Category: Autobiographical Story

life’s personal lessons

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My Father is Dying

My Father is Dying

This is unexpected. Not the dying. I’ve been expecting it for months. He’s 86, in bad health—it’s time to die. And the decision has been his to stop treatments (with my mother’s blessing).

What’s unexpected is that I’m enjoying the sadness. I thought feeling “bad” would be bad, but it’s good. It’s hard for me to believe how deeply I’m touched by this experience. I’ve always loved life’s adventures, and this one is so deep, so touching, so profound, that I found myself saying to my wife, “I’m excited about this.”

I’ve been so fortunate to have had the parents I have. I had a wonderful childhood—wounding and all—and a period in my 20s when I was very critical of my parents, followed by reconciliation and breakthrough conversations that have made us so open, accepting, and supportive of one another that this new adventure has taken us to new depths. Every visit with Mother and Dad now is so poignant, so rich….so tiring. I love it, and I come home dead tired, for it’s so emotional. Raw honesty: maybe that’s another phrase that gets closer to capturing what’s happening.

I took them on our last trip together to the top of Petit Jean Mountain last weekend. On that mountaintop Dad told me of a dream he’d just had. He had a number of visitors come to wish him farewell, and at suppertime he invited them to eat in the institutional dining room where they live. Cold broccoli soup was served. It tasted bad, and Dad was mad. He awoke angrily then immediately said to himself—as if it were part of the dream—“It’s not about the broccoli soup; it’s about the people.”

It’s not about his declining body; it’s about the community surrounding him (and us). It’s not about dying; it’s about living. It’s not about the sadness; it’s about love.

I remember dad telling me about how he used to complain to my mother about her poor care of our things. One evening he came home during a rainstorm and saw the children’s toys sitting outside in the yard. He angrily complained to Mother about how irresponsible it was to leave those toys out to be damaged. She had had a hard day (three of us were under six years old with another on the way….it was a typical day), and her response was to cry. Dad said to me, “I realized that I was treating things like they were more important than my own family.”

Dying might be kind of like cold, tasteless, broccoli soup; but it’s really about living. Not mere existence—that would be life without death—but Life. Full Life, with a capital “L”. It’s not bad; it’s good.

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Can the Speaker Trust the Listener?

For most of my life I’ve believed that when I’ve not been understood it’s mostly been the fault of a bad listener. So after the listener obviously misunderstood, I’ve tried to explain myself better, usually to no avail, for the listener normally responds to my flurry of more words with a defensive, “Oh, I understand, but…” And the dance of misunderstanding commences in earnest.

Just recently, though, I had an insight. Maybe it’s not the fault of the listener. Maybe it’s not even the fault of the speaker’s poor choice of words. Maybe it’s the speaker’s mistrust that hinders the listener from understanding.

If I start with mistrust (the listener will not understand unless I make sure he or she convinces me that I’ve been heard correctly), there’s a real probability that the discussion will turn into a “yes, but” back-and-forth that leads to a very confusing place.

If, however, I start with the trust that after I state my opinion or perception and then give the listener plenty of quiet space to accept my words and let them resonate inside in such a way that they will make sense (and nonsense). The outcome will be a trustful, peaceful dialog that leads to what we both want: understanding.

One of Immanuel Kant’s greatest contributions to philosophy was the idea that comprehension is not just about knowing or not knowing, but about understanding, and my recent revelation is that understanding begins with trust.

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AS HEATHER PASSED AWAY

As Heather Passed Away

January 14, 2012

There are some people who have seemingly undistinguished lives that, nonetheless, leave gaping holes when we lose them.

Heather Glidewell McDonald, my 58 year old sister-in-law, who is passing away, is one of those people. For over three years she’s been battling pancreatic cancer, and it’s about finished its dirty business. Her home has become not only a place where grief and sadness is palpable as we gather around her weak and usually asleep body, it’s also become a place with a aura of sacredness. We enter that sanctuary now with reverence.

