Emmanuel

Make a puking sound. Go ahead - humor me. Now exaggerate it - bump up the volume and do it more slowly. Once you've got that down, do it from your toes - as though the heave is springing from your very soul. That's what I heard when I was leaving the hospital yesterday. My mom has been battling ovarian cancer and is in the hospital with pneumonia. As I left her room to go home, I heard some poor woman across the hall heaving so deeply, so loudly, that I wondered if it was a prankster pretending to be sick. Then I remembered that I was on the oncology floor. The nurses at the other end of the hallway looked up as if to say, "Is that for real?" I'm horrible with distances, but they were further away than the person who lives three doors down from our house. My heart absolutely ached for her. What a horrible, heinous thing to have to go through; I cannot even begin to imagine what it's like to be chained to a drug that leaves you like that. As I was walking toward the nurses (away from the sick woman) a nurse behind me said, "She's throwing uuup." I could be wrong about this, but she sounded a bit put out. And it pissed me off. Seriously? I don't like cleaning up vomit at all, which is one of the gazillion reasons I couldn't ever be a nurse. I have the utmost respect for those who put their whole heart and soul into caring for a sick person. They are the true good Samaritans. But in any field, there are a few who not only don't have the gift, they're grumpy and cold and rude, and let it be known that their heart isn't in the work. Maybe she was having a bad day, but I wouldn't doubt that the puking woman heard the tone of her voice between heaves. What's worse than throwing up your toenails when there's nothing coming out? Dry heaves + a caregiver who makes you feel like a burden.

It's been interesting observing what happens on the 7th floor of Seton Medical Center. Some of my mom's RN's have been absolute gems. Sarah is my favorite. She's very kind, soft spoken, easily engaged, and leaves you with the impression that she would do just about anything for you. I even know that her favorite dog is with her parents in Alaska. While she went about her routine - flushing my mom's port, taking her blood pressure and temperature, she shared some of her life with us. It was a very nice distraction, as we had been sitting in darkness and silence trying not to think about the seriousness of our situation. Lisa is the same way. She looks you in the eye and listens intently to your concerns, your questions and your incessant rambling. That's what people do when their loved ones are gravely ill - they ramble. We hate seeing our moms and sisters and friends suffer so. We are worried we will lose them. And we feel profoundly helpless because we're not powerful enough to neutralize the effects of the disease that is tormenting someone we love.

In contrast, there are also a handful of nurses who have been snippy. They give staccato answers, and act like you're putting them out when you ask for an extra pillow so you can prop up your mother, who is battling bedsores. One nurse came in and completely ignored me. She was talking to my mom, and when I politely interjected something - a question or an observation about something - she completely blew me off. She wouldn't even make eye contact. I can imagine that nurses have a lot to deal with in terms of demanding, meddling family members, but I was neither. Why do some people have to be so stingy with kindness?

By far, the most amazing person who has been a part of our hospital care-giving equation is Courtney. She is a CNA (certified nursing assistant). My mom was weak from having pneumonia right after a particularly brutal round of chemo, and she couldn't take a shower. Standing up for any length of time made her hyperventilate. So Courtney came in with her bag of goodies and gave my mom a sponge bath. She's an African-American woman, probably in her mid to late twenties, and is what my late friend Nita would call "sturdy." She had a smile that lit up the room, and her spirit was even brighter. (I am not even remotely a fan of "The Shack" by William P. Young, but I deeply appreciate the author's depiction of God as a loving black woman. I have always hoped that God is a lot like many of the African-American women I know.) Courtney lovingly and gently went about her task, though she worked with the swiftness of a racing gazelle. When she talked she had a song in her voice, affirming my mom, encouraging her. It almost seemed like she'd rather be doing nothing else. Come to find out that was true. When I commented on her incredible bedside manner she told us that she lost her mom to cancer seven years ago, and that she went back to school in order to be able to care for those who were battling the dreaded disease. As I watched her it occurred to me that God was giving my mom a bath. I don't know if Courtney is spiritual or not, but she sure did a stellar job modeling what I think true religion is. Screw theology and religious programs and endless striving to somehow lay hold of "the truth." Enough with all of the grandiose plans to save the world. How about we just care for each other, the way we hope God would care for us? Emmanuel - God with us. Could it be any simpler?

