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Jen Hale Christy

Coach and Writer

jenhalechristy

A Different Kind of Stormy

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One time, Jesus was out on a boat with his friends and a huge storm moved in. I’m talking The Perfect Storm kind of storm – remember that movie? It gives me anxiety just thinking about those ginormous waves.

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The thing about water is: we can’t live without it. It brings life and healing and salvation. We need it to drink, to bathe, to grow crops and feed our livestock. Many of us have been immersed in it, cleansed of our sins and risen to a new way of being in the world.

But water can also be terrifying and deadly. It can flood, soak, overtake, and drown. And for thousands of years, God’s been using water to teach us.

We saw God part the waters in creation.

Through Moses, God parted the Red Sea.

God sent a big fish to keep Jonah in a timeout until he was ready to follow directions.

Through his encounter with the woman at the well, Jesus showed us that the kingdom is open to literally everyone.

And here we have Jesus teaching the disciples something through this storm on the sea…

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As the waves are winding up and crashing down, his friends completely. freak. out. They wake him up, desperately hoping he’ll save them. And what does he do? Using only his voice, he stops the storm and then chastises them for their lack of faith.

Um, what?

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This is one of those places where I think the disciples get a bad rap. I mean, if I was out in a boat and huge waves were crashing down on us and filling the boat with water, I would be completely freaking out!

You’re asking us can we be so afraid??? Master, the tempest is raging! This heap of lumber is about to capsize and bury us in a watery grave. How are you so *not* afraid right now? We don’t want to die tonight! We were wide awake, freaking out; but you were asleep!

We were afraid you weren’t powerful enough to do something about our situation. We were afraid you didn’t see or know or care enough to do something about it.

And why would you expect us not to be afraid “…after all we’ve seen?” We’ve never seen THIS before!!! Sure we’ve seen you heal a bunch of people and heard lots of teaching, but THIS?! This is the first time since we started following you that OUR LIVES are being threatened.

We didn’t know this was what we were signing up for. THIS—this is new. And scary. And we’re not sure if we can trust you. I mean here we were in the midst of a huge storm and you were sleeping! We’ve been struggling with belief up to this point but now you’re asking about faith??? We don’t even know who you are…

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Remember who’s among the disciples: the first four guys that Jesus called, Simon (Peter), Andrew, James and John – who were all fishermen. They spent long days out on the water and had weathered countless storms. They didn’t scare easily.

But on this day, they were scared.

And I’m wondering – what were they more afraid of: the storm, or Jesus’ power over it? He had already calmed the storm, so maybe he’s asking them why they’re still afraid. It would be terrifying to be in the presence of such power. There was the tremendous power of the wind and waves, and the even greater power of Jesus. And yet, there was still fear.

Yes, he had calmed this storm but what about the other ones, the bigger ones? They were still occupied by Rome and were not free to govern themselves as a nation. There was political turmoil. Already this Rabbi had proven more radical than others and was drawing negative attention from other Jewish leaders. Would he take care of all of the storms from here on out, big and small?

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Is there a storm raging in your life right now that you wish God would just come in and put a stop to?

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To be continued next week…

Turn Down The Volume, Please

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Do you struggle with kindness? Are complaints seeping into your thoughts or speech? Do you find yourself losing patience with people or situations?

For most of this year, my daily intention was kindness. As part of my yoga practice, I would set an intention for the day—something to focus on and aspire to—and every time it was kindness. The problem was, it wasn’t really working. When my stress level rose, I still found myself super frustrated, exasperated, and raising my voice at my kids.

I also have to admit something else: I’m a complainer. Always have been. Wouldn’t have admitted this in the past. But my sister and I had a conversation that opened my eyes to how much of my “comments” were actually complaints. It’s been particularly striking since we’ve lived in Oregon and I find myself complaining about the weather at least six months out of the year. And you know I go for bonus points in the other half of the year by fretting about the dreary weather that’s coming.

So there I was, beating myself up because I’m not kind enough and and I complain too much. I thought a lot about this downward path of complaining and negativity, and how it needed to be interrupted. But how? It was pretty easy to see the connection between gratitude and complaining (probably because I’ve read about it approximately one thousand times).

I knew that if I was complaining, I was focusing on the negatives in any given situation. But there are always positives too and if I could just notice and be grateful for those, maybe I could shift my mindset. And like magic, it works! Well, sort of. The change isn’t permanent. I still have to consciously choose to notice and be thankful. Like dozens or hundreds of times every day. Turns out we call it “cultivating” or “practicing” gratitude because it takes time, attention, and care to develop. And it doesn’t come naturally.

Getting back to kindness.

