Ask Aunt Dorcas: What About Counselors?

Aunt Dorcas with her favorite counselor, last May, 
when he could still use his left arm.

Dear Aunt Dorcas—

What is your opinion of counseling? Especially for Christians.

--Confused Connie

Dear Connie--

I know from your email that you’re conservative Mennonite, and the fact that you ask the question tells me that you live among people who are suspicious of counseling and question its legitimacy, value, and justification in Scripture.

This view isn’t distributed equally among all Mennonites, just so you know. I know a number of Mennonite and even Amish counselors. I also know of many Mennonites who are deeply suspicious of the very word, and I know one couple who was in deep trouble with their church because they got marriage counseling.

Counseling and therapy are relatively new fields. Psychiatry was the first related field to appear, in the early 1900s, and it was seen as weird by many both inside and out of the church. And, granted, Freudian psychology was pretty bizarre. With the emphasis on childhood events shaping your adult problems, it was seen as giving you permission to blame all your shortcomings on your parents. If you like old Shirley Temple films, Bright Eyes is a good example of the general view of psychiatry in 1934. Little Joy is an absolute brat, unlike Shirley of course. Joy also goes regularly to be psychoanalyzed by her psychiatrist, who tells her parents not to punish her but only to encourage her.

Today, however, Freudian ideas and methods are seen as outdated, and my sister-in-law, a psychiatrist, spends her time diagnosing disorders and prescribing medication as needed. She doesn’t ask patients to lie on a chaise lounge and talk about their dreams.

The counseling field developed out of the study of mental health and the need for helping troubled people. Requirements and credentials vary by state and by the type of counseling, from licensed marriage and family therapists with master’s degrees to a local pastor who probably has a degree in pastoral ministries or Bible but spends time counseling because the need is so great.

I’ve never understood the deep-seated antipathy to counseling among certain Anabaptists, especially since we go to medical doctors as needed and plenty of other health providers besides, such as dentists, eye doctors, chiropractors, and naturopaths.

Especially chiropractors. We love our chiropractors.

When I was teaching school, I lived with a young lady named Cynthia. She was hearty and strong then, but after our lives diverged she developed a number of health issues. Maybe fifteen years later we were visiting and catching up. She mentioned that she goes to a chiropractor regularly—I’m thinking once a week.

I exclaimed about this and said I had never been to a chiropractor in my life.

Cynthia sputtered, “But! Don’t you ever HURT?”

“Not really,” I said.

Years later, Jenny, our 25-pound toddler, was sleeping in a Pack-n-Play, and I saw she had scootched off the blanket. I bent over, scooped her up, and pivoted at the waist to set her back on the blanket. I felt a tight spring snap loose in my back, which sent me to bed for about two days of what felt like second stage back labor or maybe transition. Then I went to a chiropractor. I hurt that bad. He improved things immediately.

When you hurt enough, you go for help.

Soon after my nephew died of suicide in 2006, we had the misfortune to have one of those overly confident revival meeting speakers that churches further east are so willing to supply to us in the West. One evening he boomed eloquently on the evils of counseling.

I spoke to him afterwards, cautiously. Could he explain?

He did. I don’t recall the words, only his attitude, and how sure he was of his conclusions.

The words slammed painfully into my soul that was still raw with grief and a deep wish that my nephew could have talked to a counselor and maybe gotten help. I didn’t try to argue with the preacher. I only thought, “You haven’t suffered enough. Someday, you’ll have a family member with depression. Or you will go down that dark road yourself.”

I have no idea what he’s experienced or what he thinks about such things today. 

[Side note: I have a slightly wicked theory that if Mennonites saw more counselors, they’d need to see fewer chiropractors. I wonder if I could make a case that seeing a counselor would save money, long term, thus justifying the practice.

This is not to imply anything about Cynthia’s physical pain, only an overall assessment.]

Thankfully, neither my husband nor church has had any issue with me seeing a counselor, and I have done so for a period of time as needed, at several stages of my life. One helped untangle a few unhealthy patterns in our marriage, another was an enormous help in my relationship with an adult child, and recently I started meeting with someone via Zoom to sort through the enormous challenges of the last year and a half, ever since my dad died. (Though she is fully qualified, she prefers the term "coach" since she's officially retired.)

I think it’s unfair to generalize about counselors, because they come in such variety, from dreamy souls who light candles and use words like “unpack” and “heart” far too often, to blunt, practical, matter-of-fact people like my current coach who is a farm girl at heart and likes to raise cattle and hang out with sheep. Her family came from a very strict religious background which was not Anabaptist but has been helpful in understanding the lingering effects of my Amish thinking/family/belief patterns.

As with any profession, some counselors are excellent and some are completely inept. Also, someone who is a good fit for you might not be helpful for your friend or husband.

An argument that often comes up is this: “You have the Bible and the church. That’s all you need.”

To that I say: You, despite having the Bible and the church, travel to South Dakota for chiropractic treatments at Canistota and to Mexico for chelation therapy.

When we hurt, we need help. It’s great that you allow people to get help for physical pain, but cruel that you don’t let them seek relief for emotional pain.

However, I do think if the church actually fulfilled the responsibilities of brotherhood, we wouldn’t need quite as many professional counselors.

In my opinion, the number one way the church fails its people is this: we can’t handle the truth. We are aghast at people’s raw emotions. We don’t like to hear what people do to each other. We are horrified when someone talks about what happened to them.

So we shush, smother, and smooth.

We are suspicious of any real emotion, assuming it means a lack of forgiveness and faith. We crank off that spigot as fast as we can.

Also, we don’t have time. Talking and sorting through grief, losses, and struggles of every kind simply takes big chunks of time. We hate to impose on others and ask them to listen, and we resent it when someone uses up our precious time with endless recitations of their problems.

These are advantages of counselors:

1. The time and expectation boundaries are clear. You will meet for an hour on Tuesday. You can talk about whatever you choose. The counselor will listen but will also direct and provide insights. It will cost X dollars.

There’s a huge relief in having all this spelled out.

