Summer shifts

Isn't summer time a strange reality? I don't mean summertime, but summer time. You would think that there is more time in the summer, at least for those of us whose lives no longer have classes to prepare and teach and no longer have papers to grade. And yet, it seems to me that I actually have less time. I don't really, of course. But there is something about getting into summer mode that shifts time a little. I guess thinking you have more time somehow causes the time to shrink. I guess it's really just the simply old adage reversed. As the task expands to fill the time allotted, so the time unallotted expands into various tasks, many unintended.

All this to say: sorry I haven't been doing more blogging.

And one other observation about the strangeness of summer shifts. I just answered an email from a student from last semester and, without thinking twice about it, signed off with my first name. I'm not only in summer time, but in my summertime persona.

Brewery sampler

Sorry, friends, for the radio silence. I was working on a conference paper. Now, I'm sitting at the Elliott Bay Brewery in Burien, Washington, waiting for a friend. My companions for now are words. Words to read, words to write.

Oh yeah, and the small friends pictured above. Life is good.

Coolclan Public Service Announcement

From time to time, I link to stories from the Coolclan blog. Coolclan is changing their privacy settings, but will happily welcome my readers. If you want to be added as a "reader"at the Coolclan blog send your email addy to coolclanblog (at) hotmail.com.

Ready for something big?

This afternoon, Paul and I (with several others) spoke on a panel about why we need an independent clubhouse in Rhode Island, and how we hope to open Harbor House in Providence by October 2010. Paul and I are experts on clubhouses because he was a member of a clubhouse called Threshold when we lived in North Carolina. It was my job to tell a bit about what Threshold was like and how it made both Paul's life (as a person living with a severe mental illness) and my life (as his family member) better.

I asked people to focus on three words: member, community, and work. I said a bit more than this, but basically I said that Threshold was the only time I can remember in Paul's adult life where he had a community around him who was invested in him for his own sake. (As opposed to my wonderful friends who are friends with him largely for my sake, and as opposed to mental health professionals who service his needs, but have no real investment in him.) I also talked about how the community only functioned when the members worked to make it function, but that meant that Paul (like every member) was expected to work and to contribute. This is very different from how he is treated anywhere else in his life. Here he is a member, not a patient or a client or a resident. He belongs and contributes.

We had planned it so that Paul's part would be more question-and-answer than monologue. Ralph, the executive director of Harbor House, asked Paul some great specific questions about his experiences at Threshold. And Paul answered. You have to understand how often I have tried to pry words out of Paul and was lucky to get "Fine" or a yes or no. Paul answered well. He told about the work units he was a part of and how much he enjoyed the fellowship at Threshold. At the end of Paul's part of the panel, Ralph asked him why he wants to be part of a clubhouse again. He said, "I think it will help with my recovery." I was hoping he would say a little more, so I leaned over and said, "Can you say how it will help?" He sort of mentioned fellowship again and I was sort of afraid he had hit the end and just had no words left, and then all of a sudden, he just whipped out something like, "Clubhouses make it possible for people to live well with mental illness. We need them."

I was so proud. I really don't think I've ever heard Paul say so much, and to speak in public like that ... I was really surprised and delighted that he did so well. I took him out to dinner afterwards and we talked a bit about all this. He was very pleased with himself as well, which was great. We decided that he really is doing much better than he's done in a long time, perhaps since the onset of his illness. At a certain point he said to me, "I think I'm ready for something big." He didn't really have a sense of what that would be, but it suddenly feels like it might be just around the bend.

Mother's Day Reflections

Mother's Day can be a hard day for a woman who has already lost her own mother (far too young) and who has no children of her own. It's often particularly hard for me, because of how it gets treated in church. Despite the practice of many churches, Mother's Day is not actually a liturgical feast day, but like Memorial Day and Fourth of July, it often takes over the liturgy on its particular Sunday.

I conveniently enough (for completely other reasons) arranged to attend the Saturday vigil last night and managed to avoid the worst of it. I came across this the other day, though (hat tip: RM). Though it doesn't quite say how I feel about Mother's Day, it says a lot of things that resonate with me about being childless on Mother's Day.