I’m thinking that for me at least – kindness isn’t a primary virtue. It’s not something I can just choose and force myself to embody. Sure, I can be nice. But the kindness I’m after is tangled up with patience, and its absence is most keenly felt at home with my smaller humans who have the sort of selective hearing (not to mention selective instruction-following) that would make anyone’s blood pressure rise.

I chose kindness as my daily intention because I wanted to maintain my cool – inside and out – when stuff was hitting the fan. But just willing myself toward kindness didn’t work. As I’ve worked to cultivate gratitude, though, kindness and patience flow naturally from it. It feels magical in a way, although again – it’s conscious effort.

And I don’t always choose it. But when I do, the air in our home feels lighter. I couldn’t see how much my negativity was infecting the rest of my family until I started letting go of it. Now that I realize how much influence I have on the tone of our home, I’m even more motivated to keep practicing gratitude and resisting the tendency to complain.

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What strategies have you found helpful in cultivating patience and kindness? What changes do you see in yourself or those closest to you when you’re practicing gratitude?

Being Right

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I come from a religious tradition that has historically been preoccupied with being right. We’ve focused on the “right” (and therefore, only acceptable) way to “do” church and live your life, setting up rules and boundary markers to help us determine who is a real Christian. In fact, I was raised with the belief that members of our tribe were the only real Christians.

We even have a particular insider term to refer to real Christians: someone who is a “member of the Lord’s Church” or simply “member of The Church.” An outsider may not recognize it, but when we use these terms, we’re referring to someone who is part of our particular tribe, not the church universal.

Yikes.

Our tribe froze a particular moment in christian history (interpretation, tradition, practices, teachings, etc.) and baptized that as the “right” way to “be Christian” and “do church.” Moreover, we continue to believe that there is, in fact, a right or *gasp* perfect way to “do church.” And this may be part of what’s killing us.

I’m still being confronted with the ways in which my tradition steeped in me a toxic desire for and pursuit of perfectionism.

I was at a conference last week on “Space and the Formation of Missional Communities.” Surrounded by church leaders and holy insurrectionists, I voiced the question that has been plaguing me for more than a decade but has been particularly present of late: does church matter anymore? If God’s mission is all around us, and we’re regularly meeting God outside the walls of institutional religion, then why bother putting up with the messiness and pains of congregational life?

In the midst of a lengthy conversation with a leader in missional engagement, it slowly dawned on me that at the heart of my question was my own preoccupation with doing things right – my need for church to be perfect.

I talked about the tendency for institutions to preserve themselves, ensuring their own survival at all costs. And I said that I often thought about trying to do something new (planting a church), but that at some point even that would become an institution that will one day harm its members.

My disillusionment with church and observations about institutions are real and valid, but why did that make me question the importance of church? Because deep down, I believed that if we couldn’t get it right, why bother?

My conversation partner comes from a religious tradition that doesn’t carry the same perfectionist baggage, so he was confused by my line of questioning on a fundamental level. Church isn’t for righteous people and church will never be perfect, he said.

As much as I’ve resisted some of the uglier tendencies of our tradition, this was a huge blind spot for me. And I’m thankful for it being exposed.

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I was asked to offer the words of institution and guide our participation in communion at the close of the conference. My voice surprised me with a sudden shakiness after I’d repeated the words “the body of Christ, broken for you” about a dozen times for those who came to receive Jesus. Struck by the brokenness of the church—the messiness, pain, redemption, and beauty of it all—the surge of emotion alerted my mind to the holiness of the moment.

I struggled to continue repeating those words as they were actively tending to my heart, communicating a wordless truth that the beauty is in the brokenness, not perfection.

I’m not sure what God’s up to here, but the Spirit is stirring something deep in me. If something has been stirring in you too, let’s talk.

Grief is a Trickster

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Here’s the thing about grief. It’s always lying in wait. Just below the surface, waiting for a quiet moment. When the house is dark, the music stops, the kids are asleep…grief creeps in and sweeps over you.

The moments between sleep and wakefulness are some of the worst. Regardless of the content of your dreams (assuming it wasn’t the reality of your grief), there’s a brief moment as you’re waking — before you’re fully awake — when you’re unaware of your grief. A brief moment of forgotten heartache and loss. Then the memory flashes in your now-awake mind and the grief crashes over you.

Yep, grief is a tricky thing. One moment you’re enjoying your favorite show, playing with the kids, making dinner – and in an instant the loss comes flying in, screaming at you for your few stolen moments of peace.

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I keep catching what I think are glimpses of Jack in my peripheral vision – mostly through the kitchen windows, where my subconscious registers him walking by in the yard or on the deck before my thinking brain reminds me that he’s gone.

