Skip to content

Our Squandered Miracle…

September 10, 2015

He sat up in the bed, hospital gown intertwined with tubes and eyes full of wonder.  The baby in his lap gurgled, hand in mouth, oblivious to her surroundings.  And his wife?  She laughed, lips spread with her first genuine joy in months.  Just as he was amazed by the little one, we were amazed by him.  He was alive.

A couple of weeks earlier, doctors said this wasn’t possible.  He would never talk again, never remember who he was, never stand, or walk, eat or smile.  In short, his persistent vegetative state would not allow him to be him.

But his eyes followed mom every time she moved through his room at the LTAC.  No, they were GLUED to her.  We noticed, and so did the nurses… but the doctors warned against hope.  Hope could be a liar.


In contrast to the vibrant hues of burning bush and maple, our hearts were dreary one November morning.  Maybe we were imagining the signs.  Maybe the doctors were right after all.  Pushing down fear with spoonfuls of soup at the deli next door to the LTAC, we steeled ourselves for another visit.  Another letdown.

When I stepped into his room, something felt different.  The air buzzed, expectant.  He turned his head toward us and purposefully whispered, “Hi.”  Then he smiled with what looked like pride and, in an instant, everything changed.

Later that day, one of his nurses told us that he had started speaking the night before.  He’d been practicing, struggling to break out of his bodily freeze so that he could communicate with us.  And now that he was free and we could prove he was “in there,” the doctors stepped up his various therapy sessions.  Day by day, he came back to life.


IMG_8284That November we received nothing short of a miracle.  And so I keep the picture of them — Dad, Mom, and sweet little Saya — as the background on my computer at work.  It’s not how I want to remember him: my father, who chafed at the idea of doctors and hospitals, tied up in tubes and institutional linens.  But I need to remember him this way.  I need to remember the miracle.

Remembering the miracle every single day is the only way to counter the furious despair that comes from watching a miracle get squandered.  Bent with rage at the systems — health insurance, veterans affairs, nursing home management — that doomed Dad to a slow and torturous death, the only thing that saves my soul is remembering the miracle that was, before it was ruined.

Because It WAS ruined.  Rather than continuing to pay for high-quality LTAC care, Tricare downgraded him and had him placed in a one-star nursing home.  ONE. STAR.  One star out of five.  And in that sub-par facility, where a small staff struggled to make do with long hours and meager resources, Dad went from sitting up, speaking and learning how to walk, to bed sores, sepsis and pneumonia — in the span of a month.

That one decision — a choice made because of an insurance company’s bottom line — was literally the difference between life and death.  Though he died in October of 2014, he was killed in December of 2013 when they moved him out of the LTAC.

Clearly, I’m angry.  I’m mad that they moved him before my sister, who lived out-of-state, could experience November’s miracle — she only got to see the decline that took place in the nursing home. I’m furious that, in retirement, my father was worth so little to the insurance company that serves veterans and active duty military families.  And I’m downright livid about the ordeal we went through and the indignities he suffered.

But I’m not just angry on behalf of my family.  The things we experienced don’t amount to an isolated incident in an otherwise healthy system.  Rather, they are indicative of a healthcare (and, especially, a health insurance) system that is rotten through.  I’m talking about a system in which analysts at a health insurance company get to decide what treatments are necessary, what drugs will be helpful, and, ultimately, whether someone lives or dies… a system in which profits are often more important than people.

And that’s just what happens if you have insurance.  If you don’t have insurance, then the stakes get even higher (and the costs increase exponentially).  Without insurance coverage and the reduced rates that an insurance company negotiates with healthcare providers, Dad’s first two months in the hospital would have cost close to half a million dollars, which means that a family who could not afford insurance would never have had the opportunity to experience a miracle in the first place.


Obviously, there is more to the system than this.  The nuances of insurance are manifold and confusing for doctors as well as patients.  There are ethical questions about how much should be done to prolong a life, who should make those decisions, and how families should be involved in the process.  And there are a great many doctors, nurses, chaplains, administrators and other healthcare professionals who care deeply about their fellow human beings and do their best to work for health and wholeness.

