Church is not for you

I’ve been on a journey to find Jesus my entire life. My travels have taken me to many strange and

wonderful buildings. I looked for Him in the Church of the Big Holy, but I slipped trying to climb the hierarchy. Once I got inside there was too much echo, too much empty space. And I always needed a sweater. 

Next I went to the Screaming Church of the Yelling down the road. But again, I stumbled - this time over my sin, which was blocking the door, first preventing me from going in, and then preventing me from leaving again. At the Small Sad Church, I stubbed my toe when I burst into a verse of Amazing Grace before I knew they didn’t use music in service. (They said to do what the Spirit moved me to do and the Spirit said, “Sing!” You’d think the Spirit would know the rules, after all.) 

I wandered to the fringes, exploring religions and philosophies that called God “Universe,” that measured my faith by the size of my accomplishments or the number of illnesses I experienced. I took a course in miracles, explored the science of my mind, and had someone tell me a secret. Eventually I traveled to other lands, learning about many exotic isms. I studied Yoga. Then I circled back around to the Church of the Big Holy thinking I must have missed something but someone tripped me and said that I should try the Church of the Not-Quite-As-Holy. But that was like exchanging vanilla bean ice cream for vanilla and I didn’t see the point. By then I had fallen so many times I was bruised and broken. Limping. 

Being at those churches didn't feel much different than being at home, but instead of people I knew, the place was filled with strangers. And it’s really uncomfortable to have strangers walking around in your house. Like going into the kitchen and finding some random guy rifling through the fridge, wanting to know if you have any brown mustard.

That’s probably the way Jesus felt when I wandered in for Sunday service - like some random woman looting the fridge, trying to satisfy her appetite for belonging, trying to learn which peg needed to go in what hole to make my life fall into place. The mental list of what, exactly, I was looking for in a church included: doctrine I could live with; a community of people I felt comfortable around; songs I knew; and a constitution that fit my personal worldview and sense of morality. I wanted to get what I needed - the information to solve the problems in my life I thought could be solved, the comfort to endure the ones I did not, the Heaven points redeemable to escape suffering in the afterlife, and someplace to go on Christmas and Easter. 

I told myself I was looking for Jesus, but as it turns out, I was looking for myself, for the Church of Me. 

In a moment of extravagant grace, I realized that it was Me that had gotten me into all the messes in my life. It was Me who had made the bad choices that led to seemingly unsolvable problems, it was Me who feared suffering in the afterlife, it was Me who thought that church was a building to go to on Christmas and Easter. 

Church, as it turns out, is not for me. 

So I began again. And this time I had one criteria. The one that Jesus Himself provided: Love. When I put my focus on loving others, it suddenly didn’t matter if I could accept every single teaching; it was enough to accept that I didn’t have to know or understand everything. Love filled in the gaps and solved the mystery. It no longer mattered if the other people in church were like me - in fact, I began to see that the more different they were, the greater my opportunity to practice love. And it didn’t matter if I didn’t know any of the songs. I started to sing new ones, discovering fresh ways to express my sorrow, my joy, my hope, my love. 

I don’t know what your spiritual journey has been like, or if you even know you are on one, but if you’ve ever tried to find the peace and love of God by visiting a church only to trip and fall, you know what it’s like. Maybe they didn’t welcome you, or they welcomed you too profusely (nobody’s THAT nice... must be something wrong there...). Maybe you felt out of place because you didn’t understand the customs, or you didn’t know the songs, or you said “trespasses” when everyone else said “debts” and now you’re too embarrassed to go back. Maybe the congregation was too old, too young, too weird. Maybe none of them were white; many too many of them were.

Consider that you are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong place. The church doesn't contain Jesus; Jesus contains the church. Stop searching, stop hopping around. You are the church. We are the church. And we step into the vestibule whenever we practice love with the people who are all around us every day. We do that by making allowances for one anothers' faults, having compassion for one anothers' sorrows, and lending a hand to ease each others' burdens. When we do that, we become Jesus followers. And when you follow Jesus, you will discover other Jesus followers, and you will probably want to hang out with them, sometimes even on Sunday morning. And it will be just right. 

Let Love lead you home.

Peace,
Julie

Julie is the co-author of the triple-decker novel "Iris & Lily."

