Spirit Scraps

Come move with me...

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 16:22:00 +0000

I've finalized the switch of my blogging platform.

If you have been subscribed to this blog, please go to my new site.

You can sign up on the right hand side to see posts by e-mail.

See you there!

Following Spirit Scraps

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Tue, 10 May 2011 19:13:00 +0000

You can now find Spirit Scraps here.

If you've subscribed, you can do so on the new blog by clicking the link at the top of the page.

The Death of Bin Laden

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Mon, 02 May 2011 14:56:00 +0000

I will readily admit that when I heard the news this morning that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by US forces, I wept. I cannot tell you all the reasons why. Perhaps it was remembering the feeling of hearing our national anthem sung at Buckingham Palace in those first dark days following 9/11. Maybe it was remembering the devastating grief of those days. Maybe it was thinking about one Marine in particular who gave his young life in this battle. Maybe it was feeling a sense of relief and perhaps even pride that we had not given up, that if the terrorist movement was not gone, at least its most visible face was no longer there.

Throughout the morning I've been checking on Facebook to see the reactions of my friends. Here's the thing about my collection of Facebook friends - they are a diverse, funny and mostly thoughtful group. So, as I expected, the reactions have been many and varied. At least a few have wondered (and come to different answers) about how we, as Christians, should react.

As I've reflected myself, I keep coming back to a story told by my father. He shared it in his book, The War Beyond My Foxhole, so I feel permission to share it with you.

He was in a village in France when he scrambled up an embankment to a bridge. On the bridge he discovered a German soldier. His first reaction was, "Why did you have to be on this bridge at this moment? Now I have to kill you or you will kill me."He shot first, and lived to tell the tale, but always telling with poignancy and sadness.

A former sniper in Patton's army, he is proud of the role he played in defeating a truly evil and dangerous man. But he has also been opposed to war except in defense of our country. Having seen war from the inside, he never spoke of it glibly.

I've thought about that German soldier a lot this morning. He had to be killed because that is what happens in war. I am glad that he is dead insofar as it means that my father lived. I also believe that Osama had to be killed because of the power he held (symbolic or otherwise) in a movement that will stop at nothing to achieve its aims, not even and especially the killing of thousands of innocent with celebration. If I rejoice, it is because it seems that the dead - the people killed in the terrorist attacks he orchestrated and the service people killed in the war to defeat him - have been given one last voice, one last word.

From all accounts, Bin Laden's radical birth began during the Afghan war with Russia. So it is that wars begat wars.

So we may rejoice that one who was committed to inciting evil acts is now gone. And we may pray that as people of faith we may have the courage to be peacemakers, to work for a world of understanding and not war. It is a world that we may never see, but what a wonderful thing to be involved in the dreaming of it and the doing of whatever is in our power to do.

Never Say Never

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 13:56:00 +0000

One of the moments I enjoy as a counselor is when I can celebrate with a client the progress they've made. I remind them of how life was when they first came to me, and we talk about how different things are now. Sometimes the change happens so gradually that they forget how far they've come.

Clients I tend to see every week or so. There are other people with whom I've worked in workshops whom I see only every year or so. Sometimes I've known them for only a year or two and sometimes I've known them for a decade or more. Regardless, the long time in-between makes their progress all the more evident.

I've been thinking a lot recently about people who've come a long way. I've worked with some people in both contexts whom it would have been easy to write off. The wounds are just too deep. They are just too damaged. And yet here they are, living lives now that would have almost been beyond their imagining once upon a time. What makes such profound transformation possible?

Mine is certainly not the definitive answer, but here are some thoughts.

Determination - They don't give up. No matter how tall the mountain before them seems, no matter how impossible it seems that their lives could ever be bearable, much less good. Somewhere inside them there is a tiny voice that keeps whispering hope to them. Every now and then they stop to listen.

Dedication - They show up and do the work they need to do. Make no mistake, healing can be hard work. It requires a lot of courage to look at how things are, not how you think they've been. It takes courage to make unconscious messages conscious and then to realize they were never true. It takes courage to change the way you've always done things. Most of all, it takes courage to allow yourself finally to feel the feelings that you have been absolutely convinced would be the end of you.

And they keep showing up. And they keep doing the work. No matter how small the step seems, they keep taking it. The importance of this cannot be overestimated. Too often in our culture we want the quick fix. We want to know if something's working right away. We tend to have little patience for the unfolding of process.

Desire - They make a commitment to their healing and to reclaiming their lives. And this commitment takes priority. They forgo going to the movies to save money for therapy. They clear out their schedules and take their vacation days to spend a week or a weekend at a workshop. They journal and read and use any tool that will help them take that next step. Although they may not know it yet intellectually, their actions demonstrate that they are indeed people of worth and value.

There is a grace that is also beyond their control, a grace that brings them to just the right person, just the right work, just the thing that they need for taking the next step. But their dedication, determination and desire has cleared out a space into which that grace can come.

Although their pasts and their experiences and sometimes their families and sometimes even the mental health community tells them over and over again that it is hopeless, they keep on working. Until one day they sit down with me or someone else and say, "I never knew life could be this good."

Today I salute women and men of such courage. May we all take such responsibility for our lives.

