Author Archives: Mary Keenan

Looking both ways

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Janus – he has his own back all the time

Do you know about Janus? He is the two-faced Roman god of beginnings and endings, transitions and passages, always looking at both the past and the future. Today is a good time to remember Janus because we are at the end of one year and the beginning of another. At midnight we transition to the month of January, which is named for Janus. So, ever since I learned about Janus, I remember him at this time of year and do a little looking backward and looking forward of my own. Actually, you don’t even have to know about Janus to do that on New Year’s Eve – I bet you might even have been reminiscing and planning ahead already.

In any case, I got a head start on looking both ways recently. Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband and I drove with our kids to New Orleans to visit cousins and see the sights. Relatives on my father’s side go back several generations, so in addition to enjoying great food and riding the street car, we also hear the stories of our middle-aged relatives as teens, our old-aged relatives as college students, and our dead relatives as permanent, perfect models of our quirky family traits. Hearing these stories – from any side of the family – is always a highlight for me. They are a glimpse backward at my forebears and make me wonder what stories will be told about me in the years to come. (I hope it’s not that one where I…)

One thing I had not done in many years is visit the family tomb, which is, I guess, the ultimate “look back.” If you have never been to a New Orleans graveyard, I recommend it. They are strange and beautiful, as full of character as you would expect in this eccentric city. Because New Orleans is below sea level and has a tendency to flood, all the graves are above ground in what look like small stone houses. The graveyards themselves have the feel of a city of diminutive, ornately carved dwellings. Some of them have what looks like a front walk and steps going up to an entrance – but that entrance is usually an alcove engraved with the names and dates of each family member now residing in the tomb.

Usually, I go to cemetaries by myself or with another adult and it is a meditative experience. But this time I took my 7 year-old daughter, wondering what she’d think of this place dedicated to remembering the dead. After all, like a lot of kids her age she’s fascinated with zombies and ghosts. It turns out that what she saw when she arrived was a great place to climb, run, and jump. At one point I had her run beside the car just to get some of her energy out!

Looking backward and looking forward, I saw my lively girl dancing amidst the memories of her great-grandparents and aunts and uncles. Their lives led to her life, their stories are part of her story, their futures are her past, and her future stretches beyond what they imagined. By the time she knows people buried in these tombs and worries about her own mortality, there will be another child bouncing ahead through life, climbing the stone walls and jumping off the ledges. I hope she’ll be able to look forward a little as she looks back at her past.

I’m going to try to remember Janus as the year presses on and not just when toasting the new year at midnight. When you look both ways – consider both the past and the future – you don’t get too mired in memory or swept up in planning. Looking both ways gives balance and perspective, it can keep you from feeling trapped by old patterns or show you a reliable path when you feel overwhelmed by new pressures. Looking both ways brings energy to the past and beauty to the future. After my trip to the cemetery, looking both ways gives me hope that someday my descendants will run towards their own futures carrying with them their own yesterdays and the stories of their quirky ancestors.

Cheers to last year and next year! Be sure to look both ways before you cross.

(There are some who say January is named for Juno, but according to Google they are outnumbered. So there.)

The Mary Trifecta

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It is a good week to be a Mary and think about Marys, especially if you are a fan of Marys.

First of all, and to be totally self-promting, if you are reading Journey Toward Home: Soul Travel From Advent to Lent, you will notice that my essay Mary/Maryam is today’s reflection. You can order the book from Mustard Seed Associates. It is full of wonderful essays and ideas for honoring the beginning of the year, whether with thoughtful reflections or shared meals (with recipes provided!!).

You can read the original version of my essay Mary/Maryam, which was posted here on maryology in the Spring.

Second, today is the 104th birthday of my sainted grandmother, the first of three Marys in a row in my family and the inaugural member of maryology’s Hall of Marys. My grandmother is celebrating in the great hereafter with a multitude of other Marys, I am sure.

And third (this is the one that makes it a trifecta, if you are counting) at the end of this week we remember the Virgin of Guadelupe, who is one of the most etherial Marys to every appear.

It also seems to be a great time to recycle lots of my previous posts. Enjoy all the Marys this week!

Ninja Puppy

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First, she found a stray oval of cardboard in the snack aisle. Then a green twist tie in produce. Somewhere near the cheese section, my 7 year-old had made them into a Ninja Puppy, using my pen to make a sweet face. We had this precious new friend for a mere 10 minutes. Then tragedy struck.

We don’t know what happened. Ninja puppy simply disappeared. We looked everywhere – under the wire shelves, every corner of the grocery cart, even my purse. After retracing the circular path of our cart about 40-eleven times, I was ready to move on. My daughter…not so much.