Your personal Christmas

"The Christmas tree looks so pretty all lit up in the pre-dawn darkness. I have decided to name her Eileen because she does. Eileen the Christmas tree. I don’t get very sentimental at the holidays. What Christmas means and how I celebrate it is more about how I live my life than it is about the twenty-fifth of December. Ask most people what Christmas means and they will talk about joy, peace, and brotherly love. Blah, blah, blah. That’s not what Christmas is about. Whether you believe that Jesus is the Son of God, or a son of God, or a great prophet/teacher, or just a guy, or even if you believe that He is a literary character, His story is not about peace and joy. It’s about causing trouble.

Jesus himself said that He came to divide. He was a big trouble maker. A trouble maker with a secret. This experience of healing from abuse has taught me more about Him and what He came to say than any bible study or preacher ever could. 'Pick up your cross and follow me.' Do it, don’t just watch. It is not about martyrdom. It’s about sacrificing. I know, you think you’ve already sacrificed enough. But you haven’t. You’re doing it wrong.

Sacrifice is not about living in a situation that causes you suffering. Sacrifice is not about accepting that you’ll never be happy in this world. If you’re not happy, how can you serve anyone, how can you fulfill your purpose? You do have one, you know. We all have one. The day you accept that and believe it - that will be your own personal Christmas. It will be the day of your birth, and an angel will sound a trumpet, and a shepherd will bow his head, and a star will brightly burn.

You can come from the most miserable of circumstance. You can begin with not a penny in your purse nor a friend in this world. That’s how Jesus came. If you do accept your Christmas, then no matter your religion, your culture, your beliefs, you will be a Christian on some sort of level. Forget about what that means to you right now. It’s all fabricated by someone other than Jesus. 'Christian' isn’t even His word. It’s something that other people made up. They started the day He died, and they haven’t stopped. Making stuff up.

You have a ministry. It’s not to buy gifts or decorate trees, or bake cookies. It’s to begin your own journey of love, and then pick up that cross. It’s about doing, not watching. Hurting people who love you if you have to. Shaking up the world. Causing lots and lots of trouble. For a higher cause.

If you and your situation are anything like me and mine, you have been at this martyr thing for a long time. You have tried, over and again. Maybe you’ve been in counseling, or bent the ears of everyone and anyone who would listen until you are too embarrassed to bring it up anymore. You’ve waited. And waited. You’ve prayed. If God is a loving God, you may ask, then why won’t He get me out of this? Why does He want me to continue to live in misery? He doesn’t. God didn’t get you into the mess you’re in. You did. You can find the way to get yourself out. You need a miracle, my friend.

I believe, with all my heart, that this is the message Jesus brought: It’s not how you perform that matters; it's the state of your heart.  

Jesus knew that washing your hands doesn’t make you clean. Saying you have love doesn’t make you loving. He put His life on the line to teach these lessons. He made his mother cry. People like Judas didn’t understand. The Roman soldiers threw dice for Jesus’ clothes. They were all so busy being a mother and a friend and an employee that they didn’t see the big picture. They were all caught in their acts, and they got caught in the act. Of perception.

Jesus could have had a wonderful life. He knew a trade, He had friends, people were drawn to Him wherever He went. He would have wanted for nothing. But He got more by giving it all up. He let go. He surrendered. And then what happened? Well, we’ll talk about that at Easter."

This post is adapted from the book, Taking the Stairs: My Journal of Healing and Self-Discovery. bit.ly/TakingtheStairs.
Facebook.com/TakingtheStairsTogether

Work the crowd

I’m hiding behind my red stapler. It sits on my cool little Pier 1 desk, next to my Tiffany lamp, which stands watch over my Mac computer. I have my stuff, in my little office, in my cozy home, in my safe neighborhood in the richest country in the world. 

Yet my heart breaks almost every day. At least on the days when I - usually accidentally through a Facebook post, a Tweet, or by overhearing other people talking -  become aware of the latest human atrocity. People “over there” in the Middle East getting beheaded. A little boy “down there somewhere” in Pennsylvania tortured and killed by his parents, victims of Ebola “waaaaay over there” in Africa dying in the streets as they wait in line to get into the hospital for treatment. 

Some of the tragedies are closer, too. Too close for my comfort. A friend who’s been battling cancer for 30 years gets the news that this time there is nothing they can do for her, my mother who feels trapped in a body that won't obey her and is held hostage by a mind that she can't trust. And some suffering is uniquely mine, abiding with me as I live my life, the ramifications of my bad decisions and wrong choices.

I get so frustrated because I want to contribute to making the world a gentler place for myself and others, but I am paralyzed by my impotence. Nothing I can do with the resources I have is going to affect any of it. What would I do? Go to Africa and administer medicine? Restore my mother's memory? Go back in my time machine and do things over again? Heal my friend? Make ISIS stop? 

