The Distinct Advantage of a Crappy Childhood

I had an epiphany today talking to a good friend about what adults fear & how we learn those fears. I suppose the greatest adult fear, for single people (divorced or otherwise) is being hurt again.

There is nothing pleasant about an adult break up. Whether you were married five years or living together ten, enough of your life & identity are entwined with another person that the act of separating actually destroys some part of you. Even if it’s just a change of address & no assets or custody need to be split, you are not breaking up to be fancy free & joyful. You are rebuilding.

The house has crumbled (sometimes because both of you were crappy builders, sometimes because one of you took a wrecking ball to a load bearing wall, sometimes because you got the black mould), & it has to come down.

Some people immediately move into a tiny house or a mobile home. “Only room for me & my dog/cat in here! I’m good!” they say, meeting their friends for dinner out, but never inviting anyone in, never making room for another. “I like my space,” they say, in the tiniest space they could cram their broken heart into.

“I’ve already moved on!” says another, whose life becomes a veritable motel…many rooms, nothing permanent. Shameful breakfasts. Always with people but perpetually alone.

Then there’s me. I don’t know what I am. I have zero aversion to being in love again, I know what it is when I see it, & I have no desire to force it. I’ve always been like that. I could easily be hurt again & I know that. But I don’t care. The worst thing that will ever happen to me already has. I therefore willingly wait for & then allow what will come. It’s like being homeless & in no particular rush to find a home. Would I like a home? Of course! Do I want to get locked into a 30 year mortgage I can’t afford with someone who can’t love every key part of me? No. Not at all.

I guess you’d call me a renter.

And it’s not just me. One of the most fearless children I know is a foster kid. I won’t get into the details, but this little one’s life would make you burst into tears. And this child is the friendliest, most outgoing child on the planet, always making sure other kids feel welcome, always putting herself out there to make friends, never afraid of rejection despite her life’s experience.

The truth is, she’s probably horrified by the idea of rejection, but plows on anyhow.

Why?

Why not?

True, the consequences of childhood heartache are not the same as adult heartache. Divorce leaves financial & emotional scars children can’t conceive of. But children’s brains are actually shaped by trauma, & their lives are often directed by trauma for years, sometimes decades after. It’s not always pretty.

But somehow, those kids always try hardest to show love (unless they’re the ones that go super dark, which would be an entirely other post & unrelated to today’s conversation).

I then had a bit of a revelation that I shared with my friend. “I have an advantage I never realized.”

“You do? What’s that?”

“I’ve had longer to heal from my pain. People with idyllic childhoods & youths — they get hurt later & it’s raw for a long time.”

“Yeah, it’s true.”

“But people who were hurt as kids…we have a lot more time to work on it & learn what we need to learn from it.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“You know I’m going to forget this epiphany, right?”

“No, you won’t.”

“Eh, maybe not now that I’ve told you. I usually have these in the shower, then forget them. I’ve probably had this same epiphany 40 times already.”

And now I’m sharing it with all 8 of you that read this blog regularly. Some of you may even comment “Isn’t childhood trauma resilience more like numbing & flattened affect?”

Bitches, have you seen my affect? It ain’t flat. That shit is alive & in colour. It’ll take you to Flavortown, have you meet the mayor & buy you a souvenir foam rubber hand.

Flattened affect my arse. Get out of here with that jive.

But I have another advantage, one that will not make sense to all of you, & that’s okay. It is legit my relationship with Christ, my kvetching to Mary, my ongoing dialogue with God in a language that uses virtually no words & is as crystal clear as light.

Sometimes you can’t see light because it’s so…light, but every now & then — wow.

To live in concert with the Holy Spirit is to pretty much always default to joy, or if not joy, then contentment. I will not lie & tell you people that I am always bloody happy. I am not. I actually took a moment & prayed today for some relief from something, & you know what happened? I ended up carrying a rubbish bin full of water to a random stranger on the street not ten minutes later. WHAT WAS THAT EVEN ABOUT & HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?

I don’t know, but the rest of the day was wonderful after that. Basically the Holy Spirit is weird.

And God has a sense of humour. “Oh, you’re feeling a little put out? Well, Sunshine, here’s a guy who needs a rubbish bin filled with water.”

Did I tell you about the time the Bishop of El Salvador needed a ride to a Dodger game? And back? So I couldn’t swear in a car in LA rush hour traffic for TWO HOURS?

The Holy Spirit, y’all.

Let’s just all agree right now, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, pagan, atheist, whatever — right now that there are Things and Machinations of incomprehensible beauty & the one thing we can agree on is that they will occur whether we think we are ready for them or not.

Our job is to respond with grace.

What is fear keeping you from enjoying? Who is anger stopping you from loving?

