Highlights and Paradox

As I write you, I have written my last paper, completed my last exam, cleaned out my locker and study carrel in the library at Wake Forest University.  I turned in my key and received my $20.00 deposit back and went out for a celebratory lunch with my best friend, at our favorite seedy restaurant. I've spent three years at Wake Forest University School of Divinity, I've been to Tucson twice, Israel, NYC, and neighborhoods that offered hospitality and continued support for me. I've learned much about God, biblical studies, theology, interfaith work, and things like "call" and "vocation." I've learned that divinity students can be just as competitive as climbing the corporate ladder. Divinity school isn't as mystical and fluffy as I thought, it's far more raw, vulnerable and incredibly lonely. Divinity school has given me a rare glimpse of possibility, it's given me the space to plan and dream, it's also been (sometimes) a less than kind mirror into self, love, and immense loss. Relationships have been made and lost during these three years. I will cherish my time here and forever be grateful, but I am not certain I have it in me to do it again. It is only by the grace of God, the love of a congregation, a few close friends and family that I am able to share with you today. 

The painting above was painted by an inmate at the prison in Nogales, Arizona. As part of a spring break trip aptly titled, "Ecotones of the Spirit," we traveled to Tucson, Patagonia, and Nogales. We spent time with Gary Paul Nabhan, Yolanda Sorto at Borderlands Foodbank, Brad Lancaster regarding desert permaculture, No Mas Muertes, Dr. Barbara Eiswerth and Iskashitaa, we witnessed deportation proceedings at Operation Stream Line, and visited with staff at Kino Border Initiative. I'm still processing that trip. We took two days in the middle for a silent retreat at Santa Rita Abbey, where we met Sr. Nettie who helped us center around prayer, the beautiful desert, and mass. The seven of us spent two days literally and liturgically breaking bread, hiking sacred land, listening to melodic choir voices, reading scripture, writing in journals, and recovering from the emotional toil of witness. I will likely write more about this trip, once I have a moment to gather my thoughts...ooh, and after I find my elusive travel journal. It's teal, have you seen it???

My ministry partner, David Harrison and I also went to Tucson in March. The National Benevolent Association, held a retreat for their Incubate Initiative partners and affiliates. It was 36 hours of reflection, fellowship, prayer, and downtime that we don't normally allow ourselves. We are grateful to the staff at NBA and the support we've received from both NBA and our new network of colleagues. 

David and I really hit the ground running once we got back from Tucson. The work we do at New Communion is focussed on food justice, but it also and ultimately engages with the daily needs and requests of the neighbors we partner with. Some of our neighbor kids communicated to us that they had never experienced an Easter Egg Hunt. They were coloring pictures and talking about family traditions at school. David, Paul (the President of NC, and the one with the most sense), and I began visioning what a large scale Easter Meal Distribution and an Easter Egg Hunt might require. For us, we thought 300 or so family meal boxes at three different locations, 6000 plastic eggs, copious amounts of candy, and large prizes. Start to finish, this was a five week process that included almost $5,000.00 in prizes (donated from all across the world), cash donations, and more than fifty volunteers. You can read about the event here...Winston-Salem Journal Article

As of this morning...I hit publish. It is November 6th and I am in the chaplain's office working (which is a chaplain residency program at Moses Cone Health Systems in Greensboro). This blog post has been on my "to-do list" since May and I am just now, finally, I think, ready to let go of some of the pain and trauma that lasted three years. Divinity school and my time at Wake Forest shaped my theology, my understanding of race and privilege, my call to work in a church that is an altar in the World, and to be with neighbor at shared tables in varied contexts. Divinity school also represents a time that literally and figuratively wrecked me. My marriage barely survived, many friendships didn't, and I felt violated by many that I trusted. 

The whole "Me Too" thing came out a few weeks ago and I don't know what to do with it. Some of you know my story and some of you only know me through this blog. Today, will likely be my last post on this page. I need to let go the hurt and struggles of discernment and live into my call and my identity as a pastor, a writer and a chaplain. This morning, I have assisted with Advanced Directives, spiritual care in the palliative context, sat with a grieving coworker (on the phone), provided pastoral care to staff, as well as addressed personal automotive issues and administrative duties for New Communion. I am not the story that has been told, the difficult, the critical "female" that argues with everyone. I am a caring, confident, pastor/chaplain with a call to be part of a changing world that is returning to the Table. I am the "pastor with the good hair" that can show up and be present in jeans and a t-shirt, a cocktail dress, or her vestments. I am gifted and prophetic and unafraid to say what needs to be said. I love my family and my work. I am called to each differently. 