But, as is sometimes the case, the larger system takes on a life of its own.  In the process, people are literally dying — especially folks who live in poverty and must rely upon emergency rooms and urgent care centers for all of their healthcare.

In the midst of these realities, when I look at the picture of Dad smiling down at his new relative, I remember that:

  • We can do better.
  • We MUST do better.
  • Miracles are possible.

Because I believe these things are true, I feel compelled to speak out and work for a better system and a better way.  If Dad taught me anything, it was to risk doing/saying the difficult right thing instead of remaining silent.  As a pastor rather than a healthcare professional, I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help… but since when was that a good reason not to try?

Bad Wine and Grief

June 11, 2015

mg_1665This week I’ve been in Sedona, Arizona on a mini retreat with a group of clergy gals who have become a covenant group of sorts. We get together each month via video chat to check in with one another, and a couple times each year we get together in person at various locations around the country. It’s a life-giving arrangement.

Most all of our in-person gatherings center on locales that, while geographically diverse, share a crucial quality: they have wine. Good wine. By day we visit wineries for tasting flights, and our evenings are spent in conversation on breezy patios and porches with glasses of tasty reds and whites (though never Chardonnay).

For all the good wine and good conversation, there are also the tough spots. Sacred vulnerability opens doorways into painful stories and difficult questions — and sometimes we stumble upon bad wine.

Tuesday was one of those days. One tasting room in particular was filled with bad wines — wines that tasted of prune juice, that clung to the tongue in a thick coating of sickly sweet residue, tainting the next winery’s offerings with lingering aftertaste. And, along with that spectacularly awful wine, there was the grief.

I’d never been to Sedona prior to this trip, but my parents had.  They traveled here with my sister and her boyfriend a few years ago, back before Dad got went into the hospital.  Back before everything changed.

Since Dad died, I’ve seen him around from time to time.  He’s shown up on the deck at the house in Neosho, looking out at the yard for a moment before disappearing.  He’s been there on the golf course, shaking his head at someone’s unfortunate slice, and he’s been in the living room at Grandma’s house, hunched over on the couch watching tv while a mess of children blow through the house.

For the most part, seeing him in those places hasn’t fazed me much.  They are places he always was, so it feels almost normal to catch glimpses of him there.  But this week, in Sedona, I’ve seen him everywhere — and it’s been brutal.

Maybe it has something to do with the desert.  The landscape of Arizona feels so much like El Paso, so perhaps I should have expected to be bombarded with memory here.  Maybe it is because of the trip they took here, and all the pictures that came out of that vacation.  Maybe it’s because of the flood of email advertisements in my inbox with subject lines declaring, “Your dad called — here’s what he wants for Father’s Day.” Whatever the reason, on Tuesday he was nearby all day long.  He walked a few tourists ahead as we climbed up to the Chapel on the Rocks, calves and arms as bronze as the surrounding rock formations.  He sat in the restaurant, a few tables over, as we ate dinner.  No matter where I turned, he was there.

Seeing him like that, ever present in a place I’ve never shared with him, ripped the lid off my grief. And so, like that terrible wine, it’s been there at the back of my throat, clinging and cloying.  Unrelenting, it changes the flavor of everything. Perfect sunsets, time spent with soul friends, hours of sleep that should be filled with peace: all carry the flavor of grief.

There’s nothing to be done except to feel it.  Perhaps time, like water or the scent of coffee beans, will cleanse my palate so that one day I can taste something else.  But for now, this is my truth: I miss him, and instead of getting better it has gotten worse.

Good friends won’t make this grief go away, but I know they are here with me in the midst of this, supporting me so I don’t break under the weight of missing him.  And, though they can’t protect me from the pain of loss, they do their best to make sure I don’t drink bad wine.  Sometimes that’s enough.

