A True Obituary for Pearl Collura

She came out crying, as most babies do, on the Thursday morning of October 11, 1923. She was the fifth of 10 children that survived. Her mother grieved losing three children that could not thrive in a world without fetal medicine, constant clean water, or antibiotics.

Men would cheer in the pubs that evening after Babe Ruth hit 2 home runs in a World Series game. But the German mark would fall from 10 Billion per pound to four billion per dollar. No one knew then that Germany’s troubles would lay the foundations of another World War, one that would take this babies‘ husband and her brothers away from her years later. They didn’t even know that they would experience a recession the likes that America had never seen just 6 years later. For the 1920s, things were as they ought to be. There was a sense of hope and advancement.

Her mother looked at her and named her, Pearl, a fashionable name for the time, although not popular. She would tell her over and over that pearls were greater than rubies and diamonds — and more precious — and that it why she named her thus.

In was an exciting year. Just a couple of months earlier, the “Hollywood” sign had been raised in California. Little Pearl could never imagined that she would have a daughter, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who would live within a stone’s throw of this famous sign decades later. Nor would she have been excited. Because in the 1920s, Chicago was home to the world’s silent film stars, who had massive homes built on Longwood Avenue in a whole other Beverly Hills just a short drive away. Even though Pearl’s parents were never rich, she may have pictured herself as one of these stars. Her mother would stay up all night to curl each of her 5 daughter’s hair, and she would create new dresses from the donated clothes so that her daughters always looked like the prettiest girls at every party.

Pearl’s childhood was cut short though. With so many children in one house, her father took on multiple streams of income just to pay the rent and feed them all. One of which was to make cigars and cigarettes in his attic for the growing cigarette craze. The 1929 passing of the 19th amendment made smoking a symbol of women’s new role in society. Woman were encouraged by Lucky Strike Cigarettes to grab for a cigarette instead of a sweet. And that marketing fueled the need for more tobacco products to be made. Pearl and her siblings were part of the crew that made them.

They would sit, side-by-side, hating the smell of the leaves, and even worse, hating how they made their hands reek of smoky wood, especially before going on dates, but Pearl would try to get through the arduous chore none-the-less. This was not the the only work assigned to her, though. Each of the daughters would eventually take turns caring for their mother who become ill for many years from cancer. They toiled day and night to make food for all the men in their family, attend to their schoolwork, and keep their mother as comfortable and as clean as she could be. Her mother, Celia, would die when Pearl was just 23 years old. Her father would die just three years later of the same cancer.

As a teenager, Pearl aimed to be as good-as-a-girl should be. By 16, she met George Collura, a handsome imp who had a strut to his step and slicked back hair. She quickly fell for him. George and Pearl loved to go out dancing with friends, although George was five years her senior, so he often begged her to fool the bouncers into thinking she was over 18. By the time she reached that age though, she had married George and quickly became pregnant with a precious girl of their own, Georgene, who they would spend a lifetime adoring.

Within days of marrying George, Pearl moved into his families’ home. The family, who met at the dinner table every night and enjoyed each other’s company very much, did not speak English well. Her in-laws were from Sicily, and only spoke Italian. George and his five siblings were the only people with which she could speak English fluently. But Pearl didn’t mind. One of her sister-in-laws had born a child at the same time, a boy, and so the two would bring their babies to the park and share the chores around the house.

What was difficult was that within one year of marrying George, America entered World War 2. He and his brother, Vince, were sent to clean up after the devastating attacks on Pearl Harbor. The other brother-in-law, Joe, was sent back to the Europe his parents had fled to fight against the Axis powers.

The girls continuously prayed for all of the boys to come home safely. And they did: Joe with a Purple Heart that he had earned in an attack that left his hearing impaired for the rest of his life. When the boys came home, all of them felt like it was finally time to start their lives again.

George came home from the war and worked at jobs that earned him twenty one dollars a week at the time. Upon coming home, they, like so many others, quickly had another daughter — a stunning girl that they named, Diane.

They were happy for a long time, having moved to a two-flat near a park. The neighbors would get together every night to talk and dance and the street, happy that their freedom was secure, relishing the community they had. Prayers of despair during the war had turned into thanksgiving for the fruits and blessings in their life. Later, when they had given birth to all their children, Pearl tried to go to work, taking a position in a factory. But on her first day, she found out that her daughter had gone to school without a sweater, and so she quit. It wasn’t the early 1950’s stereotype or demands of a woman that pushed  her. She was one of those rare women who just really loved being a mother. Her children meant everything to her, and she tried to be as loving and gracious as her mother had been to her.

