When God Calls: An Academic’s Experience

Almost three weeks ago, my denomination, the Seventh-day Adventist Church, voted not to let major regional divisions decide whether or not they had the authority to ordain female clergy. I won’t waste time on the semantics of this vote, because the vote itself is not the point of this post. Rather, I am thinking in particular about one speech that caused me a lot of inner reflection. It is the speech of a young woman in a position of leadership, a young woman that spoke out against the ordination of women in ministry. It is a speech that has caused me to rethink what we mean by “calling.”

Brief disclaimer: I have decided, for the sake of Christian fellowship and transparency, to include the transcript of her speech, but not identify her or include the YouTube link to this post. I do not wish to shame her publicly, nor do I wish anyone reading this post to shame her publicly. Her opinion is her own, and I respect her right to her privacy and her opinion. If you, however, would be interested in watching the video for your own edification, indicate so in the comments or message me, and I will gladly share the YouTube link at my own discretion.

This is what the young woman said as a rationale for her NO vote to the ordination of female pastors in the Seventh-day Adventist Church:

1. I want to speak on behalf of thousands whose voices are not being heard in my division. Thousands of NAD members do not agree with women’s ordination, and the initiative bringing it to the front has served not to unify but to polarize this division. As the president of GYC which has the largest annual youth and young adult conference in the Adventist church, I hear from those within the NAD who feel their voices have not been heard or at least not acknowledged. There are those in this division who believe that we should be considerate of the world church and what regional beliefs will mean for our unity rather than feeling the world needs to be considerate of us. And if our division has not acknowledged all the convictions within their own division, how can we anticipate that they will be considerate of the world church family on other issues when we once set a precedent that each locality can decide for itself?
   2. I am a young adult, a young woman, an ethnic minority, and a leader of one of the largest youth movements in Adventism, and Mr. Chair, God has already called me to work for Him and that is all the calling I need. Not all young people, not all young women, not all North Americans, want our church to be divided for the sake of having someone lay their hands on us. And while people recognize my work as the president of a young adult conference, they should give more recognition when I become a wife next February and a mother after that, since the Spirit of Prophecy says that position is higher than the minister in the desk or the king on the throne. We should focus on giving that the dignity and honor that it deserves.I say no to the question, no to dividing the church.

It’s this question of calling that caught my attention. This young woman asserts that, despite her position of leadership, there is no higher calling than becoming a wife and mother for her. Her confidence in God’s will for her life is inspiring, and I applaud her for it.

But does this apply to all women? Should her calling speak for all of us?

That’s the question I find myself engaging to this very day. The implication (given by many people, and not this young woman specifically)—that there is no higher or better calling for a woman than to be a wife and mother—suggests that unless a woman is married and has given birth, she has not fulfilled God’s calling for her. I am uncomfortable with this idea. I know many fulfilled women who do not have children, or who have not married. I myself did not always know if I would marry. And by the time I did, I had already discovered God’s calling for my own life. Yes, I am still a wife. I love my husband. I have grown closer to God as a result of my marriage. But there are many components of my life that I juggle, and it feels odd to chuck one of these pieces in favor of a calling that does not resonate with my own experience.

I’ve talked about the process of getting my PhD on this blog, but I’ve never shared how it all began. This is a story that goes twelve years back, though I had no idea at the time it had begun to unfold. About two days ago, I discovered my Senior English Portfolio, with my collection of writing projects from the course of my senior year. This list I now share, written when I was 18, shows that I had a very specific idea of what my life was going to be like:

Ten Things I Foresee in My Future:

1. Enjoying new adventures at Andrews University
2. Travelling all over in my new car
3. Taking a year off to be a student missionary
4. Falling in love and marrying a really sweet guy
5. Graduating with a BA in English
6. Teaching English at an [Adventist] academy
7. Having two boys and a girl
8. Publishing a novel
9. Living in a two-story house that always needs repair
10. Growing old with my husband, and enjoying grandkids

At 18, these were my big dreams. I thought in terms of other people: I would teach other kids, I would be a wife, and I would be a mother. These would define my identity and my life.

And then, God called.

