Goals

The internship experience continues interesting and frustrating and clarifying.  Two-thirds through I name my goals.  Two-thirds through I find out that being available MWTh 1-9:30 PM doesn*t mean exactly that I need to be there MWTh 1-9:30 PM.  I was reminded by another intern: Remember you*re an intern.  You*re not being paid for this.  I, of course, have not been paid for a lot of what I do, and was treating intern time like I do any commitment I have made, paid or not.  Now, two-thirds through, I find that it means: Let them know when I won*t be there.  So now I have Monday evenings with my daughter.  A gift.

Two-thirds through the internship

I compile goals.

They have bullet points to match

All the pieces I have already done

With one or two yet to do.

I would not have known

The particular ways of the halfway house

Before I began.

At the beginning, I was asked

Do you have anything in particular

You would like to do?

I said

I*d like to learn whatever I can

About how this place works.

When you don*t know the particulars

It*s hard to know which particular things

Are there.

I did not expect I would eat dinner

Three nights a week

With the guys.

I did not expect ten minutes

Of gratefulness every Wednesday.

I did not expect

Two-thirds through

That I would be so clear

About next steps.

Bubble wrap

Yesterday I received a gift.  It came layered with reasons I did not agree with... at all.   Thankfully I was able to unwrap the reasons more rapidly than usual (there are a lot of ways to measure growth!), and receive the gift for what it was: Monday evenings with my daughter.   Jeff began his fall term yesterday, and he teaches Monday nights.  So it*s me and Sawyer.  I*m glad.  Oh, and I love popping bubble wrap.

Gifts can arrive in unusual packages.

Sometimes we only see them as gifts

When we unwrap them.

Sometimes the gift itself

Is the bubble wrap.

Yesterday I received Monday evenings

With my daughter.

First I had to separate the layers

Of packing,

The reasons given

Why I might want to take things

More slowly,

Reasons

Which really had very little to do

With me.

Then I had to remove the bubble wrap.

I am reminded of the little girl

Who found the backyard

Full of dung,

And simply knew

There was a pony someplace.

Yesterday, under the bubble wrap,

I received Monday evenings

With my daughter.

Better than any pony.

We will eat dinner together,

Do homework,

Watch the sun set,

Play with the cat,

Go to bed.

That*s about it,

until ballet classes start.

Monday evenings

With my daughter.

Better than bubble wrap.

Week expected to begin in pleasant fashion

It feels a bit like fall.  Yesterday, driving to church, we noticed the light has begun its re-angling toward fall.  Lake Street looked, well, fall-ish.  I understand that new journalists cut their eyeteeth on headlines, obituaries and weather and the like, hidden in the back of the newspaper.  This headline cuts its losses (expected, pleasant fashion) but it is hopeful nonetheless.  And this morning is indeed proving it true.

Ah

The forecast for Monday

In the Midwest.

This is the headline news

On the last page of Nation and World

In the Sunday paper.

I open the front and back doors

This morning

To let the pleasantness

blow through.

I imagine the new person

At the newspaper

Gets to write

The weather headlines.

Or maybe it*s a reward

For being at the paper so long

The chance to offer hope

For the beginning

Of the week.

Fluffy

This morning, sitting at the welcome table outside the front doors of St. Mark*s, Glen Ellyn,  Ken and I waited with brochures and water bottles and yearly schedules to hand out to new people.  St. Mark*s is bigger than most churches I have belonged to or served as a priest.  On occasion I have an ache for smallness, and the community smallness brings.  Everyone knowing everyone else.  I have served two communities with prayer boards and erasable markers available for everyone to use, to name their own prayer concerns.  Sometimes outside groups, like AA or Al-Anon, added people or concerns to the list, and we*d include them in the bulletin.  Sometimes the prayer shawl knitters who met in the narthex would knit the prayers into the shawls they were making, the prayer board being right behind their chairs, and the nametag board on the other side.  We even prayed for pets who had died.  I am reminded we always welcome people, and pray for people, just as God sees people: one at a time.

This morning I sat at the welcome table

Outside

In the cool morning breeze.

I read the lessons before coming

To church.

This morning

In the cool morning breeze

I knew again

That I miss smallness.

I miss the prayer boards

Of at least two congregations.

Members wrote their prayer concerns,

The date,

Their initials.

When even a pet died,

Fluffy was added to the prayer board.

People gathered around,

Talked about what a shame

To lose Fluffy.

It was not the time or place

To wonder whether God embraced

Dead pets.

We simply knew any loss

On the prayer board

Was a loss.

God cared about it

And so did we.