For many years, this is how it went: George and Pearl and their two beautiful girls. Six years passed between Diane and the birth of their third daughter, Sandra, in 1953. Pearl had known something was dangerously wrong during the late stages of her pregnancy. She fought to get to the doctors who eventually took her into the delivery room. As was the tradition of the time, she was knocked out while she gave birth. It would weeks later before she found out that Sandie was a twin and a child was lost during birth. The nurses never told her. Their coldness mimicked the doctors who would not acknowledge her concern about Sandie getting sick. She fought tooth-and-nail when Sandie eventually became worse, and she had to bring her to Children’s Memorial Hospital for an immediate surgery on her heart. Afterwards, the nurses said that Sandie would not eat. But Pearl, fierce and diligent, sat in a rocking chair feeding her daughter through an eye dropper. While generally happy-go-lucky, you could see Pearl strong and mighty side when it came to protecting and loving children.

Four years later, the couple decided to try for another child. Maybe to carry on the patriarchal family name, or maybe just to give Sandie a playmate. They gave birth to Cynthia, the youngest and the cutest of them all. (Writer’s note: I can say that confidently, for she is my mother.) The sisters were not jealous of this youngest kid – she was their doll. They dressed her and watched her as if she was their own. George loved his four daughters, and Pearl delighted in their family. They created beautiful holidays together, and stayed close.

Sometime in the 1960’s though, things changed. George got hired on as a garbage truck driver for the city of Chicago — a job that often led to some men to fall prey to becoming alcoholics. Their marriage began to suffer, until one morning, in late 1967 when they found themselves in front a judge, asking for a divorce. The judge asked Pearl what she wanted from George. She said nothing. She advocated that he was a wonderful father, and she was not worried about him not taking care of them. The judge found this incredulous, but it was true. Their marriage may have ended, but their friendship was still in tact and it would remain that way. In a surprising twist, Pearl fell in love with George’s brother, Joey. She married him, and in years to come, the three would spend their days and their vacations together. Their decision was always to unite their family instead of dividing it.

Pearl moved into Joe’s house, a widow who had three very intelligent children of his own – two lovely girls and one courageous boy. They had lost their mother to illness, and so, she tried to be as good of a step mother to them as she could.  She also became a nurse aide in the newborn ward of a hospital. She would made sure each child was diapered, fed, rocked, and had a pacifier in place, often to the chagrin of her co-workers who did not want to spend extra time pampering each child. But that was Pearl’s heart: each child was to be treated as if they were the only one in the world.

By this time though, Pearl had also entered into being a grandmother. In all, she would be a grandmother, step-grandmother, and great grandmother, to 18 grandchildren and 23 great grandchildren. She welcomed each grandchild through the decades, proudly attending every cheerleading, baseball, football, gymnastics, swimming, and dancing event that she could. You could very often hear her proudly cheering, “That’s my Grandkid!” as they stepped up to perform. She was even known for wandering onto a field to give them a kiss. The umpires would call time out, citing, “Grandmother on the field!”

She made every birthday special, often singing the loudest and admonishing each child in a morning phone call that they should be aware because, “How you are on your birthday, you are all year. So put money in your pocket and a smile on your face.” She would help plan birthday parties, often in a pair of white shorts, a polka-dotted shirt, and a smile. Her most incredulous talent may have been the way that she could take an ordinary game of dropping clothes pins into a milk jug and make it into a spectacle that only the Bozo show could match. For a short time, she even worked at McDonalds, just so that she could make other children’s birthdays special.

When the kids were mischievous, as children often are, her kids and grand kids don’t ever remember her ever yelling at any of them — a feat that is pretty remarkable. She had a way of rubbing their back or giving them a hug, and helping them to clean up the consequence of their actions. She was not rude or quick tempered at all. But she was not lenient either. She simply walked every step with a child so they could be all that they could be.

Each grandchild remembers times of creating play dough masterpieces with her. Or being amazed at how she could take two small bits of toilet paper to make them believe that they were birds who truly could fly away and disappear. “Fly away, Jack. Fly away, Jill. Come back, Jack. Come back, Jill,” she would say as she would swirl her arms in the air and hide her hands behind her back. Each could recall laughing hysterically through a game of Rob the Bush or Screw Your Neighbor. Thoughts of her are memories of times of feeling like they belonged and were beloved.