My dad took me to my freshman orientation week at Andrews University. He and my mom were so excited for me. Though they are both medical professionals, they have always supported my love of reading, writing, and analysis, and they were excited that I was embarking on an English degree—a world so far removed from theirs. At the parent/student lunch, we were introduced to the Dean of Students, whose husband had been my dad’s dean at Loma Linda University Medical College. She jokingly remarked, “When you get your PhD, you can come back here and teach!” I remember laughing politely and turning to my dad after she left. “I’m not going to get my PhD,” I told him.

My dad looked at me and, with all seriousness, responded, “Don’t count it out.”

Those four words would mark the shift to a future I never even knew existed.

I had never considered an academic career, and it wasn’t until my junior year in college that I actually returned to that moment and asked myself, “Is this what I should be doing with my life?” In the midst of rousing discussions of John Dryden (no easy feat), Aphra Behn, and Jane Austen in my English Literature II survey, I began to see a new idea and a new purpose.

And yet I decided to be safe and continue on my English education course. I determined to finish my degree as if I was going to teach high school, with an option for graduate school, if I really wanted to.

I forged on with student teaching, on the fence about what to do with my life. But that rigorous semester was fraught with the struggles of balancing preconceived ideas with the realities of high school education, questioning God’s plan for my life, and the simple discouragement from being mentally and emotionally drained constantly. I cried every Sunday night, because that meant school was starting on Monday (The Chancellor can attest to this—he and I had been dating by this point, and he often had to pep me up before the week even started). I had to face reality: this was not my calling. I returned to the fragile, yet growing, idea of going to graduate school, and I decided to take a leap of faith.

I spent money I did not have on the Graduate Record Exam and four MA program in English applications. I asked my professors for last-minute recommendations, which they all very graciously provided. And I waited. After two immediate rejections, I received the miraculous email from Western Michigan University. I was going to get my Master’s Degree in English.

When I began my program, I knew immediately that I had found my calling. I was stimulated by interesting, challenging discussions with my colleagues. I was energized by the diverse capabilities of the students in my classroom. On my worst day, I never felt any regret that I had turned away from my high school dream. I was called.

But at the end of my first year at WMU, I fully began to realize the implications of my calling. If God was guiding me towards a PhD, that would mean a LOT more work. It would mean spending money I didn’t have to retake the GRE to get a better score, spending more money I didn’t have on graduate school applications, getting rejected again, and then, at least four, if not five, years of school, which included qualifying exams and a dissertation to write and defend.

That summer, I had two big decisions to make. First, whether to apply for PhD programs. And second, what to do about my relationship with The Chancellor. I haven’t written too much about the US part of our marriage, for the sake of his privacy and mine, but this actually became really integral to my calling. He had just received his own calling. After finishing his MA at Andrews—where we had met in a young adult literature class—he had gotten an interview from a day school outside a large Midwestern city. I was in agony. I didn’t think there were ANY programs in the area. I began to think that I would have to make a choice: go forward with The Chancellor and give up my calling, or give up The Chancellor. I hated both ideas.

A lot of people in my personal or church life would have told me to get married and forget the PhD. After all, I was 25, not getting younger, and not at an Adventist school anymore.

Several academic friends and colleagues would have told me to go forward with my career. If The Chancellor did not fit in, he didn’t fit in. After all, this was my career.

The Chancellor had his own say: “If you give up the PhD to marry me, I’m breaking up with you.” This was perhaps the most miraculous intervention I’ve ever had. God did not present me with the “really sweet guy” I yearned for at 18. I mean, The Chancellor is a good and kind man, and yes, he can very sweet. But he’s also tough as nails, an ardent feminist, and a believer in standing up for what’s right and following God’s leading in your life. He’s the guy I needed to have the confidence in God’s calling for me, and for him, as well.

So, in the biggest leap of faith we both took, we decided to make it work. He would accept the job. I would apply to every PhD program relevant to my field (at the time 18^th and 19^th century British literature) within a three-hour driving radius (as it turns out, there were 11 such programs). And then we would get married in the summer of 2011. We were in this with God—together.

When God calls, it’s really scary. You make choices. You make sacrifices. You make it work.

I was accepted into Marquette University’s PhD program in English, which meant a 90-mile one-way drive. One of my dearest childhood friends and her best friend opened up their home to me, which meant I had a place to live during the week. But that meant being away from my brand-new husband for part of the week.