She started crying. We searched some more. She refused to leave the area where she last saw the puppy. When I finally forced her to come with me her face got red and she began wailing, “Where could my Ninja Puppy be?!” The other shoppers were mystified. I offered her a treat – candy, even! – but the only treat she wanted was her Ninja Puppy. By the time we left she had been in mourning for 20 minutes for a 10-minute handmade friend.

There were shaky sobs all the ride home. Fifteen minutes of sobbing. “It is so unfair. Mommy, it is your fault she is missing! I wish I could live at the grocery store and look for Ninja puppy all day and all night. What if someone stole it from our cart?” Yes, I bet someone looked at our cart and my purse and thought the best thing to take was your toy made from grocery store scraps. That must be it.

When we got home, she added a postscript to her Santa letter, hoping he could help resolve the situation. I sure hope so, there is no other outcome than oblivion for that paper pup.

I have a fantasy that someone will find Ninja Puppy between two bags of chopped kale and recognize her for the treasure she is. Maybe that person will even return her to us after reading the signs my daughter is now making offering a $100 reward . Or, if you don’t want that $50.

The least of these

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Today, I was asked to lead a worship service at Trinity Center. And wouldn’t ya know, the Gospel reading for today was Matthew 25 – “just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

At communion about 23 people came up, including a trans woman and a woman with two black eyes.

The least of these indeed–you can’t get much more vulnerable than that. I hope they are safe out on the streets tonight.

In defense of goats

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What is so bad about goats? Seriously, why do they get such a bad rep? why do they get “scaped”?

I am reflecting on a story that pits goats against sheep. (There are lots of them.)  And, as always, the sheep are the good guys. I don’t have anything against sheep, but what has a goat ever done bad to you?

Evil creatures would never be this fun: IMG_0285

We call our children kids, for goodness sake! It makes me want to write a story where the goats come out on top.

Kids love kids. And vice versa.

Goats make you happy!

The important stuff

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Last month, I visited my mom in North Carolina to help her go through boxes and boxes of stuff. And in those boxes was a bit of my dad, things that helped me remember him or even explain him. There is a lot more to “stuff” sometimes than we give it credit for.

Sorting “stuff” is a task my siblings and I have helped with ever since my father died a little over seven years ago. First it was going through medical papers and condolence letters. Then Mom moved so we sorted through half a century of books, clothes, furniture, toys, untold heaps of letters. My parents had kept and moved many of these boxed belongings multiple times from the attic of one house to the garage of the next and then the spare room of the next.

I am proud to say we were able to get rid of a lot. Three huge bags to trash/recycling – and a car trunk full of donations. There were things in those bags older than I am that had lived with my parents longer than I did.

At this point, I need to give some background about my dad. He was a genius. Seriously, he was very, very smart. One of the brightest chemistry students at his college – at his 50th reunion they told my mom no one had topped him. He was a physician and medical researcher in a pretty esoteric sub-speciality. Analytical, articulate, focused, patient, collaborative. He was a high-level thinker who was also amazing with children and had a keen sense of humor. I loved his handwriting and after he died I kept samples of it.

Back to the boxes, Mom and I opened one that was filled with not-so-old medical files. And between lists of prescription meds and recovery plans, I found these:

This is my Dad learning to write again after he had a stroke in 2002. It isn’t the handwriting I grew up admiring. He lost the use of his dominant right hand and also had some judgement problems, though he still had most of his complex intellectual abilities. (He could talk all day long about the Theory of Relativity but wasn’t allowed to cross the street by himself.) All of the focus he used for years in the lab was now turned to recovery with a goal of returning to work. He never made that ultimate goal, but he worked hard and made a lot of progress. He was not a quitter.

Tucked away in boxes, was all this evidence of my dad’s long recovery from a scattershot stroke that took away his most basic life skills in a unpredictable pattern. (It didn’t affect just one side of his body, for instance.) Learning to write and use utensils, not being allowed to use knives, having favorite foods put on the banned items list. All these changes happened in a twinkling and while he was at the hospital he didn’t know how he’d handle it. But, sure enough, once he started rehab he became laser focused on regaining lost skills and renewing old habits. (I began to have a secret desire to go back in time to share some of his lost, beloved activities, like eating steak or blue cheese.)

All of this flooded back to me from looking at a few pieces of paper. Pharmacy receipts, physical therapy and occupational therapy plans, worksheets filled with chicken-scratch handwriting. My mom kept all these for years thinking they contained important information we’d need for his care. But going through them, they became important as a way to remember our lives with him. There is a lot of your life that can be unveiled in papers. Artifacts don’t duplicate life in the moment, but they do contain truth.