I also wrote this, which is specifically geared toward people who have Survived.

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Blessed Are Those

There is no scripture that indicates Jesus said to anyone, “Girl, lead your best life. You deserve this. Get you some.” There’s not one scripture that even hints at the slightest possibility of that message, & yet here we all are, telling each other blessings are coming if you do you, boo.

This is, like, the opposite of Christ’s teaching. By every metric, the message of Christ is that we are actual living, breathing crap and we have to change. He loves us so much that even though he knew we were nothing more than animated monkey feces pulsating with selfish urges, he died for us in the hope that we may want to be something other than that.

I get the impression a lot of people think God is just like your dog. He sees you naked (& the weird stuff you do when you are naked) & doesn’t judge you at all. He just loves you, wagging his divine tail. But the dog is judging you constantly; he just can’t articulate it. God articulated his judgment quite well all throughout the Bible (“You wicked generation”, etc.). And still he sent Christ.

And is Christ. As well as the Holy Spirit. Gotta throw some trinitarian mysteries up in this.

Right about now is when you expect I will drop a loving, warm, and hopeful point on you. I’ll drop this instead.

Christ said blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are those who are persecuted for his name’s sake. “Blessed” is also interchangeable with the word “happy”.

Happy are the miserable!

Why?!

It’s very hard to put into words unless you’ve achieved this, so I will flounder & you’re gonna get bored. I’m just warning you. You may want to turn on some music or something.

There’s an old story (or proverb or whatever) describing the 3 major Chinese religions. Confucius, Buddha, & Lao Tsu are presented with a barrel of liquid. Confucius & Buddha dip their fingers in, taste it, & make sour puss faces.

Lao Tsu, the Father of Taoism, dips his finger in, tastes it, & smiles. The other two are annoyed at the sourness of the liquid. Lao Tsu is happy because he’s experiencing something. He gets to taste. He’s learned what the liquid is. He has information.

I guess for super weirdo crazy Christians, the kind y’all make fun of, suffering is an opportunity to be closer to Christ. It’s not like Garbage’s “Happy When it Rains.” It’s more like “Eye of the Tiger.” It’s more like the montage of Rocky dragging wagons of hay around or whatever (it’s been a while since I’ve seen it).

It’s training. It’s boot camp. It’s the tempering of steel. It sucks, but it’s the human experience of suffering making you into a badass for helping others. You’re training to be Christ’s hands. You’re getting ripped to be Christ on Earth. You’re bulking up his Church.

A person who has suffered much & learned from it has what seem like super human powers. They can forgive easily. They are patient. They are humble. Nobody understands them. Everyone thinks they’re crazy. A few also envy them, or begrudge their existence.

If someone whose child was murdered can forgive the murderer, what the hell does our beef with the idiot neighbour say about us? We don’t like people who are actually Christlike because they remind us how very not like Christ we are.

Christlike folk are loved & hated. They triage everyone. Strangers in pain will come before family that isn’t. Friends will wonder why they are still kind to That One Ex. You’ll notice that people try to see if they can make them angry. They’ll seem childlike and naive to world-weary cynics.

Jesus’ own friends doubted him constantly. The man walked on water in front of them, & they were all, like, “But, are you SURE?” No wonder he was always yelling at them. I feel like Jesus probably smacked Peter in the back of the head a few times.

This is because the disciples were humans laden with original sin, & therefore ambulatory sacks of crap. And he knew that. And he loved them.

If you were friends with Jesus, you’d be that person Facebook messaging him urgently, “Dude, that Peter is such a douche. DROP HIM. Stop talking to him. He hella denied you.”

And Jesus would either ignore you or type back “🤷🏽‍♂️❤️”.

And you’d message all your mutual friends, saying, “We need to stage an intervention for Jesus, y’all.”

Ambulatory sacks of crap. That’s us.

And completely worthy of salvation.

For more of this sort of thing, check out my book Christ, Not Crisis.

The Sin Collector

I dreamt last night that I had died, & God assigned me the task of noting & categorizing the sins of the newly dead by going through something like a highlight (or is it lowlight?) reel of their lives.

I was sitting in front of what seemed like some kind of AVID rig & going through The Tapes. Thankfully, it was not my job to count cruelty to children or sexual assault or anything like that. My particular “beat” was cruel things said.

That’s right; words do hurt.

But what was interesting is I was meant to establish context. The final tallies ended up in Degrees that, no joke, ranged from School Yard Silliness (eg. “YOU’RE a poopiehead”) to The Dozens (eg. “Yo mama so fat…”) to Almost Kind of Hitler. I won’t repeat any of that.

My instructions were quite clear. No one was to be marked down for saying words they didn’t know the meaning to, for repeating what others said with the intent to convey information, or for words that didn’t actually hurt anyone even if maybe another person who had no context heard them & found them offensive. My angelic supervisor was adamant that offense was not the same as pain.