However, I also came across this (hat tip: HTC), the story of a woman who gave her son up for adoption. I was very grateful to be reading it this morning. It, along with the other, reminded me that I am not the only woman in the world with a complex relationship with this day.

One other thing about mothers today. I was reading, as I often do, some posts in one of my Facebook groups (Bring Change 2 Mind) that tends to focus on mental illness issues. As you might imagine, in such a group, many people have complex relationships with their own mothers. I found myself very grateful for my own mom and the fact that the only pain I have in our relationship is that it was too short.

And, for better or worse, I will think no more about Mother's Day today, but only grading papers.

A good semester

Pretty early this semester, I knew something was a little different in my classes. I still don't know what the cause was, though I have three theories.

But proof before theories. Well, I can't really prove it, but here's what convinced me in the last few days. I was giving oral exams, which is mostly very fun, because most of the students have really prepared well and they really know their stuff, which is great to see "live," as opposed to reading it later in a blue book. But I had more students than I can count shake my hand and say to me, with convincing sincerity and enthusiasm, that they really enjoyed the class, quite an achievement for a core requirement.

But there were 3 moments that just bowled me over, in some very different ways. First, a student (and not one who seemed to be particularly connected to me nor particularly affectionate) thanked me for the class and I reached out to shake his hand. He looked at me as though offended, said "Come on!" Then he pulled me into a hug. It was so unexpected. And it hit me that the course hit him in a more-than-intellectual way.

Second, one of my students told me, as several of them had, that she enjoyed my class much more than she thought she would, since it was just a core requirement. I thanked her, nodded and said that she wasn't the first to say that. I didn't mean that to sound dismissive, but apparently it did. She launched into something of a defense. She explained that she had sort of come to think that core requirements (like philosophy and theology) were old and irrelevant, and her major field (economics) is contemporary and relevant. She said that my course (Catholic social thought) helped her think about everything differently and helped her see how everything was connected. Wow.

Third, another student finished the exam and asked for a minute to tell me something. She told me that she hadn't really been to church since she was confirmed several years ago. She told me that she thought of the church as out of touch, as making pronouncements but not really concerned about anything real and significant. She told me that my class showed her a different face of the church and made it possible for her to begin to go back. Double wow.

Certainly some of my students have reacted a bit like this before, but I really have not heard so much directly from them before. Still curious about my theories about what was different? Well, one is that the clickers I used (a student-response system) helped all the students to get more invested in the class and in one another sooner. Second, I had a group of students that already knew each other, and perhaps they helped everyone else to connect a bit more than usual. Third is simply that I am more known on campus than I was a couple of years ago. More students come into my class having seen me give a lecture on campus or having had a friend or a roommate who already had my class. Maybe all of these are factors; maybe none are.

Like many people who teach, early in my career, I used to say, "If I can make a difference in the life of one student, it's worth it." It didn't take me too long to learn that I actually need a bit more than that. To have 50 or more students in a semester and to only make a difference in the life of one can be pretty frustrating. But this semester, this semester has been a good one.

Cinco de Mayo

Happy Cinco de Mayo to all!

In my life, Cinco de Mayo is always definitively my brother Paul's birthday. We celebrated a bit last night and will do so again this weekend. And, thanks to a friend of ours, Paul is promised a day of surfing when the weather gets warmer, so the celebration will continue in a month or two.

I've been thinking a lot about Paul lately and what he means to me. His birthday gives a particular occasion to reflect upon the years going by, and the wonderful gift that time together brings. I was reminded of a post that I wrote last October, especially this part.

The reality of the thing is that I--like most family members of people with a severe persistent mental illness--often feel very isolated. People sort of share the burden and sort of understand; people try. But it is impossible to convey, even to those who know me well, what it means to remember my brother not simply as this semi-stable though unpredictable and socially awkward man, but also as the sweet baby, slightly devilish boy, troubled teen, and truly psychotic young adult. To carry that whole history with him in a way that no one else does (not even our brothers who mostly haven't seen him in years) is a gift and a burden.

