The Love of Systems

Jesus Christ did not die for our systems; he died for broken human beings who he longs to make whole so they bear his likeness. - Diane Langberg in When the Church Harms God's People

We humans love our systems. And systems can be good and necessary. But any system, even a system set up to do good and even holy things, can, over time become a distorted and even hideous version of what it set out to be. And then there are some systems, we discover in our horror, that have some pretty crappy roots to begin with.

We humans love our systems. They bring us a sense of order. If we make our way up the ladder, our systems bring us a sense of pride and accomplishment. They give us a purpose. They make statements and if we agree with those statements we feel like we belong. And if we agree with those statements then we are 'right' and those who don't agree are 'wrong.'

Our world needs order and systems bring that order into being. It is only natural that we look to those systems to make our churches function. It is only natural that we look to those systems to link arms with those who share our beliefs and then figure out how to govern churches and their members.

But we have a problem when the system itself is king. We have a problem when the system no longer looks out for the best interest of those within it. We have a problem when the system no longer looks like Jesus.

Part of my spiritual journey over the past 10 years has been grappling with the failure of these systems. I've been in three different churches in three different denominations and in all three I saw the system, the agenda, the 'way we do things' bring unspeakable harm to the humans seeking fellowship and a shepherd. And in all three situations I tried to seek some level of accountability and in all three situations was met with silence. (Maybe I'm the wrong gender to get the job done.)

I don't know what to do with this.

People say to me 'no church is perfect' and 'we're all sinners, after all' and things like that. And to that I will say that that is no excuse for harming those within your care and often harming them IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So it was with great relief that I read Langberg's words this morning. It isn't just me. She, perhaps that woman I respect more than any other, she sees it, too. And she is calling it out.

When we pledge our loyalty to any person or any system we are in danger of running roughshod over another human being created in the image of God. And there is nothing like Jesus about that.

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Lean In

I have tried, for the most part, to avoid political posting on Facebook. I have friends across the spectrum. I am not one to debate or argue. But there does come a time to speak.

This election came at a hard time anyway. Or perhaps it was an easier time. After all, I was already in disaster mode.

This is the second major disaster I have experienced in 6 weeks time. I live in Swannanoa, NC, one of the epicenters of destruction from Hurricane Helene. My life and my family and my community and my livelihood have all been significantly impacted. I was just starting to come out of the post-disaster fog when came the election.

I will be totally honest here. I do not want to endanger my relationship with those who voted differently, but the reality is that I'm horrified. I am so afraid for what this means for the dignity and safety of women, the Black community, the LGBTQ population, and immigrants. I am afraid for what this means for healthcare. I am afraid for what this means for the freedom to disagree with power without consequences. I know this means that this could be the end of our country as we know it.

And yet, as I have seen with a natural disaster and I am experiencing yet again with the horror of this election, communal trauma is so different from personal trauma. In a disaster, the entire community is experiencing this together. And with this election, you have pretty much half the country in collective horror over the results.

That "me, too" is so key.

I believe the isolating factor of abuse is by far the most painful. This is why the "don't talk" rule within churches is damaging. And think of the Adverse Childhood Experiences (look up ACE score). These are all personal. They are often secret. And they are all coated in shame. The child is powerless and alone.

Powerless and alone. This is the essence of trauma.

Here we are with a disaster. A national disaster. A disaster for women. For the LGBTQ community. For the Black community and people of all colors other than white. For immigrants.

We may feel powerless. We may BE powerless. But we are not alone. We are in this disaster TOGETHER. And we must stick together.

A part of me wants to give into fear and run down the rabbit trail of the worst case scenarios (and I have a very good Worst Case Scenario generator in my head). But another part of me knows that there is way too much work to do.

A few days ago I wrote a post about my need to not look away from the destruction in my community. After that, a friend shared a phrase she heard. "We can look away or we can lean in."

Let us take some time to grieve. But then we have a job to do. We need to, we must, lean in.

We lean in and listen to those who are afraid.

We lean in and defend those who are oppressed.

We lean in and offer light and hope to those flattened by despair.

We lean in and include those who are cast out.

We lean in and treat with dignity those who are marginalized.

We lean in and speak words of truth and courage in the face of tyranny.

We lean in and love in a country being led by hate.

