Mommy would you just be with me: Navigating the doing vs. being of family life

When it comes to just being in the presence of people and not feeling like I have to be doing something, I knock this one out of the park as a chaplain. However, at home it’s a whole other story. Fall and into the Advent/Christmas season tends to be a busy creative time for me with multiple birthdays, Halloween and the requisite costumes, and other tempting seasonal projects. I can get a bit create-obsessed, and it is usually creating for someone I love.   

This is all well and good, particularly when my creating obsession leads me to coolest mom ever status by my daughter because I had created the absolutely perfect “Frozen” themed napkin rings for her fancy birthday dinner. Or more recently as my husband and I spent many hours painting and decorating her newly re-done room, that she has dubbed perfectly her and thus launches us once more to coolest parent status.

But there are other times when my penchant for creating leads me to having blinders on and I then miss what my family is really asking of me. The light dawned one night after “spending time” with my daughter earlier this fall. She was watching a movie and I was sewing something for her. I asked her how the evening was, and in her young truthful way, she told me it was not what she had hoped for. She had really just wanted me to sit on the couch and watch the movie with her. To just be with her, not doing anything.

Let me tell you this was a very humbling moment. It was at that time that I realized the very thing I pride myself on doing so well as a chaplain was the one thing I was really failing at, at home. It is never a pleasant experience having your child call you out on something, especially something so crucial as being fully present to her/him. Fortunately I believe in grace, both giving and asking for it. In this moment, I found myself asking my daughter for grace and forgiveness for missing the mark completely on her need. I was blessed to receive it.

But the thing is, this lesson only works if I make the changes my mistake pointed out to me. So I find myself questioning, why is it so hard to just be with my family? Is it the stack of dishes sitting in the kitchen, the laundry that needs to be done, the to-do list a mile long that drowns out the more important needs of just being quiet and without distraction with my family. Perhaps. Maybe, though, it is more the case that at certain times my priorities get out of whack and I lose perspective on what is truly important. And this is why I am grateful for grace and a very smart daughter.

So as we enter the season of Advent, a time of preparing our hearts for Christ’s birth, I also recognize we are entering a season of busy. The parties, the gifts, the decorating, the baking, and the list could go on. I am trying something new this year I am simplifying and letting my very smart daughter guide me on the experiences of the season that are important to her. I’m taking a brave step and letting go of the seasonal to do list and having faith that the most important things will get done. Hoping that by the time my family is gathered around me on Christmas Eve and Christmas I have given them the best gift of all, my time being fully present with them.

There is one other very important lesson I have learned, sometimes the things you do the best at your job are the hardest to do at home. Because either you are worn out from doing it all day at work, or maybe even more importantly because you can’t really be the chaplain for your family.  But then, that’s another blog for another day.

Baking the Sacrament of Hospitality

One of the things I enjoy doing is baking bread. I long ago gave up my bread machine and started teaching myself the art of baking bread by hand, from scratch. It is a hobby that I love. Part of why I love it is because it is something that I can share with others to nourish their bodies as well as spirit. So when my church offered me the opportunity to make the bread for communion each month, I accepted with a glad heart. At the time I had no idea what this once a month baking would teach me about hospitality. You see our communion table needs to accommodate multiple food allergies and sensitivities. So I set out to find a recipe that would accommodate our needs so that no one would be excluded from or singled out at Christ’s table. For several years now this inclusive bread has graced the communion table of our church and other tables.

As I have taken on this task, it has caused me to reflect deeply on what inclusion at the table means and what hospitality at Christ’s table looks like. I have come to the conclusion that hospitality of Christ’s table is more than just providing bread that all can partake of. It goes deeper than that. By having the same loaf of bread that everyone can eat from we create community. Community is shared when we break and eat of the same loaf. When I eat from the same loaf of bread created for someone with special dietary needs, I am reaching beyond my own ability to eat what ever I want to connect with them in their place of need. It may seem like such a small gesture, but to those that have this need the symbolism and meaning of this deep hospitality is not lost and it connects at a spiritual level.