Looking forward to blogging with you as the self that I am reminded I've always been...See you on the other side...

Sincerely, Reverend With the Good Hair (Monica L. Banks)

Mountains O' Things

Chanukah with friends

I don't blog as much as I used to.  It's not that I don't want to.  It's just, I run out of words for the massive "emotional lifting" that is part of the work and life I lead right now.  What do you say about a day that includes a weeping addict that verbalizes his shame, a new baby born to a mother that has just transitioned from homelessness, the transition of power in a conflicted political time?  Those are just the big things.  But, I write papers, narratives, requests, bullets, posts and updates to social media.  The demands of my time and my words...well, they never end.  I try to use economy and save some of my capacity for listening and speaking, because you never know when you might be needed.  So, this space has been underutilized.

Most days I am numb, on good days I am able to laugh and weep.  Most moments, the tears are full and complicated.  They are neither singularly joy or sadness.  They are round and complex, deep and river-like...my tears.  I cry at the wrong moment.  I weep when my congregation "gets it"...whatever it is.  Last month, we celebrated Christmas at one of our beloved neighborhoods that New Communion: Mobile Market & Food Pantry serves.  My church, colleagues from Wake, neighbors and friends (old and new) partnered on a Thursday to feed 170 neighbors at LaDeara Crest.  We served and spent time in community with those we normally interact with and those in very different circumstances at a neighborhood less than fifteen minutes from our church and school.

Paul and Co

I'm not gonna lie, my favorite part of the evening was listening to a voice message from my beloved friend and congregant telling me that she was lost.  I think she's in her seventies.  But the message went like this, "Monica, NO ONE is answering the phone.  I've called Paul, I've called Pam.  No one is answering." Mind you we were halfway through serving our Eucharistic meal of friend chicken to some very excited families.  She continued, "She says I am here.  The GPS. Says. I. Am. Here.  I am not here!" I called my dear friend back, but we were nearly done by the time I could reach my phone.  I could tell she was nearing tears and it was getting dark.  I explained to her that everyone was serving and we didn't get to our phones.  I said how sorry I was and that she could just go home.  I explained to her that the neighborhood used to be called Fairchild.  This hadn't seemed relevant to me before.  But, this woman that I love said, "Why didn't you tell me that????  Why didn't the girl on my GPS say that?"

In case you forgot (like my friend)...I'M NOT FROM WINSTON.  So, I sometimes don't know what the pertinent information is.  If you want to volunteer, I'm not the girl to ask directions.  I am beyond grateful for my technology, because without it...the beautiful food and blessings we offer through New Communion would perpetually be "en route".

The reason I tell this story, is one because it's so cute and endearing.  Second, this meal and the interactions during fellowship led to our church offering some spots on the Angel Tree to children at LaDeara Crest.  So, in conversation we worked with the staff and willing kiddos to find out what their needs and wishes might be for the holidays.

Let me tell you...this church, that can't always find the neighborhoods, that has around 70 people in attendance on any given Sunday, is functioning without a pastor...this church "showed up" (as they say) for this community.  Love "Shows Up!" as my blogger friend Jess Wilson writes on her blog Diary of A Mom.  I don't know if this will translate through this screen, but our church is white...like totally white, not in a bad, unkind, unaware sort of way...we just are totally and completely white.  And, LaDeara Crest...well, they are mostly not.  These kids get used gifts, items from the dollar store, "left-overs" and inexpensive thoughtless gifts.  When offering requests, I was really clear.  The list was as follows:

• 2 BROWN American Girl Dolls
• 2 Bikes (one girl and one boy bike 7-10 year old range)
• UGGS, Women's size 6
• Children's Coats, various sizes, new
• Clothes and age appropriate toys for 3 month old boy
• Art Set for 13 year old girl
• Socks and Underwear for 18 year old boy, wears Men's XL 

There were other items and needs.  We made no promises to Ms. Brenda at LaDeara Crest, only that we would do our best.  On December 20th, I walked into our church office and saw two fully assemble bikes, one for a boy and one for a girl.  My friend and ministry partner's three year old was with me and had he not been trying to ride the lime green one, I think I would have wept in that moment alone.  As I scanned the room, I saw all the other wrapped gifts and noticed two boxes that looked like they had dolls in them.  I pealed back a corner of the wrapping paper on each...they were REAL American Girl Dolls.  They weren't "similar", they were the real deal.  One was a historical doll named Addy and the other was a Truly Me doll that looked like some of our girls at LaDeara.  