She was just a teacher; just a mother; just a wife; just a hostess; just an animal/zoo lover—and that word “just” does not do her justice. She had a knack for letting others be the center of attention while her presence was a canopy over the good spirit of the occasion. She was the straight person to the group’s jokesters, until we began to talk about the bodily functions of humans and other animals, which was her own comedy routine.

January 15, 2012

Three hours after I wrote those paragraphs, Heather died. We wept together, made our phone calls, and began to reminisce. What kept coming up was how present she was to us all. She connected with everyone in ways that are fast becoming better understood.

I think that with good people they leave behind some virtue that won’t die, renewing in others the better part of our nature. Time will tell what we name as what Heather left us, for she is certainly one of those virtuous souls. What’s immediately being affirmed is that, as my brother, Don, her husband, said, “Heather didn’t know how to hate anything.” Or as daughter Rebecca said, “My mother was the best mother anyone could have, and no one didn’t like her.” Though we often speak in the negative when struggling with intense grief, maybe what we’ll eventually say will be “Heather loved everyone and all of life, and everyone loved her.”

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FATHER’S DAY 2011

Today is Father’s Day—a good day to write about my sons.

Just like me and my brothers, my sons are so very different from one another, and so very alike. Both are tall. Both can’t very well hide when they enter a room full of people. Both are good athletes and love hard physical work and being outdoors.viagra Both are very smart and have charisma that is unmistakable. Both are obvious leaders.

They are so different, too. One leads from an amazing grasp of what is happening and what needs to be done and is unusually articulate; the other leads from uncanny intuition with few words and guiltless assertiveness. One is powerful; one is nimble and quick. One dreams of making a difference in the social systems we live in; the other dreams of success in the work systems he is part of. One struggles with pressures from very high standards; the other struggles with his own fun-loving shadow.

They give me hope for what’s ahead, not only for them, but also for the many people they do and will influence.

I was fortunate to resolve conflicts with my father (real and imagined) and develop a friendship with him that is still alive and well. Now I’m participating in the development of a similar friendship with my sons. It is wonderful. It’s based mostly on mutual respect and appreciation, but it’s not much about equality. I will never have that intuitive leadership ability or grasp of the whole picture and ability to make complicated things seem simple. I’ll never have their power or nimbleness. They’ll probably never play guitar like me, either. Who cares, though? What was mostly resolved between me and my father was that childish (on my part) competitiveness with him, and I sense the same resolution going on from my sons towards me. What I am beginning to resolve is my illusion of parental superiority. The more I let go of the inclination to advise, the more available I am to them as a pure friend and admirer.

Maybe it’s because we’re so close; maybe because we are father and sons, that this essay isn’t really about my sons. It’s about me and them.

I’m a fortunate father!

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Why Does A Therapist Need Personal Therapy?

Chris O’Rear, Director of the Pastoral Counseling Centers of Tennessee (Nashville) recently invited me to discuss my book, Building the Therapeutic Sanctuary with them. One question poised to me was particularly stimulating to my thinking. A man who has extensive experience in pastoral care, training groups, and significant experience as a pastoral counselor said, “You write that one requirement for becoming a good pastoral counselor is that one have a few years of personal therapy. I haven’t been in personal therapy. What do you think of that?”

The thoughts I shared with him are that there are two benefits of personal therapy that cannot be easily duplicated in any other way. One is that personal therapy accelerates maturation and wisdom significantly. It is a fascinating ride through some amazing internal landscape. With a good therapist, exploring the self and one’s vocational calling is like hiking the Sierra Nevada Mountains with the great explorer John Muir. You can see the mountains on your own, but think of what you would learn from Muir!

The other is that if you’ve ever made the initial call for therapeutic help, you will not forget how difficult and humbling that call is. Correlated to that humility is how liberating it is to cross the threshold from humiliation to humility. Therapy offers a lot more than just humility, but the humility inherent in the asking for help and the subsequent open confession might liberate us in ways little else can. At its best, therapy is a dramatic and unique experience of faith and grace. It keeps even the most expert therapist humble and thereby makes that therapist better.