It was a wrenching and sometimes very stressful sacrifice. My first semester of my PhD was awful, in ways I will not expand on here. But I survived it, and I discovered the field I was meant to be in my second semester. From there, I began to find a rhythm in living two lives at the same time, of balancing my academic life with my teaching, my work life with my personal life, my marriage, and my friends. It was not easy, and it’s still not. Not everyone can do this. Not everyone wants to do this. Not everyone was called to do this. But I was.

Not every day of my teaching career at the college level has been magical by any means. But even on my worst day, I can’t even think of doing anything else. I have found the calling God made for me. I balance it with my daily life, and with my marriage. It is in my marriage that my calling has been strengthened. The Chancellor bounces ideas off me, and I off him. We read some of the same books, provide each other with inspiration, and challenge each other. I could not have done this alone. I am grateful that The Chancellor acknowledges my calling, and I his. We strengthen each other and glorify God together.

Fulfilling God’s calling for my life has meant research and teaching. It has entailed me to use my mind and challenge preconceived ideas with new ones. My calling has asked me to consider new perspectives and possibilities, to read books that challenge my Western ideas of thinking. It has asked me to accept students whose views are not my own and to treat them with dignity and respect. It has asked me to spend summer hours on my dissertation, to forgo pleasure in order to fulfill my role for God. And it has asked me to be open to communicating those ideas in my life, in my church, and in my work.

When God calls, and when you answer, there are beautiful moments beyond compare. I cannot describe the moment in which my name was called, and I walked across an auditorium stage to receive my diploma and have my hood draped around me. It all pales to the moment I heard my family and friends cheering loudly and shouting my name as I smiled into the light. The dream God had given me had come true on May 17, 2015.

And it’s true to this day. While I do not have a tenure-track job at this moment (I’m on the market, so I hope to be employed full-time next year!), I do have teaching to look forward to. I have faith that God will provide me with the employment to fulfill my calling for Him. I have training, a mind He has prepared, a curiosity to seek knowledge and use it to make others’ lives richer and better.

When God calls…He changes your life forever. But only if you let Him do it. You can choose to follow the path you think is acceptable based on ideas of tradition, or you can accept His calling for you. Sometimes, it is that “traditional” path to which He leads you. And other times, as in the case of a teenaged girl with a third-grade education, He leads you beyond the boundaries of your home to reach classrooms, churches, ministries, individuals hungry for Him. When God calls…what will your answer be?

Why I need feminism (and why you do too)

Tonight, my brother posted the following link to a friend’s feed and asked for her opinion. I post it here now, simply because I want you to understand why I am bursting into flames as we speak:

http://www.ijreview.com/2014/07/156463-15-women-share-reasons-dont-need-empowered-feminist-movement/

Wait, what? SERIOUSLY? These are the reasons not to be a feminist? You aren’t a victim, therefore you aren’t a feminist? You don’t believe in the evils of patriarchy, therefore you don’t need feminism? Susan B. Anthony just rolled over in her grave. Not to mention Eleanor Roosevelt.

Nothing against these (I’m sure) lovely young women, but they have a grave misunderstanding of what feminism is, and what it does for us all.

I’m not going to bore you with definitions of feminism or direct rebuttals, but I’m going to get personal. Here’s why I need feminism:

*Feminism is what gives me the right to be recognized by my society as an equal to a man. My gender does not make me lesser, but an equal.

*Feminism has granted me the right to vote, the right to a driver’s license, a contract to rent, a bank account, a job, and access to quality medical attention.

*On that note, feminism has fought for my body to be seen as an instrument of my own making–not a baby machine. Because feminism fought for my right to access birth control, I don’t have to worry about getting married and getting pregnant with baby after baby after baby until I die or wear out with a brood of 12 children in 12 years–unless I want to, that is. And then, I *get* to make that choice–it’s not my fate.

*Because of feminism, I don’t have to contort my body into a girdle, hoopskirts, corsets, footbindings, or other equally painful “beauty” devices to be seen as more desirable to a man.

*Feminism has fought for laws that protect me as a person from domestic abuse or unwanted sexual attention. I am a person, not a man’s property, plaything, or object. Feminism treats rape victims like people, not children, and not sluts.

*Feminism allows me to be educated at a university and to pursue postgraduate degrees. My only degree does not have to be M.R.S.

The beauty of feminism is…you, as a woman, don’t have to “choose” it or “believe” in it, because there are enough women willing to fight for other women to be recognized as equals (I’m only being slightly sarcastic here).