2. They accept emotion. If you have a completely unacceptable emotion, like a murderous rage at the man who molested your daughter, a good counselor won’t gasp or raise their eyebrows or quickly direct you into a forced forgiveness. Instead, they nod and keep listening.

3. They’ve seen it all. You might be the fiftieth parent they’ve seen whose child was violated. They’ve seen this rage before and know it’s a typical response. Knowing you’re typical and normal is also a relief and gives far more hope of a path forward than being treated like a freak.

4. They emphasize personal responsibility. Even though they may trace a behavior or emotional pattern back to something that was done to you, they always circle back to you. Most of us with emotional issues are very mixed up about what is our job and what isn’t. We think whenever someone isn’t happy or behaving, it’s our job to fix them. We carry heavy loads of guilt and responsibility for parents, siblings, children, and spouses. Also, we blame our own unhappiness on others. Counselors help you see that each of us is responsible for our own choices and reactions. They also help you examine the lies you picked up and believed, and they assist you in replacing them with the truth.

A lot of Christians are happy to see what you’re doing wrong and tell you to repent, but a good counselor will help you uproot the root that the wrong behavior is sprouting from, so you’re not always lopping off the blackberry vine, only to have it sprout again a foot away.

5. They know more than you do and see things you don’t. For example, I’m learning a lot about how childhood trauma and fear affect the nervous system, creating a lifelong high-alert situation. I have an extreme startle reflex. My kids have learned that if they walk into the laundry room and start talking unexpectedly when I’m bent over a basket, they just about have to scrape me off the ceiling. So, if they know I’m there, they sing loudly or knock before they come in, because they are very kind people, but even then I might shriek and jump. I’ve always thought was only a somewhat embarrassing quirk. Now I’m learning it’s a symptom of PTSD.

Recently I was stressed out over a change in our normal routine, so much so that I could barely focus or think, and way out of proportion to the situation. My coach pointed out that it was most likely a “trauma response” connected to the overactive nervous system. This connection had never occurred to me. She gave me some helpful ideas for calming down and un-freezing my mind. There are specific physical things you can do that help rewire a damaged brain. It’s very cool. Ask your counselor about it.

Friends are sympathetic and kind, but someone with more training is more helpful with some of this deep-rooted damage.

6. They guide you toward solving your own problems. Despite having gone to counselors and taken a few weekend courses, I haven’t learned this magic trick. Most of us tell people what they ought to know and do. A good counselor asks a few casual questions and suddenly you realize where you went wrong. Duh! It’s so obvious! And you figured it out all by yourself, or that’s what it feels like, which is far more powerful than having someone tell you.

7. They keep your conversations confidential.

If you really want to reduce the need for your church people to go to counselors, here are some things you can do:

1. Schedule times of listening. Offer to sit down with someone and listen for an hour or two. It’s hard to explain what a gift this is. My neighbor, Anita, has at various times told me that she wants to be available for me to “debrief” after big events—funerals, our son’s wedding, and so on. After my dad passed away, I took her up on this offer. She let me talk and made sure she understood. May her tribe increase.

2. Be ok with truth. If you listen to people, you will hear alarming things. The truth might be that a church leader violated a child, your favorite aunt was an abusive mother, a young unmarried couple is pregnant, your loving neighbors’ marriage is horrible, your friend is deeply angry, or your son got a DUI. While you need to be discerning and respect confidentiality, these are not good reasons to slam the door on the truth. The truth is your friend. Don’t be afraid of it. You might need to go to bed with the covers over your head until you get used to the revelation, but believe me, if you go on to play whack-a-mole, trying to suppress any indication that this truth is coming out, you will be frantic, exhausted, and ultimately fruitless.

3. Be ok with emotion. Most of us have learned that it isn’t safe to say how we really feel. As I mentioned earlier, we equate genuine emotion with a lack of faith. So we smile at church and go home and cry. We lie when people ask how we’re doing. We hide and pretend and ultimately need doctors and chiropractors for all those vague aches and pains. We have not learned true lament.

How you can help: let people feel what they feel. Seek to understand. Invite the grieving mother over for tea and let her talk about the ravaging pain that won’t go away. Be quiet. Nod. Say, “That sounds horrible. Here’s some more tea.” Let yourself cry with her.

4. Stop the pat answers. Just stop. If you have any Christian decency and common sense, don’t say this stuff:

“Well, it’s all for the good to them that love God.”

“He’s in a better place.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way.”

“You need to forgive.”

“Just think, Mary has it so much worse and she never complains.”

“You’re holding a grudge.”

“I know he abused you, but just look at how much good he did in the church.”

“You need to let it go and quit bringing it up.”

“You’re just bitter.”

“You’re just lazy.”

“I’m sure they meant well.”

“Pray about it.”

“You need to think positive.”

“You need to read your Bible more.”

“Can’t you try harder?”

This is what you should say instead: “That sounds hard. Have some more tea.”

Set a box of tissues at their elbow.

Yes, there’s a place for speaking hard truth to a brother or sister in the church. Exhorting, rebuking, all of that. But you don’t do that when they’ve just lost a loved one or are going through terrible struggle and loss.

If you listen well, you might find and gently expose the root that is producing the sinful blackberry vine. Our pat answers lop off the vine about a foot off the ground, so the problem grows and spreads all over the orchard.

5. Refer people to professionals. If you are listening to someone who is barely functioning, or out of touch with reality, it’s time to refer them to a doctor. If you get involved and listen well, you’ll know when you’re beyond your capacity to help. 

6. Respect confidentiality. If Martha confides in you about her depression, don’t hint at her issues in a prayer request at Bible study. However. If Martha says her husband is molesting the children, tell her that you can’t keep this secret.

In conclusion, I think counseling can be a good thing for Christians or anyone. It ought to be approached with the same care that you’d use looking for a good doctor or mechanic. If we cared better for each other in general, we would deal better with both physical and psychological pain, and we would need fewer professionals to fix us.

That’s what I think. 

--Aunt Dorcas

+++

You can send your Ask Aunt Dorcas questions to dorcassmucker@gmail.com.