Soul Friends

May 23, 2015

***This is a throwback, a blog post from 2011 that I rediscovered today.  I (re)share it because the last couple of years have proven it’s truth: friendship is a spiritual discipline with the power to keep us afloat in all times, but especially the tough times.  Thank God for good friends!***

Friendship as Spiritual Discipline (4/8/2011)

Gathering Voices Post by Lara Blackwood Pickrel

As I type these words, I’m sitting in a Catholic retreat center in Saint Louis with two dear friends/colleagues.  The official purpose of this meeting of the minds is a writing retreat (we’re chewing on something that has the potential to be pretty exciting!).  Computers are out, keys clicking a symphony of ideas – and we really are getting some serious work done.

Yet, in many ways, the real work is happening aside from the writing.  We laugh.  We feast. We pad around in bare feet for late-night conversation.  Words ebb and flow, dancing from silly to vulnerable and back again.  We dream out loud.  Exhausted, we sleep hard so we can get up and do it all again.  This is the labor of soul friends.

Friends have always been important to me, and at the same time, friendship has often been difficult.  As an “army brat”, moving from place to place, I learned early on that friendships can swiftly evolve or end and take lots of work to maintain – especially over geographical distance.  Often, it was easier to just move on.

As a minister, I’ve moved with the same sort of frequent irregularity that is becoming more and more characteristic of young adults across the board.  Consequently, I have sometimes found myself living in a new place, isolated except for the rich tapestry of friendships that exist beyond my physical locale.  But I haven’t always reached for the tapestry.  Hiding behind my “introvert badge”, I’ve instead savored my isolation, even wallowed in it – only to discover somewhere down the road that (go figure!) my spirit was literally starving.

I’m beginning to understand that friendships aren’t “just” friendships.  Friendships (and the work of cultivating them) are a form of spiritual discipline, just like prayer or scripture reading or mindful eating.  When I don’t pray, my spirit suffers.  When I don’t spend time reading the Word, my spirit/mind become impoverished.  When I don’t eat mindfully, my spirit/body become stressed and broken.  And when I don’t practice the art of friendship, my spirit begins to turn in on itself.

It turns out that I’m not alone in this.  The friends who journey alongside me need this too.  It is part of the human mold, this yearning to be connected in meaningful relationship.  So now, we carve out time.  One small group of soul friends meets every fall, another meets for both business and relationship twice a year, and this trio will meet each spring.  We stay in conversation via social media throughout the year, but we also need this time set apart to laugh and cry and dream “in the flesh”.

While, to a casual observer, there’s nothing about these gatherings that screams “work”, this is holy work all the same.  It is part of our vocation (not just as ministers, but as Christians) to be the best friends we can be…and that requires practice!

Speaking of which, my friends are waiting and it’s time to get back to work…

  • Who are your soul-friends (friends who walk with you on your journey through life)?  
  • How can the Church help us to cultivate deeper, life-enriching friendships?  
  • What other seemingly-mundane activities could actually be spiritual disciplines?

Just a Symbol? — A Reflection on the Relocation of GA 2017

April 1, 2015

During the lead up to Indiana’s Gov. Pence signing SEA 101 (the Religious Freedom Restoration Act — RFRA), some of the national leaders of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) sent a letter to the governor that implored him to veto the bill. (See full text of that letter here – scroll to bottom of page for the original letter) In that letter, Sharon Watkins, Julia Brown Karimu and Ronald Degges expressed their belief that though “religious freedom” is used in the title and language of the bill, the heart of the bill is really about the freedom to discriminate against people who believe, live and love differently than any given business owner in the state of Indiana. They then went on to explain that the potential effects of the bill go against both the values of our democracy and the values of Jesus, who “sat at table with people from all walks of life, and loved them all.” The letter ended with a statement indicating that if RFRA was signed into law, the CC(DOC) might choose to move their 2017 General Assembly (slated for Indianapolis) to a different location.

