THE INNKEEPER

It was September 1992.  Mom was in trouble.  Big trouble.  She had often faced significant challenges throughout the years, and just as often, called out for help from family for some sort of financial salvation.  Even as a child myself (Mom’s only child), I had been repeatedly pressed to do my part to bail her out from her most current circumstances.  These events always strained me—financially, physically, emotionally—and eroded my abilities and even my desire to provide support, though duty held me to the course.

Now age 64 and partially-disabled, Mom was in Sacramento, California, living on her early Social Security retirement income.  She was without a car and used one of those battery-powered scooters to help her travel most distances, and while traversing through fair grounds one night, she unwittingly ran her lower leg into a protruding piece of rebar and gashed it wide open.  Infection set in and she became further disabled.  At the time, she shared the expense of apartment living with a roommate—one whom she came to trust and revere as a friend in relatively short order.  After attaining a measurable level of recuperation, she agreed that the roommate should feel comfortable to leave for a desired two-week visit with a family member. 

Those two weeks, however, turned into a month, then longer, before Mom reluctantly and sadly gave into her fears that the roommate had left entirely.  The so-called visit had been a façade; realizing the shelled appearance of an intended return cut her to the marrow.  Mom was abandoned.  What’s more, having already endorsed her Social Security check over to her roommate to pay her share of the rent, she learned that the rent went unpaid.  An uncompassionate landlord presented an eviction order and threatened, most severely, a lock-out by the Sheriff.  Sadly, Mom returned to alcohol for release, which she had successfully quit a few years before, following a lifetime of addiction. 

In her soulfully-injured condition, she called and begged me to turn chaos into order.  So uncertain of what immediate recourse I might take, especially being 900 miles away, I took inventory of my financial condition once more.  It didn't have to take long.  I already knew.  In just three month’s time, it was my plan to return to the University of Arizona full-time and complete my degree.  I was 31 years old and had grown weary of the meager salary that my technical vocation had afforded me.  According to plan, then, I would soon be without an income at all, dependent almost fully on school loans to see me through.  Now, given our history together, I was expected to also find a way to support my mother once her predicament was revealed.  I labored to sustain Mom emotionally, and objectively researched her situation in Sacramento, calling upon a few key people for understanding and guidance.  And, I prayed—much.  Still, the biggest part of me desperately wanted to run.

One Sunday evening in mid-September, I attended a satellite broadcast of a fireside at my Church, that I might find spiritual relief for my own self and temporarily escape the pressures of my mother’s situation.  During that fireside, the story of The Good Samaritan was presented.  I had heard it and read it many times before:

And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead.

And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.

And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side.

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him,

 And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.

 And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.

(Luke 10:30-35)

Suddenly, I was profoundly and undeniably struck with a realization and a spiritual witness.  Samaritans are known to have been most despised in the region.  Similarly, Jesus was “despised and rejected of men” (Isaiah 53:3).  Having understanding, I saw that the Savior was, himself, The Good Samaritan.  And, though my mother had been stripped of her money and abandoned by her supposed friend (yet, a thief); though she was wounded without and within; though her landlord had not compassion on her; though even her only child had considered passing by on the other side; even then, the Savior readily sought to bind up her wounds and carry her to a place of safety, where she might be nursed to health again.

 

And so it was that I was called to act in another role in this story—

the Innkeeper. 

My heart and throat swelled, my cheeks flushed, and tears intensely poured down my face and neck.  It was such an astonishing and singular spiritual event that all attempts to describe it in mere words are defied.  Fear not was the Lord’s word to me.  My mother would be delivered to me for care and healing.  I would be sustained in all ways, financially and otherwise.  Then and there, the Lord promised me that if I were found lacking at the end of the day, I would be repayed.  And so he did. And so he has. And so he will.

I was the Innkeeper.  Me.  That great privilege and honor was bestowed upon me!