If I had to judge Paul only on some of those most psychotic moments--well, it would be hard to be in any sort of relationship with him. But, through the gift--unexpected, unsought, but given--of having years of closeness with Paul, everything balances out. Don't imagine some sort of perfect balance as you read that. But, somehow, having seen the psychosis, the sadness, the mania, the various forms of cognitive dysfunction, I know this is an illness. And that is a gift. Knowing that gets me through the times (so few of late, thank God) when Paul's behavior would be nearly unforgivable without that knowledge. (It is odd, because in a way this means that the very worst times are what get you through the moderately bad times.)

As I said in October, that gift is also a burden. At dinner last night, Paul and I had a couple of moments where we were sharing stories from the past. It was so clear to me how often he had completely forgotten pretty crucial stories. I realized that part of my responsibility is to remember the story and to tell it, including to Paul.

May is Mental Health Month

May, though it apparently has some other identities as well, has been designated Mental Health Month. Of course, in my life, most months are mental health months. I seldom need an excuse to turn this blog to the topic of mental illness, but I will try to make particular efforts to hit some key stories.

I'll try harder after I get my grades in.

But for now, just this. Although the mental health issues in my family are on the severe side of things, I am reminded again and again of just how prevalent these issues are. In my 3 classes, I had fewer than 50 students this semester, and 3 of them mentioned to me that they are now struggling or have in the past struggled with a major mental mental illness. That's just the 3 who found their way to my office and for whatever reason trusted me enough to say something. I heard a bit more about roommates and friends.

So many of us are struggling with mental illness issues. I wonder what it would take to end the stigma. I really believe that there is so much healing in sharing our stories.

Revisionist history

My favorite picture from last year's NAMIWalk is now historically inaccurate, but grammatically correct. Thanks to Diana for taking the picture and Adam for fixing it. And, for those of you who don't know or remember, the shirt was printed (printer's error, not mine!): "Because mental illness is to tough a road to walk alone." And yes, I got free replacements, but not until after the walk. A grammatically-sensitive person's nightmare!

And no, it's not too early to sign up for this year's walk. The walk is scheduled for the morning of Saturday, October 2nd, in Roger Williams Park. You can join the team here.

Hard but good

I spent the past weekend in St. Louis doing a training that will allow me to train other people to teach in NAMI's Family to Family program. I blogged about some of my experiences of teaching in this program before. I'll tell you what I've been telling folks for the past couple of days: it was a hard but good weekend. Spending a weekend with people who have a family member with a serious mental illness is never easy. Every family has its own story of unpredictable behavior, difficulty understanding what is going on, struggle to get a clear diagnosis, more struggle for treatment, and a hundred little dark moments along the way. And did I mention the suicide attempts? And, worse, in some cases those were successful. So much pain and loss and grief.

It is hard to hear story after story, and hard to tell your own. It is also incredibly good. I saw and experienced in sort of a compressed way what I have seen and experienced in my Family to Family classes. It is an amazing thing to watch families with these particular kinds of stories find one another, share their frustrations and their losses and somehow discover two very basic truths. (1) We are not alone. (2) There is hope.

Somehow, the goodness of the community and the hope seem to outweigh the pain and the tragedy. Our presence in the room and our commitment to the program testify to that. Everyone in that room was going to go home and keep telling their stories, keep teaching others, keep reaching out to try to give other families a few more resources, a few more skills to get them through. And, probably much more important, the reminder that they are not alone, that there is hope. It isn't easy, but it is good.

(If you want to donate to NAMI, one great way to do that is to support our team for NAMIwalks here.)

Good fences?

I've been thinking a lot about fencing in my backyard. I think of it mostly as a way to allow my dog to run around off-leash. But lately, I've been thinking about privacy.

There are two brothers who live in the house behind mine, probably about 13 and 11. I happened to look out my back window the other day and I saw the two of them running around playing soccer. Catch number 1: the older brother mostly stayed in his own yard, but the younger kept following the ball into my yard and running around a bit. Not really a big deal, until the second catch.