Lies were also considered hurtful words.

And yes, anything that had been confessed was wiped from the tapes, so I wouldn’t even have seen them. I figured out fairly quickly who had ever been to confession & who hadn’t by the amount of gaps in their reel.

I was told that each evaluation then gets combined with other evaluations & a Judgement is rendered from the full report. Some of you would be surprised by who did poorly.

It struck me upon waking that this was a terrible job, & I am certain that God doesn’t do it that way. It also struck me upon waking that there are people alive in the world today on social media & elsewhere who have made this their job. They don’t get paid for it, but they quite literally scour people’s online history to find anything they’ve said that might be deemed hurtful or offensive or even slightly dodgy.

The difference is, they don’t give a damn about context. The Dozens becomes misogynist fat shaming. Teenagers calling each other the fringe words of their culture becomes racism & homophobia. People with self deprecating senses of humour are judged to be racist, body-shaming, or all number of things.

There are some people who really are quite awful online. That’s different. But finding the awful people has spawned something of a crusade to “get” others, with quite ridiculous results.

I always wonder if people are paid to take things out of context. Because in the context of a person’s entire life, what Skeeter McTweeter said on MySpace when he was 13 is not going to be the same thing he says on Twitter at 23. At least, one hopes not.

What someone drunk Tweets with friends at 24 is not the same thing she thinks at 34 with two children.

What someone said repeatedly over the course of a few recent months might be an established pattern of actual belief. If people employed common sense more often, this would be evident.

And yet here we are. I kind of wish knitting were still a thing everyone did. Keeps their hands busy. Less drama. More blankets.

I don’t want to live in a world where we police each other’s thoughts. If you say something I think is gross & we are not friends, I’ll just unfollow you. How’s that? If we’re friends, we’ll talk about it.

Simple.

But now that everybody’s a gotcha journalist/investigator, it can’t be that simple. It needs to be A Thing. “On October 14, 2008, you bought a pumpkin spice latte & made a shitty comment about white women.”

Well, yes. I am one, & I both lament & revel in my basicness. I AM GENETICALLY PROGRAMMED TO LOVE PUMPKIN SPICE AND BEETS WITH GOAT CHEESE leave me alone.

If you enjoyed this, you will probably dig my books. I don’t know.

An Issue of Branding

I was recently offended that a girlfriend tagged a bunch of other cat ladies in a post about cats, but not me. Let me stop you right there — I know that’s stupid. If you read my stuff, you know how I handle offense. It never lasts.

I was just slightly hurt because I love cats & I thought everyone knew it, is all.

Anyhow, my ridiculous peculiarities aside, I said something to this friend, who then said “But cat lady isn’t your brand. Your brand is church lady.”

Usually when you say “church lady” to Americans, they think of the Dana Carvey skit on SNL, but I knew this wasn’t what she meant. She meant Church Lady, that chick that is literally always at church, & when she’s not at church, she’s trying to be the bride of Christ to errbody she meets & works with because that’s what He asked us to do.

And I was immediately okay with that. I just didn’t realize that was now “my brand”.

It makes me laugh, because I think we all have this image of ourselves (heck, of our work or business) that is sometimes wildly inaccurate. It can be wrong because we are narcissistic, or because we have too little self worth. We can also have an internal life we never share with anyone, so we are alarmed to find out that the external world has already branded us.

For example, you may be a wonderful professor, husband, dad, sister, writer, singer, machinist, rodeo clown, or nurse, but nobody knows because you’re a complete douche to people you don’t know (o hai, internets).

That my brand is “church lady” is okie doke by me. Apparently what I’m pumping out into the world is not my love of cats, or even that I’ve written some books (please buy my books), but that I love Jesus. A lot.

This doesn’t suck.

It’s also unexpected; I’m kind of a disaster person. I’m surprised my brand isn’t “try hard”, as in “try hard not to suck”. And I do try to do a lot of helpful things. Sometimes I do pretty well, but a lot of the time I muddle through, having virtually no consistent point of reference for whatever thing I’m trying. So far, nobody has died, so that’s working for me on some level.

Someone once told me having a cheerful & enthusiastic personality covers a multitude of sins. I think they were trying to be nice.

Anyhow, being known as a Church Lady means that somehow, my constant internal dialogue of “Why are you such a disaster person?” is making it out into the Mainstream far less than my love of Jesus. It could be argued that Jesus actually surrounded himself with disaster people.

Peter was ridiculous, once described (by an effervescent being of light I’m privileged to know) as an overly enthusiastic grad student. Martha felt put upon & Mary literally wept on Jesus’ feet and wiped them with oil WITH HER HAIR which, let’s be honest, are both things I would do.