Image Credit: C. A. Muller
Licensed Under Creative Commons

ABCDEF...G

I think a lot about writing things on this blog, the operative word being think. I am doing so much academic writing in this last push to finish school, I have very little time or creative energy left over. However, I will admit that I tend toward perfectionism when it comes to writing, and I'm reminding myself today that something is better than nothing. Just recounting some of the funny, random, delightful things that happen along the way reminds me that I'm alive, and that I don't have to take life as seriously as Plato and William Wordsworth did (or as seriously as I think I have to!)

That said, I want to tell you about my grandmother name. When Mandy and I started talking about what Piper might call me, we were at a loss to find something that "fit." While I'm ALL about being a grandmother and will talk on and on about it to anyone who will listen, I just don't think I'm a typical, "Grandma." The name doesn't seem to fit. Neither does Meemaw, Granny, Grammy, or Mimi. I don't mind Mimi, but my grandmother was Mimi, and in my estimation there's only one of those. And I'm also not really in to the trendy alternatives, such as "GG" and "Ya-Ya." So one day I was in a night class at St. Edwards and there was a beautiful, twenty-something African-American girl sitting a few seats away from me. The professor called on her and said, "Please tell us your name." She replied: "Gia." The first thing I thought was, What a pretty name! Then I thought, "Wait a minute. Starts with a G...ends with an A... Maybe that would be a short and sweet grandmother name! My kids liked it, and so it was decided.

Fast forward about 16 months. Piper knew who I was, but never could say Gia. She could say "Mommy," "Daddy," "Happy" (Craig's grandpa name)and even "Nanos" (my mom's grandmother name.) But when we'd try and teach her to say Gia, she'd just point at me. Craig and I tried to walk her through it.

Craig: "Say G"
Piper: "G"
Craig: "Say UH"
Piper: "Uh"
Craig: "Say G-UH"
Piper: points at me and smiles

We worked with her on this, but it didn't do any good (or so we thought.) Then one day Mandy called me and said, "Piper and I were working on her alphabet today. I would call out the letter and she'd echo it - "A" "a", "B" "b" - and so on. But every time we get to "G" she replies with an emphatic "UH!" Oh no, I thought. We've confused her!

But finally last night - FINALLY - she looked up at me and out of nowhere said, "Hi Gia." Imagine the best fireworks scene you've ever seen, and that's what exploded in my heart. She said my NAME!!! Being a grandmother ROCKS. I couldn't even begin to tell you how much light and love my two granddaughters bring in to my world.

The Good Samaritan

So I wasn't quite sure what to expect from my Psychology of Religion class at St. Edwards. It satisfies two of my degree requirements, so it was more or less mandatory. When I was deciding between the Psychology of Religion course and Human Rights/Social Justice, several people chimed in with warnings that the Psych class could really mess with my head. While I appreciate their concern, I had a hunch that this course could be really good for me. After just one class I think I may have been right.

I want to say up front that I’m a novice in terms of psychological thought, so I may at times sound like I don't know what I'm talking about. And that is for good reason ☺. Still, I want to try and convey this experience.

The professor started out by defining both religion and psychology. We tossed around a whole lot of stuff about beliefs, practices, rules, deities, houses of worship, etc. But the bottom line is that talking about religion is by and large reification, i.e., taking things that are abstract and non-tangible and somehow engaging or examining them in concrete terms. For example, you can say you have "faith" but I cannot see it. I can see your actions, I can see you read your Bible, I can listen to your beliefs and ideals, but I can't take your faith, put it on a table, and say, "there's her faith."

Psychology, on the other hand, is scientific. Scientists rely solely on empirical data, meaning that they draw conclusions based upon observation. Deductions are made from information that is publicly verifiable. For example, if a group of scientists were considering what effect daily exercise had on cholesterol levels, they would likely do a controlled study where individuals were put to the test. After a determined amount of time they would compare the cholesterol levels of those who exercised daily and those who didn't. Then they could chart it and put it in a medical journal for all to see. It would all be more complex than that, of course, but you get the gist.

So according to my professor, one of the things we'll be doing in this course is examining the behavior of religious people and systems, and then pondering what that means. The first lesson really knocked my socks off. The assignment was to read Luke 10: 25-37 (the parable of the Good Samaritan), and then read a nine-page study conducted by two psychologists from Princeton University. Their aim was to observe what Christians would do in a scenario much like the Biblical parable. Among other things, they wanted to get a better idea of what drives people to certain decisions in such situations. Theories abound as to why the priest and Levite in the parable didn't stop and render aid, and why the Samaritan did. But in real-life situations today, why are some people more Samaritan-like and others aren't? How do their beliefs affect their behavior, or DO their beliefs affect their behavior at all? What were they thinking in the process? What outside forces played a role in their decisions?

