Saturday, October 27, 2012

A Crude Scientific Perspective of the Afterlife

Most peoples, no matter the formality, foundation, or details of their spiritual views, believe that the ancestors who have passed on before them watch over and guide them.  Call them what you will ~ guardian angels, spirit guides, whatever ~ but the idea is the same.  We find comfort in the belief that loved ones continue to smile on us from the beyond.

As a Christian, I believe in Heaven, which means that I must therefore believe in Hell.  However, what I believe about Heaven and Hell might differ somewhat from other Christians.  I don't know that I believe in a literal place with streets made of gold and the sea of precious stone where angels in white flowing robes fly around playing harps.  Nor am I convinced of a literal place of eternal fire governed by a horned, spike-tailed, red body demon with a blazing pitchfork.  Not to say that the Book of Revelations got it wrong, only that Revelations was a mortal's best attempt to give words to the indescribable magnificence of the immortal.

I interpret Heaven vs. Hell on a very simple level.  Heaven is eternity in the blessed presence of my loving, forgiving Savior and God, while Hell is eternity away from Him ~ regardless of the scenery.

A friend and I were talking recently about loved ones passed on and how each of us find comfort in the thought that their spirits still move in our lives.  Interestingly, this friend is not a believer, but she believes in guardian angels.  She mentioned that she sort of grapples with the idea, though, because she has a hard time with the ideas of Heaven and Hell.

Knowing that taking a religious slant would not encourage her to really think about it ~ she does have some knowledge of the Christian faith ~ I was inspired to take a different path.

"Would you agree with the fundamental scientific fact that matter can be neither created nor destroyed?"  "Yes."  "Would you agree also to the fact that humans are energetic beings?"  "Yes."  "So, since energy cannot be created or destroyed, the energy within this mortal body was here before our physical bodies came to be, and will continue to be here when our bodies are not, yes?"  This put a thinking expression on her face.  I continued, "When you strip away the religion and mysticism and take it down to the bear bones, could it be that the spirits of our loved ones are simply the energy that was once contained within their mortal bodies?"

This was an idea my unbelieving friend could wrap her brain around ~ a less fantastical concept of the afterlife, but still not one that discounted the idea of Heaven.  God used what science calls energy to create His universe, and continues to use energy to govern it.  Maybe the physicality of His angels is too pure for our mortal minds to comprehend, so He sends them to us in a more subtle form ~ a feeling, an awareness that someone is with us, watching us, guiding us.  Is it coincidence that Christians believe that God calls us home to Him to move us to a greater "work"?  Maybe this movement of energy is God's way of allowing the heavenly beings to work within the parameters that govern our earthly existence.  Who's to say?  But does it get one thinking?

I have little doubt that every person who reads this blog will see it differently.  The self-righteous zealot or ultra-conservative Christian will probably be indignant, maybe even angry, for how dare I , as a Christian, try to suggest anything that isn't verbatim from the Bible. Someone on the fence may start the wheels of their mind turning.  But the true believer will read this and think, "That's an interesting take," and be otherwise unaffected, because he doesn't need a scientific understanding to have faith, nor will any scientific rebuttal shake it.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Kairos DCI 1 ~ Final Thoughts

I have so many thoughts about this latest Kairos experience, I'm not quite sure how to sort them.  I was thrilled that Kairos was finally approved at DCI and that I was called to serve the maiden team.  Knowing the enemy's usual approach in spiritual attack when I serve any ministry team, I armed and prepped myself as best I could in the weeks leading up to the event.  Even then it seemed as if I was getting off easy.  I should have been more on my guard to realize he was just waiting for me to let my defenses down during the weekend so he could pummel me.

And yet, for all the trials and tears, frustrations and really bad first impressions, 30 women at DCI felt the love of Christ as they never have before, leaving long coveted baggage at the foot of the cross, and walked back onto the compound renewed in spirit.  Knowing this, I would go through every second of every heartache of that weekend again.

Crazy?  Maybe not.

