What a long, strange summer it’s been. It’s a good thing I just had a sabbatical, because I don’t yet feel I’ve had a vacation. Instead, I had a General Assembly I wouldn’t attend on principle, post-sabbatical church drama (in which the names will be omitted to protect both the guilty and the innocent!), logistical nightmares with children, not one moment of quiet time with my husband, and the hard work of responding to the tragedy in Knoxville.
And yet, I have found so much for which I am grateful, even amid the turmoil of these last two months. I am held in the embrace of such dear friends, women and men who care about me a lot and look after me–both up close and long distance–even when I forget to look after myself. I have a large, loud and loving family, most of whom showed up in Boston for the wedding of my favorite brother, to a wonderful woman who was crazy enough to marry him.
I had a chance this summer to do ministry I don’t usually do–with elementary-age children (at The Mountain) and youth (at Ferry Beach), and discovered that such ministry to our young people has a very particular set of rewards. I was reminded of how important it was to mark the milestones of losing a tooth, as well as the difficulty of losing a parent at a time when you need her most. I had the chance to experience and honor the fierce independence of youth moving to adulthood (with none of the angst I feel when it is my own teenager!), and to remember how much it mattered to me oh-so-many-years-ago that the adults in my life honored my own awkward struggles.
I am privileged to minister for the first time at the Ferry Beach conference “In the Company of Women,” which for some years now has been a place for both lesbian and straight women to be in safe and women-affirming community. I have been pastor as well as participant this week in a variety of activities that range from the sublime to the ridiculous—Lesbian Jeopardy, for example, was a non-stop scream! The women I have met here are people of great courage and character. I have been especially moved by the stories of women whose coming out was delayed by ignorance and prejudice, who have come into their own and found the loves of their lives at an age when society dictates that women are fit only for inertia. There is a great deal of joy and laughter here, even amid the rain-drenched days.
It was laughter I really needed after the pain and sadness of working in Knoxville as part of the UU Trauma Response Ministry, in response to the shootings at Tennessee Valley UU Church. People don’t always remember that, though the attack occurred at TVUUC, members of that congregation, Westside UU Church and Oak Ridge UU Church were all deeply affected. I was so very proud to be part of the small group of us who decided, several years ago, that our liberal faith community needed a group of trained ministers and lay people who could respond to our congregations during disasters and traumatic events. (It was a need I personally discovered the hard way, as I started my ministry in NYC on Sept. 9, 2001.) The early years of UUTRM were a struggle for respect and recognition of what we trained so hard to do. But with each heartbreaking event, we earned a chance to serve this faith we love with more diligence and greater skill. It is always a nightmare when something as terrible as an armed intruder disrupts the sacred space that is meant for worship and praise. But it is an honor to be called upon to support our sister congregations through such times, so that they know without a doubt that they are not alone.
As my husband was driving me to LaGuardia Airport for my flight to Knoxville, he asked with genuine curiosity, “Why do you like doing this so much?” He was right: for all the horror we are exposed to when we are called, I love this aspect of my ministry. I know that some of it is just how I’m wired. But I also realize it is because of the privilege it offers those of us who serve: in the midst of the most dreadful situations imaginable, we have a window into what is most gracious, compassionate and blessed about being human. We get to see the Holy at work: not as it wipes away the terror of what has happened, but as it reveals some unexpected beauty that coexists with terror; not as it eliminates sorrow, but as it promises something else that can move us beyond sorrow. So long as there is the chance to glimpse that small part of the Holy as it moves, I will go.
