A Time to Heal: A Lesson of Patience

After an almost two year sabbatical, I found myself back in therapy. Okay, I guess I didn’t “find myself back there,” I chose to go back.  See here’s the thing with depression and anxiety, it tends to never go away.  I always know when it’s getting bad again because my brain feels like it is on speed. Racing from one thought, worry, obsession to the next.  No control. No filter. See, if these thoughts were at all helpful, anxiety wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but instead the normal thought whirlwind goes something like…

Did I leave the oven on? No. But I need to figure out what to make for dinner tonight. If I can make dinner tonight. I have so much to do and there’s no time to do it in. This meeting is taking forever. What time is it? Oh my gosh, I wonder if they saw me looking at my watch.  I’m sure they did.  Now they are going to think I’m bored or not listening.  I hate it when people don’t listen.  People never listen to me.  How am I going to be successful if I can’t even get people to listen to me? Maybe it’s not my fault. Maybe I just have terrible people in my life. Well, then it must be my fault that I have terrible people in my life. Oh we are finally done.  I wonder if I said the right things?

I could go on but I think you get the point.  Welcome to my anxiety. As you can see, when my anxiety increases I start blaming people, mostly myself, for the discomfort I’m feeling.  I find every single reason that my life isn’t perfect and dissect it until… well, I create a mess in every area.

My new therapist recommended I read a book about the practice of mindfulness, or being fully aware and in the present moment.  I have just started it and I love it so far.  One of my favorite chapters, though, has been the chapter on patience.  In the book, the author describes patience as ceasing to try to “get anywhere else” within the present moment.  In other words, you aren’t looking to the problems of the past or the possibilities of the future.  You are here, now, with this moment. “Remembering things unfold in their time.”

With this definition then, impatience is not wanting things the way they are in the moment. Impatience is the relative of anger and blame. When we want to change the present we are saying that our wants and needs are more important than the situation at hand.  Not only that, but someone CAN and SHOULD change this moment. I totally get that.  I think that way.

These passages about patience, though, also reminded me of the chapter in Ecclesiastes wherein the author poetically describes the many times of life.  “For everything there is a season…A time to be born and a time to die…A time to break down and a time to build up. A time to weep and a time to laugh…”

I have studied this passage repeatedly in many settings, but by removing any prior meaning or knowledge, I see this passage fitting in with the practice of patient mindfulness.  Through recognizing the present situation in life, whether it is new life, death, mourning, or celebrating, one can more fully live in the moment.  So much of our life is trying to change that given moment or move past it, instead of living in it.

Okay, you say, if I just “live in the moment” my life will be great, right? Not necessarily. The acceptance of our current experience does not make its reality any easier, but through this acceptance we cultivate patience. The book tells the story of the Dalai Lama and his lack of anger toward the Chinese government killed, tortured, and imprisoned his people for years.  When asked about this, he said “They have taken everything from us; should I let them take my mind as well?”   In that wise response, he outlined why patience is crucial.  We must understand that anger, impatience, and blame cause greater self-harm and pain than any difficult situation may cause in this present moment.  He’s a guy I wouldn’t mind emulating.

Every moment or time in life is connected to the one before it and the one following it, though some connections are disjointed and random, but as mortals all we have access to is this present moment. Therefore, whether the moment is full of grief, anger, or joy, be present to it. For if each present moment is given the attention it requires, the moment will no longer lend itself to blame, but instead to peace and compassion for yourself and others.  Here’s to a year of cultivating patience.

May we all be more open to our given moments, even through pain and even through joy. May we find peace in knowing that all we can do is what this present moment presents to use.  May we cultivate the patience that the present rhythm of our never-ceasing breaths beckons us toward.

 

**The book mentioned in the post is Wherever You Go, There You Are: Mindfulness Meditation in Everyday Life by Jon Kabat-Zinn

Advertisements

And They Said Laugh With Me

Uproarious laughter
but not the kind that comes
when the punch line drops
more like when the punch drops
drops, falls, lands
right in that pit of a full stomach

Laughter, louder than the rush
of trains and musicians
ringing in my distant ear.
For the longest time I thought
I thought they were laughing with me

We’d pound the streets
looking for that next good time
Minutes feel like seconds as we move
from one smoke-filled bar to the next

The laughing never stopped
Oh, what a grand time it was
But then the laughter changed
as the shot washed down my
desperate unhappiness
I couldn’t laugh anymore

It took all of me not to order another
another round to appease these laughs
of not foes but not friends
but, alas, my wallet ran drier than my glass

So the laughs surrounded
overwhelmed my good time.
I tried to laugh with them
but then the punch landed.

