How a Friend Found Meaning in a Job Loss

Has a key breadwinner in your family lost their job with no prospects in sight? Or have you ever felt trapped in a job by your need to earn an income?

I suspect few of us have been lucky enough to not feel these pressures at one point in our lives. If you're among the unlucky, then you know that these uncertain periods often can be as stressful and fearful as a dread disease. When you’re stranded like that, you’re often left wondering: Is there any meaning to all this? If so, where is it?

Nancy Nordenson was confronted by such questions nearly a decade ago. She was a freelance medical writer from Minneapolis who felt an inner desire, a deep calling if you will, to a more spiritual form of literary work. But just as she began that transition her husband lost his job. Their two sons were still in college, and she had started a two-year program to earn a Master’s of Fine Art in Creative Writing.

“Should I quit school and postpone this perceived calling?” Nancy asks, reflecting back on that period. “Or stay in school and continue my full-time job of medical writing?” Did she even have a choice?

Nancy decided to do both. “It was a complex time,” she says simply.

It was during this period, when her husband needed space at home for his job search, that her office and worktable sharply symbolized the degree of that complexity, as Nancy portrays in her book, Finding Livelihood: A Progress of Work and Leisure.  

She writes in the essay ‘A Place at the Table’: “Sometimes I walk past the door, see the lamp’s glow cast across the desk, and miss sitting there so badly. I glimpse my husband’s white coffee cup and long to throw it away and replace it with the cup of my choosing. I see the worktable covered with his stacks and want to clear them off with a single defiant sweep of my arm. I’d pull my chair up to the table and reclaim it. Toss his notes of false leads and plate of leftover lunch. Hang a NO TRESPASSING sign on the door.”

“I was angry,” Nancy says today. “When I started writing that particular essay, it was a kind of vent.”

Writing about that job loss and consequent financial pressure turned out to be the seed crystal from which her book sprang.

Her book is not a memoir. And it’s certainly not a self-help guide book. Instead, Nancy’s book is a deep, and at times humorous, exploration into our working lives. Her book asks: How and where do I find meaning in my work, no matter what I’m doing?  

And yet there’s something more. Intentionally or otherwise, Nancy uses work as a metaphor for a deeper probe into the realm of life itself: How do I find meaning in my life, regardless of my circumstance?

That’s exactly the question that pressed on Martha and me after her diagnosis in 1997. I just didn’t know it at the time. Only through wrestling with the symptoms of Alzheimer’s for 17 years did this question come clear. Its answers, too.

Nancy’s initial essay and resultant book was “a cleansing process.” It was difficult to sense any meaning, she says, when it felt like “God had pulled a bait-and-switch.”

Eventually, though, her anger and fear subsided. “Our guiding principle,” she says of her husband, “was to stay committed to each other, to stay committed to God, and to stay committed to our sons. I don’t remember one big meeting between my husband and me; we just kept confirming we’re in this together.”

The meaning of it all didn’t unfold instantaneously. Eight years transpired from that first essay to the publication of her book in early 2015. Says Nancy: “As the shaping and re-shaping of my book moved forward, I saw that God’s call is not for just one aspect of my life. You can’t pick apart your life. Meaning has to work for the whole package.”

“I really came to realize that without periods of contemplation and prayer (individually and as a couple), I couldn’t see the wholeness in all we were doing.” She couldn’t fathom the mystery of it all, she adds. “It’s all part of that spiritual journey.”

What would have been the fallout, if any, had Nancy not searched for the meaning underlying their circumstance? 

“I think you would fall into this trap of ‘Is this all there is?’” she says. “If you don’t look for that transcendent reality, there’s little or no joy, no hope. There’s a hole of bitterness that would make it hard to stay together.”       

Nancy continues today with her full-time medical writing. “It’s good work for which I’m grateful, and I’ve never doubted that it’s meaningful work,” she says, even though she would have liked to divide her time more evenly between it and spiritual creative writing.  

In writing Finding Livelihood, she wanted to “push back” at the directives that “impress on us to follow our passion and our desires as the way to meaningful work.” That’s what a number of life coaches and teachers, secular as well as Christian, are telling us today, she says.

“These principles of ‘common wisdom’ are not universal truths at all,” she says. “They’re not even biblical. They leave out people who choose to stay in a paying job to earn needed money. They leave out those who do everything they can to do the work they think God wants them to do, but hit a dead end. They leave out everyone whose work life is less than ideal.”

Nancy closes our conversation: “Surely we all have access to meaning regardless of our jobs or our place in life or our situation. We all can be in the flow of God’s grace.”

“We all have God's call on us in all kinds of different and mysterious ways that not even we can know the specifics of for ourselves, and sometimes all we can do is stay in relationship through prayer and Scripture and other kinds of devotion and trust that our path is his.”

Thank you, Nancy. These insights are good regardless of our crisis. You can find Nancy's website here.

Since starting this blog last September, I’ve written largely about how our family was forced to contend with Alzheimer’s. But I’ve tried to be clear: The focus of our story is the spiritual path that unfolded before my wife Martha and me. Alzheimer’s happens to have been the context of our story, not its focus. So on occasion I am broadening my posts to include others—like Nancy and Dr. David Compton—who are willing to share how they’ve dealt with life-changing crises, regardless of the issue.

Thanks for tuning in. Carlen.
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Those of you from St. Petersburg might be interested to know that Nancy (Erickson) Nordenson grew up here and graduated from Northeast High in 1975. One of her first paying jobs was as a teen model with the now defunct downtown Maas Brothers department store.

P.P.S. You can read my future posts, and my past ones, by signing up for my free newsletter here.

The Monk of Mercy and My Next Book Giveaway

Still fresh on my mind, Father Matthew Kelty has a book that deepened and broadened my take on forgiveness and mercy, and on learning to actually enjoy the process. My wife Martha and I read it nearly two decades ago, shortly after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

My Song Is of Mercy is as fresh today as it was then.

So I’ve decided to make it the second book I’m giving away. For those who’ve recently signed on, I began in January to give away monthly a book that meant something to us along this path.

                            Father Matthew Kelty at his finest

My Song Is of Mercy is not a how-to-forgive book. Rather, it’s a collection of Fr. Matthew’s homilies and sermons spanning nearly a quarter century from 1970 to 1993. When Martha and I read it, we laughed, we cried, we danced, and we sought forgiveness. It’s a prime reason why I call Fr. Matthew the Monk of Mercy.

The opening third of the book is a revised edition of the popular Flute Solo, Fr. Matthew’s reflections on his eight-year stay as a solitary, or hermit, in Papua New Guinea. He reflects back on that period as having been “…there long ago singing psalms on a hill by the sea on the north coast. One could have done worse. Praise God!”

The balance of the book is a compilation of 69 homilies and sermons. These talks cover a wide range of topics—from monastic architecture to the rising cost of a McDonald’s cup of coffee to Fr. Matthew barreling into town in a bright red convertible, monk’s habit flapping in the wind.         

Here’s a sampling of titles:
~ The Pansy Sermon
~ Two Men Went Up to the Temple to Pray
~ Losers Get Prizes, Too
~ Knock Your Socks Off Christianity

If My Song Is of Mercy captures your fancy and you’d like to participate in this round of what I call Carlen’s Lotto, here are a few rules:

• Anyone is eligible, whether you subscribe to my newsletter or not. Simply send an email to carlen@carlenmaddux.com between this Friday, February 26, and next Wednesday, March 2, by 11:59 PM EST. Indicate that you would like to be included in this month’s book giveaway. It will help me if you put in the subject line: BOOK GIVEAWAY.
• One person—maybe you!—will be selected at random from those entering. I will send you a confirmation email on Thursday, March 3. You will have 48 hours to respond to my email. If I don’t hear back from you by then, someone else will be selected at random.
• For more details, click Book Giveaway rules.

Thank you,
Carlen Maddux
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. If you'd like to sign up for my free newsletter, you can by clicking here.

How My Book Is Being Launched

“Now that you’ve written your book and waiting for it to come out, what are you doing with all your time?”

I’ve heard that question often enough in one version or another that I decided to write this note to set the record straight.

Having been in the newspaper and magazine business for four decades, I knew there would be a lot of moving parts to publishing a book. Little did I know!
 

Launching a boat is easier than launching a book. Martha with Kathryn in her lap; David at the helm; Rachel in my lap—a decade before Martha’s diagnosis.

First off, as much as I enjoy writing these posts they require more time and emotional energy than I initially thought. (Reflecting on this, a tangential memory came to mind that I share in my P.S. below.)   

The second thing I quickly learned: The days of an author writing his book and doing little else are long gone—unless you’re a Stephen King or J.K. Rowling.

As a result, I’m in the process of developing and executing my book’s marketing and promotional plans for the day it comes out. The latest I’ve heard from my publisher, Paraclete Press, is that my book should be released by late September. Cross your fingers.

With that date in mind, here are some things I’m doing. Don’t worry. I won’t bore you with too much business jargon.

Paraclete and I are partners in this effort, and I’m letting them do what they do best: Connect and promote to their network of several thousand, including distributors, book stores, libraries, churches, conferences, organizations, magazines and journals, individuals, and seminaries.

On my front, I’m developing plans for both an air game and a ground game.

You’re a key player in my ‘air game’ strategy. As a recipient of my email and Facebook posts, you’re helping me increase the number of prospective readers by passing along my posts to family and friends. Since launching my blog last September, scores of new subscribers have signed on. So thank you for helping swell our ranks.

Also as part of this air game:
1)    I’m working with an online consultant named Dan Blank. He set up my website, my email service company, and my Facebook and Twitter accounts. More importantly, he’s helping me explore and take advantage of online expansion possibilities.
2)    I’m seeking guest post opportunities. I have one scheduled right now; I just need to write it. I’ll let you know when it’s done.
3)   I’ll be calling on you as I assemble my “Street Team.” Anyone interested in helping will get a free advance version of my book. I’ll be asking for two or three favors in return, all voluntary of course. As these plans shape up, you’ll be the first to know.

