The Soul of the West: Cross-Country Trip, part 1

I fell in love with the continent and country I call home all over again as I drove across country with my sister and brother-in-law. We packed into my sister’s truck with her massive German Shepherd that always wanted more of my seat than I was willing to part with and towing her restless Thoroughbred mare. I fell in love, not with an abstract idea, or a government, or a flag—but with the beauty of the land and the culture of its people, especially in the tiny, rural towns that dot the nation. All is not well in the American countryside, it is true. There were plenty of trucks guzzling a good portion of the world’s oil to deliver food and goods over long distances, there was GMO corn everywhere, and horrible plastic tasting food at every rest stop. But there were also friendly and helpful small-town clerks, stunning mountain lakes, welcoming horse boarders, and incredible local cheeses.

We started out early from my hometown and I think I teared up a bit driving away from the only place in the world that I think of as home. But a new adventure awaited me and I felt a bit like Bilbo from The Hobbit (a book conveniently tucked away in the back seat), trudging away, half excited, half dreading the long five day trip that lay ahead.

When we crossed the Cascades under the shadow of Mt. Baker, I was amazed, as always, at the distinction between the two sides of the state. On one side, my own side, we have enough rain and clouds to create part of the largest temperate rain forest on the continent. But as you start down the pass on the eastern side, the landscape gives way to dry expanses of farmland and even some high desert. My sister was thrilled to watch the tumbleweed. We might get all the rain, but our eastern neighbors get the long growing season.

The neck of Idaho gave us fantastic views of glacier fed rivers and lakes nestled in the heart of more conifer forests. No matter where I am in the world, I am a sucker for mountains. And they just kept getting bigger. In Montana, one of the least densely populated states in the country, we entered the great Continental Divide, full of signs for fishing and hunting and the occasional Bible verse. Butte showed signs of deep mining, cutting massive holes into the earth and rendering the land useless for anything else in future generations. But the mountains kept coming and running rivers followed us on our way as we drove through vast stretches of public land.

When I was greeted by a store clerk in Idaho with; “Hello, ma’am, have a great day!” I knew I was still in small town U.S.A. where hospitality is a way of life. At gas stations and corner diners, people always greeted us and sometimes helped guide the unwieldy trailer out of gas station stalls. I felt right at home in my flannel shirts and boots.

I was highly amused in a Montana gas station stop by the items for sale. There were special brands of huckleberry chocolates, soaps, and candies, a testimony to someone’s entrepreneurship in marketing a local (and may I say, delicious) product. On the magazine rack, cowboy magazines mingled with “Creation Magazine” and the “Biblical Archeological Review,” a testimony to the power of a peculiarly American form of fundamentalism. What I had to buy, though, were the postcards in black and white of various Montana activities. Two men fishing—why, that was a stress reduction seminar. Meet someone driving by in a pickup? That’s the communications network. And a treehugger? Well, those are obvious out of towners holding on to trees for dear life as grizzlies sniff the air underneath their flailing legs. This last one—well, I suppose I am a treehugger at heart, as you might surmise by my last post. But I understand the point. With urban environmentalists, we rural folks sometimes feel like they think of nature as a giant teddy bear to be embraced. It may be that, but it is also cruel and unpredictable, both a giver of life and a destroyer. This dark side seems to be missed by many a treehugger.

We left the giant trees and towering mountains behind when we crossed into North Dakota. We entered into the land of rich farmlands and grassland. Its little shops on the roadside had a more eclectic feel and I finally saw a herd of bison. As we moved east, the rivers were growing smaller and cornfields were growing larger. We stopped at the far east end of the state for the night, navigating through tractor roads between fields of soybeans and corn to find the stable for the horse. My sister was frustrated after an hour of bumping through the fields and I was trying to keep from laughing when I wasn’t holding on for dear life. Why did I sign up to drive this part anyway? Well, at least I was driving to the beat of Reba McEntire’s “I’m a survivor.” And the tires weren't stuck in the mud yet.

We drove through an enormous mono-cropped farm with a runoff facility that smelled so bad we could barely breathe. Monsanto dutifully had an office nearby, clearly supplying the patented seeds that have replaced the small farm varieties of a half century ago. The only living thing that seemed to survive the invasion of pesticide infested corn and soybeans were the wild sunflowers smiling with bright yellow faces on the edges of the fields. With small farmers pushed out and large, corporate farms dominating American agriculture, our food quality is going downhill. After all, I was standing (or bumping over) some of the richest bottomland in the country (known as the “Red River Valley”), but all there was to eat was highly processed, corn fed hamburgers or chicken on white buns and served with plastic tasting fries that had been trucked in from who knows where and sold by giant multinational chains. Oh, and I could also buy corn syrup sodas flavored with caffeine. My stomach was in revolt.