So they got a group of seminary students together and invited them to participate in a study on religious education and vocations. They were asked to fill out a questionnaire that would reflect some of their ideas and beliefs. Then they were placed in an environment where they had to travel from point "A" to point "B", and along the way they planted a person in need. There were some controlled circumstances, i.e. one group was told to hurry, and another group was told they were going to be discussing the parable of the Good Samaritan when they got there. So the psychologists sat back and observed what people did. The findings are too extensive to list here, but they are fascinating. I will say, however, that many of the seminary students who knew they were going to be talking about the Good Samaritan still walked right on by the person slumped in the chair!

One of the reasons I am so excited about this course is that it's a way to look at the connection (or discrepancy) between our beliefs and our actions. Though I've probably read this parable hundreds of times, last night it really hit me: this was Jesus' answer to a man's question about how to inherit eternal life. He didn't launch into systematic theology, or rattle off a list of things you must believe or do to find favor with God. Instead, he said, "Love God. Be a neighbor." I think sometimes we trick ourselves into believing that we're good neighbors, when really we mostly just walk on by.

Clueless

So, I'm on a roll. There have been several situations in the last 24 hours that have left me feeling like an idiot. Today we were looking for a way to get tickets to see Wicked in San Francisco, and I trotted over to the concierge next door and asked him for inside info. He told me to just go to the box office, that you couldn't get tickets over the Internet or phone the "day-of." I ran back out to the car (Craig got it from valet and picked me up) and he said, "Do they have a map?" So I jumped back out of the car, ran into the hotel and asked the concierge where I might find one. He, of course, had one, and circled the civic center for me. I cheerfully thanked him, and was surprised that he seemed stand-offish and didn't crack a smile. I thought, "Aren't concierges supposed to be nice??" I got back in the car and Craig asked me if I tipped him. Oops. Was I supposed to tip him? DUH! Apparently everyone knew that but me. Sorry!

Second, we drove down to the civic center and of course in downtown San Francisco there is no parking. So Craig jumped out and I got in the driver's seat to circle around while he got tickets. BIG MISTAKE! If you're keeping a list of things Laura does not want to do, be sure and add, "Drive in San Francisco." What a confusing experience! There are all of these lanes, some of which are for buses and taxis only, and then there are bike lanes, but quite often they meld with the only other traffic lane, which left me guessing where the hell I should go. And then there are signs galore - about not parking here during these hours, about when and where you can turn, about cable cars, about pedestrians, about street washing, etc… I was trying to read them all and make sense of what I could and could not do, all the while motorcycles and bikes and people were darting out of nowhere, right into my path. Seriously. Two guys on bicycles cut in front of me much like an SUV would nose its way into a traffic pocket the size of a smart car. My bumper was less than 6 inches from their wheel when they cut in. I was so stressed out, because people kept looking at me, like, "Don't you know how to DRIVE?? Geez, lady, get a clue or get off the road." And I wanted to say, "I've never been here! I don't know how this works! I'm trying!!!"

Finally, I've been feeling very disjointed and disorganized and scattered lately, drained, foggy, way-too-much-on-my-plate, and that I cannot possibly keep up with everyone and everything that vies for my attention. One of the things that adds to this is Facebook. I've added friends and been added as a friend sometimes just to communicate about something quick. For example, a woman who is a friend of a friend of my daughter's in another city (yeah - that far removed) wanted to inquire about my shooting her sister's wedding. Within minutes we had determined that it wasn't a good fit for either one of us, and that was that. Except that we just stayed friends. Multiply that by at least ten or twenty, maybe more. And then there are folks that I've accepted a friend request from, or requested as a friend, and then we never even said two words to each other. Ever. We don't really communicate at all over Facebook and yet there's info on about 100 such people that filters through my news feed, and I get a headache trying to process and sort through it all. Having 550 friends makes me feel overwhelmed! I joined facebook for two reasons: to keep in touch with folks I have had a relationship with in the past, and as a business networking tool. When I got married and changed my name, I thought I'd just go through my friends and let some of the ones that I never communicate with go. It was an attempt at regaining some feeling of control over all of the chaos that is swirling of late. With very few exceptions, my removing someone as a friend had nothing AT ALL to do with whether or not I think they're a cool person, or worthy of being a friend. It was sort of like when you start cleaning out a closet and you get a little over-ambitious, not thinking about the ramifications of what the purge will do. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine that a relative of a family member somehow thought that my removing her was a bit of a slap in the face, and I was shocked. I mean really, why wouldn't I even think about how that might be taken by someone? I'd like to chalk it up to my age (i.e. us old folks don't quite know the lowdown on facebook etiquette.) But maybe just for that day I was clueless, not thinking about how it would feel to be removed. So with this person, I blew it. And now instead of feeling lighter for having cleaned out my "facebook friend" box, I feel heavier - like I have somehow offended folks. Man, isn't technology supposed to make our lives easier? Anyway, I sent her a note apologizing and asked to be her friend again, but I'm not holding my breath that she'll say yes.