One of the blessings of serving behind the scenes is getting to know the Angels.  More than one of these ladies are "lifers", already having served significant time.  Many of them believe that, even within the system, theirs was a path of self-destruction.  And several of them believe that Kairos saved their lives.  That's why they come back to serve, to share the second chance they have been given through this ministry and the Kairos community on the compound.  These are the hearts that draw me into Kairos.  It's the healer in me that wants to be a part of mending their spirit, soothing the wounds of their past, and encouraging them to find wholeness in their future by seeking Him in their present.  Is not the revitalization of one dead soul into an eternal relationship with Christ worth a few days of war with the devil?

I must admit, though, that I was grateful that this was not my FIRST Kairos experience.  Had this been my first impression of what serving was like, chances are good that there would not have been a second.

The morning of our last day in the prison, I gave my Cookie Monster manual to the upcoming team leader and said, "I don't ever want to see that book again."  To which she replied, "You won't.  I think I'm gonna put you at a table next time."  I was so fried that it wasn't until later in the day that it dawned on me what she had really said.  Had I already agreed to be on the spring team?  I didn't remember having that conversation.  Another teammate said she thought the upcoming leader expects that I'll be on her team.  Oh...so I was being informed, not asked?  That's cool.  Because even if she'd asked the answer would have been an unhesitating "yes".

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Kairos DCI 1 ~ The Cookie MONSTER

I have been struggling with whether or not to write this blog.  For several reasons.  Most of them having to do with the fact that this entry would essentially be a confession of sorts, a confrontation with an incredibly ugly side of my personality, and a testimony to just how broken God can make us.

One of Kairos Prison Ministry's overall struggles is number of available volunteers.  The time commitment is considerable, and teams often have just enough hands to be a skeleton crew.  This was the first team I served that had enough volunteers for me to have assistants.  This was new for me, but I was excited!  I had assistants!

It felt a little weird right out of the gate since both of my assistants were much older than me, making me feel quite unqualified to tell them what to do.  One had a daughter about my age.  The other had grandchildren about my age.  And my little old lady was quite hard of hearing.  I felt like I was always yelling at her, even though we were simply having a conversation.

Over the course of team formation, I came to suspect that my little old lady was wavering in mental stability.  She didn't always seem to fully understand what was being said, or she would retell the same story a couple of times.  Nothing major, as long as one has the patience to tolerate it.  But this was overshadowed by her huge servant's heart.  All she wanted to do was help.

 The weekend started off well enough.  The Cookie Team got everything counted that was brought in early, carpooled to the prison and got our service space set up in the facility.  Then the quirks started to emerge.

Yes, I was serving in a lead position, and my little old lady was my "underling", so to speak, but I felt like I was taking care of a puppy.  She seemed to be constantly near me, to the point of being underfoot.  If I was out of her sight for more than a few minutes she would come looking for me.  Maybe it was because I was one of the few people wearing a watch that she continually asked me what we were doing next.  It felt like babysitting a toddler.

If you haven't noticed, I am a fiercely independent person.  I am incredibly frustrated by circumstances that I cannot handle alone and mandate that I ask for help, making me feel weak and dependent.  I also do not gracefully handle situations in which people are overly dependent on me.  A friend of mine would say this is because I have no tolerance for weakness, in myself or in others.  I would say it is because I prefer to be responsible for as few people other than myself as possible.  When it's only you and you make a mistake, you are the only person taking the fall.  Being responsible for others and making a mistake means you take everyone else down with you by default.  So feeling like my little old lady was solely dependent on me for the duration of the weekend was more than a little uncomfortable.  Unfortunately, after a while, that discomfort progressed into agitation.

Friday, when we realized our lack-of-cookie situation, my little old lady asked what we were going to do.  "I don't know, I haven't had time to figure it out yet."  "But we have to do something."  "I can't do anything until I can get to the other building to talk to the team leader."  "But what are we going to do?"  "I don't know."  What came across as her agitation fed my already irritated state of mind over the situation.  And the exchange would have gone even further downhill if I hadn't told her that I was going to ask for suggestions from more experienced team members.

By the time we left the prison Friday, tears were streaming down my face.  Feeling like an absolute failure in my cookie responsibilities and the source of much hoopla and drama, having multiple people telling me how to handle the situation, combined with the concerned badgering from my little old lady left me feeling shredded.

I don't now remember how well I may have slept that night, but I did not wake up feeling rested.  I felt bone-weary, naked, exposed, and at the same time wound so tight that I thought I might snap with the least provocation.  Though I was relieved to see the boxes of cookies sitting by the door, I dared not let myself believe that all was well.  Until those boxes made it successfully to the prison and the cookies were counted, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread.