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His food and bed are still here; we aren’t quite sure how and when to part with these elements that fed and comforted him while he was with us.

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Ping-ponging through the stages of grief is exhausting. Whiplash. That’s how it feels sometimes — to go from perfectly fine one moment to a painful reminder and flood of tears the next. The passing of time has dulled the pain some, and the fullness of activities has filled the space initially reserved for mourning.

Time marches on and the new normal is pretty normal. But we still miss you, Jack. One of your final gifts to us is this: where we had grown somewhat lazy as pet parents, your passing has reminded us how important it is to cherish the moments with Teddy, taking better care of him and showing him lots of love and affection. May we continue to learn from your love and loyalty.

Saying Goodbye to Jack

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He was here, and then he wasn’t.

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“It’s time to say goodbye. Bring the kids.”

Blink.

He doesn’t wag his tail or lift his head when we walk in; only his eyes move to greet us.

His pain, which has been steadily increasing for months, skyrocketed in the last couple of days, it seems.

Hard swallow.

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It was January, 2005. Abilene, Texas. I had met Dave in August of 2004 and we dated briefly before a break so I could figure my life out. But then in one of the most brilliantly strategic moves of his life, he showed up on my doorstep holding a teeny tiny yellow lab.

The runt of the litter, Jack was Dave’s chosen wingman. If he would have to be single, at least he would have his dog to join him on adventures. The two of them would hike and backpack and explore the world together.

 

That was the plan, anyway.

Jack was the sweetest, most adorable puppy I’d ever met. And that little bundle of unconditional love thawed the ice between me and Dave, making way for a beautiful relationship to blossom.

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Soon, Jack became “our dog” and life was nearly perfect. Together we took Jack camping, hiking, and on road trips. In addition to the usual dog tricks, he also knew how to fetch (and match) Dave’s shoes and how to play hide and seek. He loved to stand on his hind legs and give hugs or high fives. While he was a friend to everyone, his loyalty to his family was unmatched.

As our first child came along, I didn’t want Jack on our bed anymore. He was nothing but gentle, but I didn’t want him to accidentally hurt Anna. As our family grew, the responsibilities and messes and commotion seemed to multiply exponentially. Somewhere along the way, I grew tired of the endless shedding and all the normal dog smells.

Sweet Jack loved laying on my pregnant belly

I’m ashamed to admit that for years, I kept Jack at a distance – my love for him buried under the weight of overwhelm and irritation. I never wished him harm, never mistreated him – but I often regarded him as a nuisance. Nevertheless, he was nothing but kind, loving, and happy to see me.

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A little over a year ago, he started having trouble getting up and down the stairs. As he slipped, the sound could be heard throughout the house – of nails clawing to grip an ungrippable hardwood surface as he struggled to regain his footing. He didn’t jump up on people anymore, but we couldn’t really remember when that stopped. He was always smiling, though.

His control of bladder and bowels would come and go as the months wore on. He was now hard of hearing. Mostly my complaints remained the same – I was tired of the smells, and having to clean the floors so often only to have him walk through and drop fur everywhere.

I worried that his body was shutting down, and grew anxious over the uncertainty of it all. How long will this go on? Will we have to make this decision? How will we know when it’s time? I knew Dave would be devastated. I mostly focused on that and bit my tongue more often than not when I observed Jack’s decline.

I felt trapped between a responsibility to do something about Jack, and a responsibility to take care of my husband. My pragmatism was in the driver’s seat, leaving emotions out of the picture. I worried that Jack might be in pain, but neither of us could say for sure if he was.

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On July 28, Dave took Jack to the vet who confirmed that he had arthritis, muscle loss, and was in pain. We started him on a steroid and supplements for joint health. On August 3, I took a video as Jack awkwardly paced, paused, and bumbled around the deck. I had been witnessing similar behavior over the last few weeks, but this was far more pronounced. He was out of sorts, lethargic, no longer himself. His smile was gone.

The next morning Dave picked him up and put him in the van, taking him to another appointment with the vet. She watched the video and said in addition to the tremendous pain he was obviously experiencing, that strange behavior on the deck was characteristic of a brain tumor. As soon as she said those words, Dave’s hearing blurred and his vision tunneled. He knew in that moment that this was the moment. This would be the day we would have to say goodbye to Jack.

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No one told me what this would be like. No one prepared me to hear “we’re going to give him an injection to make him fall asleep, and then the second injection will stop his heart.” STOP HIS HEART?!?! Wait. What? NO!!!!

He’s in a lot of pain. We don’t want that. He’s not going to get better. We don’t want to accept that. He probably has a brain tumor. How do we even begin to process that?