We lean in and make friends and neighbors of those who are called the enemy.

Come on, people, we've got work to do.

We lean in and do justice.

We lean in and love mercy.

We lean in and walk humbly with our God.

(Micah 6:8)

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Three Weeks After

It’s been over three weeks since Helene did her dirty work, leaving indescribable heartache and destruction in her path.

People ask me how I’m doing.

I am exhausted.

There’s physical exhaustion that comes in waves, despite my level of exertion of lack thereof.

There’s mental exhaustion that leaves me virtually incapable of complex thought, problem solving, or reading a book.

There’s emotional exhaustion that leaves me feeling everything and nothing, all at the same time.

I am angry.

I am angry that our tragedy has been used in service of a political agenda.

I am angry that the world out there has gone on spinning while we are here…with all this.

I am angry at the lack of information, leading to both intentional and unintentional misinformation, as people fill in the gaps the best they can.

I am angry at the failure of the emergency alerts, which were too little, too late, and inaccessible to those that needed them most.

I am angry at the insurance industry which seems to play a game at their benefit and the expense of those they supposedly serve.

I am angry that the cell phone provider that has always promised the best service has failed us terribly when we needed it most.

I am angry that people still don’t understand how to navigate an intersection where the traffic light is out. (Four way stop, people! Four.way.stop!)

I feel guilt. So much guilt.

Guilt that I haven’t lost more.

Guilt that I haven’t done more.

Guilt that I am physically incapable of doing more, due to my ls spinal limitations and lack of big, beefy muscles with which to hoist cases of water and piles of debris.

Guilt that I lack skill with a chainsaw or earth moving equipment.

Guilt that I didn’t warn my daughter’s neighbors to evacuate and wasn’t there to rescue them from their roofs with a canoe.

Guilt that it seems like I have given so little, mostly receiving from people’s kindness.

I am grateful.

Grateful that my daughter and granddaughter got to safety before the flood water engulfed their house.

Grateful for the hoards of volunteers and that people can actually pronounce Swannanoa now.

Grateful for the kindness of so many family, friends, and strangers in donations of money and food and water and goods and offers of help.

I am overwhelmed.

I am overwhelmed with all of the offers of all the good things.

I am heartbroken.

I am heartbroken that those that lost the most were, for the most part, those who had the least to lose and also have the fewest resources to rebuild.

But right now, right now I am afraid.

Afraid of what will happen to the local businesses.

Afraid that the world will go back to normal and not learn and not change.

Afraid that we will be expected to go on living as if none of this ever happened.

Afraid that we will be forgotten.

Afraid that we will forget each other.

Afraid that we will lose the connection and sense of community that have been our oxygen, our water, our source of life for 21 days.

And yet, I do have hope. I hope for so many things. But that is another post for another day.

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Why Didn't They Leave?

(On September 27, 2024, the remnants of Hurricane Helene, now a tropical storm, passed over the mountains of Western North Carolina and East Tennessee, dumping upwards of 30 inches of rain and resulting in massive flooding, landslides, washed out roads, and downed trees and power lines. The death toll in North Carolina is currently at 96 but many are still missing. This is Western North Caroina's Katrina.)

"Why didn't they leave?"

I see this question constantly when I do the stupid thing of reading the comments on videos and posts about the flood and destruction wrought by Helene. They ask that question as if everyone here is stupid. As if we just didn't know any better. As if all of this trauma and loss wouldn't have happened if we had just heeded the advice of the professionals.

Why didn't they leave?

The Rainfall

Days before they started telling us that we would get the remnants of Hurricane Helene. They said that we would likely get 6-10" of rain. They did say that this could be a catastrophic storm. When they said the same thing in 2018 with Hurricane Irene, we got drizzle. Most people in WNC are "I'll believe it when I see it" people because predicting the weather around here can be extremely tricky.

Instead of 6-10" of rain, we got around 14-15" at our house in Swannanoa. The areas around Mount Mitchell (highest point east of the Mississippi at 6684ft) got 24-30" of rain. All that rain has to go somewhere.

The Flooding

They said that the flooding could be bad. When I hunted and pecked I found that the rivers were expected to crest at higher that what we had with Frances in 2004, but lower than the historic Flood of 1916. They said that the rivers would crest on Saturday afternoon.