I realize that I’m (a) generalizing a bit; (b) idealizing A LOT (equal pay? not being career-penalized for maternity leave [in the guise of another excuse]? Yeah, I am looking forward to that day); and (c) not being super eloquent (but my dissertation is to blame for that one). But there are just some things that feminism has historically stood for and currently fights for. And they’re basic human rights, not even the “politicizing” of gender that is apparently happening to women everywhere (because a man telling me to put an Aspirin between my knees is *not* getting political? Whatever. I don’t reason with madness).

In more anecdotal news, last Christmas I was at church, when a parent at The Chancellor’s school stopped to talk to us. I had never met this woman before, and I am always pleased to meet parents. I reached out to shake her hand, but she brushed mine away, grabbed my stomach–we’re at church, mind you–and then asked, “No baby yet?”

Kids, I’m 29.

29.

No baby. At 29. I can just feel my ovaries drying up. There are women being raped and kidnapped and poorly educated the world over and the REAL tragedy is that a white, educated, 29-year-old woman has chosen not to have a baby yet.

And this is why I need feminism. The End.

The Fault in Our Nerves

I just got back from the movie theater, and it was a profoundly shocking experience. How can a film adaptation of The Fault in Our Stars be so memorable as to obliterate the movie from my memory immediately? Well, for starters, we never got to the end.

My friends F and A and I decided that since we had all read the book, it would be fun to go together. F’s husband J and The Chancellor decided to see A Million Ways to Die in the West, a parody of a Western–so what transpired did not even faze that theater.We were only about five-ten minutes away from the end of the film, when we heard loud popping noises coming from what we thought was the theater next door. It’s pretty typical to hear a boom or two from the theater, especially an action or drama, but it kept happening. The theater began buzzing, as people began looking at each other, the movie completely forgotten. F, A, and I were not sure what was happening.

And then, it happened. A young woman, completely frightened, started screaming, and bolted. What ensued was a theater full of teens and adults pouring out of their seats in droves, exiting the theater and jamming the exits. I didn’t know what was happening. Was there a shooter on campus? Were those gunshots? Was The Chancellor  okay? F, A, and I looked at each other as people began cramming the aisles, and our training kicked in. We crawled down and curled up behind the seats, waiting. Waiting. I felt calm and completely disconnected from my body, my adrenaline surging. I thought of very little except a prayer, that I would be calm for whatever happened next, and that The Chancellor would be okay.

It felt like forever, but was probably about the three longest minutes of my life, when several theater officials came in and told us that it was okay. That a hotel down the street had decided to let off fireworks in celebration (of what? we were not sure. A wedding, perhaps?), which caused the loud popping noises. The movie had been paused at this point, and the house lights slowly came on.

As we sat up slowly, processing what had just not happened, I began to cry. The fears and anxieties that surround us when we hear of these shootings, of the violence that sneaks up in our world, had pressed on my heart for a moment, and my mind was filled with images.

Of broken bodies, of blood, of guns, of hate, of terror, of fear.

It was too much.

While we were down, A had quietly called 911, and then explained about the fireworks the minute the theater officials came in. We glanced around the theater, and in the crammed full arena of about 300, only about 20 of us had stayed. The rest had panicked and fled. Had this terror been real, most of them would be injured or dead. That is frightening to me, truly more so than the actual realness of the event.

I am glad that F (a teacher), A (a chaplain), and I (another teacher) let our training and logic kick in, but I am sad that so many followed the herd.

It’s a sign of our times, that when we hear fireworks, we think of something much worse. We panic and flee, and risk trampling each other on our way out the door.

I’m still in a bit of shock, to be honest. But I have resolved a few things: first, to talk to my supervisor about getting some training for incoming teachers this fall and to reinforce safety protocols should this ever happen. And second, to tell my students this story, to teach them not to panic and run and risk their own lives in the process. To be safe and smart in scary situations.

Needless to say, I remember almost nothing about the film itself.

The Face of Love: Why “Just Be Celibate” Is a Poor Response

This conversation about same-sex civil rights and its relationship to my Seventh-day Adventist faith community has exploded in the last few months. I have been following lots of developments–the recent General Conference vote to pass guidelines that would exclude “practicing” gays and lesbians from church membership and the Andrews University LGBT forum are just a few–and reading lots of opinions and blogs, including this most excellent one by an Andrews University student, who responded to a young woman who’d attended the forum (and her initial piece is embedded in his–read them both).