It should not take long to discern what any of us might have wished to have done differently if called to fulfill the role of a certain Innkeeper—some 2,000 Christmases ago at a little town called Bethlehem—when Our Savior’s birth was imminently at hand. 

Take a moment.  Reflect upon your senses.  It may transform your life’s direction, interactions and relationships with others, and personal reservoirs, as it did for me.

Skinhorse Poetry: "Written"

She knew what she wanted to say
And she said it.

She wrote it in words for all to see.
But, dull, passing glances
Observe only the obvious.
And few know well how to attune
Soulful, comprehending eyes
Between the lines of what is written.

Written on her face
Was a longing for more—
More understanding and empathy.
More sharing of hearts.
More long hugs to help her feel
Connected.
Even short ones might do.

Written on her frame
Was the peculiar personal pattern
Of weathering
That which all must bear:
Heat.  Cold.  Storm.  Wind.
Urging, ever-urging, change.

Written on her sleeve
Was the pain that had taken its toll
After all those many years
When she was at once convinced
That everyone loved the idea of her,
And yet, no one loved her—really.

Written on her hands
Was the traced evidence of strength
From planting and lifting and building and such.
Unpreserved, weakened, from holding on
To so much that could have been let go,
Should have been let go,
So very long ago,
And Forgiven.

Written in her heart
Was the desire to become
Better than she had been—
A bearer of light and compassion.
Sounding a resonance of past days,
Understanding, finally, the meaning
Of all that had been, and is being,

Written.

- Jacqueline J. Hancock

After the Murmuring

In 1993, and while living in Tucson, Arizona, I was asked to work with the Young Women of the Church for the first time; specifically, the Laurels (ages 16-18).  It floors me now to have even considered it, but at the time, I really did not want that assignment!  In retrospect, I can't help but laugh and become a little misty-eyed, too, as I skate along my memory banks, reliving some of my experiences with this blessed group of girls.  As it turned out, this period of my life was to become one of my most favored, cherished, and sustainingly joyful seasons.  Funny, isn't it, that our views of so-called uninspired "mistakes" that leaders make at times culminate to land for our souls our grandest blessings?

My girls during this initial introductory time to the Young Women's program included: Andrea Greenwood, Michele Anglin, Heidi Luke, Heidi Martin, Sara Offen, Jaime Smith, Susannah Rexroat, Marisa Henderson, Jennifer Clark, Cassie Meadows, Joanna White, Julianna Smith, and Melanie Raehl.  Did I get everyone?  Well, one of these gals will remind me if I left out someone.

I'm laughing again.  I just wish I could recapture, for example, the craziness of Sara and Jaime, acting like foreign exchange students (or as a blind student) on the public bus.  We sure had some tender and tough times, too.   All in all, though, our shared experiences brought us about as close as a leader can be to any one group of girls.  I owe it all to them, too. 

Well, with that introduction, the following is a journal entry of mine that illustrates the struggle I experienced in letting go of one church calling to assume the responsibilities of another.  Perhaps only my former Young Women will be interested enough to read these pages.  I'm fine with that.  Not everyone can handle my verbosity.

CLICK EACH IMAGE TO ENLARGE.

To the Young Women mentioned above, and others whom I haven't mentioned, I offer an extreme debt of gratitude.  Oft-times, when I have trembled with certain doubts that have weighed upon my heart, I have been brought back to the relationships we enjoy, one with another.  Truly, I have been unalterably changed and repeatedly sustained because of my bond to each of you.  And to think that, in the beginning, I murmured.  Now, all I can seem to do is cry out in gratitude.

God bless your lives for the ways that you changed mine.  I love you all.

Taking Risks

To laugh is to risk being a fool. 

To weep is to risk appearing sentimental. 

To reach out to another is to risk involvement. 

To express feelings is to risk exposing your true self. 

To place your ideas, your dreams, before a crowd is to risk their loss. 

To love is to risk not being loved in return. 

To live is to risk dying. 

To hope is to risk despair. 

To try is to risk failure. 

