Kicked and Kicked Again

"Do no harm."

That is the creed and foundation of the helping professions . . . do no harm . . . and, yet, it is broken on a consistent basis without most of those who are attempting to help even being aware.  Instead of minimizing the trauma, the trauma is unsuspectingly multiplied.  Unfortunately it happens all of the time.

As stated in an earlier blog, I hit a deer with the car I only bought a few months ago . . . yes, my new car.  It was pretty traumatic for several reasons.  One is that it happened in my new car and did what I could see was a lot of damage . . . turns out to be about $6,5000 worth of damage.  Though the auto repair shop promises that the car will be as good as new, it will never be the same . . . it will be damaged goods and I will know it whether anyone else knows it or not.  Another reason is that I am the one always warning family and friends to "be careful out there because of the deer" . . . and it was I who hit the deer.  Makes one feel pretty stupid no matter how many people attempt to reassure me that it was not my fault.  I also think about what could have happened . . . happened to all those who were riding in the car with me.  We were lucky that I did not lose control of the car . . . lucky I did not swerve the car into the lane of another approaching car . . . lucky I did not roll the car . . . lucky that I did not kill anyone except the deer--of which I do not think the deer thought it was so lucky.

To say the least, it still stings . . . it still bothers me.  Makes me sad.  Makes me mad.  The car is sitting in the driveway--in its crumbled form, waiting to be taken to the auto repair shop.  Every time I see it those feelings and emotions pop back up and it is as if I just hit the deer again.  It is a visual clue that I have not really gotten over it.  There is also the questions . . . always questions wanting to know what happen . . . by those who care and those who want to help.  Questions that can only be answered by telling the story one more time . . . reliving the event one more time.  Each time the story is responded to with words of support and empathy and care . . . but, I am the one reliving the story and the trauma one more time.  It is difficult to move on when one is constantly reliving the experience over and over again.  It is like being kicked and then kicked again.  I know people are trying to be helpful . . . trying to make me feel better . . . trying to show that they care; but, it is just rubbing salt in the wound despite their best intentions.  They don't mean to do it, it just happens.

I also witnessed this with my number three child who has Epilepsy after a recent trip to the emergency room.  Having had a seizure and fallen, the number three child gashed his eye lid . . . blood everywhere!  It was a nasty gash and one that required medical care.  Since no one was with him, his mother and I asked the usual questions about what happened . . . to which he recounted the whole experience.  In the emergency room both he and I got to retell and relive the story over for every medical person who saw him . . . in an hour we probably told the story over at least six times.  Not a good practice when one is embarrassed over what happened . . . angry about what happened . . . and, when one gets sad and depressed because this sort of thing seems to happen to him all of the time.  Plus, he also gets to retell the story of his battle with Epilepsy for the millionth time.  Kick and re-kick even though everyone is trying to help.

What this seems to do is to add to the frustration of it all.

When I am working with others to help them be better helpers I share with them story of Job and his three best friends.  Job's story is found in the Bible and is a favorite of many.  Job is just the pawn in a bet between God and Satan . . . Satan bets God that given enough hardship in one's life even the most faithful of God's faithful will pull the plug and renounce God.  God points out Job and tells Satan that the bet is on.  Of course, Satan throws the kit and caboodle at Job to get him to renounce his faith . . . takes away all of his wealth, all of his family (except his wife, but I think that the writer of the story showed some comic genius in doing this as she becomes one of Job's primary antagonists) . . . takes away everything including his health.  Yet, Job will not get mad at God and renounce his faith.  Instead he crawls off to the town dump to mourn his loss.
This is where the friends come in.  Job's friends were good people and even better friends.  They come to Job in the dump and they sit with him as he mourns his loss and situation.  They sit there for hours and days in silence . . . speaking no words . . . they are just with him . . . they are just being.  This is good . . . this is what they should be doing . . . the best thing that they could be doing to help Job.

