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Awe

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People often assume that my busy times at work are around Christmas and during the summer. And I agree. But I’m also quick to say that “every time is really my busy time”. It’s true. There is always something happening, or planning that needs to be done; an endless cycle. It can be overwhelming at times. But I always come back to the moments that I get to share with my youth. Whether one-on-one, or in groups. That shared time is the most precious.

Yesterday we had a lock-in, really today too as they are all still sleeping. Doing some extra planning for Youth Sunday in April, playing games, watching a movie, and of course: eating. That has filled our time. I am clinging to these moments because spending time with these youth makes me the happiest. They amaze me, they challenge me, they make me proud, they make me LAUGH, they revitalize my soul. The time we share together always teaches me something new about them–it leaves me in awe. Not the dumbstruck, mouth agape kind of awe. But the kind where you smile because you can see how much they’ve grown and how they continue to morph into these incredibly insightful and loving people.

I’m lucky to share part of their journey. I’m lucky to have their influence on my life. And I thank God for the gift of their presence in my life. They say that faith formation for young people gains strength through relationships, more specifically intentional relationships with five+ adults. I am humbled and honored to be among that five. Just as I feel when serving during the summer with ASP, I feel that I gain more that I give. “Sticky Faith” relationships, while monumental for the youth, are also beneficial for the adults. And I stand in awe this morning recognizing the gifts of relationship and community with these youth.

A Week Late

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In the last few years I’ve never missed an opportunity to reflect on my grandpa’s birthday. He was born 20 days and 80 years before me. But this year, even though I remembered his 110th birthday, I didn’t write about it. And so, a week later, after finally feeling like I have a moment to breathe and spend some time writing, I’m am reflecting.

Many of my fondest memories of my grandpa, in his true state, are snippets: pieces strung together that I grasp onto tightly so they don’t escape my memory. I remember the way he’d wink at us, I remember his stories about his trips to Jerusalem, I remember the laundry room and playground at the last apartment he had before moving to the nursing home, I remember his faith.

Unfortunately, many of his “good” years were when I was too young to remember or before I was even born. But I never doubted the love he had for his family and his God. I love hearing stories of him in the garden, his daily regiment of apple cider vinegar, and his dedication to not only the Methodist Church, but also his local congregation.

In many ways he is someone who still has a very strong influence on my life. I find special connections to him to this day, even if they may be slightly created in my mind at points. To me, there are things that will always keep us connected. And I am thankful for his presence in my life.

As my mom grew older, one of the first things I started to notice was how much she resembled her father. To many that may not be noteworthy, but because so many people tell me how much I look like my mom, it was 100% endearing to me to see her resembling him and then by association myself resembling him as well. This holds a very special place in my hear.

Happy belated 110, Lowell. Thank you for watching over me.

One of Those

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Do you ever have those days? Those days you just don’t fully feel like you? My whole week has been like that. I came off of the incredible “high” that is “retreat weekend”. Even more so this year because I gave my youth an even more in depth view of me. And that felt liberating, and honest, and 99.5% true to me, or the me I am trying to be…I think it’s really the “me” at the core of me. If that makes sense.

I had a day to recoup, and then back to the office. There’s always work to be done, never a lack. Some days that means looking ahead and planning for 6 or 12 months down the road. Other times it means planning for the following Sunday. Sometimes I get to be super creative (these are my favorite days–could you guess it?). And other days are full of mundane tasks (no less important, just doesn’t light me up the same way).

I had emails to write, events to schedule and, admittedly, events to tweak, change and reschedule. I had resources to prep, teachers to line up, trainings to dream for and budgeting to do. Some of it was super exciting. Some of it was less so. I love how my job has helped; and though I don’t always see it, how it continues to help; me grow. These days/week’s of “not feeling like me” sometimes make me question: my faith, my vocation, my relationships, my habits.

That can seem scary, but I’ve come to embrace the fact that the times it creeps up me, this feeling allows me a wonderful self-assessment period. To make sure my life is going in a positive direction: one of growth, and challenge, and general positivity. A direction I like and one I think God would be proud of.