Now a quick look at my ‘ground game.’ I’m focused locally on engaging with the people and groups Martha and I have come to know through our 40 years in St. Petersburg and Tampa Bay.

Here are a few of my efforts:
1)    I’m coordinating with my PR friend Bob Carter to help me connect with civic groups, book stores, and churches. Also with the local media, including radio, TV, and newspapers.
2)    I have my first speaking engagement in March. Wish me luck.
3)    I’m meeting with local pastors and briefing them in advance of my book’s launch, asking them at the right time to inform their members and others in their network.
4)   I’ll also connect with friends in my hometown of Cookeville, TN, and in Montreat, NC, which is a major retreat center for the Presbyterian Church USA. We’ve had a summer cabin there since the early ‘80s.

Whew! That’s enough for now. Makes me tired thinking about it.

One last point: I’ve been asked several times if my blog posts are the same as my book’s story. They’re similar but not the same. They are similar in that both focus on the spiritual path that opened before Martha and me after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1997. The context of that journey—not its focus—happens to be Alzheimer’s.

My book reveals in fuller depth the stories, mentors, places, relationships, insights, and revelations we encountered as we traveled along this 17-year path. My posts echo some of these stories, but they’re not identical. If you’re unaware, my book’s working title and subtitle is: A Path Revealed: How Hope, Love, and Joy Found Us Deep in a Maze Called Alzheimer’s.

Last Week’s Post on Father Matthew and Forgiveness
The interaction with last week’s post tells me that some folks have experienced as much trouble with forgiveness as I have. A one-page guide helped me considerably when I didn’t know how to move forward. If you would like a copy of that, email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com. Please put in the subject line: The Guide.

Thank you,
Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com

A Parenthetical P.S. A memory arose as I thought about the time and energy I’m investing in my posts. I was reminded of a former boss at the nationally recognized St. Petersburg Times, the late Editor and President Eugene C. Patterson. Earlier in his career Patterson, a Pulitzer Prize winner, served as Editor of the Atlanta Constitution while also writing a column every day of the week during the white-hot civil rights years of 1960-1968. An amazing feat. It’s one thing to concentrate on writing and editing. It’s quite another to do that during one of the most tumultuous eras this country has ever experienced, the South in particular, all while overseeing a huge staff. I stand in awe.  

P.P.S. If you haven’t yet, you can sign up for my free e-newsletter here.

How Learning to Forgive Changed My Life

Faced with the most severe challenge of our lives, my wife Martha and I learned that choosing not to forgive, consciously or unconsciously, can seriously impact our health and well-being, not to mention our relationships. Not forgiving on any and every front can permit fear and bitterness to fester and grow deep within. And we were scared.

Until Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I naively thought that I could choose who, when, and where to forgive, as long as I remained nice enough on the outside. So did Martha. I’ve shared before about our need to forgive; I’m afraid I can’t share this enough. It took two guides to set Martha and me straight. One was Canon Jim Glennon of Sydney. The other was Father Matthew Kelty.

Fr. Matthew is the monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani who was Thomas Merton’s good friend and confessor. He befriended Martha when we visited in the fall of 1997, shortly after her diagnosis. We heard Fr. Matthew’s homilies for three straight nights. He met with Martha one afternoon, and gave her a special blessing along with a Psalter (the Psalms set to song). Martha kept that Psalter nearby for the longest time.

Fr. Matthew, now deceased, was a unique man. This Boston Irishman was a classic curmudgeon—crusty on the outside, warm on the inside. He was a poet, a writer, a hermit, a monk, a teacher, a storyteller. In other words, a child of God. When listening to him, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve heard and read him enough that I call him the Monk of Mercy. In another era he may have been a troubadour, singing songs of mercy wherever he traveled.

I recently discovered one of Fr. Matthew’s homilies online. It’s in two parts:

Part 1: Fr. Matthew Kelty on Forgiving God.
Part 2: Fr. Matthew Kelty on Forgiving My Neighbor and Myself.

Some quick points he makes:

• To forgive God is no small thing.
• To forgive your neighbor is a tall order, but there’s no dodging the issue.
• Of the three—God, neighbor, self—forgiving myself is the worst. Here’s where the lack of mercy becomes most obvious.
• Forgiveness is a superb act of love.

I understand what it’s like to read online posts—you scan and then delete.

But if you can set aside 30 minutes today or over the weekend to see and hear this poet-monk talk on forgiveness, it may very well change the trajectory of your life. It did ours.

If you have only 15 minutes, then start with Part 2.

Thank you,
Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Congratulations to Jenny M! Her name was randomly drawn for the first book I’m giving away—Thomas Merton’s autobiography Seven Storey Mountain. The next drawing from Carlen’s Lotto will be Friday, February 26. Stay tuned.  

P.P.S. Thank you for forwarding these posts to your family and friends. They may, if interested, sign up for my free newsletter here.

What a Doctor Prescribes on Learning He Has Alzheimer’s

“If I can get into the woods, I’m happy. I make sure I take my camera, back pack, poncho, and my iPhone with its maps. I study those maps repeatedly, obsessively.” 

That’s Dr. David Compton. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease in May of 2015, although he and his wife began to wonder what was going on back in 2011. 

“I quit my family practice in early 2014,” he says. He was one of nine partners in his clinic. “I was having a terrible time remembering. I was going into the office first and leaving last, getting up at 4 o’clock to do my paperwork. We began using Electronic Medical Records (EMR), and I just couldn’t pick up on the technology.” He reverted to using pen and pad, he says, but instead of using one pad at a time as he always did, he had several scattered throughout his office. 

“I was getting quite depressed.”  

“This piece of driftwood looks just like a sea serpent. It’s gotten lots of comments on Instagram and Facebook.”

David lives in the Knoxville area where he practiced family medicine for 30 years in nearby Oak Ridge. He and I grew up in the same small Tennessee town of Cookeville, and our families went to the same church. Until recently, our paths had not crossed since 1963 when I graduated from high school. David graduated nine years later. Our sisters were good friends.

He’s willing to discuss his challenges publicly, David says, because “talking about this helps me to know where I’ve been and where I am now.” It’s another form of mapping, which he’s always done. “As a kid, I drew maps all over my room.”

While still practicing, David says he was overcome with ‘panic attacks.’ “The struggle was worsening every day.” Those attacks disappeared when he retired, although nightmares continued for a while. “But I rarely have one anymore.”

When hit with the diagnosis last May, he says, “It took me six months to accept it. I was not displaying the symptoms I’d seen in some of my older patients. Finally, my doctor told me that we’d caught this at a very early stage, and she said, ‘That’s a good thing.’”

David works closely with a therapist to help cope with fear and other issues that arise. They meet for an hour or so every other week. The counselor helps him set up daily routines and stick with them.

“I don’t have as much fear now that I’ve accepted the diagnosis,” he says. “And I’m no longer afraid for our future, although I am still concerned. I could always solve problems easy. But now I get frustrated, super-frustrated.”

A top priority for David is to reduce the stress in his life. “I probably would still be working if I’d been in a less demanding career.”

A key to reducing the stress, he says, is to walk up to five miles every day, weather permitting. David is usually alone when he goes trekking out in the woods. “I make sure my iPhone (with its maps and GPS) is fully charged.”

“This was taken on a nice cool day. I was struck by the ripple of the waters with the leaf floating along. I just love the ripple effects.”

Other ways David seeks to relax and relieve stress include:

• Photography. He picked up this hobby after retiring. “I use these pictures to help remind me what I felt when I was there.” He seems to have a natural eye, based on the three photos shown here. 
   
• He’s applied to get into a Phase 2 experimental study for persons at his particular stage with this disease. “This is an exciting time in Alzheimer’s research,” he says. 
   
• He goes to an inner city church on Tuesdays where he helps prepare and serve meals. Very important to him is Jesus’ statement in Matthew 25:35-40: “…for I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me.…” Says David: “Nobody in the United States should go to bed hungry.”
   
• “I deal with my frustration and anger not by just talking about it,” he says, “but by doing something about it.” Like serving meals and walking in the woods and shooting photos.

“I got a new camera to help me with flower shots. I remember this was taken on a pretty hot day. When I saw this flower I thought, ‘Gosh, this is so beautiful.’ ” 

A big problem now, he says, “is struggling to put words together.” That, however, did not surface during our telephone conversations, which were fluent and coherent.

“I like that part of your post (from two weeks ago) about defying the verdict,” says David. 

“As my doctor tells me, my ‘job’ now is to eat correctly, walk five miles a day, do other exercise, and do all the brain exercise I can tolerate. That’s how I will try to defy the verdict.” 

Thank you, Dr. David Compton, for your willingness to share with us. You can follow him on Twitter and on Facebook.

Carlen Maddux
 www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. As usual, feel free to forward this post. If you haven’t yet, you may sign up to receive my free weekly newsletter here. 

Thomas Merton, Me, and My Free Book Giveaway

Let’s have some fun. With this post I’m announcing a book-a-month giveaway. For starters I’m offering a book by Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk. For free. All you have to do is enter and be the lucky one to have your name drawn. Call it the Carlen Lotto. 

Here’s why I’m picking Merton as my first author. 

Last September, Pope Francis blew away some thick cobwebs from my memory. That’s when he spoke to members of the U.S. Congress, calling out Merton in the same breath with Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King, and social activist Dorothy Day.

I was reminded instantly of the role Merton played early in our journey when my wife Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I was struck by this realization: Few authors have influenced the direction of my thinking more than Thomas Merton. Last week I mentioned briefly how his writings helped prepare me for our crisis.

Merton died a couple of decades before I discovered him in the early 1990s. Out of that discovery I learned, among other things, about St. Anthony and the other Desert Fathers and Mothers of the 3rd and 4th centuries; about St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross of the 16th century; and about the practice of contemplative prayer and a simple but meaningful approach to reading Scripture called Lectio Divina.