An Inconvenient Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 16:29:00 +0000

I knew that Oakely was an extraordinary dog for a first time dog owner. She was easy. Her foster mom said she house trained herself. She was mostly laid back, unless anyone had the gall to walk down our street or the mailman had the audacity to come to our house. In those cases, she was was fine of a guard dog as you would ever want to meet.

But she also needed a playmate, someone to be a buddy when I was off at work. It had to be a special someone, for Oakley was the epitome of an alpha dog. I combed through the petfinder listings and visited with the Humane Society and rescue groups. After several false starts, I finally found Ralphie (pictured).

The first introduction went well. The first house visit went spectacularly. Oakley was beside herself with excitement over having another dog around. Ralphie marked his territory and whined when his foster mom left, but otherwise was fine. Very quickly it became official. Ralphie was part of the family.

Ralphie was a stray who'd been tied up by a clothesline attached to a choke collar. He'd chewed through the line to get free.

He's part Australian shepherd and part lab. This means that he is very affectionate (he's my 40 pound lap dog), very attached to his family and really just wants to be where I am, including (and especially) riding in the car. It also means that he's high energy. Very high energy. He doesn't walk from room to room, he dashes. Moving from point A to point B always means dashing as quickly as he can, even if it's only two feet.

He's also obsessive about balls, other chew toys and rawhide chews. I've decided that while Oakley would attack any intruder, Ralphie would simply drive him mad by his incessant request to throw the ball.

He's smart in a submissive, underdog kind of way. The only real fights he and Oakley have had have been over rawhides. Now if there's one on the floor and Oakley is anywhere in sight, Ralphie will bark for me to give him the chew. It's the safe way to go.

If a rawhide isn't available, any shoe will do. Oakley grew out of that phase but Ralphie still has a fondness for sole food.

Ralphie barks. Not just if anyone is using our street. He barks if his ball has gone under a table or is otherwise unreachable. This is a national emergency and must be dealt with quickly.

In other words, Ralphie is an inconvenient dog. I had to work with him for months to get him past his terror of being walked (although it's still not his favorite thing to do.) He interrupts my plans and demands my attention, even when a gazillion other things begging for my attention.

But then something scares him, and I look into those big, brown, gentle, loving terrified eyes, and I wonder what his previous owners did to him... and how they could have done it. For inconvenience is rewarded with grateful, generous love. I tell him that I'm glad he's in our family, and I mean it.

One of the measures of our hearts may be what we do with the inconvenient people who come into our lives. Maybe they were always that way, reacting out of their own painful pasts. Or maybe they've just become that way as a consequence of what life has brought to them. Dealing with them isn't always easy. Sometimes we have to go out of our way. Sometimes we have to confront our own grief, for seeing in their illness them reminds us of the healthy selves they once were and may never be again.

But if we are brave and wise, we will sometimes allow ourselves to be inconvenienced.

No Longer Laughing at Charlie Sheen

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 13:49:00 +0000

At first it seemed like just another story of that peculiar Hollywood disease of Too Much Money and Not Enough Sense. We watched with the same combination of feeling envy and feeling superior that makes every "Real Housewife" franchise profitable. It was a raunchier, more expensive version of "Big." A twelve year old boy wakes up in adult world and delights in filling his house with toys. Some of his comments were so off the wall that we couldn't help but laugh.

It's time to stop laughing. Charlie Sheen's story is no longer about a Hollywood bad boy. It's about mental illness.

I am generally loathe to diagnose people whom I have not even met, much less seen in session. But I don't think that I'd be flirting with malpractice to suggest that it appears that Mr. Sheen is suffering from a drug induced mania. In fact, one of my therapist colleagues has suggested that graduate school programs show clips of his recent interviews so that students can see what full-blown mania looks like and sounds like.

It's mental illness. And it's time to move it off our entertainment cycle. It doesn't belong there. Just go to any NAMI (National Association for the Mentally Ill) meeting and ask the families of persons suffering from mental illness if it's funny to hear their loved ones talk about having special powers, secretly working for the CIA or how productive they are because they can work all day and night without stopping to rest.

It's time to stop laughing. It's time to stop watching the funny videos that people have compiled and listening to the interviews. It's time to stop supporting this train wreck. Lest you think I'm a killjoy, I know too many people whose lives have been touched by mental illness, too many people who've watched family members slip away or who have been wounded by their parents' illness.

It's time to stop laughing.

It's time to call things by their proper names.

This isn't even a guy getting goofy when he's stoned.

This is mental illness.

My Grandmother's China

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 22:18:00 +0000

Recently I helped my dad downsize. Since he was losing a kitchen, there wasn't much reason to keep all of the dishes. Many of them made their way to Goodwill. But I kept the set of my grandmother's china.

I have few memories of the dishes actually being used. Mostly I remember them sitting on the top shelves in our old kitchen, taking up shelf space that could have gone to CorningWare.

It's not that my mom didn't enjoy using the good china. She was a firm believer that any big family dinner or holiday meal meant bringing out the good stuff. What more special day could you save it for than the occasion of having all of your children and grandchildren gathered around the table?