She could make a sad song precious, and a precious moment immortalized in a child’s memory. She’d sing such early 1900 classics as “Please, Mister Take Me in your Car/Always in the Way,” a song about an orphan child trying to grapple with losing her mom; and “How Much is that Doggie in the Window.” Sometimes she’d make a silly pout face, but then quickly change it to a great big smile, and then she hug them all real close and sway back and forth. She was never ashamed to get on the dance floor at a wedding, especially for a polka or for the chicken dance. She’d wiggle and shake and make sure everyone else would, too, and then they’d all laugh and laugh.

 

As George and Joey got older, she was an attentive sister and wife to both of them. She nursed each one through sickness and death, acting as the on-call nurse at night, and the diligent caregiver during the day. The death of her beloved companions hit her hard, but she took hope and solace in being with her daughters, grandchildren, and great grandchildren every day for the next 20 years.

She played cards and folded laundry, colored a million coloring sheets and made spaghetti and meatballs too many times to count. She’d sit in the silence and say her prayers, asking God to bless each one of the kids she loved. She traveled from house to house out of a suitcase for a time, spending time with each family, until, one day, dementia set in, and others had to travel to visit her instead.

Pearl spent the last three years of her life in a nursing home, cheering up the staff and fellow residents instead. Her diligent daughters spent every day with her, for hours on end, making sure that she was never alone, the same way she had never let them be alone. She would hold their hand, grateful that those she loved were near. And when they needed to go home at night, her only question was “when are you going to come back?” “Tomorrow, mom. We’ll be back tomorrow,” was always the reply.

In the end, she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to go onto eternity. Heaven, for her, was spending time with her girls. She loved them and delighted in the way they loved her. She fought to stay with them as long as she could, until an irreparable broken femur invited infection that she could not battle. She passed, quietly, with angels guarding her bed, and shortly after 11 am on Sunday, September 15, 2019. But she will truly always live on in the love that each of her family members display to the communities and workplaces that they serve in every day.

Her legacy is simple. She loved deeply, and she made it seem easy. And so, those that follow her love deeply, without it seeming a burden to them. She exemplified wholeheartedness. And she’ll live that way, forever more, in them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Need for Transitions

May is the time of graduations and weddings, new blossoms and renewed commitments. As each day passes, our excitement grows. Something new is coming! And that jubilee is especially strong among children.  We remember why.

Each May marked change when we were young. We ran out of the classroom with report cards held high in the air, feeling free to begin the adventure of summer — pursuing  cannonballs and slur-pees — and a greater level of education the next year. As far as we were concerned, the world was for our taking when that last bell rang.

But as we age, those transition points are less predictable. We never know when that new job is going to come along, or when that baby is going to be born. We pledge to make changes at the New Year, or on our birthday, or when the weather warms, because we have no other way of controlling when our next adventure begins and when we can say good-bye to the disappointments and hardships of years past.

We’re taken aback when change occurs — when a friend dies, or a diagnosis is given. It feels intrusive. Unplanned. Unpredictable. Aggressive. It’s even more hurtful when our schedules are packed to the brim, and one of these changes call us to pull the “all stop” chord on our lives. We question why life would throw a brick wall at us, forcing us to call one season of life “past” and another season “now.”

We don’t know how to function apart from constant, continual motion forward.

But everything we know from every world religion and every scientific study of human brain development tells us that we need moments of rest. We need prayer and reflection, white space in our calendars and regular breaks. We need time to think about what’s coming and how we’ll need to adapt. We need a period of time that’s undefined.  In short, we need transitions — regular summer vacations that breathe life into our bones.

For most, summer is construction season instead of a season to embrace joy. We are over responsible and under reflective, and we wonder why we just can’t seem to feel like we can call anything “finished.”

We need transition in order to have joy. We need to know when one period of our life is ending so that we can prepare and accept the next period of time that lies ahead. We need celebration and gratitude, acceptance and thankfulness of where we’re at, and anticipation of the days ahead. That pattern — nay, that dance, look back, look down, look forward — is the dance that produces life.

Embrace the transition seasons in your life. They are the oxygen your lungs breathe from months from now.