As we know, the following day Gov. Pence signed SEA 101 into law. A media storm ensued, punctuated by a number of businesses and organizations that began pulling their conferences out of the state or publicly denouncing the RFRA. In the midst of that storm, Disciples leaders began working on how to follow through with the statement they had made. Should they move the General Assembly? If so, then to what new location? Research began in earnest to see which other states have laws similar to Indiana’s RFRA, so as not to jump from the frying pan into the fire (or another frying pan, at the very least). Ultimately, the General Board of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) came together for a special meeting — during Holy Week! — and made the official decision to seek a new location for GA 2017. (You can read the official announcement here)

Already the talk has begun among Disciples on social media. Some see this move as a victory — a moment when our Church has taken a public stand both for people who are routinely forced to the margins of society and for the values we have affirmed and claimed at past General Assemblies. Some don’t think the move goes far enough — how can pulling a small to medium sized conference that won’t happen until 2017 actually affect anything? Others agree with the idea, but believe the method is wrong — wouldn’t it be better to flood the state with events and organizations that welcome all people? Still others see the move as divisive — a moment when “all means all” does not apply to our more theologically conservative brothers and sisters.

For the sake of full disclosure, I land squarely among those who are proud of this decision and I am thankful that our leaders have been bold enough to publicly articulate a lesser-known kind of Christian witness in a time when Christian belief is perceived as tantamount to bigotry. That being said, I’m not surprised that some Disciples are troubled by this action. As a denomination, we’ve frequently struggled with the tension that exists between a desire to be prophetic and a desire to honor and cultivate Christian unity, and this is a moment where we stand in the middle of the weave, wondering whether warp and woof of the fabric will hold.

Here’s what does surprise me. In various comment threads, I’ve heard a sentiment that goes something like this: the decision to pull GA 2017 from Indiana doesn’t mean or accomplish anything — it is only a symbolic gesture.


Only symbolic. Only a symbol. Huh.

On the one hand, yes. Moving GA 2017 to a state that does not have such a law in place is a symbolic gesture. It makes a statement, but doesn’t force change in Indiana.

But on the other hand, is it only a symbol? No. Hell no. As Christians, we are a symbol-driven people. Every Sunday when we gather around a table set with bread and cup, every time we gaze at a cross or stained glass window with reverence, every time we look at our gathered congregations and see the body of Christ, we live in the power of symbols.

Symbols are vehicles for truth. They communicate things of value in ways that go deeper than words.

This action made by our General Board communicates a truth — several truths, really:

  • There are Christians who, because of their faith and their study of the bible, believe passionately that because God loves all people we are called to live lives and build societies that reflect that radical love.
  • The people who are most negatively affected by the RFRA are, in fact, people. They are beloved by God and we are called by Christ to treat them as such. That call is non-negotiable.
  • Discrimination couched as religious freedom is still discrimination, and discrimination should never be legal.
  • Using the language of religious freedom to legalize discrimination is an insult to religious groups of all kinds.
  • While we aren’t perfect, and while there is no perfect place to hold GA 2017 (because discrimination, bigotry and hatred take place in every corner of the world), we can still use the power that we have to make a better choice than staying in a place that legally permits discrimination.

Some of these messages are communicated less clearly than others, to be sure. But to say it is only a symbol is to dismiss not just the hard work and prayer of every General Board member, but also to dismiss the power of symbol in our faith and in our life.

The other thing about symbols is this: powerful symbols might not change the circumstances and injustice that we face, but they do change us. An open communion table changes the way we view hospitality and grace, and asks us to offer those gifts differently. The vision of Christian community as the body of Christ changes the way that we see and value the people who sit next to us during worship, and asks us to love and work with those people differently.  Symbols ask us to change in response to the truth(s) they convey.

As a symbol, the decision to move GA 2017 out of Indiana might not change the circumstances on the ground in that state, but it does force us to change. We now have to do the hard work of finding a new place, researching other state laws, and communicating the hows and whys of the decision. We have to talk about how the One we follow and the faith we affirm do or do not (and will or will not) shape the practical decisions of our life together. We’re forced into a new place and a perhaps a new way of being.

So is it a symbolic gesture?  Yes.  But is it “just” a symbol?  No.


A symbol is never just a symbol.