The obscene mixture of PBR,
tequila and insecurity
settled with a gentle shock
enough to sober my ego
as the laughs turned to accusations.

The same accusations that
only hours before
had been silenced
by the same deafening mania of laughter
which had faked as friend.
For in the amnesia of memory
the laughter always appears.

The laughter beckons me to let go
like a siren
the deceitful laughter numbs me
until the splinters pierce skin
and all that’s left is my misery
my only true friend.

The Crisis of Quiet

Chicago does not lend itself to quiet moments.  Most of the time horns are honking, people are shouting across a crowded street and an airplane is flying overhead to land at one of the airports in the near vicinity.  Quiet never comes.

This morning I was walking to my usual bus stop in the heart of the city’s Little Italy neighborhood that is more little than Italy these days.  As I was about to cross the street, a siren became audible from a few blocks away.  Another delightful symphony produced by city life.  At first, the cars and pedestrians around me were hesitant but continued to their destinations knowing that they still had moments before they would have to stop to let this ambulance pass.

As the flashing emergency vehicle approached the intersection that I was standing at, a rare thing happened. Everything, everyone stopped.  I had always seen this happen, obviously, since the law requires you to stop at the sound or sight of such a vehicle, but I never noticed the quiet that results.  Now I’m not talking about actual quiet, since the blaring siren was loud enough to urge the woman next to me to hide her ears beneath her hands trying to produce a type of faux-earplug.

The quiet that surrounded us at that intersection was the quiet of a crisis.

I have only experienced a few crises in my life, but they all produce that same still yet acute quiet that I saw on the corner this morning.  Cars came to a halt, people walking on the streets instinctively stopped their movement and looked at the approaching vehicle, the world for a second became completely centered around this ambulance.  Centered around this symbol of unrest, of emergency.

Such a quiet is not peaceful for it stirs within you a worry for the outcome, a desperation for resolution, and an anticipation of its passing.  Crisis in life can come as an unexpected death, the recurrence of an illness, the dissolution of a relationship, the loss of a job, or the questioning of your own purpose.  Crisis can look different, but crisis always results in the same.  A chaotic quiet.

A quiet that is self-centered, survival focused.  One of my crises was my own acceptance of my on-going battle with anxiety and depression.  For months, my life was like that scene at the intersection.  Nothing else moved or mattered except my sickness. No one existed except myself in relation to this crisis.  Everyone and everything revolved around navigating around my own crisis.  But see, unlike the ambulance that speeds quickly past freeing the surrounding world to return to its noise and routine, crisis feels like a slow motion switch has been hit and you are waiting, watching, hoping that the ambulance passes next week, next month, next year.

Crisis is an unbearable quiet that demands not only your attention but your entire world. As I was waiting this morning, thinking about this idea, though, I became encouraged in a way that only a person not experiencing such a crisis at the moment can.  I was encouraged by the passing of such quiet and the world resuming to its own rhythm and pace.  For it always does.

Yet during a crisis you can’t see that.  You spend most of your energy reorganizing your life around this crisis that you get to the point where you can’t even imagine losing that quiet in your life. You begin to love the self-focused quiet. But that quiet fades. And you return to a more aware world where things happen that are good and bad but that are, in the end, bigger than yourself.  And you find equilibrium within the noise once more.

We must remember that equilibrium when crisis is far away.  We must learn to live in this noise without the fear of yet another pause of crisis.  We must learn that crisis is not a permanent state, but it is, just like the ambulance, just a passing moment of stillness, of navigation, and of quiet.

Such an idea reminded me of one of my favorite songs, Comes and Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell.  As you listen to this song and read the lyrics, remember that life changes, it is fleeting, it is filled with both noise and quiet.  But what this song reminds us of most importantly is that you are not alone in this silence. All around are other people preparing for crisis, in their own crisis, or emerging from a crisis.  We must take heart.


Comes and Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell posted on youtube by GregLaswellMusic.

Confessions of a Goodbye Phobic

As a self-proclaimed introvert and longtime social anxiety sufferer, I have a serious problem with goodbyes.  No, not in the sentimental way that I’ll miss being around a person or even a fearful way that I hate being alone.  Honestly, no offense to all you good people out there, but most days I’d much rather be by myself.  Other people really freak me out.