No, the china was kept tucked away because it had been a bit beaten by life. There were a few chips here and there, understandable considering that my grandparents married in 1917. But the dishes had also come through the fire - literally. Many years ago a grease fire destroyed the kitchen, melting the kitchen clock, charring the cabinets and leaving a dark coating of smoke over everything. My grandmother's china was in the kitchen and I suppose the dishes staked on top suffered most of all. Some of the dishes are discolored and their finish is cracked.

When I packed up my father's kitchen I made the decision that I wanted to keep these cracked, chipped dishes. But I didn't just want to pack them away in a storage room. I wanted to use them.

Part of it is that there is something graceful and beautiful about the lines of the serving pieces. I was delighted to discover that one of the bowls is called a cranberry bowl. (The regular bowl is pictured here.) Bowls like the one pictured are perfect for my winter soups and stews.

But there also seems to be something comforting about using these dishes that have come through the years and are a little less than perfect for the living of them. Some of you have come through the fire and others of you have just picked up a few nicks and chips along the way, so you know what I mean. If we all live long enough (say, past 6 months), we all wind up a little less than perfect.

My grandmother's china reminds us that we are still yet beautiful and able to serve in spite of it.

HR and Jessie Fox's china

Every time I see a man spit I think of my dad

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 00:31:00 +0000

I am glad to welcome a guest blogger, my brother Doug Haymes.
Enjoy!

“Every time I see a man spit I think of my dad”

Tiger Woods was in the news recently after being fined by the PGA for spitting on a golf green.

That incident reminded me of a Sunday afternoon one summer, I was about 13 years old, an age we now fondly refer to as part of the buzzard years. My dad and I were enjoying some one on one time as we played golf at the club. We had hit our drives on number 2 and were strolling down the fairway carrying our bags and chatting.

I took the opportunity to go deep into my sinuses and gather up a nice wad of spit that was then artfully and skillfully released from my lips like a bullet from a rifle. I followed the world class display of teenaged arts with a intellectual discourse about how some doctors even recommend such acts to keep sinus passages clear and unobstructed.

My father feigned enlightenment and said “is that so?” He went on to acknowledge that he knew I had the manners and class to keep such activities confined to the golf course and not display my skills in mixed company. “Of course” I replied. I am a classy buzzard.

He then seized a teachable moment. “I’ll bet you hear a lot of language in the locker room and around your buddies that you also would not repeat at the dinner table.” I of course agreed, feeling mature that my dad would talk to me about “guy” stuff.

He went on, “The problem is when you have two sets of vocabulary and two different sets of manners, it is easy to slip up and let the locker room into the dining room. It’s just a habit and if you make it a habit to act and speak in a certain way sometimes, it is going to come out when you don’t want it to and that can be very embarrassing. For me, it has always been easier to only have one set that is appropriate anytime, and then I don’t have to be careful to use the right one in the right situation.”

I thought about what he said. Easier, I like easy. It does make sense that I don’t have to switch modes or be “on” around my mother and her friends. I can do that.

As I grew older and thought of his teaching I realized that he wasn’t just talking about vocabulary and spitting. My dad has been genuine every day of his life. He has never put on his work persona or his golfing buddy persona or his sports car club persona or his deacon at the church persona. There is only one Joe, it’s easier that way.

Changing Our Genes?

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 14:08:00 +0000

No, I'm not talking about the need to pull out a fresh pair of Levi's.

The explosion of knowledge about genetics and the roles that our genes play sometimes creates within us a feeling of helplessness. It's in my genes and my genes were passed down from my parents... so what can I do? Sometimes living in our bodies can feel like getting into a cab whose driver decides where we're going to go.

Fortunately, new research is putting us back into the driver's seat.

A recent study looked at whether or not change happened on a molecular level when people engaged in practices designed to create a "relaxation response" (practices such as mediation, repetitive prayer, tai chi, biofeedback, guided imagery, breathing exercises and yoga.) It's been long known that such practices tend to lower blood pressure and decrease heart rate. These researchers wondered if a change was happening at the molecular level.

In a word, the answer is yes. According to the report, chronic stress "has ben associated with accelerated aging at the cellular level." That leaves us more vulnerable to a variety of diseases. The relaxation response creates a change on the molecular level that mitigates the destruction caused by stress. (Translation: It's good for you and your genes.)This was true no matter what form of relaxation was practiced and (here's the good news) it was just as true for those who had been practicing for only eight weeks as well as those who were long term practitioners.

Will doing yoga ensure that you never get cancer or heart disease? No, our bodies aren't machines and this isn't about control. It is about realizing what helps us work best and what our bodies need in order to be at their best.

The rub for many of us, of course, is time. That's one reason medicine as opposed to lifestyle changes is such a popular choice for some many people. It only takes a few seconds to take a pill. But making a commitment to healthy practices is one way of being good stewards of the body that God has given us.

Sometimes it manes making tough choices. (Here's hint: turning off the TV is an easy way for many of us to gain time in our days. Limiting time on the internet - even reading worthy blogs! - is another.) But better that kind of choice than the ones disease presents to us.

Hold the Applause?

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 14:39:00 +0000

I was preaching in a different church last week, filling in for a friend who was out of town. Before the service, I noticed a cartoon on her office door. An usher is seating a couple for worship. "Would you like the applause or non-applause section?"