The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.  They may avoid suffering and sorrow, but they simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, or live.  Risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.  Only a person who risks is free.

- Leo Buscaglia

As a high school Junior, I lived in Sierra Vista, Arizona and was enrolled in Buena High School.  (Well, truthfully, as a Junior, I was enrolled in high schools four different times: in Tucson first, then Sierra Vista, then Safford, then back again to Sierra Vista.  These moves all followed on the heels of two high school enrollments in 9th grade and five more in 10th grade.  Mom wanted to move yet again just before the end of my 11th grade year, but I glued my feet to the floor and basically said, "You go; I'm staying."  Oh, but I digress.)  I managed to stay in Sierra Vista my entire Senior year and ended up graduating from Buena.

I was blessed to have an extraordinary teacher while at Buena: Dixi Dougherty.  We all called her Ms. D for short.  She loved her students and loved teaching, and it was part of her natural teaching style to regularly share profound quotes and other significant ideas.  The above quote by Leo Buscaglia is one that I remember her having shared during my high school years when I was taking her Psychology, Sociology, and U.S. Constitution classes.  I found it refreshing that her teaching style did not change despite the fact that the subjects were so different from one another.

I think some of the key gifts I received from Ms. D were her consistent messages about mankind's need for one another, our humanness, and just simple validation that the emotional patterns already apparent in my young life made sense and were worth something.  I dared to vulnerably share a few things when I was young.  I risked my heart.  She offered safety and understanding as I did so, and greatly enlarged my vision of self-worth and worth to others whom I might encounter in future days.

So, over the years, I've continued to do my share of risking in different ways, just as Leo Buscaglia and Ms. D counseled.  I've been able to discern reactions to me and my willingness to risk from several souls, too.  Those reactions have run the gamut—everything from downright suspicion, fear, and rejection to whole-hearted acceptance and love.  Because of the tangible pain repeatedly handed me as I have dared to risk, I have been tempted to mind my emotional Ps and Qs, to conform more, to blend in, to fade out.  But, the strongest part of my inner self continues to teach me, even scold me, saying, "Such thinking is not right.  Keep going.  Keep trying.  Keep sharing."

A few good handfuls of people along the way have spoken words to this general effect after observing me in action a little while: "Jacki, I just don't know how you can do and say some of the things you do and say.  I would be scared to death.  I could never do that. How do you?"  A lot of times, I have to ask for more specifics, because I just can't quite grasp what they are referencing.  Once they tell me, I am usually rather surprised that the particulars are such a big deal to the person.

As it turns out, the more critical and worthwhile question is one that I might ask them!  "How do you NOT say and do some of these things?"  It makes a whole lot more sense to me that we seek to allow the best parts of ourselves breathe free—even in the face of potential pain—rather than allow ourselves to be stifled, muffled, and even suffocated by real or portended fears.  Much more comes of life as we do so, especially when there are loved ones by our side to steadily share in the journey.

Click here for more wisdom on the subject: 
"Our Deepest Fear" - (April 18, 2009)

Skinhorse Truth: Mortality and Divinity

Oh, to rise above the mortal plane—
that we may challenge the distance between
our human and divine selves.
- Jacqueline J. Hancock

Skinhorse Poetry: "Where Did All the Forgiveness Go?"

This original poem and personal experience demonstrate that I am one who has been hurt and who has struggled enormously with forgiving another for that hurt. I do not dare claim that my experience is new, or feel my pain to be above that borne by another. Having said that, and while I have hesitated to do so, I finally decided to share a portion of my experience and learning here in the hope that it will be of some benefit to one, or to many, of you.

Where did all the forgiveness go?
Nowhere.
The same as all the apologies.

Yet to forgive—though forgiveness be not sought:
Is it not more glorious than the receipt of pleading?

Reveal thou, thy glory here.

In its place comes once more—Pain.
For, in turning the corner towards forgiveness
Another unsung apology groans out as a reminder
And nearly nothing rings more loudly
Than such a nothingness.