 

Advent: We Need the Journey

You can light candles. You can read a devotional a day. You can put a sticker on a map, or eat a chocolate plucked right out of a cardboard box. But whatever you do, make this advent a journey, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Why? Because we need the journey.

The story of the birth of Christ begins with three journeys. One is Mary’s trek from her village to her aunt and uncle’s home. The second trip is Mary and Joseph’s pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And the last, of course, is Jesus coming down from the heavens to Earth to take on flesh and become man.

In each of these journeys that we will meditate on in the coming weeks, we’re reminded that someone or something had to change in order for God to be all that God wants to be in our lives. First, Mary changed individually. Then Joseph and Mary’s relationship changed. And then the whole world got changed. That’s what we believe.

Because whenever Christ intersects our world, life does change. But it starts with a personal, individual invitation for us to replace one habit, one belief at a time so that something new can be born.

If you’ve ever tried to change a behavior or ever tried to get rid of an addiction; ever tried to turn around a relationship or simply tried to make a difference in your community, you know that it’s not as easy as just declaring your desired outcome. Change takes consistency. And patience. And time. And a journey. It takes a daily, sometimes hourly, commitment to be in a time and space that’s set aside for something different. It takes resources and effort. It takes people, either journeying with us, or just encountering people that we never knew before. And in the end, we find something miraculous.

In short, something has to be created, that just wasn’t there before.

So, if you want your world to change this Christmas — if you want THIS world to change this Christmas — make the journey. Take each day, eat your fair trade, GMO free chocolate and commit yourself to being willing to change. Commit yourself to allowing God to create something new in your life, and to creating a space where Jesus can sit with you and call you friend. Do some things different. Toy around with some new ideas. Change your Pandora station, and listen to something new. Have some different conversations, and eat something that took some time to create with your own hands. Immerse yourself in a world of different habits.

You never know. You may just find yourself stumbling upon a Jesus you never knew before. One who loves people, loves creation, and loves the longings of your heart.

 

Food for the body, Food for the Soul — How to Nourish Both This Summer

I’m most known for my food. It’s a sad but true thing. I try to love people by listening to them, picking up the phone when they call at 3am, and buying the perfect gifts, but most people learn that I love them because I make something with my hands that they’ve never put in their mouths before. And then, they just can’t get rid of me.

It’s something very simple for me to do. My first memories are those sappy kinds from family friendly 1990s movies where the light streams in through the tiny kitchen window and a little girl stands on a chair with flour in her hair and dusted on her clothes while she laughs with her grandmother. I remember pounding dough into pancakes, and sprinkling coffee cakes with cinnamon sugar goodness, and rolling homemade ravioli and pirogi onto my mom’s tiny island counter top. At the time, I didn’t know about Martha Stewart or hospitality ministries. Perfection wasn’t important. All I knew is there would be family at the table. And I knew food meant we were going to come together. And that was enough for me.

When I recreate these dishes, people ask me for these recipes, but I don’t know what to say. They’re in my head. In my blood. They’re a part of me. I’d have to take your hands and put them in mine, and pour the salt in them. Let you feel how the flour falls from my fingertips. But it is true that even I need a cookbook sometimes. It’s just mine aren’t usually from a Betty Crocker handbook. They look like these:

They’re recipes from the women who went before me. Recipes for things like hushpuppy fried chicken and homemade barbecue sauce; stained glass salad and copper pennies. They have notes in them on how to cook for five and how to cook for fifty, with the margins filled with simple multiplication math. The notebook one even has dates written in the columns, with little notations about how long it took to cook (done by 10 pm), and who showed up to bake. I want to cry when I read them. I often do. Because I’m not making something that’s my own, I’m cooking and baking so that people can feel history in their mouths and in their stomachs. They’re consuming the care and concern of decades of women who wanted to make people feel loved. Sometimes, I feel like I hear their voices beckoning me: stir the pot. Salt the water. Don’t let it go for too long….

Maybe that’s why I often cry when I take communion, too. Because I feel the community from all the saints who went before me and who join with me. I feel the prayers of the people worldwide, crying out for mercy and grace and forgiveness and peace and love. I feel the men and women who are trying to bring people together as a family. I cherish the meal that’s been prepared for me, reminding me that I’m a member of the family, and I’m deeply loved and wanted. I’m so welcomed into this spiritual home where I belong. I feel like I’m sitting at my aunt’s table in Kentucky again, wondering how she got the eggs, sausage, bacon, gravy, biscuits, and dozen other things on the table, hot, and ready for us to share with one stove, no microwaves, and 40 people to cook breakfast for.