All this to say, I wonder where we get the idea that we're supposed to know everything. I have this secret rule in my head that I should always "get it," and if I don't I'm a loser. Truth is, I don't get it sometimes. And I'd like to think that's just a part of the human condition. Problem is, when someone like me doesn't "get it," others often turn that in to a statement about them. And you know what? I can't blame them… I do it too. Like when I'm behind someone in traffic and they're being uber slow or changing their minds about turns - I'm inwardly ranting, "GEEZ! Go people! Why are you doing this TO ME??" But in reality maybe they're from another city, in another state, that is much smaller than where I live, and they're scared and confused.

To some degree, I think we're all scared and confused.

Applause

When was the last time someone spontaneously clapped when you walked in the room?
I honestly can't think of a time it's ever happened to me (except when introduced at a show I was playing.)

That is, until recently.

The last few times I've gone to Mandy's house my oldest granddaughter claps when she sees me. A big, wondrous smile spreads across her face and she bangs her hands together as she's walking toward me. I guess you already suspect that I'm going to say that there are no words to express the joy that brings, and you're right. Trite as it may seem, I can't wrap language around the sheer delight I feel when that little termite is happy to see me!. And I got to thinking today: isn't that what we all long for - someone who lights up at the very sight of us? Don't we all want to be that "special someone" - whether it be a romantic relationship, a cherished friendship, or - in this case - the love between a granddaughter and her grandmother?

My maternal grandmother would've been 100 last year. She died in 1995 and I always feared that when she left she'd take a part of me with her. And she did. Mimi was someone that I knew ALWAYS loved me, ALWAYS believed in me, and I am sure, if it had come down to it, she would've given her life for me. She offered a depth of unconditional love I have never since known, even though I know I am deeply loved. I remember going over to her house and playing dress up with all of her costume jewelry and hats, and of course that old mink stole. She lived in an apartment complex on North Loop, and the great majority of them housed retired folks or senior citizens. Usually when I'd visit we'd go swimming in the pool - she in her white bathing cap covered in floppity flowers, and me, a waterlogged prune who dragged her feet when it was time to get out. But I always knew that getting out around dinnertime meant that we were going to walk over to Luby's, and she always let me get Jello even though I rarely finished it. She'd chastise me for wasting perfectly good food and would also remind me she paid good money for it. But the next time I'd promise to eat it all and then inevitably left some of it on my tray. We did this dance for years. Bright yellow cubes of Jello just looked so enticing, so HAPPY, so full of promise; but they never quite delivered what I was longing for. I've discovered that there are a lot of things in life like that.

But Mimi delivered - even when she probably shouldn't have. She brought things to school that I had forgotten, she drove me to piano lessons, she took me shopping (which I'm certain was a nightmare for her) and she made me open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches on really thin bread. She'd slather mayonnaise all over the melted cheese (could that have been a factor in my chubbiness?) and and then put a big slice of tomato on top, peeled tomato, mind you. Then she'd put it on a white Corelle plate with a radish, a few celery sticks, a pickle or two, and a little bag of Fritos. She'd pop the top off of one of those little glass bottles of ice cold coke and my meal was complete. MORE than complete. I absolutely loved that lunchtime combination, and to this day I sometimes recreate it just to remember her.

I have so many fond memories of my grandmother, though there are a few bad ones. When I was about eight years old I thought it would be funny to sneak into her car and turn everything on so that when she started the car the radio would blare, the blinker would click, and the A/C would blast her. I hid and watched as she got into her car and it startled her so badly she just laid her head down on the steering wheel and cried. A chasm opened up and swallowed me - I was in anguish that I had caused her to cry. And to this day I'm not sure I've fully forgiven myself for it, even though I had no idea that it would harm her in any way. Of course today I understand how stressful life can be and how little kids have no idea how hard the grown-ups are working to keep things afloat.