Over the last couple of years, the prisons have asked Kairos to scale back the number of cookies given to the residents for health related reasons, and Kairos has willingly complied.  Last year was the first weekend our team gave only one dozen instead of two.  However, not all of the prisons in which Kairos serves have made this request.  Knowing that our additional cookies were originally intended for a men's prison, it was possible that they were packaged in two dozens instead of one.  My little old lady pointed this out on the drive to the prison.

"What if the cookies are bagged in 2 dozens?"  "Then we break them out when we get there."  "We don't have enough bags."  "We'll make it work."  "Maybe we should stop somewhere and buy some bags."  "We're in downtown Dayton.  We don't pass any place on the way to the prison, and I am not going to drive around a city I don't know looking for a place to buy bags."  "But we need more bags.  We pass a Dollar General.  We could stop there."  "It's 7:00 on Saturday morning.  Dollar General isn't open yet."  "Maybe we could find a Kroger or something."  "Tell you what, if the Dollar General is open, we'll stop."  (Of course, it was not.)  "Maybe we can still find a Kroger or something."  "How about we ask the wives (of the guys who brought the cookies) if they are packaged in one or two dozens?  And we'll make it work."

Mercifully, the cookies were bagged in one dozens, my little old lady's mind was put at ease, and my blood pressure was able to drop back to normal.  The rest of the day didn't exactly go off without a hitch, but the majority of the Cookie Team's responsibilities were completed, and I was able to decompress substantially.  Thankfully, with our duties done, we were utilized by other service areas and my little old lady was distracted enough to not be concerned with my whereabouts and I was able to get a much needed break for everything that had been weighing on me ~ for a while.

At dinner that evening, I confessed to our team leader that my little old lady was a big factor in my melt down the day before.  I told her that my little old lady is a sweet woman with a huge heart, but she is a little too intense for me at times.  At which point, a confession was made to me.  When the original team roster was posted, someone suggested that our team leader prayerfully reconsider allowing my little old lady to serve because her family had expressed concerns about her mental capacities.  Our leader responded saying that the offer had already been made and accepted, and that it would not be right to deny her now.  Our leader prayed long and hard over where to assign my little old lady to serve, and that is how she came to be my little old lady.

This information would have been very beneficial to have beforehand, I thought.  I could have more mentally prepared myself for was I was dealing with, perhaps been a little more forgiving and less frustrated.  But what was done was done, and we are all the wiser for it.

Sunday is always chaotic for the service teams on a Kairos weekend.  We have to inventory everything (that isn't edible) that we brought in with us, get it packed and loaded onto the truck, and leave the facilities as we'd found them.  I fully understand that weekend's Inside Food Coordinator in that we are both strong personalities that want to get the job done, and neither of us have problems with barking orders ~ although, I do have a hard time barking orders to people older or more experienced than myself.  I was raised by my very Italian father to respect my elders.  So knowing what I do about the Food Lady, I got out of the way until she told me to do something.

Once my little old lady saw that there was a job being done, she wanted to help.  Bless her sweet heart.  However, the weekend had been particularly stressful for the Food Lady (again, I can relate) and she was in high gear.  To be completely honest, I was afraid that she might pop.  The speed at which we were working was a little intense, and some of the tubs and supplies were heavy.  So when my little old lady asked what she could carry I suggested that she take a break and sit this one out.  But she continued to press, asking how she what she could carry.  My father would back-hand me hard enough to knock me out of my chair if he'd heard me yell at my little old lady to go sit down and take a break.  At that point, another team member said, "Oh, just let her carry something."

I didn't respond to this statement, believing that whatever came out of my mouth, no matter the intended tone, would not come out well.  Nor did I have the time to stop in the middle of what we were doing to explain that I was not trying to be mean or demanding, though I know that's how it sounded, but that my concern was for my little old lady's safety.  With her being a smaller person, and knowing the gear and frame of mind in which the Food Lady was working ~ her patience spent and agitation level seeming to be at a new high ~ I was worried that my little old lady was going to get run over, or that she might hurt herself lifting something heavy.  I'd watched her nearly topple carrying something heavy earlier in the day and visions of her falling on the concrete floor were unnerving.