I've been thinking a lot about applause in worship lately. For the record, I'm not talking about the spontaneous applause that breaks out during the announcements when some particularly wonderful celebration is announced. I'm talking about the applause that follows an anthem by the choir or the children or a musical solo.

I'm bothered by this growing trend to applaud. At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon, let me tell you why.

First of all, it shifts the focus from worship to performance. I worry about this when people clap for our children's choirs. We work hard to instill in children that they are leading worship, not being cute performers. We applaud performers.

Some people will say, "We just want the choir to know that they did really well." Speaking as a lifelong choir member, let me say that we know. With or without applause, we know. We know, better than anyone, if we nailed that passage that always gave us trouble. We know if we've been blessed with the alchemy of music by which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts; in other words, we know if we were jamming.

And if by chance we didn't know, we always have our director's face to give us feedback. That's what you guys in the congregation don't see. We know the difference between the "That was so beautiful - thank you for lifting me up" face and the "Thank God that's over and we never have to do it again" face.

If part of my objection is theological, I must confess that another part is purely personal. I come to worship, in part, to get away from the distractions and noise of my life. In those brief moments of silence as the last chord has died away, I try to listen to how God is moving through me and speaking to me through what I've just experienced.

It's like when your recipe calls for the dish to stand or to rest for a while. You can't see that anything is happening, but it is continuing to cook or to bake. Not including that standing time means short-circuiting the process.

One Sunday I was discussing this with a friend and she said, "I think people feel like they just have to do something." And that's precisely my point. Worship is the counter to the cultural message that we always have to do something, we always have to respond. Growing up, one of the ministers in my church had a poster on his wall that said, "Don't just do something. Sit there." Sometimes in worship we need just to sit there, to sit there in order to wait upon God, to listen for a still small voice, to sit with ourselves and the questions and prodding that the Spirit may be doing in us. Silence may make us uncomfortable. And that discomfort may very well be a holy discomfort.

Our culture tells us that we have to fill the space. We have to fill the space in the conversation. We have to fill the space with music on our mp3 player or the drone of the television in the background. But in worship, we leave room for the spaces. For in those spaces we may encounter grace, hear a call or finally be healed.

If you're one who routinely applauds in worship, I invite to conduct an experiment. The next time you want to applaud, sit on your hands. Wait. Listen. Pay attention to what is going on inside of you. Pay attention to where God is - or is not - in that moment. Instead of reacting, just sit there. You may breathe a silent prayer of gratitude for the gift you have just received. And you may ask what God would have you do with such a gift.

Well, that's what I think about that. What about you? I'd love to hear your comments.

Looking at Arizona

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 23:20:00 +0000

On my eighth birthday, my mom picked me up from school and brought me home, just like always. When we got out of the car, she pointed out that George's basket was on the porch. (George had been our tomcat who wandered off one night in search of a good time and never came back.)

"I wonder how that got there?" my mom said.
"I don't know," I immediately replied. "I didn't do it." I wasn't about to get stuck with the blame for that one.

This story had a happy ending. As I got closer to the basket, the blanket moved and I discovered that the basket held a beautiful black and white kitten who was my birthday present and who would become my best buddy through grade school and college.

We've had not such a happy surprise in this country. Most of us were stunned by the news that a congresswoman (along with bystanders) had been shot at a community gathering. Some people have seen it as a wake up call, a call to look seriously at the tone and tenor of our public discourse. How did we get to the point that simply disagreeing makes you the enemy?

But other adults - who should know better - have reacted like my eight year old self. "Don't blame me. I didn't do it."

One of the things that good therapy does is to hold up a mirror. We have to look beyond and behind our defenses and excuses, even as logical as they may be. We have to take responsibility for our own lives. It's easy to write off what we haven't done. It's harder to be honest about what we have done.

Part of the responsibility of being a citizen in this world is, at least occasionally, to step back and take that honest look at our lives.

And part of being a good citizen in this democracy is not to let our leaders get away with doing less.

May we hold our leaders - as well as ourselves - accountable for what is said and what is done.

Punctuation matters

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 18:50:00 +0000

Recently a friend commented on my last blog post.

Here's what I heard (with no punctuation)

"I read your blog sometimes it's good."

"Michael," I asked, "do you mean, 'I read your blog sometimes. It's good.' or 'I read your blog. Sometimes it's good.'"

The punctuation tells us where to pause in the sentence, and in this case it makes a big difference. I'm learning that where you pause always makes a big difference.

One of my roles at this point in my life is helping to care for my father who, unfortunately, is slowed by lung disease. (If you smoke, please quit now.) Recently a routine visit to the doctor revealed that he was actually sick. (I'm glad to report he's feeling better.) We left the doctor's office with a handful of prescriptions, a list of instructions for daily treatments and appointments every day for the next few days. One of the roles that I have at this time in my life is also as business owner - two businesses if you're counting. While I waited for prescriptions to be filled I got on the phone and rearranged my schedule.

This morning I took a little extra time with my coffee. I sat by my living room window and just allowed myself to pause. It was a quiet breathing space - well, as quiet as my house ever gets with two dogs! Something happened in that space.

I had space for love and appreciation to come flowing in, my heart-felt love for my father and appreciation for the man he was and is. (85 years has not dulled his quick and clever and deadpan wit.) Suddenly shifting schedules and re-written to-do lists looked not as important in the grand scheme of things.