I could go on to tell you that Paul from church, my friend/ministry partner (kids in tow), and I ventured to the mall just days before Christmas.  We bought winter coats for 6 kids at 75% off.  We found UGGS, just days before Christmas, in the right color, size, and on SALE!  The three year old and his eight year old sister behaved like mini adults, picking out coats for kids they didn't know.  Other than the "my bike" song that came out of the tiniest of our staff...it was a surreal experience.  My 8 year old colleague even brought forth a discussion regarding the mall Santa and explained to me that he couldn't be real with points of documentation, she explained that he was a representative because the mall couldn't be trusted with getting the other guy back in time.  

I thrift shop for many reasons, some more moral than others.  But, ultimately, I HATE the mall.  Like, it makes me break out in hives.  I never find what I am looking for and I ultimately feel ripped off and dirty.  I feel a little like Tracy Chapman must have when she wrote this song.  But, that day...I felt holy and sacred, in fact anointed as I walked with my tiny colleagues out of the mall.  We held our heads high as we drug our bags and packages through the crowded mall.  My friend bought cookies for his well behaved children.  I didn't get one and I am still a little salty regarding the oversight (cough cough).  

We drove to drop off the sacramental toys and gifts.  The kids were still possessed by some wisdom and spirit outside of themselves.  They carried packages and assisted in dropping off the bikes (whose ownership was still under advisement).  They carried themselves in a way that could only be described as cute and dignified.  Ms. Brenda asked if we wanted to deliver the gifts to the families.  My friend and I said, "NO" in stereo...we laughed at yet another shared brain moment and explained that we wanted the parents to be "Santa".  I don't know what Ms. Brenda said to that, I know we talked about the dolls and she was surprised that we had two.  She was surprised that they were from American Girl and she was moved to tears when we informed her that they were "brown".  Not me.  

I could tell you about tonight at the Overflow Shelter and how rough it was tonight.  I could tell you how rough Christmas was this year for me, with one car, the kids gone, missing church because I am on overnights.  But then, then, I would have to tell you about my friend that overnighted me Christmas leggings to wear at the shelter.  I would have to tell you about my friends experiencing homelessness that extended their arm and walked me to work, so I wouldn't fall or walk alone.  "It's not safe Miss Monica.  

Said "Christmas Leggings"...there's a story here too...

 But, it's safe with me.  Let me walk with you."  No dear brother, let me walk with you.  I'd have to tell you that I feel like a celebrity, known when I walk with my husband on date-night to get cheap burgers or go to an artsy film.  I would have to tell you about making a gingerbread house with two men that had never done such as children.  I would have to tell you that I saw the boys they were...one 60/6 one 37/8...as they explained to me that they both worked in construction and spent time in prison and they knew how to assemble/build things.  "We'll show you," they said.  Look at our house and the crazy gingerbread lady they made...they put lipstick on her in my honor, but we decided she was perhaps in another line of work.

"That ain't you Monica.  She a stripper." Merry Christmas!

He kept reminding me that he's in "construction"  

Do you know how many times someone yells my name, lovingly...from the park, the curb, a bottle and looks at me, deeply, saying, "Yo, Miss Monica, you work tonight? Is that your husband?  Oh, hey Mr. Monica...Nah, man, I'm just kidding..."???  I don't know how many times either...but, more than I deserve.  

We get snapped back from the Holy sometimes...to this world.  My holy brothers had sloppy joes for dinner and it smells something fierce in here and the symphony of gastrointestinal situations is something that one needs to be present to appreciate.  Here we are...one foot in our deep holiness and the other with out bodies.  Aren't we complicated and so deeply loved?  Tonight, there is no place  I'd rather be...even with the smells and bells that come with this work.  

I also found a meme from my summer of chaplain training.  Some of you might not get it, I ALMOST forgot.  But, shout out to the VIP Unit...

Love each other and let yourselves be consumed by those holy moments...because, there are so many of them.  We forget ourselves and our own holiness so much of the time.  Call me if you need reminding...

Love,
M