Nathaniel Russell

"A positive religious faith does not offer an illusion that we shall be exempt from pain and suffering, nor does it imbue us with the idea that life is a drama of unalloyed comfort and untroubled ease. Rather, it instills us with the inner equilibrium needed to face strains, burdens, and fears that inevitably come, and assures us that the universe is trustworthy and that God is concerned." ~ Martin Luther King

A week and a half ago, my sister-in-law was due to have their second child; a boy to be named Nathaniel Russell. Instead, at 36 weeks and 7lbs 6oz, my nephew died before he was ever born. His blue eyes never opened; his brown, curly hair remained lifeless.

That’s not how it is supposed to work. When two people who love each other, two loving parents, get pregnant and spend months rearranging their lives in preparation, they’re supposed to come home from the hospital with a baby… a live, breathing, crying baby. They aren’t supposed to come home with nothing but a dead son to bury and an eight inch scar to serve as a permanent reminder of their loss.

The past week and a half has been full of uncharted territory. I helped my brother pick out a suit to wear to his son’s funeral. I helped him pick out a baby casket and a grave lot. I fought with his wife over a sip of water that the doctors didn’t want her to have but she was sure would be one of her final moments of joy. I held their daughter tight after a scary car accident happened while our cousin was trying to support our family by watching her for a few hours during this crazy and overwhelming time. All uncharted territory. All painful and hard, yet all sacred and holy.

These things happen. Shitty and unforgivable things happen. I can’t change that; we can’t change that. And that being the case, there is nowhere on earth I would rather be than by my brother’s side while he picks out a suit for his son’s funeral. These are sacred moments.

Life does not promise us ease or comfort, it does not promise to free us from harm or tragedy. It does not assure us that if we try hard and we are mostly good people, bad things won’t happen. On the contrary, life involves chaos; it involves a world and creation that is able to make choices and create itself along with all of the beauty and despair that comes with that.

Thankfully, however, life does not leave us alone. Life also involves love and relationships; people to accompany us along this uncharted journey.

I will miss Nathaniel… I will miss the dreams and expectations I had for him. I will miss the idea of him.

Mostly, however, I will choose to be grateful because of him.

I will be thankful that because of him, every time I see his sister or one of my four other nephews, I will hold them a little tighter. Because of him, I will refuse to say good-bye to my brother, his wife, or anyone I deeply care about without saying I love you first. Because of him, every time I look at my cousin or my roommate or my parents, I will remember how blessed I am to have so many people who care about me and support me.. so many people who truly want what’s best for me.

At the end of the day, Nathaniel is gone and that fact is devastating. And yet, Nathaniel remains as my constant reminder that the universe is indeed trustworthy and God is truly concerned. And for that, for Nathan, I will be eternally grateful.

Yesterday

"Oftentimes have I heard you speak of one who commits a wrong as though he were not one of you, but a stranger unto you and an intruder upon your world.
But I say that even as the holy and the righteous cannot rise beyond the highest which is in each one of you,
So the wicked and the weak cannot fall lower than the lowest which is in you also.
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,
So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong without the hidden will of you all."
~ Kahlil Gibran from "The Prophet"

Yesterday, a terrorist was killed by U.S. forces. He was killed and an entire nation breathed a sigh of relief, understandably so.

After that, thousands of Americans flooded the streets of D.C. and New York and danced and rejoiced.

Instead, I couldn't help but be sad. Not necessarily sad that he was killed because in our reality perhaps that was the only way to keep him from harming others. But sad that this is our reality at all. Sad that we live in a world in which anyone kills anyone to protect their safety or their values, their beliefs or their way of life. Sad that when a man dies, any man, people would rejoice in the street.

It would be better if we asked ourselves: what part did I play in this? In what ways have I contributed to the taking of innocent life? In what ways have I infringed upon the rights and human dignity of others? In what ways have I failed to sow compassion and love and respect?

We live in a broken world full of anger, despair, and pain. And we are all sinners, we all miss the mark. Truly, our sins are only different in degree not kind than the sins of anyone else. We are not strangers, none of us. We are all part of a larger whole, all connected, all indebted and responsible for and dependent upon all.