                  Recently this act of inclusive hospitality was expanded a bit. My daughter is still learning what it means to be a follower of Christ, so she partakes only of the grapes provided during communion for the youngest at the table. This has not stopped her from showing an interest in helping me make the bread each month. So the first Saturday in November she and I went to the kitchen and embarked on the journey of me teaching her how to make the bread. This went beyond just showing her how to measure each ingredient and mix it together. It meant teaching her why we use each type of flour that we do; why there is no dairy or eggs. I was teaching her that the table of Christ is there for everyone, no exceptions, and that the hospitality of the table means that we do our best to be sure everyone is invited and can partake. This is why we make the bread we do and take such care in making it.

                  Another tradition of hospitality that my church engages in is that there are two loaves of bread, one for the table and one loaf to share with a family to take home. In the past, I have been the one to give the bread to a family. This time I had my daughter take the bread over to the chosen family. Not only did she get to help make the bread, she got to participate in the hospitality of giving. The joy on her face at being included in such an important tradition reinforced to me the importance of finding a role for even the youngest at Christ’s table.

                  So now I have a new first Saturday of the month tradition, baking communion bread with my daughter. She has a new role at the table, delivering hospitality. And as we continue in this tradition, I cannot think of a better or more hospitable way to teach my daughter about communion and its meaning.

The Ordinary & the Sacred...One in the Same

Chaplains talk, live and breathe ‘ministry of presence.’ It’s the idea that we are present in the moment with someone in their need, put all of our own stuff aside and focus on right now. It’s the idea that walking with someone, even for a moment in their journey, is sacred time. And I believe that, I truly do. And, it’s not always easy because I live in the real world—where my time and what happens in it is not truly within my control. My ideal is to ‘be present’ wherever and whenever I am needed and this includes the ‘working me’ as well as the ‘home me.’

Here’s the reality: I work full time, I’m a wife and I’m a mother to three kids. It’s usually go-go-go and some days there is simply not enough of me to go around. And on those days I don’t really like how that feels. I want to be present with my patients and families who need that presence, and then I want to be present at home too…not as a chaplain, but as the wife and mom I’d like to think I am. Sometimes, it works great…and sometimes not so much. 

This past week was a ‘not so much.’ I was a little ill.  Not life threatening, turn my world upside down, everything around me changes forever, make my heart skip a beat it’s so awful kind of sick. Rather, run of the mill, crummy, miss a few days of work, lay around in my pj’s and feel sorry for myself kind of sick. It wasn’t very much fun, obviously, because it’s never fun to be sick. Not the end of the world, but certainly not how I would choose to spend my time. 

Instead of being at work during the day—where I felt I belonged—I had to take a deep breath, remember that being sick was beyond my control and stay home.  And, instead of our crazy and regular tag team routine each night—dinner, homework, playtime, kiddos bedtime snuggles, cuddles and giggles…it was “Dad gets to everything for everyone because it’s seven o’clock and Mom’s already in bed.” (‘drooling and snoring’ as my husband likes kindly say). Not so much the kind of wife, mom or chaplain I want to be.  And there was not a thing I could do about it.  It was frustrating to say the least.

Then, last night, Grace.  Beautiful, wonderful, Grace. The kind of moment where the sacred and the ordinary rub thin, where there’s no room between the two.  That moment in my house was sitting alongside my thirteen year old as he read a bedtime story to his two year old sister and six year old brother. Ordinary. Sacred. There was no difference because they were one and the same.  And it brought tears to my eyes (which I held back because the thirteen year old would be HORRIFIED!)

In that moment I remembered it’s okay that I’m not always the kind of mom or wife or chaplain I envision for myself. It’s okay to not be perfect.  Really.  It’s okay that I can’t do everything all of the time. Really. It’s okay that we’re raising kids who, at the end of the day (sometimes), snuggle up and show that they do love each other after all.  Holy Ground…through a simple bedtime story…and a big lesson for mom.

When the Chaplain’s Heart Breaks

            If I were to say I love what I do every single minute, I would be stretching the truth a bit. The reality is, sometimes I have some really hard days, with some real tough stuff to help families and staff through. Don’t get me wrong, I would not choose to do anything different with my calling, but some days my heart is stretched a bit. Add to this the unavoidable personal tough stuff and my heart gets stretched even more.

            I would really like to believe that all my skills as a chaplain have equipped me to handle all this heart-stretching with grace and in a healthy way that puts me at the other side of it all, completely whole. However, this is not always the case.  Sometimes my heart gets stretched too much and it breaks. I find the burden of grief comes pouring out because it is just too much to continue carrying it all. Sometimes it is awkward and uncomfortable and almost never at a good time. Sometimes it is a challenge to find the space to let the grief pour out, because ministry does not always allow for me to create this grief release on my terms.