Where you pause makes all the difference.

How and where do you pause?

And the last shall be...

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 20:00:00 +0000

Last weekend I was in Wilmington, NC to run the Battleship half marathon. I had a lot of things going against me in that race. Two weeks before I'd injured my foot, and less than a week before the race I was unable to run even two miles, much less 13.1. After some deliberation I decided to wear my Vibram five finger running shoes which are somewhat like a glove for your feet - as close as you can be to being barefoot while still being shod.

I'm sure part of my reason was that the shoes increase my coolness factor exponentially. (I had many comments from the volunteers on the course, ranging from "She's got those shoes!" to "Go Vibrams!" But mostly I wore them because they are the most comfortable shoes I have for running.

That is, until I hit the drawbridges. I didn't literally hit them but had to run over two of them. The top of the bridge is covered by a metal grate with serrated edges, squares of metal joined by blunt, pointy things at each corner. As I crossed them (slowly) I prayed that I wouldn't get a puncture wound.

All of this background really is essential for the story. You see, the point of my story is that I came in near the end. I wasn't last and I made it before they closed the finish line but the official photographer was packing up his camera when I came though. My more fleet footed friends talked about how moving it was to have a Marine outfitted in his dress blues hang the finishers medal around their necks. I didn't know, because by the time I finished they'd run out of medals.

As my friends and I talked about this later I couldn't help but think back to the end of the Angels Race triathlon I'd done back in September. I finished far ahead of the last place folks in that race but the announcer urged everyone to hang around until everyone was in. He kept reminding us that no matter how long they took, just finishing was a huge victory for these people. As they approached the finish line, a great cheer erupted from the crowd lining the course. A group of children ran to meet them and to run in with them. They were greeted with as much fanfare as someone who finished first. As well they should have been.

Most of the time being last isn't such a great position to be in, especially in our culture. We celebrate the people who succeed. We cheer about being number one, not number 1245 (a random number and not my actual finish.) We can even start feeling bad about ourselves because we're not finishing first.

But Jesus said something about the last being first in the kingdom which I think was his way of saying that in the kingdom our usual ways of ranking (job title, home value, portfolio size) don't matter. Even if we're the last person straggling across the finish line, God has rounded up the angels to line the road and cheer us on and a while host of God's children are racing out to meet us so that we're not finishing alone.

By the way, according to the race results I did finish about five minutes ahead of one of my friends. Unfortunately, she didn't even run so I wound up finishing ahead of a spectator.

Foster Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 15:20:00 +0000

Foster Mom

She gathers them in,
   her four legged family members.
Dogs who have lost their home
   or lost their way.
Dogs who were hurt
   and dogs who were neglected.

She gathers them in
   and loves them whole-heartedly
   finding what is good
   and special
   and lovable
   about each and every one.

She loves them fiercely
   and then lets them go,
   sending them on
   to homes of their own.

God, thank you for all of the foster parents
   of animals
   and of children.

Thank you for those
    who can love deeply
    and yet lightly
        with a love that blesses them
        on their way.

A love that does not need
    to own or to keep.

May I learn from them
    how to love
    in the moment,
    how to hold
    with open hands.

from heart prayers 2

West Summit Publishing

Church in a box

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 12:16:00 +0000

I was sitting on a park bench, enjoying a sunny fall afternoon. He sat down on a neighboring bench and struck up a conversation. Somehow the conversation worked its way around to the fact that he hated it when people put him - or anything else - in a box. Then his conversation meandered to the topic of religion. "Religion and churches are the worst thing that's ever happened to spirituality," he pronounced.

"Oh, but there you go," I said, "putting church in a box."

"But churches tell people what to think and they don't allow you to ask questions."

"Some churches may be like that," I said, "but not my church. In fact, there are many places where wondering and wandering and questioning are not only accepted but encouraged." (Okay, I might not have been that poetic in the moment, but it was the same idea.)

Over and over again I've had it happen. Someone tells me that he doesn't have faith or she tells me she'd never go to church. I ask them to tell me more, and I wind up agreeing with them. I wouldn't believe in the faith he described either. And I sure wouldn't attend the churches she describes. Then I tell them how I understand faith - at least in this moment. And I tell them of my experience of a local church. And their eyes widen with disbelief that there could be more than one picture.

Before we debate or dismiss someone, let us listen to what people are actually saying. When we do that, we may find out that we are actually closer than we knew.

Why tri?

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 20:13:00 +0000

The other weekend I completed my fourth triathlon, the Angel's Race at Tanglewood, just outside of Winston-Salem. Lest you have pictures of me peddling through the lava fields while doing an ironman, let me assure you that these are short triathlons. However, lest I seem too modest, let me also point out that they are triathlons, which means over the course of the race I swim, bike and run. This last race finished with the equivalent of a 5K race.

I set a goal of completing at least one tri back when I could not walk. I'd always been intrigued by the race but never thought I could do such a thing. Sitting in my wheelchair, I decided to do the training and see what happened. And what happened was that I got absolutely hooked on them.

When I talk about such races, well meaning friends and neighbors suggest that perhaps therapy that could help me. After all, it does seem a little insane. But perhaps we spend a little too much time being sane.