Second catch: both brothers were rockin' the oh-so-cool jeans-at-a-level-that-you-show-about-6- inches-of-your-underwear look. The older one wasn't so bad. But the younger one simply could not keep his pants at that level. He kept adjusting them back there when there was a break in the action, but most of the time, he was running around in off-white briefs with his pants around his knees or ankles. Not really a good look on anyone.

So, anyone up for a fence-building party?

The Widow's Mite

I know, the story of the widow who gives more than all the rest in giving her two cents is not really a story you hear on the second Sunday of Easter, but here's why this story is on my mind today.

I generally write one check a month for my "tithe" to my church. I put that in quotes because I don't want to imply that I actually manage 10%. But I do manage regular giving, most of the time. I aim for the first Sunday of the month, but many months (like this one), I don't quite manage to remember until a week or two later. Ah well....

So today, I had my envelope ready to go. At the offertory, I handed it to my brother with two thoughts in mind. The first was simple logistics: he was closer to the end of the pew; it just seemed easier. But, secondly, it did cross my mind that it might help him feel like he was giving something. A perhaps overstatedly evil, but not unfair, way to put it: I thought I'd give him the illusion of making a real contribution by letting him hand mine in.

He took the envelope from me but he also dug into his own pocket and pulled out a quarter. I actually almost stopped him. I mean, that quarter means a lot more to him on his fixed income (with his nicotine addiction!) than it does to the parish. I almost told him to keep it.

I'm really glad I didn't. He gave far more than I did, and who am I to stop that? I often find myself wondering what sort of calculus God will use to judge Paul. (Okay, really, it is more primary for me to wonder what battles I should fight with Paul, what to hold him accountable to and what to let go, and only by extension wonder the divine calculus of such things.) But, suddenly it seems clear that the story of the widow's mite must loom large here.

I don't just mean that in terms of financial donations. The widow did not have much, yet she gave all she had. When I pause and think about the way Paul's illness deforms and distorts his own intellectual gifts, even his personality, let alone his finances, I think that surely he is giving all he has. And surely God, who knows Paul and his illness in their fullness, sees his challenges and what he gives in their fullness. And like the widow, may Paul be judged not on how much he puts in the collection basket, but on how he manages to give "all his living" (to twist one translation of the widow's story). For surely Paul gives "all his living" just getting through the day.

And still, somehow, a quarter for the church.

Footwashing

No, I didn't get my feet washed tonight, and I didn't wash any feet. But I did go to Mass of the Lord's Supper and watched my pastor wash feet. And I found myself thinking about a couple of footwashing experiences I've had, and I thought I'd tell you two stories.

About 10 years ago, I spent Holy Week (which was also my spring break that year) at Andre House in Phoenix, Arizona. At the time, Andre House was feeding about 800 people every night. I helped all week. But on Holy Thursday, they did something pretty special. They set up about 8-10 chairs. Anyone who came through the line and who wanted to could sit down and get their feet washed, their nails trimmed, and a new pair of socks.

I didn't end up getting to wash any feet that night. My job, pretty much the whole night long, was dumping dirty water and bringing fresh water so that those who were washing could keep at it. It was a pretty amazing thing to see the folks (at least one priest, some staff, some volunteers) sit people down and treat them with care and compassion. It was actually a very, very profound moment where you saw something that was pretty efficient, and yet everyone was also treated with profound dignity and respect. It was really amazing to watch.

At the end of the night, there was finally no one else waiting, but I had brought more fresh water, and one of the footwashers invited me to sit down and have my feet washed. I gently refused. Funny thing: I have never had so much sympathy for St. Peter! I really didn't feel worthy: not to sit in the same seat that "the least of these" had occupied all night, not to have this young volunteer wash my own smelly feet. He insisted; gently, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. I remember feeling vulnerable, exposed. I remember also feeling soothed, comforted, cared for. It was powerful.

A few years later, I had been drafted into some pretty serious volunteer work at a parish. And the priest and I had a few issues along the way. Quite a few. It was hard. And somehow--I forget how--I was asked to have my feet washed on Holy Thursday. Actually, truth be told, I was pretty much told I was expected. Typical, really. And then, somehow, there he was: humbly washing feet. My feet.

