I just finished Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, which is the third book I've read by her. I love how honest she is, how willing she is to say when she doesn't understand something, or doesn't do something well, or struggles with her faith. I love how completely she trusts in God's grace. I love how she says things that other people think but would be to afraid to say. I love the utter vulnerability in her writing, not looking for sympathy, not running herself down, not getting caught up in her failures, doing nothing less than truth telling. We all have said mean things when we're angry, we all have been unforgiving, we all have wanted to be right more than we've wanted to be kind, we all have felt uncomfortable or anxious in our own skin, we all have been ungrateful, we have all doubted God or God's goodness -- it's just that so few of us want to talk about it.
Once at a pastor's meeting we were asked to share a moment of failure. It was a bold request -- we didn't really know each other well enough to trust each other with our most difficult moments. Some pastors responded with successes masked in failure language ("I am too patient...here was a time when I gave too much of myself"). Some responded with funny stories about minor mishaps -- more embarrassing moments than failures. Some responded with serious stories -- failing out of school, marriage difficulties. Then it was my turn.
When I was in NJ, I was running a summer program for jr. highers in the inner city. At the end of the day, I was usually tired. Probably not more tired than my staff, but I was the leader and that came with perks, one of which was waiting upstairs for the bus while my staff watched the kids downstairs. Part of me told myself it would be better for me to be downstairs with the kids, but the other part of me whispered "You have worked hard. You're in charge." So I sat on the steps upstairs, waiting for the bus to pick up the kids from outside the neighborhood.
I was on the steps one day as C's dad showed up. It was her third day of camp; she was a girl with slight special needs and so her parents didn't want her walking home by herself. They told me they would pick her up. "Oh," I said, "she's downstairs." He nodded and smiled and went downstairs. I leaned back against the doorframe.
C's dad came back upstairs. "She's not down there."
I went back down with him, my face beginning to flush. "She must be" I thought to myself. But my staff shrugged their shoulders. Her father was very quiet; I knew his heart must be pounding worse than mine. I ran into the bathroom, which was empty. I stayed in there an extra second, wishing her feet would appear under a stall. I dreaded going back out and facing her father with my hands empty. I started justifying things in my head, asking why my staff had been slacking, why they hadn't paid more attention to her, but I hadn't told them that her dad picked her up, that her parents were worried about her walking home, that they should generally keep a better eye on her. Even as I tried to pass off blame in my head, I felt it resting on me, heavy as a stone.
Her father and I got in his car, and started driving slowly around the city. I said nothing. I couldn't look at him. I prayed in my head, and every part of my body was burning and frozen at the same time. When we drove by her grandmother's house, he stopped suddenly, because she was standing in the doorway, smiling. I smiled too, like it changed what I had done, like her safety made my mistake smaller. I said, "Thank God," and told her father I was sorry, but he said nothing in return, just dropped me back off at the program. She never came back to camp.
That was my failure story. It didn't get any laughs. If you have seen me run a summer program now, you know I am constantly counting kids, looking for kids, checking on kids. I spend my time on field trips with my arms crossed, eyes moving back and forth. I am much more vigilant when I'm in charge of young people. That lesson has been learned. What I am still learning is how to accept and admit mistakes, to say, "It was my fault," full stop, with no excuses or qualifications. In some ways, that was, and still is the harder lesson.
I think we get scared to admit our failure because failure inevitably has consequences, and because one of those consequences might be that people stop loving you and starting thinking bad things about you, and maybe even God gets upset at you and stops loving you.
I love Anne Lamott because she can say "I did a dumb thing. It was stupid or dangerous or wrong, and it was my fault." I love her because she can say that, facing the inevitable consequences, and still believe that she is totally loved by God. Because she is! We all are, no matter what we do -- nothing is so bad that God stops loving us. That's a lesson the church, especially pastors, have to do a better job of teaching.
"You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed in certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily, like I love you...like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need." --Anne Lamott
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