Scanning my bookshelves today, I see three dozen or more books that Merton wrote, or that were written about him, or that he’d directed me to. I spent a week alone in Merton’s hermitage (or cabin) in the thick of our crisis, about which I devote a chapter in my forthcoming book. And Martha and I, shortly after her diagnosis, met with the monk who was a Merton “trainee” and ultimately was Merton’s confessor, who also quickly became the object of Martha’s school-girl crush.      

The Merton Book I’m Giving Away

Among the first books I read of Merton’s was his best-selling autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain. It fascinated me: born to artist parents in France; losing his mother at six; shuffling between America and Europe; trying on a bohemian lifestyle. A student at Columbia University, Merton showed early signs of a brilliant literary future when, at 26, he decided to become a Trappist monk and entered the Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky. Five years later, he wrote this autobiography. Few people have the courage—or is it the audacity?—to write an autobiography when they are 31 years old.

I read this book a couple of decades ago, so I suspect my take today would be different from when I was in my late 40s. Even Merton is said to have had second thoughts. In 1998, Merton’s friend and book publisher Robert Giroux wrote in a piece for The New York Times: “Two years before (Merton’s) death he wrote a preface to the Japanese edition of The Seven Storey Mountain, containing his second thoughts about the book almost 20 years after he had written it: ‘Perhaps if I were to attempt this book today, it would be written differently. Who knows? But it was written when I was still quite young, and that is the way it remains. The story no longer belongs to me. ’ ”

Regardless, The Seven Storey Mountain is still a fresh and worthwhile read, having influenced millions through the years. So this is the book I’m giving away today, the paperback edition. If you’re interested in participating, here are some rules of the road: 

• Anyone is eligible, whether you subscribe to my newsletter or not. Simply send an email to carlen@carlenmaddux.com between this Friday, January 29, and next Wednesday, February 3, by 11:59 PM EST. Indicate that you would like to be included in this month’s book giveaway. It will help me if you put in the subject line: BOOK GIVEAWAY.
• One person—maybe you!—will be selected at random from those entering. I will send you a congratulatory email on Thursday, February 4. You will have 48 hours to respond to my email. If I don’t hear back from you by then, someone else will be selected at random.
• I plan to give away several more books from different authors in the coming months, via posts on the last Friday of the month.
• For more details, click Book Giveaway. 

A Poignant Ending

With the recent celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I’ll close with this story. Merton and King had never met as far as I can tell, although they had corresponded for a few years. Both were, among many things, peace activists opposing the Vietnam War. They had several mutual friends, including the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, who was exiled from Vietnam for his opposition to the war.  

Merton invited King to Gethsemani for some much needed rest. King finally found the time for a visit, and let Merton know in early 1968 he would come to Gethsemani after a stopover in Memphis to support a strike by black sanitary workers.

Eight months after King’s assassination, Merton was accidentally killed in Bangkok, the victim of an electrical shock. King was 39; Merton, 53.

I wonder to this day what might have emerged had this Baptist minister and Catholic monk been able to share experiences face-to-face, in communion with God and with each other.          

Thanks, Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Feel free to send this offer to your friends. If you haven’t signed up for my free weekly newsletter and would like to, please go here. 

Note: The photograph of Thomas Merton is by John Lyons. Used with permission of the Thomas Merton Center at Bellarmine University, Louisville, KY.

Why Didn’t I Just Accept Our Fate, and Live with It?

Over lunch recently a friend asked me, “Why did you go to those monasteries and fly all the way to Australia? I don’t know many who would do that.” 

After pausing he then asked: “What were you looking for?”

I’ve often asked myself that question since 1997, when my wife Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I’m still not sure what prompted my search. Nor am I certain what I was looking for other than I wanted to find a way out of our crisis—a dire situation that was impossible to escape, the medical community said back then. It still does.   

So why didn’t I just accept our fate, and live with it? Live with it in a suffering, stoic kind of way

As I reflect on this question, I see several influencers along the path that arose before Martha and me.

First off, Martha and I rarely, if ever, faced a problem that didn’t have either a solution or some way around it. Why should this be any different? Martha had been heavily involved in local politics, and if one tactic didn’t work a couple of others usually did. I experienced the same with the magazine I launched and ran for 26 years. Call us naïve, but that was the way our minds worked. 

A sharp influence was Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk and writer. I began reading him a few years before Martha’s diagnosis. I’d been raised in a rather stringent Protestant church, and this Catholic monk’s exploratory approach to life and spirituality lit up my heart and mind. He pointed me to Christian traditions and practices that I’d never heard of, let alone experienced. I’ll describe more of his influence in a later post.

Then there was the nun in Kentucky who we visited soon after Martha’s diagnosis. This nun’s faith echoed Merton’s---humble, inquisitive, and experiential. Her last words to us were, “You might want to explore meditation and alternative forms of healing.”

I took her seriously. 

One of the first “medical” books I read was by Norman Cousins, the late author and former editor of Saturday Review magazine. In Head First: The Biology of Hope, Cousins marshaled scientific evidence that backed up his hard-won conviction that “the mind can help mobilize the body’s healing resources.”

Years before, he had developed a mysterious illness that doctors declared was irreversible and likely fatal. Cousins took matters into his own hands, as he describes in an earlier book, Anatomy of an Illness. I vividly remember two of his tactics: First, working with his primary physician he moved from the hospital to a nearby hotel room. The hotel was quieter, more restful, and more sanitary, he said, offering an improved chance for healing. Besides, he added half tongue-in-cheek, the hotel was much less expensive. 

Second, he contacted his friend Allen Funt. Those of you old enough will remember Funt as the producer and director of the popular TV show Candid Camera. Cousins asked for Funt’s back episodes. Once in hand, Cousins began to watch them, belly-laughing his way through an otherwise desperate situation. He ultimately recovered his health, and Cousins subsequently was invited to serve as an adjunct professor at UCLA’s School of Medicine (the only lay person to have been so invited), where he did research on the biochemistry of human emotions. 

After reading his books, I embraced Cousin’s mantra with a passion: “Don’t deny the diagnosis. Try to defy the verdict.” I set out to defy the verdict that the name “Alzheimer’s” had rendered to Martha and me in so many ugly ways. 

Another strong influence is the late Canon Jim Glennon, the Anglican minister with a spiritual healing ministry in Sydney, Australia. I’ve written about him here and here and here. These many years later, his message still resonates within me: “Either focus on God and his kingdom, Carlen, or focus on your problems. You can’t do both.” His book, Your Healing Is Within You, along with a set of his tapes and our friendship continue to deeply influence my thinking and daily practice. 

As I reflect back on the early years of our path, I realize that I was running with a mindset that can only be described as desperate and stubborn: “I’m going to find a way out of this, or die trying.” These are the traits that the nun in Kentucky called me out on when she suggested that both Martha and I explore the difference between “willfulness and willingness.”  I describe this conversation more fully in my forthcoming book, A Path Revealed.    

I recall Jesus’ statement: “Seek and you will find.” Over the course of seventeen, often fitful years I came to understand his statement this way: You won’t necessarily find what you’re looking for initially. But you will receive what you need.

And what our family continues to receive I would trade for nothing else.  

Thanks, 
Carlen 

www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Last week I put forward a request. I’ve had such a strong response to the posts where I, at 70, am talking with me at 40, I’d like to hear from you: What’s the one thing you would tell your younger self if you could? Look back at least a decade, preferably further.  

If you’re up for sharing this publicly please email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com. Try to keep it to 100 words or less. If I get enough of these I’ll share them with the rest of us. And PLEASE put in the subject line: MY STORY; otherwise I might miss it.

“That’s My Mom, Bringing Joy to Others”

“After a year and a half, the caregiver reality is beginning to set in for me,” a fellow traveler wrote. “I have to keep track of everything now. Thanks for what you are doing. I look forward to your newsletter and book.”

Last week I shared why your story calls out mine, and mine yours. If you’re just now reading my posts, my wife Martha was diagnosed in 1997 with Alzheimer’s, at the early age of fifty. As I go forward with this blog, I’ll be sharing more how others are contending with their own particular crises, whether they are dealing with Alzheimer’s, cancer, other health issues, or job and family and financial crises.

Here are a few more stories I’ve received, edited and abbreviated for conciseness. Again, I maintain their confidentiality…

• “Your first newsletter was very emotional for me as I struggled to read it without bursting out in tears. It’s like a walk through a part of Martha’s life I didn’t know. I continue to be amazed at her art work.”

(To see more of Martha’s art after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, click the picture above, titled “Piano Man.”)

• “I’ve found contemplative or meditative prayer to be an invaluable part of my daily life. I trust it helps me be more attentive to that ‘still, small voice,’ which has so much more to say than my own tiresome thoughts.”
   
• “I just forwarded your email to several close friends who deeply appreciate it. As usual, I found myself with tears, empathy, joy, excitement as I read through your note while responding with ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Your way of transparency, of combining empathy and efficiency, truth and love…it’s so helpful. Poetry and art, sweat work, play—there are so many tools in God’s hands to help us heal and grow.”
   
• “Everyone has been, or will be, touched by an illness like Alzheimer’s. And I’m no exception. My mother, now 94, has suffered from dementia for nearly two decades. For years we’ve asked ourselves what purpose is being served by her continued life, albeit a life of quiet and comfort.
  
  “One brother offered up this possible answer: When he visited our mother recently, a worker in the nursing home introduced herself. ‘Some days get pretty bad around here,’ she said, ‘but I know I can come in and visit your mother. She always makes me feel better.’ 
  
  “That’s my mom, bringing joy to others even if she doesn’t realize it. But down deep, really deep, she probably does.”
   
• “Your writing is thought provoking. The night after I read your post on forgiveness I had this insight that to forgive as God forgives includes releasing others from my judgment, condemnation, and criticism—to allow God space in my heart for His creative, restorative, reconciling action. Judging is so ingrained in our culture and every culture I’m familiar with. Maybe forgiveness means for me to pray as God prays, think as God thinks, react as God reacts. This is a totally humbling goal, and without God's direct intervention I can never do this.”
   