And so, I cry for Osama. I cry that he couldn't see the pain he was causing. I cry that he wasn't able to find a more compassionate and life-giving way to be.

I cry for all those who died on 911 and all of the soldiers who have died since. I cry for my friend Tony.

And, I cry for all of us still living, that we haven't found a more humble, graceful way to be. I cry that as a world we can't seem to keep from harming one another and in effect harming ourselves.

I pray that this leads to a new start, to greater peace and not more violence and war. And I pray that this and these moments bring us to take a deep breath, pause, and reflect upon what our part is in inspiring hope, and life, and joy. What our part is in bettering the world, bettering the whole, by our presence.

Holy Saturday

Today in Arizona, the sun is shining, the wind chimes singing, the breeze gently swaying... it truly is Holy Saturday. Yesterday we experienced the solemn, bare, dark nature of Good Friday. We were brought into the death and darkness of our own souls, our own lives. Today we begin anew; we rejoice at the life that is again; we experience the hope and light and warmth of Spring.

This weekend we've surprisingly spent a lot of time talking about the Second Coming. Some people think it's near, as if it will happen in my life time most certainly. And so the resulting conclusion is repent and get as many people converted to Christ as you can before it occurs... do what you can to get yourself and those you love into Heaven.

I don't know what I believe about the Second Coming. I guess it could be soon. I do think a lot of the "signs" in existence today are of human making.. a result of humanity's failure to take care of each other and the world. Even so, say it really is happening, I don't think my response would be to convert as many people as I can.. at least not through the evangelization of creed and doctrine. I think my response would be to love as many people as I can.. feed as many people as I can... clothe as many people as I can... visit and care for and be with as many people as I can.
I truly think that that's what God wants from us; to be with one another. I think God could care less what I personally believe in if I am not doing anything to uphold His beautiful creation, to nurture life and promote respect for the dignity of all.

I keep coming back to the words of St. Frances, "Preach the Gospel always, if necessary use words." If I am going to bring anyone to Jesus, it will be through my actions... not an espousal of my beliefs.

And, in the end, I'm not sure were not all going to end up in Heaven anyway. Jesus came for us all, to save us all. I'm not sure it's out job to decide or estimate or judge what the limitations of that might or might not be.

I think we should profess our beliefs because that's what you do when you believe in something.. you admit it, you stand behind it, you affirm it. And I think we should love one another because in our heart of hearts we know that that's what we are all about.. that we're meant for relationship.. that we're all a part of the same whole.. that to care for ourselves, we must care for one another and to care for one another we must care for ourselves.

As a Christian I believe that Jesus did the hard part; he did the hardest thing imaginable. He did it as a human. And thus, I'm called, we're all called, to do likewise. We're called to ask ourselves: What must I die to so that others may live?

The forty days in the desert, the forty days of fasting and letting go are meaningless if they don't affect our life after the resurrection. Lent involves transformation.. it calls us to reorient our lives and bring what was out of balance back into balance. Easter in part is about celebrating the new life that was found through remembering how to let go.. and trust.. and die once more.

Inner Voice

I'm thinking about getting a tattoo.

It would be an ambigram that is written so it says one word when read right side up and another when read upside down. I'm thinking of the words "inner" and "voice".

These two words have been on my mind a lot recently. Inner voice, inner wisdom, inner truth. In fact, the past two years have been a journey towards rediscovering my inner voice.. of learning to trust my own inner wisdom.

I truly believe that the divine dwells within us and that we are all born with an innate sense of wisdom and understanding. Some call it conscience or intuition. Whatever you name it, it's present... and it's purpose is to guide us in the direction of life and meaning and goodness and beauty.

The struggle arises when we are bombarded with so many competing voices that they have begun to drown out are own voice. My struggle is a constant desire to please the other voices so much so that I can't even hear my own... or when it does sound, I'm not sure I even recognize it anymore. What other people want and what I want are so melted together that sometimes I can't even tell them apart.

