Category: Healing

Another Invisible & Potent Force

Another Invisible & Potent Force

“Let’s be brave together this year in all of our pursuits–creative or otherwise. Being brave doesn’t mean we won’t feel fear, including the fear of failure. It simply means we’ll keep doing the work despite our fear.”

I didn’t have the novel Coronavirus in mind, of course, when I wrote those words near the end of my newsletter dated 1-20-20. Quarantine was still almost two months away here in Central Pennsylvania and in most other places. But the message certainly resonates in our current circumstances.

One thing that has made Coronavirus-related fear different from other fears is that we’ve all been experiencing it together. 

Think about it–every person on the planet is affected by the same exact fear. We are all, truly, in it together. 

Now, there’s no joy in that. I’m certainly not made happy knowing that you and someone half a world away are afraid of the same thing I am. But I think there’s some comfort to be found in this shared experience, even if it includes the shared experience of our susceptibility to the virus.  

It’s been written that, “You have a deeper connection with people who you have shared experiences with and shared pain.” I know that’s true. I’ve seen it play out most profoundly among bereaved parents who meet one another for the first time — a deep connection forms instantly from the shared experience of their deep pain.

On a different level and in a different way, people around the world are connected by the shared experience of the Coronavirus. 

One of the most touching experiences for me early on was watching a video of a teenage girl singing from the balcony of her family’s apartment in Northern Italy, at that time a Coronavirus hotspot, with very strict stay-at-home orders in place. 

As this lovely girl with long, dark hair and a nervous smile sang, she was carried along by the applause and encouragement coming from neighbors on balconies above, below, and across from her. You could hear the girl’s mother in the background, both filming and cheering on her daughter.

I didn’t understand but a few words of Italian (apologies to my Italian grandmothers, may they rest in peace), and, yet, I understood it all. For love and hope are universal languages, and this young woman sang as if she were a Berlitz instructor. I hope she has since learned that her heartfelt performance that day was uplifting, not only for her neighbors, but for a global community as well.

Ridding the world of Coronavirus may, however, prove easier than maintaining a sense of global, or  even national, goodwill.

In a recent article titled, “What Kind of Country Do We Want?” (New York Review of Books, Volume LXVII, Number 10, p. 43), celebrated author Marilynne Robinson writes: “The novel coronavirus has the potential for mitigation, treatment, and ultimately prevention. But a decline in hope and purpose is a crisis of civilization requiring reflection and generous care for the good of the whole society and its place in the world. We have been given the grounds and opportunity to do some very basic thinking.”

In the spirit of Ms. Robinson’s suggestion of “basic thinking,” I’d like to offer the following basic thought: If an invisible virus can affect the lives of everyone in the world, why can’t we all be struck by another invisible and potent force … that of love.

In remembrance of all those who have fallen victim to COVID-19, let’s make love the next contagion.   

(Photo credit: Manuel Peris Tirado on Unsplash)

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Thoughts during quarantine

Dear friends,

I’m very sorry for failing to send out a newsletter for a couple of months. Considering everything that’s going on in the world right now due to COVID-19, I very much wanted to reach out with a few thoughts.

First, I hope and pray that each of you and your families are staying well, both physically and emotionally. It’s a very difficult time for a whole host of reasons. We will get through this. Doing it together will make it an experience we can all learn and grow from.

If you or a member of your family has fallen ill, please know that so many thoughts and prayers are with you. I’m praying for everyone on this email list. We can all use it — sick or not. 

I’d also like to share a few ideas to help get through the next few weeks or months or who-knows-how-long. This isn’t meant to be an exhaustive list, and, since my husband and I are empty-nesters, I won’t venture into “how to keep your kids busy” territory. These just fall into a general “try this” category:

* Be kind.

* Check in on your neighbors, especially elderly neighbors.

* Call someone who’s in their home and going through most of this on their own.

* Write letters.

* It’s a very difficult time financially for many people. Most of us have had to cancel various appointments: pet grooming, haircuts, instrumental, various types of classes, cleaning service, etc. Only if you are financially able to do so — consider still sending a check or Venmo payment to whoever provides the service you had to cancel. Perhaps you can’t do it each month you have to stay put, but any amount will be a help to a small business owner who still has to pay rent and buy groceries. 

* Keep structure in your day. My husband and I are both now working from home. We’re getting up at the same time as pre-Coronavirus, making the bed, getting showered & dressed, and heading off to our respective parts of the house to start working when we normally would (our dogs–a bit confused by dad’s being here all the time–traverse the house throughout the day). Equally important to stop working around the same time as before too. Working from home means there’s always the temptation to go back and do more after dinner. Avoid that if you can. It will still be there in the morning.

* Keep doing the things that keep you focused and grounded. Can’t tell you how thankful I am to have writing assignments and deadlines for my MFA classes right now. Staying accountable for our work is important. It also helps to give purpose to each day.

* By all means, stay informed about what’s going on locally, nationally, and globally regarding Coronavirus. But don’t make it the only topic for discussion, listening, or watching. It all gets to be too much after a while. And besides, there still are good things going on out there. Watch, listen, and enjoy!

* There are so many great books to read, new and old. What a great time to get through the nightstand pile. For my MFA classes, I’ve just finished reading: A Civil Action, by Jonathan Harr; Consider the Lobster, by David Foster Wallace; and Autobiography of a Face, by Lucy Grealy. All very different; all terrific!

* And for guaranteed laughs, try watching “Schitt’s Creek” on Netflix and/or “Curb Your Enthusiasm” on HBO Go. We can all use a good dose of laughing-out-loud these days!

* Almost forgot … keep washing those hands!      

Stay healthy, strong, and loving, everyone! We’ll get through this together. Keeping you close in thought and prayer!