Let’s get this straight, I may often be awkward in new, overwhelming social settings, but hellos are much more manageable for me.  Hellos are straightforward.  If I haven’t met you before, then obviously a handshake and an introduction satisfy even the most extroverted person’s need for a greeting.   After that, I can fade to the background or make multiple unnecessary trips to the bathroom in order to give my mind a minute to relax from its incessant flittering.

What should I say next? What if he asks what my job is, how am I gonna explain that? Man that silence lasted a couple seconds too long, now we are all doomed. Am I talking to loud? Am I talking too quietly? Am I not talking enough? How much longer are we going to talk about the newest season of Orange is the New Black?  Shit! I don’t have an already prepared response… scramble, Mackensey, scramble. What are you gonna say?!

Yes, trust me ladies and gentleman if this was your internal dialogue you would make a few extra trips to the bathroom too, even at the expense that people may assume you are having a serious reaction to the Thai food.

Anyway, so hellos are the easy part, the middle conversation and mingling is a slow painful road to exhaustion, but the goodbye is where my own self confidence goes to die.

You know how I said hellos are straight forward? Stick out your hand, look them in the eye, and introduce yourself. Now sometimes I even mess that up but usually that’s where I get it right.  Well goodbyes, they are nowhere near straightforward.

Goodbyes force you to be ultra conscious of the crowd.  Is this a hugging crowd or a second handshake bunch? Did I make enough of a connection with so and so to warrant a more intimate parting gesture? Do I go the conservative route with a handshake at the risk that the other person felt some close bond that put us on that new “hug level”? 

Now I want to pause for a second and speak to all you “huggers” out there.  You know who you are and if you aren’t a hugger than you know the people I’m referring to.  You are the people that had functional families that showed appropriate amounts of affection leading to this crazy thing called secure attachments.  Yeah, I basically despise you.  You go for the hug after a social interaction lasted even just half an hour because of that intense human connection you feel with all your fellow earth dwellers. Blah blah blah…

Cut the bullshit. If I’ve only known you for half an hour, then most likely you don’t even know my last name, which means we are no where near the level of a hug.  Now I don’t mean to sound harsh because I love a good hug as much as the next guy, but you huggers make it really hard for us goodbye-phobic people. Because essentially our whole goal is to avoid that handshake-hug confusion fiasco.

You know the situation.  You reach your hand in toward the person’s torso only to have them extend outstretched arms in preparation for a bear hug.  Not only are you left with your hand in a rather uncomfortable area you also have to deal with the resulting awkwardness with a cool and easy going recovery.

Folks, if you can tell so far, I am neither cool nor easy going.

Therefore, you quickly fetch your lingering hand that had landed all too close the person’s crotch and reposition it in the most awkward hug known to humankind.  But you gotta be cool.  You meant to do that.  You were always going in for the hug.  It’s all good. Nothing to see here.  And you both drown in the awkwardness without once acknowledging it.

Torture. But not the worst of the hug fiasco.

Once one person sets that hug precedent.  Everyone else in the vicinity of the hugger feels obligated to follow suit.  So you have the worst kind of domino effect that can make someone with my level of social anxiety want to suffer through more small talk rather than conquer the receiving line of goodbyes that awaits you.  Now you have found yourself among a group of people who you consider just above the level of absolute and complete stranger that feel this internal obligation to hug you goodbye.

Thank you, healthy relationship hugger man/woman.  You have just forced someone else with a normal distrust of human connection and appropriate personal space awareness to face her own personal hell.  And you are smiling about it.  Basking in the glow of having met so many amazing people that you convince yourself are gonna be your new best friends.

Wrong. I just want to do a simple benediction-type goodbye with a wave and a universal “See ya’ll later” and get the hell out of there so I can lay in bed with my book or Netflix and bask in feeling safe from these catastrophic social situations.

But the risk of looking stand offish or unfriendly overpowers my crippling anxiety and growing resentment at Hugger McHuggerson over there.  I walk the line. Hugging each person, some of whom I didn’t even share a hello.  I begrudgingly do the “right” thing simply because it leads me closer to my exit.

So, now you know, goodbyes are the worst.  Sure you can hug and hug freely!  Hugging is awesome. But maybe as a human race we can figure out like a safe word or a signal to smoothly communicate the awkward message of: I really don’t know you very well and, although I’m sure you are a great person I do not feel the need to say goodbye like we are new soul mates. Please accept a nice wave or handshake as my token of acquaintanceship. 

And maybe with that signal we could spare just one life from the devastating fear of goodbye.