So I retreat into my little space, tucked safely away in my office with my red Swingline stapler (Yes, just like the one from Office Space) and my ceramic coffee mug and I pull my small life closer around me, as though it might shield me, or absorb the cries of the broken hearts, the broken bodies, the broken spirits that share this broken world with me. 

Do you ever feel the broken-heartedness of the world? If you're anything like me, you turn the TV off because you can’t stand to hear one more report of a bombing or a shooting, or you flip the newspaper immediately to the LifeStyle section because you just can’t read another headline about world affairs. Are you ever afraid to get on Facebook because you know there will be yet another story about a child dying from cancer or another celebrity succumbing to drug addiction or depression? Or maybe you are one of those people who grieves for lost souls and every post, news story, and viral video reminds you of how spiritually bankrupt we are. And you ache.

Hate, indifference, and suffering in the world overwhelm me, make me feel helpless and defeated by how short my reach is. 

But maybe having a short reach is just what God intended.

The other day I met a woman who was driving a blue Infinity. “Met” is not really the right word, I suppose. I saw her, on the road, on my way home from the gym. I was traveling down a busy four-lane road in the passing lane behind two school buses that were definitely not passing anyone... and they obviously stood between the woman in the blue Infinity and her destination. 

The Infinity buzzed up next to me in the right hand lane and, finding her way impeded by a slower moving car there, the driver zipped over in front of me, squeezing herself into the space between me and a school bus. 

“Are you crazy?” I called out. (To myself.) Then I found myself entertaining ideas about how to block her attempts at weaving and passing, since she was putting all of us danger with her reckless driving. (That’s always a good idea - find someone who is rushing on the road and then intentionally frustrate them.) “You’re going to get someone killed!”

I didn't see it initially, but the woman driving that car was suffering. It wasn’t third-world-political-strife-oppression-disease kind of suffering, but clearly she was worried about being late for something. Maybe her child was sick and she had to wait for a babysitter because her daycare center has a policy about children with fevers, and maybe that made her late for work and she had a big presentation to give at an early meeting. Or maybe her elderly mother lives alone and she called to say she had fallen and she was rushing to be at her side. Perhaps it was nothing more than a frenzied shopping trip to get started on “holiday gift giving.” (If you think that’s not a form of suffering, check out the mall the day after Thanksgiving.)

Whatever the reason was, I almost came bumper-to-bumper with another person who was not at peace and the best I could do was insult her and practically wish disaster for her. 

What happened to all that compassion? Where was my bleeding heart now? Was I only willing to recognize the pain of faraway people in far-off lands? Was I only interested in wishing I could do something about things over which I have no control and therefore no real obligation? Was I only willing to care about people who, by sheer virtue of distance and futility, required no more of an investment from me than the energy it takes to shake my head, tsk-tsk in pity, and lament my helplessness? 

When Jesus said, “Love one another as I have loved you,” what was he modeling? For starters, he displayed love to those whose paths he crossed, the people who literally brushed up against him. He was always working the crowds. He offered them grace and forgiveness wherever and whenever he encountered them. Jesus didn't go looking for opportunities to love; he didn’t have to. He knew that he was surrounded by them. 

I slowed down, backed off, and let the woman in the Infinity have her space (and don’t think the brand name of her car escaped me.). As she sped away, I offered up a prayer for her. I asked God to protect her and keep her and the other people on the road safe. I asked him to heal whatever it was in her life that was causing her such anxiety, and whatever it was in me that was making me blind to the fact that she was one of my "one anothers." Then I turned left down my street and headed for home. 

The truth is that we can’t do anything about ISIS or Ebola or the political wars that rage all around us. We can’t do anything about the flooding in Italy or the vicious snow storm in Buffalo. We can't save our friends from cancer or divorce and we can't protect our parents from death or push the rewind button on our lives. But every minute of every day that we are out in the world, we are brushing up against the crowds, just as Jesus did. We can offer love, forgiveness, and healing - right here, right now. No matter where we are, we can reach out and do something for somebody. Here are a few ideas to get you started:

• Smile at a co-worker. Extra points if you don’t like him.
• Set up the new pot of coffee in the break room. Even if you do it every time. 
• Be patient with that woman in the next cube who rubs you the wrong way. Bring her a muffin.
• Don’t let a call from that irritating client go to voice mail.
• Don’t take the last one today. Leave it for someone else.
• See that guy stuck in the next lane with his blinker on? Let him get in front of you. 
• See that lady in line at the grocery store with a crying child? Let her get in front of you. 
• How about that friend who is feeling alone and alienated from someone she loves? Get behind her. Take her to coffee.
• Hold a door open.
• Unload the dishwasher.
• Unload a grudge.
• Say “Thank you,” and “Have a nice day.”