Tess

(Photo credit: Joshua Coleman on Unsplash)

On Any Given Day

I was a political science major in college. That was after I was a biology major, then an education major, and then, I believe, an international relations major. I settled on poli-sci because I thought I might go to law school and the combination of the two seemed to make sense. I married a lawyer instead.

I say all this as a preface to making the point that politics interests me, and, as we all know, there’s a lot going on in the political sphere these days. That combination—my interest and all that’s going on—has caused quite a struggle inside of me. I’ve been very tempted lately to write about politics here in my newsletter. It hasn’t been easy to resist that temptation.

I believe in the power of words … the power of words to be an agent for change—in politics, social justice, education, matters of faith, daily living … the list could go on and on. For that reason, I believe writers play an essential role in society, perhaps I’d even call it a responsibility to instigate change for the better. Yet, I also believe each of us as citizens has that same responsibility, even if it’s “simply” to pray for change. We all play a role.

I’ve decided, however, to not use this space for political commentary. There are other avenues I can pursue for that purpose—Op-eds, Letters-to-the-Editor, articles. More importantly, I want “Tesstimonial” to sound a different kind of tone and message—of healing and hope, of restoration and transformation. And sometimes about dogs.

There’s another reason for staying away from politics in my newsletter and blog posts, a more personal reason and one that may resonate with some of you: As a highly sensitive person, I simply need a break from it. I can only absorb so much noise from outside my own head before I have to put up a protective shield and say, “No more for now.” 

In Tesstimonial, I’ve created a “No Politics” zone for myself. What’s more, I want it to provide a refuge, not only for me, but for anyone else who needs it. I want to create a conversation that moves us in the opposite direction. Away from hateful rhetoric and toward hopefulness; away from tearing people down to building spirits back up. I want this to be one of the places where you find some quiet, peace, a reason to smile, and maybe even a thought to reflect on. 

Am I turning a blind eye to the real world? Briefly … you bet! I like to think of it as escaping for a little while. And nothing provides an escape for me like writing.

But here’s the thing: I believe that writers writing about those other things can still bring about tremendous change. A message that’s hopeful, healing, restorative, or transformative can change the heart of anyone—no matter their position or situation in life.

I have to believe that: 

  • On any given day … the unexpected can happen.
  • On any given day … a particular passage or prayer can soften a hardened heart. 
  • On any given day … sins can be forgiven, wrongs corrected, and apologies accepted.
  • On any given day … truth, integrity, and civility can be restored.
  • On any given day … the power of a single word can make a difference.

 (Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash)

The Sanctuary of Charles Haas

There’s so much I love about writing memoir.

I love looking back and pulling up remembrances of people, places, and events that make up my past. I love taking all of those details and recreating scenes that I can then pull together and craft into a story. And because it’s memoir, it’s all true. I’d be the first person to admit that I don’t have a great imagination, so writing nonfiction suits me just fine.

I’ve mentioned before in this space that I’m currently writing my first memoir. It’s based on my experiences as a hospital chaplain and my emotional healing afterward. I’ve shared bits and pieces of a couple of the trauma cases, but I started thinking this past week that I haven’t really shared any of the more joyful moments with you … the moments that lifted me up, even on what might have been an otherwise difficult day.

No such story fits that description better than the story of Charles Haas (his family has graciously given me permission to use his real name in my writing). I met Charles on what was, perhaps, my most challenging day as a chaplain, April 7, 2008. To say that he saved me that day is not at all an overstatement.

The night before, two-year-old Darisabel Baez (her name is public record because of what happened) was flown to Hershey Med after having been brutally beaten by her mother’s boyfriend. I was the chaplain on-call when she was rushed into a trauma bay on a gurney.

Soon after arriving at the hospital on the morning of April 7, 2008, I learned from Darisabel’s doctor that she was most likely already brain-dead, and life support would probably be removed by evening (this becomes an uplifting story, I promise).

As you might imagine, I felt completely distracted by all that was going on in Darisabel’s room in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) on the seventh floor. But I knew there were other patients who deserved visits as well.

I wasn’t in the mood for it. The thought of striking up a pleasant conversation with a stranger didn’t sit well. However, in my continuing effort to show my supervisor that I could function well amidst trauma, I pushed on. In the early afternoon, I chose four names from the patient list laying on the table in the Pastoral Services Conference Room, and set off for the elevator and the sixth floor.

My first visit would be to an eighty-year-old male patient named Charles Haas. I think I instinctively chose the oldest of the four patients as my first stop. I’ve always had a good rapport with seniors. As a chaplain, I found older folks to be the friendliest and most appreciative of a visit, I suppose because many of them don’t get many.

It was 2:00 pm when I arrived at Room #6245. The door to the room was open part-way. I knocked lightly and slowly pushed the door back another foot or so, peeking in as the opening widened.

“Mr. Haas?”

“Yes, come on in!” he said, sounding like he was inviting a neighbor in for a cup of coffee.

With my left hand still on the upper edge of the door, I pushed it back the rest of the way and stepped further into the room.

And there he was. Sitting up in bed with a couple of pillows stacked up behind him. Gold, metal-trimmed eyeglasses on, a newspaper resting in his lap on top of a milky-white hospital blanket and rumpled sheets. He was clean-shaven, with his thick, white hair neatly parted and combed to the right. His eyes were bluish-grey and bright. Based on the size of his upper torso, extending up from the blanket and clothed in blue cotton pajamas, and the spot towards the foot of the bed where I could see his toes creating a tent under the sheets and blanket, I could tell that he was a tall and substantial man, perhaps a couple hundred pounds.

He smiled. I smiled back.

“Hi, Mr. Haas,” I said in as pleasant a voice as I could pull above the ache in my chest. “My name’s Teresa, I’m the Catholic chaplain. How are you today?”

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to sound happy. I wanted to act professionally and put my own feelings aside in order to provide pastoral care to this patient, but I didn’t have much “cheerful” in me right then and there.

