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Madison Scott-Clary
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<p>When I was in school back at Saint John’s, I was met with a sudden cessation of chores. I had things to do, to be sure. Things that were repetitive and at times menial, but when you grow up on a farm, the concept of ‘chore’ goes well beyond simple repetitive, menial task. My callouses have long faded, but during my first months there in Minnesota, they still scraped against my notes and the pages of books every time I interacted with them.</p>
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<p>Even when I was getting my undergrad at UI, I was regularly back at home and working. I spent the requisite first year in the dormitories, but went home every weekend to help my parents out. Summer was as full of work as it had ever been growing up, and when my second year rolled around, I stayed living at home, preferring the daily commute — long though it was — to central Sawtooth from the farm out past the outskirts.</p>
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<p>My parents were pleased, of course. Help was help, and they certainly loved me.</p>
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<p>In Minnesota, though, there was no farming. No hauling, no driving, no commute beyond the walk from my simple apartment just off campus to the campus itself. I quickly developed a walking habit to at least feel some of that energy expenditure as I had back home.</p>
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<p>However, there is a difference of mindset between all the tasks involved in growing soybeans and that of walking. Those chores before may have been mindless at times, but they required an active enough focus so that one didn’t mess up whatever it was one was supposed to be doing. It was goal oriented in a way that walking was not, and the undirectedness of action with walking became a form of prayer.</p>
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<p>In Minnesota, though, there was no farming. No hauling, no driving, no commute beyond the walk from my simple apartment just off campus to the campus itself. I quickly developed a walking habit to at least feel some of that same energy expenditure as I had back home.</p>
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<p>However, there is a difference of mindset between all the tasks involved in growing soybeans and that of walking. Those chores before may have been mindless, but they required an active enough focus so that one didn’t mess up whatever it was one was supposed to be doing. It was goal oriented in a way that walking was not, and the undirectedness of action with walking became a form of prayer.</p>
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<p>Well, not prayer, <em>per se</em>, but contemplation. It was something more and less than prayer. Sometimes I might begin with prayer, but before long, words would leave me, and I would be left with the sights and sounds, the presence of God. It was beyond prayer. It was beyond meditation.</p>
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<p>I’d walk through the campus at night. I’d walk around the Arboretum. I’d walk along the shore of the lake to the smaller chapel, so like the parish back home, so unassuming next to the wildly flamboyant abbey on campus.</p>
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<p>And while I’d walk, I’d talk to God. Not pray to Him, not meditate on His perfection. I’d send my mind soaring out over the reeds and the water and taste him on the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckles. I’d tramp along the wooden walkway in the Arboretum and hear him in the thrum of the boards beneath my feet.</p>
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<p>He would be in the bitter, biting cold of February, lingering on the fog of my breath.</p>
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<p>He would be in the muddy slog of spring, the indecision of seasons a lazy finger on the scale.</p>
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<p>He would be in the way the Minnesota night hung heavy around me, the air as loath to relinquish the heat of day as the year was to give in to autumn. Nearly eleven, the long hours of evening managing to pull away some of the warmth, and He would be in the breath of cooler air coming off the lake. Mosquitoes drifting lazily beneath the trees, and He would be in that high whine.</p>
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<p>He would be in the way the Minnesota night hung heavy around me, the air as loath to relinquish the heat of day as the year was to give in to autumn. Nearly eleven, the long hours of evening managing to pull away some of the warmth, and He would be in the breath of cooler air coming off the lake. Mosquitoes drifting lazily beneath the trees, and He would be in even that high whine.</p>
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<p>Sawtooth has nothing on that.</p>
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<p>Here, I will occasionally take a bus or get a ride to the edge of town and walk and hunt for that same quietude that I felt before. I have come close a few times. I came close when I got out past the highway and into the farm lands and walked along the narrow shoulder of the road, watching the sky dip from blue down through salmon to purple, with that brief stop at red that bathed the soy and wheat fields in light like wine. At that moment, I lost all thought, lost all direction, lost all action and gave myself up to the contemplation.</p>
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<p>For a scant few minutes, I was able to touch on that space once more and it was there that I was able to talk with God once more.</p>
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<p>For a scant few minutes, I was able to touch on that space once more and it was there that I was able to talk with God once again.</p>
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<p>I did not ask Him for anything — intercession is for the saints.</p>
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<p>I did not tell Him anything — He knows all I could ever possibly tell Him.</p>
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<p>I do not share the same relationship with the Trinity that protestants do, but at that moments, I suppose I felt some of what they do with their personal relationship with God, with their idea that He dwells within them.</p>
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<p>I do not share the same relationship with the Trinity that protestants do, but at that moments, I suppose I felt some of what they do with their personal relationship with God, with their idea that He dwells within them in some intimate, immediate way.</p>
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<p>He passed through me, suffused me with His light like wine, and in that moment, knew me completely, and I could gaze on Him in faith, and I could sit in that silent love.</p>