• “I’ve been journaling for many years. I sometimes refer to it as my ‘communion time’ with God. I can speak to and hear God more clearly and feel more uplifted and inspired. I also use my journals to think of the hundreds of things I have to be grateful for each day and to acknowledge their Source. To focus on the blessings helps lighten the darkness of anger, confusion, loneliness, and despair.”

While reviewing these and other responses during Christmas week, I was listening to this moving five-minute rendition of O Come, O Come Emmanuel by The Piano Guys. As I did, tears filled my eyes. For this carol took on a richness I’d never realized. This hymn, this week, was calling out your stories and mine from somewhere deep within: “O come, o come…”

In closing, Frederick Buechner shares more from Telling Secrets: “Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity…that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally.”

I hope you find these stories as meaningful as I do.

Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. I do have an immediate request. I’ve had such a strong response to the posts where I at 70 am talking with me at 40, I’d like to hear from you: What’s the one thing you would tell your younger self if you could? Look back at least a decade, preferably further.  

If you’re up for sharing this publicly please email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com, trying to keep it to 100 words or less. If I get enough of these I’ll share them with the rest of us. And PLEASE put in the subject line: MY STORY; otherwise I might miss it. 

Why Your Story Calls Out Mine, and Mine Yours

When I set out last September to share takeaways from our family’s story with Alzheimer’s, I was a bit scared. It’s risky business laying your life out there publicly and not knowing how it would be received. My worst fear was dead silence—that there would be no response.

That fear was misplaced. 

I’m unsure what my expectations were, but the response has far exceeded my best hope. Hundreds of folks have signed on to receive my blog posts via email. And from the feedback I’ve received I sense that scores more are reading pass-alongs or catching my posts on Facebook.

A handful of friends from my elementary-school years are following our story, and even more from high school. This is my second-grade class, the picture compliments of Mollie, Nick, Ella, and Jenny. Guess where I am. (Psst…I’ll let you know at the end of this post.)

A little over half of the subscribers reading our takeaway posts are friends, acquaintances, or family. As for the remainder, I have no idea how they showed up. But I’m glad they did. 

A former newspaper colleague and I have reconnected after three decades. Another reading my posts crossed paths with Martha early in our marriage and kept up with her during her City Council days. I’ve heard from a football teammate who I haven’t seen since Georgia Tech. An adult friendship has begun with a guy several years my junior—we haven’t seen each other since 1963, when I graduated from high school.

As you might expect, several who are reading these posts have dealt with or are contending with varying degrees of dementia, either as patient or caregiver. But a lot more seem to be wrestling with a wide variety of crises. 

In all, I’ve heard from a hundred or more folks sharing their own stories.   

What’s going on? 

In Telling Secrets, Frederick Buechner describes it this way: “But I talk about my life anyway because if, on the one hand, hardly anything could be less important, on the other hand, hardly anything could be more important. My story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours.”

While maintaining confidentiality here are some of the responses I’ve received, which I’ve edited for conciseness… 

• “Thank you so much for writing about forgiveness. I am turning 45 tomorrow and want to add this to my journey. I have a sibling where forgiveness is a constant issue because just as I work through one she adds another. Maybe I’m forgiving incidents rather than the person, myself, and the relationship…”
   
• “I could hardly imagine a worse disease than Alzheimer’s. My husband was diagnosed with it—his was not early onset, as he was much older than your Martha. I am extremely interested in knowing more about how other families coped with the challenges.”
   
• “I do struggle with a lot of fear. I feel as if I have lost control of life’s course but have realized that I never really had control. That is a false perception on my part. That I need to let God be God. But then fear creeps back up. So it’s a cycle.”
   
• “Once again I’m in tears. Not only do I have my journey with my husband’s illness, but also one of my dearest friends is going through early onset Alzheimer’s. So your words make me cry, laugh, and be grateful. Thank you.”
   
• “I have been in a Bible study with the same girls for nine years. I am sharing your blurbs with them every Wednesday. We are getting so excited about your book. I love that you are writing from your heart and soul. I’m already looking for my quiet places that you wrote about.”
   
• “We always celebrate Thanksgiving where my wife grew up. It’s always with a blended family; attendance ranges from 30 to 60. Soon after I arrived on Thursday I was chatting with the host, who normally offers a pre-meal prayer, and I showed him your email on A Thanksgiving Memory. He asked if he could use the prayer you sent, and of course I agreed. His recitation was a moving one.” 
   

I’ll close with a link to a website post you may want to check out. While aimed at caregivers contending with Alzheimer’s, many of these hard-learned lessons would make good chicken soup for almost any crisis: 25 Lessons Learned from Alzheimer’s Caregivers. 

BTW…In the picture above, I’m on the top row, fourth from our teacher, Mrs. Henry. 

Carlen
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. I’ve received many other comments, several of which I’ll share next week and later.

P.P.S. Forgive me if I bore you with my reminders. But you may share this post and others with your friends and family. Or they may sign up to receive their own copy at www.carlenmaddux.com.

From Bone-Chilling Fear to Love’s Deep Healing

Typically I don’t make an effort to review my year past, and I suspect I’m no different than most of you. But having started this blog, I thought it a good idea to make this year an exception.  

As I scanned back over three months of weekly posts, I was surprised.  

I was surprised by the pattern that emerged. My intention had been to share certain takeaways from our family’s story but in no particular order. 

Yet in hindsight I see a defining arc. From my first post to the latest conversation with myself, there’s a distinct movement. 

If you’ve followed my posts from the start, you know that my wife Martha was told at 50 years of age she likely has Alzheimer’s disease. We felt as though we’d been tossed out into a hostile wilderness, left to die.

That’s where my blog opens, but that’s not where our story leads. 

From that bizarre news our story weaves through good times and bad, more often bad. The path opening before us, however, led us to a place that somehow transcended this insidious disease. 

Yet it was more a presence than a place. 

This presence, which I came to know as Christ Jesus, somehow kept picking us up and drawing us along the way. I began to see that we were being led toward some kind of healing ground. 

The closer we stepped, the less I feared. As did Martha, I think.   

That’s the defining arc of our story—from bone-chilling fear to what I can describe only as God’s deep warmth and healing.   

Call it a redemptive arc. 

If you’d like to review these earlier posts, or see them for the first time, I link them here in ascending order, from September through December 2015:

1. Where’s the Joy in an Unimaginable Tragedy? 
2. Finding Unexpected Gifts Deep in a Crisis
3. At 52, I learned What Real Fear Is
4. The Power of Art and Poetry in a Crisis
5. Why I Started a Blog-Newsletter
6. How Keeping a Journal Helped Save My Life
7. Why I Spent 300 Days in a Monastery
8. We Were On This Path All Along, but I Didn’t Realize It
9. What Would I, at 70, Tell Me at 40?
10. My One Regret
11. A Thanksgiving Memory
12. The Latest News on My Book
13. The Hardest Thing I Ever Had to Do

May you give with all your heart this New Year. And may 2016 bring all you need, and nothing more. 

Carlen

A Christmas Memory

A lifelong friend from first grade dug this 1994 Christmas card out of some dusty box and passed it along. “I thought you might like to have this,” she said recently. The picture was shot three years before Martha and I were hit with the news of Alzheimer’s. 

In the spirit that Ella passed this Christmas memory to me, I share it with you.  

Our two attractive redheads are Rachel, 17, holding Punky, and Kathryn, 13, standing to her mother’s left. The handsome guy to my right is David, 19, discreetly hiding his ponytail.   

Today, David lives in Tampa with wife Katie and children Libby (9), Nelson (7), and Bennett (3). David runs his own investment firm, which Katie keeps organized. 

Rachel lives in St. Petersburg with husband Sergio DeSanto, an architect, and children Olivia Grace (4) and Victor (1) and docile cat Niña. Rachel is a tenured professor at a local community college, teaching English as a Second Language, or ESL. 

Kathryn lives in Washington, D.C., with her partner Jacinta Alves, an attorney, and their hyper-pup Sephy. Kathryn works for an office of the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS). 

Our family wishes you a wonderful Christmas season. 

May you give with all your heart. And may you receive all you need, and nothing more. 

Carlen
carlen@carlenmaddux.com
www.carlenmaddux.com

P.S. I’m taking a holiday break next week, as you may be. I’ll be back the following week. 

The Hardest Thing I Ever Had to Do

“You believed in God your whole life, but that wasn’t enough when you and Martha got slammed by Alzheimer’s, was it?”

That’s me at 40 asking an impertinent question of me at 70. A question I did not want to answer. A question I was afraid to answer. Yet it’s the one question that demanded an answer. 

So in response I, at 70, decided to write another letter to me at 40.  

My dear Carlen at 40, 

This letter doesn’t permit time or space to describe the ways an answer to your question unfolded over the course of our 17-year journey, often surprisingly. That’s why I decided to write a book. I’ll try, however, to describe some highlights.

For starters, this conversation would be impossible had the tough lessons we discussed in recent weeks not been learned: First, to forgive yourself and others as quickly as you can and second, to be quiet and still.

After all we’ve been through you may be wondering, Carlen at 40, why I still believe in God. 

And my answer is: I don’t.  

At least not in the way that I did for most of my life. 

You see, the belief I carried into adulthood was a rather fabricated one. It had been built from what I’d heard others say they believed: my parents, grandparents, preachers, acquaintances, peers, friends, religious authors, writers of the Bible. 

For much of my life I’d heard that God loves me. So much so that he gave his son for me and the world. That may be true, but long before Martha’s diagnosis I didn’t feel that love.

And I certainly didn’t feel any love when Martha and I got the news regarding Alzheimer’s. If I felt anything other than numb I felt we’d been abandoned. 

My faith quickly began to unravel.

In the beginning, I went searching for a solution. I wanted to find out if there was any way to get Martha out of this thing called Alzheimer’s, the doctor’s prognosis notwithstanding. Yet somehow—don’t ask me how—that search morphed into a spiritual search for God’s love, for Martha’s healing, for a wholeness that my fractured life hadn’t experienced.