A reason I thought of later is that personal therapy teaches us to ask a question that doesn’t come naturally to most of us: what’s my part in this relationship mess? That is a crucial question in what I believe is the second phase of therapy. The first phase in therapy is problem-solving. Most counselees can get a handle on their presenting problem in four to six sessions. Most stop at that point, and there’s nothing wrong with quitting therapy after solving a problem. Some, however, decide to explore more deeply. They begin to ask why they developed the problem in the first place. This investigation inevitably deepens the relationship with the therapist, and before long, the very problem they came in to solve will be recreated in the therapeutic relationship. Almost always, the relationship between the therapist and the counselee gets stuck. It is the therapist’s personal therapy experience that offers the best way out, for personal therapy encourages the therapist to investigate not just the counselee’s part in the impasse, but also to investigate his or her part in it.

Another way of understanding this is common with me. Sometimes I get totally infuriated with certain politicians. Because I created a new instinct within myself through personal therapy, I notice when I cross a line between valid criticism and over-determined rage. I stop myself and ask other questions than just “How can that politician be so outrageous?” I ask, “Am I upset about something else as well?” “Is the politician a personal scapegoat for some unresolved issue of my own?” As I sort out my stuff from the politician’s stuff, I sharpen not only my valid criticism of the politician, but also insight into my own life.

Pastoral counseling hinges on a willingness to ask the harder question: what’s my part, my hang-up, in these difficulties? This is the insight question—the insight quest—that helps our counselees search for deeper meanings, solutions, and relationships. It is a quest that is profoundly reinforced by personal therapy for the therapist.

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Foundations of Pastoral Counseling

In August I will be teaching a class entitled “Pastoral Counseling Foundations.” To prepare I’ve been reading three of the books that were central in my early development as a pastoral counselor: John Patton’s Pastoral Counseling: A Ministry of the Church, James Hillman’s InSearch: Psychology and Religion, and my own book, Building the Therapeutic Sanctuary.

To my surprise I’ve re-discovered the deep wisdom that first attracted me to Patton and Hillman, and found my own book (alas) grossly sub-par in comparison.

With regard to my own book, perhaps it’s normal to look back at my opinions and ideas from 12 years ago and see it from a new perspective—one that makes it seem shallow. Sometimes that feels right, for it might be that I’ve deepened, but it also is a little embarrassing to read some of what I once wrote. Oh, well!

I re-read Hillman’s book first and it reminded me of the essence of the task of any pastoral counselor: the inward search. There is a primary reason one seeks counseling help that goes beyond the initial “help me solve this problem.” We also seek wisdom, and the pastoral counselor is a human embodiment of the wise person archetype—the grandparent-like wise one we idealize. We want some of what he or she seems to have. That is why it is so important for the pastoral counselor to spend his or her life searching inward for wisdom, acceptance of self, and divine presence.

John Patton’s book has been important to me for two reasons. First is that he expresses perspectives on pastoral counselor that have been essential in my professional formation, particularly his emphasis on the counseling relationship as central to healing—he calls it “relational humanness.” Second is because he’s one of my favorite pastoral counseling friends—a man I am honored to know, care for, and even play music with. He is in many ways for me the wise old man, and he’s a mere friend—a human being whom I can argue with and see as flawed like me. My friendship with him is an embodiment of relational humanness.

I can say more clearly now who I am vocationally. Perhaps what I say will apply to other pastoral counselors, but all I know is what I can say about myself right now. I am a pastoral counselor who seeks to field requests for help by being skilled in psychotherapy that can solve problems, and who also seeks to create a relational environment that provides the kind of sanctuary that allows for openness, vulnerability, courage, compassion, and the quest for wisdom that enables us to live a full life.

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Tribute to Joan Kelly: Teacher, Dancer, Artist

We’ve lost a giant among us, and she didn’t know that we knew it.

I met Joan while she was an art teacher in the Memphis City Schools. My wife, the school’s librarian, who has an eye for good educators, spoke highly of Joan. Though I only knew Joan for about a dozen years, I really saw her talents at contra dances and in her developing art.