You can find my books at Muddy Creek Press.

A Day With Aunt Kitty

"Mam took me to Cleveland to see Aunt Kitty," is how Mom began.

I decided some time ago to impose a deadline on myself of a blog post every Saturday. This week I was too busy working around the upheaval, noise, and carpenters underfoot, and also picking bits of paint off the wood floor with a veil clip to think about blog posts.

But in the insanity of hauling everything out of our crowded office and working around the disorganized piles in the living room for two weeks, I found a pink paper of notes I had jotted down on one of my last visits with my mom when she was still coherent.

It's a story that's always intrigued me, so I'll share it, hoping siblings and cousins have more details.

My grandparents, Adam and Anna Miller, lived in Holmes County, Ohio. They were Amish and had two children at this point--Ervin and Sara, my mom. Mom was born in 1920, so this took place probably in 1922 or '23. My mom always called her mom "Mam," while we knew her as Mommi.

Aunt Kitty, as nearly as I can figure out, was an Englisch woman who had married Mommi's uncle Amos. He apparently left the Amish, because Kitty certainly wasn't Amish.

So Anna, my grandma, took her two little children to Cleveland to visit Kitty. Kitty wanted to take them around town, but she was embarrassed to take these Amish people, so she dressed Anna in a long fancy dress with a big hat, and she dressed Ervin and Sara in overalls. [Yes. Overalls. Or so the story was told to me.]

Also, she took out Sara's braids and had her hair hanging loose.

"Aunt Kitty had a few girls," my mom said. "She took us over the town. She took us to see the ships on the lake. There were boys and girls along in the car. I'm not sure if they were hers, or who."

At some point, they rode on a train and went to the zoo, and someone gave Ervin and Sara "suckers." [Lollipops] The wind whipped Sara's loose hair around the sticky sucker, she recalled. At the zoo, the monkeys stuck out their tongues toward the sucker.

And just that abruptly, my notes are finished.

There are so many things I'd love to know. Mommi was certainly a pragmatic woman, but it still surprises me that she was ok with wearing Kitty's dress around town. Some years later, when they lived in Indiana, my mom put cuffs on the sleeves of her new dress for a trip to Ohio, and Mommi told her the cuffs come off or she doesn't go to Ohio. Was it that Amish perspective of it's not about the deed itself but about who might find out?

I also wonder what it was like for Kitty to marry into a family with so much tragedy. Her husband, Amos's, mother had died when he was young, and his dad remarried. This woman had twin babies, Sarah and Mary, then she died. He married a third time, to a woman who was truly a wicked stepmother and abused Sarah especially horribly. Mary was "farmed out," Mom told me, and died young. The stepmother also died before Sarah was an adult, and her dad married a fourth time.

When Sarah was 15, she had a baby named Harvey but never revealed who the father was. When Harvey was six, Sarah married David Schlabach, who was so harsh with Harvey that Sarah gave him to another family to raise. Then she went on to have 15 more children, all of them tough, resilient people who, according to Mom, stuck together through incredibly hard growing-up years and were known for their humor and storytelling. The third child of the 15 was Anna, my grandma and the one who went to see Aunt Kitty.

After David died, Sarah came to live with my mom's family. They called her "Mommi Schlabach." She seemed to have lost touch with Harvey, or "Harf," as they called him, because at one point he came for a visit to reconnect with his birth mother. He was an old man himself, my mom said, and Mommi Schlabach didn't seem to "bekimmah" herself much with him, which means she didn't seem that concerned/invested.

I can hardly imagine the trauma involved in a motherless 15-year-old getting pregnant and never revealing the father. I'm pretty sure that if the father had been a boyfriend, they would have gotten married and all would have been well. Judging from all the firstborn babies in the family record books born about six months after the wedding, that wasn't all that uncommon.

But she didn't marry the father, and she never told. And as an old woman, she wasn't enthusiastic about her firstborn coming back into her life.

I have a very interesting heritage, a mix of delightful and utterly, unspeakably heartbreaking.

My great-aunt Katie is on the left and her sister Susan in the middle.
My grandma was between them in age.
On the right is "Uncle Dave's wife."

I believe Sadie, Mary, Lizzie, and Lovina were all my great-aunts.
I'd love to know the story behind this photo. Why aren't the girls wearing their "kappa," 
like in the previous picture? And who are those fancy young instrument-playing men?

Here's a story of the time Mommi and her sisters jumped off the train. This was in Oregon, and maybe ten years before the train ride to Cleveland.

Ask Aunt Dorcas: The Person Who Liked Everyone But Me

 

Aunt Dorcas pretends to be interested in her
daughter Jenny's snail.

Dear Aunt Dorcas,

How do you grieve for someone whose relationship brought more pain than anything else?  A close family member recently passed away and the death did bring a certain amount of loss, but mostly relief that the stress of trying to keep working on the hard parts was over.  There were moments of joy in our relationship but mostly pain and hard. I feel sad for other family members who lost the one they loved so much, but little sadness for myself.  

Another dynamic to this relationship struggle is that most other people really enjoyed being with the deceased.  This person was fun to be with, the life of the party.  So I am also grappling with the idea of what is wrong with me?  Why could everyone else get along, but not me?  Was it my fault or the other person's fault? What could I have done differently? I have never felt free to discuss the dynamics of this relationship, nor do I wish to air every piece of dirty laundry.  That brings another question to mind: How do you talk about hard relationships without gossiping or slandering or making others think less of the person?

Sincerely, 

Struggling in the South

Dear Struggling—

I like to answer questions dealing with issues I’ve already experienced, wrestled with, and found answers for or solutions to. Talkative children, for example. I experienced it, learned a lot, survived, and got the t-shirt.

This is not one of those questions. I chose to examine it because it’s current for me. Maybe not the grief so much, specifically, but the mystery: how was this person this way toward me and that way toward everyone else? What does that say about both them and me? What’s wrong with me if they were awful to me but nice to everyone else? How do you process all that, especially after they pass on?

In a broader sense, the Christian/Mennonite world is regularly slammed with a new revelation of a respected leader who influenced many to follow Jesus but was found to have a slimy, hidden side that caused enormous damage.