For most people, silence is torture . . . silence is uncomfortable . . . just being still makes people un-at-ease.  After several days of sitting around, being quiet, and doing nothing, Job's friends had had enough.  Inquiring minds had to know . . . What did you do, Job?  What did you do to deserve such punishment from God?  They started grilling Job . . . they wanted to know.  Job's response was simple: "I did nothing."  Which, of course, is not what the friends believed.  Job had to be guilty of something to have been thrust into this situation.  From the questioning they move into blame and wanting to fix.  This was not what Job needed.  The friends meant no harm, they honestly thought that they were helping their friend.  This was the wrong thing to do.  This only compounded the trauma.  Here the friends kick and kick again the one who has fallen.

This biblical story is one that should be shared in all of the helping professions because it shows what to do and what not to do.  It is one that I like to read and reread because it serves as a wonderful reminder of how people can help other people . . . and, about how easy it is to forget what true presence is in times of trauma and how easy it is to re-injury another in their time of need without even realizing it.

I believe that most people care and are actually attempting to help others in their time of crisis or trauma . . . I honestly think that they are trying to help; but, I also think that we forget.  We forget how deep the wounds of life can be . . . forget how painful those wounds can be . . . and, forget that time heals all wounds, but scars always remind us.  All of us have had trauma in our lives . . . all of us have been hurt.  All of us have been kicked and kicked again when all we really wanted was someone to be with us until the pain goes away.

"Do no harm."

I realize that hitting a deer with my car is not a major trauma . . . that it nothing compared to a person being physically abused in a relationship . . . of a person suddenly divorcing another to run off with someone else . . . of finding out that one has an incurable illness . . . of losing someone who that was loved deeply.  Those are experiences and stories that are hard to tell over and over again without having to experience and live them one more time . . . of feeling the pain one more time.  There truly are no words that will ever help ease the pain . . . only presence.

As people who care we need to learn to be a presence in the lives of those we care about . . . of those we love.  We need to learn to be with those who have been traumatized . . . in time they will let us know what we can do, but in the meantime . . . we are just to be with them.  We are to stand by their side . . . we are to do no harm.    

I Would Give My Soul If . . .

As parents we should have learned . . . children (no matter what age) have a tendency to break our hearts. 

I was reminded of this fact this past week after having had several discussions with people in my life.  The first one I was not actually involved in, but the wife shared her discussion with the daughter with me . . . so, by the fact that the wife and I are a team, I was privy to the discussion.  The daughter shared the frustration and confusion that she and our son-in-law were having over the now two-year old granddaughter.  It seems that she has practically converted—over night—from the sweet innocent toddler to a two-year old hellion who likes to throw temper tantrums and complete melt downs when she does not get her way.  Hmmmm, sounds a lot like her grandfather on her mother’s side!  The two think that they must be doing something wrong when it comes to parenting . . . that they are not good parents.  They wonder what they have done wrong.  It breaks their hearts.  Both the wife and I agree—and told them, the kid is normal . . . she is being a two-year old . . . she is testing the waters . . . learning and growing.  Besides, we reminded them, pay back is hell.  As grandparents all the wife and I could do was to reassure them that this too would pass . . . that it was a phase . . . and, try not to snicker too much as we said it.

The last conversation was with a couple about one of their adult sons.  The son has gotten himself into quite a mess once again . . . something that has happened before in his life; but, this time it is a nasty mess.  It involves the law.  It involves messy and broken relationships.  It involves lawyers, law enforcement, and judges.  As I talked with the mother of this child, she cried and said how much it was making her heart hurt . . . how she had lost twenty pound because she could not eat . . . how she and her husband had used what little money they had to help . . . and, how angry it was making her as the story and situation kept getting bigger and bigger with each new revelation.  Their hearts were breaking.

Broken hearts are a part of parenting.  I speak from experience as one who has broken the hearts of his parents, and as one who has had his heart broken as a parent.  Children, no matter what age they might be, always have the potential to break their parents’ hearts.  Again, since no manual is ever given out to new parents when it comes time to take their new born child home from the hospital, you won’t find that in any parenting book I know of . . . or on any label stuck on the foot of the child.  It is just something that parents have to learn . . . and learn it the hard way.