Okay, before you report me to the therapist licensing board for downplaying sanity, let me explain myself. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that it's easier and easier just to stick to things I already know I can do. I can do enough things adequately enough to fill a few hours or so. And if I stick to what I know I can do, I can stay on familiar territory. Territory that's safe because I know what to expect. Territory that's safe because the chances of failure are slim. What we don't realize, however, is that such safety comes with a price. The price is that our lives become smaller and smaller. Little risk means little reward.

I'd not attempted a tri before because I wasn't sure I could do it. No, that's not right. I knew I couldn't do it. Besides, what if I looked stupid? Or finished last? And to be honest, those tri suits are really tight. But when I couldn't walk, none of that mattered. In my first race, I got a flat tire on the bike and finished almost last. That didn't matter because I finished. When a friend joined me in training for the next year's race, she said, "I saw the look on your face when you finished, that sense of triumph and accomplishment. I wanted to feel like that."

There's a question therapists sometimes ask: "What could you do if you knew you could not fail?" Maybe the question should be, "What could you do if you knew failure didn't matter?" What could you do just for the love of doing it or the challenge of attempting it?

Mr Folb (I hope I'm spelling his name right) was our neighbor back in the days when we lived on Hawthorne Road. When he was eighty, he taught himself Greek just because he'd always wanted to learn. That's a big life.

What's your dream? This is the life we get - may we all live big.

Enlarge my heart

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 15:12:00 +0000

Yesterday morning upon arriving at church I was greeted with shocking and deeply sad news. Later that day as I drove home, thinking about the news and people whom I love who are hurting, I found myself offering a spontaneous prayer: "God, enlarge my heart."

It was a bit of a surprise to me. After all, our natural instinct is to protect ourselves from pain. It's part of our survival make-up. If you put your hand in the fire and it hurts, you don't put your hand back in there again.

When faced with this different kind of pain, one of our possible reactions is to pull back. A wall or two between us and the pain protects us just fine, thank you very much. The only problem with that perfectly logical response is that the pain and loss and sadness of our lives doesn't go away. It sets up camp outside the walls, pitching tents and settling in for the long haul. Keeping our lives small is the only way to avoid it.

On the other hand, making our hearts wide leaves plenty of room for such things to come in. In any given day there's enough news to break your heart. But when we allow such things to reach us and touch us, we create a soft place for them to land instead of bouncing off the hard walls of our resistance. We may find ourselves angry and full of questions. Or we may find ourselves sad beyond words. But if we let it all in a funny thing happens.

Big hearts make room for all of those things to find a place. And there is yet room in them for other things as well - for love and caring and even joy. There is room for more than one thing.

"Hard things are hard," Chuck Poole once said in a sermon, and indeed they are. But may we have the courage to face them with big hearts.

Anxious kids

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 19:59:00 +0000

I regret not saving the link, because of course, now I can't find it. A blog on the Psychology Today site noted that increasing numbers of teenagers are being diagnosed with anxiety levels that a few decades ago would have been considered mental illness.

Certainly kids have much that's anxiety triggering. Then again, my brother's classes were taught how to duck and cover in case the Russians nuked us. I was in elementary and junior high school during the unstable times of race riots and integration. In fact, times were so unstable that when I saw my first "CBS Newsbreak," my reaction was to wonder who'd been assassinated now.

So why do our kids have such greater levels of anxiety? As with most things, I'm sure there isn't just one clear answer. But I do have to wonder if part of the issue is a decline in strong youth groups and strong youth group involvement. Adolescence is a time of moving out into the world and testing new identities. But just like a toddler learning to walk needs a safe home base by which to steady herself, teenagers need groups that provide a safe container for them. For some, one of those groups may be family. But regardless of family strength, teenagers need strong adults in their lives who are not family.

They need a place where they can wonder and challenge and wrestle with big questions. They need adults who will expect great things from them and who will guide them and help them back up when they stumble.

I was fortunate to be a part of a great youth group. We laughed and had fun together. And we took on tough spiritual questions together. We were challenged to think deeply about faith and to ask questions. We were challenged to give something back. I knew I could talk to the youth ministers about anything. I knew there were other adults who were willing to give of their time and energy to cheer me on. Those experiences had a profound influence on my life, as they did for many of us in that group.

To be certain, the traveling soccer and baseball teams provide valuable experiences. And I'm a big believer in Scouting. But kids also need a place where they can deal with the big questions and everyday challenges that can create anxiety. In their desire to protect their children, adults who have been wounded by church may be keeping their children from something they very much need.

You are here?

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 13:54:00 +0000

Ever wish you could go through life with one of those maps that points an arrow and tells you, "You are here"? That way you could see clearly where you've been and where you're going and are you there yet.

I don't have one of those maps, but I have found through the years that writing can be a useful tool for discovering such direction. That's why I'm offering a workshop, "Writing Your Spiritual Journey." For three nights in September, we'll use writing as a way of exploring where we've been on our spiritual journeys, where we are and where we're going. The cost is only $90 for all three sessions. You can find more info at www.peggyhaymes.com.

By the way, you don't have to be a writer to attend - just be willing to put words down on paper.