The flooding happened Friday morning. The Swannanoa River in Biltmore Village crested at 5.4 feet above the 1916 level.

We were expecting a lot of rain. We expected some flooding. Nobody was expecting this.

The Emergency Alerts

Well, some of us got emergency alerts. I say some of us because my husband, sleeping beside me, his phone on his bedside table, did not get those alerts. My phone did. But the alerts didn't say exactly WHO should evacuate (our house is high on a hill). And when I tried to read more information, assuming that this alert was in my text messages, the alert would disappear into some unknown alert stratosphere. Or sometimes the alert would say "For more information, go to buncombeready.gov" which you cannot do if you no longer have cell service or internet. I have heard other people saying that they never got an alert.

The Timing

The flooding started in the wee hours. Even when our daughter texted and then called us around 6-6:30am, it was still dark. Who can see where the water is in the dark? Who wants to venture out into flooding roads when they can't see anything?

The original plan with our daughter was to wait until a bit of daylight for her to try to evacuate or for us to try to go get her and our granddaughter. We didn't wait and, as we discovered, daylight would have been too late. By the time there was any daylight, her road was impassable. Her neighbors were trapped. Within 3 hours they were on their roofs, the water to the eaves.

So why didn't they evacuate? Because nobody expected this. Nobody expected the 2-2.5 FEET of water to pour down over our watershed, fill our reservoirs to the point that the spillways activated, flooding our rivers which overflowed their banks well beyond the 100 and the 500 year floodplains.

Nobody expected houses that had never seen water to be wiped off their foundations. Nobody expected roads to washed away. Nobody expected mountainsides to come crashing down. Nobody expected that the terms "unprecedented" and "Biblical" to be used with regard to our weather event. Nobody expected the words "decimated" and "apocalyptic" to be used to describe their town, their neighborhoods, their homes.

So please, PLEASE have compassion on those most impacted. Please don't question their judgment.

We expected something. None of us expected THIS.

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Feelings About Feelings

“Having feelings about our feelings creates unnecessary suffering.” Debra Benfield 

A while back there was a Very Important Day. It was one I had anticipated for the longest of times.

One that I had looked forward to with eagerness and joy.

And yet when it came to be it was one of the most intense days of my life. 

So many things, some very good and some very hard, led up to thatVery Important Day and I was a jumble of emotions. I felt them all,

sometimes in sequence and sometimes concurrently. At a point or two

I was in tears. Tears of happiness and relief. But also tears of just all the

intense emotions: excitement, fear, heartbreak, uncertainty, gratefulness,

grief, and pure exhaustion. In addition, there were the yucky feelings of

incompetence and invisibility and worthlessness. 

But on top of all of that was this overriding feeling of shame. I felt that

I SHOULD have felt differently. It was the should that almost did me in. 

I closed the Very Important Day beating myself up, believing myself to

be the most dysfunctional of humans…all because of the emotions I had

that day. Emotions that surprised me. Emotions that did not fit inside the

Very Important Day box. Emotions that I could not control and bend to

my will. 

When I talked with my therapist, not only did she validate all of those

emotions, but she asked me what I had done to show myself compassion. 

Show what???

Showing myself compassion was definitely not on my self-care bingo card that day. 

It wasn’t until I read the above quote that it really clicked with what I know but often…usually….well, almost always forget. That emotions are morally neutral. They aren’t right or wrong, they just are. 

We can be curious about them and learn from them. We can ride them out. We can learn ways to manage them. But we can’t change them. And we can’t, we mustn’t, condemn them. That only leads to suffering.

But on top of all of that was this overriding feeling: shame. I SHOULD have felt differently. I closed the biggest day of my daughter’s life beating myself up for being the most dysfunctional mother on the planet because of the emotions I had that day. Emotions I could not control and bend to my will. When I talked with Heidi, my therapist, not only did she validate all of those emotions, but she asked me what I had done to show myself compassion. Showing myself compassion was definitely not on my bingo card that day. It wasn’t until I read the above quote that it really clicked with what I know but often…usually….well, almost always forget. That emotions are morally neutral. They aren’t right or wrong, they just are. We can be curious about them and learn from them. We can ride them out. We can learn ways to manage them. But we can’t change them. And we can’t, we mustn’t, condemn them. It does only lead to suffering.