My thinking brain knows without a doubt that we have to let him go. We can’t allow him to continue to suffer and decline. But my safe pragmatism has left me. My heart is shattering as the reality of what we’re doing sinks in, and I watch my kids sob and give Jack hugs. Lacking full understanding and the ability to truly empathize, our four-year old Lane sniffs and makes sobbing sounds to mimic the others so that he, too, can participate in the grieving—providing us just a brief moment of levity.

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Jack’s physical presence seems to communicate that he’s ready. He’s never been like this before – just laying there with his head on the floor between his paws. It’s as if he has been trying to hold on, trying to be okay for some time, but waiting until we were ready to let him go. He needed Dave to be okay.

The vet gives us time to say goodbye.

How much time is enough—a few minutes? Hours? Days? Nothing seems adequate. Two of the kids had already gone to sit outside with Aunt Crystal, who had serendipitously flown in to visit us the day before. Without directly saying so, the vet makes it clear that the other kids should also go out for the injection. Dave and I stay.

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It was one of the worst moments of my life. Though I had sensed for at least a year that his time with us was limited, I hadn’t given much thought to how it would feel to lose him.

The day before, as my sister and I drove back from the airport and I told her about Jack’s behavior that day and that this might be the end – even then when she asked about my attachment to him, I said I used to be attached to him but it changed when we had kids. “I just don’t think I’m an animal person,” I said.

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In the fluorescence of that sterile vet room, the hardness of my heart crumbled away to reveal a tenderness and love I had all but forgotten were there. The shock and emotion and gravity of the moment were overwhelming.

Flashes of Jack as a puppy and young dog raced through my mind. So many sweet memories.

Seeing that tiny bundle of fur through the peep hole of my duplex in Abilene. Throwing the ball as far as we could and Jack running for it over and over and over.

Jack laying on the floor as one Christy baby after the other would lean on him, lay on him, tug on his ears or tail, and try to ride him. He was the sweetest, most tender, loving dog ever.

How could this be the end? How could we let him go?

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We sat, watching and petting him while she gave him the medicine to fall asleep. When she said she was giving him the injection to stop his heart, in my head and heart I screamed “NOOOOOOOOOO!” but no words came out. I knew it had to be done, but that didn’t relieve the ripping feeling in my chest.

It happened so fast. In just a few moments his abdomen no longer rose and fell. He was gone.

It was surreal, horrifying. One moment we were petting his fur, talking to him, and the next moment he was gone.

The decision we had made was irreversible. Final. Devastating.

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We all shed a lot of tears that morning. Dave and I found things to keep ourselves busy during the day, but in the quietness of night, the memories and grief were relentless. It’s been the same for me every night since, though it’s creeping into the waking hours as well.

Like a video stuck on repeat, the scene in the vet room plays over and over. Our decision. Our responsibility. His pain. His life. Those horrible words the vet said. His death. How can it be that this decision was ours to make? How could we stop his heart?

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There’s never been an “us” without Jack.

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It’s always been Dave + Jack + Jen. Add kids.

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And then there’s Teddy, our almost five-year old Bichon-Poodle mix, who was Jack’s best buddy.

The first few days, Teddy would lay by the back door or on Jack’s bed – watching and waiting for Jack, we think. He’s been especially attached, dashing out to the car whenever we leave, wanting to be with us all the time. And we’ve been extra affectionate with him as well.

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So many things trigger the flood of emotions – seeing his things (food dish, brush, leash); the tactile memory of his fur under my fingers or nose against my skin; the sinking regret of how irritated I had been and kindness I wish I had shown him; walking downstairs in the morning and expecting to hear him stand up and shake, ready to go out back; remembering the sound of his tag on the collar as he came running in from outside; and basically every single memory of him.

His ashes were prepared the very next day. How did it happen so fast? We let him go on August 4, and on August 5 – Anna’s 11th birthday – they cremated him.

On August 6, they called Dave to pick up Jack’s things. In a small paw print-covered gift bag, we found: a clay paw print, a small bag with a clipping of fur, a paper containing his nose and paw prints, a certificate, and a handsome walnut box containing the ashes of a beloved member of our family. I can’t look at these things without crying.

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This grief is pervasive; everything feels harder and heavier. I’m grateful my sister was here. Having walked through this with her beloved dog just two months ago, her empathy was especially strong. Now that her visit is over, a new normal is setting in. I don’t like it.

I have hope that it will get better, though it will never be the same.

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Jack, you were the best dog we could have asked for. You brought Dave and me together; how could we ever thank you enough? You asked for so little and gave so much. We miss you deeply. Your joy, excitement, loyalty, kindness, and unconditional love taught us how to be. We are forever changed.