“Well, Teresa, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for stopping by.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Mr. Haas extended his right hand and we joined hands in a firm, but not uncomfortable, clasp.

What happened next was quite a surprise. Considering how tired and disheartened I felt at that moment, it was the last thing I expected.

When Charles and I shook hands, I felt like I had just wrapped my hand around a lifeline. There was something about this man. His smile, his warmth, his … I don’t know. It was all of him, coming to me in that particular moment … when I needed some kind of relief. It didn’t make everything ok. There was still a two-year-old girl upstairs dying. But I could feel the tightened muscles in my stomach, jaw, and forehead start to relax slightly. The lifeline was starting to draw me into the Sanctuary of Charles Haas. All of a sudden Charles and Room 6245 had become a respite from all that was going on in Pediatric ICU.

We slowly released each other’s hand.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“Better today. I have some problems with my heart. I got here two days ago, but feel better than I did then. It’s been a rough couple of months. My wife just died in February, from congestive heart failure.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. What was her name?”

“Janet. We were married fifty-seven years. And you know what? During one of her hospital stays she was in this room too. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. And I’m very impressed you remember something like that!” I wondered if my own husband would remember such a detail.

I pulled a chair up next to Charles’s bed and took a seat. We talked, we laughed. It went on like that for forty-five minutes. Charles sharing tender vignettes from the full life he had shared with his wife over all those years, and me, interjecting occasionally, but otherwise happy to sit, listen, smile, and breathe. It was like salve on an open wound.

“My wife and I dedicated the first thirty-five years of our marriage to our family, and we spent the last twenty-two years on a spiritual journey. We even took a trip to Calcutta, India in 1988 and spent time with Mother Teresa.”

Oh. My. Goodness. I had never before, and haven’t since, met anyone who had actually met Mother Teresa, now Saint Teresa of Calcutta. And here was this man who met her in the flesh, stood right there with her and shook her hand. Maybe even gave her a hug for all I know. On a day when I so wanted to feel God’s presence, Charles Haas, hand-shaker of Mother Teresa, came into my life, or, rather, I walked into his.

Now, I’m not trying to make this sound like the second coming. But, I mean, what are the chances? The man in front of me had touched holiness. It was enough to make a difference that day.

I looked at Charles’ face and I couldn’t help but smile. I listened to him talk about life and love and faith, and for forty-five minutes I forgot—or at least didn’t think as much—about senseless cruelty and a two-year-old girl’s battered and bruised body and imminent death. I wanted to make sense of the senseless and demystify the mysterious, but all I could do was rest in it.

Charles transported me away from my own pain and into the world of his benevolent humanity. But I was the Chaplain. I was supposed to be the comforter. Yet, Charles was comforting me. I didn’t try to fight it. My soul absorbed his kindness, like a plant absorbing sunlight.

As I was getting ready to pray with Charles, a thirty-something year-old woman walked into the room. She was slender, with a friendly face, narrow nose, and wavy, blond, shoulder length hair. She was dressed in pale green scrubs and the rubber clogs I often noticed being worn by doctors and nurses who had been in surgery. She walked in casually, carrying a coat and lunch bag.

Charles smiled at the first sight of her.

“Ah Diana! Teresa, this is my daughter Diana. She works here at the hospital.”

“Diana, so nice to meet you. I’m the chaplain, and I have to tell you, I’m having more fun with your dad than I ought to.”

“Thank you for visiting. And I know, he can be a charmer!”

She went around to the right side of her father’s bed, the window side, placed her left hand on his, squeezed, and leaned over to kiss his forehead. It struck me how much Diana’s sweet and gentle traits mimicked her dad’s. She continued holding his hand.

“Diana, where do you work in the hospital?”

“I’m an OR nurse. I just finished my shift and thought I’d spend some time with dad before heading home.”

My visit with them last a little longer. How I wanted to stay there and bask in the love and safety of The Sanctuary of Charles Haas. When I said goodbye, it was with both my hands wrapped around Charles’ right hand. I pressed gently into his skin, wanting my touch to somehow transmit a message to Charles, letting him know how much the past hour had meant to me. How much I had needed it … and him.

“The Lord sent you today,” he said.

I gave him a slight smile and thought, The Lord sent you to me, Charles.

“Thank you, Mr. Haas. I’ve really enjoyed being here with you.”

I said goodbye to Diana, turned, gave a little wave, and headed for the door and down the corridor.

After a short break to digest my visit with Charles and Diana, I made three more patient visits, limiting each one to about fifteen minutes.

The only visit left, after that, was the one waiting for me in PICU, and that wasn’t so much a visit as it was keeping vigil. I walked back into the unit at 5:00 pm. Darisabel had, by then, failed two of the three brain criteria tests required before her family could request that life support be removed. The third test was performed at 9:00 pm, life support was removed, and Darisabel passed shortly thereafter.

I thank God that Darisabel’s death is not the only memory I have of April 7, 2008. I also have my very own Charles and Diana, without the royal pedigree. They were royalty to me just the same, assuming a place in my life that’s rare for a chance encounter. I suppose that’s very much the reason for the joy of it all, along with the fact that it may not have been by chance at all.

(Note: Another chapter in my relationship with Charles and Diana occurred in 2009, a story which I will share in my memoir.)

(Photo by Dyu-ha on Unsplash)

Thank you for reading my blog! Please feel free to share it with family and friends.

Tess

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All in the Name of Love: A Dog Story


I could tell you that this is a story about our latest senior rescue dog, but a former memoir teacher, Marion Roach Smith, would take issue with that.

Marion would remind me that good memoir (and I do consider many of my newsletters to be memoiristic) “takes on something universal and uses you as the illustration of that larger idea.”

Today’s newsletter, then, is really about love and healing.

But first, some background.

Earlier this year I posted a story on my website titled, “Dogs: A Love Story,” which gave a history of our family’s dog ownership. All but our first dog, Abbey, have been rescues.