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Two Hands, Two Truths

Two days ago, in a text conversation with a dear friend, I said these words: “It is so hard to be there for a child when it is taking everything in you to hold yourself together.”

Those words I wrote stopped me in my tracks and took my breath away. 

I knew what I was talking about. I had been there myself. 

And then I realized: so had my mother. 

I have wrestled since 1977 with the effects of my parents’ divorce. While I have probably been more open about the loss of my father as a presence in my life, I have been less open about my mother. 

The reality is that when I lost my father that day, I lost my mother as well. 

At 14, I was on my own, emotionally, at least. 

I’ve spent the years since trying to process the fallout of these losses and the ways I was sucked into being the emotional caretaker for a mother who was stuck in grief. Who didn’t have the tools (or use what tools were available) to understand and process her own pain, much less care for a teenager. Much, much less care for a teenager dealing with demons of her own. 

For years I blamed my mother for so much. Why wouldn’t she seek help? Why wouldn’t she take antidepressants? Why wouldn’t she ever, ever apologize? Why couldn’t she see I could never fill that void in her life? 

Fast forward a few decades and I was there myself. A mother so devastated by circumstances beyond my control.. A mother absolutely paralyzed by my apparent failure that I was afraid and totally unable to parent my own teenage children. 

I got it. And getting it crushed me. And I was angry at the teenage me for needing my own mother. And I was angry at the adult me for blaming my mother for my pain. 

Fast forward another decade. 

“It is so hard to be there for a child when it is taking everything in you to hold yourself together.”

And I realize that it can be both. 

A mother can be totally so maxed out and flattened by life that she cannot be what she needs to be for her child. 

And a child can be devastated by that loss. 

And I can have compassion for both.

This isn’t a blame game. It is just reality in this pathetically broken world of ours. 

Just because a mother can’t be all she needs or wants to be for her child does not negate the impact of this on the child. 

And just because a child suffers in this way does not mean we cannot have compassion for a mother who is totally maxed out and may have no resources to draw on. 

I used to think that having compassion for my mother would totally minimize my own pain. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

I’ve heard over and over again that part of maturity, part of walking through grief, is being able to hold two often opposing truths at the same time. One truth does not negate the other. 

I learned a lot from my experience, and I have been dead set on doing so many things differently: taking antidepressants, engaging in therapy to heal from my own trauma, seeking honest conversations with my own children, apologizing out the wazoo for the many ways I failed them. Yet I now “get” just how hard it must have been for my mother. 

I have two hands. I can hold both her pain and mine. 

It is a strange but good place to be. 

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Whatever Is Mentionable Is Manageable

 "Whatever is mentionable is manageable."

These are the words Margaret McFarland spoke to Fred Rogers that stuck with him and served as a foundation for his work with children. She knew, he knew, that it is the secrets that eat us alive.

I know this, too.

I have been accused, over the years, of being too honest and too open. That I don't need to share everything I think or feel (I can assure you, I don't...seriously, if you only knew). I have wrestled with this. Do I share too much? I realize that in sharing uncomfortable things, I have lost the respect of many and lost the friendship of others.

Why do I share? Because whatever is mentionable is manageable. I don't always know who to share with so I just throw my words into the wind. And in this world of photoshop and aspirational lifestyle posts, I truly believe that someone else may need to see real people dealing with real issues in real life.

Somebody somewhere, but I may not know who, needs to feel so not alone. So I mention. I mention to manage the hard things in my own life. But I do so that somebody else may have the words or the camaraderie or the connection to be able to mention the hard things in theirs as well.

It is so often the silence that slays us.

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Ode to 2023

 Being the more reflective type, I generally like to sit down at the end of the year and process all that has gone before. This past week was nothing short of a round robin of activity with a house full of people and I just didn’t have the quiet that I need to sit and think. So that which normally comes at the end of one year is, this time, coming at the beginning of another. This post could get long.

In some ways this past year just sucked. It was hard. Hard in so many ways. But anytime things are hard, there is a lot of learning going on. I don’t always see the learning at the time. But later, after the bleeding has stopped and the wound is starting to crust over a bit but is still oh, so tender to the touch, I catch a glimpse of understanding that I didn’t have before.