As many of you know, I’ve started a new workout routine. I joined a gym the end of December and I’ve gone almost every day of 2018. Let me just start by saying this was, and is, a huge thing for me. I’ve always been too lazy to pay to workout. But I committed. And I thought for sure I’d be too lazy to get my butt moving…but I’m doing it. It’s not always the same amount of time, or the same machines used or exercises done. But I am listening to my body and figuring out what keeps me motivated and excited, and how I can help my body rest even while still being active.

Yesterday was a HUGE accomplishment for me. I did 60 minutes on the elliptical. 60!! Usually I’m a 30 minute workout and done type of girl. But I stretched myself to 45 minutes on Tuesday and wasn’t bored/tired. So last night, when I went at 8:30 to the gym I told myself it was a night of pushing myself. At about the 40 minute mark I could feel myself start dragging. “I can totally stop…40 minutes is good…”. But nope. I persevered and made it all the way to 60 minutes. My legs felt a little like JELLO, but they don’t feel horrible today so that’s a plus.

I am continuing to look for more ways I can “create” and incorporate healthy habits into my daily routine. Looks like this fitness thing just might stick.

Imani Haerenga

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I’m not really sure how to put into words all that this last weekend was for me.  My favorite times in ministry are those times I get to spend extended intentional time with the young people of our church: lock-ins, mission trips, camp, and retreats.  This retreat is always special.  We have a theme, we start dreaming about and creating a vision for Youth Sunday.  I always walk away with extreme pride, a warm heart, and insight into how much these kiddos have grown over the last year (sometimes even just in the last few weeks).

One important thing I have seen in my own life, but I know to be true for others and for faith formation and retention in youth, is genuine connection.  To me that includes vulnerability, and openness, and realness.  So this year’s retreat theme landed on “Faith Stories”–broad in many senses, but also adaptable to be narrowed down.  We talked about what a faith story is, some examples from the Bible, different ways to express your story, mandalas, and then our sponsors shared their own stories.  The stories were raw, and emotional, and not candy-coated.  It can be uncomfortable sitting with someone else’s story, but our youth did an amazing job being respectful and receptive and present.

I’d like to share the story I wrote for my youth with you all here.  It was a struggle to read for them, but I got through it.  Please recognize that the audience this was written for was the youth on retreat, so the pronouns and language should be read as such.

Shannon’s Faith Story

I find writing my faith story to be a lot like journaling.  It ebbs and flows and most times just eeps out of me.  The first thing I’d like to make clear is that I don’t have just one faith story.  I have many.  Some are big, some are small.  No matter the size they have all had a hand in shaping me.  And that is ongoing.

I could tell you about my confirmation experience, and why I decided to go through with joining my church when I was in the 7th grade.  I could tell you about my African faith story.  How it felt to be God’s hands and feet and what culture shock was like for me.  I could tell you about my call to ministry and my process for discernment in youth ministry as my vocation.  But I think an important lesson in stories of faith is knowing they don’t always come in happy and joyous experiences.

I want to share with you my faith story from the last couple of years.  Bear with me because there are bound to be tears.  Some of you may know that my mom had Parkinson’s.  It’s a degenerative disease, meaning it doesn’t ever get better but medications and therapies can slow the progression of the disease.  Parkinson’s is a neurological disease so it affects the brain and nerves.  It was very difficult to see the spread of the disease but I found it gave me new perspective about my mom, our relationship, and our faith.

I’d have huge bouts of frustration with my mom in the early stages when she couldn’t remember things I had told her repeatedly, when I had to do everyday tasks for her, or things that seemed strange because she couldn’t do herself.  This is when my prayer life picked up.  My prayers morphed from just meal times and when I feel asleep to constant breaks in my day: anytime I was driving, after I hung up with talking to family or friends on the phone, when I was exercising, etc.  I’d pray for her, my dad, my sisters, myself, and for specific situations as they arose.

Then November 11th 2016 hit.  Shelly and I were planning to see our parents and we got an urgent call from our dad saying that he couldn’t wake our mom up.  We got in the car and drove to their house.  I was in constant prayer then. “Give us strength, give us strength, give us strength.”  My heart was racing.  We arrived, finally roused my mom, got her in the car and we all immediately went to the ER.  This time I wasn’t driving but my prayers kept flooding in “she has to be okay, God, she just has to…”

They ran all sorts of tests in the ER.  And found nothing.  We’d been down a similar road before.  But the crazy thing is once we hit the ER her temperature plummeted.  She got so cold the machines had trouble reading her pulse and signaled several times that she had coded.