And so, I'm putting my energy into listening. Listening to myself and my desires.. what brings me joy and what closes me up. Scripture tells us that God's voice comes as a whisper. I bet that's how my voice is too.

Thus, if I want to hear it I must learn to be quiet and still. I must allow myself time to rest and breathe.

And then, I must learn to trust. I must trust that I really am capable.. that I really do have wisdom... that my own inner voice once heard, is worth heeding.

Human Touch

The power of human touch is radically amazing. Human touch speaks of intimacy and connection. As humans we crave this intimacy and, yet, we have unspoken rules about it. We welcome strangers with a handshake or perhaps if we are younger, with a fist bump. We reserve embraces and kisses for those closest to us. This is only natural because in a very real way, the more we touch another, the more we are giving of ourselves. But also, the more we give of ourselves, the more we are hopefully received and blessed in return.

It is because of this reality of the power of human touch that my experience at the Village of Jesus was so life-giving. We spent a mere hour or two with this group of Haitian women. Many of them are probably around my grandma’s age; some of them are closer to my mother’s. All of them speak Creole and I speak barely none. After my weak attempt at, “what’s your name?” and “how are you?” we have basically exhausted our means of communicating verbally, and yet, we are not nearly done speaking to one another.

We begin our visit by passing out our gifts. Each woman receives a bandana, a rosary, lotion, and a new blouse. They are each so excited. The clever ones try to hide their bandana so that they receive two. It makes me laugh to witness their tricks and yet sad to know such tricks come out of a desire for more… for more than two clean shirts or two clean bandanas. I think of my closet at home and am embarrassed to know I have enough t-shirts to clothe each of these women at least once if not more.

After passing out the gifts, we begin the pampering. I follow the lead of others by simply going to one woman, pointing to the lotion, and pointing to her. She nods and immediately rolls up her sleeves. And so I sit and I massage lotion into her arms. I massage past her elbows going as far as I can reach. I take time on her hands; trying to mimic the massages I have received at home, hoping that it feels soothing. I think about the number of people in my life that I have touched this closely and carefully; very few. And yet, here I am, miles and what feels worlds away from home, having this extremely intimate experience. I can’t help but think that this is a sacred moment, an encounter with the divine in a way I have never before experienced.

Slowly, this is how we make our way through the women. Some of them point to their legs and we massage those too. Many of the toes and feet look and feel so broken. Missing nails, scars. Feet that have carried these women through hardship, through poverty, through homelessness. Feet that have carried these women, perhaps barefoot, gracefully through the care of children and families. These feet speak volumes.

After the lotion, we move on to nail painting. I remember a saying that says something like, “if you are to be a street sweeper, be the best street sweeper that you can be.” The point being, whatever you are doing or being, do and be it to the best you know how. That’s how I feel while painting these nails. I cannot do much for these women; I cannot do nearly enough. But, if I am going to paint their nails, I am going to do it perfectly… or at least, as best I can. I am going to do my part to make these women feel beautiful and proud.

That’s why, at one point, I sit cross-legged on the ground so that I can paint one women’s toes carefully. I am sitting on the cement ground in a pair of old capri’s that I brought to Haiti because I didn’t care if they got ruined. And yet, after about two minutes on the ground, a Haitian woman near me starts gesturing to me, clearly upset. Without words that I can comprehend, she is clearly telling me that I am sitting on the ground and the ground is dirty, and so, I need to find a chair.

You see, Haitians are a proud people who take care of themselves and their possessions. Here I am, just trying to paint nails as best as I can, and here these women are, worried about me getting my pants dirty. They are taking care of me as I am trying to take care of them. Another encounter with the divine.

As we finish making sure that each woman has her nails painted and arms massaged, the women start praying the rosary in Creole. This is not the first nor the last time in my week in Haiti that I find myself amidst a group of women spontaneously praying the rosary in Creole. Such faith, and hope, and joy. Yet another sacred moment.

Slowly, we start saying our goodbyes. We kiss their cheeks and say, “bonswa” and “mesi” at least a dozen times.