It’s gotten me to thinking about some of the critiques I’ve heard against LGBT inclusion or same-sex marriage within my community of faith. There’s one that’s always bothered me tremendously, and I want to talk about it today. It’s the line of thinking that goes, “You can be gay, but you have to be celibate,” or “You can join our church, as long as you’re celibate.”

Ugh.

Let me be clear: I’m not advocating for a free-love, hippie-dippie sex romp in the prayer gardens of Pioneer Memorial Church. I just think we glibly state the “I don’t want to be intolerant, but I must follow the party line procedure, so I’ll just comfortably talk about celibacy when I’ve been married for 20 years and have no right to do so” catchphrase, because we (I’m referring to Christians here) don’t know how to talk to gay people. Or about sex. Or to gay people about sex. Or about marriage, for that matter.

People who follow the “Just Be Celibate” line of thinking sincerely believe that this moral standard should also be enforced on the straight single people in church. I’m not decrying their sincerity or consistency here.

But that’s what gets me. We don’t ask single men and women, “Are you practicing sex?” or “Are you celibate?” when they code straight and/or cis-gender (that means, you were born a specific gender and identify as that specific gender as an adult, for those readers not in the know). And when we do discuss sexuality and celibacy with straight singles, there’s always an “end point” to their celibacy:

*Oh, the right one will come along.

*There’s “still time.”

*Have you met my (cousin, nephew/niece, son, daughter, grandson, granddaughter, etc)?

*All in the Lord’s time!

*Just for a season.

*[Insert link to ChristianMingle or AdventistSingles.com]

We assume that God will provide the lamb and end the accursed celibacy for straight singles, when the Bible discusses it in far different terms. These above statements assume that celibacy is a cross to bear, whereas Paul treats it as a blessing and a desired state:

“But I want you to be without care. He who is unmarried cares for the things of the Lord—how he may please the Lord. ³³ But he who is married cares about the things of the world—how he may please his wife. ³⁴ There is^[a] a difference between a wife and a virgin. The unmarried woman cares about the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit. But she who is married cares about the things of the world—how she may please her husband. ³⁵ And this I say for your own profit, not that I may put a leash on you, but for what is proper, and that you may serve the Lord without distraction.” (1 Corinthians 7: 32-35, NKJV).

Paul sees singlehood as a blessing to be desired for the ministry of Christ? Interesting. Because I went to more than one chapel or Bible talk about what to do “until…” with that assumption ringing that there was SOMEONE out there for me, and that the marriage bed was God’s desired plan for my life.

There is a clear pressure to get married in the faith community. Those of us who are married are immediately pressured to have children–I won’t rehash the blog post from last week, but suffice it to say, every year I get closer to turning 30, the coy “When are you having children?” questions become less coy and more pointed. Those who aren’t married get marketed for singles gatherings and ministries. There is nothing wrong with any of this, but I believe we set people up for failure and discontent when we treat marriage and parenthood as the ultimate desired goal for life and singles are treated like the sad cat ladies who just “can’t find a man.”

And that’s where my issues with enforcing celibacy on unmarried folks enter this conversation. I am married; I made a choice to be married; I had the legal right to be married. Therefore, my choice reflects my opportunities available to me. How can I then flaunt my privilege in someone else’s face because they don’t have either the opportunity or the resources to be able to make the same choice I could? I find that fundamentally unkind and unchristian.

I’m not saying that we should all be practicing celibacy and abolishing marriage. Good grief, no. What I *am* saying, however, is that the Adventist Church has implicitly come to regard celibacy as a burden, a cross, a temporary state that singles should not desire. So I find it deeply hurtful to have such a fugue state imposed upon LGBT members. If we don’t want to relegate straight men and women to “being alone,” why on earth would we wish that upon singles who are queer? I don’t, and this is a major reason I stand up for same-sex civil rights. If I am to follow the teachings of Matthew 7:12, which states,  “Therefore, whatever you want men to do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets” I must treat someone else the way I would want to be treated (NKJV).

I do not want to be told that I must be celibate to be a member of a church.