When I take communion, I feel he countless bowls of summer spaghetti with Dago Red wine, and dozens of pork and mutton sandwiches, slow cooked in the ground for days, rumble in my stomach, reminding me to take my time. Make it right. Make a memory. Let people know that they matter. And remember that you matter.

When I take communion, I’m coming to a table that lets me linger and allows for mid-meal slouches. It drips with carefree timelessness and space to talk – to laugh — to cry — to remember.

That’s what the table offers.

Take your time. Drink it in. Let it matter.

Love,

Pam

For Those Who Put Breath in Our Lungs

It’s supposed to be a day when mothers are celebrated, but so many people are left out on Mother’s Day. So here’s a thank you to all persons everywhere who do what moms do best: give life into the void.

In the midst of chaos, darkness, and discouragement, mothers have a unique gift of lifting the mood and infusing life with hope. They believe in us when we don’t believe in ourselves and cause us to get up and get out of the mud pit we’ve entrenched ourselves in and walk forward with poise and confidence instead. They look at us and find the beauty, even when we think that we’re covered in muck. They pull off the burden of work, struggle, and sacrifice of our shoulders and put it on their own with a smile, making it look effortless, even enjoyable. They frame our lives with focus and optimism so that we don’t give-up or give-in. We walk forward with their breath in our lungs, exhaling out our own discouragement and inhaling their faith, their beliefs, and their strength. They nourish us when we can’t feed ourselves. They clothe us in dignity that we don’t believe is ours.

They are the life we come from, the life we continue in, and the life we hope we can walk into.

And because there’s not even a little bit of this that’s an exaggeration, they so perfectly show us the model of what it’s like to walk with God. To have someone behind you who is unwavering in dedication to you and to your best.

When we say thank you this Sunday, we say thank you for what they do — and what they make us believe in ourselves, yes, but more than that. They make this story of a loving God possible. Believable. Tangible. They make the thought that there’s someone before us, gracefully guiding us and leading us to beauty, real.

That is why a Hallmark holiday can be sacred. Because a life lived like this dearly deserves a holy acknowledgement of deep gratitude.

Thank you moms everywhere — for life, and for believing that life abundant is to be had, held, and valued.

When Failure Overwhelms Your Soul

It doesn’t take a perfectionist to tell the tale of what it’s like to fall, although we often are most drawn to those stories. The heartbreaking, heart wrenching details spilling out of the mouth of the most privileged, most honored, and most talented grip us tenderly. If they can fall, then so can we, and we are both sobered and encouraged by their mistakes.

But it’s a whole different experience when we fail. When we fail, we know what it’s like to stop breathing. To stop relating. To be so covered in shame and guilt that even hiding from the world is not enough. A lifetime of self-loathing and self inflicted punishment may work. May, that is, if we can find the courage to get out of bed.

Addicts might know the in’s and out’s of this process most. If a saint is just a sinner who falls down and gets back up, then the alcoholics, and drug addicts, and sexually addicted, and codependent among us might just be our greatest saints. They fail. And they start again. They build. They destroy. And then they build again, inner muscles screaming out in pain for the release of their humiliation. I am most honored to watch them stand, even if its time and time again.

But it doesn’t take an addict to know that failure rips through the heart of all that you think you are. Failure is the opposite of everything you work for; everything you believe; everything you want. Failure is the accuser who comes in the middle of the night to decree: Unworthy! Unholy! Unimportant!

But what if it were not so?

What if our failure is an invitation? What if every crash, every devastating mistake, every blown opportunity is not a chance to be removed from the world, but a clear picture of exactly every thing we really are.

What if failure doesn’t say that you lost your humanity, but that you reaffirmed it?

Because that would say that humans are weak enough to fail, but so intricately woven together that they’re not stopped by failure. That as humans, are story is one of overcoming — even overcoming ourselves. That we can get back up and try again because we’re designed to.

It would say that the beauty of humanity lies not in our perfection, but our unwillingness to submit to shame. It would imply that our dignity and worth call out and declare us as sacred creatures, apart from our behavior.That no accusation stands up to who we really are.