From there she went to the ICU and our family made the decision after about a week that she should be moved to hospice care.  Generally, hospice is used as a way to ease patients and their families into the dying process making patients comfortable for their last days.  For me, this took even more prayer.  I prayed for my dad, who was going through a horrible time as he thought about losing his wife, life partner and best friend.  I prayed for my sisters: one far away who could be in a sense of denial and one close at home who takes emotions very directly.  I prayed for our decision making, that we were doing what my mom would have wanted and that God would continue to provide comfort and peace for her through the process.

The thing about my faith at this point is that I believed in the power of God, I believed he would surround us and provide us support but I didn’t make myself the center of my prayers.  I have a tendency to be a protector, someone who looks out for others, and gives so much that sometimes I neglect my own well-being.  This showed me my own strong faith.  It’s like breathing, I don’t have to consciously tell myself to breath in and out, I just do it.  The same way I didn’t have to worry about myself because God already had me taken care of.

The next 5 months were tough.  I wasn’t myself.  I wasn’t always present, in my own life or admittedly at work either.  And I probably neglected you all along the way.

Often times when people are grief stricken they resort to asking God “why”.  Why do they have to be sick?  Why now?  Why did they have to die?  Why her?  Because Parkinson’s patients who have the specific diagnosis my mom had generally live 5-10 years after initial diagnosis, I had been gearing myself up for days and decisions like these with which we were now faced.  My mom was diagnoses in the late fall of 2009 and this was November of 2016.

I had already spent the last seven years processing the fact that my mom’s life would come to a close much sooner than I would like, and much soon than the parents of my peers.  I already had seven years to fight with God, to question, and to work through much of my grief.  So my questions, in Shannon fashion, at this point became more geared toward advocating for my mom.  Why is she still in pain?  Why this back and forth of good days and bad days and all the in-betweens?  When will this burden be lifted?  I’m not always so proud to admit that last one.

Even though these questions were difficult, you can see that my faith changed.  I knew my mom would be provided for in heaven.  I knew she was already having vision of the other side.  And I knew that much of her continued time on earth, though stressful for myself and my dad as we visited everyday or every other day, and stressful for my sisters as they processed in their own ways—this continued time on earth was necessary for my mom.  Because even in my mom’s strength and dedicated faith, she was scared.  She was frightened of the unknown of what heaven would be like, what dying would feel like, and how my whole immediate family would deal with the hole in our hearts and our lives.

This whole experience that I walked through with my mom and her journey to eternal life strengthened my faith and showed me that our prayers are not always answered in the ways we expect.  Sometimes the desires of our hearts are not what wins out when put up against the desires of the heart of another.  I kept praying for an end to my mom’s suffering—in my mind that being a peaceful passing.  But I am confident that she was praying for clarity and comfort as she came to terms with the unknown in front of her.  Her needs and wishes were greater than, and honestly, more important than, mine.

I am thankful in knowing that even when we are sad and suffering, our faith can grow in positive ways.  We may not always expect the outcomes we get, but with the many prayers God receives, he fits the pieces together to create the needed outcomes.

**The title is a combination of Swahili and Maori words.  The first is Swahili for “faith” and the second is Maori for “journey”**

Flexibility

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This came up for me twice yesterday, the first time I wrote myself a note.  Habitual note taker here (insert emoji of girl raising hand).  The second time I barely rolled my eyes and said “okay, I hear you”.

I consider myself a flexible person.  It doesn’t always seem that way, though.  Because I also live by structure.  And so when things go topsy-turvy, sometimes I lose my cool.  I admit it.  But I am finding more and more that I have flexible tendencies even to a fault.  My job requires me to be flexible.  But often times in my need to be flexible I feel this pit in my stomach that I am letting people down, that I am making huge mistakes that could have been avoided, or that I have failed.  Yup, probably one of my biggest all time fears is that I am letting people down/disappointing them/failing.

In the heat of the moment, when stuff hits the fan, I am generally level-headed, cool and calm, concerned but ready to jump in to help with the solution.  That is when the situation isn’t related to home repairs–then I’m a little less level-headed, cool and calm.  I think my ability to handle situations under pressure, and my response in disaster times make me a good leader.  I am thankful for those qualities I have as a part of me.