I do not want to be asked if I am “practicing” my sexual orientation.

I do not want to be told that I must live alone and never have even the chance of a marriage partner.

Therefore, if I ask these kindnesses for myself, I must then reciprocate in kind. I don’t have an answer for doctrine or church policy. But in practice, I have been asked to be God’s face of love. And if I am His face, then I must shine with love and acceptance and kindness in my everyday life.

 

Live Long. Prosper.

Tonight, my brother Spock graduated from high school.

 

I am so proud. It has been the greatest pleasure to watch him grow up from the goofy little boy who told jokes to a kind-hearted and goofy guy who has forgotten more about Star Trek than I will ever know in this lifetime. I am so glad that he is my brother, and glad that I can also call him my friend.

Haunted by Mortality

Last night, my mom and my sister Berry (her blog name) were in a bad car accident. They were driving home from my brother Spock’s (his blog name) basketball game an hour from their home in northern Minnesota with another mom and daughter, when they hit a patch of black ice. My mom is no stranger to treacherous driving conditions, so as she tried to correct, the van’s wheel caught on something in the road, and the car lost control completely, ramming into a stone hillside at 50 mph with the engine still running.

An ER nurse, my mom is also no stranger to fatal car accidents and their aftermaths. On the phone today, she told me tearfully, “We should have died. The engine should have exploded. I didn’t think we would survive the impact.” But they all did.

And yet, there is still a lot of damage. The van is completely totalled and mashed in the front. K, the other mom, broke six ribs, both bones in her wrist, and a bone below her knee. She is in a tremendous amount of pain and still in the hospital. She will have to have surgery for both her knee and wrist. My mom has bad bruising all around her legs, and Berry has whiplash and had to have a neck CT to make sure there was no injury.

And they will remember that night forever. Berry told me that she can remember every last detail of the accident, and it’s unsettling. How the car suddenly swerved. How A, the other girl, screamed. The sickening sound of the crash. How she looked at the car and burst into tears when she realized they all could have died.

We’re all haunted by our mortality at some point, and last night was yet another reminder that this life is short and death is volatile. There is no way to predict when, how, or why. I feel helpless because I am over 500 miles away and I cannot be there with them. I am haunted by visions of their broken bodies, and I cannot focus on anything else. I pray frequently for God to come close to them, and to me, as I feel so shaken.

I ask for prayers for my family and for K. Hold your loved ones close, and drink in every minute. I don’t think I’ll need to be reminded of that again.

What’s in [keeping] a name?: Part II–Mishaps of a Multi-Name Family

This last summer, I blogged about the many reasons at play in the decision for keeping my name. I am much more at peace with this decision overall than I would have been with taking The Chancellor’s or trying to hyphenate. It’s worked out well for me so far, especially since I get to introduce myself as Queen Bess at my graduate institution, The Chancellor’s students refer to me as “Mrs. Chancellor” and we refer to ourselves as the Bess-Chancellor household.

Not everyone has gotten the memo, though. Today in church, I was once again reminded of the heteronormative expectations that are often placed on young married women in religious contexts. I requested membership at one of the area churches, using the Queen Bess name, and after our marriage, I was welcomed into the church by that name. Today, there was a notice in the bulletin about introducing the church to the faculty of The Chancellor’s school. He was one of the teachers listed, with a blurb mentioning that he was married to his sweetheart, “Queeny.” Obviously that’s a pseudonym. But you get the idea. Again, in the self-same bulletin, we were listed in the prayer section as “Lord and Queeny Chancellor.”

First, I felt angry and violated. Not only was my name erased for the assumption that I had taken my partner’s, but my own first name was misspelled. Not cool, especially for a church that had managed to get it right the first time. Both my first and last names are six letters each–not hard to spell at all. Further, if they weren’t certain, couldn’t they have just asked?

I have since decided to take a humor-based approach. I texted The (former) Vice Principal of Everything (pseudonym for a dear friend who just moved away), “We’ve been asked to pray for Lord and Queeny Chancellor. Do you know who this Queeny Chancellor is?” She wrote back that she thinks The Chancellor’s been taking her to dinner behind my back. And thus is born my evil twin.

So, if you see anything addressed to a Queeny Chancellor, don’t assume it’s me. I have an evil doppelganger who wants nothing more than to usurp my rightful place in the Bess-Chancellor household.