Not long after I began the practice of meditation, I felt a gulf open deep and wide between God and me. I peered into this abyss with my mind’s eye, longing for something to hold on to, anything. Yet I felt nothing but desolation. The despair was palpable. 

Then as I looked more closely…poof! This gulf dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. 

As it did, my mind went quiet. My heart stilled. A drop of something fresh flowed through me. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” I thought, as a peace flooded my mind and body. I’d read enough of the more sublime writings in the Bible, as well as those of some saints and mystics, to have a passing insight into their depictions of divine Love. “That’s what this tastes like, like the Love described in those accounts.”

Then, that sweetness also vanished.  

“I want more!” I remember crying out loud. “How do I taste more of whatever this is—this Love? What do I need to do? How can I get across this chasm?”

I met with an older friend who impressed me as being experienced in the ways of things spiritual. “How can I get across this chasm?” I asked him. “How can I find this Love that I tasted, this wholeness?”   

He told me, “This kind of search can be frustrating and challenging, even overwhelming.” Yet he quickly added, “It also could be the richest thing you ever do.” 

He cautioned me, though, should I decide to strike out in this direction: “If you remember nothing else from our conversation, Carlen, remember this: Be gentle on yourself.”

Those words of caution frequently saved me as I ran down a number of rabbit trails searching for a way out of the obscure maze that had engulfed Martha and me. The harder I searched the more my heart and mind froze. The faster I ran, the more walls I hit.

When times are good it’s easy to let the words trip off my lips: God loves me, and I love God. Yet it seemed impossible when I felt lost in a wilderness, chased by fear and uncertainty.   

Finally, through the practice of meditation—and after learning to forgive Martha, her parents, my parents, those we had hurt and who had hurt us, and equally important, to forgive myself—I began to relax. 

I was learning to be “gentle on myself.”

Since then, there have been too many encounters with this presence I know as God, too many whispers within my heart for me to deny this Love’s existence, to deny her embrace. 

There were the weekends at St. Leo Abbey. There was that week in Thomas Merton’s cabin. There was the last night of my visit in Sydney with Canon Jim Glennon. And there was the message Rev. Lacy Harwell conveyed to me between sandwich bites at Demen’s Landing in St. Pete.

I remember well one moment at St. Leo when I was praying that Alzheimer’s be lifted from Martha and our family. As I did, I heard a whisper deep within. “What are you saying?” I asked. I couldn’t understand the words, yet their meaning was clear: “Carlen, you don’t have to settle for this fractured existence being dished out by Alzheimer’s.”

That whispered impression startled me. “Exactly how do you find anything but a fractured existence in this tragedy,” I complained silently. “How can I feel anything but the pain… the pain of seeing Martha slip away?”

Then out of this cloud of confusion a faint question curled upward. This question had a certain familiarity, as though it had shadowed me for a lifetime. It often arose in the early morning when Martha was asleep by my side: “Do I believe? No…do I know? Do I know deep within, down there where the rawest of memories and fears hide out? Do I know that the Lord my God loves me with all his heart? Do I know that my God loves me with all his soul? With all his strength? And with all his mind?”    

After that moment and many like it, I now have an inkling of what Jesus meant when he told me to do as he does: “…love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” (Mark 12:30).

That “inkling” arose from a growing certainty that regardless of any circumstance, good or bad, I am loved and intimately embraced by the Creator of this vast, complex, ever-changing world.   

The arc of God’s love, I now see, leads not to theologically correct beliefs. It leads to a wholeness I've experienced nowhere else.

So returning to your original question, Carlen at 40… 

It’s true, I no longer believe in God. 

Now, I believe God. 

Or, at least I seek to—and that’s a big difference.      

I love you dearly, 
Carlen at 70
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. If you’ve never written to your younger self, try it. These three recent conversations were eye-openers for me, and apparently for many who connected with them, based on the response I’ve received. If you do write, take your time to let your feelings bubble to the surface. Don’t try to FedEx a letter to yourself.  

P.P.S. As usual, you may pass this post and others along to your friends and family. Or they may receive my free weekly newsletter by signing up at www.carlenmaddux.com.  

The Latest News on My Book

December 4, 2015

No one’s been more surprised than I in the way my book has emerged, from rough notes out of my journal and memory to a reasonably polished manuscript. 

From taking an online memoir-writing course three years ago to developing a story line that makes sense (they tell me) to my 20-plus readers, our three children, my California editor, and to me.   

From thinking I would publish the book myself to this: Paraclete Press out of Cape Cod has agreed to publish my book. My working title and subtitle: A Path Revealed: How Hope, Love, and Joy Found Us Deep in a Maze Called Alzheimer’s. 

Never heard of Paraclete Press? 

Neither had I until last spring. But the more I find out about them the more I like. For one thing, Paraclete, though not large by industry standards, has been around for three decades and is owned and run by a monastic community. And it doesn’t hurt that they’ve published some of my favorite authors. 

A nice way to wake up...the front porch view from Paraclete’s community.

About the time I stumbled on to Paraclete, a minister friend and academic urged me to submit my manuscript to a large religious publishing house he knew in Oregon, which I did. That firm agreed to take my book, but it didn’t feel right so I declined. In the meantime, I modified that first proposal and on a bit of a lark sent it to Paraclete, which publishes 40-50 books a year.

In July, their editor told me that Paraclete wanted my book. We signed a contract in early October, and I visited them two weeks ago.

If you’ve ever tried to get a book published for the first time, you’ll realize how incredibly painless this process has been. I’m still amazed.  

Begun in 1983, Paraclete describes itself as a publisher of “essential Christian wisdom … Although Benedictine spirituality is at the heart of all we do, we are an ecumenical publisher and as such we present works that unite us and enrich our understanding as Christians, whether Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox or Evangelical.” 

In addition to books, Paraclete publishes music and videos. As a side note, for two decades I’ve listened to a handful of their CDs—sung by a choir called Gloriæ Dei Cantores, or Singers to the Glory of God—without making a connection until my recent visit. (Click this link. You’ll be delighted with what you hear. I promise.)   

I felt good about my book’s fit with Paraclete before visiting them. I feel even better now. While there I learned they’ve published a couple of my favorite authors: Frederick Buechner and the late Basil Pennington. I and many others consider Buechner to be one of our best living writers, religious or secular. Pennington, a Trappist monk, was a younger peer of Thomas Merton’s.

Topping these, however, is this bit of inside-the-industry info that should give you a better idea of Paraclete’s quality of work and reach. I was delighted to learn that Phyllis Tickle served nearly two decades on Paraclete’s editorial review board until her death in late September. This is how the New York Times’ obituary described her: “Phyllis Tickle, who helped energize the religion publishing market in the 1990s, wrote dozens of books on spirituality and gave voice to a movement that believes Christianity is entering an epochal new phase…”

The Times continues: “Ms. Tickle was the founding religion editor at Publishers Weekly, the leading journal in the book trade … In that post she identified and covered a rapidly emerging market for religious-themed books and helped publishers tap into its profitability.”

“Phyllis was a dear friend of Paraclete’s,” managing editor Robert J. Edmonson told me, adding that she was intimately and energetically involved in their book selections. 

Edmonson, who’s lived in the community for three decades, is a master translator (French-English), having edited and translated several books on spirituality, including those by Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. 

Paraclete’s editor is Phil Fox Rose, who will be my book’s development and structural editor. I wasn’t able to meet him, but our correspondence makes clear his is an eclectic background, both editorially and spiritually. He cut his teeth in the mid-80s at PC Magazine, the tenth largest circulating magazine at the time, and subsequently worked in senior editorial roles with other tech publications.

Then early this century, his career path took a sharp turn into “making a living while writing and editing about faith.” Rose was content director for the Busted Halo site and he continues to blog for Patheos. But, he says, that “noisy, reactionary world” online is wearing thin. So when Paraclete offered him the editor’s position earlier this year, Rose jumped at the opportunity. “I’m still part of the conversation, but in a long-range constructive way, which I find far more satisfying.”

An equally strong reason why I went with Paraclete is its sales and marketing staffs, numbering a dozen or so. Their network includes independent and major bookstores, Protestant and Catholic bookstores, churches, conferences, libraries, and magazines—outlets that are virtually impossible for me to reach on my own. A staff like Paraclete’s is an increasingly rare gem these days in the publishing world.    

As I mentioned, Paraclete is owned and run by a monastic community founded in the 1960s, the ecumenical Community of Jesus. About 275 persons, predominantly Protestant, live on site or nearby, including 85 or so vowed nuns and monks. Here’s the interior of the community’s Church of the Transfiguration…

My apologies for so much insider trade talk on books, but for many of you who’ve asked about our book’s status I thought you would like to know in whose hands our story is placed.

Thank you, 
Carlen
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Oh … I almost forgot. My book has a good chance of being published early next fall. But having been in the newspaper and magazine business 30-plus years, I’m not counting on that until it happens. Stay tuned.

P.P.S. Again, feel free to pass this post and others along to your family and friends. Or they can receive their own copy by signing up at www.carlenmaddux.com.

A Thanksgiving Memory

I tried to recall a short, meaningful Thanksgiving poem for this week. But none came to mind that hadn’t by now morphed into a cliché. 

Then I remembered a poem I reflected on a lot during my early 40’s—Pied Beauty. I read it scores of times, aloud and slowly. But I hadn’t picked it up since then, and I didn’t think of this as a “Thanksgiving” poem … until now.    

I was drawn to Pied Beauty (still am) because it celebrates the beauty of that which is less than “perfect.” It reflects the beauty of that which lasts, unlike all the shiny toys dancing in our eyes. 

So with a reverse twist I, at 70, thank Carlen at 40 for reminding me of this verse of praise by Gerard Manley Hopkins.  

Published in 1877, this short verse is crafted for us to drink deeply as we whisper its words aloud. We don’t have to be a poet, or even a lover of poetry, to let these images of grace dance through the imperfections of our own lives. 

PIED BEAUTY
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded¹ cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple² upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls³; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If interested, here’s a 45-second audio of Pied Beauty. 