I included a photo at the bottom of the post from Christmas 2017, which was one week after we had adopted Contessa, a twelve pound, senior Chihuahua mix. Tessa (because why wouldn’t I nickname her after me?) was already about thirteen-years-old when she came to live with us and had numerous health issues. I honestly didn’t think she’d last for more than a few months; nor did our vet who, on my first visit with Tessa said, “Well, let’s just try to keep her happy and comfortable.” Tessa surprised us all and lived until this past July 24th—twenty months after I first brought her home to join her furry brothers, Enzo and Toby.

When Tessa’s age and health issues finally got the best of her, Rick and I made the decision to have her euthanized (a horribly sterile word, I think, for an experience that’s filled with so much compassion, kindness, gentleness, and emotion).

I struggled with the decision for days, until the afternoon of July 24th when the struggle suddenly ended. With Tessa asleep on my lap out on our back porch on a lovely summer day, I finally felt at peace with it, and the timing, the day, felt right. Not good, but right. I pray that we did right by her.

Rick and I had never considered ourselves “Chihuahua people” … until Tessa. And then we couldn’t see one without our hearts melting. In August I gave Rick a birthday card with a Chihuahua on it; his eyes got moist. Anytime either of us saw a Chihuahua, we’d say to the other, “Who does that remind you of?” We needed to get a grip, which to me meant only one thing—we had to get another.

It began with a photo on Instagram from Susie’s Senior Dogs, a fabulous 501c3 non-profit that encourages and celebrates the adoption of senior dogs.

His name: Poncho, 14-years-old. “He’s truly the best little guy,” wrote his foster mom, Alyssa, on the last line of his bio. Alyssa’s a loving and devoted volunteer with the CLAWS (Closter Animal Welfare Society), in New Milford, NJ.

I was sitting up in bed at the time, staring at Poncho’s picture and reading his bio on my cell phone. Stared some more, read the bio again. I knew what I had to do next.

I turned to my not quite asleep husband and said, “Look at this sweet face!” The words “sweet face” came out in an elongated and ooey-gooey way that Rick knew could only mean one thing: We would probably soon be adopting that sweet face.

And we did! On September 22, 2019, Poncho became an Enterline, joining his furry brothers, Enzo and Toby. And Alyssa was right—Poncho is the best little guy!

I told you at the start that this story isn’t really about our latest rescue dog; that it’s about love and healing. Now let me tell you why.

As I was thinking about this story and starting to jot down a few notes, something kept nagging at me. At first, everything I put down on paper had to do with our dogs, which is all well and good—I love them dearly. But I felt as if there was more there, that I needed to go a bit deeper.

Dog-walking provided a good time to sort through what eventually boiled down to one question: What is it about me that makes me want to keep adopting rescue dogs, especially senior dogs? I know that it’s about more than just trying to do something good in the world.

As I walked and started creating a mental list, I sensed a common denominator. My answers seemed to be less about goodwill and more about what’s good forme.

Maybe I need them more than they need me, I wondered. At the very least, I need them just as much.

“Who rescued who?” We see this popular saying everywhere—on magnets, bumper stickers, coffee mugs … so much so that it’s easy to glance over it. But this question is so spot on for me personally. Truth is, I’d feel a very large hole in my life without them.

I’ve had dogs in one shape and size or another for most of my life. Never have I relied on them more for my own well-being than in the past ten years as I’ve worked on healing from trauma. I am truly so blessed by them.

Feeling down, don’t feel like talking, and don’t want to pretend otherwise? Over comes Enzo, our black Lab, with his big, sweet, brown eyes that say, “It’s okay, Mom. Just scratch my head and you’ll feel better.” So, I do. And I feel better. Or Toby, with his scruffy white and caramel-colored Jack Russell head and long Dachshund body, will do his little dance that begs, “Can we please go play ball right now?!!!” So, we do. And it forces me out of my rut.

And now our dear, ten-pound Poncho, who, if I’m stretched out on the sofa or in bed, will crawl up on top of me, so close and tight that he becomes like another layer of skin (in fairness, Poncho does that to Rick too). Poncho, and every dog, really, is so trusting and absent any agenda accept to love and be loved.

But just about any friendly dog can make you feel better, get you up and moving, or attach themselves to you like avocado on toast. The question is, why am I so enamored by senior dogs? I think it comes down to this:

If I’m going to rely on them so much, then I want the dogs who are going to need me the most.

Maybe deep down inside that’s the deal I make with them. “You be there for me, buddy, and I swear I’ll be there for you … ten times over.”

Those who know me also know that I have a life filled with the love of family and friends. I wouldn’t be where I am now without them. With that said, I hope none of the good people in my life will be offended when I say—never have I experienced such pure, unadulterated love than the love given by our precious senior pups: Enzo, Charlie, Tessa, and now Poncho. And although only five-years-old, Toby is quite the little lover-boy too. 

I can’t save every senior dog, but every senior dog I’ve saved has saved a part of me.

Poncho, Toby, and Enzo (back row) 

WANT TO LOVE and BE LOVED??? OPEN YOUR HEART and HOME TO A SENIOR DOG!!!

Some Resources:
Susie’s Senior Dogs:  susiesseniordogs.com
C.L.A.W.S.:  clawsadopt.org
Angels Among Us:  angelsrescue.org
All 4 Paws Rescue:  all4pawsrescue.com
Castaway Critters:  castawaycritters.org
Harrisburg Area Human Society:  humanesocietyhbg.org
American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals:  aspca.org/donate

(Top Photo by Daniel Salcius on Unsplash)

Be Kind to, Give Grace to, Celebrate … Ourselves

Dear Friends — What you’re going to read is not the post I had originally planned for today. That topic will slide for a couple of weeks.