Today in the cool breeze

I talked with my welcome table partner,

Realized I missed smallness:

Everyone knowing everyone else

Remembering all the grandparents and parents

The small and large griefs,

Fluffy on the prayer board

And most people knowing

Who Fluffy was.

God waited

Today we hear about the burning bush.  Another of God*s miracles in the desert, like rocks flowing water, like manna and quail.  I think the real miracle was that Moses gave his full undivided attention, and that God waited to speak.

When God got Moses* attention

With the flame in the bush,

He waited for his curiosity

To kick in:

Why is that bush not disintegrating

Into an ash heap?

God told Moses to prepare,

To take off his shoes,

To ground himself.

This was something big.

God waited to deliver the message

Until he had Moses*

Full undivided

attention.

I write to remember

I am increasingly intrigued by memoirs.  

I just re-read Ian Cron*s achingly beautiful awful God-filled memoir (Jesus, My Father, the CIA, and Me: a memoir... of sorts)  Earlier this month I read Jennifer Grant*s new book Love You More, which honors herself and her family with grace and truth.  

Both of these memoirs carry redemption between their covers.  I am awed.

I write to remember what I see, so I won*t  forget. I write to piece things together hopefully with room to breathe in between the lines.

I write to remember

What I see

What I saw.

I write to hold some of it

in words

So I don*t forget,

Don*t lose myself in pretending

It never happened,

God never spoke in words

Or even the still small voice

That echoes.

I write not to forget.

Today is different somehow

And the same;

Today, as yesterday,

 God still speaks.

I write to remember this,

Catalogue the still small voice

Me at the mouth of the cave

Still afraid,

But watching

Listening

Still writing.

Complications

All in all this is a reasonable start to the day.  Unplanned, yes, a little complicated, yes, but I find myself glad the busdriver (Bob) was a minute late today.  Today*s serendipity got an early start.  I*ve had my oatmeal and am halfway through the venti nonfat latte.  The weather is lovely.  Today I can choose what to do.  There will probably be no earthquakes or hurricanes or tidal waves to contend with.  I say probably.  The East Coast was not expecting that earthquake.  They have warning about the hurricane.  

Everything is complicated.

At least this

Is what we tell ourselves,

When the school bus is a minute early

After being two minutes late

Yesterday.

I am the designated morning parent.

Jeff does late night.

Everything is complicated

I handle morning complications;

Jeff handles

The complications

In the dark.

It*s a matter of choosing

Which complications

To live with

Which ones to divvy out

Which ones to pretend

We never even saw.

This morning

The bus one minute late,

I rolled out of bed

Realized early the lovely coolness of today,

Drove the girl to school

Came home the back way

Through Starbucks

Oatmeal with everything

A latte from the same smiling woman

At the drive-thru window.

Complications with added routine,

Noticed the lovely coolness

Earlier than I would have

If the bus had been on time.

It*s a matter

Of choosing.

Prognosis

The education continues (always).  I guess I understand the need for prognosis, but really, even with a good sense of discernment and observation, I am wrong often enough in my predictions to give me pause.  After all, my own prognosis changes from day to day.

Monday I wrote a treatment plan

For someone who left treatment

Later that day.

Yesterday

I wrote the discharge summary,

Including the prognosis.

At dinner one of the counselors said

He wished we could discharge

In three sentences:

He left.

He did (well/ not so well/poorly)

In treatment.

We expect (good/not so good/disastrous) things

In the future.

He said

That should be enough.

Really

That should be enough.

Homeland Security

My last class (I think) at College of DuPage is in the new Homeland Security Building.  Oddly, the forensics lab has a wall of windows.  That and plastic hoods at every lab station.  I wonder what they will do in there.  We get the room with the CPR dummies.

Every Tuesday at 5

The substance abuse internship class meets

In the new Homeland Security Building

Next to the Forensics lab

On the second floor.

There are special spots

In the parking lot

For fuel-efficient cars,

Next to handicapped parking.

I guess it*s a reward

Of sorts.

We meet in the room lined on the edge

With CPR dummies

Just in case we need

To practice.

Maybe this

Is a reward of sorts

As well.

There are no windows in this room

No glass to break

No distraction of the outside

Except the line-up

Of CPR dummies

In case we have to practice.

Social worker

Growing up I used to ride the city bus in Minneapolis and try to figure out peoples* stories. I had read Louise Fitzhugh*s Harriet the Spy, and was thoroughly enamored.  Harriet was my hero.   Back then there weren*t cell phones and overheard conversations to give me clues.  I rode the bus with absolutely fascinating people with whom I never talked.   Yesterday I ate lunch with two sisters who looked about ten years older than me.  After lunch and this conversation I kept looking at what I was wearing to see what said social worker.  I never did figure it out.

