Dear Family: On Insufficiency and Finding My Voice

Swirly watercolors, mostly abstract, but with hearts, and words: “Nothing dies of too much love,” which is a line from Paul Simon’s brilliant album “Seven Psalms.”

Dear Family,

Well … after years of hemming and hawing, in late April I started this thing ~ this idea that I would write on a regular basis using the idea of Grandpa Webster’s “Dear Family” format. If you notice the date on my first DF blog post and then look at today’s date, you’ll see that the phrase “on a regular basis” can be interpreted to mean many things.

Those of you who are part of my social media network may know that for years and years, I have written on a variety of topics and posted my musings on Facebook. I have commented on politics and faith, local delights and sorrows, even sports from time to time (which is laughable considering how un-sporty I am). And I have to say that many of you have been very generous in your responses to my writing, engaging deeply with me even if you haven’t agreed with what I’ve written. It’s not like I’ve had “a following,” but I do feel as though we’ve built something of a community of care and of intriguing and hopeful ideas in a world that can use more of both.

If you know that about me, you may also have noticed that I have posted far less frequently and written far less deeply in the past few months in terms of my public social media posts. The truth is that, though there is much to be said in these harrowing days, I have felt a bit cut off from my own voice since January. Why? I suppose it’s at least partly because of the daily drumbeat of horrors which has raised my anxiety and anger. It has been harder to be coherent lately, wouldn’t you say?

And yet the bigger reason, I suspect, is that, having stepped out of the pulpit and away from my clearly identifiable role as clergy, I have been uncertain of … well, of who I am, if I’m not a pastor and hospice chaplain. Yes, I still have a voice. (Ask Tristan if you’re worried that I’m no longer expressing opinions ~ I suspect he’d happily reassure you about that.) But without that role of pastor ~ to my church but also to my wider community ~ what would make me think that my musings would be of interest?

I’m not trying to be overly coy and draw forth anyone’s reassurance ~ truly! It’s just that even though my prior writings were not written on behalf of my church, they were written by Susie-as-Pastor, which gave me a focus and a certain authority even among my many friends who don’t consider themselves to be even a little bit religious. It’s one of the privileges of ministry: week in and week out, we clergy have the reassurance that people want to listen to what we have to say. That makes speaking up and out quite a lot more natural.

And there’s more to my self-doubt than that, too. In a nearby neighborhood where I frequently take Iona for walks, there used to be a car with a bumper sticker that read (in all caps) “NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR STUPID BLOG!” It made me laugh, in part to think about someone taking the trouble to make or buy such a statement. Sort of a “the lady doth protest too much,” don’t you think? But though it made me laugh, it also whispered quietly in my ear, speaking directly to my own sense of insufficiency. And though I try not to live my life listening to that kind of voice, I clearly have remembered the message, despite the warm feedback I’ve received over the years. No one cares about your stupid blog, Susie. Our psyches are funny, aren’t they?

But even while feeling conscious of a lack of voice, or perhaps a mistrust of that voice, my mind and heart have continued to muse. And despite not occupying a pulpit, I remain a theological thinker. There’s just not getting around that. Lately, I’ve been thinking about courage, and what it looks like … and about the many ways to resist tyranny and fascism … and about the biblical roles of prophet, priest, contemplative, activist … and about neighborliness, and about gardens, and about delight. All the things. And bubbling up within me is the urge to write some of it out, even if only to honor the thoughts themselves.

And so here I am. Still uncertain about my voice. Still pretty certain that the world will get on just fine if I remain muted. And yet … trusting, somehow. Trusting that something will speak in and through me that might make a difference to someone.

And that, dear family, is what’s on my mind today.

xoSusie