Joan Kelly”s stature was evident when she would light up a dance floor with her grace and giggle. She loved to dance, and anyone who learned to dance well quickly learned that she was one of the best. Plus she had passed along that grace, quick response, and light-footed touch to her daughter, Erin. When those two were nearby on the dance floor, it was special—for Erin was so special to Joan, and vice versa.

We saw Joan grow up as a caller. She applied that teaching experience and ploughed through those three familiar stages of calling: joyful playfulness, irritation with those who keep messing up the normal flow of the dance, then the acceptance of a seasoned caller coupled with clarity and authority. When Joan took her turn as our caller, we could expect the best dances of the evening.

We saw it in her participation in the choir her brother leads at Balmoral Presbyterian Church where she found community that embraced her wonderful contributions.

We saw it in her progress as a wood-turner. Those early simple, beautiful bowls had evolved into complex, magnetic pieces of art. All those years of artistic expression were finding a medium she was mastering.

Alas, the very medium that had become home for her blossoming expression betrayed her. Working with a difficult piece of cedar, it exploded from the lathe and killed her in the prime of her creative life. The consolation is that she died doing what she loved.

The tragedy is that she left us wondering what more she would have done and created, and, though she felt loved by many, she somehow felt underappreciated and unrecognized. We now know that the gratefulness for her gifts that are so talked about as she passes on, were just on the verge of the recognition and honor she deserved. She lived a wonderful life.

Her legacy might be contained in a query: why not work on the most complex and difficult pieces so that our creativity is a deeper expression of life, love, and God? That’s what she was doing at the point of her death, exclaiming to Ernest minutes before the accident that it was the most difficult wood she’d worked with.

It took two weeks for that chunk to fully take her life, during which time we circled together in a dance of love and sadness that some felt was being called by Joan—she saved the last dance for all of her friends and family.

Joan Kelly, our loved one, died in her blossoming years at 59. We miss her.

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Cat Nip

Cat Nip

I have a confession to make.

Our oldest cat, Crisco (who is snow white), was bugging us constantly up until a month ago. She was overweight, weak, shedding, and pulling out her hair, leaving our house and clothes cluttered with cat hair. She wasn’t affectionate, either, so if I petted her I might get bitten.

A month ago she ran outside—she had been an indoor-outdoor cat and still went out for a little bit from time to time. This time she didn’t return, and, frankly, I was relieved. I gave her up for dead or adopted by some animal rescuer.

Yesterday morning as I walked to my car to drive to work, I found myself saying a prayer for our animals, thinking particularly about Crisco. That night I came home late from work and heard meowing on our neighbor’s roof. It was Crisco. At first I thought, “Oh, no. I was not really missing her.” But I did my duty, climbed up on the roof, and brought her down and into our house. I was shocked at how much lighter she was, how dirty she was, how old she seemed, and how obviously relieved she was to be in my arms and in our home. I was just as surprised at how happy I’ve been to have her back home.

I told Susan today of my joy, and she said I ought to feel some guilt over how happy I acted with her departure. I laughed and said I’m just not one to feel very guilty over animals. So my confession is not that I wanted Crisco gone, it’s that until yesterday and today I didn’t know how much I care about her.

In fact, I think she might be about to die, which I’m not afraid of. What I’m most happy about is that the death I imagined—hit by a car, mangled by a dog—didn’t happen. She will probably die in our care now.

I wish she could tell us how she lived for a month with little food, little quickness or strength. I asked my neighbor if he has noticed critters in his attic. He had, thinking it was a squirrel.

My prayer had been answered, but in a different way than I imagined. The answer was that I really did care, and I’m glad she’s back, even if it is to die.

Postscript: Around the first of October, Crisco began to grow progressively weaker She stopped eating and drinking completely on October 8. By October 11 she could walk about 10 feet before lying back down to rest. Everytime I touched her, though, she purred. Finally, on October 12 she crawled into our pantry, and as I placed towels around her to help her feel comfortable and even more confined in the small, dark space, she faintly purred. Susan and I shared a tearful prayer later before going to sleep. That night she died.