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<p>I stood a while in the gloaming, and as that moment left me, I let it go. What could I possibly do to hold onto God? What could a sinner like me do? How could I possibly hope to ask Him to stay with me? Me, a coyote, a farmer’s son, a scraggly beast who failed to live up to his own dreams of pastoral life.</p>
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<p>I walked home. No bus, no ride. I walked until the pads on my feet bled.</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-06-02</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-02</p>
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<h1>Zk | lo-discernment-1</h1>
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<p>I am up early again, and while I do feel better, I am still feeling tender, and feeling cautious of that tenderness. I want to poke and prod at it. I want to explore its boundaries as one might find the limits of a bruise.</p>
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<p>I know better. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I know better than to keep poking at a sore spot, so to that end, I’m digging into the other bit that Jeremy has been nudging me to explore, that of my discernment and sudden veering off the pastoral track and over to wherever it is that I am now. It’s been years now, since I left, and although I may just be poking at a <em>different</em> sore spot, it is at least one that I know I have work to do surrounding it. There are memories there, might as well do the CBT thing and think back to what happened, and then back before that.</p>
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<p>It’s weird the things that you remember, though. I remember blinking my eyes rapidly in the middle of that meeting, for some reason. It’s habit I now know that I have, and once I learned of it, I found myself thinking back to all of the times that I had done in it in the past, and there are a few stand out examples that stick in the mind as particularly embarrassing.<sup id="fnref:embarrassing"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:embarrassing">1</a></sup></p>
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<p>I am up early again, and while I do feel better, I am also still feeling tender, and feeling cautious of that tenderness. I want to poke and prod at it. I want to explore its boundaries as one might find the limits of a bruise.</p>
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<p>I know better.</p>
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<p>At least, that’s what I tell myself. I know better than to keep poking at a sore spot, so to that end, I’m digging into the other topic that Jeremy has been nudging me to explore, that of my discernment and sudden veering off the pastoral track and over to wherever it is that I am now. It’s been years now, since I left, and although I may just be poking at a <em>different</em> sore spot, it is at least one that I know I have work to do around. There are memories there, might as well do the CBT thing and think back to what happened, and then back before that.</p>
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<p>It’s weird the things that you remember, though. Just little things.</p>
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<p>I remember blinking my eyes rapidly in the middle of that meeting, for some reason. It’s habit I now know that I have, and once I learned of it, I noticed just how often I do it. I found myself thinking back to all of the times that I had done in it in the past, and there are a few stand out examples that stick in the mind as particularly embarrassing.<sup id="fnref:embarrassing"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:embarrassing">1</a></sup></p>
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<p>I remember blinking rapidly there, in the middle of that meeting, yes, and I remember Rev. Dr. Borenson leaning forward, rested his arms on his desk, and fiddling with a pencil. “Mr. Kimana?”</p>
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<p>“Sorry, Father.” I frowned down at my paws. Paws grown soft, that far away from home. Some part of my mind, the part always focused on making comparisons, realized how slender and small they were compared to my advisor’s big canine mitts, soft from a life of academia and ministry. “I think I was expecting a different reaction.”</p>
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<p>The Saint Bernard shrugged. It was an informal, almost bashful gesture. “I’m just not surprised. This doesn’t feel like it’s coming out of nowhere.”</p>
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<p>The Saint Bernard shrugged. It was an informal, almost bashful gesture coming from him. “I’m just not surprised. This doesn’t feel like it’s coming out of nowhere.”</p>
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<p>“I have no plans of leaving the Church.”</p>
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<p>“Of course, Dee. I have no doubts as to your faith.”</p>
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<p>“But…?”</p>
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<p>Borenson sighed, set the pencil down. “Your studies are fine. Better than fine, I’m told. Your teachers speak highly of your writing. That’s only half of the program, though. You came here for an masters of divinity, and the end goal of that program is ministry. Your skills in scripture and apologetics, in books, are admirable, but would make for an incomplete priest. We’ve talked before about you heading for a masters of theology instead, but you balked at that.”</p>
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<p>I canted my ears back, gritted my teeth, and masked his frustration as best I could. “With all due respect, Father, my concerns about a Th.M stand. Yes, I’m sure I’d be helping the world with research and writing, but I need something more immediate. I need to help more directly, and there’s just too much…I don’t know, remove, I suppose, if all I’m doing is writing.”</p>
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<p>I canted my ears back, gritted my teeth, and masked his frustration as best I could. “With all due respect, Father, my concerns about a Th.M stand. Yes, I’m sure I’d be helping the world with research and writing, but I need something more immediate. I need to help people. I don’t think I can <em>not</em> do that. And there’s just too much…I don’t know, remove, I suppose, if all I’m doing is writing.”</p>
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<p>There was a pause as Borenson seemed to manage some equal frustration before he spoke. “Mr. Kimana, an education such as this requires both flexibility and devotion. Both a Th.M and MDiv would require that. Now–” He held up his paws as if to forestall a rebuttal. “I am not accusing you of lacking in either department at least not to a level where I feel you are not a good degree candidate, but if the doubts in your head are strong enough that you feel you need to leave, I would only be doing your future vocation a disservice by trying to make you stay.”</p>