When we finally arrived at the stable, we were met by a middle aged couple living in between the cornstalks with a small herd of horses. We gratefully left the horse to find a place to sleep.

The Trees

I walked through the farm I grew up in; I said goodbye for a time; I said goodbye to the trees. The wispy little Vine Maple, not much larger than when I was a child, reminded me of the joys of childhood and the mystery of the world around me. I remembered the time I stepped out into the dark and a large elk stood under its branches, looking straight at me. I walked further to my sacred spot, the spot I used to watch the sun set every night, the place I found peace. With my mom’s dog business, it is much louder, but the stand of Hemlocks is still there, especially the large one that towers over the cleared field. I stood and the tree whispered to me of peace. I lingered a bit, thinking of all that I had learned and experienced. “Don’t forget us.” I took a sprig from its branches and walked on under the old spruce, a tree from which I never emerged without sap all over my hands and clothes. I also remembered dreaming up a story underneath it as a child. “I gave you creativity,” it reminded me. I smiled and moved on.

The stand of alders was next. “You taught me how to dance,” I told them. We had a swing at one time set up there and there was still a spot in the dirt where we used to slow ourselves down, draging our feet. The great Hemlock near the barn loomed ahead. “You taught me to love the trees,” I said. I would sit under that tree many times, enjoying its shade. I looked down the hillside, toward the trees our goats used to love to graze under. I learned hard work there, I learned there. I looked back as I left. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will be back.” I knew the forest trees of my childhood would always be with me.

As I stepped out toward the house, getting ready to leave, I picked up a hawk feather.

Cat Theology

I sat with my friend on her porch, having what she called “coffee with God.” We sat in comfortable silence, watching the cat for a moment. For a few minutes, my mind was racing for something to say, maybe even something profound. It is easy, as a seminary student, to think that I need something useful to say, something that will be insightful and provocative. Nothing came. So I went back to watching the cat. My friend laughed and wondered if there was anything such thing as “cat theology.” But I still had nothing profound or even moderately interesting to say. So I just watched the cat. The cat rubbed against our legs and stalked out past the garden of peas and kale to pause in the grass and the sun. His green eyes watched everything.

I never did come up with anything to say. My fuzzy morning mind just thought about the cat. As we came to a close, I suddenly realized that the cat was a great theology teacher. He was living in the moment, basking in the joy of simply being. He had no particular agenda, no need for a speech or great idea. He just lived for the sun and the grass and human touch. On the porch that day, I had a moment to simply be. I wondered if that wasn’t the greatest gift of all. I needed more time to simply be, to revel in the natural world, to notice the sun on my face and the shoots in the garden and the bird flitting in the trees.

Thoughts at a Deathbed

I have spent a lot of time at deathbeds this summer. It has reminded me of all the people I have known and loved who have died. It has also made me think about my own theology and spirituality around death. Last week, I sat with a man who was begging his brother to hang in there, to keep breathing. The prognosis was not good and the man was so thin and so frail that he looked like he would leave at any moment. This family had done everything—tubes, heart surgery, more tubes, and yet now here he was, battered and fighting to breathe and still the brother begs him to stay alive. My heart went out to both men as I sat at the bedside. I understand wanting to do everything you can to save the life of the one you love. I would want the same.

But sometimes I wonder, at what cost? Can we, who have learned to go to great lengths to save a life, also learn to let go?

I wonder if we thought of death in a more positive and holistic way; what would change? Death for family members is a great loss. But what if we could also think about death as a great passage, as part of the whole cycle of life, as something to celebrate as well as to mourn? Could we, instead of avoiding it at all costs, embrace it as a part of life?

We resist death so much in this culture. We don’t want to accept it and we don’t know how to celebrate it. Yet, it can be celebrated. It is a vital part of life. Where are our ceremonies allowing the departed to leave? Where are our vigils, preparing the loved one for death? Where is the chanting, the mourning, the letting go? We are so busy fighting that there is no time to usher out the dying in peace. It is part of the great cycle of life—just as fall gives way to winter and the tree dies to give life the soil. Just like the sun sets after it rises and the river melts into the wide ocean. It is part of the journey, the life cycle that is greater than us and goes on after us.

It has become a practice on nights when I come back from these events, to spend time under the night sky and under the stars. I find being outside in the world, in nature, tremendously healing. It reminds me of the vastness of the web of life and the cycle of life and death that we witness and participate in.

Healing and Tragedy

This week, my CPE group was deeply impacted by a now public event earlier this week. Early Tuesday morning, a woman came into the emergency room, gave birth in the ER bathroom, and left the baby tied up in the trash can. Thankfully, a nurse discovered the child shortly afterwards and resuscitated him. The baby has survived and was airlifted to a larger hospital. The mother is now in the Thurston County Jail.