At last, the truck was loaded, our ares returned to their original set-up, and we moved on to the closing service.  After tears and hugs and the residents were reassured that we would indeed see them again, our team parted ways and headed for home.  I couldn't remember a more liberating moment than pulling out of the prison parking lot with only myself and my thoughts in the car.  Yet, I still felt weighed down by the realization that the first impression I was leaving teammates and residents who'd never worked with me before was of one of my uglier sides, that I had not stood up at all let alone gracefully under pressure, and that I could quite possibly have hurt the feelings of a sweet, Christ-loving, severant-hearted old lady.


Tuesday, October 16, 2012

A Walk in the Park

I don't have a lot, but I give what I've got.  Money is usually tight, but we give when and what we can.  I have the same number of hours in my day as everyone else (though I wish I could figure out how to extend that) so I gladly give the time I've got.  My hair grows like a weed and is thick as a horse's tail (that's not bragging, it's truth) and I grow it long to give it for wigs.  I have the same amount of blood coursing through my veins as the average healthy adult so, seeing as there always seems to be a shortage, I give a pint of B+ between tattoo parties.  Unfortunately, that last one seems to be causing me some problems.

When I was a teenager suffering my first of many bouts of depression, it was suspected that I also had chronic fatigue syndrome.  Because the fatigue improved as the depression did, I was told that it was circumstantial, but that I would probably likely deal with circumstantial cases of chronic fatigue all of my life.  Thus seems to be the case.  Severe suicidal PPD brought along its buddy chronic fatigue.  Prolonged bronchitis decided that it alone wasn't enough to do me in, so fatigue settled in along with it.  Burn out and fatigue to hand-in-hand anyway, but when it's the chronic variety one is truly worthless.

Over the last couple of years, the Red Cross has updated their pre-donation reading material to include a full-page disclaimer against donating if you are diagnosed with CFS (chronic fatigue syndrome).  What the disclaimer does not state is whether this is due the possible side-effects to the donor or to the recipient.  Since I don't have an "official" CFS diagnosis, I donate anyway as long as I feel healthy and well enough to do so ~ and my most recent ink has healed.

A few days ago, I gave blood for the first time in over a year ~ tattoos and lack of opportunity being the hold-up.  When I donated last year, I was still in recovery mode from a separated shoulder, so I wasn't doing too much strenuous physical activity.  I felt tired for a few days, but noting noteworthy.  This year, I am training for a 10K, so running is a part of my weekly schedule.  In times past, when I've donated and tried to run a day or 2 later things did not turn out well.  I usually felt like I was going to pass-out very early into the run.  Remembering this, I took a couple of days off from running after I gave blood.  Apparently, 3 days was not enough.

My girly dr is almost on the opposite side of town from which I live, but since I only go once a year (ordinarily) I don't mind the commute.  I frequently spend longer getting there than I do in the office.  After the appointment, I had time to kill and went to a nearby park to run my planned 4 miles.  I got through 1.5, panting and gasping most of the way.  I tried to push myself through, determined to at least finish the loop I was on, but that was all the farther my body would go.  Embarrassed by my lack of success, I power-walked the rest of the way to the parking lot, all the while thinking, "Obviously, my body needs every oxygen carrying red blood cell it has ever produced to keep me from getting winded." 

I was bummed, to be sure, but not disappointed in myself.  I am in my mid-30's, after all, and may very well need to be officially diagnosed with CFS.  But I now know that I should probably allot 5-7 days to fully recoup after giving blood before I push my body the high aerobic levels.

It wasn't a total loss, though.  Since the run was cut short, I still had time to kill before class, so I did yoga in the park.  I must say, practicing yoga in athletic shoes on the uneven ground of a park in the wind is far more challenging than yoga on a mat or carpeting over a nice level floor in the living room, but also far more relaxing, centering, and serene.  I got to meet a wonderful dog named Molly and her very social, and sweet, owners for a pleasant chat ~ an opportunity I would have missed had I been able to keep running.  And I made it to school with time to check out the athletic center, which I anticipate the need to become acquainted with as the days get shorter and colder.  I discovered that they have several treadmills and no time limits on use - BONUS!