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<p>I dropped my gaze once more. I spread my fingers, tracing with my eyes the subtle grain on the pads of my paws, the long-healed callouses. </p>
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<p>This remains a constant in my life, this sort of discussion. I will research and research and research, come to a conclusion, and when I state what I have learned, the conversation would go sideways. Both me and my interlocutor will wind up frustrated and stressed with no visible reason why.</p>
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<p>But this hadn’t been a researched thing, was it? I remember it being something like three in the afternoon, and he’d started this train of thought the night before at, what, eleven? Sixteen hours was hardly the amount of time required to come to a conclusion about leaving behind a year and a half of study and however many thousands of dollars of scholarships that had involved.</p>
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<p>This remains a constant in my life, this sort of discussion. I will research and research and research, come to a conclusion, and when I state what I have learned, the conversation would go sideways. Both me and my interlocutor will wind up frustrated and stressed with no discernable reason why.</p>
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<p>But this hadn’t been a researched thing, had it? I remember it being something like three in the afternoon, and I’d started this train of thought the night before at, what, eleven? Sixteen hours was hardly the amount of time required to come to a conclusion about leaving behind a year and a half of study and however many thousands of dollars of scholarships that had involved.</p>
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<p>No, this idea had leaped, fully formed, into my head.</p>
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<p>I focused on ensuring that my mien expressed the sincerity he felt within. I was frustrated, yes, but also confused and more than a little disappointed in myself. “I’m sorry, Father Borenson. I understand. You’re right, too, that I don’t quite have the amount of conviction I’d need for this.” The word ‘conviction’ stuck in my craw, I remember that.<sup id="fnref:writing"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:writing">2</a></sup> “Not conviction, I guess. Something to do with ministry. I don’t do groups.”</p>
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<p>I focused on ensuring that my mien expressed the sincerity I felt within. I was frustrated, yes, but also confused and more than a little disappointed in myself. “I’m sorry, Father Borenson. I understand. You’re right, too, I suppose, that I don’t quite have the amount of conviction I’d need for this.” The word ‘conviction’ stuck in my craw, I remember that.<sup id="fnref:writing"><a class="footnote-ref" href="#fn:writing">2</a></sup> “Not conviction, I guess. Something to do with ministry. I don’t do groups.”</p>
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<p>“I mean it when I say I’m speaking from a place of kindness here, Mr. Kimana, but this doubt is mutual. You have a brilliant mind and faith enough, but by virtue of you doubting your vocation, we are all but obligated to doubt you in turn.”</p>
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<p>I sighed and slouched in my chair.</p>
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<p>“If you’re not comfortable switching to a Th.M, perhaps it’s time to consider switching focuses,” the dog said gently. “Perhaps Saint John’s just isn’t the best fit for you.”</p>
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<p>“I get it,” I mumbled.</p>
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<p>The Saint Bernard looked cautious, waited for me to continue.</p>
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<p>“I mean, I get what you’re saying. I think…” I swallowed drily, straightened up in my chair. “I think I agree, too.” There it was. There was the admission. I’d said it at last.</p>
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<p>“I mean, I get what you’re saying. I think…” I swallowed drily, straightened up in my chair. “I think I agree, too.”</p>
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<p>There it was. There was the admission. I’d said it at last.</p>
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<p>My advisor visibly relaxed.</p>
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<p>“I know I said so before, but I just want to make sure; you know that this is about my vocation, not my faith, right?”</p>
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<p>Borenson barked a laugh, before his expression softened. “I’m sorry, Dee, I shouldn’t have laughed. I believe you. You are one of the most devout students I have. Your decision about your degree may not have been a total surprise to me, but if you had said you were leaving the church, I think I would have called for a doctor.”</p>
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<p>I suspect there is some reason that such embarrassing things stick in one’s own mind while slipping so easily from others’. Perhaps it is a symptom of culture, or perhaps it is simply part and parcel of existing in the world. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:embarrassing" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>I write these memories like a story, I know that. It is a habit, and I do not quite know where it formed, but it has been with me since youth, to the point where teachers often suggested I major in creative writing. I have considered it, I will admit, though I know it isn’t something my parents would necessarily have condoned. Whether or not the words I write here are an exact replication of the conversation that took place is neither here nor there; whether or not I am accurately remembering the emotions that took place is unimportant. I am writing for me now. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:writing" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>I write these memories like a story. It is a habit, and I do not quite know where it formed, but it has been with me since youth, to the point where teachers often suggested I major in creative writing. I did consider it, I will admit, though I know it isn’t something my parents would necessarily have condoned. Whether or not the words I write here are an exact replication of the conversation that took place is neither here nor there; whether or not I am accurately remembering the emotions that took place is unimportant. I am writing for me now. <a class="footnote-backref" href="#fnref:writing" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text">↩</a></p>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-07-20</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-08-02</p>
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