Instead of barricading ourselves behind our stuff, hiding in our comfortable lives, and telling ourselves that we would surely make the world a better place if only we had more money or power or faith, let's try taking a step out into the crowd, reaching out our hand, and loving whoever happens to be at our fingertips. 

Can you imagine if everyone worked the crowd? I'll bet you my red Swingline stapler it would change the world. 

Chaotic perfection

Yesterday, I had the privilege of leading a yoga session as part of a recovery support group with which I'm involved. I was excited all week about the opportunity to do something to help heal members of a community who are so greatly in need of a little tender loving care. They are people I know and have come to care about. They are my friends.

Throughout the week, I found myself daydreaming about what that experience might be like - I imagined some of the proper "yoga" things I could say, and I was looking forward to giving them the kind of yoga experience I knew they needed.

What I imagined it would be like:

I would set up the room to accommodate the people who said they would come. I took great care choosing the right music - songs with the messages I knew would mean so much to them. They were about breathing and being still, about learning to focus on the fundamentals of taking breath in and then letting it go again, about participating in the process of life rather than trying to drive it all the time - an effort that only leads to stress, frustration, and exhaustion. We know this all too well.

As we moved through the practice, I would be able to wander about the room, adjusting poses, placing my hands on people I knew, giving them a touch of the love and attention that they craved. Perhaps when we got to hip openers one or two of them would break down and cry, the way I often have when settling into a deep hip posture, releasing the bounty of pain stored there over the years. But then when we finally made it through a gentle, basic, practice, I would have reserved 15 minutes for a nice long final resting pose. The music would softly waft in the distance, they would surrender themselves to the stillness and maybe a couple of them would even fall blissfully asleep. I would gently awaken them when the time was up, and then send them on their way, they glowing and peaceful. One by one, they would gather their things and calmly walk out the door, some of them accepting a warm hug and an invitation to return next week.

Here's what really happened:

Of the 10 or 12 people who said they wanted to join yoga, six came dressed in proper loose fitting clothes, and the others either forgot or didn't have time to stay. One person brought a mat. The lively discussion group that we had just finished was so full of its own energy that small groups of people were scattered around the room having spin-off discussions. Then the support group in the next room began and waves of conversation and laughter started to spill over the flimsy air wall. I managed to push the many tables and chairs away from the center of the room in order to accommodate the six mats we were able to scrounge up.

The willing students were ready, so I began. After 10 minutes, two of them got up and left to meet another appointment. Fifteen minutes into class, someone who had been in one of the spin-off conversations joined us, and about 20 minutes in, two people became overheated and dizzy and took a chair to rest and drink water. After 30 minutes, another left to take care of a family issue. By this point, I had turned the music off as it was just adding to the confusion. More people were sitting off to the side than were on the floor, and everyone seemed to be watching the clock.

No one heard any of the songs. I delivered very few messages that weren't directly about where to place a hand or foot. There were no hip openers. We never even got to do a final resting pose, but rather finished the practice by sitting cross-legged on our mats, talking about the challenges and the importance of carving out small blocks of time for self care, for quiet, of having even 10 or 15 precious minutes when our thoughts and language are not consumed by the chaos and sorrow and stress of loving someone who is struggling with addiction.

As I packed up my car and drove home, I felt that I had failed my little motley yoga crew. I had wanted to give them an experience I was sure they needed and that would help them along their path to peace and recovery. But then I realized that rather than lead them through yoga, I must allow this very special group of people to lead me, to teach me how to help them. Their class might seem disjointed and fragmented. It will start late and end early because these gentle souls are living lives of chaos and they don't need one more thing to rush around for. They will make plans to come and then not show up, because for many of them a family crisis will thwart their wishes for the day. They will practice in their jeans, because they are so busy taking care of everyone else that on any given morning, they are likely to forget to bring a pair of sweatpants to change into - if they manage to make support group at all. The chairs along the wall might be more occupied than the mats, because people who love addicts often invest all of their energy in the mitigating of disasters, saving nothing for themselves. Dealing with addiction makes us fragile creatures.

The yoga I offer to my friends in support group might not fall into any type of recognizable discipline, and there may be no semblance at all to a structured class with outcomes that I can notice. Like poetry without rhythm or rhyme, this yoga cannot be shoved into a formula.