Little Things

August 19, 2014

When I reached the bathroom at Target, I was in rush.  Book club was in less than three hours, the dogs needed to be let out, and I still needed to finish the stinkin’ book.  All I could afford was a quick potty break and then a dash towards the baked goods so I could grab dessert for the meeting — in, out, and on the run!  In other words, it was a Sunday afternoon.

But when I walked in, something caught my attention.  Across the mirrors above the sinks was a line of bright neon green post it notes, their color demanding notice.  Written neatly on each note was the same message:  “Has anyone told you today that you are beautiful?”

Before I could think, a sigh escaped my lips, followed by a smile.  No.  No one had told me.

Catching motion to my right, I realized I wasn’t alone.  A young girl, maybe nine or ten years old, stood on tiptoes to see the post it on her mirror.  Slowly, mouthing each word, she read the message and flushed a deep red that matched her hair.  Then she looked at me, smiled broadly, and skipped out of the restroom, nearly knocking over the Target employee who pushed past the door.

The employee, clearly unhappy with bathroom duty, stalked into the restroom, scanning floors for trash.  When she looked up and saw the post its, her eyes widened and then narrowed, and she began to mutter about people messing things up and giving her extra work.  Then she saw the message and stopped in her tracks.

“Wow,” she whispered.  image

“I know, right? It’s really something,” I responded.

She looked in the mirror and straightened up, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Yes.  It sure is.”

Apparently, no one had told her either.


Some days it’s the little things that make all the difference in the world.

Gringo Day Prayers

June 20, 2014

Today we said one last goodbye to Chacraseca before heading back to Managua. Leslie, refers to this day of the trip as “gringo day”, because it is the leg of the trip that moves us back to the airport hotel via a few shopping excursions. It is common knowledge that gringos/gringas come to Nicaragua to shop.

While the marketplace in Masaya was beautiful, the real joy of the day came in a small potters’ village — a place where Leslie has built relationships with a family of artisans over a number of years. We watched a demonstration of how their pottery is designed, crafted and fired using the traditional methods passed down through the family. In the midst of the demonstration, we paused for a wonderful meal served by the matriarch of the family, and we watched a young man use his architectural training to etch exquisite and precise geometric designs into a piece of pottery (he went to several years of university but couldn’t continue because of a lack of resources, so he has found a way to use his education to add to the family business). When the demonstration was finished, we went to their shop and purchased many a piece. After all, gringas shop…

Tonight, we are nestled into the hotel, savoring air conditioning and wrestling with the question: what now? How do you take a life-changing, perspective-shifting experience like this and translate it into action when you get home? How do you honor the people of Chacraseca in your day to day life? Next week, in the classroom, we will chew on those questions together.

For now, I give thanks to God for the people of Chacraseca — for their perseverance and hospitality. I lift up their dreams and challenges, their need for the rains to finally come, their desire for their young people to succeed. I ask you to pray these things with me now and in the days to come. And, in the midst of these prayers for the people, I also thank God for an experience that has inspired me to write again. Thank you, Chacraseca, for helping me rediscover my voice.



Being Present & Saying Goodbye

June 19, 2014

Today was our final day in Chacraseca, and frankly, I’m sad. Our time here seems to have flown by, yet was also slow in the moment — and that activity of being present in the moment, hour after hour, has been tiring work. It takes considerable effort to truly listen, truly see, and truly feel what you feel in any given moment. That has been our task this week.

In these final hours here we have met with various small groups (young adults, elders, women who receive micro loans). We have met with excited stitchers who’ve already begun work on the first stole based on yesterday’s design. We’ve honored the women who cooked for us all week and said goodbye to Padre Tomas. We’ve said goodbye to the translators who made this deep listening possible, and who became our friends along the way

After those goodbyes, we headed west for an evening on the beach. The Pacific rushed and swirled across dark volcanic sand, refreshing us and stirring reflections on our time here. Stories surged with the roar of the ocean, bringing with them names and faces we hope to never forget.

This community has changed us as individuals and as a group in ways we likely won’t understand until after we’ve returned home. And now the hardest part begins: figuring out how to let those changes live and breathe in us, so that they take on life in our homes, our churches, and our hearts.




















Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 3,047 other followers