            I have had to learn, and am still learning, that sometimes I just have to step away, ask for help and let the grief happen. I have had to learn there is no timeline on grief, that grief can come back even years later, maybe different, but still screaming for attention as loudly as the first day I experienced it.

            What is ironic is that these are all things I tell my patients and families routinely, but yet my own heart still has a hard time learning it. It is impossible to be a chaplain to yourself. This is where it is important to have a good community of colleagues and friends who can gently show me it may be time to seek out help. Those who can help me remember that I am human. That I can’t always do this grief thing on my own and it is ok to need help.

            It is easy to fall into the trap of trying to always seem like you have it together. But that is far from the reality at times. Just maybe, it is okay to have times where I really don’t have it together, feel a complete mess, and don’t know how to get myself pulled back together. I don’t have to like it, but maybe these times are necessary in helping me be better in my understanding and my compassion.

Love is...Bright Red Toenails

Once during my ministry I was privileged to know a family consisting of an elderly gentleman, elderly woman and their children. The man and woman had been married for over 60 years and he had been her primary caregiver in their home for many years. During one of several visits with them I noticed that the woman’s toenails were painted bright red. Knowing that she was in the last stage of dementia and was therefore unable to care for herself in this way, I asked her husband who had painted her toenails. I thought, perhaps, that a female member of their family had done this. His matter of fact and gentle reply was, “Well I did, because she always did like to look nice.” He then smiled and patted her hand. To him this was not a big deal. It was one, of many, practical declarations of his love for her and his way of honoring who she has been throughout their lifetime together.

To me, this is a wonderful illustration of what love is. Love is being together and caring for each other in ways that are unique to that person. Love is the tenderness of an eighty-something man painting his wife’s toenails bright red. Love is honoring and respecting who someone is and has been, even though the ravages of dementia have stolen that person away. Love is continuing to walk beside someone, because of who you and they are together, not because of what they can do for you now.

It was a privilege to be knowledgeable about this moment of tenderness between them. It reminded me of a time when I was pregnant and my husband painted my toenails because I no longer could and it was one practical way for him to show he loved me. For us, it was full of laughter and joy, for the reason I could not do that for myself was one of excited anticipation. (He did a GREAT job by the way!) For this man and woman, it was one more indication that their time together was coming to an end.

Not to be maudlin, but, one day the journey my husband and I share will also come to an end. We feel as if we have a lifetime to live between now and then, that we are still in the beginning of our journey (yes, 17 years is still the beginning!) but the reality is, that day will arrive. It is my hope that our children will be able to tell stories like that about us. About how we loved each other, cared for each other, how we did crazy, sweet, beautiful things for each other. How through our example they learned to love others, that they learned compassion, and how to honor those they love through little, but important acts.

Dancing With My Grief

October provides the opportunity to focus our attention on many worthy areas of awareness, but the one closest to my heart is that October is the month for awareness of pregnancy and infant loss. It is a cause close to my heart because not only am I a mother, but I am also a bereaved mother. My second child Hope died at 14 weeks gestation, four years ago this past July. And so, as yesterday was the actual day in October for this awareness and remembrance, I find it hard to stay silent.

It is hard enough being a bereaved mother, add into the equation the fact that I am a bereaved chaplain mother and sometimes it gets complicated, particularly since one of my areas of ministry is the maternity unit. I do feel privileged and called to be present to these mothers in their times of celebration when all goes as expected, but also especially when these mothers are simultaneously saying hello and goodbye to their little one(s). But this also means that I am working in the face of my own remembered grief on a regular basis. It is a very careful dance with my grief that I do some days. I am grateful for a staff that understands when I find a corner to wipe away the tears after I leave a room. I am grateful for coworkers who recognize how hard some days are. Sometimes it is the only way I survive. I am still in the process of trying to figure out how to do all this well, but that is not the purpose of this blog post.

Today I am writing to give voice for the mothers and the families who share this grief and loss. You may notice that I mention families. It can be very easy to focus on the mother who has carried the child, but in taking this journey myself I have come to realize it is the whole family who is affected. Fathers grieve a child, children sometimes very young are trying to figure out how to miss and grieve a sibling; grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – all are affected. I discovered I could not care for my family in the first days; I needed others to minister to my family. I needed others to minister to me. Even now, sometimes this is the case. It goes back to you the simple truth that you cannot be a chaplain to your own family.