We know that we ourselves are complex and multi-dimensional, a mix of good, bad, and in-between, and often we don’t even know what lurks in our own hearts until a chance reaction exposes it.

Also, as you explained so well, we show different faces to different people, so you and I can have entirely different impressions of the same person.

Who of us knew their true self, you wonder, sitting at the funeral listening to the eulogies and tributes. How is it possible that no one else heard and saw what I did, or was burned so deeply by their cruelty? “I don’t want to imply she was perfect,” they say at the funeral, and we think, “No kidding.”

When I was about fourteen, a young man taught my Sunday school class like no one had ever taught me in my life. Instead of predictable, sleepy parsing of chapters and verses, he challenged us to memorize the book of James. Then he had us take turns teaching the class. For the first time, I spent Saturday nights sitting on the bedroom floor, surrounded by commentaries and concordances, diving deep into Scripture.

Years later, I met this man’s teenage daughter. Of course I gushed and exclaimed about her dad’s impact on my life, but she seemed oddly unimpressed. Later, she shared that her dad had struggled with mental illnesses, and his family suffered through years of chaos, fear, and isolation.

My experience happened. So did hers. They were both valid. I don’t know how to square this with the verses from James 3 that I memorized at this man’s urging:

Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter? Can the fig tree, my brethren, bear olive berries? either a vine, figs? so can no fountain both yield salt water and fresh.

What about the influential minister who sexually assaulted a number of young men, including one I knew whose life was utterly ruined by the experience? Much later, at a gathering of young people, the minister’s grandchildren raved about him. Such a Godly man, so loving, so funny, so caring, such a great Bible teacher.

What?

Then there was the woman who crossed my path when I was young, floundering, and incredibly vulnerable. She would regularly upbraid me in the most shameful and spiritual terms, slicing down to the most fragile part of my soul, making me wither in burning self-hatred for days.

Her grandchildren loved her. Such a sweet, caring woman.

Contrary to James, these fountains yielded both salt water and fresh. So which was real and which was fake?

Like you, Struggling in the South, I assumed the problem was mine. I was so bad; she was so spiritual.

I no longer think it was my problem.

Maybe everyone is like this, but I think people who survived childhood abuse have a few specific reactions to this dichotomy in character.

--We have a hard time with nuance and contradiction. We experience someone in a specific way, so we slot them into a category. Nice or nasty. Honest or lying. Safe or unsafe.

--We have a hard time evaluating someone at arm’s length. “Hmmm. They seem to be bitter and angry. Interesting. I wonder why.” Instead, we feel it’s about us. “She is bitter and angry because I provoke her. It is my fault.” Or “Maybe I didn’t cause this, but it really bothers me personally that she is this way. I resent it.”

--Integrity is everything to us. We needed to know if people were safe or unsafe, so we developed a German Shepherd’s nose. One whiff of pretension, hypocrisy, or arrogance, and we promptly slotted them into the file of people we can never relax around. Even as adults and supposedly in charge of our lives, we still do this.

I think that as we grow older and receive healing, we act less out of self-preservation and more out of grace and truth.

First, grace. We recognize the incredible complexity in each of us, and we realize people do what they do because of what’s in their hearts. It’s all about them, and it has nothing to do with us. We have less of a passionate need to sort everyone into safe and unsafe and are able to see shades of gray between black and white. We see patterns—people hurt and humiliate out of the pain that festers inside them. We are able to see more objectively and give more grace. We don’t know the whole story, and we get to choose who we’re going to be no matter how they treated us.

But we also love truth. We realize how often we were bamboozled into believing everything was our fault, and we lose patience with hypocrisy, with foolishness, with cruelty in spiritual disguise. We call it like we see it and no longer worry that it’s just us being weird. This is not ok. You don’t shame and harangue the little schoolteacher even if she’s a bit silly. That’s just mean. Sexual abuse is evil and comes from an evil heart, no matter how kind the grandfather might be or how many were taught by the minister.

Back to your specific situation, Miss Struggling in the South:

I want to validate everything you’ve been through. You really felt and experienced what you felt and experienced. You are not crazy.

When you seem to be the only one who didn’t get along with a person, it makes you feel just as you described: alone, weird, at fault.

It could be that something about you triggered a reaction in this person. That doesn’t mean it was your fault. It means there was something in their heart that was exposed when you arrived. This was their chance to thank God for that revelation and repent and change. Instead, they kept making the relationship miserable for you.

That was their choice.

You have much to grieve here—the relationship that could have been, the isolation, and the burden of silence.

“How do you talk about these things?” you said.

You are wise to be cautious, but please find one person who can hear the truth. Carrying these contradictions inside without voicing them will only add to your grief.

I can’t tell you when and how and what to Tell because I’m constantly grappling with it myself. Secrets untold can grow into cancers that destroy us, but sometimes Telling brings more problems than it solves. I believe the truth will set us free, yet I also believe in discretion, and I would never tell the granddaughter, for example, that her beloved grandma nearly spun me into mental illness.

However, difficult as it was to find out, I am glad for his daughter's sake that I learned how my favorite Sunday school teacher turned out. Her story deserved to be told and heard. I try to see both her experience and mine as valid and true.

I wish we could all become more accepting of the complicated truths about people, far beyond the eulogies and "But they weren't perfect" at funerals. Whenever and whatever you tell, some people will hear and affirm you, and others will shame you for saying anything at all and accuse you of holding grudges. Because we are all complicated and different people.

But I pray that you will eventually be vindicated and validated. Truth, like a little sprout from a seed buried deep in the garden, has a way of coming into the light when the time is right.

Book Reviews--January Brighter Winter Challenge

 Like many others, I found that the Brighter Winter reading challenge from Daughters of Promise gave a welcome framework to my January reading. Again like many others, I’ve suffered from a lack of outside deadlines and schedules during this pandemic. The reading challenge provided structure but not rigidity.

Here are some of the books I read and the categories I checked off.