Have a good Thanksgiving season.

Carlen
www.carlenmaddux.com
carlen@carlenmaddux.com

¹Streaked or spotted.
²Rose-colored dots or flecks. 
³Fallen chestnuts as red as burning coals.

Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985)

My One Regret

“You left little room for the growth of your interior lives, and as a result you left little space to enrich your friendship.”

That’s me at 70 talking with me at 40 years of age. 

“You moved so quickly from one activity to another, from one group of people to another, that all you could do after tucking the kids in bed was to collapse.”

When 40, I was busy getting my magazine off the ground, working 80-hour weeks. My wife Martha, 38, was busy serving on the St. Petersburg City Council during one of its most controversial eras. We both were busy as parents of David, Rachel, and Kathryn—ages 10, 8, and 5, respectively at the time.

My schedule today is different. The magazine is closed. Our children are grown and into their own careers and families. I no longer am trying to balance my hectic personal responsibilities with my wife’s equally hectic career of mothering, politics, social activities, and civic engagement.

Call me a hermit. 

As I reflect on the 17 years that Martha and I had to deal with Alzheimer’s, I often ask myself: “Have I learned anything that would have been good to know back in my 40’s—when we both were young, healthy, and active?”

As I turned this question over in my mind, I decided to write myself a letter… 

To My Dear Carlen at 40, 

We talked last week about the importance of releasing the heavy baggage of bitterness, anger, and anxiety—the need to forgive one another as well as others. So I’m not going to revisit that. 

Today, as I look at your busy, compressed schedule—and Martha’s—two things stand out. 

First, it’s amazing that you both were able to accomplish so much on so many different fronts with so many different people. That’s a good thing. 

Second, it’s clear from my perch today that the fallout from the hectic pace set by you and Martha at 40 isn’t a good thing. Too often you were ships passing in the night. 

Yes, I know, your busyness was not that different from many of your peers at the time. But I can’t talk about what went on in their lives once their front doors closed. 

I can talk, however, about the impact on our lives.   

And it took Martha and me too long to learn the importance of setting aside time to be quiet, to be still. In fact, we didn’t get the message until we were forced to—when Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

By being quiet, I don’t mean sitting still in church or in front of the TV, or even reading a book or voicing a prayer. Not that these are bad, but at some point each of us needs a clear glimpse into what’s going on in our heart and mind.

I see now that I needed time and space—emotional, reflective time and space—to let God’s Spirit work in me, healing much that the rush of life had trampled on. And to do the same with our relationship, Martha’s and mine.  

I needed to assess those things within me that were good and bad, and to discern without judgment or indictment. 

A meaningful way that I’ve learned to do this is through meditation. The kind of meditation I’m referring to has little to do with trying to clear my mind and heart of all thought and feeling. So far, after nearly two decades of meditating, that hasn’t happened.  

Yet the form of meditation I’ve found to work has elicited a humility within me that helps me embrace God’s silent, intimate presence. 

Many guides exist for practicing meditation. The point is, Carlen, to find an approach that works—one that you’re comfortable with—and stick with it. Meditation doesn’t replace your prayers, it enriches them. 

Martha and I followed an approach described by the late John Main, a Benedictine monk. I find him simple, authoritative, and deeply spiritual.

He directed his teaching not so much to other monks but rather to those of us caught up in the rush of careers, social life, and families. I share more about him and the need for such stillness here. 

“Meditation is a powerfully integrative force,” John Main wrote. “It offers the capacity to be fully open to reality. That’s all. It’s a very practical skill.”   

I remember when Martha and I began meditating together, not long after her diagnosis. We sat side-by-side on the living room couch, holding hands. I whispered the word that we’d selected, because I was unsure whether Martha was able to repeat it to herself. After several weeks, this practice began to quiet the turmoil within me. 

“Is this helping?” I asked Martha. 

“I think so,” she said, unable to explain further. But Martha appeared more relaxed and less confused. And that made me less desperate. 

We learned not to expect any clear insights from this twilight zone called Alzheimer’s. Yet out of these silent, shared moments, a deep, intimate bond arose within us. 

“This is different,” I thought.   

We’d done a lot of things together. We talked, watched TV, walked, and commiserated over coffee. Together we read books, the paper, and the Bible; we played tennis and board games; we danced and listened to music. And we shared meals, prayed, made love, went to church, and screamed at each other. 

But in our 25 years of marriage we had not sat together for any period of meaningful silence. We had not experienced this rich intimacy in any other setting.

And after Martha moved into the nursing home, I remember those moments of almost transcendent peace, which I share toward the end of an earlier post.

I suppose such moments could be described as some kind of psychological phenomenon. But that feels incomplete. The best way I can describe them is that I felt we were being drawn into a presence greater than us both. I felt we were being drawn into that presence we know as Christ.     

I’m not suggesting to you, dear Carlen at 40, that you and Martha abandon your commitments. But I suspect you would find your involvements to be much less stressful and more fulfilling if you were to carve out time to be quiet and still—both when alone and with Martha.

A friend shared with me this ancient verse from the Eastern Orthodox tradition: 

“Fold the wings of your mind.
Place your mind in your heart.
Come into the presence of God.”

This is the direction in which meditation continues to guide me.

I love you dearly,  
Carlen at 70

carlen@carlenmaddux.com

P.S. Next week is Thanksgiving week. Carrying on this conversation between me at 70 and me at 40, the younger Carlen has turned up a Thanksgiving gift. It is meaningful and brief.  

P.P.S. Feel free to share this post and others with your friends. They also may sign up to receive their own free e-newsletter at www.carlenmaddux.com.

What Would I, at 70, Tell Me at 40?

That question keeps popping up years after my wife Martha was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 1997. She had turned 50 three weeks earlier. I’m not plagued by this question in the sense of feeling guilt or shame. I realize I can’t go back and do a do-over. 

Rather, the question prompts other questions: Is there anything I could share with our children? Or anyone with young families and busy lives? What could I share with someone pulled by the pressures of careers, children, making a living, whatever? 

You know the kinds of stresses I’m talking about—the typical variety of trying to get through the day while making a mark at work and making time for your children and yourself. 

Yes, each of us must learn our own lessons in our own way and time. But part of that process is having the humility to learn from one another. 

After reflecting on our grueling journey, I would share with a younger Martha and Carlen three things right now: First, be willing to forgive each other—and quickly. Second, take time to be quiet with each other. Third, experience God intimately—as divine Love, not as a religious belief.  

Today, I’m discussing forgiveness. I’ll pick up on the others in the next few weeks. 

Before getting into forgiveness, though, here’s some background. In 1983, I left a reporting job with a major newspaper to start a regional magazine. I was 38. My wife Martha, 36, was serving on the St. Petersburg City Council. By then, she had successfully managed five local political campaigns, including her own. When I launched our magazine, our children were 8, 6, and 3. Busy days and nights … and fun. 

This picture is from my 40th birthday party... 

There’s not enough time with this note to cover all that I’ve learned about forgiveness, but here are some hard-won insights that I at 70 would share with me at 40:

1) Busy as you are, Martha and Carlen, make time to forgive each other. And ALL who have hurt you. Do it quick—don’t drag it out. And don’t be selective with your forgiveness. If you try to do that, it somehow casts a shadow over all else. How do I know? Because I’ve tried numerous times to forgive one person I liked and not forgive another I liked less. It didn’t work.

2) Second, forgiveness is not some pious virtue as many of us have been led to believe over the course of our lives. Forgiveness, in fact, is as self-interested a trait as I’ve seen. You may remember the story of Peter asking Jesus whether forgiving someone seven times is enough (Matt. 18:21-22). Jesus said no, we need to be willing to forgive someone 70 times seven. 

Our four-year-old granddaughter might say: “Goodness, that’s a lot of forgiving.” 

Yes, it is. 

My take on what Jesus means—learned the hard way, I might add—is this: “Carlen, how long do you want to be free of the cold, dark cell of self-absorption, self-righteousness, and self-promotion that you’ve built over a lifetime? That’s how long and how often you need to forgive others, as well as yourself.” 

In Wishful Thinking, writer Frederick Buechner describes the absolute need for forgiveness as clearly as anyone I’ve come across: “Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back—in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.” 

That’s what I mean about forgiveness being self-interested—you forgive in order to free yourself. 

3) Realize that forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same. I didn’t understand this before our crisis. Forgiveness requires one person—you, Carlen—working through issues with your God. Reconciliation requires two to tango—you, Martha or Carlen, and the person you’ve forgiven. Once you forgive within your heart, you may or may not need to reconcile with that person.   

Do you remember, Carlen, when you used to wait for Martha to say, “I’m sorry,” and to initiate your coming back together after she blew up at you? It was her fault, right? You sulked for hours, maybe days, before either of you decided to address the issue at hand—if you did at all. 

That kind of argument didn’t just evaporate. Instead, by not addressing it head on, it sank deep into your memory and consciousness. And it lay there quietly, ready to pounce when the next issue, big or little, triggered Martha’s hot temper and your suffocating self-righteousness. 

4) Finally, Carlen, I’m now convinced that forgiveness, or its lack, can be a matter of life or death, of good health or ill. It took me 17 years of living with Alzheimer’s and of digging deep as I could into a wide variety of spiritual and health practices to understand this.

If you let issues fester long enough without redress, they pile up into what I call a “closet”—its door never to be opened except to throw more stuff in. In time that closet door will burst open, spewing a bitter mix of who knows what in all directions throughout your mind and body. I explore this in greater detail here and in my forthcoming book, A Path Revealed.

Maybe you have your own stories about forgiveness. If you would like to share, please go to #APathRevealed or email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.

Next week I’ll discuss carving out time to be quiet and intimate with each other.   

Until then, 
Carlen

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We Were on This Path All Along, but I Didn’t Realize It

A spiritual path can be an elusive thing.

Our family’s path is unlike what I often hear or read: “I’m on this amazing journey.”  “This is such an incredible path.” “Life is about enjoying the journey.” For me, such expressions border on the trite, making the words “path” and “journey” all but meaningless. 