But I am working to remind myself that being flexible doesn’t mean failure.  Change doesn’t mean failure.  Even failure doesn’t mean failure.  It just is an indicator of a learning experience, a lesson, a way to improve and grow and be better.  So I will endeavor to keep being flexible and not beat myself up about it.  Because I’m not perfect. I am just trying to live the most genuine life I can.

tree.

What I’ve Learned

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Yesterday I had the opportunity to get together with a community of women, most whom I’d never met prior, and celebrate “Women’s Christmas”. If you are interested you can learn more here. It was a wonderful two hours of getting to know one another, openly sharing or experiences and our lives, being vulnerable, laughing, almost crying, and being present.

I am extremely thankful that my friend Anne asked me to be a part of this mini retreat. I am thankful for the five other women who came as well. Their stories are not the same of mine, but we all had glimpses of similarities. It was a comforting reminder that we don’t walk alone and we are not the only ones who walk our path of sorts.

But here’s what I learned:

  1. There are women out there, like me, who dream. And sometimes we have to be reminded to do this. And sometimes we have to intentionally make space for this. It is a wonderful feeling to have others who encourage us, ask us the deep questions, and remind us that rest is important.
  2. I have a deep need for community. This is a root of my being, surrounding myself with others (not always like-minded but definitely open-minded) who appreciate questioning and conversation and study time.
  3. I’m a life-long learner, especially in the areas of faith and spirituality. It excites me, and intrigued me, and helps me better frame and understand the world around me.
  4. As my chosen word for the year is “create,” I need to make new pockets of community for myself. Book studies, crafting circles, discussion groups, friends of friends, acquaintances and yes–even strangers. My soul craves community in small and large ways. And it is high time I feed that part of me.

I am thankful for being pulled out of my shell last night, for being on the verge of tears at points as stories were told and blessings were shared but still feeling comfortable and supported in that space.

And so I leave you with this blessing by Jan Richardson:

2018

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Christmas has come and gone. And it was eerily apparent this year that holidays will never quite be the same. It’s something that is logical after loss, but I don’t think you really get it until you experience it. I very much enjoyed Christmas and some of our new traditions. I loved going to both of SCC’s Christmas Eve services. I actually really enjoyed opening presents Christmas morning instead of Christmas Eve, and a small dinner feast was a welcome change from the loads of food in the past.

My recognition of change made me a little hesitant about our New Year’s Day tradition. For as long as I can remember, we’d wake up the morning of the new year and have breakfast as a family–a quasi-French tradition: crêpes. I don’t know anyone else who has the same tradition, and I just loved its uniqueness growing up. I was pleasantly surprised last week when Shelly said “can we have crêpes on Monday morning?” And so, we did. Some traditions and celebrations will never be normal again. But there are glimpses and pieces that are easy enough to keep alive and as we make our way into 2018 I am glad of that.

I have decided to jump on the band wagon of choosing a word of intention for my year. This year I picked “create”. There are many things I want to create this year: healthier habits, new traditions, new friendships, and crafty projects of all sorts. I can’t wait to see where this year will lead and I am glad to leave 2017 in the dust.

Happy New Year!

In the nick of time…

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About two and a half years ago, my sisters and I were spit-balling ideas for our parents for Christmas.  They are often difficult to buy for, especially since they didn’t need more “stuff”.  And then I got an idea: pictures.  We hadn’t done any kind of family portraits with all five of us since…our Olan Mills days?  And we for sure hadn’t had Josh in any with us.  Good photography can beis expensive.  It’s one of those things that I think you really do need to splurge for, if you want a good end result.

I wracked my brain, how were we going to pay for photos?  Even with all four of us kids pitching in, I wasn’t sure we’d get the effect we wanted.  Until I thought of Chelsea.

Chelsea and I attended OWU at the same time I did, she was a freshman when I was a senior.  The funny thing, I think, is that I actually met her mother and brother before I actually met her.  See, I was working as an intern in the Admissions Office at the time, and I helped at an event in Indy that OWU was hosting.  And her brother was there as a “prospective student”.  To be candid, he wasn’t ever seriously considering our school, but it was free food and it helped the event to have a current student’s parent present for questions.  Chelsea’s mother was quick to learn that I had a car on campus and set up our first meeting–carpooling home for…Thanksgiving break (right, Chels?)