1. Call the Nurse—True Stories of a Country Nurse on a Scottish Isle, by Mary J. MacLeod

Categories: Read a memoir. Read a book set somewhere you’ve always wanted to visit.

Ok, I haven’t always wanted to visit the Scottish Hebrides Islands, but I do now. Mrs. MacLeod and her family, tired of city life in London, moved to an island off the coast of Scotland in the early 1970s. She worked as a home health nurse.

Some memoirs about a specific place are more like ACE math and some are more like A Beka. ACE focuses on one skill at a time and makes children plow through ten solid pages of two-digit subtraction before moving on to something else. A Beka, on the other hand, has a little buffet every day: a dozen addition and subtractions problems, two story problems, and a fraction or two.

I’ve considered writing a memoir of our years in the North in Canada and wondered which method would be best. My letters are much like A Beka math—a bit of culture, an update on the kids, a few details of daily life, and an interesting anecdote in each "chapter."

Call the Nurse, in contrast, is more like ACE. While they’re all structured around an interesting story, most chapters focus on one aspect of life on the island. Maybe the weather, or holiday customs, or going shopping on the mainland for supplies.

It works, because Mary MacLeod is an excellent writer and wraps everything in well-told stories. However, it sometimes seems a bit choppy.

Medical people get to see below the surface of a community, and this was certainly true of MacLeod. She traveled hither and yon, sometimes by boat, to all kinds of isolated stone cottages full of eccentric people. She shows personal and cultural quirks without mocking or patronizing, which is a rare accomplishment. Also, she works in just enough dialect to give us the flavor without confusing us, which is a delicate thing to balance.

I felt like I could see and feel the wind, the choppy seas, the bare hillsides, and the sturdy cottages. I also learned some of the history of the Hebrides and "saw" how the population dwindled on some of the islands until the last people had to leave, for practical/survival reasons, leaving abandoned villages and many years of history behind.

I recommend the book.

2. One Woman Falling by Melanie Campbell

Categories: Book with a three-word title, book inspired by a true story, book with a blue cover, book published in 2020. [We weren’t supposed to have more than two categories per book, but I didn’t follow all the rules.]

I have a personal investment in this book, because it was written by my friend Melanie from my writing group and I am listed in the acknowledgements.

One Woman Falling is about a young woman in an abusive marriage who escapes with her young daughter and works to create a new life. It’s always been hard for me to understand the dynamics in such a marriage—what motivates a woman to stay, what it takes for her to leave, and why she's so vulnerable in the process. This book was eye-opening in many ways, including the legal and mental challenges of leaving an angry and vengeful man.

It also followed the main character’s journey to faith and trust in God. 

Even though I’d critiqued the individual chapters, I was still gripped by the story and could hardly put it down. Melanie’s own story was the inspiration for One Woman Falling, which made it extra painful to read but also increased my understanding.

Around the same time, I watched the movie Herself, which shared many parallels with One Woman Falling—young woman, daughters, and a raging, manipulative husband. I don’t recommend Herself except to educate yourself, as it’s not a “fun” movie and it has a lot of rough language.

I would like to be a better resource for women in these hard situations, and I am more informed now than I was before.

3. Through a Glass Darkly by Lori Hershberger

Category: Read a poetry book for at least 20 minutes.

I like poetry that contains poetic devices like rhyme, metaphors, and unexpected connections. Poetry ought to convey an emotion, I think.

I am also practical and homespun with poetry preferences, gravitating to poems I can read and understand. I don’t like to frown over obscure combinations of words that must be sorted into little piles with a hairpin and examined under a magnifying glass before any meaning can be extracted.

I picked up a book I had on hand to fulfil this requirement, but my eyes soon glazed over. “Maybe you should read Lori’s book,” said Amy the problem-solving daughter. She went upstairs and fetched Through a Glass Darkly, a book by her friend who is both an Amish girl from Kansas and a missionary in Thailand.

I loved it.

In my favorite piece, Lori writes about airports as though they are romantic partners. Airports are full of promises, they draw you into their embrace, they offer gifts and adventures. But they also break their promises, abandon you, and disappoint you.

She also writes about children, rain, loss, and much more, all in language both mystical and accessible, with twists and connections that are timed perfectly. She shows the same respect for the Thai people as Mary MacLeod did for the Scottish people in Call the Nurse.

You can read her blog at In Search of a Brook.

Ask Aunt Dorcas: Offended by a Compliment

Aunt Dorcas and Whistler's Mother

Dear Aunt Dorcas--

What is the difference between compliments, praise, and flattery? A friend arrived at our house and I complimented the dress she was wearing. She didn't say anything, but several weeks later before communion she called me saying she had to let me know that my flattery really bothers her. I was stunned and asked for an example and she brought up my remark of how I had said "I really like your new dress." I had really liked it. It has made me doubt myself, wondering if it's ever okay to compliment anyone? I've never made any that weren't sincere. Should I keep them to myself or is it okay to speak?

--Caroline

Dear Caroline—

I’ve been circling your question in my head like I would circle a hornets’ nest. Where do I make the first poke at this tidy wrapping that surrounds a swarm of troubling elements?

[Please note, Readers: This question is pretty specific to the Amish/Mennonite culture, in case you are bewildered by it.]

Caroline, I’m guessing you know this is not actually about compliments vs. praise vs. flattery.

I think it’s really about three things:

1.       Life without grace.

2.       Weaponizing communion.

3.       A denial of beauty.

Some conservative Anabaptists, in pursuit of good things like righteous living and obeying the Bible in all things, have become obsessive about doing everything right. Every word they say must be parsed and analyzed and judged. Every action is observed under the neighborhood microscopes, and motives are duly assigned. Much energy is spent on making the most minor decisions.

[Before you write to me and say, But my church isn't like this, please note that I'm talking about the ones that are.]

Communion services twice a year become the apex of this desperate trying to be good. “So let a man examine himself,” the Bible says. All right then. People, including myself at age 15, lie awake at night trying to decide if they were actually angry last week, or not, and is not wearing black nylons actually a sin, and what if they were black but not quite 30 denier? They stand up in church and confess small lapses in judgment, cringey personal sins that should not be aired to a crowd, and attitudes that speak of weariness and humanity, not sin.