It would remind us that our walk — our journey — is one of choice. That we are somehow different in this galaxy of galaxies because we seek and search to make things better, and more peaceful, and that we seek to rebuild. That our consciousness and our brain are most than spiritual and biological creations, but movements that are calling for the good, even when we can’t quite reach or fulfill it ourselves.

Because if we could accept that our failure means that we’re part of the whole, and that we need both forgiveness and to forgive, justice and to make reparations ourselves, and both to grant and receive mercy, then we might come into the wholeness of what we were meant for — and what sets us apart.

And that, that just might be what we need.

*Picture: The Humanity By Lamis Dachwali

**I need to credit an unlikely source for sparking this thought process. The quote “You didn’t lose your humanity, you reaffirmed it” was said in an episode of Startrek Voyager years ago. 

All of Me for All of You Type Sacrifice

This is the sixth post in a series on Lenten reflections. You can find part one, the prelude, here. Part two, an overview about the six weeks of Lent and what it offers, can be found here. The third, a post about the communal nature of fasting, can be found here. The fourth, the value of alms giving can be found here. And the fifth, repairing shame through repentance can be found here.

To say that I was an overachiever when I was young is a bit of an understatement. As much as I’d like to blame my parents for my perfectionist tendencies, I can’t. I think I was born a bit neurotic, which is to say that I was born feeling like I had to prove myself. After two decades, it meant that I had a whole host of awards to my name.

At some time, all those recognitions must have gone to my head, because by time I was 19, I thought that I could have the goal of becoming the next National Press Secretary. I chuckle at the idea now, but it was a very serious dream back then.

But then, in my junior year of college, I got pregnant. It’s not the first time a young girl got pregnant unexpectedly, and I’m sure I wasn’t the last, but because of the awards, and because of the expectations, and because I was known as the God girl, it was a disaster. Standing, staring down at the pregnancy test, I hesitated to let it all sink in because there was one thing that I knew: if the baby was going to have any chance of having a normal life, my dreams — all my dreams — were dead. My reputation, my character, my achievements, and my goals were all gone. In seconds, I was very aware that I would have to sacrifice every thing I knew and work towards a life for a kid I didn’t even know.*

And that’s what I did.

I look at my life and my 10 year old son now, and it all doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, it seems a little silly to even write it so dramatically. But it was the hardest thing I had to do, and it is a choice that continues to be a sacrifice in the sense that those goals, and that life, are still forever over.  And in those moments when I miss who I used to be, I feel the weight of sacrifice that has been paid:

All of me for all of you.

Because that experience was lived-in, I approach Holy Week differently. I know we’re supposed to think about what has been sacrificed for us. But instead of putting on black and covering myself with ashes, I think about what it feels to be the one sacrificing. I think about where Jesus’ mind was at as He made the conscious and deliberate choice to make us His kids.

He knew the mocking that would take place, the torments, the slander, the spitting, the whipping, the stripping, but there was a moment in there before all that. It was the moment of choice. He had to choose me. He had to choose us. And it was going to take all of him for all of us.

And it doesn’t matter if you believe that the sacrifice He conducted was for the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, or just to teach us how to stop being such assholes to each other and to live peacefully. He still had the foreknowledge to know what was coming, and He choose to give up everything He had worked for, and cultivated, so that we could have a life that we wouldn’t have had if He didn’t. All of Him for all of me.

That’s where I want my mind to be this week. Steeped in the truth that He chose me. That He chose a path where He could be with me. That He chose having me as a kid, sister, friend, not in spite of the cross, but before the cross. And He keeps choosing, even if it still means that there are additional sacrifices now. Because I’m what matters to Him.

You’re what matters to Him.

He’d choose to sacrifice anything so you could live a rich, full, deep life, here, as you breathe your last, and beyond the last breaths.

May you spend your week steeped in the truth that you are so deeply loved.

Pam

*Now, most people will correct me at this point in the story. They will point out that there’s a lot of working moms out there. And I understand where they are coming from. And so, I just want to add, it’s not that I didn’t think I could ever work again. It’s that I couldn’t work where I wanted, how I wanted, and when I wanted to. Media relations teams work 14 hour days, and that’s just not the mother I wanted to be. To have the baby meant that it had my priority.

The Meaning of Repentence in a Shame Filled World

This is the fifth post in a series on Lenten reflections. You can find part one, the prelude, here. Part two, an overview about the six weeks of Lent and what it offers, can be found here. The third, a post about the communal nature of fasting, can be found here. And the fourth, the value of alms giving can be found here.