In the end, it was never up to me to decide what my friends needed. It was up to them. And what they needed was no expectations, no stringent time table, lots of patience, the ability to start and stop and start again. They needed to know that the opportunity to experience yoga was available to them, but they also needed to have complete freedom to define for themselves what that might look like. To come or not, exactly as they are, with whatever time they can afford, with whatever ability they have, to the degree that they feel led.

The yoga that I offer these precious ones must be like the recovery process itself: unregulated, open, and free, allowing each to come and go, join and leave, forge ahead and fall behind at their own perfect pace.

Even though the yoga class I led was nothing like what I expected, it was everything I could have hoped for because - also like recovery - in any moment, on any given day it will always be perfect.

Peace,
Julie

Strong enough to let go

Tough. Resilient. Persistent. Diligent. These are some of the adjectives I might use to describe myself. I pride myself on my strength, but I have recently encountered a situation that has brought me face-to-face with my powerlessness. Depleted of fortitude, depressed, and exhausted, I asked, "What do I do now?"

Let go and let God.

No, seriously.

Seriously. Let go and let God. 

Give up? Become indifferent? Admit defeat?

No. Let go and let God.

Clearly I wasn't getting it.

Let's break it down, shall we?

Part I: Let go

Sounds easy, doesn't it? After all, what does letting go mean? It means to stop holding on. If holding on is doing something, and letting go is not doing something, then why is it so much harder to let go? Isn't not-doing easier than doing?

The idea of letting go is difficult for me, because in order to even be willing to try, I have to surrender my own ideas about myself. I have to relinquish the belief that I know what's best, and that I am powerful enough not only to affect change in a person or situation, but that the outcome I want is the right one. Half the time, I can't even decide between cashew chicken and tofu stir-fry, so where did I get the notion that I can advise someone else about how they should live their life?

Part II: Let God

If I don't do it, who will? God.

If I don't fix it, how will it get repaired? God.

Of course the premise of this whole discussion is that I believe in God. And I do. And it also assumes that I realize that I am not God. Apparently, I'm still working on that part.

Yet, it's much more than simply believing that God exists. The idea of "let God" presumes that God is paying attention to what goes on in my life, that He cares if I suffer, and that He will be my advocate, my champion.

It's a great theory. That sounds like the way I like to think about God. But how I choose to relate to God says more about what I actually believe than some vague concept I have of Him. Am I brave enough to put my understanding of God into practice? Either I believe God is a help in times of trouble, or I don't. If I don't truly believe that, I should stop pretending that I do. If I do really believe that, then I should act like it by acting on it. Which of course, means knowing that there are times when I should not act at all.

If I don't frantically run around trying to fix things, and if I don't cry and scream and insist and feel sorry for myself, what will I do?

Pray, sit quietly, find things for which to express gratitude, and place your hope in the unknowable someday. 

Part III: Putting it all together again
So when I "Let Go and Let God," I first relinquish control. I accept that things are not as I perceive them, or that there is more going on than I can know about. I recognize my own limitations. I recognize that the lives of other people are not my responsibility, and that I have no control over the free will of another. Why would I want that, anyway? Again, I am not God, and even God knows enough not to impinge on someone's free will.

Can I flip it over?
I have an idea. Can't I "Let God and Let Go" instead? Then, as soon as I see God's hand at work, I will happily hand over the reins. Wouldn't that be a lot easier?

But even as I try to find an easy way out of this, I see that letting go isn't a passive response to evidence of God's care and love. It's an invitation from me to God. It's an act of faith. When I let go, I am saying, "I trust you. I know you love me and will work all things together for my good."

Let go and Let God. 

Believe. Trust. Surrender. I may just be strong enough to do this.

Peace,
Julie

Monday morning gift of grace

I always set my alarm to go off at 4:05. At 3:55 this morning, I woke up on my own, ready to get out of bed and get started with my day.

My 25-minute meditation usually ends with me nodding into my coffee mug, but today I remained clear and present as I sat in the dark, listening for that small still voice.

Monday mornings at the gym are not typically pretty. I tend to drag myself from station to station, mumbling and grumbling to myself about how the house music is too loud, and those guys over there say "the F word" too much, and why is that woman always on the piece of equipment I want to use? But today, I launched into what turned out to be 90 minutes of vigorous cardio circuit training that may well have lasted longer if I hadn't needed to get to the office.