I was also told that being both Martha & Mary is about as close as humans can get to being good Christians. So. Cooking, cleaning, & weeping. I’VE GOT THIS.

Tell me if you need prayer. Ask me if you’re confused about something. I think my priest is this close to forbidding me to answer anyone’s theological questions, but if you want an answer that is earnest but probably a disaster, we just won’t tell him.

If this is my brand, Imma revel in it. It’s a “market” I feel comfortable in, a label I’m perfectly happy to wear. CHURCH LADY by…well, not Calvin. No no. Not that.

good Lord I’m the worst

Every Relationship

It was never my intent to muddle your life

Call into question the purpose of your existence or

Be anything other than an incessant joy

As I am sure it was not your intent to be anything but the same to me

It was never my intent to endure your constant mood swings & cold calculations

It was never my intent to foment uncertainty, as I’m sure it’s never been yours

I wished only to make you smile and sigh contentedly

I will never stop wishing for that

And I will never understand why that is never enough

If you liked this, please consider supporting.

Everybody’s hugging!

First, I’d like to thank the five decent Philly fans out there who acknowledge that both teams played an amazing game. You’re the real MVPs. You are doing what Jesus would do, I’m pretty sure.

Now that that’s out of the way…

What a weekend. Three masses: one a funeral for someone I admired tremendously in the short few months I knew him before he was too sick to come to church, one a Latin mass with early Mozart chorale at my old haunt, St. Thomas. And, of course, Sunday mass at St. Nicholas, which was small and intimate today because #SuperBowlSunday.

Despite my team losing, it was a pretty phenomenal weekend, with tears & laughter & guacamole & cheesy dips & tremendous affection. I’ve been hugged by everyone and their mother. I was told, in a torrent of earnest & fervent love, that I should be a priest (I should not). I’ve stacked a lot of chairs. I’ve washed some wine glasses. I’ve read from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians. I’ve had a very good conversation or two with people I respect tremendously & for whom I have deep affection.

I don’t even know how to thank Jesus for all the really lovely things I heard & did this weekend. I hope my constant little random smiles are received as gratitude to him.

Even the cat was slightly pleasant.

Oh, a short funny thing before I go. I let the Fitbit wake me up, which means instead of an audio alarm that might disturb the others in my home, my wrist vibrates me awake.

Today that was perceived in my dream as me being sucked from work (I was dreaming about work) into the parish hall at St. Nicholas with my friend Janice yelling at me, “Hey! Hey! Hey, Kellie!”

I awoke laughing. That’s never a bad thing.

I’ve written some books if you like any of the stuff you read here.

What in the actual

I am trying to remember my dream from last night because I know it was Significant. I fell asleep in tearful prayer (apparently the glutening is still a thing, despite my slight improvement in symptoms), and I prayed to remember anything told me. But it seems I have been shown things instead (which happens).

I can’t remember the beginning at all, but eventually it seemed to unfold that I worked at a thrift store run by the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles. We were all of us encouraged to shop there, too, so we did. I think my Facebook friend Eric was my coworker somehow.

I had been looking through make-up (something I would never buy used) when a girl (maybe Meghan from Reno?) brought me an empire-waisted blue top with 3/4 lace cuffed sleeves. It seemed cute to me in the dream, so I tried it on. It didn’t quite fit over my clothes. She found another that was more of an Easter green & that was a little too big, but quite comfortable. Everybody thought it looked really good although I looked pregnant.

I had no time to take it off because Bishop Diane was visiting. She set her shoes (shearling-lined wooden clogs with a bit of a heel) aside & asked me to try them on in front of everybody. They were comfortable, but I felt like something was off. I touched the top of my head, which was sticky.

I went into a bathroom & there was dried dirt caked on my face (that I assumed came from the top I was wearing) & it looked like a bird had crapped fuchsia glitter slime onto the top of my head. I could see it & feel it, but nobody else noticed it. I was pointing it out to people, but nobody could see it.

Suddenly I was in a subway station and Jimmie was hovering over the far platform in the lotus position. “Everything I have said is as it is,” he intoned with a smile, which is interesting, because in the real world, he has been trying to help me understand something.

Then the “screen” of my mind went blank, and the cat flew in with an envelop & a wax stamp.

This cat.He stamped the envelop with an elaborate, pretty black seal & handed it to me, saying in a kitty voice “Here!” Then I distinctly heard Jesus say, “This is my official seal; these were your answers. Wake up.”

And I did.

The seal was a very wispy, delicate version of this, but in a circle with some leafy looking embellishments:

To say that I am confused is an understatement. I am also really tired. Jesus wanted me to only get 6 hours of sleep (well, Him & the cat).