A recent Catholic mystic had a vision of walking with Jesus. She said that He took her to Purgatory. Unlike what she was expecting, Purgatory was a beautiful place, filled with valleys and flowers, a crystal-clear river, and brilliant, bright sunshine. But she found people along a walking path who were crying out in pain. As they walked, she asked Jesus, “Why don’t you help these people? Why don’t you forgive them?”

“I have forgiven them,” He said. “They haven’t forgiven themselves.”

And with that, Jesus bent down, looked at one of them, and with the compassion found in His eyes, they got up, and walked further down the path.

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The obsession with sin — defining it; being freed from it; explaining it — has caused ridiculous confusion about who God is, and what humans relationship to God should look like, especially in the past 200-300 years.  We’ve so messed this idea up that I don’t know if there is any other way to keep someone from running into God’s arms more than to accuse them of sin. It invites a fight.

But it wasn’t supposed to be that way.

In spite of our misunderstanding,  the idea of sin, and subsequently repentance, was supposed to be a beautiful understanding of the human condition. Because sin, according to the old teachers of the law, is  “a break in the shalom”* – a disruption in how it’s supposed to be.

Sin is our human condition then. It’s life interrupted. And therefore, repentance is supposed to be an invitation; a returning to something that was already offered. A return to paradise.

In other words, sin is the stuff that stops us from freedom — freedom of exploration, freedom of expression, and freedom in relationship. And repentance is accepting more — more exploration, more expression, more relationship.

Sin is something that we’ll torture ourselves over later. We’ll see how things could have been for us and for others and we’ll be just devastated.  Sin is not something that we’ll be shamed FOR, then, but something that we’ll be ashamed OF, and it’ll keep us from walking into the paths of paradise.With our best friend. For all of time.

The logical choice to turn away from that future is repentance then. It’s understanding that we’re not held to these shameful acts, and then choosing to accept forgiveness, the only way out.

Repentance is about reconnecting with Jesus’ great compassion and believing Him that He’ll restore shalom in another way, and then continuing to walk together towards something better.

When we talk about repenting during Lent, THIS is what we’re talking about. We’re talking about walking whatever path we need to to make sure we stay together. We’re talking about wanting shalom, for ourselves and for others. And being mindful to keep the shalom we have, no matter the cost.

During that process, may God be with you, inviting … beckoning …harkening in your heart for you to desire more of this shalom.

*This idea come from Cornelius Plantinga in his book Engaging God’s World, although I admit that I was introduced to it years ago in a talk by Robb Bell. In addition, many other writers have spoken on it, particularly in the past year, including Scott McKnight, NT Wright, and Kurt Willems.

Reflections for Week 3 of Lent: The Open Arms of Almsgiving

This is the fourth post in a series on Lent. You can find part one, the prelude, here. Part two, an overview about the six weeks of Lent and what it offers, can be found here. The third, a post about the communal nature of fasting, can be found here.

Every once in awhile, a television show goes viral. Like a good pop song or a great idea, people can’t help but talk about it — obsess over it — identify with it.. When television does this well, it’s usually because there is a compelling relationship to watch. The storyline may start out as some casual encounter, but soon, we’re drawn in by this couple, or set of partners, or brothers that have this extraordinary commitment to each other. At the climax of this storytelling, we often find that one of these strong, bold characters yields to what’s better for the other, often at great cost to their self. Some weep at the beauty of this sacrificial giving. And others more cynically deconstruct the decision. But in that moment, the show ceases to be just a show. It becomes personal. It becomes real.

I’ve always wondered why we could care so much about fictional characters in this way, but not be as moved when we see pictures of the poor or oppressed. But in the past couple of years, other brilliant minds have researched and wrote about why: because we’re only moved to care for the things that we think we can actually change.

Which, is why, many Christians have difficulty with the call for alms giving at Lent. We don’t have a picture of what alms giving means, or why it’s important. It becomes just another donation from our wallet. A donation not unlike the extra dollar we spend for breast cancer, or leukemia, or the planet. We don’t think we can do anything or change anything, so we just yield our pocket change instead.

But almsgiving is about something entirely different than mere donation. Alms giving is an opportunity to return to the image we were created in: a God who is a prodigal giver.