12.7.99

Some people feel a distinct division in their lives: there’s a defining moment that bifurcates the segments of their lives that will never be wholly unified again. I am definitely one of those individuals, as today marks the 12th anniversary of the day my family’s universe was disturbed forever.

I should backtrack to provide a bit of context. In 1998, my six-year-old brother was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, and about the same time, my mom’s lingering health problems finally reached a definitive diagnosis of lupus. Let me tell you, it was an interesting year. By itself, lupus is a terrifying disease, simply because it’s so amorphous and unpredictable. There was a woman at church who faced down death a few times with her lupus and had to walk with a cane, while my dear friend RRC’s mother languished for many years while eventually dying to renal failure after years on dialysis. We had no idea how it would play out in my mom’s body, especially since she had suspected that something was wrong shortly after she gave birth to my sister in 1987. Imagine going eleven years and giving birth to two more children with undiagnosed lupus! In short: my mom was very fortunate to not be much sicker than she already was. She spent the next year tweaking lifestyle habits and working with a rheumatologist for medicines and exercises to keep her body strong.

Fast-forward to 1999. Everything seemed to be going okay, at least on the health front. I was in the throes of adolescence with zero motivation to do anything. As with all mother-daughter relationships at this time, my mom and I just did not get along. And since I am the oldest, I was the experiment. There was a lot of complaining, while my sister, the quintessential middle child, tried to reason with me and help me get along with my parents. My brother and baby sister (ages 7 and 3) were…you know, kids. I thought life was soooo difficult at 14. But an aside comment from my mom took my mind off petty things. When I overheard her talking about a biopsy, I looked at her and she said with forced calm, “I found a lump in my breast.” It was a few days before Thanksgiving.

We had about two weeks to wait for the diagnosis. In that time, I spent hours at night on my knees, crying out in agony to a God that I had tacitly believed in because my parents did. I prayed at first for her to be healed miraculously, then I asked Him to do His will. On a sidenote, it was, in the words of the song “Amazing Grace,” “the hour I first believed.”

The phone call came on December 7, 1999. My brother was playing, while I tried to watch both him and my mom talking tensely to her surgeon on the phone. But I knew as soon as she started to respond. Tears filled my eyes, as I knew that nothing in this life would ever be the same again.

What do you do, three weeks shy of your 15th birthday, when your mom tells you she has breast cancer and has to have surgery immediately, before the insurance coverage changes (for the worse)? How do you tell your siblings, 12, 7, and 3, that it’s going to be okay, when you don’t even know if that’s the truth? All I can remember about that day is going to the kitchen and washing a sinkful of dishes by hand. We had a dishwasher, but for some reason, my hands needed to be moving, because my brain was completely numb. For the first time, I had to face the possibility that my mom could die.

Two weeks later, she had a mastectomy, because her lupus would not allow her to undergo radiation for a lump. So, at 42, my mom had to undergo reconstructive surgery on top of that, because she did not want to lose her breast. We would find out in the next week if her lymph nodes were clean. I don’t need to tell you that my 15th  birthday was a subdued affair.

And then, that long-awaited call came on December 23, the day after my birthday. The nodes were clean. The cancer was gone. That moment marked the rest of my life, in which I determined never to take my mom (really, my whole family) for granted, and which I would always be grateful for the life we got to live.

Only a few times I have wondered what our lives would have looked like had my mom never had cancer. All I know is that we were all changed by it, in ways that have made me the woman that I am today. I am not glad she suffered, but I am glad we are all stronger, better, kinder people because of it.

Every December 7, I commemorate the day that has defined us, shaped us, and redefined us as a family, and this year, I am reminded of the closing lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses”:

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

8.18.2005.

Today marks the sixth anniversary of my grandma’s death (it would also be my beloved dog Max’s 16th birthday, if he was still with us, but that’s another post). August always makes me a little introspective, as well as a little sad. It strikes me as no mere coincidence that my grandpa is facing end-of-life issues in this month and week (no update on that, by the way), nor that her death coincides with the beginning of the school year. Every year, on 8.18., the Elton John circle of life becomes a little less jazzy and glib and a bit more real. The end and the beginning clash and harmonize in ways I never thought would happen.