Delivering Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 20:53:00 +0000

I've been listening to Delivering Happiness: A Path to Profits, Passion, and Purpose by Tony Hsieh in my car. Hsieh is the CEO of online shoe retailer, Zappos. While I'm not finished yet, I've listened to enough to become intrigued.

More than talking about a corporate culture, Zappos has been intentional in creating theirs. They provide a free lending library of books to help their employees grow not only as employees but also as people. They encourage their call center employees to take as much time as needed to help the customer. They decided that their brand was customer service, and that focus runs throughout the company.

One of the things that they ask of their employees is to work to improve the business - and themselves, by just one per cent each week. If you make on small change each week, Hsieh reasons, by the end of the year you will have made some significant changes.

One of the ways in which we frustrate ourselves in thinking about making changes is that we tend to focus on big things, things that are much too much to bite off at once. But small change is doable.

One small change I've made for myself is that at the end of the day, before I drift off to sleep, I review how the day has gone. What did I do well? What do I want to do better? What can I do differently to improve those things that need improving? I'm finding most of the time that those changes are small, simple things. You can check back with me in a eyar to see how ti's worked!

What about you? What small changes can you begin to make?

Women or Werewolves?

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 16:27:00 +0000

In Elizabeth Emerson Hancock's delightful memoir, Trespassers Will be Baptized, she tells of having to accompany her Southern Baptist pastor father to a last minute luncheon meeting with some other Southern Baptist ministers. They'd said it was an emergency. Something was going to have to be done quickly. It seemed that another church in the state was considering calling a woman to be their pastor.

For little Emy, who thought at that time that she just might have some preacher genes herself, it seemed incredible that the men could be so worked up over a woman in the pulpit. It made no sense. She decided that she must have misheard the men. They must have said werewolf. Yes, it was understandable to get so worked up over having a werewolf in the pulpit.

As I once again thought about the latest pronouncement from the Vatican, I couldn't help but think about Emy's story. You see, the Vatican has proclaimed that a priest sexually abusing a child and a priest ordaining a woman to ministry should be in the same category of grave sin. I learned of this through a friend's Facebook post, and I commented there that I'd yet to have a client who was traumatized by witnessing the ordination of a woman. My second response is tho think that maybe the Vatican meant werewolves. It would be a terrible thing to ordain werewolves to ministry.

The action by the Vatican left me incredulous, sad and angry. It is so patently absurd that I cannot wrap my mind around it. I think of my friend from college who grew up Catholic but as she became an adult, realized that her Church wasn't opening the doors to her ministry any time soon. And so she became a UCC pastor. I've preached in her church many times, and the members tell me of the ministry that they've received from her, how she's touched their lives and changed their lives. "By their fruits you shall know them," Jesus said, and the fruits of her pastorate have been many great blessings, both for her church and her community.

One of the problems of a male dominated system is that there is no room for women's stories. Our stories give flesh to our theological arguments, and hearing the stories of others sometimes force us to re-examine that theology.

I met Emy and her parents at the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship gathering in Charlotte, NC. One night there a very special group gathered at my booth: me, Dorisanne and Jennifer. When I came on staff at College Park Baptist Church, it was the first time an (at that time) Southern Baptist church in Greensboro had an ordained woman serving on staff. Dorisanne followed me as the Associate Minister. We didn't want to let her go but we rejoiced with her as she was called to be pastor of Lakeshore Baptist Church in Waco, TX. Jennifer Ingold Asbill grew up in College Park, having me as a children's minister and Dorisanne as a youth minister and never knowing a time when a woman wasn't a part of the church leadership. Also an ordained minister, she serves Zebulon Baptist Church as the Pastor for Discipleship. Someone took our picture together, three generations of women in ministry doing our best to live out and follow our calling to bring God's good news.

No one mistook us for werewolves.

Except maybe the Pope.

Back again and other stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 18:59:00 +0000

It is no accident that I have returned to this blog in the same week that I moved by desktop computer from my home to my office. This is also known as Ralphie's move. You see, my newest dog Ralphie is great company. He's a high energy clown with the lab part of his mixture definitely outweighing the shepherd genes. I have learned that throwing his tennis ball approximately 632 times an hour is not conducive to getting writing done.

So, when I moved my counseling office to a nice new spot (2594B Reynolda Road) I moved my writing office as well. Speaking of the move, this office also provides the space for me to offer groups. My first one will come in September, focusing on "Writing Your Spiritual Journey." It's on Tuesday nights, September 7, 14, and 21 from 7:00-8:30 at my office and cost is only $90 for all three nights. Registration will be limited. You can find out more on my web site, www.peggyhaymes.com.

Also, from time to time people will ask where they can buy one of my books or CDs. I'm glad to announce that our shopping cart is up and running. It will get a bit more spiffy as time goes by, but for now it's a handy one stop shopping for books and CDs. You can access it at www.westsummitpublishing.com.

Okay, enough announcements for now. I look forward to returning quickly with more reflections.

Figuring Out the Pigeonhole

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 15:10:00 +0000

Last night as my great niece Emma chewed the wrong end of the pacifier (the clip that's supposed to clip onto her clothes or car seat), I congratulated her for thinking outside the box. Not yet a year old, and she's already refusing to confirm to society's rigid expectations of how things should be done. (Or maybe the hard plastic of the clip just felt better against her teething gums.)