[The actual heinous sins that are never spoken out loud are a subject for another day.]

Not only is the air at the “counsel meeting” beforehand heavy with the burden of trying to be good enough to take communion, it also reeks of judgment, because not only are those of tender conscience frantically examining themselves, but others are grimly noting the sins of everyone else.

“Approaching” someone with a “concern” and saying, “I’m not sure I can take communion with you next month because of this and this,” takes shame and manipulation to Olympic levels.

When I lay awake in agonies, my sins parading across the movie screen of my mind, I wanted most of all to atone. So I did it the only way I knew how. Shortly before communion, I would write notes of apology. People at church that I had talked about unkindly, kids at school I’d been annoyed at, family members, and many others.

My conscience would be briefly satisfied, but the humiliation was intense, and communion was still torture. I knew Jesus had died on the cross for me, but this had no effect on my current situation.

I recall other examples of trying to be good enough:

--A sweet little sixth grade student of mine who was constantly afraid she was lying. “Oh, Teacher. Remember yesterday I said that we went to my aunt’s house and made donuts? Well, it was mostly my mom. I didn’t work on the donuts myself very much. I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure I was telling the truth.”

--The elderly woman I spoke with who was facing the end of her life. “I just think and think—is there anything I’ve done that I forgot to confess? I just want to be ready to meet the Lord, and I just try so hard to remember if there was anything I did that I still need to make right. It worries me."

--A guy in a church in my past who was always making sure everyone else kept the rules. “What are we going to do about John? He’s been parting his hair on the side. I don’t think he should take communion until he repents.”

That was the thing—there were so many rules that if you had it in for someone, you could always find a rule they were breaking.

Somehow, a long time later, I discovered the Gospel that had been waiting for me all along.

We are sinners. We cannot be good enough to meet God’s standard of holiness, to save ourselves, or to keep ourselves saved. We cannot scratch and claw our way into Heaven--but we don't need to! The work has been done for us.

That was the whole point of Jesus coming to earth, dying for us, and rising from the dead. He loved us and did for us what we cannot do for ourselves. He changes our hearts. He saves us when we believe. He keeps us saved. That part is important for Anabaptists to know. I had gotten saved and baptized, but it sure seemed like it was up to me to keep myself saved, hence the agonies and apologies. I was endlessly and fruitlessly trying to atone. Eventually, in a moment of recognizing my helplessness to love a certain enemy, I realized that if Jesus didn’t do the saving for me, I was toast.

It changed everything. The Holy Spirit was more than happy to take on the burdens I had been carrying. I began to let go of the endless trying to be good enough. Paradoxically, that was when my heart and attitudes really began to change. 

Living without grace brings heavy burdens and a twisted reality. You don’t have permission to make mistakes, get tired, have limits, say no, or not know. Everything is suspect and potentially sinful—beauty, fun, talents, blessings. If you don’t shame yourself for something you said or did, someone else will be happy to do it for you. Everyone around you gets to decide if you’re good enough, or not.

Grace is different. You’re allowed to be human and normal. You can make a mistake, laugh at yourself, and try again. You can have a growth mindset, where you understand you can’t get from here to maturity without a share of mistakes. You can live with tension and not knowing what to do. You can enjoy God’s gifts. You’re covered, held, loved, and kept. You learn to recognize what's important and where your energy is best invested.

I mentioned God’s gifts. There’s a specific swath of conservative Mennonites that has a problem with beauty.

I once heard a darkly scowling Mennonite minister preach about thinking through why we do what we do. Well, so far so good, Brother. But. “Let’s say one of you sisters wants to buy a purse, and you find one you want.” His frown deepened. “Now, WHY do you like that particular purse You need to ask yourself that question."

The implied message was: you like it because it’s pretty, don’t you? I knew it! You know very well that’s wicked.

The women in this minister’s life have some of the saddest and strangest notions I’ve ever seen regarding femininity, nice things, and likes. Pretty is ugly. Beauty is sinful. Ugliness is virtue. There’s a strange gaslighting effect in this sort of denial of normal opinions and preferences, where pretty soon you don’t trust your own mind. Caroline, you said, “It has made me doubt myself. . .” and ". . . is it okay to speak?" No wonder, when you’re met with such a response to a perfectly normal compliment.

Years ago, I visited my sister in Yemen and attended a baby party. For forty days after the birth of a child, all the ladies in the family and neighborhood gather every afternoon to celebrate.

Except you have to be careful how you celebrate. “Don’t say that the baby is beautiful,” my sister instructed before we left. “The fear is that that will put the evil eye on it.”

There’s an Arabic phrase that sounds like mah-sha-LAH. It means “what God has willed,” and it seems to be the one comment that’s never inappropriate. I heard my sister say it in all tones of voice—shocked, alarmed, amazed, bewildered. This time, she stepped over to the new mom, smiled at the baby, and said, “Awww, mah-sha-LAH,” in crooning, admiring tones.

It was funny but sad. Didn’t God create beauty for us to enjoy and appreciate, and aren’t babies the crowning touch of his creativity? Why can’t you just say it out loud?

Your friend would no doubt agree with me, in word at least, and write off the Yemeni custom as heathen ignorance.

And yet, there she is, so uncomfortable with you noticing a pretty dress that she is filled with fear that it is all sinful and wrong, so she brings up communion, the ultimate weapon of shame, as a way to make you shun such foolishness.

I’m sure a part of her is hungry for kind words, but she can’t let herself enjoy them.

These are gifts and blessings from God: kindness, encouragement, beauty. Joy, colors, babies. Laughing at yourself, resting in Jesus, letting the little stuff go.

My advice is to enjoy God’s gifts, immerse yourself in his grace, and don’t let this woman’s threats or harsh words shame you into a fear of getting it wrong. She’s obviously watching your life, and maybe someday she’ll ask you for “a reason of the hope that is in you.”

That's what I think. I wish you courage and joy.