And keep things afloat, she did. I am still stunned to know that when she gave birth to her first child at 18, she was alone. And the baby died. How does one recover from that? She endured being married to a violent alcoholic (two times to the same man!) and went on to give birth to two beautiful, strong women, one of which is my mother. Mimi's indomitable spirit has been passed down to her, and my mom has passed it on to me. Sometimes I look at my daughters and see the faces of the incredible women who came before us, and I am so incredibly grateful to be in the mix.

I like to imagine that someday when I leave this earth I'll walk through a door in the distance, and there will be Mimi, clapping.

Trust Me

TRUST: –noun
1. reliance on the integrity, strength, ability, surety, etc., of a person or thing; confidence.

This morning I was reading something about the concept of trust, how hard it is in this dog-eat-dog world to know whom to trust. There are those who trust too much - i.e. they just assume the Pollyanna position, which is to say they give up too much of themselves to people who do not, after all, have their best interest at heart. I have done my fair share of that. It's a game that leaves me wishing I could go back and gather up all of the pieces of myself that were scattered like seeds in the wind.

Live and learn.

What I was most struck by, however, is that the writer believes one of the most detrimental things that can happen to us is that we lose the ability to trust ourselves. She mentioned that sometimes others try and convince us that our view of things is wrong, which, if we believe them, leads to self-doubt. Doing that is a pretty effective strategy if your aim is to control someone. When my oldest daughter was in high school she had a friend who had a two year-old brother. As is often the case in families that house both teenagers and toddlers, the teen was babysitting, and she and my daughter took him to the park. He fell off of a swing and hit is head really hard, and his sister's response was to rush in and authoritatively tell him, "That didn't hurt. That didn't hurt!" I understand not wanting to listen to him wail, but to keep him from erupting she tried to convince him of something that was the complete opposite of what his body was loudly telling him. I wasn't there, but I imagine that at the very least that kid was confused. What do you do when someone tells you that what's right in front of you doesn't really exist? It's sort of like the Emperor's New Clothes. I love that the kid in that story had the balls to shout out what everyone else was afraid to say. Sometimes we don't want to suffer the consequences of telling the truth, because the emperor may get furious and make our lives hell. And so to keep the peace, we stand by the side of the road and admire non-existent clothes.

I think it's extremely common for people to manipulate others by trying to convince them that their perspective is flawed. It's probably somewhat like brainwashing. If you tell someone something often enough they begin to believe it. I think that was largely true in my marriage, and I also think that was true in the religious circles I ran in. My ex-husband was a master at making me think I was crazy, using circular reasoning that always led back to his agenda, his beliefs, his ideas, his plans, and his superior ability to see what was really true. The problem was, however, that he was the one acting crazy. Of course, in the religious climate we were living in that was the setup. Men know. Women don't (remember Eve?) It is your job to support your husband's views and assist him in his plans. Nevermind that he may be walking down the street without a stitch of clothing on.

Likewise, I think a lot of my spiritual journey has been lived out in that type of environment. There's this idea that the people in power know better than you do. If you don't agree with them, you're not seeing clearly. Don't trust your feelings, they say. You'll be led astray by your lower nature, your lack of devotion, and - of course - the devil. I remember it being drilled into me that according to I Samuel 15:23, "rebelling" was just as bad as idolatry and getting involved in the occult. How convenient that when all else fails spiritual leaders can pull out the rebellion card to get their way. Of course I'm not saying that all spiritual leaders are guilty of that, but some are. I remember having a V-8 moment during my Western Civilization class last semester when I recognized a pattern. Over and over and over again I read about the role Christianity played in social and political structure. And what I found was that a great deal of the time leaders used the religious system to further their own political and financial advantage, or to feed their insatiable thirst for power.

Duh.

I want to believe that people are considerate and humane. I want to believe leaders are selfless and have my best interests at heart. I want to believe that no one would take advantage of me in order to perpetuate their own aim. But that's not the world we live in. On the flip side I don't want to live as a suspicious, jaded, cynical person who doesn't trust anybody. I think the idea of trusting ourselves is a good middle ground. I might trust you. I might not. But I'm gonna stay in touch with what my Spidey-sense is telling me. I think Irish writer Emmett Fox said it best:

"You should gladly take advantage of helpful teaching wherever you may get it; go to churches or meetings that help you; listen to speakers, and read books that inspire you to find yourself; but do not surrender to anybody your own spiritual judgment."