We were quick friends based on our love of Starbucks, good music, and unbelievable abilities to hold an endless conversation with a seemingly complete stranger.  What more could you want?  That year I gave Chelsea many rides home, and the following year as well as I returned to OWU to fill a temporary position in the Admissions Office.

She has been one of my closest friends here in Indy. Someone close geographically that understands my longing for HamboInn and Amato’s. And at Christmas time two years ago she was a Godsend. Chelsea has her BFA and is a professional Art Therapist, and she is super talented in many of the arts. But one of my favorites is her photography. So she agreed and trekked with us to Nashville, IN and took photo after photo of the 6 of us. I will forever be grateful for this kindness and the resulting memories in my mind, my heart, and captured in print.

They offer me of tiny glimpses of silliness, joy, togetherness, and love. And those moments are so dear.

Reality Check

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Disclaimer: This post points out some of my very real flaws. But in the hopes of transparency and vulnerability, I am okay with that. I also recognize that every story has more than one side and this is mine. Others feel it and would tell it differently.

In high school one of my core groups of friends was a group of four other girls and myself. It started as just four of us, and what seemed haphazardly to me, a fifth was added. I wouldn’t call us inseparable nor a clique–I was a part of many a different friend groups. But this group was one of my closest sets. We’d get together once a month or so as a large group for a movie at the mall, or dinner, or a sleepover. And when two of us left for college we started a traveling notebook à la “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants”. We didn’t have those magical pants though.

College made things different. It was harder for all five of us to be connected in the same way. Letters and the notebook traveling became sparser. It was harder to get ahold of one another via phone (my first year in college I didn’t have a cell phone until about Thanksgiving). We’d meet over Winter Break for a sleepover and girl talk and general shenanigans. And I am thankful to this day that I was home from Spring Break when one of their brother’s died–I could be that presence from the group.

But people change, and not every friendship lasts. There came a point that I was the odd woman out. I’d be working at ASP over the summers while they’d all be together, having weekly dinners. I was thought of last when travel plans to visit one or the other happened–and no one ever bothered (or even considered to my knowledge) visiting me at school or on ASP. And it hurt. More than I let on, and definitely more than I cared to let anyone know. I wasn’t forgotten but I definitely wasn’t a part of the group in the same way.

And then mom got diagnosed. And my email to the group (because at some point it went from a notebook to email updates) was long and heart wrenching and full of my disbelief and need for reassurance. And there was little to nothing. The usual, “I’m sorry” or “that sucks”. But no questions, no soothing, and no phone calls or tries at one-on-one communication. And that stung. This group that I considered to be some of my best friends acted like I had just said “I tripped today”. So I found my comfort in other places: in my sisters, in my best friend from home (who wasn’t a part of this group) and from friends at college who watched me cry and gave me hugs and reassured me that I’d get through whatever was ahead.

Fast forward to graduating, moving back home, and being a big kid. When I got home the other girl my age was home after graduating as well. We’d hang out, but most times that meant me driving to her parents’ house, or really just me driving because she didn’t have her license (at the age of 22). I can remember a year we went to The Vogue on Halloween and I had to spot her money because she didn’t realize there would be a cover for a holiday like that. Very baffling (and slightly annoying) to me at the time.

The years moved on and eventually I was the only one in Indy. They’d randomly visit one another, but at holidays we stopped seeing each other as much. One of them got engaged and the bachelorette party was to be in New York a month after my trip to Australia and New Zealand. I was excited! Maybe this would be like old times. Maybe this would bring us all together (minus the one serving with the Peace Corps). Maybe this would be the ticket to actually feeling like my friends cared about me again.

We started working out details and when I said my timeframe for a weekend meant Wednesday night thru Saturday night they all went a little crazy. One of them wasn’t working, and had 100% flexible time, one wasn’t coming as she was serving in Africa, and the other didn’t understand why everyone else had to sacrifice for me. So I budged and convinced my boss I could be off the Sunday in question.

But it hit me a few days later–why was I sacrificing my time and money for these girls who obviously didn’t care what worked for me? Why was I continually sacrificing my well-being and self for their wants and needs? Did they even really know me anymore? And so I shut down. And, in some ways, it was cowardly. I don’t really care for confrontation or making other people upset–one of my biggest Achilles’ heels of sorts.

