As I mentioned in yesterday’s blog post, Sunday night at our
family service I showed a clip from The Lord of the Rings. It was the part at which Frodo offers to
take the ring to Mordor and to destroy it himself, even though, as he says, he does not
know the way. As I said yesterday, it is an incredibly
profound scene for me, a necessary and true step for any hero to take: first to
say “yes” to the call that is in front of one, but second, to admit to needing
help, guidance, a map to find the way. I
love that scene and it touches me at the core.
Every time I see it, it makes me cry.
But Sunday night when I showed it, the kids were in a different
place. I was with this profound scene, but
as soon as I showed it and tried sharing with the kids how it touched me and
why, I had one boy pop up with “that actor was the same guy as in this other
movie I saw!” And another kid (one of my
own) responded with, “Well, that was just stupid and funny. It didn’t stick to the novel at all but made
it into a clowny scene!” Another popped
back up with commentary on the other actors in the scene. And I felt like I’d been stabbed, personally
assaulted by their comments. They did not want to hear how this touched me. They
did not care about the fact that we are all called to do something and that
even the smallest of us, especially the
smallest of us, can make a profound difference. They didn't want the message I wanted to give them. This is central to my beliefs and who I am, central to my theology and
my understanding also of who God is and how God calls us into discipleship:
calling on us in our vulnerability, in our weakness, in our smallness to trust
and to follow even when it seems impossible and even when we do not know the
way. And the kids, frankly, didn’t
care. The service ended and as I was
cleaning up projector and computer and putting cords and screens away, my
daughter was still ranting on about the stupidity of taking perfectly good
books and over dramatizing them with scenes such as we just saw. And that was
it for me. I had had it. I handed my car keys to David, asked him to please drive my zoo home, and announced my
intention of walking home, before taking off on a "walk" that was more of a run (and would have been an intentional run if I hadn't been carrying my computer bag):
working hard, breathing hard, pounding out my frustration and hurt with each
step and sweating out my grief with breaths that bordered on sobs.
“What am I
doing?!” I found myself yelling in my head.
“I am not getting through. I am
not making a positive difference here. I
am wasting everyone’s time and energy trying to teach and pass on what to me
seem to be profound truths but which to everyone else are just interesting
cinematic opportunities to be critical and to see favorite actors. I’m DONE with this! I don’t need to be working so hard to put
together services that make no d___ difference.
I don’t need to be spilling my heart out with the moments of revelation
that we see and experience in the world including in stories and movies. I don’t need to be working so hard here for
no outcome at all. What am I DOING?!”
But as is
often the case for me, when I come to God with the honesty of what I am
feeling; when I throw out there the truth of all that is me, when I run off
enough energy in my ranting that there is room finally, to do nothing else but
listen, it is then that the voice of Truth can be heard. “You are right. That is not supposed to be about you. It is supposed to be about them. Your truth is not what they need. They need space instead to discover their own
truth. Your experiences, your opinions
are not what matter here. What matters
is hearing them.”
I wasn’t
ready to hear this. I wasn’t. I heard it.
But hearing is only the first step.
Taking it in, that often comes later.
I finally came home, more because it was too dark to be wandering the
neighborhood alone rather than because I really was done with my walk. And my daughter was STILL going on about the
movie. I asked her to please go take a
shower. The truth was I still needed
more time apart, more space from the cynicism around something I cared
about. By the time she came out of the
shower, though, I was probably more ready to hear, more ready to listen. But she surprised me. “Mama,” she said, “I have something to
say. I realize that you work hard to put
together services that are meaningful and have a message. I realized I did not make that easy for you
today. I was not helpful. And I’m sorry.”
A shock ran through me. When did it happen that my children became
more adult than I am? At what point did
they surpass me in wisdom, courage and grace?
Why was she apologizing to me when it should have been me apologizing
for not listening well, for not being present with her, with them?
Such is my life. But I still wasn’t
where I needed to be. I moved again into
explanation of why that scene meant something to me. Her response?
Tears. Probably the only thing
that could have moved me out of me, finally, was seeing her pain. Ouch.
I got it now. I’m listening. This wasn’t about me. This was about her. What was underneath the cynicism? What was underneath the anger at the
movie? What was she needing me to hear
from her, finally?
So I listened. And we talked. And I heard.
And today? Today I’m realizing
that my feelings of frustration and burn out Sunday night were a gift, a wake up
call telling me that I’m not doing this the way it is supposed to be done. How will this affect our evening family
services? Not sure yet, but it
will. I need to listen more. And I need to keep remembering that if I’m
really doing what I’m called to do here, it will not be about me. It will be about those I am striving to
serve. Thank you, children of the
church, for reminding me of what I am to be about. I don’t learn these lessons easily, and I am
certain there will come many more days when I need to be reminded of this. But thank you for this day and this reminder.
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