I've been thinking about boxes and thinking outside of them lately. I've been trying to come up with my own pigeonhole. You see, my membership in my networking group is up for renewal. In this group, each member is categorized according to occupation so that there will be no duplication. I've been listed as a counselor, but that feels a little too restrictive. It's still true, but I'm also doing more public speaking. And publishing. How do I come up with a category that fits for all of that?

I suggested "person at large." The membership committee felt like that was a little too vague. But the truth is that I've never been very good at coming up with a short answer to the question, "What do you do?" The answer I always want to give is, "When?"

The truth is that none of us fit into the pigeonholes very well. Even the pigeons had to leave the pigeonholes in order to fly. A label or a title can never tell the complete story of who we are.

Unless that label happens to be "child of God."

In the end, that's what is most true and most completely true about all of us.

You've Come a Long Way

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 23:11:00 +0000

After two straight weeks of snow-outs, we finally got the "spring" No Boundaries (NoBo) group started. (This is a group sponsored by Fleet Feet Sports to help people go from being inactive to completing their first 5K.) Having been a part of this program last year, I'm serving as a volunteer coach this year. It was a memorable beginning as the participants walked and ran on the snow covered track.

But it was memorable for me for a completely different reason. As I ran easily around the track encouraging participants, shouting out intervals and taking pictures, I flashed back to one year ago. I was in the run/walk group. I remembered how hard it was to run for a solid minute or two, how the time went by far too slowly, how I felt like I couldn't make it to the end. It was incredibly hard. Who knew a minute could stretch out so long?

And now here I was. Later that day (after it warmed up) I joined some of my fellow NoBo alums for an "easy" five and half mile run. Truthfully, there were some times that I walked. But mostly I ran. It was quite a reminder of how far I'd come. I still can't run the farthest and I'm far from the fastest But I can run for more than a minute, and that's no small thing..

We all need those kinds of markers. Especially with our spiritual journeys, it can be hard to see how far we've come. We take it for granted. We forget. That's why a journal can be such a handy thing (until you read it and realize you're still dealing with the very same issues!) It's good to have people who've shared your journey with you who can remind you of where you were and where you are now. It's good to take the time now and then to stop and remember and reflect.

It's a new world

noreply@blogger.com (Peggy Haymes) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 15:30:00 +0000

My father pointed out to me the phenomenon (whether random or a product of the cartoonist's union) in which on a particular day two or three strips share a seemingly random theme. I feel like I've been experiencing something of the same sort of effect in my reading lately.

On the surface, there's not a lot in common in my reading materials. One is a Time magazine article on DNA and genetics. One is a book about aging well. The third is a book about a new approach in counseling.

And yet, all three share the same theme: things are not as set in stone as we once believed. What we do and the choices we make in our lives and lifestyles has a profound effect, from our genetics to our quality of life to our mental and emotional well-being.

The Time article is on epigenetics, an exciting new field of study ("Why Your DNA Isn't Your Destiny".) I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it myself, but as I understand it, our DNA is pretty much set. For example, if you have a gene that predisposes you to breast cancer, you're not going to make it go away. But on the genes are epigenome switches that determine whether or not that gene is activated. Those "switches" are not only influenced by our lifestyles, but those lifestyle changes can be passed down for generations.

From the article:

At its most basic, epigenetics is the study of changes in gene activity that do not involve alterations to the genetic code but still get passed down to at least one successive generation. These patterns of gene expression are governed by the cellular material — the epigenome — that sits on top of the genome, just outside it (hence the prefix epi-, which means above). It is these epigenetic "marks" that tell your genes to switch on or off, to speak loudly or whisper. It is through epigenetic marks that environmental factors like diet, stress and prenatal nutrition can make an imprint on genes that is passed from one generation to the next...

There's evidence that lifestyle choices like smoking and eating too much can change the epigenetic marks atop your DNA in ways that cause the genes for obesity to express themselves too strongly and the genes for longevity to express themselves too weakly. We all know that you can truncate your own life if you smoke or overeat, but it's becoming clear that those same bad behaviors can also predispose your kids — before they are even conceived — to disease and early death.

Along with our increased understanding of DNA and genetics came a certain sense of powerlessness. We call it the genetic lottery, and there wasn't much you could do to influence the outcome. What the field of epigenetics is revealing that while we may have no control over the genes that are passed down to us, we can influence them and influence the inheritance we pass along.

I'll write more about the two books later. For now, let me introduce them.

Younger Next Year by Chris Crowley and Henry Lodge is based on the thesis that while aging is inevitable, decline is not. They write a prescription for an active and good life well into old age. Their book is an impressive, interesting and compelling mix of scientific research and personal experience.

Mindsight by Daniel Siegel takes advantage of the emerging brain research. That research has helped us understand some of the changes that our brains go through. Siegel demonstrates how the power of how we use our brains in reversing those changes. We do not have to be at the mercy of our emotions, or of the traumas we have survived. Without pharmaceuticals, we can rewire our brains.

For me, this is exciting stuff. From three different disciplines the message is that there is more power and possibility in our lives than we once believed possible.

I also kind of believe that it goes along with a God who said, "Behold, I make all things new."