On the Facebook page, Humans of New York, a photographer by the name of Brandon goes around New York City taking portrait shots of people he encounters.  With each portrait he writes a brief blurb of his encounter with the individual.  Often these photographs and blurbs are quite powerful and meaningful . . . they make people stop and think.  Right now he is on a tour with the United Nations visiting countries and people.  You can check out his Facebook page at this link: https://www.facebook.com/humansofnewyork/info.  You can learn more at his website at this link: http://www.humansofnewyork.com/.  In his most recent post on Facebook he picture a man and his daughter.  The father has his arm around his daughter who apparently has a disability of some sort . . . from his statement it seems to be a mental disability . . . but the father insisted that the photographer take her picture.  He explained that her name mean “flower”.  It was the father’s statement that said it all to me—and probably every other person who is a parent, “I would give my soul if I could fix her brain.”

Out of a broken heart this father spoke the words that any parent would speak for his or her child . . . I would give my soul if . . . If I could fix her brain.  If I could stop the temper tantrums.  If I could stop the stupid choices.  If I could stop the pain of a broken relationship . . . a lost job . . . of drug or alcohol abuse . . . of a disability . . . of the meanness of life.  What parent would not give anything and everything to help his or her child when life is beating them down with a vengeance?  What parent does not know the pain of a broken heart caused by the very child or children that he or she loves beyond words?  We all would . . . and, we all have.

It was a rough week hearing the stories of family and friends.  A rough week of being there to see the broken pieces of heart and trying to help put all the pieces back together again.  Rough week because way too often these moments of confession often rip the scabs off of my own broken heart as a parent.  No words can be said to ease the pain of a broken heart.  The fact is . . . children are going to break our hearts as parents . . . sometimes over and over again.

So, what is a parent to do?

I am not really sure. 

I guess if I could wish anything upon parents to combat the broken hearts that children inflict throughout a life time, I would wish for them: patience, laughter, presence, and love.  Patience . . . patience to wait to see how things pan out, to see if the worse scenario happens (because it is human nature to think the worse) . . . to listen with an open mind and heart . . . and, to allow the child to return back home (as much spiritually as physically). 

Laughter . . . laughter is good for the soul and heart . . . if we are willing to give our souls away for the sake of our children, we might as well give one that is strong and filled with laughter. 

Presence . . . to be there . . . to be a reminder . . . to be a place of safety . . . to be home.  Presence . . . of the holy, whatever holy might be . . . to know the comfort of not being a lone . . . to feel the acceptance and grace whether it is warranted or deserved.  Presence to be in the moment.  Presence to be.

Love . . . yeah, whether we like it or not, love is always there.  It is always there in the deepest hurt inflicted . . . always there in the hottest anger . . . always there in the greatest disappointment . . . always there in the shards of a broken heart.  Love that is accepting, caring, and most of all challenging . . . challenging to do what needs to be done whether it feels right or wrong for all who are involved.

I would wish for all parents . . . patience, laughter, presence, and love.  None of these will stop a heart from breaking, but they will go a long ways in easing the pain and starting the healing process.

My mother used to have a favorite statement she liked to tell me whenever I seemed to be going through a round phase in my life: “This, too, shall pass.”  For the most part I think that my mother was right.  Most of the crap I have endured and experienced in my life has come and gone . . . but, she was wrong when it came to having one’s heart broken by a child.  True, the situation or circumstance might pass on, but the scars are always there to remind us parents of the heart being broken.  Yet, it is a part of being a parent . . . a part of life.  From it we learn and grow.  From it we discover a deeper level and commitment of love.  From it we grow closer. 

But, boy does it hurt.  I would give my soul if I could save anyone from ever having his or her heart broken by children . . . and, then again, maybe not.  My soul has been pretty beat up over the years . . . but, I would try.

Finding Quiet in the Noise

I had forgotten how noisy the city is . . . forgotten how it seems to hum even in the darkness of the night.  There is constant travel fourteen floors down from my hotel room on the streets . . . horns blaring . . . sirens wailing . . . screeching tires . . .whistles blowing.  The noise is constant like a heartbeat for the city.  Then add to this base line hundreds of thousands of people moving up and down the street . . . talking . . . yelling . . . screaming . . . crying . . . and, singing.  It is kind of like a melody line in music playing over the sound of traffic.  There is noise everywhere . . . constant noise.