The end really started back in March of 2003. Grandma had a stroke, which paralyzed the left side of her body. I flew down to visit her, as I was one week away from making my senior class mission trip to Zambia. I was glad I got to see her then, because it was the last time I truly saw her will to live at work within her. The next two and a half years were filled with agony and disappointment. She’d get better, then have another stroke. She’d make progress in her physical therapy, then be set back by a stroke or a broken hip. It was heartbreaking to talk to her on the phone, because I knew she had something to say, but she couldn’t get the words out. Finally, two weeks before she officially died, she had one last stroke that prevented her from swallowing. She went to a nursing home and never returned. Her body finally, slowly went to rest, and I realized that I had prayed all those years for the wrong thing. I prayed for my grandma to live, to get better, to be whole. I wish that I had instead prayed for peace and comfort and rest for her. What a bitter realization to make so late.

We all cried at her funeral. Not because she had died. No, we had all known for awhile that she was not going to make it. Rather, we cried, because all the good memories came back. Grandma was a faithful wife, mother, grandma, friend, and neighbor. She read to her grandkids, sang hymns with her family, and brought us all together with her gentle graces and her unconditional love. She was there when my family’s puppy was killed in an accident. She came up to stay when my mom had surgery, and then later, when my sister and I had to live with my mom’s best friend for awhile (more on that in another post). She played games with gusto, but would often make a wrong move, simply because she was too busy socializing to pay attention. These memories all came back in a flood, and I had to remember again all that we had lost.

I still miss her. I cried at my high school graduation, because she could not be there to cheer me on. I cried at my MA graduation, because I wished she was there. I burst into tears the morning of my wedding, because she wasn’t there. Actually, she died before the first of the cousins got married, so she didn’t get to watch the joy of any of her grandkids getting married. She would have enjoyed being there, and I know she would have loved The Chancellor.

Six years later, I have moved within my grief. I know now that it will never “go away.” The intensity of it does not consume me every day, though it comes back in small, unexpected moments. Sometimes, it feels painful, other days sad, and some days gentle. I know that she rests in peace. I know that I am like her in small ways. I will never forget her. I will always remember. I will always love.

Change of Plans: Change of Post

Yesterday, I intended to post about my Thursday visit to the university I’ll be attending, and the slight transportational change-of-plans that have ensued from new information. Namely: my university’s deal with the bus transit system only extends to undergrads, which means that, on top of expensive trains (and their multi-ride pass does not offer a significant discount, nor does their student membership) and local metra trains, I’d need to shell out $64 each month extra to ride the bus. Ouch. It would cost half as much to take my car up and pay for a semester parking permit each semester, and that includes projections for gas.

And then a text and phone call changed everything. My grandpa (dad’s dad), whose health has steadily declined in the years since my grandma’s death, was admitted to the ICU yesterday for pneumonia. He is heavily sedated and on a ventilator. My aunt is fairly certain that this is the end, and based on the evidence, I am inclined to agree. Additionally, two weeks ago, I found out that my grandma (mom’s mom), whose health has also steadily declined, is likely to be diagnosed with metasized colon cancer, which means six months or less. My relationship with both of these grandparents is…complex. The last time I saw my grandma was when my baby sister was born. Incidentally, that baby turned 15 this summer. Her presence in her grandkids’ lives has been, at best, intermittent. She has offered to buy us extravagant presents, but what we really wanted was a grandma. The last time I spoke to her was almost four years ago when I went to wish her happy birthday. She didn’t know who I was, and called me by my mom’s name. I knew that the dementia wearing around the edges of her brain had seeped in.

The last time I saw my grandpa was at my grandma’s (dad’s mom, his wife) funeral (that’s another topic for another time, because I do not have the emotional energy to expound on that right now) six years ago this month. She had been sick for over 2 1/2 years with a series of small or serious strokes, and when she was finally at peace, I could see that my grandpa had changed fundamentally. He was not the funny, gruff grandpa I had known, but a total stranger. The ensuing years have not gotten better and have instead brought even more changes. I realize I am being vague; I cannot describe what happens when someone you think you know becomes another person entirely. The hurt that results in saying goodbye to somebody who is still alive. My grandma’s funeral, for me, was really my grandpa’s funeral as well.

I guess what I’m trying to say, very badly, is that I am filled with conflicting emotion. Should I feel something? On the outside, I feel fine, but there are moments when I remember way back…and think about what could have been.