I might be a secret hoarder – but I actually kept some of the papers I found in my dad’s box of stuff – not many, but a few. Mom was ready to toss them, but I’m still analyzing and reminiscing over the contents. He isn’t here to tell me what they meant to him, so I am interpreting his life based on my memories, some stories, and boxed keepsakes. It makes me wonder how different that is from when I could talk to him directly, because I am sure he interpreted his own life differently than I or anyone else has. Maybe what we humans are is a collection of our own and other people’s impressions of us. You don’t get the whole picture until you put all the impressions together…maybe not even then.

Dad’s papers also got me wondering what my papers will say about me. After I die, what will people remember about me? Will it be what I think it is, or entirely different? And will my “stuff” tell them things about me that even I don’t fully understand about myself?

There is a side of relationships that is archeological. One of the sweetest things I found in my dad’s dresser shortly after he died is a small container of teeny tiny teeth from all four of his children – I guess he was the tooth fairy! And the archeology of relationships is not just with the departed. I learn things about my daughter when see what she keeps in her backpack for school. My son never tosses old video games, even if he won’t play them again, perhaps because each one contains his high score and hours of his time.

Whatever the case, I hope I don’t curate my life too carefully, keeping my most erudite essays and tossing embarrassing photos. I’d like to leave a few surprises in my boxes of stuff so that people can still get to know me. It worked for Dad, whether he knows it or not. I’m still getting to know him and I hope I always will.

Unity

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My friend Irit just returned from her annual trip to visit family in Israel. The first indication for her that this visit would be different (other than hourly updates of missile strikes and counter-strikes) was having three seats to herself on the flight over. The day after she arrived, US airlines stopped flying to Tel Aviv altogether.

It was a three-week visit that was terrifying, disheartening, stressful, frustrating, and also illuminating in the way that going home can be when you have been away for a long time. Hearing her talk about the experience has been both mystifying for me (never been near war or real danger of any kind) and enthralling (how do people adjust to that life? or do they?) I’ve come away with some (probably naive) insights that she’s been gracious enough to let me share. (Note: All these thoughts are mine, and so are all the errors contained herein.)

Irit was born and grew up in Israel. She served in the army, as all Israelis do, and lived through the conflicts in 1956, 1967, 1969, 1973…up to the first Gulf War in 1991. About 12 years ago, she moved to the US for good. Even though she was apprehensive about going to Israel this summer, her daughter assured her, “Mom, don’t worry. We are going about our everyday life. It’ll be fine.” But, it turns out if you have not been living in a war zone for over a decade, you start to notice things that used to be taken for granted. Things like, every residence is required by law to have a safe room. Like shrill warning sirens. Like having to make safety plans as you walk your granddaughter to the playground or run errands. Like having your Shabbat dinner interrupted by a bomb threat and then watching your family go right back to eating as if nothing unusual had happened.

My friend has plenty of insights about the violence. In addition to talking about the stresses for her family and those on the Israeli side, she has great compassion for Palestinians crowded into the 141 square miles of Gaza with virtually no safe rooms and even less hope. How can you make peace, she observed, with people who have no hope? And there was plenty of disdain for political leaders on all sides (because there are more than two).

But what made the biggest impression on me, the outsider, was this: my friend who grew up in war has now become accustomed to peace. Yes, she is frustrated that we in the US don’t feel the impact of the wars to which we contribute. (Seriously, how long can we keep sending dollars and weapons and expect to keep shopping away as if nothing is wrong in the world?) But it really struck me how shocking it was for her to return to a way of life that used to be normal for her. From my easy chair, I see too many stories on the news about people who can never leave war – the battles themselves won’t stop or the governments that follow are corrupt or a different enemy appears. But…

It is possible to get used to peace.

Shortly after Irit returned I was working on a sermon and saw that Psalm 133 was in the lectionary for that week. It is the Psalm for my alma mater – Yea Sewanee! – and I’ve said and sung it many times. The words struck me in a new way, especially when Irit noted that the conflict in the Middle East is between cousins. The cultures, languages, and people of that region are related.

 Oh how good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity.

Living together in unity is good. Not winning. Not power. Living together. In unity. Is good.

There are so many aspects of Irit’s experience that deserve reflection; it is a very complex situation. But just for now, I am focusing on this: it is possible to get used to peace. And the second related idea: getting used to peace is good. There are people trying hard to do this every day. What would make it possible for more to do it in their homes, neighborhoods, cities, and nations?

What do you think?

Being a Woman in America

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Last Thursday, I was inspired by some righteous women. One was homeless, two were formerly trafficked for sex, one survived child abuse. In their own ways, they were on a path to wholeness, recovering from injustices the world laid upon them. Mostly what caused their suffering and the thing from which they were recovering was being treated like a woman.