I told them that I wasn’t coming. And that created more chaos. The emails came pouring in: you aren’t coming? Why not? Too expensive? Did your boss change his mind? Why are you being like this? Don’t you care about supporting your friend? It was the last drop of water in the overflowing bucket I was carrying–it was too much. And so after radio silence on my end I wrote them one of the toughest emails I have ever written and basically broke up with them. Was it the most appropriate means of communication? No. Did more than one of them respond? No. Did I cut ties completely and feel much freer and truer to myself? Yes. And that made all the difference. That’s how I know, even today when I have mini minutes of reflection or doubt, that it was still the right choice.

So why am I sharing this and putting it out in the universe? Fast forward to 2017. When mom passed away, I had some sadness and animosity surrounding the fact that none of that group would have any idea that it had happened. And in a weird way it made me sad and angry. Totally illogical and probably misplaced.

Yesterday one of my Facebook memories included a girl from this group. I very deliberately untagged myself from the post (don’t need that in my memories every.year). But it got me thinking about her so I clicked on her profile to see what was new in her life. I knew she’d recently been married but right at the top, the first public post was from August and had funeral arrangements for her own mother. My jaw dropped, and I was emotionally paralyzed. Shock set in and grief over the loss and anger at myself hit.

They didn’t know about my mom, and I didn’t know about hers. So I was just as much “in the wrong” here. But that didn’t mean I had to continue being the person I had been. I’ve changed and grown and (hopefully) matured since I sent that break up email to all of them. My actions don’t initiate out of the same place they used to; I try to constantly and consciously operate out of a place of love these days. Sometimes I fall short of that, but it’s ever my goal. And that’s definitely not how I was back then. So I sucked up my pride and I stopped beating myself up and I wrote her an email–not because I hope to be friends again, not because I want an apology or explanation, not because I want to hold anything over her head. I wrote her an email because I am human and I know all too well and all too recently what it feels like to lose your mother before you turn 30. And if nothing else, maybe saying “others have walked before you” will give some comfort. Maybe shedding just a small beam of light on her and her experience and the sisterhood of those grieving right now can bring relief. Because I don’t have to know the whole story to know that it hurts and that it seems unfair and that things will never be the same again for her. But my heart and soul that are trying so desperately to always start with love felt that doing anything other than reaching out would have been “wrong”.

I don’t expect her to respond. I don’t need her to. But I am reminded that we all are walking around this great world carrying things no one could even imagine. And so love, to me, is the way to face the day and greet the world around me.

A Letter to My Best Friend…

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Do you know those posts on sites like thoughtcatalog and buzzfeed?  The ones that are open letters to or have a list of things only your best friend would understand? I’m a millennial.  I read those all.the.time.  And then I proceed to text/message them to my closest friends. #sorrynotsorry

I’m overly sentimental.  I love to do for others more than I like to do for myself–I’ve always been that way.  I haven’t seen my best friend since March and that visit was pretty short.  I thought I was going to have the opportunity to see her next month, but I have a commitment that will keep me from that.  And so, I’ve been writing a letter of my own to her all day in my mind.

To My Best Friend:

You get my weird like no one else.  Scratch that.  You share my weird like no one else.  I don’t have to worry about censoring myself around you, and in a world that is based so much on judgement and what others think, I am thankful to not have to worry about that.  Plus weird shenanigans lead to wonderful adventures.

I value you more than you know.  Little did I know when we met that I would need your love and support so much in the future.  Our friendship blossomed quickly, something that I think happens only under the most specific of circumstances.  But the speed of things did not forfeit the quality involved.  Somehow we spoke the same language about life, family, faith, and honesty without needing much explanation or translation.

Even though we don’t talk or text every day you are there when it matters.  You answer late night calls, stay on the phone just to hear me cry or laugh uncontrollably, and ask the tough questions.  You remind me who I am when I forget, why I do what I do, and about what is important in life.  Not everyone can keep me so grounded.

We don’t always agree.  We’ve had our fair share of disagreements, but any animosity soon fades.  Because we recognize that we can disagree and still love one another.  It always comes back to love.

I would not be me without you.  Some of my best memories, the sad and the happy, include you.  Your friendship has taught me that it matters not how many friends or relationships we have in this life.  It matters more the depth of the connection.