And then, that’s it. The time is over and we are on our way, perhaps to never see these same women again. Even so, they have changed me. They have changed me because, as I said, the power of human touch is radically amazing.

Human touch speaks of connection. It reminds us that in a very real sense, we are all one.

Haiti

There is a Haitian proverb that says, “What the eye does not see does not touch the heart.” Before I went to Haiti, I admittedly took some offense to this saying. It seemed to be implying that I couldn’t care about people I had never met, that I couldn’t love them or have compassion for them. Now, after spending mere days in Haiti, I think I am beginning to understand.

Before going to Haiti, I could say that I had compassion for Haitians; I could say that they are my brothers and sisters and I could mean it. However, I did so from the safety of my very comfortable life, I did so while doing nothing to better their existence. Only someone who has not witnessed the poverty and sickness and hunger of Haiti firsthand could care for and love these people from afar and yet do nothing to touch them – do nothing to alleviate their suffering.

Many things in Haiti touched my heart, but none so much as Reglena. Reglena is a little girl I met at the Missionary of Charities facility in Port-au-Prince. I was drawn to Reglena as an expressionless little girl with big brown eyes. As she lay in her crib in a room full of back-to-back cribs, she was one of a few children not crying. Upon first glance, I thought Reglena was maybe two years old. She was old enough at least to hoist herself to a sitting position when her nanny handed her a glass of water. After she finished her water, I leaned down to her, my arms out-stretched, and let her eagerly crawl into them.. the arms of a strange blah (white) woman whom she had never met.

Reglena resting comfortably on my hip weighed less than twenty pounds. Once I held her secure, I grabbed a hold of the wristband she was wearing so that I could learn her name. The white hospital band rested on a wrist that seemed very small, it was maybe the diameter of a fifty-cent piece. It read: Reglena 5 yrs.

Reglena was 5 years old and smaller than my 19 month old niece back home. But unlike my niece, Reglena wasn’t full of smiles and movement, talking and dancing. Reglena was more like a puppet, willing to go wherever I moved her, vacant of emotion. Reglena was barely able to hold herself up not because she had an illness, but simply because she was malnourished.

In an instant, I held Reglena, thought of my healthy niece, and started to cry. Today I cry because I know that my words cannot do her justice; they fail to convey her beauty, her frailty, her innocence.

In that moment, I knew that Reglena had touched my heart. Indeed, she broke my heart in a way she never would have had I not seen her myself.. if I hadn’t felt her cling to my arms when I tried setting her down not twenty minutes later, if I hadn’t seen her finally start to loosen up and giggle as she buried her head in my chest in glee when I figured out how to muster any emotion out of her. It was peek-a-boo that did it; made her laugh and smile. Because you see, Haitian children are not so very different than our own. The only real difference, the only one that matters, is that more of them, tons of them, die daily of completely curable diseases.. they die daily because they don’t have enough food to eat or clean water to drink.

It’s interesting that despite the suffering in Haiti there is almost no incidence of suicide. This is because Haitians, in their soul, are full of life. They love to sing and dance. They are deeply faithful and have a profound respect for community and family. Haitians are joyful and gracious, they are kind and generous. They are so full of life while at the same time they are dying of TB, aids, cholera, malaria, dehydration, and malnutrition.

It is easy to get overwhelmed. It is east to think: there is too much suffering in the world, too much pain, where do I start? How do I start? I went to Mass in Haiti and in his sermon Fr. Tom reminded us of the story of the Apostle Thomas seeing the Risen Christ for the first time. As we remember, when Thomas sees Christ and touches his wounds he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.” Fr. Tom reminded us that that’s what the Eucharist is all about: that we are the body of Christ and that Christ is within each of us. And so, when the suffering in the world seems like too much and you feel powerless, the first thing you do is look to the person nearest to you in that moment and say to yourself, “My Lord and my God”. It’s as if you are saying: “there you are, my Lord, in my spouse, there you are in my children, there you are in my friends, my neighbors, my peers, my co-workers, my enemies.. there you are, God, within even me.” Once we begin to see God within each other, we can try to do other small things within our reach.