The reason is simple: There’s a different message I feel moved to share with all of you, one that I had first presented, a month ago, to an online writing community I’m a part of.

Although initially written for writers (and I know there are some writers among my newsletter readers as well), the message at the heart of my piece is one that I think will resonate with anyone, in any vocation:

  1. Let us be kind to ourselves in our lives and in our work.
  2. Let us give ourselves the same grace we extend to others.
  3. Let us celebrate our doggedness.

Be well my friends.

“Everybody I know who wades deep enough into memory’s waters drowns a little.” – Mary Karr, The Art of Memoir
 

I remember sitting at the desk in my hotel room in Philadelphia one Saturday afternoon a few years ago, putting some time into working on my memoir but making zero progress. I was trying to write a particular scene from one of my shifts as a hospital chaplain. The scene required my giving some description of the injuries suffered by a two-year-old girl from a beating at the hands of her mother’s boyfriend. I had been the chaplain on-call at the hospital the night the little girl was life-flighted to the hospital.

Each thought of what I had to describe sickened me; there weren’t many parts of the little girl’s body that had been spared the red, blue, and black marks of bruising.

After twenty minutes spent agonizing over the scene—unable to put myself back in that time and place, let alone find the right words—I got up and walked away from the desk. I couldn’t write the scene, I decided. Not then. Seven years had passed, and I still wasn’t ready to write the scene.

I castigated myself. What do you mean you’re not ready? It’s been seven years! How will you ever get this book written if you can’t write about the really tough stuff? “Time,” I told myself. “I just need more time.”

How easy it is to beat ourselves up as soon as we realize we’re not ready to write about a difficult event in our lives. Because we’re writers, right? That’s what we do. I may slobber on every page and have a breakdown in the process, but doggone it, I have to keep writing!

No. No you don’t.

That afternoon was a turning point for me. Not that all of a sudden I let up on myself and was copacetic with every occasion when I found it hard to write a difficult scene. But giving myself permission to step away from it became less and less of an internal struggle.
 

Listen to Yourself

What I’ve come to learn is this: Part of our obligation to ourselves when we write memoir, especially the kind that involves trauma, is to sometimes get up and walk away from it, at least for a little while. Sometimes we just need greater separation in time from what had happened to us. In the instance above, I was already seven years out; my mind and body were telling me that I still wasn’t quite ready.

The timing of when to open a wound is completely and always up to the writer. You get to say when you will write about the really tough stuff. You are the only arbiter. And choosing the right time is key if you’re going to stay emotionally healthy as you write and, ultimately, finish writing your book. Deciding when to step away is a personal decision; we have to look within and answer honestly.

In The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr poses the most important question that has to be addressed: “Can you be in that place without falling apart?” (p. 32) She then provides the following vivid description of someone who’s probably not ready to write:

“If you’re sobbing with shoulders shaking and big tusks of snot coming out of your face, the answer may be no. Call a pal, book a massage, go for a walk. You’re not ready to occupy this space for years on end. Yet.”

What I love most about this quote from Mary Karr (okay … besides “big tusks of snot”) is the final word: “Yet.”

I love that she gives writers this gift of hope. I’m sure it’s knowledge hewn from writing about her own life and traumatic experiences in the best-selling memoirs: The Liar’s Club, Cherry, and Lit. Doesn’t this one word—Yet—feel like encouragement you can rest your own doubt and fear on?
 

Be gentle with yourself

The scene I was trying to write while in the hotel room in Philadelphia—it occupied my mind for a piece of most every day for seven years, since April 7th, 2008. I was haunted by the sights and sounds from the beating of that little girl, at least the way I imagined it based on police reports and what I saw of her with my own eyes.

Many of you, my fellow writers, likewise have memories and images that can throw you into an emotional pit and bring your writing to a halt. And I’d like to encourage you, friends, when that happens, to be kind to yourself, have compassion for yourself, and give yourself permission to get up and walk away from it for as long as you need. This is not a sign of weakness. It takes emotional strength to acknowledge—not deny—what your heart and mind are telling you. It takes courage to honor that. You don’t have to languish in details that cannot—yet—be written. 
 

Take the Time You Need to tell the Story Only You Can Tell

There’s much to be gained by coming back to a difficult passage in your story on another day. The story will wait for you; it’s going nowhere. Your story wants to be told … and only you can tell it!

You most likely won’t get up one day and feel that the entire weight of the traumatic event has been lifted. It may be a slow journey back to it. However, there will come a day when you decide to give it another try (already a victory!). Through some tears, perhaps, you’ll draft a few sentences … maybe even a paragraph. That may be enough for that day.

Each day forward … or every other day … or whenever you find you can … you will go back to your desk or to your favorite table at the coffee shop and you’ll write some more. You will slowly keep advancing the needle in your own healing. You will have arrived on the other side of Mary Karr’s “yet.”

I hope you will celebrate yourself!

And that scene — I now have it written.


 (Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash)

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Tess

“Float Plan”

“That’s a great book,” said the male voice a few feet behind me. He had apparently noticed me taking the book off the top shelf, which was at eye level for me.

I turned around and saw the title “Manager” on the Barnes & Noble ID tag pinned to his polo shirt.

It was an overcast Friday afternoon, October 5, 2018, and my husband, Rick, and I had decided to take a day trip to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore, Maryland. Whenever we can, we try to include a visit to the large Barnes & Noble store, located near the National Aquarium. We hadn’t been there but five minutes when the book in my hands, Float Plan, was praised so highly.

“Do you know who that is?” the manager asked, referring to the author, Rob Hiaasen.

“Yes, I do,” I said, “What a horrible tragedy that was.”

I knew that Rob Hiaasen and four of his co-workers at the Capital Gazette in Annapolis, Maryland, had been the victims of a mass shooting in the paper’s newsroom, on June 28, 2018. Hiassen had been the assistant editor.