Life Around a Table: Part Four

“These are the gifts of God for the people of God. Come to the table.”  Two simple sentences that transformed my understanding and practice of the sacred communion.  Transformed from a simple wafer and mini shot glass full of grape juice passed from pew to pew on oddly-shaped, stackable, saucers into a tangible experience, a communal gathering and a transcendent reality.  A reality, lived and partaken in around a table that calls us into a dysfunctional family, an on-going justice, and, for me most importantly, an inclusive community.

Before hearing those two sentences, my thoughts of this sacrament were wholly separate from my life outside of Sunday mornings.  But these statements made sense to me.  These statements reminded me of the warm, intense, and often challenging times that I experienced around a number of different tables. Tables around which I was welcomed, invited, nourished, and accepted regardless of my imperfections or differences. Hence, why I decided to write this blog series about such experiences in hopes to explain both my fear and my love of this particular Communion table.

~~~~~~

My Nana’s Table

“These are the gifts of God…” Nana knew that everything on her table from the food people enjoyed to the imported china was a gift.  She intimately knew what it meant to have nothing but through this knowledge she learned how to cherish every good thing.  She prepared her food as if it was a spiritual exercise and for her it was.  For what she knew even more than the gifts of such precious physical nourishment was the irreplaceable gift of those around the table through which her soul was nourished.

Thinking of this image of my Nana’s joy in preparing her table brings a new depth to the image of Jesus around the table at his final meal.  A meal with imminent importance and unimaginable finality.  Yet this meal was most likely seen as a rather ordinary Passover celebration to those others around the table.  Many meals had been shared between Jesus and his apostles, many blessings and most likely they didn’t realize the extreme importance of this final meal.

Thinking about this, though, I wonder if part of that was because Jesus was present this meal in the same way he had been present his entire relationship with them.  I imagine that Jesus saw each meal, each gathering around a table as a important ritual.  One where those present found nourishment both in body and in soul.

This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me,” Jesus said as he broke the bread before them.  My body is for you.  My body is broken for you.  I am for you.  I live and I will die for you.  Through me the spiritual is made tangible, as tangible as this bread.  And just as I have shown you complete sacrificial love and selfless giving, you too must sacrifice and give in order to nourish your souls and through that refresh in them my spirit.

That’s what I see when I partake of this sacred gift: a more perfect version of how my Nana cared for her table and those around it with an unassuming, selfless offering of her love and soul.  When the meal was complete, she would sit silently, lovingly and be nourished by the love shared through the breaking of bread.  For as we partake of the gifts of God around the table, our souls and bodies are meant to be nourished both by the sacrificial love of the incarnate God but also that same love alive in all those around us that are welcomed at the table.

~~~~~~

My Family’s Table

“…for the people of God…” My family never really agrees on much.  Maybe a sports team here and there but often any table with all of us around it carries only a mere semblance of harmony.  In fact, shallow table conversations between my family members often carry the depth of past wrongdoings, painful words, or disappointing choices that are present in most significant relationships.  And yet the table remains our table and we are welcomed however we are.

Hearing “…for the people of God…” for the first time in reference to communion frightened me.  Ringing in my ears were the arguments from each side of the never-ending debate among churches, sects, denominations, or religions over who God’s “people” really are.  ‘Yeah, because, yah know, sure they are Christians or spiritual people or humans, but obviously we are the real Christians…you know, the enlightened truth-telling ones.  And, let me tell you, what a burden that is…’  Does that illustrate my fear well enough?

In the midst of my minor panic attack over the complicated debate my mind had just witnessed,I returned to Jesus around a table with his disciples, his family.  Something that had always seemed significant to me when I heard this story is when Jesus points out that one of the men around this sacred, communal table would betray him and another would deny him.  In fact, in Mark’s gospel, Jesus even says “one who is eating with me” will betray me.  Someone around this celebration table.

But Jesus goes on to break the bread and share such a meal with the man that will go out and betray him later that night.  This is a meal for the people of God. So what does it mean for our communion sacrament that even a denier and a betrayer shared in this gathering? What does it mean for our communion practice that even after this betrayal was announced, Jesus chose not to withhold the nourishment of this meal and blessing from this man?

I think that it means that this act must offer individuals hope and mercy, even if they are not ready to accept or fully understand it.  I think it means that the definition of “the people of God” must be all that are called to the table.  I think it means that even though my family is not the perfect family and is sometimes not even the family I wish they could be, they are always my family.  The mess and the resentments,  the hurts and the apologies, the uncomfortable silences and the inaudible whispers do not change the transcendent power of belonging to a family.