Aunt Dorcas

P.S. Since you asked:
Compliment: a polite expression of praise or admiration.

Praise: express warm approval or admiration of.

Flattery: excessive and insincere praise, given especially to further one's own interests.

Thirty Years Later

Do you ever wonder how far you've come? You know, or at least you hope, you've grown in faith, empathy, and maturity as the years have passed. But how much, and in what ways?

Most of us have memories that may or may not be accurate, but if we wrote things down and kept them, we have documentation. 

Our son Matt posted a quote by Ed Latimore on Twitter some time ago: "You know you've grown when you look back at your old self with a bit of embarrassment. If your old behavior doesn't make you cringe, did you really even mature?"

Matt said, "My old journals got a lot easier to read once I realized this."

Matt was also the one who suggested digging out old letters to see what we were doing thirty years ago. I wrote monthly form letters back then and kept copies of most of them. Amazingly, I was able to locate my stash without any deep digging.

Browsing through this stash refreshed old memories, both good and bad. I saw how some things were still the same, but many things were not. I had changed, my children had grown up, and social media had connected people in astonishing ways.

This letter was written 30 years ago, when we had three children aged 4, 2, and 7 months. We lived in a remote village and First Nations reserve in Ontario, Canada, called Weagamow or Round Lake. Paul was a teacher at a Christian school. I wrote this on our first computer and printed it on a dot-matrix printer.

I'll add comments in italics.

Paul and Amy in front of our house.

 

February 1, 1991

Dear Family and Friends,

The temperature soared up to 40 above today after hovering around absolute zero for about two weeks. One morning the official temperature was 45 below zero, but private thermometers ranged down into the 50s-below. We're staying reasonably warm, especially since Paul piled snow around the house. It's still too cold for Emily to be on the floor much.

The cold sure doesn't slow things down. The other evening I walked about half a mile to our ladies' Bible study when it was about 25 below, and there were lots of people out walking or skidooing. Even on the coldest days the school children go outside for breaks and P.E. I guess it's all what you're used to. I've heard several people, including the pastor, say they really don't care for summer—it's just too hot. Paul told Gary (pastor) that summers here seem nice and mild to us, and that in Oregon you can expect a spell of 100-degree weather every summer. Gary: "I suppose everything shuts down then?"

I'm sure most Oregonians think surely everything would grind to a halt at 30 below, so you see what I mean that it's all what you're used to.

As I recall, I used Fahrenheit figures here because most of the recipients were from the U.S. I also recall how I used to walk home from Bible studies and stop in the dark and cold to admire the Northern Lights--great bands of green and blue and white lights sweeping and hissing through the sky. I've always said I could hear them, and recently scientific articles have validated me.

 We're all recovering from bad colds. One day last week I wiped 48 noses in 2 hours. Amy got bronchiolitis, Emily got an ear infection, and I still have a cough, but I think we'll make it.

 I tell you, we were always sick. Colds, fevers, infections, vomiting, chickenpox, and all kinds of maladies. Was it the lack of fresh fruit? I just remember this constant battle to stay healthy.  

Since we have our car here we've gone visiting more. One evening last week we went to visit a family whose four children go to the Christian school. They are very interesting. James was telling us about how they met. He was 26 years old, living alone, and praying for a wife. So one day his dad called to Kingfisher Lake, another reserve just up the bush, and asked if there were any marriageable young ladies there. Sure enough, one of the next planes brought young Julie Sakakeep, who was puffing on a cigarette, and poor James, who was a staunch Christian, wasn't sure what to think. But they were married a week later and apparently he loved her to the Lord because a year later she became a Christian too. "And we've had a good marriage," said James. "With God's help," said Julie.

[Names changed]

 Arranged marriages were traditionally the norm but the custom is almost gone. Gary was telling us that in his family there were 5 arranged marriages and 3 "modern" marriages, and the arranged marriages have been more successful. This makes for some interesting study on our society's system of courtship and marriage.

 These observations are interesting to me now in their arm's-length detachment and "othering." It was like we had left one universe and entered another, and the two would never cross. I was fascinated with the customs and culture, and I had no qualms about writing a form letter about what I observed, because I didn't think the two worlds would ever connect enough for people to see what I had written.

Social media brought these separate planets together in ways I had never imagined. I sit at my desk in Oregon and see posts from my Weagamow friends—the sunrise over the lake, people at work, activities in the gym, new grandbabies. They read what I write and sometimes we message, the "otherness" changed by 30 years and the great equalizing of the Internet.

Matthew has been playing outside a lot with Gokum's 3-year-old grandson, Sty. They were getting along fine until a few weeks ago they started fighting all the time. So we really worked with Matthew on that—but since Sty wasn't getting the same teaching, plus he idolizes Hulk Hogan, we had problems. Matthew was constantly coming in crying because Sty had hit him or pushed his face in the snow, and I was at my wits' end. Then one morning I heard crying and found Matthew backed into a corner of our entry with Sty waving a stick of firewood in front of him. That did it. With Mom and her antipathy for veeshty glenny boova [Pennsylvania German—bad little boys] coming out all over me, I waved the stick in Sty's face and told him in graphic terms what I would do with it if this ever happened again. He howled all the way home, Gokum let him inside, and I suddenly reconsidered my rash move.

 At noon Nita [granddaughter and translator] called me up. "My Gokum says (my stomach turned to water) that Matthew and Sty were playing in the garage so you should wash Matthew's hands good before he eats." (My stomach returned to normal) Since then Sty has been no trouble, either outside or in, and he seems to bear me no ill will.

 Later . . . I guess I shouldn't worry about threatening to spank Sty. Matthew told me this evening that today when they were outside, Gokum spanked them both for playing on the skidoo. He says she spanked him with a mitten on the bottom of his foot, and no, it didn't hurt.

This was a common scene. Gokum is kneeling, Matt is next to her, and Amy is over on the left.
Gokum used that metal post to stab the ice and keep the water hole open. One of these kids later
 tried to push Amy into the hole, and Matt saved her.