Does that sound harsh? It should. Because the day after I was inspired by these women, a California misogynist murdered seven people because women didn’t treat him the way he wanted. For some, this heinous act was deviant, but for lots of us it seemed more like a predictable outcome. Latent hatred of women simmers below the surface of our lives all day long every day- the lives of all women and girls are marinated in it. Sometimes the hatred bubbles up and everyone notices – some for the first time. (YesAllWomen has been a great response, allowing women to describe how omnipresent and oppressive misogyny is in our culture.)

So, Thursday I am inspired by women who are rising above this hatred for women. Friday the news airs a horrific story of misogyny taken to the extreme. And then Sunday…

On Sunday, a 10-year-old girl I know found out what it means to be a woman in America. A man approached and spoke to her inappropriately, as if it were totally normal. In his mind, he didn’t need permission to talk to her, photograph her, or say provocative things to her. He did all this in front of his girlfriend, who didn’t even notice – that’s how ordinary his behavior and assumptions are.

I was there after it happened and consoled her, remembering the same thing happening to me so many, many times. But I couldn’t tell her it would not happen again. Because it will. It isn’t the kind of initiation into womanhood you imagine for someone you love. But it isn’t surprising either. On Sunday, this girl was crying, wondering how and why such a horrible thing could happen. And all I could wonder was how long it’d be before she just learned to accept that it is part of the way things are.

I hope she never does.

Four righteous women taught me that telling the truth is a powerful tool to overcome injustice. It takes an awful lot of fearless truth telling to overcome the lies about women that are embedded in our culture – that we are weak, that we don’t know what we want, that we rely on men to define us. In fact, it takes generations of truth telling to make a dent in the wall of lies telling us who we should be. Sometimes it feels easier to just ignore the misogyny and pretend it is normal.

A 10 year-old girl taught me something, too. She taught me that being treated as less than human is worth a good cry; that type of behavior should be shocking. It isn’t something to get used to. I’m grateful to be reminded and hope she and I can stir up some righteousness together.

P.S. If you want to help some righteous women, Thistle Farms is a great place to start. Started by my friend Becca Stevens, all sales benefit Magdalene House, a sanctuary that helps women heal from sex trafficking, addiction, and prostitution.

Palms

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I have had a couple of really interesting and divergent thoughts about palms this week. To me, they have only ever been symbolic of two things: Palm Sunday hosannas and the beach.

This morning was all about the palms of Holy Week. Our Sunday morning service started outside with (mostly) children waving palm fronds up in the air. There was the annual whispered warning from parents that palms fronds are not swords – although as the story of Holy Week unfolds we find that, indeed, they are. Palms held up in praise and welcome are soon fists in the air. While you are marching in the Palm Sunday parade, it is easy to get caught up in the celebration; but before you know it you end up at the courthouse calling for blood.

A pile of palms

And then there is this: Before Holy Week even started, I had become part of a discussion about palms in a completely different context. With a group of women – half of us Muslim, half Christian – I have been  learning about Mary/Maryam in the Quran. The mother of Jesus is highly revered in Islam and is, in fact, the only woman referred to by name in that holy book.

When she gives birth to Jesus, Maryam is under a date palm tree. It turns out that in Islam and in Arabic/desert culture, the date palm is considered a very special plant. My friends in the group explained that date palms are thought to be more like humans than any other plant. Not only are the trees differentiated as male and female, the “baby” trees are sort of born from the mother. Here is a photo of a little palm pup:

Mother and Child

Growers (and legend) say that the baby palms must stay near the mother tree for 6 to 8 years or they will die. (I looked it up online – it is true!) The fruit of the date palm contains a number of essential nutrients and is eaten to break fasting during Ramadan, and many of my study companions gave a taste of date to their newborn children even before giving them milk.

These images have been swirling in my mind as I try to reconcile them into a single metaphorical holy image. That hasn’t happened. But I know that the crowd that raised palms for Jesus came from a culture in which the palm was highly symbolic for multiple reasons – all of them in some way affirming of life, victory, peace, and hospitality. Under the shadow of this symbol a most horrific act of betrayal occurred on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.

Learning about Maryam and date palms gave me a little comfort for the hard week ahead. In the Quran, palms provided Mary shelter and nourishment as she gave birth alone in the desert, and I think of her keeping the treasured child close until he is old enough to be planted in his own soil. It is a very feminine metaphor for the divine. This week, I imagine God is holding Mary close as she stands at the foot of another tree watching her son suffer and die. Birth, life, death, renewal. Fruit from the same tree.