“Oh, how deep the wound!” she cries.
And cries.
And cries again.

Who could trace the path of tears,
Or find its ending point on the tear-streaked face?

- Jacqueline J. Hancock


Forgiving another is part of the soul’s requirement to undergo a “mighty change.” My own changing—though paltry in comparison to many—has inspired gratitude within. I understand that the making of a mighty change never really results in our reaching a destination; rather, it is a continuing process. Still, invisible chapter markers help point to critical crossroads.

Efforts made to help rid my heart of any unkind feelings towards one who had hurt me included attending aids that the Lord remarkably charted out for my benefit, revealing in no uncertain terms that He is aware of my needs. Through them, I was prepared to visualize a series of significant things.

First of all, one evening I lay in bed, alone in the darkness, yet very much awake. In this state, I was granted a vision of one particular person who had hurt me deeply and repeatedly so, standing far away from me and diminished in size, the way that artists portray people and things in the distance. Though we faced one another, it was clear that we could not be brought any closer. Almost immediately, and to my great surprise, there stood the Savior next to me. He looked into my eyes, though I could not bear to look into His. He asked me, “Is it not enough that I suffered for all hurts given here? Is there something else that you require? Is there more that I should do?” Tears filled my eyes—not in the vision, but in reality. I answered, even audibly, as I lay there alone in the darkness: “No, you have done all.” Of course His suffering is enough. Of course it is. But in weakness, I had not been able to find a way to fully accept His offerings.

Secondly, and following this former vision, I entered within the Mesa Temple. Before heading into an endowment session, I stopped and took a single piece of paper and pencil and wrote down the names of all those involved in my hurt at the time. I had completed this act many times before. This time, however, I included my own name. All names were, symbolically at least to me, placed upon the Temple altar while I was present there. At last, certain feelings swelled, enabling me to visualize standing peacefully WITH those who had hurt me. Again, tears filled my eyes.

Thirdly, I had a dream in the middle of the night. In my dream, this same particular person stood facing me, obviously troubled. We were within a mere few feet of one another then. An unexpected awareness ensued. Comprehending some of the feelings of hurt that I had inspired myself, I moved towards this person, whom I then compassionately wrapped my arms around long enough to tell how very sorry I was to have contributed any pain.

The dream ended there. No final page was revealed in this chapter of my experience as I dreamed. As time has passed, it has been made clear that the story is still being written, whether in daytime or nighttime hours.

Who could trace the path of tears,
Or find its ending point on the tear-streaked face?

There is only One, and that One is the Savior. The tears have been traced. They are known. Gratefully, the tears have their ending point as well. The pain is becoming more and more soothed by The Balm of Gilead. What comfort this Balm brings.

Some things are certain. We all hurt within ourselves for wrongs committed against us, even grievous wrongs. We all manage to hurt one another, sometimes without even intending to do so. Whichever way our experiences may lead us, we all are in a position to seek and receive forgiveness. Finally, we all struggle with seeking and extending forgiveness.

Yet, if we are to be made right with the Lord, then we will necessarily have to forgive those who have wronged us—even if they never ask for our forgiveness! I think, though, that the Lord understands that everyone’s timetable is different. He says we must forgive; he does not say that we must forgive NOW. Still, it is to our own advantage that we get ourselves set on the right track towards forgiveness, allowing space for it when it comes. As we attune ourselves more and more with the Lord’s purposes, we will find our spiritual speed quicken enough to fully renew our walk with Him.

If you struggle still to forgive, may you begin anew the process of undergoing a mighty change of heart. May you indeed forgive another of their wrongs towards you—not because they need it or deserve it—but because the Lord stands between you and them, asking if His suffering is enough to cover it all.

Please read THE PEACEGIVER by James L. Ferrell for a more thorough spiritual comprehension of the subject of forgiveness. My repeated readings of this book helped to prepare me for some of my own personal experiences.