There is an intimacy in this act, and it is hard to be angry at someone who does this for you. It makes forgiveness that had seemed impossible seem possible. It can change everything. It is no wonder that Jesus did this. For Peter. For Judas. For all of us.

Haunted by family history

Most of the people who knew my father know that he was obsessed with family history. He researched and compiled and always checked things out on travels. One of my great memories of him is a trip I took with him to the town of Snow, Georgia, where a first cousin of my mom's whom neither of us ever remembered meeting put us up and gave us a tour of the town cemeteries, focusing on our ancestors' graves. Best moment: we're standing before his grandmother's grave (my great-grandmother's) and he says, "You know, that funeral might have been the last time I saw your mama." I looked at the headstone and expressed doubt that my mom had been able to make that trip. He insisted. I said, "No way. She had just given birth to me 3 weeks before." Without missing a beat, he replied, "Look at that! We have met before. You were here, too!" Sure enough, my dad vouched for the fact that my mom made the trip with me along for the ride.

Anyway, I say all this because, at some point in the last week, looking for something else entirely, I came across the binder I have that represents the "best summary" of all my dad's work on family history. And I've been playing around with it on ancestry.com. And I've already made some amazing discoveries. Of course, I wonder what my dad might have known or suspected about these things. I always felt like dad was a little more interested in connecting the dots than in the stories, so who knows.

So, just logistically, I want you to picture this. I have this big binder with all this information (I haven't even typed in half of what I have yet). And as I put in each new name, about 80% of the time, the system suggests hints to me--other people's trees, sometimes census records, or even pictures (usually of headstones)--but usually, the parents' names come up and I confirm that it's the same as (or close) to my dad's info and import it.

I'm paying a lot of attention to people in Massachusetts and Connecticut (of which there are quite a few), because I'm so close and I'm starting to think a pilgrimage might be in order. (Actually, I'm realizing that had my dad lived to the point that I moved here, he would have moved in with me and used my place as a base for exploring our New England roots.)

Anyway, my head was spinning a bit because I discovered my Great x 10 grandfather Benjamin Scott was born in 1612 (dad actually had the name and the birth year) and was married (1642) and buried (1654) in Rowley, Massachusetts, which really isn't far away at all. So, I'm kind of excited and thinking about a trip. As I look at Rowley on the map, I admit that two of its neighbors stood out for their historical significance: Plymouth and Salem. But I really didn't think much about it. And then I clicked on the picture someone had linked to his wife, Margaret Stephenson Scott. I could see from the thumbnail that it was a headstone, which didn't surprise me in the least. But what I saw written there shocked me:

In case you can't make it out with the shading: Margaret Scott, Hanged, Sept 22, 1692. Did I mention that Rowley is in the greater Salem area? If you want to read more on her story, here's a page from another of her descendants.

Let me simply say this. One of the things I read on her conviction suggests that she was a widow who had had some sort of difficulty raising her kids. I'm not sure what that means. It looks like she gave birth to 11, but only about half made it beyond the age of 10. That certainly wasn't uncommon. Most of her adult children seemed to be flourishing in a little town 50 miles west by the time of the execution. One does wonder why she didn't go with them.

I want to be careful how I say this next part. I think the Salem witch trials were all about hysteria, about a panicked reaction to threats ranging from sicknesses to deaths and raids at the hands of natives. I think it beyond bizarre that they regularly admitted the testimony of people who said they saw specters and likenesses of people harming people and that was often enough for convictions. But it also seems to me that people who "play well with others" are likely not going to be accused of witchcraft. And, given our recent family history, I do find myself wondering if mental illness might not have been a factor.

Of course, Margaret may simply have been the victim of even more mundane dynamics: she was a poor widow whose husband had only left her a small estate and whose children had left town even before their father died. But it seems like those same dynamics might correspond to a woman who struggled with mental health issues.

Either way, I find myself haunted by this finding on so many levels. So strange to discover a family connection to such an infamous event in history.

