Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

Tonight S and I saw the most recent Shrek movie. I don’t remember if I’ve seen any of the other Shrek movies--but I decided to suggest the outing because I’d spent all day in the garden, and it was starting to look gloomy outside for the first time since morning, and I was tired and craving an opportunity to turn off my brain and sit still. Also, all day long S and I had been bickering about little things, and while we hadn’t blown up, I knew that might happen if we either avoided each other or tried to talk. Watching a movie together, while not exactly bonding, was a good middle ground. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, especially since I’m critical of the movie industry and how much money is spent creating movie after movie with the same basic plot line and more and more special effects (though at least I see my movies at a small town co-op theater, which makes me feel a little better about seeing silly movies), but I felt 100% better after seeing the movie. Don’t read any furt...

Last weekend was a crazy, whirlwind weekend. My first cousin/aunt C, whom S considers her “yiayia” or grandma (because she raised me and was a mother figure to me) was visiting. The weather shifted from 40s and rainy to 70s and sunny, and graduation was outside, as it ought to be, and included a good old-fashioned protest against the graduation speaker (our university system’s president, who after three years of lobbying has yet to ensure that clothes with our college’s logo are made somewhere other than sweat shops). It was a beautiful day in every way. Afterwards, S’s college buddy K, her fiancé, and their families came over, and we drank homemade rhubarb wine (made by K’s parents) and awkwardly tried to find a way to say goodbye. Then other graduates and students descended on our house, and the party went on. Finally, late at night, after everyone was gone, K returned after cleaning out her horse’s stall, weeping, and we sobbed together and talked about how much we’d miss her. Poor...

I'm still here--just incredibly busy. But some beautiful things have happened recently, so I'm just going to list them. 1. S hasn't figured out how to stop doing impulsive or violent things, but she does seem to be better at apologizing soon afterward. 2. S finished her research paper today, which was due months ago and was one of a handful of assignments that threaten her completion of 10th grade. I think the other ones will also get done. 3. I started writing again, finding a way to revisit a project I'd started five years ago, thanks to the encouragement of a writer who visited our campus. 4. S's college buddy K and her fiance asked me to marry them; I know this will be one of the most meaningful weddings I'll ever have the pleasure of officiating. 5. The campus finally had a memorial for my friend Gremmels, and it helped me to find closure. 6. I finished an online parenting class and learned a lot about how to better deal with my daughter's trauma; I als...

So, S did it--last Monday, she went through an interview that lasted over an hour about her abuse. She was as prepared as she could possibly be, I think. We had talked about everything that could go wrong, from her abusers getting angry and trying to find us to going all the way to trial and losing at the end. She still wanted to do it. She wrote down everything she could remember about each abuser, and she practiced reading what she'd written, and I pretended to be an officer who needed more details. Last Monday afternoon, we got the call. The officer made small talk about the weather. Then he put the recorder on, asked me if I was the only legal parent of my daughter, asked if he had my permission to interview her. And then, she said, "I have it all written down," and began to read. Two sentences in, he interrupted her. It wasn't enough to say she was raped, or tortured, or neglected--she had to be specific about body parts and where they went and how often, about w...

S has remembered more details: a child prostitution ring, who knows how many rapists. How they hoped she'd get pregnant, and that the baby would be a girl. She cannot forgive them unless she gets justice, she says, so we are on that road: in the next week, we'll hear back from a police officer in the city where she grew up, find out for sure what our first step is, but it looks right now as if she will need to tell her story to a local officer. Luckily, I know most of them, so we will be able to make this happen in a way that feels as safe as possible for her. But what happens next, I can't control. All of it, so out of our control. I have told her it's OK to stop at any time. I have told her that she does not have to take this on. I have told her I'll be there for her, no matter what she decides. She wants to know if she's allowed to cry. She wants to know if I'm sure I'll always love her. She wants to know if I'm sure it was her fault, any of it. A...

I can’t believe this, but the Greek Orthodox Church has a website. I wonder what the church fathers and mothers would think about the images of saints showing up on a computer screen. Not only that, but a person can sign up to have daily scripture readings and stories of the saints delivered directly to her e-mail inbox. So, because I couldn’t think of a better idea for a way to honor Lent, I signed up for those readings and promised myself that I’d read them every morning. I decided I would also go back to an old morning discipline I abandoned some three years ago of writing three stream-of-consciousness pages every morning. I would read through the e-mail once, and then just start writing, not worrying about whether what I was getting down had anything to do with the readings for that day. And, within a week, it became painfully clear why I’d given up those morning pages around the same time my partner and I broke up. As they are intended to do, they break down all the barriers a ...

Voice #1: Thank you for the sympathy card and letter. I don’t have time to respond right now, but know that I appreciated it. Voice #2: Thank you for the sympathy card and letter. What you wrote was very meaningful to me. We haven’t been in touch in a long time, so it would have been easy for you to ignore the fact that my father died. But I appreciate that you took the time to write from the heart. Thank you. Voice #3: It was really nice to get your letter. Even though things have been rough on and off between us for so many years, I always know that when it matters, you will come out of the woodwork and say the words I need to hear. One time, long ago, you told me you weren’t really a writer, but that’s crazy. What you wrote was comforting and disturbing and ugly and beautiful at the same time. You were brave to write it. Voice #4: Nobody sends cards with actual letters in them anymore except my 86-year-old aunt and random elderly friends of my dead parents, so it was so nice to get ...

Once, my friends P and J and I went out to eat with my father. They mentioned Santorini to him—how beautiful it was. He replied, disgustedly, in his signature thick Greek accent, “Santorini is NOTHING.” He then proceeded to explain to them that if they really wanted to see the most beautiful place in Greece, they ought to visit Ikaria. If you ask S what she remembers about Ikaria, she will mention one of the following: the large number of totally ignored and flea-infested stray cats, which had never been fed or loved as consistently over a two week period as they were during our visit; the two faced man dream that many of us had, which we concluded was proof that our hotel was haunted; the bagful of rocks she picked at the beach on a walk with her college buddy J. Sometimes she’ll say she was stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere for much too long; most of the time, though, she’ll say she had the time of her life. This isn’t the story I’d tell, but I am glad she has her own. For ...

For months, I've been trying to write a tribute to my mentor Jim Gremmels. I still don't think I have it right, but I think it's closer than it has ever been so far, and I think I'll send this version to his wife Ruth. I think part of the reason I am having trouble writing it is not only because there are so many memories, but also because he himself was such a great writer, so clear and to the point, and so poignant and funny. I can't ever hope to write as well as he did, so nothing I could write would ever be an adequate tribute. Still, here is what I have. A Tribute to Gremmels The first time I had a meal with Jim Gremmels, I was interviewing for the first of many versions of the job I have now at the University of Minnesota, Morris. He claimed to be retiring, and told me over cafeteria pizza that if I got the job, I would also get his office. By this point, he had asked me two questions, and two questions only: did I think I could live in this town, and did I re...

December is always like this; it's just that everything is compounded by several factors: I'm leaving for Greece and trying to have a real Christmas here and trying to get all my work done--which is to say, mine and several other people's who haven't been doing theirs. On top of this, there has been so much loss and tragedy and grief in my life lately, mostly other people's, but I have been holding them up and advocating for and caring about them--which is both energizing and exhausting. There are things to mourn--a student who has passed away, her death rippling across time and space for so many of my favorite students; the teenager from our town stabbed to death by her boyfriend; and, on a smaller scale, the people I care for are retiring or leaving, and I'm discovering how disconnected I feel from some people I used to love, and how connected I feel to others who won't be here much longer. So, basically, I'm more swamped and overwhelmed and sad than I...