I had never seen her before.

She invited me to sit at her table

In the crowded sandwich shop.

Book in hand

I had figured to go back to the office

And eat.

Joined by her sister,

They planned a fundraising event

For an animal shelter

In South Elgin.

When asked, I said I had an office

In Glen Ellyn.

In a few more sentences

The question came

What do you do?

Oh I*m a therapist

I said.

The woman nodded

I figured a social worker

She said.

Really?  I look like a social worker?

Oh, she said

I*m a retired VA nurse,

You look like a lot of the social workers

I used to work with.

I realized,

In the middle of Panera,

Just how much I prize

Anonymity,

The slide under the radar

In public places.

With this woman

I may as well have worn a sign

On my head.

I*m an Episcopal priest, as well,

I said.

Now that I never would have guessed,

That I never would have guessed.

All three of us

Laughed.

Why work with people? At all?

One of the other interns I work with said yesterday that he wanted to be an addictions counselor because of the light that goes on when someone understands why they can*t go back to using.  It was a hard day yesterday.  Two group members left the program, both a surprise to me.  Sometimes I think I can tell who will make it this time, and who won*t.  I can*t.  It is humbling.  Still I am hopeful.  More humble, still hopeful.  It*s not just alcoholics and addicts or the mentally ill that fit in this category.  I know it*s me and everyone I know.   I know we can do things to nurture things along, but it*s up to the individual grabbing on that*s important.  Until then, we throw seeds willy nilly, and God holds the sparkle until we*re ready, each of us, to grab on.

It*s when you catch that look in their eyes

And you know they get it

He says.

I think of seeds planted,

Which ones grow

The exact right spot for germination

Which can never be determined

By us,

So we cast seeds willy nilly,

On rock and loam,

In the veritable desert.

We look to see the particular sparkle:

It says

A little more water here,

A windbreak there,

Put this one

Under a growlight.

Even

This one is best nurtured

In the light of the moon and stars.

We can only wait to catch

That look in their eyes,

Even knowing

This time may only begin

The sparkle

God holds the rest of it safe

Until the eyes and heart

Are ready.

They come and go and go again

It seems to be the time of moving, late summer, early fall.   Erik and Naomi stopped on their way from Baltimore to Minneapolis.  Naomi starts grad school in a couple weeks.  Erik will find a job.  They stopped  long enough to eat dinner, talk a little, sleep and go again.  We left the dishes, staked the cactus, watched them go, waved them on.  We will wave them back anytime.

I am reminded:

They come and go

And go again.

Arrive for dinner,

Leave before breakfast.

Dishes left in the sink

Sheets now folded

In the living room.

They come and go

And go again.

Rescued from the back of the truck:

The cactus,

Staked with pencils and string,

Will travel in front.

They come and go

And go again.

Of course they do.

The cactus is now

In the front seat

Staked and stringed

Safer there.

They come and go

And go again.

Of course.

Who do you say that I am?

We are given a  lot of places to recognize Jesus.  The opportunities are endless.  I used to preach every Sunday in a variety of pulpits.  Now I have a daily discipline of writing what I notice on a blog.  I recognize this discipline may change over time.  Today, as it happens, I am home from church with a cold.  My husband and daughter are ushering, then assisting in the nursery.  My son is coming through with a U-Haul tonight, moving from Maryland to Minnesota.  It will be good to have him closer.  We are given a lot of places and times to recognize Jesus.  Like this morning, sitting in the blue chair, reading what everyone else is hearing this morning in church.  The opportunities are endless.

Who do you say that I am?

It*s the question of the day.

Today Peter gets it right

For once.

Jeff and I saw Cowboys and Aliens last night.

On the sidewalk outside the theater

A group of young men gathered.

The aliens were simply not believable

One said.

To linger would have been obvious,

So we didn*t.

Over ice cream we wondered

About believable aliens.

We decided aliens were usually slimy

Or scaly,

On occasion, robotic.

You are the Messiah, the Son of God.

This time Peter gets it right.

Peter, encouraged to walk on water

Tried it

And sank.

Of course he is the one who denies Jesus

Three times.

Even then Jesus knew

It would take Peter three denials

Finally to realize the Truth again.

You are the Messiah, the Son of God.

I saw Jesus in the parking lot yesterday.

He looked like anyone and everyone.

He sleeps at a different church

Every night.

He sat at a picnic table in the shade,

Parked his bike out of the sun.

Yesterday, to me,

He was believable.