Our path was lonely and hard on occasion as each of us—my wife Martha, our three children, and me—faced what appeared to be insurmountable obstacles in dealing with the fallout from Alzheimer’s.

 In fact, things got so difficult at certain points that I was uncertain whether I could continue. 

What I am certain of today, though, is this: Our family would be diminished—if not decimated—had this path not opened before us.    

Yet this is more than a path of survival. It continues to transform my view of the richness of God’s healing love, and to transform how I see myself and all of us, including you, as God’s own. 

Curiously, it was not until three years ago, after dusting off my journal, that I realized Martha and I had been on this path all along. I certainly wasn’t looking for one in the beginning, at the time of Martha’s diagnosis. I knew that over the years we’d encountered much that was bad and much that was good. And I knew we had drawn on a handful of folks—some friends and others strangers who became friends—to help us through our difficulties.   

But I hadn’t seen how these encounters were connected until I read back over my journal. I was surprised by the patterns that emerged. I was surprised to see how one event led to another, starting with our Presbyterian minister friend, who introduced us to his Catholic nun friend in Kentucky. I discussed the development of these relationships and their results in these posts here and here, so I won’t bore you with my redundancy. 

A year or so ago, as I reflected on the sharp turns and twists over the past couple of decades, my mind flashed back to our early visit with Father Matthew Kelty in Kentucky.

When Martha and I told him good-bye, it was mid-afternoon on a beautiful autumn day in 1997. So we decided to check out some woods that are part of the 2,000 acres that Gethsemani sits on. High on a hill to the left of the woods stood a large white cross, its massive arms opened wide. A welcome sign maybe, I remember thinking as we passed by. Maybe inviting us or anyone else who feels abandoned? 

At the edge of the woods, Martha and I saw a path and took it. There was nothing unique about this dirt path as it curled up a rather steep hillside. Yet what was different was Martha—she was bouncing along the path with a confidence I thought I’d never see again. At times she led, other times she fell back to stop and inspect a rock or a wild flower. And with every sun-speckled step the autumn leaves seemed brighter than usual, while the rocks and roots and wood ferns expressed a quiet joy that I’d not experienced on a walk before or since. 

Not until I was wrapping up my book’s manuscript did the meaning of that walk through Gethsemani’s woods come clear to me. In so many ways, I now see, it foreshadowed what was to come. 

Since that walk, our family has stepped over jutting rocks and tangled roots and moved through a wooded darkness speckled with light. We also stumbled onto sunlit clearings and paused at the wonder of it all, lingering with delight before turning back to the path set before us. This path indeed was maddening and frustrating, disheartening even.

Yet somehow this walk, our walk, had been transformed into a sacred walk over a sacred path, pointing our way toward a Presence far greater and more real than any loss we experienced.

As I reflect on how this path unfolded before us, the following thoughts come to mind. You may find some of these to be of value as well: 

• First, this statement by Archbishop Desmond Tutu stands among the most enduring I’ve encountered: “In a life of wholeness we may face brokenness and endure woundedness, but our suffering will not be meaningless. Meaningless suffering is soul-destroying.” (Made for Goodness: And Why This Makes All the Difference). 
   
• Don’t try to figure out if you and your loved ones are on a spiritual path. And don’t try to understand the meaning of what you’re going through. All that’s required is to step forward and to be as attentive as you can. If you do that, meaning and understanding will arise in their own time and way. In my case, I didn’t see the path nor fathom its meaning until years later. 
    
• Don’t focus on the obstacles and problems along the way. Learn to focus on Christ Jesus himself—beckoning, calling, pushing, pulling, pointing. This is a hard lesson that I continue to learn, learn, and re-learn.
   
• The path is not the object. God is. God is both the movement and the manifestation of healing. Christ Jesus is my guide along this way.  
   
• This path is not a plan with a set of goals and objectives. There’s no way to determine the next move in advance. It requires a trust in a deep, warm Wisdom, especially when the voice you hear within, or the image you see, seems to defy common sense.
   
• This path serves as a transforming agent. It reshapes and redefines who I am and where I’m heading. I finally see, after nearly two decades, that our path continues to be about the search for healing and meaning. 

• To discern hints and whispers along the way requires time and space outside my normal environment—time to express anguish and time to be restored. See my monastery post. It also requires space for quiet reflection. See my journal post. 
   
• You may be traveling, as we did, through uncharted territory. It’s good to have one or more trusted confidants. For me it was vital. Mine were Rev. Lacy Harwell, the Presbyterian minister in St. Petersburg, and Canon Jim Glennon, the Anglican minister in Sydney, Australia.

Have you discovered a meaningful path that’s helping guide you through a crisis? Do you care to share? If so, you may at #APathRevealed. Or you may email me privately at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.

Thanks, 
Carlen

P.S. You may share this post or others with your friends. Or sign up for my free weekly newsletters at carlenmaddux.com. 

Why This Protestant Guy Spent 300 Days in a Monastery

Last week I described the significance that keeping a journal had for us as my wife and I crash-landed in a new, surreal life. But that journal is only part of our story. 

Monasteries played a big role, too. 

However, I had not always found monasteries to be places of interest, Protestant-reared that I was. The thought of monks, nuns, monasteries, and mother houses had rarely crossed my mind.   

But that changed in 1997 with Martha’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s.     

In early October of that year, Martha and I were encouraged to visit a nun with the Sisters of Loretto in Kentucky. We stayed there for a week, but as we drove away I was wishing we could have remained forever. Martha and I found the time and space to talk, cry, walk, hug, hold hands, and be still. That was the first comfort we’d felt since her diagnosis.

While there, we also visited the Abbey of Gethsemani not far away. This is the monastery made famous by the writer and social activist Thomas Merton. Martha and I listened to a friend of Merton’s deliver one of the most succinct, poignant, and humorous homilies I’d heard. Father Matthew Kelty, an aging Boston Irish monk, maintained a running commentary while reciting poetry and portions of the Bible, leaving us wondering whether to laugh or cry.

When through, Father Matthew darted for the door as quickly as he had entered.  

But Martha was able to catch up to him, and he agreed to meet with her the next day. She emerged from that meeting the next afternoon with a glow on her face that I hadn’t seen in months. Martha in short order had developed a crush on Father Matthew. She always did have a thing for older men with an air of authority about them.

My interest in monastic communities—and my affection—was warming quickly.

A few years later, our children Rachel and David gave me the best gift ever. Back home from college, they agreed to stay with their mother one weekend a month while letting me do whatever I wanted. By then, someone needed to be with Martha 24/7.   

It didn’t take me long to decide how to spend their gift: I went to St. Leo Abbey, a Benedictine monastery about an hour north of St. Petersburg.

St. Leo has a guest house with half a dozen or so apartments. For my weekends there, I would leave work on Friday afternoon and return home on Sunday afternoon.

I did this for almost a decade until Martha entered a nursing home in early 2008.

I found no better place to rant and vent my fears, to be quiet and cry aloud. I did stay at a beach motel one time, but it didn’t offer the atmosphere and undistracted silence I needed. 

Do you remember Merton’s statement from my post last week? “One of the basic truths put forward in the Bible as a whole is not merely that God is always right and man is wrong, but that God and man can face each other in an authentic dialog …” 

That’s what my weekends at St. Leo were about: Discovering the honest agreements and disagreements that I had with God. As well as he with me. And me with myself. It wasn’t easy. But over time, Christ’s Spirit was gentle enough to permit me to sift through the rubble of false piety and self-righteousness I’d built up over a lifetime, eventually to touch a more authentic core.  

Space doesn’t permit me to dig into the issues that rained down on me at St. Leo and elsewhere. I do get into a number of those in my forthcoming book. Nonetheless, it was during these weekends that my readings, meditations, prayers, and journal writings proved invaluable—they helped me sort the real from the illusory. At times, though, I felt I was hitting my head against a wall, making no progress whatsoever. 

If you feel the need to be quiet and alone, here are some quick thoughts drawn from my decade of visits to St. Leo and other monastic communities: 

• First, I realize that as a caregiver you might not be so fortunate to have children who can give you a gift such as ours gave me. But maybe you have friends who can free you for a few hours. Or maybe your loved one will be willing to go to an adult day care center.   
   
• Or if the crisis is yours rather than a loved one’s, are you still independent enough to step out of your daily schedule and into a less distracting, more focused atmosphere? If so, make the time to do it.
   
• It’s important to carve out time and space on a regular basis, if possible. Go somewhere that you can be alone to unload what’s on your heart and mind. 
   
• Don’t use this time for errands. And don’t try to do this at home or the office. You’ll have more than enough distractions without worrying about to-do lists.  
   
• Arguing “honestly” with God doesn’t mean your conversations are structured and articulate. If anything, it’s the opposite for me. I find it difficult to verbalize what’s going on deep within. I have to stew in my juices for awhile—often a long while—before I’m able to call out an issue. I consider this “stewing” to be a form of God’s grace. 
   
• My conversations with God—Help! Why us?! Why me?!—often were similar to those Anne Lamott describes in her book Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers. 
   
• If you don’t want to go to a monastery, many church denominations have retreat centers. 
   
• If you do visit a monastery, don’t think you have to participate in the schedule of the brothers’ prayer services. Slip in and out where you feel comfortable. I found St. Leo’s brothers to be more protective of my time and feelings than I was.

• A spiritual director often is available in a monastic community. St. Leo, Gethsemani, and the Sisters of Loretto all have one. Take advantage of that person’s guidance, if you feel the need.
   
• When you go to a monastery, you don’t have to stay isolated in your room. At St. Leo I liked to sit outside in a chair behind the guest house and look out over an orange grove spilling into Lake Jovita. I soon began calling this my “hot seat.” Also I liked to take walks on a country road near there. And go to their book store to chat with the brother in charge. Meals with the brothers were fun. Oh the stories they can tell when they step out of their frocks.
  