What so proudly we hail

As many of my readers know, I'm always alert to incidents that raise the question of the relative importance of our allegiances to God and country. So, when a request to sign this petition crossed my awareness today, I signed. The quick summary (to save you the link) is that Goshen College, a Mennonite institution with a century-old tradition of NOT playing the national anthem before its sporting events, has changed that practice in the face of public pressure, which took the form of about 300 emails received in response to the mention of this practice in an NPR piece.

I think that, pacifist or no, every Christian (in fact, every religious person in this country) ought to be appalled to see (to some extent) this sort of pressure, and (much, much more so) this sort of caving. I also think that a long tradition of protesters who are actually best described by no other term than "American" ought also to be appalled that patriotism in this country apparently must take this particular ritual form.

But, honestly, I'm more concerned about the Christians. I found myself thinking a lot of the time when I was teaching high school theology in Victoria, Texas. Every morning, a voice on the P.A. would ask us to stand for the pledge, which we would all do. Then, we were invited to be seated for prayer. This struck me as quite odd. The flag must be stood before, but God ... not so much. Of course, the "prayer" for the most part didn't address God so much as serve as a little spiritual thought for the day--the "Footprints" poem or something from Chicken Soup for the Soul.

My little chat with the principal resulted in two small victories, one immediate and one kicking in a few weeks later. We were soon asked to "stand for the prayer and the pledge," so God was moved to relatively equal footing with the flag. And before too long, as students began to complain about having to stand so long, prayer began to get shorter and shorter. In general, this meant it became more an actual prayer, which was a good thing.

It is strange--and even more so that we don't think about how strange it is--that our devotions to God and to Caesar have become so intertwined here in the U.S. I am thankful for all the people and institutions that gently (or not so gently) point it out and question it. In general, the Mennonites have been such a group. I hope and pray that they will continue to be so.

Way to go, Saints!

I don't care much about professional football. I'm much more into the college game.

But I've found myself in the past week or so really hoping the New Orleans Saints would pull off a win in Superbowl XLIV. And now they have.

Why do I care? Well, my mom grew up in New Orleans, and I have all kinds of cousins and aunts and uncles who have always been Saints fans. Not that my mom really cared that much about football, but I know she would have been happy with this victory.

And what a strange and wonderful thing that, thinking about my mom and my aunts and uncles who have died but who would love this, I keep hearing the song (either playing in the background somewhere, or simply in my head as I recall the victory) "Oh when the saints go marching in ... how I want to be in that number ... when the saints go marching in." I certainly hope and pray that all my beloved dead (and yours!) are in that number, and that you and I will be in it as well.

Scarcely restraining tears

I'm thinking this morning of something St. Augustine said about the pervasive sadness of the plight of the mentally ill. He writes, "Crazy people say and do many incongruous things, things for the most part alien to their intentions and their characters, certainly contrary to their good intentions and characters; and when we think about their words and actions, or see them with our eyes, we can scarcely -- or possibly we cannot at all -- restrain our tears, if we consider their situation as it deserves to be considered."

I'm thinking of this for two reasons this morning. One is that a friend has invited and encouraged me to think a bit more intentionally about theology and mental illness. The other is the fact that a moment last night with Paul--funny in the moment--has left me feeling the sadness of his plight in a particular way today.

Paul is now going with me to monthly Harbor House meetings, and we had one last night. He does really well. He sits there patiently through about 90 minutes of what must be to him (and are sometimes to me!) very boring logistical details concerning the work needed to make Harbor House a reality.

Paul's major incentive for this, in addition to the long-term promise of being a part of the clubhouse and the always-lovely prospect of spending time with his favorite sister, is the more immediate promise that I'll take him out to dinner afterwards. This is all good. But on last night's adventure, we had one of those little moments that reminds me (in a funny little way) how deeply devastating his illness is.

So, last night we left the meeting and headed to a not-too-far-away Mexican restaurant. I basically knew where I was going, but had one of those minor navigational mix-ups where I pull up to a light at a certain intersection in the right hand lane. Once stopped at the light, I realized that this was in fact the LEFT turn I was looking for.