The Barnes & Noble store manager, a friendly and gentle-voiced man in his fifties, was, by then, standing alongside me. He nodded as I acknowledged Rob Hiaasen and what had happened.

“Everyone here was very affected by it,” he said, “especially since Rob Hiaasen’s daughter works here at the store.”

It took a second for his statement to register   

“HERE?” I said. My voice rose a couple of pitches and my eyes widened to the size of walnuts as I spoke. The reply that followed stunned me even more.

“Yes,” he said. “In fact, here she comes now.”

I looked to my left and saw a tall, lovely young woman, I guessed in her twenties, walking toward us. I imagine it was the sight of her manager that brought her our way. Did she have a question for him?

She was quickly standing in front of us, next to her boss. The mother in me wanted to give her a tight hug, but I held back. I was a complete stranger, holding a copy of her deceased father’s book in my hands. I didn’t want my hug to be perceived as pity. We expressed our sympathies, and I said that I was so happy to have come across her dad’s book.

Samantha Hiaasen (she goes by “Sam,” I later learned) didn’t owe us even one moment of courtesy—not after what she and her family had been through, not with grief they were still enduring. But she was gracious, sweet, and cheerful.

There we were, just over three months since the horrific mass shooting of her dad and his coworkers, days and days of coverage and publicity afterwards, and here was this young woman, with the strength and the courage to be at work, and the heart to be nice to strangers. I couldn’t help thinking—again it was the parent in me and some familiarity with the feeling: Rob Hiaasen would be very proud of the daughter he’d helped raise.

Rick and I excused ourselves and headed off on our individual strolls through the bookstore (he’s magazines, airplanes, and the Civil War; I’m creative nonfiction and the Starbucks café). Sam continued speaking with her boss, and I was soon riding the escalator to the second floor.

I had to force myself to pay attention to where I was going so that I wouldn’t trip at the top of the escalator. My mind was still on what had just happened on the first floor.

But … what had just happened?

Some would call it a coincidental meeting. And they might be right. My husband’s reaction was, “That was pretty wild,” and he moved on. There was no wrestling with it, no trying to find the deeper meaning. I’m sometimes jealous of his and others’ ability to move past such things quickly—not in a cold or insensitive way—but with an attitude of “that happened and now it’s over.”

Being the “there are no coincidences” type of person that I am, however, I’m always looking for the meaning behind these “chance” encounters (see https://tessenterline.com/its-a-mystery/). There’s a transcendent quality to what I feel on occasions such as meeting Sam … occasions that feel more “sacred mystery” than coincidence to me.

Afterwards, I want to linger in what fills me—feelings I can’t quite describe but are too powerful and meaningful to me to, such as on that day, simply slide into the next row of books. Such encounters aren’t upsetting. I guess I’d describe what I feel as a kind of bewildered joy

I’m not trying to sound woo-woo about all this or make too much of that afternoon in Barnes & Noble. It just feels right to me to rest in and acknowledge the times in our lives that intertwine with others in a special way.

But here’s where it goes beyond that.

Another reason why meeting someone like Sam is special is because she has suffered through what has increasingly become, for many of us, one of our worst fears … something we want to believe won’t ever happen to us.

Sam reminds me of my vulnerability, of my humanness, of the ties that bind us all. That in a split second I could be up against the same grief that Sam and so many others have had to face as a result of the violence and hate that are now so common. Seems a rare day when we don’t read or hear about a tragedy somewhere in the world.

However … it provides an opportunity.

And a place from which to grow.

And a reason for which to reach out.

And ways to show our love.

There are so many people out there (in our families, neighborhoods, churches, offices, book clubs, etc.) who are hurting. So many of us are hurting.

We can’t be there for everyone. But maybe we can each pick one extra person to call, visit, write to, or pray for in the coming week, and in the weeks thereafter. Maybe someone (reading this newsletter right now or not) will get in touch with youand say, “Hey, I know it’s a hard time for you right now. Just wanted to check-in and see how you’re doing.” Or, “Wanted to let you know that I’m praying for you.”

Personally, I’m not always eager to get on the phone. Just a quirk of mine. But I love sitting across from a friend in a café and listening. And I love writing notes to people. (see https://tessenterline.com/the-love-note-project/)

So here’s my plan: In this next week I’m going to write a note to Samantha Hiaasen. Get it to her somehow. Not that she’ll remember me … doesn’t matter. I just want to let her know that I’ve been thinking about her … that I’ve been praying for her and her family. That I’ve read her dad’s book … and it’s great!

(Note:  Rob Hiaasen’s book Float Plan was published posthumously by Apprentice House Press, which is associated with the Communication Department at Loyola University Maryland. At the request of Maria Hiaasen, Rob’s wife, a contribution was made by AHP to the Everytown for Gun Safety Support Fund. To learn more, go to www.everytown.org.)

 (Photo by Paulo Resende on Unsplash)

God Never Calls U-Haul

God bless my poor neighbor Linda. She had picked the wrong time to do yard work.

It was earlier this year, about four in the afternoon on May 14th. I had just locked up our old house for the final time, taking with me the last couple of boxes of odds and ends accumulated during our thirty-two years of living there. Rick and I had already moved into our new house. 

I walked just outside the garage and pressed the four-digit code into the keypad to lower the door. The creaking sound of the garage door panels sliding over the rails and slowly inching down toward the foundation only served to rub my heart in it … “it” being the fact that this house—our home for thirty-two years—was no longer ours.

The door hit the concrete with a thud. So much noisy rattling for ten seconds and in the very next instant, silence. 

It was like the sting that comes after a after a slap.

I tried to hold back the tears, which was totally in keeping with my habit of wearing the face that says, “I’m fine.”  But the garage door closing and the sudden quiet released the catch on my emotions. My tears broke free. My breaths shortened, and I started sucking air in shorter bursts, muscles contracting from deep within my diaphragm.