God doesn’t give because of obligation or responsibility. God is generous because giving until it hurts — giving your all – is actually when we see love. And God is love.*

When someone gives at that level — at the level of giving anything and everything — lives are changed. When someone gives at that level, they themselves change. They become more of who they were created to be.

For  “We were made in the image of God – a giver – and we’ll never be happy until we return to that image.”*

If you really want to walk the road of lent, pick one thing that you have to give your all to for the remaining twenty days or so. Pick someone or something that you have to give your free time and your emotional energy and your money to, and dedicate yourself to it in order to better someone else’s life. Have open arms, withholding nothing. And see, see if you don’t get something more valuable and rare in return in the end.

May God fill you with grace and peace as you trust that there is enough.

Love,

Pam

**These quotes will be attributed when I find out who the appropriate person to attribute them to is.

When Fasting Isn’t Just About Repentance

“We commit ourselves to (the) process because Lent reminds us that there’s something better than what we’re currently experiencing, but it’s going to take us letting go of whatever we’re clinging to in order to obtain it. We’re going to have to stop picking and choosing spiritual disciplines, and instead, come under the whole experience of what it means to lay down our lives and gain the whole world.”  

Those are the words I wrote just last week. And I meant them. But I had to think deeply before I inked that on the page because I know that part of the process of Lent is fasting. And really, is there anything that people dread more than the idea of fasting? I mean, really, is there anything more boring to read about than the theology of a fast? In our “I-have-all-the-information-I ever-need-to-know-in-my-pocket society,” the answer to that question is no.

We don’t want to know about fasting. We don’t want to read about it. We don’t want to explore it. For goodness sake, truth be told, we don’t want to do it! If, for some insane reason we find ourselves agreeing to fast, we make it as easy as possible: sun-up to sun-down, and go to bed early. We wake up, we have our pancakes, and we hope that we’re not asked to do that again anytime soon.

But it wasn’t always like this.

I grew up on the Southside of Chicago — a place where you identified your neighborhood by your parish, not by what mile markers you lived between. Despite this self-identification, it always surprised me that the Lenten fast was so strictly followed by my neighbors. Being in a small, tight-knit community, even children knew that there were men who hated the church, and held to every vice, but who stood in line at the local fish store on a Friday like the rest of us.

What was this power? Why would men who couldn’t care less about the church want to follow one of the hardest church teachings?

I believe it’s because we’ve missed the point of the fast. Fasting was meant to be a communal thing.  

I can dissect biblical texts and prove it to you, but the most compelling evidence of it can be proven in your own life. While you can fast alone, think about what happens to you when you do. Namely, you feel isolated, alone, and like you’ve been left the handle your problems by yourself, talking and pleading with a God who seems very cruel, mean, and distant. Now, think about when you’ve fasted with a friend, spouse, small group, or as a church. How did you feel? I would bet that you felt included, empowered, strengthened, and more faithful.

That’s because Fasting is a community realization that we went the wrong way. That we collectively embraced ideas, thoughts, behaviors, and practices that led us away from God, each other, and life abundant. We realize the ways that we weren’t there for each other. We become aware that we we’re fearful that no one would care for us, and so we took care of ourselves.

We see that we’ve become small and weak because we’re living lives of shame and hiding. Repentance– turning away — might be the path that we choose from these realizations, if we can push past the hurt and pain and fear long enough and courageously enough to walk a different path. But often, we break fast because we can’t even get there. We feel that hurt and pain, and hide again, and then turn again to our self-soothing. That choice is not a choice to sin. It’s a demonstration of just how unhealthy we are. It’s a cry for help.

The men in my neighborhood who hated church fasted because it meant they were a part of the tribe. That despite theological differences, they too could participate in church life and church community. It was the one time of the year that they didn’t have to explain that they wanted to be a part of church, but felt forced out. That’s the power of a liturgical fast. It’s the opposite of a “farewell…” statement. It’s a group-thought behavior where we all get to be on the same playing field, if only for a day. And where all our burdens, boredom, and disappointment is met with faces and voices of those who admit the same struggles.

As you abstain from chocolate, or coffee, or sugar this lent — As you turn away from binge watching on Netflix or overindulgence, I pray that you remember that you’re not alone. You’re not alone in your longing for friendship. You’re not alone when you face hardship. And you’re not alone as you walk this life. You have people who you don’t even know who pray for you. You have people who want to connect. You don’t have to bear this life alone.

Love,

Pam