There are no easy answers here, just the simple truth that I still grieve and I still minister to grieving families. It is a dance I will always do. And I am grateful to know that I have God and Spirit as my dance partner. And it is in this spirit that I will carry on as a Bereaved Chaplain Mother.

“Sit Still, You’re Fidgeting!” Reforming my Pastoral Identity

About a year and a half ago I ended a congregational ministry position and began a new ministry in palliative care chaplaincy. While I am sure I made the right decision, and working as a chaplain had been a goal of mine for several years, the transition was still challenging and surprising.

To say that these are vastly different would be underestimating how my ministry has changed.  But, that isn’t what has made me the most uncomfortable.  Becoming a congregant has been what’s most uncomfortable. 

The church we left was my first ministry position and we were there for ten years. It is the only church my three children have ever known.  Two of three were born into and dedicated into that community.  My oldest was baptized in the small concrete baptismal in the basement (by me).  It’s the community that supported my journey through seminary, watched my children grow, and wholeheartedly participated in their formative Christian education.  It’s the community that helped me when I had cancer.  It’s the community that held its breath and lifted its prayers through a very difficult, dangerous and joyful pregnancy. 

We belonged there—all of us.  Everyone knew who we were and they welcomed us in a way that only those that belong somewhere understand. Was it perfect? No, but it was home. 

So, I was anticipating that of course we would all grieve what we had known.  What I was not anticipating was how difficult it would be for me to begin somewhere new. I never have difficulty “chatting people up” as my husband says.  But this new church felt so different, so unfamiliar, so…new.  And newness is uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to do with myself, how to act, what to say (quite a change for this extrovert!)

Everything felt out of place and all wrong. The sermon was in the wrong place, communion was different, the songs were strange…and they sang the doxology all wrong. I didn’t know when to stand or sit, I had to shake hands with folks I didn’t know. I’d try to look like I belonged, but really I felt glaringly out of place.  AND, eventually at some point in the service, I’d have to sit still. In the pew.  Like everyone else. As if there was nothing else I could do. One Sunday my husband looked at me and whispered “sit still!” “What?” I said.  “Sit still, you’re fidgeting.” I didn’t even realize it.  I didn’t know what to do, so unfamiliar was I of being in a pew.

I’ve realized, after some time has passed, that I’m reforming my pastoral identity. What does it mean for me to be an ordained minister who is a congregant…who does not have an active staff role? Who am I among them? Where do I belong? What can I offer my new community that will fill both the need for me to minister and their need for my skill set?

Because it’s not easy to figure out…I’ve had to re-learn what it means to be a participant in the life of the church in an entirely new way.  And, I’m getting there. After a year and a half it’s better than it was, the songs are more familiar, I’ve found a few niches, and know a few names.  I’m beginning to feel that I belong.  But, it’s still hard to sit still…and I’ve learned that it’s good to be uncomfortable sometimes…

Introducing Ourselves

Who is this Joy person, you might be asking.  As I have attempted to “grow up” I have found that this is not always an easy question to answer in a short sentence.  I am many things.  I am who my parents named me: Joy Maelyn Morony.  Beyond that the list gets long, so I will try to summarize.  I am an Ordained American Baptist Chaplain serving in a hospital in the Kansas City Metro Area and a Trained Veriditas Labyrinth Facilitator. I am a wife, mother, daughter, and a family member in a closely-knit family. I am a woman of faith. I am a scrapbooker, crafter, reader, First Degree Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do, Soccer mom. I love science fiction, fantasy and superheroes.  I seriously do not enjoy true to life stories and movies – I get enough of that in my day–to-day work. The list could go on, but you probably get the idea. Some days it gets very busy and it is very hard to put me in a nice neat box. I tend to shatter expected stereotypes.

So as this blog goes forward, may it be a place where we work through together what this Chaplain, Mother, Woman, Living Life thing is all about.  Stereotypes may be shattered and you will probably find out that, yes, we are real people who struggle with many of the same things you do. 

Blessings as we go forward together, and soon you will meet my fellow blogger Tabatha Johnson.