Monday Prompt
Now the Purpose of My Life is No Longer Carved in Stone
Funny how one day can throw everything up for grabs.
The meeting was finally over.
As the church board president, co-facilitator, and all-round responsiblé, I was spent. Drained as well. I wasn’t prepared for how easily my emotional buttons would get pushed.
For example, instead of saying, when you call on me, I heard someone say if you call on me. We reassured them that their proposal would get a full discussion, which it did. Our round-robin style allowed everyone to share, so this person got to have their turn but not dominate.
Their proposal did not get enough votes to fly. They weren’t happy, but the rest of the community was. The original proposed bylaw amendment giving us a conflict resolution process passed 19 to 3.
Then our friend announced they weren’t prepared to come to more meetings on this topic if we needed to have them. This was hard to hear.
We board members needed to decompress, reminding each other we did a good job with both the process and the contents of our discussion.
As our debrief wound down, I reminisced with the minister who supported us with prayer and facilitation. I complimented her daughter’s portrayal of a crack-addicted mom in a church play, back when she was a teenager.
Her daughter is now 35 and a successful lawyer.
In 2002, I facilitated a group of Oakland church teens writing and performing an original play in honor of the Season for Nonviolence.
The Rev did not remember seeing the final performance. She might have been out of town. I described for my friends on the board how these kids based their play on a true story that happened to one of their uncles — a minister the Rev and I know well.
A story he’s talked about in sermons — a story involving guns.
Upon hearing that her daughter was a crackhead in the play, the Rev laughed. She said, you gotta understand that my daughter was sent to the best private schools I could get her in from grade one.
She’s lived in this kind of bubble. She wouldn’t know from a crack addict!
Nonetheless, I explained how much I enjoyed watching her daughter do the Stanislavski full body transformation into that crack addict. So if she did not have direct exposure, she had some damn good acting teachers!
On the day the teens performed this play before a live audience, it just so happened their uncle was to give the closing benediction. He did not know that his story was the basis for the play — heavily adapted, of course, but the bones were unmistakable.
He got choked up, and we all had to wait for him to stop crying so he could lead us in prayer. The best tribute he could have given those young people — his tears. And then he retold the story.
Why am I elaborating on all this?
Something shifted in me as I shared that story with my friends and the Rev.
My heavy heart floated in creative joy! I relived my amazement at what these talented kids came up with without much input from me. I transcribed the script and ran the rehearsals. That was about it. They were the magic.
When I got off that zoom session, I burst into tears.
Both of these events were church happenings. One, at a tiny church, drained the heck out of me. One, at a much larger church, while taking even more effort, fed my soul.
So what is it that I no longer know?
What the heck I’m doing enduring all that aggravation for a little tiny church of 30 or so people. In the long run, what, if any, social impact do we have? Especially when we are so narrowly focused.
To be fair, we have a dedicated book group reading about white supremacy, deepening our connection to #Black Lives Matter issues.
When I stopped crying, I took a walk and called the Rev. She lifted up the vital role I’m playing in my church community.
Then I told her how sharing about the teens’ play shifted something in me. It reminded me how my creative passion helped impact the broader community in a way what I’m doing now does not feel like it does.
She got it.
We breathed together on that. I told her I’m going back to the drawing board — the spiritual Drawing Board. I thought I was in the right place at the right time of my life. Now I am not so sure.
I am not getting any younger.
Like I said in a previous post: service needs to be from and with a joyous heart. So, either my current situation needs a hefty infusion of joy, or I need to rethink my purpose. God, help me! I can’t figure this alone!
Thank you all for being my witnesses. Diana, how did you know I needed to write about exactly this?
Thank you, 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘊. for such a well-timed prompt!
Marilyn Flower writes political humor and satire to delight socially and spiritually conscious folks. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, where she writes about faith and prayer. Five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her resolve during these crazy times. Stay in touch!