My car was parked along the curb and I aimed myself in its direction. As I walked, I forced myself to keep looking straight ahead and not turn around for another look. The last thing I needed was to give my mind another opportunity to remember. Thirty-two years gives you lots to remember. I just kept moving forward down the driveway. 

That’s when I spotted Linda across the street in her front yard. 

She was wearing gardening gloves, and a baseball cap to help protect her from an unusually hot mid-May day. She saw me, too, and we waved to one another.

It crossed my mind to keep walking to my car, accompanied by my tears and heaving breaths. I could have slipped into the driver’s seat and slinked away. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just allow myself to wave and make that my goodbye to such a good woman. So, I crossed the street, went up to Linda, and gave her the biggest, longest, and teariest—maybe even the only—hug I had given her in the thirty-plus years we had been neighbors. I couldn’t even talk, I was crying so much. 

We had watched as each other’s kids grow up. As some families moved elsewhere, Linda and her husband and family, and Rick, me, and our family—along with other original homeowners on our street—remained. We were the Deer Path Woods old timers. Except now, we were leaving as well, to become the “new neighbors” somewhere else. And a new, young family would be moving in the next day and raising their family there just like we did. 

And I was okay with that. Really, I was. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad and wistful about bringing those chapters of our lives to a close.

Three months have passed …

… and although the move brought some changes to our lives—some big (a new church, a new bank, some new doctors) and some small (a new dry cleaner and ice cream stand)—I can honestly say that I’ve been very much at peace with it. So much so, in fact, that I’ve asked myself, “How is that? How could I live in one place for thirty-two years, move, and almost immediately feel comfortable in my new surroundings?”

I soon understood—no, felt—the reason why. 

The reason goes beyond the fact that Rick and I feel very comfortable in our new home. There’s more to it than, once again, being blessed with wonderful neighbors. And, even though I’m thrilled for our dogs that there are many furry friends for them here in our new community, that doesn’t explain my contentment either. 

As with most things that speak to our inner selves, the explanation goes deeper than anything I can lay my eyes or hands on. And yet, I feel it as strongly as having arms wrapped around me in a tight, loving embrace. Once the following thought came to me, I felt the sweet peace of surrendering to it: 

We had moved, but God was where He’s always been, which is … right by my side.

The thought of these words, even now as I type and repeat them to myself, are such a comfort. 

In no way do I want to dismiss the sadness that moving away from family, friends, and familiar surroundings can bring. Those feelings are powerful and only ease with time. In God, though, we have someone who will navigate it all with us; we need only to keep our hearts open to Him.

This same way of thinking can be applied to so many aspects of our lives where there is change: 

  • Has a family member or friend recently been admitted to the hospital … or passed away … thereby changing who is present in your life?
  • Has a relationship in your life become strained or recently ended?
  • Have you changed jobs?
  • Are you sending a child off to college for the first time, thereby changing life as you’ve known it for the past eighteen years? (Been there, done that!)

Or something as seemingly innocuous as:

  • Has your normal route to work been closed due to construction, thereby changing and lengthening your commute?

Through any change—large or small—remember: God never calls U-Haul. God does not move or change. He is, rather, the steadiest, most loving presence in our lives. God is wherever you are.

 (Photo by Brooke Cagle on Unsplash)

When anger and God collide

It humbled me to be angry at God.

I used to be one of those people who thought she could never be angry at God. When others told me they felt that way, including bereaved parents I had supported through their grief (who may have had more right than anyone else to question God’s faithfulness), I always had a ready answer.

A parent would say, “I’m so angry at God for letting my son die. How could He let that happen?”

And I would reply, “It’s okay to be angry at God. He can take it.” I didn’t say it in a dismissive way, because … my God, I can’t even imagine the pain. Yet, I still wondered how anyone could possibly, ever, for any reason, blame God or be angry with Him. “He is the one,” I’d say to myself, “who loves you more than any other will ever love you.” I guess it all made me feel a bit superior in the “who loves God more” category.

Then, I experienced my own devastation, and a conversion … to someone who questioned why God allows certain things to unfold the way they do. And yes, to someone who was angry with God.

It made me understand the anger of those over whom I had felt so superior. I no longer felt special in the “who loves God more” category (as if I had any right to feel it in the first place).

Simply feeling anger toward God shook me. I had become the one I thought I’d never be. My adult life to that point had been one of, perhaps not always unquestioning faith, but always unquestioning contentment with God. To be angry at Him felt like my own deception. But for a while, it felt justified. Why? Because God had called me to the Promised Land, and then He disappeared. At least that’s how I started to feel during the late summer of 2008, after I realized that my days as a hospital chaplain were probably over.

So many of us spend years searching for that one true, meaningful purpose in life. You know the euphoria you feel when you think you’ve found it? That’s how I felt about hospital chaplaincy. When I walked into Hershey Medical Center on September 25, 2006 to begin training as a chaplain, I was convinced that God had finally delivered me to the doorstep of the fulfillment and purpose that I had craved for so long. The start to my journey there was serendipitous.

During a phone call with my friend Cecilia in early 2006, she mentioned that she was considering a training program in hospital chaplaincy—Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE)—at Hershey Med. I was intrigued, so learned what I could about the program online. Clinical Pastoral Education combined pedagogy, discussion, reflection, clinical time in patient units, and overnight on-call shifts. It sounded rewarding and exciting. And it seemed to have my name written all over it.

I ended up applying to the program; Cecilia did not. If not for the phone call with my friend, would I still have been a chaplain? Possibly not. But it’s also possible that things unfolded exactly the way God had planned. Maybe that phone call with Ceil happened right when God thought I was ready for chaplaincy, at age forty-seven.

It all made perfect sense. Everything I had been doing over the years—nurturing, caring, comforting—seemed like the ideal precursor to hospital chaplaincy. I felt like God had been grooming me for this all along. It was a relief to have finally found my true calling. I was to be a Hospital Chaplain.