If we had to make amends, confess our sins, and right our wrongs before gathering around our table and receiving nourishment, then we would never come to the table.  I think this is the beauty of the communion table.  We trust in the sacrificial love of that it represents to be real and present regardless of our own heart and wrongs.  Our imperfections, our mess could never decrease the spiritual presence and power of this sacred meal.

While this meal did not reconcile Judas to his community or change his decision to betray Jesus, it presented him with the mercy of still being a part of this gathering and the choice to seek reconciliation through the love experienced around the table.  Sometimes I choose to not forgive my family members, I choose to intentionally hurt them, or I choose to disassociate myself with them. In those moments I reject the opportunity or the moment to create reconciliation. But sometimes I ignore the burning pride within me and ask for help or forgiveness.  Sometimes I choose the reconciliation against all human odds and it’s in those moments that I see importance of always being welcomed at the table just as I am in that moment.  For only at the table am I present to the hope of possible redemption within my messy existence.

While this suggestion in particular is a controversial one, it is one that I hold strongly to because I believe that if one is never welcomed or accepted at the communion table, the sacred gathering, the experience of sacrificial love, one would never see the opportunity for reconciliation and redemption, let alone choose such spiritual hopes.  Judas was given the vision, the opportunity for reconciliation and even though he chose not to embrace it, he was still radically welcomed at this communion, celebration table.

~~~~~~

My Community’s Table

“Come to the table.”  An announcement that, in my Amate House community, could mean a variety of different gatherings from an actual meal to a house meeting to a skit video-taping.  But such an announcement never failed to invite us all to gather together after long, exhausting days at our individual volunteer placements.  A repeated invitation to be refreshed and remember each other.

Another reason why these words, “Come to the table,” uttered by a pastor at LaSalle Street Church before communion one Sunday, still echo within my mind is that they were accompanied by a movement by the congregation to approach the alter.  While I had been to many churches where the congregation approach the front of the church to receive the elements, never had I seen it done quite like this.  Instead of individually receiving the bread and the wine and then moving quietly back to your seat, we stood in a line probably ten or so people long and we each partook of the meal, waited for each other to be finished, and then the individual that gave us the bread and wine blessed us saying, “Go now in peace to love and serve the world.”

Come to the table.  Come to the table together to be nourished.  Come to the table together to be nourished so that you are reminded that you are not alone.  So that you are reminded that you have a community.  So that you are reminded that you do not bear the burdens of injustice, disappointment and pain on your weak, frail shoulders.  So that you are reminded that people that may not even know you are united in love to you through this table.

Amate House taught me more about the communion table than any church service or minister could teach me.  My community taught me how to come to the table without fear that I would destroy the bonds of our community with my own struggles and mistakes.  My community taught me how to come to the table daily despite my desire to isolate myself and bear the burden on my own.  My community taught me to come to the table so that I could finally be nourished instead of worrying about nourishing others.  My community taught me to come to the table so that I would have the courage and strength to face the next work day full of injustice.

I came to the communion table every night around my Amate House table for I was surrounded by sacrificial love, offered the opportunity for reconciliation with others and redemption of my own story, and reminded of the presence of a community around me.

No wonder Jesus says in Luke’s gospel, “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer.”  For only through being surrounded by a community, by being nourished along side someone that is as desperate for nourishment as you are, by celebrating small mercies around a table, would even the son of God, Jesus, have been ready to endure future suffering.  Suffering increases our desire to be alone but it increases our need to be with each other.  We come together weekly, daily, hourly, to remind each other that we are safe to take risks even if we fail, suffer, or make a fool of ourselves because we are sure of the community waiting to celebrate with us regardless of the result.

Communion must be about nourishment for both body and soul, but it must always be an act of unity and community.  Only around the table, any loving community table, can I muster the strength to do the work of justice every day.  And on the days that I’m unable to see the hope and promise of redemption, the community that gathers with me at the table is living proof of the reality of this promise.  We must always respond to the call of community, which we most frequently hear during this call to communion, but is also present around other tables.  Responding to the call means giving up the crushing weight of the whole burden to instead carry your portion arm in arm with the person next to you.

~~~~~~

I have not explained nearly half of my thoughts about this all important topic, but I have given you a glimpse into the tables of my life and how they inform my understanding of communion.  May we never forget that despite our beautiful, human imperfections the power and the sanctity of this communal meal never changes.  Each gathering brings a new experience, insight, and understanding.  And through this we are changed by it.

“These are the gifts of God, for the people of God.  Come to the table.”