In Haiti, I spent a morning in a wound clinic run by the Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. I have no medical background and yet there was much I could do. I spent thirty minutes on the floor trying to match pill containers to their lids. You see, each Saturday one to two hundred adults and children come to see the Sisters to receive free medicines for their ailments; cough syrup, fever medicine, vitamins, antibiotics, scabies medication, dehydration medication, worms medication. The medication tablets are handed out in envelopes folded out of magazines. The liquids are dispensed in used pill containers donated from different groups of volunteers. Wounds, burns, cuts and other abrasions are wrapped in strips of cloth cut out of used bed sheets.

And so, what can I do? I can save my empty pill containers and used sheets for starters. I can ask you to save yours. That may not seem like enough (and truly, it’s not) but, it’s a start.. it’s an acknowledgment that somewhere out there, another is hurting. It’s a step towards healing.

Haiti is a mere one hour and forty minute plane ride from our shore. It is truly a beautiful country full of life, joy and hope. It is a joy and hope that also touches the heart. It is a joy and hope to be envied.

In a way, we are all very much like the Apostle Thomas who did not believe in the Risen Christ until he had seen it with his own eyes. This is true because in a very real sense, “what the eye does not see does not touch the heart”. And yet, Jesus responds, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Blessed are they who consider our Haitian brothers and sisters, who consider the Reglena’s of the world, and think, “My Lord and my God” there you are… even when they have not seen them face to face. Blessed are they, because truly God is amidst the Haitian people, of that I have no doubt.

(If you are interested in donating empty pill containers or bed sheets please respond to this post).

You Do Not Have To Be Good

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

"You do not have to be good". This is a hard statement for my Catholic guilt ridden self to swallow. Yes I do, I do have to be good, I hear myself scream back. But whose version of "good"? What does "good" mean?

Perhaps I have to redefine good on my own terms. Perhaps if I let myself love what I love, then I will find goodness there.

Sometimes I don't follow all the rules. Sometimes I don't want to do things merely because I am supposed to... I want to do things because they are life-giving for me. I want to do things because they feel like the right things to do. It's hard sometimes to hear your own voice amidst the relentless chatter of the world around us. The world around us with its' constant opinions about what to do and what not to do, who to be and who not to be.

Sometimes I wonder who I would be if left all to myself. What would I care about? What would I do? What would I find myself being present to, moving towards, letting go of?

I do not have to walk on my knees, for a hundred miles through the desert repenting? Are you sure? Because I have made mistakes. Tons of them in fact. I have done stupid things even when a voice within was screaming their stupidity. I have hurt people. I have hurt myself. A lot.

I have said I was sorry. I have tried to make it right. But have I moved on? How do you forgive yourself and be patient with yourself and let yourself make mistakes? How do you be okay with not being perfect?

How do you be okay with being a divorced 27yr old in a world where being divorced means giving up and being single means being insufficient? How do you be okay with being a minister who clearly doesn't have all the right answers and sometimes isn't even a very good role model?

Maybe you focus on the answers you do have. I know that I have inner wisdom. I know that I care for other people, my hearts breaks for them, I feel one with them. I know that the world is beautiful and that I am grateful. I know that I have a place and a purpose. I know that I am trying desperately to live authentically, to cause more healing than harm, to trust more, to expect less.

Sometimes I think we take ourselves too seriously. I am a magnificent creature, we all are. And yet, I am still only a bit of stardust in a universe of stars. The world, life, everything is so much bigger than me. "Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on," she says. It's hard to hold all of that at the same time.. hold the fact that I am uniquely and wonderfully made, and yet, that I am also but a drop of water amidst an unending ocean. My life is truly important, and yet, there is so much more than my life.

In the end, maybe we don't have to be good on someone else's terms. Maybe instead we merely have to find our own terms... to learn to listen to the divine within.. to trust the divine within.. to follow the divine within. Maybe then we will find our place within the family of things... maybe then we will hear the heartbeat of the world within our own.