Category: Faith

Faith Journey

Tuesday is Step 11

Sometimes, I feel like the battered wife, always coming home for more, but I have the role wrong. I should not identify with the one being battered, I should identify with the batterer. How many times I have questioned fate, and blamed God for the present and past.; decisions I made, yet wanted to distance myself from. 

Faith Journey

The Gift of Suffering?

I never fully considered the upside of “suffering” but after reading Janine’s poem this morning, I smiled. When I awoke this morning, I was intent on finding beauty today. I was intent on finding joy. I was intent on writing something uplifting this morning. I was intent on appreciating happiness. I found it in Janine’s poem. 

Craven Oak Leaf Hydrangea
Equality Faith Family Forgiveness Journey

If we only understood

We are always told to “Put yourself in their shoes” or “Walk a mile in their shoes” or some other iteration. And I have tried over the years to do just that. I recall sitting in court at 26th and California, listening to the public defender plea with the judge or jury as a death penalty was considered and begging for forgiveness. Those moments almost always made me think about how we choose our paths, and ultimately how our environments contribute to our behavior.

Snowy day, Karen Craven at Hidden Lake DuPage County Forest Preserve
Faith Family Friendships Journey Men

Truth or lie

Sin was a big deal when I grew up. There were cardinal sins and venial sins. Committing a cardinal sin would land you in hell. My father had little tolerance for liars. He was adamant that liars are the worst sinners of all. If you are not truthful, you can’t be trusted. And if you aren’t trustworthy, well your life will be very lonely.

Women's March Chicago, photo by Karen Craven
Equality Faith Family Friendships Journey Motherhood Yoga

Looking back at 1/2 of 2017

My mother nor I had finished reading the collection. That afternoon we read poetry aloud to one another. It was intoxicating. Short of her sharing in my daughter’s birth, that afternoon will stand as one of the best, most intimate, loveliest moments with my mom. Later that evening, she did it again, reading the poetry to a group of women, who were strangers not an hour before. I was reminded of the first time she took the pulpit and read from the Old Testament at St. Thomas More. Her grace, presence, and ability to project every nuance of those readings had me wanting to tell the whole church. “Hey, that’s my mom.” I felt the same way that night. And like many experiences this past year, I believed that book, and every poem bathed in Gluck’s own pain derived from her own divorce, was meant for me to read and to listen to.