Picnic table

When I left the church this afternoon, there was a man on a bike in the parking lot.  He had his possessions strapped to the back of the bike, a well-worn Bible on top.  We talked.  And talked.  And talked.  Could he sit at the picnic table?  The picnic table always seems to be in a different place.  After we moved it into the shade, I pictured it being moved time and again into the shade, Jesus sitting there regularly.

I met Jesus this afternoon

Just outside the church.

He rode his bike in the parking lot

Said he was spending tonight

At Wheaton Bible.

He went through detox three times

Years ago

Before he found Jesus.

His scripture verses all lined up

King James.

It stopped him from drinking

Again.

I met Jesus

Homeless this afternoon.

We moved the picnic table,

He and I,

Into the shade

So he had room

Out of the sun.

Tonight he will be Wheaton Bible.

Tomorrow the Congregational Church.

Now

The picnic table

Outside the church

In the shade.

I always find the picnic table moved

To a different place.

Now I know

Jesus sits there

In the shade.

At the picnic table

There is room.

Decisions

I awoke this morning to take my daughter to cross country practice.  I am, after all, more of a morning person than my husband.  I*ll pick her up in few minutes.  With a head still cold-muddled, I will only make decisions which have no far-reaching consequences.  Of course, how I decide which decisions those are is up for grabs.  Corn and 7 AM and spot-cleaning seem safe enough.

It is the better part of sense

To make big decisions

When my head is clear

And things piece together

In a semblance of order.

Today is a day

For small decisions:

Where to buy sweet corn,

Who gets to drive the young woman

To cross country practice

At 7 AM,

 Divvying up the house for spot cleaning

Because our son stops through for the night

Tomorrow.

Today?

Small decisions.

Corn and 7 AM and spot cleaning,

An appointment at 2.

Definitely a nap

Before dinner.

Silver Queen

How do you tell when you*ve had a good nap?  I figure waking up with sweet corn on my mind is a sign.

I woke up from the nap,

Realized I have not had sweet corn

At all

This summer.

I figure I must have needed

The sleep

To wake up with sweet corn

On my mind.

Tomorrow begins the search

For Silver Queen

In the western suburbs.

The old stand closed a year ago

When the field grew monster houses.

Tomorrow we search for

Silver Queen

Even though I understand

There are new varieties

To take its place.

Varieties

With less romantic names.

Finally an end to the week

It*s finally the end of the week.  This week has been longer than others.  Some weeks, it seems, expand.  Add a cold and decongestants and switching roles and scenarios multiple times, and even knowing how and what to count becomes a challenge.  I declare this to be The End.  Tomorrow?  Something new.  Now I am finished with my first milkshake in weeks, and a nap beckons..

Finally it is the end of the week.

Of course it depends

On where I start counting

And what counts

As an end.

All week I reflected things back

To clients

Saw myself in their eyes

Mirrored.

All week we reflected each other

Until we couldn’t name

Where it started.

It seems this is empathy.

Finally it is Friday

Breakfast with a friend

Noon in the rowboat,

Safely docked by one o*clock, sharp.

Finally an end to the week

Only a glimmer to what next week

Will bring.

But now

An end,

A milkshake (vanilla),

And a nap.

That exact order

Poet or no poet

There is change at the halfway house.  Guys come and guys go.  Sometimes they move into the recovery home, sometimes they move out on their own, sometimes they make it a week, sometimes it*s simply not time for them to be at the halfway house... a variety of reasons... really.  Friday the poet moves on.  He has always made sure I did not stack my own chair, or put it up on the table after community meeting.  Last night someone else from group grabbed my chair.  The poet laughed.  The other guy from group said Someone needs to do it.  It know it is not a small thing.  Not small at all.  Still, I only know a little of what it means.

This morning I wake grateful

With the cat at my feet,

No appointments to keep

Until this afternoon.

Grateful

Only somewhat awake

There are no appointments.

I won*t need to speak

Until 1:00.

I spoke with the poet yesterday.

He wrote in prison,

Letters and poems for the guys

Who couldn*t write

Letters and poems for girlfriends.

He says he did not write

In the halfway house,

Because there he has a cell phone.

The poet always flanked me

In group.

Now I think maybe

I flanked him.

Last night another group member

Made sure to take care

Of my chair after the community meeting.

The poet smiled and laughed.

I will see who flanks me

Next week in group

After the poet has moved on.

I will see who has been designated

For me to flank

Next week.

Now that I have a morning

Without speaking,

I can see the possibility

It has all been determined

Already.

Poet or no poet.

The Hand (for Rich)

It*s amazing to me how certain things come back.  Yesterday I found myself sitting with a client and holding up my hand to demonstrate how to give sandwich feedback, a la Rich Butman, my psychopathology professor at Wheaton (thank you, Rich!).  It*s been almost two years now since I took that class.  I will always remember The Hand.  Now I use it myself.