If you missed this blog series, you can find the other posts here:
https://mackenseycarter.com/2014/06/09/life-around-a-table-part-three/

https://mackenseycarter.com/2014/06/07/life-around-a-table-part-two/

https://mackenseycarter.com/2014/06/05/life-around-a-table-part-one/

Picture from: By Victorgrigas (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Desperation

Gasp!
The air is not thin enough
to enter the small opening of my empty lungs.
My last plunge into the depth left me
breathless.
Each breath
each shallow breath
gives me no relief
each is simply pure reflex.
What would life be without this breath?
Yet I continue to be plagued with the anticipation.
Anticipating the next dark depth
longing to be explored
but warning against such irreversible risk.
Breathe in, breathe out.
the deep below tells of a changed future
but remaining on the surface leaves me
shallow
changing with every minute.
Every breath beckons submission
here comes the plunge.

Life Around A Table: Part Two

17056_568427814026_8232112_n-1“Who wants to pray?,” my mom proclaims as the five of us scurry to the dinner table.  Usually that question was answered with averting eyes and silent hopes that she wouldn’t call on any of us to bless the food before us on the table.  The uncomfortable silence was often broken by Heath’s inner duty, as the oldest Carter child, to take the burden for us, even though we all knew he really loved doing it.  After the prayer, you couldn’t blink without missing the food being devoured before your eyes.

I blame this Carter habit on my inability to actually chew my food.  With two older brothers, it was eat fast or don’t eat at all.  So this survival technique has followed me into my adult years.  Throughout the constant food-shoveling, we would often go around the table and talk about the highs and lows of our days in an attempt to have everyone’s voice be heard.  This tradition, though, would often devolve into a argument about how long everyone got to explain all the details of their day, thanks to Ashley’s tendency to dominant the conversation with every minute detail, and whether “the end of this dinner” could count as one of our highs.

My family table.  This is where I spent 18 years of my daily life and this is the place that continues to always offer me an open seat no matter where life leads.  The Carter table never promised to be peaceful or quiet or even enjoyable, but we were always promised a seat.  Often the table is where we would hash out the latest sibling argument or more likely sat in an unbearable silence as we all shot death glares at each other across the table.  No words were necessary because everyone knew what we were thinking.

Our table was the center of our holidays and our celebrations.  And even as my brothers left our house for college, it remained the central meeting point, the war room, the game center, and the reminder that no matter where everyone’s life took them, we could all return to this table.  While it would be nice to be able to say that I learned the best manners, the most mature ways of dealing with conflict, and the best practices in handling a board game defeat, that would definitely be distorting the truth.

It was common for table conversation to be interrupted by a thunderous sound, which we soon deduce had come from the behind of one of the Carter men.  This deduction would then lead to complaints and proclamations that the offender must spend five or ten minutes in the bathroom for his crime and in hopes to prevent a future offense from occurring in the general vicinity.  Family game time would begin with Ashley’s typical speech about abhorring games and leaving the area in order to avoid being forced to join in on a round of Taboo or Scategories.  I’m convinced, though, that it all stems from an embarrassing round of Scategories when he proudly announced his answer for “A Four Letter Word” and it happened to be one letter too many.  Then, of course, family game time would necessarily end in tears, shouts, and accusations of cheating.  Yet somehow we continued to gather around and play together.

My family’s table taught me that I can be myself, no matter what that looks like at the moment.  I’m still accepted if I’m playing the role of the bratty youngest sibling tattling on my older brothers, if I’m mad about my assigned weekly chores, or if I spend the whole time gloating about my recent victory in Taboo or a good report card from school.  I am always welcome at the table.

My family’s table was the picture of dysfunction and brokenness, but we always found a way to celebrate.  We were able to bring our genuine, authentic selves into communion with one another with the reassuring knowledge that, in the end, we are family so we have to deal with each other.  This table was the one place that we could all take off the roles that we often portrayed to the outside world and be our ugly, manipulative but extremely awesome selves.  The end result was we all knew we were pretty messed up but we accepted each other and worked to love each other in the best ways we could each day.  There was no fear of rejection, no pretense of perfection and no desire for winning the other over, because we were family.

I learned to embrace the mess that I often rejected in the rest of my life.  I learned the practice of constant forgiveness and reconciliation.  And I learned that even if we are angry, hurt or depressed we can still come to the table, shovel food into our mouths for nourishment and know that we can be exactly the messed up and disappointing people we often are.


If you missed the first post of this blog series, you can find it here: https://mackenseycarter.com/2014/06/05/life-around-a-table-part-one/