So today is International Women's Day and I've been invited to join in with other bloggers who are reflecting on women in the Bible. This is an interesting exercise for me, one that I'm afraid may be somewhat pointless because I honestly don't know WHAT I think about Biblical women. I don't really know them.

Oh, but that doesn't mean that I haven't "studied" them. Ever since a conversion experience at the ripe old age of 19, I have been infused with a myriad of ideas about the women in the Bible. I have sat in sermon after sermon, Bible class after Bible class, where certain things have been drilled in me:

- Eve was bad. She is the spiritual ancestor of all who are female, and if we're not careful we'll f*%# up the world just as badly as she did. Stick with the men… they are the ones who are endowed with the wisdom and authority to run this place.

- If you want to be beautiful and commended as "right," then you'll be like Sarah, who called Abraham her master. (1 Peter 3:4-6)

- There's a logical explanation for all of the abuse of women in the Old Testament. It was somehow culturally acceptable for Lot to offer his daughters to sexual predators; for a man in Judges 19 to not only save himself by letting his concubine suffer rape and horrid abuse, but also to dismember her (literally cut her into pieces) to somehow make a point. No need to be outraged, just trust that it's not as bad as it seems and there was a divine purpose behind it.

- Despite the fact that in both the old and new testaments women rarely had legal rights or a status of their own (it was always conferred based upon her relationship to a man - her husband or father) she has immense power in the "higher status" given her by God to serve and help men. This is the proper "Christian" order of things, and if you don't buy in you either don't understand it properly, or worse, you're a rebellious and sinful woman.

I could go on, but quite honestly I don't have the energy to. I'm already imagining the protests from some of my conservative friends, who apparently need these ducks to line up or they will feel threatened. Don't start talking about the feminist uphill climb, they say, because you're just not getting the big picture. And maybe I'm not. But I also don't need to perpetuate some sort of ethereal, blanket explanation that, in my opinion, is mostly smoke and mirrors staged by a long procession of men who like the setup. I'm no stranger to that; I marched in that parade for nearly 25 years.

The other night I spent a few minutes reading blogs and websites about different perspectives on women in the Bible. That in itself was problematic because I haven't been reading the Bible lately. That's because I've been feeling like I can't read it anymore without the words being attached to a mass of ideas that have been drilled into me by well-meaning but intensely dogmatic people. As my boyfriend would say, back then I was drinking the Kool-Aid. But I've given up that toxic beverage and for now all I'm trying to find is some clean water. Anyway, about 10 minutes into my search I grew weary because most of what I found was people squabbling over the meaning of words. There is talk about the Greek and Hebrew languages, how they have been translated, how they should be translated, what the Apostle Paul meant, what the context was, blah, blah, blah. Don't get me wrong - I am grateful for people who will take the time to delve into the deeper meaning of things and challenge long-held systems of belief. But I'm not there. I'm tired of my gender putting me in a position of defense - especially in circles where the Bible comes into play: defending my worth, defending my value, defending my intelligence, my spiritual significance, my competency and my ability to navigate my own life without having to check in with those who have penises to make sure I'm not whistling off to Eden to consort with Eve. And no, I'm not a man hater, a Nazi, or a militant feminist. It's just that this whole exercise has left me sad and a little angry.

In short, I don't really care about Biblical women right now because I have very little hope that I'll ever know their true stories. Yes, I have heard 101 sermons or lectures that take extreme license in "interpreting" these women's hearts and minds. But I'm weary of it all. I am sure there are a myriad of inspiring narratives from the lives of women like Sarah, Zipporah, Bathsheba, Esther, Naomi, Ruth, Mary, Elizabeth, Mary Magdalene and Martha. But today they seem hopelessly lost behind centuries of thick, sealed walls, walls designed to cast women in the dingy light of the sub-status assigned to them by an unrelenting patriarchy intent on maintaining control. What did Sarah really feel when her husband passed her off as her sister? What did she do with that? What was it like for Ruth to have to lay at a man's feet and hope to be "redeemed" because without a husband she had no social worth? How did Bathsheeba deal with the death of her infant son? What really went through Mary's mind when she found out she was pregnant? How did she handle the public shame? How did Elizabeth deal with a son like John the Baptist - especially when he was an adult? Why was Martha the "busy" one?

Today I suppose I'm grieving that their nitty gritty stories are lost. We'll never really know. And that, above all, is why I want to tell stories.