Yeah, I had forgotten how noisy the city is; but, what should one expect when they shove a couple of million people into Philadelphia proper . . . more than double the whole population of Montana spread out over the 147,046 square miles that makes it a state. I think it gets noisy whenever two or three people gather . . . imagine the noise when a couple of million are milling around.  It gets noisy.

Since being in Philadelphia I have noticed that I do not hear as well . . . I have a hard time hearing . . . especially when I a outside.  Now, I know it is true that the wife thinks that I have a hearing loss . . . something more than a husband's selective hearing loss . . . especially when I get into crowds.  I know that whenever I am in a group of people I have to lean in close to hear what they are saying . . . but since being in Philadelphia I have turned to lip read (which I am terrible at).  I just don't hear well and I do not think that the noise is helping.

I wonder how the people who live here put up with the noise.

I guess I never realized how quiet Montana is . . . or at least the part where the Keener Homestead is . . . or the parts where I am in the mountains.  In the quiet of where I live I can hear the birds sing . . . I can hear the geese honk and the the Sandhill Cranes cooing as they fly over.  In the night I can hear the cows mooing and the coyotes howling.  I can hear the Rock Creek rushing down its banks.  I can hear the wind rustle through the trees.  I can hear the breeze move through the tall grass.  I can hear the snort of a moose . . . the bounding of deer.  It is amazing how much of God's natural presence one can hear in the quiet . . .

. . . but, here, in Philadelphia, I have not heard the birds sing.  I have not even heard a dog bark.  From the fourteenth floor of the hotel I have barely heard the wind over the traffic from the street below.  This is a noisy place.

I don't know about anyone else, but I know that noise makes me irritable if I am in it for too long.  Makes me grumpy.  I need quiet in my life.  I think the people in the hotel understand the noise of their city.  In my room is a little note on the desk stating: "For added tranquility, please feel free to use the complimentary earplugs located in the nightstand drawer."  Sure enough . . . there are two sets of earplugs in there.  I don't think I need them for sleeping, but I am thinking about using them for walking around the streets of Philadelphia.  Research shows that noise makes children and adults more aggressive . . . Philadelphia has a fairly high rate of crime and violence . . . maybe, they should be passing out earplugs on the street.

Noise changes a person.  I can feel it and I have only been here for a little over twenty-four hours.  I cannot even imagine what living here would do to me . . . I'd become a crazed pastor (well, more crazed than I am now).  I could not live without the quiet.  I feel sad for all of these folks.  Sad that they cannot find the quiet in the noise.

I like to paraphrase the part in the Bible that tells us to be still and know God.  I like to think that in that stillness there is also quietness . . . quietness because we need to hear God . . . in the birds singing, the wind blowing, the breeze moving through the grass.  In all of this noise, where is the quiet?

If I am going to be honest, then I have to admit--like everyone else, that there is noise in my life that drowns the voice of God.  These days in Philadelphia only serve as a reminder of that fact.  The noise may not be caused by traffic or people . . . but it is still there drowning out the needed silence.  The noise of problems in my life . . . the noise of relationships between family, friends, co-workers, and many others . . . the noise of the life happening around me that touches me directly and indirectly . . . the noise of loneliness, sadness, anger, hate . . . there is noise in my life.  At times it gets pretty noisy in that rock garden between my ears . . . and, the reaction is the same.  I get irritable and grumpy . . . I get aggressive . . . and, I get lost.  Lost from who God created me to be . . . and, lost from God.

Yet, I know that there is a quiet place within all of us.  A place where there is no noise.  A place where the presence of God can be heard.  And, I know that it does not matter where I am . . . in the noise of Philadelphia or the quietness of a mountain meadow in Montana . . . that quiet place exists and waits for me.  I know that I just need to be still . . . to be quiet . . . and, listen.  God's voice will find me in the quiet.  I just have to keep reminding myself . . . be still . . . be quiet . . . even in the noise God is there.

With such knowledge I think I can make it.  The crazed preacher is in retreat . . .