  Friday evenings I often ate at Pancho’s Villa in nearby San Antonio—one of the best kept secrets in Tampa Bay. There’s nothing like a piping hot plate of their enchiladas or burritos with a couple of cold beers, topped by a dessert of deep-fried ice cream. LOL! 
   
• When I left St. Leo on Sunday afternoon, I’d resolved few if any of my issues. But I usually felt more refreshed and together than when I drove in on Friday.

Have you been able to find a place to be quiet and vent? Do you wish to share your experiences? If so, you may at #APathRevealed. Or you may email me privately at carlen@carlenmaddux.com. 

Thanks, Carlen

P.S. Again… feel free to share this post and others with persons you think might be interested. Or they can sign up for my free weekly newsletters at www.carlenmaddux.com.

How Keeping a Journal Helped Save My Life

Some people are into “journaling” as a way of life. Not me. I started a journal as a way of survival. 

My first entry was written on Sept. 23, 1997, the day of my wife’s diagnosis: “The doctor told Martha she probably has ‘early onset’ Alzheimer’s disease—a devastating blow to us both. No known cause, no known cure. This came after an EEG, blood tests, CT scan of head, other tests.” 

My last entry was posted a decade later on January 11, 2008: “Today Martha moved into her new home—the Menorah Manor nursing home. Sad time.”

These two entries form the bookends of a 14-volume, 1,376-page journal of an estimated 150,000 words. 

One hundred and fifty thousand emotionally wrenched words.

Words drawn from memories, experiences, and images. Life-breathing words, dead words, inane words, profound words, healing words, words bright with insight, and words dim as ashen embers. These are the words that inexplicably reflected the Christ-Presence drawing Martha, our children, and me into love, joy, and meaning along our trail of tears.

After Martha’s diagnosis—the start of a crisis so freighted with emotional and spiritual fireworks—I began doing things without knowing why or how. The first of those initiatives was to start this journal. So much stuff was coming at me from so many different fronts—medical, emotional, reading materials, my business, caring for our family—I needed a place to store it all. 

Figuring out what it all meant would have to wait. 

I didn’t start a journal because of my training and career as an editor and journalist. Nor did I begin one because I wanted to write a book; that didn’t enter my mind until a decade or more later. 

I started a journal out of desperation. I began to understand that a journal could help build a rational structure for things that otherwise seemed fleeting and ephemeral. If not rational, it at least was quasi-rational as it helped me remember and understand later what was going on in a real-time sequence of events.

You may or may not want to keep a journal. If you do, here are some tips drawn from my decade of writing one:    

• A journal is not a diary. At least mine wasn’t. I didn’t feel the need to write something daily. In fact, I often went days between entries. Other times, though, I couldn’t write fast enough to get down on paper what I was seeing, experiencing, and feeling.  
   
• If you’re in a crisis and feel compelled to write down your thoughts and emotions, do it. I began a journal for only one reason: Some deep, unconscious need was driving me. When that need lifted, I quit. No doubt there are other reasons and other situations for keeping a journal, but our crisis with its explosive fallout is the only reason I needed.  
   
• If possible, write longhand with pen on paper. This helped connect my heart, mind, and hand in a way that typing on a laptop (if I would have had one back then) could not. Besides, it was a healthy thing for my tears to stain the paper I was writing on. And on occasion, as I re-read and looked at that ink on the paper, I wondered if I was seeing my blood on those pages.
   
• Be honest about your feelings and any sense of spiritual darkness. To place your confusion and your lostness on paper can help lift those feelings from you. At the same time be honest about any sense of hope and joy that breaks through, even the slightest sense. For me, such moments—both the darkness and the rays of insight and relief—often came with tears. Being honest before God, and with yourself, has a way of doing that. 
  
  Let me point out a couple of things about the two pages below from my journal, which were written a few weeks after Martha’s diagnosis. First, I’m not trying to put my thoughts into a comprehensive, final form. As a matter of fact, they’re rather scattered, real-time comments. 
  
  Second, on the left page I quote Thomas Merton, the late monk from Gethsemani: “The Bible prefers honest disagreement to dishonest submission … One of the basic truths put forward in the Bible as a whole is not merely that God is always right and man is wrong, but that God and man can face each other in an authentic dialog …” (from Opening the Bible).

P.S. If you remember nothing else I share, remember this statement by Merton. Deep in a crisis you will want to muster up all the honest arguments you can make with God, not unlike Job several millennia ago. If you do, chances are you will see the face of God in ways you never have before, just as Job did. 

• Share your journal only with your closest confidants. My thoughts and feelings were so tentative during these days, I found it best not to go public. I needed to understand—I did not need to get into a debate. As a result, I shared on an ongoing basis with our three children and with our mentor and friend Rev. Lacy Harwell. Later, I shared with Canon Jim Glennon, the Anglican minister I visited in Australia. And I shared with a few others on occasion where it seemed appropriate. I talk more about this here. 
   
• You may need someone to validate what you’re going through. I did. And that person was Lacy. As our sharing with each other progressed, I told him: “I’m feeling the need for you to be my ‘witness’ to these experiences.”  In taking that on, Lacy helped keep me from derailing spiritually and emotionally as I found myself turning some sharp curves at pretty high speeds.  

As I reflect on my experience, my journal’s two primary purposes were these: 

1. To help me unload and sort out a mass of confusing feelings and thoughts that verbalizing alone—either to myself or with another—could not do.
2. To help connect what seemed to be separate, unrelated events. Over time my journal helped me see patterns that I otherwise would not have seen.

How have you coped with your crisis? Are you finding a journal helpful? Other tools? If you care to share, please do at #APathRevealed … or privately, you may email me at carlen@carlenmaddux.com.  

If you haven’t realized it yet, I truly appreciate your interest and involvement in our family’s story. 

Sincerely, Carlen

P.S. Feel free to share this post and others with friends and family you think might be interested. Or they can sign up for my free weekly newsletters at www.carlenmaddux.com.

Why I Started a Blog-Newsletter

If you’re just now catching my blog posts, may I explain more fully for you what I’m trying to do and why? I started this newsletter/blog and opened a website for two reasons: one is practical and the other, I guess, you could call altruistic. 

You may be aware that I’m writing a book about our family’s 17-year experience with Alzheimer’s. Its working title and subtitle: A Path Revealed: How Hope, Love, and Joy Found Us Deep in a Maze Called Alzheimer’s. When my book will be published is still up in the air.

In anticipation of its publication, I decided a website and blog would be a good way to preview the book and our family’s story. The feedback I get should help sharpen what I’m saying in the book as well as be an indicator of the interest that may or may not be out there with a story like ours. That’s the practical reason. 

The “altruistic” reason? I decided to write this book … Correction: I felt compelled to write this book because I sensed that our family and I had gone through enough unique experiences that our story might be worth telling to others who are enduring their own crises. Not that they would copy what we did, but our story might spark ideas and initiatives as they wrestled with their issues. They might hear echoes in our story that would help reinforce their decisions one way or another. 

As I wrap up my manuscript, it seems like a long time yet before my book will see the light of day. Thus, my website and blog help fill that gap in time.

Which brings me to a question I’ve heard more than once: So your blog and newsletter are comprised of excerpts from your book? 

The simple answer is, “No.” The more complicated answer is, “Yes and no.” 

My posts will occasionally contain short excerpts from my book. By short, I mean a paragraph or two. Well … our daughter Kathryn’s poem is an exception, but it’s only one of her nine that will be in my book. 

Our story includes experiences that I can write about only in a book format. The context of these experiences requires too much time and space to cover in the type of posts I’m comfortable writing—short, readable, and to the point. 

Thus, my online posts are more like takeaways that my family and I continue to learn from. But I hope to do more than that with this newsletter/blog. I’ll be looking to add more variety while working around the same theme: How can I come to grips with a serious crisis, whether short-lived or long, and emerge healthier and stronger? Our crisis has been Alzheimer’s; yours may be something else. 

I do need to make this clear: The focus of my book and blog is not on Alzheimer’s; that’s the context of our story. The focus is on the spiritual path that unfolded, quite unexpectedly, before my wife Martha, our children, and me over 17 years. For lack of a better term, you can call my book a spiritual memoir. 

I try to set the tone of this spiritual journey in my book’s Prologue: “In telling our story, I must speak in Christian terms and images because that’s the faith and tradition I grew up with, carried into adulthood, and after a long drought, embraced. In doing this I’m not denying another’s spiritual heritage. Our story is not about scoring theological points. It’s about trying to survive, about finding what works and what doesn’t as we move through a dark, inscrutable maze. It’s about stepping outside our comfort zone to reach anything that holds fast and true. Words do matter. But the truth behind the words matters more.” 

That said, I know some people are just not into spiritual things. I get that. I’ve been there too. So if you’re not, you may want to unsubscribe from my e-newsletter because that’s where this blog and my book lead—into the spiritual. There’s no authentic way I can tell our story otherwise. The names “God” and “Jesus Christ” are so overused today, and often abused for manipulative reasons, that invoking their names out in the public square would give most persons pause, including me. Yet here’s my dilemma: I can’t tell our story without calling on their names, often in the most intimate of ways.  

Several friends from traditions other than Christianity have signed up for my newsletter. I hope my telling of our story permits enough breathing room so that you can translate our story into your own faith’s vocabulary and experience.  

A few more quick comments, and I’ll close. 

First, if you’d like to check out previous newsletters, you can start here with my first one.  

I state this in those early posts: I am not a licensed psychologist/psychiatrist or an ordained minister. What I’m sharing in these posts is drawn from nearly two decades of experience wrestling with the consequences of Alzheimer’s disease on our family. Each person’s odyssey is unique. As you travel your own path and encounter serious obstacles—be they mental, emotional, physical, or spiritual—I strongly encourage you to start an ongoing conversation with a trusted counselor, guide, pastor, doctor, or friend. And with your family.

Finally, if you find what I’m sharing to be valuable, you may sign up for my free weekly newsletter here: www.carlenmaddux.com.

Thanks for your interest in our story.   

Carlen Maddux
carlen@carlenmaddux.com