Walking from my car to the building where I work, I noticed the biting cold against the skin of my face and decided that it was refreshing, snapping me out of any vestiges of sleepiness, and making the world around me feel fresh and clean. The thick dark blanket of grey that hung in the sky felt comforting, protective somehow.

I couldn't help but ask, "What is this sense of ease about?"

"Grace," said the still small voice.

May grace be with you today.

Peace,
Julie
Julie is the co-author of the triple-decker novel "Iris & Lily."

Chamomile and laughter: A study in suffering

I don't think I've ever had to pee so bad in my life. I hobbled into a combination Subway/gas station in Naples, NY and asked the cashier if I could please use the bathroom.

She said, "No, there's no bathroom here because we have a septic tank issue." (I ignored the basic lack of logic.)

"Please, this is a real emergency." (It was.) "Where do you go when you need to go to the bathroom?" I asked her. "There must be a toilet in the building."

"Just a minute," she said. She walked over and whispered into the ear of an older woman - a grandmother type - who also worked there. The older woman approached. By then I was in tears.

"I have an emergency," I said. "May I please use your bathroom?" I imagined her giving me a tissue and placing her arm around my shoulder and saying, "Of course you can sugar, now you just come right this way."

She just looked at me and said flaty, "No."

I couldn't really believe it. Surely, I wasn't being denied use of the bathroom in an emergency. Especially not by a grandma. "Please," I repeated. "I'm begging you." (I really was.)

"No," she repeated. "If you've been out there walkin' around, you shoulda stopped somewhere else along the way."

"It's a government holiday," I told her, as I squirmed. "The library and the banks and everything are closed. I tried."

"Well, you can't go here."

"Seriously," I said. "You have to let me... I'm bound to have an accident right in front of this gum display."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I can't believe you're standin' there arguin' with me," she said. "I said 'no'; it ain't gonna happen." (Insert banjo music.)

I hobbled out of the establishment - which, by the way, has turned me sour on Subway restaurants and on the City of Naples - and I painfully (and barely) made my way to the next nearest building with public access, which was blocks away. (Thank you, Luigi's restaurant.)

Yes, I know - I shouldn't have waited so long to find a restroom, and yes, I know that places of business have every right to refuse public use of their bathrooms. Still, I couldn't quite process the lack of compassion with which that woman had treated me. Perhaps she is bitter, I thought, finding herself in her golden years and still working at the Subway. Or maybe her status as gas-station-convenience-store-manager-keeper-of-the-loo is the only power she feels she has in this life, and wielding it makes her feel valuable. Of course there is the possbility that she is just a miserable human being who can't be bothered. (I can hear my friend Wendy saying, "Whatever you see her as, that's true." This of course means that I can choose to see her as a sad woman in pain and in need of my compassion - but that's a topic for another day.)

All that day, even as I tried to enjoy the changing leaves of the unseasonably warm and sunny autumn afternoon, and savor the delicious farm market gala apples and Niagara grapes, I was repeatedly assaulted by the sorrow and hurt I felt at her total disregard for (and apparent pleasure in) my dilemma. I kept playing the experience over and over in my imagination, thinking about how awful it was and what an objectionable person she was. I began to think of her as "the hag",  her face becoming a bit more brutish with each recollection. I remembered her beady little eyes, her tooth-bare sneer, her thin, pale lips forming themselves over and over again as they spewed the word, "no" - which in my state, sounded really loud and played in slow motion, more like, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The way that woman treated me was painful, but it only lasted about 20 seconds. My little emergency was painful, but that lasted only 15 minutes or so. I suffered for hours. It's the same with the ordinary difficult experiences we all have every day - they are usually innocuous and fleeting - but we make them so grand in our memory and in our minds that we actually cause our own suffering of them. In a flash, they go from "grandma" to "hag."

We humans love our suffering. We love to have a story to tell that makes our friends gasp in agreement with us about how awfully we were treated, and how horrible that other person is - compared to ourselves who would NEVER do such a thing.

It's true -  I have never turned away anyone who really needed to use the bathroom, but I must admit that since this incident I have been hyper-aware of all of the small ways in which I know I cause suffering to others - from my short temper to my lead foot. I'm sure I do it all the time, often without even noticing.

By the time my trip to Naples was over, I had successfully tucked away the drama of "the hag" and had diffused the emotions that came with it. This is only the second time I've even told this story. The first time, I shared it with a friend at work over a cup of tea, and we both laughed until, well, until we nearly wet our pants.

Imagine what the world would be like if we took our ability to make others suffer more seriously, but took our own suffering with a sip of Chamomile and a laugh.

Peace,
Julie