So, I cursed a little. Paul asked me what was wrong. I explained. In fact, I went into a bit of a monologue that lasted until after the light turned. "Lemme see. Maybe if I put on my blinker and get this guy's attention I can ... no, I can't really turn left here. Shoot! Going to have to go up there and turn around... don't worry, Paul, we're almost there. You hungry?" "Starving!" "Me, too!"

I thought he was paying attention. He offered some (brief) responses! And then I did the thing we've all done a thousand times. I took the first left I could take safely, which took me onto a residential street. I turned into the first driveway to turn around. And all of a sudden, Paul bursts out (I think he was both surprised and angry), "Hey! Why are we coming here? I thought we were going to that Mexican place!" I actually kind of forgot how distracted he gets sometimes and thought he was joking, so I said, "What? You wouldn't rather knock on these strangers' door and see what they'll feed us?" He was horrified at the suggestion (I mean, he had EARNED that Mexican food by sitting through that meeting). Backing out of the driveway I said, "Paul, I'm just turning around."

We were at the restaurant in less than 2 minutes and all was well. In fact, I was chuckling the whole way. What a funny thing that he somehow thought we were going to that house! But it stayed with me and began to eat away at me. This isn't just one of MY funny moments, one of those misunderstandings we all have, because we missed something important in the conversation. This is about his inability to stay with a conversation, to focus, to follow a thread. I think it's actually easier to get used the idea of hallucinations and delusions than just how hard it is for him to really stay focused, to pay attention to the aspects of the world that seem so obvious to the rest of us.

People distinguish between the positive symptoms of mental illness (things added, like hallucinations and delusions) and negative symptoms (the aspects of a healthy mind that are taken away). I'm told that there wasn't too much talk about these negative symptoms until the anti-psychotic medications got good enough to be truly effective (in most cases) in treating the positive symptoms.

I was thinking about how the positive symptoms can be scary and strange, but in a relatively isolated way. It's so easy in those moments to say "It's not him, it's the illness." But the negative symptoms--how do you separate those out? Their pervasiveness in shaping how he is in the world, how he sees it, who he is and can be--it just makes me so sad. And made me think, this morning and about this, that Augustine surely had it right.

Scratch and Dent Dreams: Legal Here?

Sorry for the radio silence. My excuses include recovering from the semester, illness, travel, and, really, no good reason.

But in the last week or so, I've been doing a lot of reading for the course I'm teaching this semester on race, gender, and Christian discipleship. I've also spent a little time on YouTube, visiting some DefJam poetry.

Today being MLK day, I have "I have a dream" echoing in my head. That speech is of course well worth listening too, and easy enough to find on YouTube if you are so inclined. I'm thinking very seriously about starting my class with that, and then following it up with the two below. I find them, respectively, so hopeful and so hopeless. I find the second very disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as the contrast between the two. How do you--whether you teach or write or raise kids or whatever--how do you disturb the optimism without killing the hope?

College student ingenuity

Since I'm doing far too much grading to blog much this week, here's something quick and easy and impressive to share with you. A friend of mine at the University of Dayton knows (teaches?) one of the responsible students. Enjoy!

Jonathon's Christmas Lights 2009 - Carol of the Bells from Jonathon Reinhart on Vimeo.

Function with relative ease

I can't resist posting this. I came home tonight and turned on the TV and caught the end of a show called "Community" on NBC. I only caught the last 5 minutes or so, but they were clearly having some issues with how to have a pluralistic holiday party. There was also something going on that might have been quite interesting about Christianity, forgiveness, and violence. One guy seemed to have been uninvited to the party because he wanted to fight someone, and that seemed to the Christian to be not in keeping with the peace of the season; but other people seemed to think that Christianity ought to be about forgiveness.

Somehow, they all ended up finding a way to support both the brawl and the party, where the following lyrics were sung to the tune of "Silent Night":

Sensible night, appropriate night,
Snow on ground, left and right.
Round yon purchase of decorative things,
Tolerant re-write of carol to sing,
Function with relative ease,
Function with relative ease.

I think the same observations about predictable offense that I made about the could be repeated about this.