Yesterday I held up my hand

Fingers spread

Demonstrated to a client

How to give feedback

That might conceivably be heard.

I showed how to sandwich the edges of concern

With the strength that surrounds them.

I held up my hand.

The client

Sometimes easily distracted

Commented on my strong life line:

The lines on your hand

Look like a tree.

Yesterday I held up my right hand

With the tree on the palm.

I showed the thumb, middle finger and pinkie

As strength,

The pointer and ring finger

In need of help,

But still held up on all sides

With strength.

Yesterday I demonstrated

The Hand

The metaphor which is most always

Available.

More crumbs

Even the dogs eat the crumbs from under their master*s table.  The Canaanite woman has decided to move in with me this week.  In my office, at the halfway house.  She demands healing.

The Canaanite woman has decided

To inhabit my office.

Whenever I think I know

Who is mine to serve,

She shows up

Live and in person.

She lives and breathes,

Demands new possibilities.

She stands, sits, kneels before me.

She asks a lot of questions.

She smashes any neat order I have found.

At my internship site another intern says

Remember you are not being paid for this.

My husband has determined

He loves this other intern.

Even though it is a halfway house for men

Even though I am not being paid,

The Canaanite woman lives there too

She demands new possibilities.

She knows there is healing there.

She demands

That the Truth be spoken.

Enough crunchies

What causes the cat*s brain to worry about where his next meal is coming from... especially the brain of an indoor cat? Sure, we*re not so good at cleaning his cat box, but he is not worried about that.  No, it*s when the bowl of dry crunchies gets low.  He stares... like it will miraculously fill.  Of course, his thought/worry waves radiate through the house, and his humans respond.  

When there are two mouthfuls of crunchies

Left In his dish

The cat gets worried.

He paces, then stares

At his dish

Like it will miraculously fill

To the brim.

He gazes beseechingly

At the bowl.

The cat food bag is full in the pantry.

We try to help him

Cut down on his intake.

He is, after all, a very large and gray tabby.

It seems he has memories

Of not enough

Never enough.

It*s not even that he eats it all

When it*s there.

We adopted him years ago now.

He runs to his dish every time someone

Walks to the kitchen.

It seems he thinks someone

Will forget to feed him

This time.

Sometimes

Even though I didn*t live through the Depression

Even though we had no balls of extra string,

All the bits tied together;

Even though we all sat down to dinner every night,

then played Kick the Can until dark,

Or Ghosts at Midnight;

Even though my bed was there waiting,

Food lined up in the fridge for snacks,

Homemade popsicles in the freezer.

Sometimes I think,

Watching the cat,

This time there won*t be enough

Of whatever it is,

Food?  Love?  Sleep?

Sometimes I remember,

Watching the cat,

How hard it is to remember:

There is.

Dogs and crumbs

Sometimes Scripture does not paint Jesus in the best light.  Today was one of those days in church.  Today Jesus showed himself in need of healing, I think.  The Canaanite woman showed him the way.

Today Jesus behaved abominably.

He called the Canaanite woman

A cur.

She held on for the ride,

Spoke his metaphor back to him,

Dogs and crumbs.

She knelt and found what she looked for

Her daughter healed.

And Jesus was healed,

With his very own metaphor

Tossed at his feet.

May our streets be lined

With Canaanite women.

May they pour from the alleyways,

Beg for healing for their daughters and sons.

May they use the language we speak

Unknowing

The very metaphors we use

To set ourselves apart.

So we too

May be healed.

Morning crickets

Sitting in my writing chair this morning it seemed the crickets would be asleep by now.  I think of them singing at night.  They seem to think this morning needs accompaniment.  Of course maybe they do this most mornings and I simply haven*t noticed.  One of the many things I didn*t notice before.  I*ve heard people comment on how loud the cicadas were this year.  I wonder if we only think they*re louder because somehow other years we weren*t paying attention.  Maybe crickets always sing on August summer mornings, but I only listen to them, really, at night, as I lie in bed, windows open..  There*s usually more to do during the day than listen to crickets, or grasshoppers.  Cicadas, of course, demand attention.

Full morning light and the crickets

Still sing.

I thought they only sang

In the dark,

When no one could see,

In private

To the stars.

Seven lines into this,

They stop.

Really

At 8:21 AM,

They stop

Period.

They must have sensed me

Listening.

Then 8:22 AM,

They start

Again.

They may as well

Because

I won*t stop listening.

Full light and they still sing

No matter who can see

No matter who is awake

No matter that the stars

Have completely disappeared

And the sun is already

In full morning shine.