And, oh the joy and contentment I felt in the role at times. There were moments I hold as close to my heart now as then: Sitting with an aged patient as he recalled a trip to India with his wife, and their meeting Mother Teresa (now Saint Teresa of Calcutta); being in the emergency room with an Amish family and seeing their relief when they were told that their daughter—run over by a truck on their farm earlier in the day—would survive; glancing out a window and seeing the sun rise over the mountains while paying an early morning visit to a double amputee; and the somber privilege of praying the Twenty-third Psalm in the early morning hours of another overnight on-call shift, at the bedside of a sixty-something-year-old woman who had just died, her gay partner standing across from me on the other side of the bed, holding the hand of the person with whom she had expected to spend many more years.

To be allowed onto the altar of sacredness and intimacy on occasions such as these, filled me with such peace of heart … the kind of peace that flows from a true union between the soul and God.

During the truly heartbreaking cases when, because of disease, an accident or violence, lives—sometimes very young—were lost … even those cases could make me feel that I was exactly where I should be, that I was exactly where God intended. In the midst of tears, fears, and anxious questions from patients’ loved ones, I remained calm, even as I often struggled to find words that would comfort. Composed on the outside; unsure and questioning of myself on the inside. It was as if I had grown an extra layer of skin to separate the two. My questioning hadn’t been about actually being at Hershey Med as a chaplain. That felt right; it felt almost ordained. I couldn’t stop myself, however, from constantly questioning my reactions, non-reactions, and responses to people and situations.

And the thing is, there’s no reason I should have expected myself to know how to respond all time; I had never been a chaplain before. But I lacked the ability to be vulnerable to what I didn’t know, while, at the same time, I expected perfection in myself. And, most of all, I expected God to protect me from the bad stuff.

Month by month, trauma after trauma, my certainty about chaplaincy became diluted … first by doubt, and then by fear. When even getting out of my car in the med center parking garage became a long, drawn-out pep talk (“Come on, Tess, I know you can do this!”), I knew chaplaincy was over for me. At that point, even the thought that hospital chaplaincy might have been God’s plan for me—a thought that had once been so comforting and inspiring to me—wasn’t enough to keep me there. I finished the training program, then left the hospital. In the months that followed, I started to battle the demons that eventually come after anyone who experiences trauma. Memories of the sights and sounds of suffering … things the mind holds onto for a very long time.

I also felt confused.

I felt deceived by The One who I believed would never desert me.

I was angry at God, who had called me tantalizingly close to the contentment and sense of purpose I had longed for over so many years. And I grieved, because hospital chaplaincy—to that point the closest I had come to finding my spiritual and professional home—had become something I could no longer touch. That’s what hospital chaplaincy becomes, in its most sacred sense—a world you gently touch and love, one patient at a time. Instead, that world had become toxic to me.

For a long time after I left Hershey Med, all I could associate with hospital chaplaincy was emotional pain, anger, and a sense of betrayal. The backdrop for all of that emotion were the questions I endlessly put to God: “How could my trying to do something good end in so much pain? How could you let this happen, Lord? Why didn’t you protect me?”

At the same time, I felt that I had failed God. He had called me to chaplaincy, and I couldn’t cut it.

I came away from hospital chaplaincy feeling depressed and traumatized.

I carried on with life and functioned pretty well. Most days, and in front of most people, I could keep up the façade that everything in my world was peachy. There were some days, though, when I had to will myself to get out of bed, take a shower, and leave the house. I’m thankful that, through the worst of it, my two kids were away at college and then off starting their own lives, but I suspect they could sense, at times, that something was wrong.

Somehow, through it all, I was never without the hope that things would get better. I always envisioned a return to a happy life, and that belief was a blessing. I just didn’t know how long it would take.

It ended up taking the better part of eight years. I’m so very grateful to the loving, caring people in my life, especially my husband and therapist, who saw me through.

I hate to think of all of the hours and days of my life that I lost to depression and PTSD. Hours creating, caring, holding my husband’s hand, calling the kids, playing with our dogs, reading … hours just being happy. I can’t get it back. But I have turned it around. Some memories will never go away, but I can now peacefully coexist with them.

The past few years have given me the time and distance I’ve needed to think of many of my past experiences as lessons learned, and acknowledge the graces they’ve  bestowed on my life.

Explaining past pain as a means of finding grace sounds convenient, doesn’t it? From about 2008 to 2016, I never could have done it; I hurt too much. Honestly, though, sometimes you have to push yourself to find grace in a painful experience in order to start healing. The grace you find that way isn’t a lie, and it doesn’t suddenly make everything all better. In my case, as grace slowly revealed itself, it lifted such a burden from my heart and helped to dispel my anger.

One grace for me was in realizing and accepting that I didn’t have to fully heal from trauma. I wrote about that more fully in my February 1, 2019 Newsletter.

Another grace is the belief that, despite the resulting emotional pain, there were good reasons for me to have been at Hershey Medical Center as a chaplain … that it was still God’s plan for me. Not that He wanted me to suffer. No, not at all.

Without trying to infer that I have any idea what God is thinking, I’ll just offer that perhaps God thought that my experiences—good or bad—as a chaplain would take me to an even better place in my life.

What if God intended hospital chaplaincy to be the path, rather than the destination? (If you’re going through a difficult time right now, could you maybe think of it as a path to something better that God has planned for you?)

What if writing about my experiences as a hospital chaplain—what I’m now doing—is what God intended all along? Writing about those experiences in a way that has meaning for others … maybe that has always been God’s plan for me.

Far from making me angry, this thought only deepens my love for Him.

And I am humbled by the mystery of it all.

(I’ll have more to say about everything here in the memoir I’m currently writing.)

Photo Credit: Paola Chaaya on Unsplash.