So…what did I learn this year?

I learned to see the fact that I am a Highly Sensitive Person as a strength and an asset, rather than a weakness and a liability. This was a challenge in a world (and especially a profession) that rewards the driven and ambitious. The fast-paced self promoters. Where your value is measured by the quantity of your work over your quality. This is a challenge in a world that scorns emotion and minimizes concerns. Where I am more likely to be accused of making a mountain out of a molehill than be believed, even when I warn that that chunk of ice may very well be the tip of an iceberg that can do catastrophic damage. It is a challenge in a world that doesn’t value or respect those who sit and process, ponder, and even grieve. But I am learning that we Highly Sensitive People are so important to the world. We are the nerve endings, without which communities and societies would damage themselves to no end.

I learned that the trajectory of life can change in an instant: one decision, one conversation, one diagnosis and the world is turned upside down and the future can get lost in the rubble. I learned that it can take time, sometimes a long time, to find a way forward. I learned that all plans and hopes and dreams must be held loosely. That sometimes muddling through and figuring it out as you go is the best you can do.

I learned that there is a huge difference between public pain and private pain and which one is harder.

I learned that reading 52 books in one year didn’t impress anybody, not even me, and it certainly won’t get back the education I threw away.

Most importantly of all, I learned to grieve. Early in the year I listened to a podcast by Adam Young about the importance of grieving. Then I read Francis Weller’s The Wild Edge of Sorrow. And I followed that Anderson Cooper’s podcast All There Is. What these people taught me is that grieving is absolutely essential for a fuller life. And that doesn’t just mean grieving the loss of someone through death. Grieving encompasses so much more. I learned that I needed to grieve.

-I grieved the loss of youth. The loss of the body I knew for years. One pleasing to the eye and free of pain.

-I grieved my vocation. The fact that for 21 years I have been in a profession that often highlights my weaknesses and disregards my strengths. It has been a struggle and the older I got, the more I looked back on what I’ve done with my life, the harder it got. What about all the areas of life where there are workers needed? Where I could make a difference? But I am here, one in several thousand all scrambling for the same pool of clients, trying to eke out a living. I struggled with this.

-I grieved the loss of dreams. I will never go back to school and get that advanced degree. I don’t have the time, the energy, the focus. I don’t have any idea how I would make use of such a thing. I can set it down and say goodbye.

-I grieved the things I never had. Relationships that didn’t exist, leaving a hole in my soul.

-I grieved for my daughter. The loss of the life she knew. The loss of energy and vitality and just being able to drink a cup of coffee without feeling sick. The loss of a future free from medical concerns and potential recurrence or secondary cancers. The loss of a normal life expectancy.

-I grieved the loss of a vision for the future and my place in it. This time last year I thought I had an idea of the near future and even further down the road. I thought I was seeing how God planned on using my gifts and all that I have learned through the years. That train derailed and went up in smoke. I’m afraid to take a peek down the road. I’m not even sure there is a road. I’m taking one tentative step at a time.

-I grieved the loss of trust…in important relationships, in community, in God. This year sent me back into a hole, like a wounded animal, just trying to survive. This year took away my words, the one way I seem able to connect to others.

All this grieving, you might think, would make me more sad. More of a Debbie Downer than I already am. But it hasn’t. It has brought relief. I’ve found that grieving actually feels like home to me. It is the one area where I don’t have to hide or pretend. For most of my life I was told to cheer up. Think positive thoughts. Be thankful for what I had. “At least you don’t….” Grieving is the one place where I can be honest about who I am and what I feel.

And yet our culture doesn’t allow it. We hardly allow it for the most public and obvious of losses, expecting the family of the dead to snap back and move on in record time. We certainly don’t allow it for all of the other, less visible, less acknowledged losses in life.

But our failure to grieve saps us of life. We spend so much time pushing it down, keeping the feral cat in the bag. We spend so much energy keeping our upper lip stiff as a steel beam and our heart as protected as Fort Knox that we don’t have anything left for being human.

Frances Weller says, “If we don’t address our grief, our hearts close. And our hearts don’t have the capacity then to register the suffering of the world.”

Grief doesn’t shut us down. It makes us more alive. Maybe now I am more alive.

I guess learning that was enough.

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