in the tireless care of the dying beloved that are so intense with self-giving love that they would not be traded for any death." (blog - www.desiringgod.org)
Serving the sick and dying is of tremendous value. But there is a big difference between yielding selflessly to serve another during unavoidable suffering and choosing your own piety as a servant over the potential end to suffering. "Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? God forbid!" (NLT -New Living Translation). Shall my loved one suffer longer and more deeply that my own good reputation abound? Hell no! (NAT -New Amie Translation)
And so, what if more people could be given the choice to die peacefully in their home with those they love? Does it mean the world will be deprived of all suffering and us poor living souls will have no opportunities to serve, to extend ourselves for those in need? Of course not!
It means that some of us, perhaps only a lucky few, will have the chance to avoid what all of us would if we could: the pain of seeing those we love suffer on our behalf. As well as a chance to watch in awe as another actively embraces the last step of life with great composure and the dignity of choice.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Growing Pains
I wonder if the butterfly, after stretching her wings and taking to the air that first time only to be caught in the swirling vortex of a passing freight train, ever considers crawling back into her cocoon?
That's sort of the feeling I've had recently. Not that I want to go all the back to the caterpillar days but maybe just a reprieve somewhere between transitions; somewhere in that anonymous space between who I was and who I am becoming.
When we were in the middle of Christianity, I had a lot of views. One of those views was frustration because the church seemed to always be against things: anti-abortion, anti-homosexuals, anti-liberalism, anti-feminism, and so on. Even when it tried hard to spin things toward the positive (pro-life, support marriage, family values) I always found myself thinking, "No one is buying this. Hell, I'm not even buying it." And so, like many others have noted and proposed from within the church, I wanted my life to be defined by what I was truly "for" and what I truly supported, not backhanded compliments and slick semantics.
Now, I find myself on the opposite side of the coin but still struggling with the same issue. I don't want to spend my days fighting religion. I really don't. And yet, I strongly believe there are tenants of fundamentalism which need to be shut down. Permanently. I believe that there are good people living in unnecessary fear and guilt, and children being dangled over the flames of hell for no other reason than that they were born, and people being condemned for their sexuality, and women being confined to antiquated roles, and, and, and... And these things make me sad and angry and I find the late Christopher Hitchens and the current Richard Dawkins and those in their "aggressive atheists" camp to be of great value and justified in their logic that religion is a poison for humanity. There are days when "live and let live" feels like a giant cop-out.
But I don't want to be the angry atheist either --in part because I'm an agnostic (I realize that this distinction means little to nothing in our particular geographic/Baptist inundated sphere) and also because religion consumed the first 38 years of my life. I'd rather not hand over the next however many years I have left, even as its antagonist. I worried my entire life about those who didn't know the "good news" and who were living miserable lives apart from God and would some day suffer eternal consequences. I weighed every conversation in light of this belief and every relationship in light of this belief. It was exhausting.
And I could easily exhaust myself again trying to dig out and expose every landmine that fundamentalist religion has left poised for destruction against humanity or, OR,
OR...
I can follow the lead of those who've tiptoed through before me and I can grab the hand of those behind me and we can weave our way through together taking steps FORWARD. I may still stop and scream, "Hey dumbass! You're blowing people's legs off over here!" in the general direction of the religious world now and then. But I'm ready to stop spinning my wheels on spent arguments and to gain some traction on the things that matter to me now by supporting them, talking about them, linking them, celebrating them. And if someone wants to throw religion out there as an argument, I may or may not engage with it, but I sure as hell won't let it suck the life out of me.
Life that is so. very. good. without it!
Freight trains be damned -this girl will fly!
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