The news has been all over the story, reporting that the woman had come into the ER claiming to be a cancer patient and that her boyfriend had no idea she was pregnant. The event has been shocking and difficult for everyone. I have struggled with two conflicting emotions. First, concern for the baby, who was pre-term and nearly died. Second, I have struggled with trying to understand the mother.

What depth of pain, despair, and desperation would lead a mother to throw a baby in the trash? Of course, people and media judge her harshly. I do not underestimate the horror of the situation, nor this woman’s responsibility for harming her child. But I also wonder how healing can be found in a situation like this.

I think of this woman, now sitting in a jail cell, with little or no access to mental health workers, spiritual care, or support of any kind. She is a criminal and so has lost all right to be treated as fully human. Our society has designed a criminal justice system that is punitive, not healing. This woman, who clearly struggles with mental health issues, will likely have little access to anything that will help her. The most likely scenario is that she will become less and less able to live as a responsible member of the community. When society seeks to punish, we only continue the cycle of violence.

What is it in communities that we need to punish instead of heal? How can a community facilitate a process of healing and forgiveness? Can we, as a community, forgive such a terrible act and work toward restoration?

People near the situation who had part in the care of the baby cannot find it in their hearts to forgive. And I don’t think they have to. If the child survives, he will probably never forgive the woman who just threw him away. And he should not have to. But, in the wider community, can a place be found for healing the woman who, in an act of perverse desperation, abandoned a tiny life?

How is CPE going?

Everyone keeps asking me, "How is CPE going?" For those of you who don't know what it is, it is "Clinical Pastoral Education," a program designed to give an intensive unit of hospital chaplaincy and group processing and required by many mainline denominations before ordination. It is a great idea-- make sure that the people you are going to ordain have experience with the hidden and painful sides of human existence (and with their own hidden demons around that) before sending them off.


I am doing an intensive summer unit in Olympia, WA. On one hand, I had difficulty adjusting to working in a hospital environment. Not only is it a vast institution with little natural light and lots of activity, it is terribly impersonal. There is a vast system, in which everyone present is simply a cog in the wheel. Patients are numbered and checked, everyone has a specialized place to be. Chaplains are assigned to make sure that people stay calm during this loss of control, that they can find the inner strength to fight their personal demons. However, I have also met amazing people who do amazing work.

And I enjoy talking with patients. I’ve had wonderful conversations—some spiritual and some not so much. I have chatted with a cancer patient about his dogs, prayed with a woman who is dying, listened to a family’s midnight heartbreak when husband and father unexpectedly died, and played cards with patients in the psychiatric unit. I have fallen in love with people all over again. I have also been learning that my ministry style is primarily listening to people tell their stories. I do not come to rooms with a toolkit of advice, just with a listening ear. And I find Christ among those I talk with. This is a deeply spiritual experience for me. When I pray in the morning in the chapel, I often stand before the crucifix and pray to see the crucified Christ in the people I meet with. And, without fail, I do.

Class and Activists

The more I think about it, the more I realize how we will never build a real, effective movement for change if we do not recognize class differences. I have noticed my own struggles as a working class woman in middle class organizing situations. There are strong cultural differences that get in the way. Here are some that I have noticed…

•Middle class, especially young, activists are proud of their subculture of healthy food, scruffy clothes, and communal living. I understand this, and even participate in some of it, but it is still jarring for me to walk into a young college activist group. I grew up in a working class family, where cleanliness, good hygiene, and home cooked meat and potatoes or great enchiladas were the norm.

•Middle class activists are strongly anti-military. I am both a pacifist (and strongly anti-war) and have family members in the military. For working class and rural people, the military is a source of economic survival and many young people who feel they have no other options join. Middle class activists often don’t seem to understand this reality and can make blanket assumptions and cruel comments about military personal.

•Middle class radicals love the earth. They may even grow an organic garden on a city lot. As a rural farm girl, however, I am amused by the lack of practical understanding that urban, middle class activists have of rural living. For example, urban environmental activists won a great victory in the 90s when they were able to shut down national forests to logging. However, for the people of my hometown, that also meant that the local economy collapsed. Poverty has skyrocketed and fueled a mass exodus from the area. I grew up in the forests and love them deeply, but I also feel deeply for the people who lost their jobs. Isn’t there a way that rural people and environmentalists could have worked together to find a solution that would benefit all?

•There are a lot of stereotypes of rural, working class people. They are rednecks, homophobes, backwards… and the list goes on. Sometimes radical middle class activists use these stereotypes themselves. The reality is that working class culture in general can be rich in hospitality, acceptance, and community.

•The response of people on the left that irritates me the most is the insinuation that working class people are less intelligent, especially if they are more conservative. There is a crass elitism in these assumptions. The accusation that working people are simply stupid, brainwashed, and uneducated is insulting. Some of the most intelligent people I know never went to college.