Mutterings and Ramblings

Fr. Doug is about to return to the parish from his vacation to Mexico which means that I am about to start discernment and training to be more involved- lay eucharistic ministry and lay reading were definately mentioned. But now that the time for considering discernment comes closer, I find myself ill prepared to speak aloud about my beliefs and callings. Its not, I think, that they are weak as much as I am not able to fully articulate them.
I know I was put on this earth to make a difference. Not a big one, I don't have the huge dreams I did when I was a teen. I want to make a geranium's difference. Small, not immediately noticable. But one whose effects last in the manner of a habit. Again I am not explaining myself well. Geraniums are those hearty flowers that are unloved in the gardening world. They don't smell like a rose, aren't flashy, and are common. You see them everywhere. My grandmother's house wouldn't be the same without the rows of geraniums out front baking slowly in the San Antonio August heat and humidity. The broad, fuzzy leaves giving off the hot and slightly spicy aroma of dirt and ozone somehow mixed together. You see them everywhere in Texas. Mainly because you can forget to water them, forget to bring them in out of the direct summer sun that melts the asphalt into goo, forget them utterly- and yet, when you do remember them they are still there, patiently waiting for you. All it takes is a bit of water and pinching a few leaves and the plant blooms vibrantly. Those are my aspirations now. For my life's work to be painted quietly in the background. Something reliable that produces vibrancy. Something that makes the parish home.
Three years ago, I joined the ECUSA. My first church welcomed me with open arms. Of course, they didn't realize I was a wolf in sheep's clothing. I was the social liberal in the most conservative church in town. As my lamb's wool slowly peeled back through the time I was with them, they welcomed me as I was. I felt I served a purpose in the parish as the in house "voice of reason". When rheteric became too heated I would stand and speak as quietly and calmly as I could, despite the fact that sometimes my insides shook with anger. Sometimes I was effective, sometimes perhaps not. However, I do believe I made people think. A small consilation perhaps.
Anyway, time moves as it will, and now I am no longer a high school science teacher. I moved away from West Texas and returned to school to become a nurse and, eventually, a nurse practioner. I found myself skipping from one church to another looking for someplace I could be comfortable. I finally found in at St. Paul's. Despite the fact that for the last two years I had developed the repeated and ever present desire to become a deacon, I felt like I lost my position in the church. What is the point of the "voice of reason" in a place where you agree with the social policies? Why argue for more outreach in a place full of outreach? And nursing was just as pointless. I knew I didn't want to work in a hospital, so what could I do with my life to really make a difference? I finally found it on a course held in Chinle, Arizona. There were whole populations out there whose health services were nonexistant. And they aren't all in distant places. In fact, some are right outside our parish door. In a conversation with the dean, who headed up the course, I found myself trying to explain how I felt a need to serve them. It was she who led me into parish nursing and faith based community nursing. I had a point again. And I was ready to go with it.
There is still a long path. There are still hurdles. But its hard to live life, for me at least, without a goal. Having a goal colors all that I do, gives even the most pointless tasks at nursing school a reason other then "because they told me to". Perhaps this is a move that serves myself more then others. That is something I hope to discover during the course of the year. And, of course, the bishop may decide not to create a deaconate program at all. That is all in the hand's of another. I only pray that I am wise enough to know which path to take and when to take it.
If anyone has read this, which I doubt. First I apologise ahead. I should have placed a boring tag and a warning to stay away. And second, this is nothing more then me trying to get my head around things my heart already knows.

"And then he said....."

Who hasn't felt the pent up, about to explode feeling? Who hasn't felt the need to let it all out to friends, family, strangers in the grocery line, or telemarketers?
"How am I? I'll tell you how I am!"

And afterwards, we are supposed to feel good again, right? The letting off of a bit of steam- or a lot- just allows those feelings to go away, right? Apparently, maybe not so much.

MSNBC

According to some research venting might not be the cure for mending our broken hearts, stress filled heads or oh-he's-done-me-wrongs. Dwelling on the negative does not appear to be a postive. We spend all of our time concentrating on what we did wrong, what they should have done and its just not fair. All of those insecurities and doubts just seem confirmed by excessive venting because at some point venting becomes obsession. We begin to go over the same events and conversations over and over, ruminating on them and continuously cycling through should haves and could haves. In short, we took a good thing in moderation and over did.

Its hard not to, really. After all, we've been insulted and just plain done wrong! The other party is clearly, clearly in the wrong. And they never liked us anyway. And they dress poorly. And they smell funny.

Familiar?

If you're a member in even moderate standing of the Episcopal Church USA, then it ought to be. We've been bombarded from left and right. The conservatives are rude, bigotted and skismatics. The liberals are loudmouths and, well, liberal! Each side is constantly venting at us through media, internet blogs and even pulpits. We are in the middle of two parties talking too quickly and too loudly to listen. Not to eachother and certainly not to themselves. Each side has painted the other in colors too dark and attitudes to bilious to be believed. Where once there was tolerance, now there is only two backs turned towards eachother.

And the people left in the middle. Where once there existed a fulcrum between the two sides, now there is nothing. Or perhaps it is still there, waiting for the extremes to acknowledge it once again. I fear for ourselves and for many in our country. We have become so polarized of late. Where once compromise was considered a good outcome of debate now its a four letter word. I fear that in our course of venting, we have only succeeding in becoming obsessed.