 Her name was Clara, but we called her Gokum (Grandma) because that's what her many grandchildren called her. I think Sty is now a musician and a responsible adult. Difficult neighbor children were an ongoing issue for us. The whole village belonged to everyone, so kids wandered all over the reserve and played wherever they pleased, often in our backyard. So if our kids wanted to play outside, I couldn't close a gate and keep them isolated from the others. Often, I got to know children long before I knew their parents, so I couldn't talk to a mom if the kids were stealing our toys or hitting people with hockey sticks. A few of these now-adults have told me they have good memories of playing at our place, which is good to know, because we were certainly making it up as we went along.

We have these buttons on our phone that you can program to call a certain number just by pressing one button, so I'm teaching Matthew and Amy how to call Paul at school, just in case I ever get locked in the outhouse again* or something. Amy thinks she's the cat's pajamas now that she can call Paul all by herself to tell him supper's ready. She likes to throw around big words like "actually" and she's good at sitting meditatively on her potty and remembering all kinds of events I'd completely forgotten. "Mom, were you brushing Maffoo's teeth? And then he dropped your toothbrush in the bucket of water? And then it got all wet? And then you said 'GWOSS'? And Maffoo laughed and laughed?" Several of the 9 and 10 year old girls at school are totally in love with her and practically fight over her. She just soaks it up.

I'm still amazed at how well Amy talked at two years old.

*Yes, one Sunday morning. The wind blew the little stick-revolving-on-a-nail and locked me in. Paul rescued me after about 10 minutes.

Emily, I am delighted to report, is getting over her food sensitivities and colic. She's working at scootching around like Hillary does, but she doesn't quite have Hillary's singleminded curiosity. Right now she's into chomping paper, exploring in her walker, yanking hair, and tasting real People Food. I can't say I blame her for not being real excited about baby cereal. Last week one day I sat at the table holding her when she turned around and touched the woodstove behind me. She got three heart-wrenching little blisters on her hand. (They're healing nicely.) Fortunately, our stove has an extra enclosure around the fire box, so the sides don't get hot enough to burn a child bumping into it. (The stove at school is just like it except the stovepipe comes out the side and it gets very hot. One morning before school Paul backed into the stovepipe wearing his nice navy blue polyester pants. Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.)

 Hillary was my niece and two months older than Emily. She appears in a later paragraph as well. As an adult, she goes by Romy.

Hillary and Phil, Emily and Paul
At my parents' place in Minnesota. Christmas, 1990.

Wisdom from the mouths of babes:

Matthew: Play this animal game with me!

Me: I don't know what to do. You want me to play. Amy wants me to read. Emily is fussing. I don't feel very good. I need to wash dishes. What shall I do?

Matthew: Thank God!

 

Matthew: Look at me! I got all dressed! I'm being responsible!!

Me: Wow! You're being so responsible, I just can't stand it.

Amy: (stands up on a chair) Mommy! I can stand it!!

 Next weekend we plan to be at Stirland Lake for some R&R. Now that the winter road is open it's like a superhighway compared to the first time we drove in. The first week in March is "spring" (wishful thinking) break and also the ACE Administrators Seminar in Chicago. The children and I plan to stay with Mom and Dad while Paul goes to the seminar with Joe Chupp.

 The winter road went across ten miles of lake and 16 miles of bush. It connected the reserve to the nearest road, but traveling it was not for the fainthearted.

Everybody is wondering if we're getting cabin fever. So far, by God's grace, the answer is no. But winter is far from over (the ice doesn't leave the lake till toward the end of May) so the battle isn't over yet.

Matthew is still asking thousands of questions a day. If I ever face a Communist interrogator I'll feel right at home. I have a picture of Philip and Hillary up on our bulletin board. "Is that your brother and his baby, Mom? Did you tell Nita that was your brother and his baby? Why is that your brother and his baby? Is that Uncle Philip holding Hillary? Does he like to hold Hillary? Are they standing by the ocean? Why are they standing by the ocean? Huh Mom? Why is that the ocean? Did Geneva take the picture? Why did Geneva take the picture, Mom?"

 Funny that I resurrected this quote so soon after the post about how much my children talked when they were little. Also funny how accurately I recalled this conversation. This is why I tell moms to write things down. If you don't, you forget many of the specifics.

I never quit jotting down quotes from my kids, and I still do it today. Someday they'll thank me.

 There have been two more suicide attempts recently. Both survived but were flown out to the hospital for a while. Sometimes it's so hard to know what to think and how to pray. It's a very very tragic situation.

 I decided not to include most of the above paragraph. I had contrasted the government-program responses to suicide, which saw these young people totally as victims, to my own solid Amish/Mennonite conclusions that were simplistic in the extreme. It seemed to me that if the young people would do some really basic things like listen to their elders and not get high, these tragedies wouldn't happen. (Duh!) It was naïve and cringey. Years later, when I lost someone to suicide, I finally began to understand the pain of being a survivor, which I knew was minor to the accumulated grief in Weagamow of multiple suicides and violent deaths.

In recent years, I finally did the math and found that some of my own illogical and bizarre reactions to life were responses to childhood incidents out of my control that evoked grief, terror, and a sense of abandonment. Studying that field, including some of the new research on trauma, helped me understand a small piece of the enormous, multi-generational pattern of grief and loss in the First Nations people.

I've come a long way in my own healing and in empathy for others in 30 years—just enough to see how far I still have to go.

My comfort is that I don't think I expressed my easy answers to very many people. Mostly, I served tea and cookies, and tried to communicate with people whose first language wasn't English.

Bye,

Dorcas

 

 What hasn't changed: I'm still fascinated by cultures and my clever kids. I still like to write it all down. 

When we lived in Weagamow, I felt like all of my natural talents were buried and I was asked to do all kinds of things I was terrible at.

Today I look back and see a thread running through my life and taking a loop through the North. God was working, and I had no idea. One example: those monthly form letters turned out to be great practice for a newspaper column and a blog.

If you are isolated and overwhelmed among people who don't speak your language--even though you might both speak English, if you get what I'm saying--please know that you are not abandoned and this is an important piece of your story.

Four months after this letter was written.