Changes=Losses

One of my friends from the Lectio Divina group has been asked by our Rector to take over a Sunday morning bible study, which means he will no longer be praying with us on Sunday mornings. I have to admit, I am feeling a great sense of loss.

We are a small group. On a given Sunday, there are usually just 4 or 5 of us who gather to pray the scriptures together. It is a time of such joy and spiritual nourishment. We are bathed in the love of the Holy Spirit, constantly awed and surprised by His presence, week after week.

The group has been meeting for a couple of years now, but only in the last year has it gelled with a core of dedicated members. We, all of us, have come to love our Sunday mornings together. So, although I understand that people have to move on, I am feeling very sad indeed. I take solace in the fact that my friend will be bringing our spirit (and the Holy Spirit) with him to his new group. I know they will be very blessed by his presence.

My new gig

I started my new job today, working at the crisis pregnancy center in my area. Truly, I believe we are doing God's work there. Truly, I believe God has called me to that work. I feel proud that we are able to support women in a very real way.

The kids started school today too, so all around it is a time of change. My boys were so beautiful on their first day... new clothes and shoes. Noah was relaxed and excited to see his friends. Emmett hung back, standing by himself, looking very nervous. But by the time I picked him up at 3:00, he was all smiles, dragging his new rolling backpack behind him. We had a fun time going to the grocery store afterwards and picking out stuff for their lunches. Fruits, dried and fresh, cheese, even a can of slim jims, which seemed to be a slightly better choice than, say, oreos. Maybe I am kidding myself. The boys are paper bag guys, at this point, which I may have to rethink from an environmental perspective... but for today, that is what we have.

That wonderful fresh breeze that carries the promise of fall blew through our hearts today.

I praise you, Lord, for the beauty of your creation. For the changes of season and the rhythms of the year.

End of Summer

I am convinced I suffer from reverse seasonal affective disorder.

For me, Summer is a big challenge, and has been since I was a kid. I think it has something to do with the complete lack of structure. I am a person that is most creative within structure, and I am not terribly good at creating it for myself. This may explain my deep attraction to the liturgical and sacramental nature of the Episcopal Church.

So, while other folks are wistfully thinking about the end of beach days and travel, I am getting energized for the fall. I start looking forward to cool weather, the rhythm of the days and weeks falling into a pattern, the time alone, which this year I am trying to fill with at least one or two part time jobs. I have started planning my trip to Africa in January and am actually feeling optimistic that I will be able to do it.

I am excited for my brother and husband, too. I just have a gut feeling that things are shifting, not just for me, but for all the people I love. Last night I told my drumming teacher that I believe things are going to get better for him, too.

I don't know why I feel such optimism today. Is it the cool breeze that heralds the change in season? Is it that tomorrow is the first day of my new job? (I got a part time job at the crisis pregnancy center at which I have been volunteering. I am now the volunteer coordinator!) Is it that the kids go back to school tomorrow?

Or could it be that sometimes I remember that God is in charge of everything and because of that, we are always going to be ok in the end.

Welcome, Fall. I am happy to see you again.

The United Church of Canada

How could I have missed this church?


On the way to the cottage in Nova Scotia, I was keeping an eye out for an Anglican Church.

We passed a Mennonite, Roman Catholic, United, Presbyterian... and finally, in a little village just before the cottage, a lovely white Anglican church with big gothic doors. I made a mental note of it so I could visit it the next morning for the service at 11:00.

The next day, after an early breakfast and walk on the beach, I got in the car and headed off to church. As is my custom, I left far too early. I was worried about how far away it was and couldn't remember clearly, so I allowed myself 45 minutes to get there.

Strange. Within ten minutes, I passed the Presbyterian and the United church and kept driving. Did I forget where the Anglican was? Then I drove past the Catholic church. I took a side road, thinking I might have forgotten where we had turned. Nope. Finally, I got to the Mennonite church and knew for sure that I had overshot because that was the first church we had seen after leaving the highway. By this point it was nearly 10:45, so after having allowed myself tons of extra time, it looked like I was going to be late. I turned around and headed back to the village. I backtracked until I reached the United Church of Canada and pulled into the parking lot at exactly 11:00 to the sound of the first hymn in progress through the open windows.

I snuck into the church and quietly looked for a bulletin. None to be found. One of the parishioners noticed me and came out, handing me his bulletin. He walked me to a pew and I sat down.

The United Church of Canada was formed in 1925 and was comprised of Methodists, Congregationalists and about 75% of the Presbyterian churches in Canada. I believe that today it is the largest Protestant denomination in the country. On the day I was visiting the Salem United Church in River John, they were celebrating their 200th anniversary as a congregation. They had a supply minister in the pulpit. In rural Canada, it isn't unusual for clergy to be in charge of several churches and rotate around in the summer. I think this minister on Sunday may have actually been retired.

The service was about the same length as what we have at Grace, but the lack of a Eucharist was made up for in sermon length. At one point, an older gentleman in the back of the church started snoring. I smiled to myself.

After the service, several people approached me and invited me to sign the guest book. I had a nice chat with a woman who just got back from driving across the Unites States. The minister introduced himself and invited me to come back next time I was in town.

I got in the car and headed back towards the cottage. I passed the Presbyterian church. And then, on my left, was astonished to see the Anglican church was just letting out.

How very strange that I had missed it! I can only wonder if God had some reason for me to be in the Salem United Church last Sunday.

Nova Scotia Rocks

We got back from the Northumberland Strait today and I can't tell you what a lovely week we had. My parents rented a little cottage on the water and we had a whole week of great views, lovely walks, beach time, homemade wine and delicious food, and NAPS! Oh the naps were heavenly.

There were 6 of us in a tiny two bedroom cottage, with lots of rain, and still we managed to not kill each other.

Nova Scotia is a fantastic place. The people are quiet, and even a little reserved, but very very kind.

Re-entry was a bummer when we had to stop in Bangor ME for the night last night and ate horrible Chinese food and slept in an Econolodge with a view of a parking lot. There was a bit of redemption today, though, when we stopped in Dorchester, MA for some real Vietnamese noodles and I got to shock the crap out of the check out lady when I spoke Vietnamese to her. HA!

PS: In a rest stop on the highway, a guy from Massachusetts parked his Lexus right by the entry doors and purposely took up TWO parking spaces so his precious car wouldn't get dinged. Why not park on the far side of lot, buddy? Then no one will ding the car.

Don't you just want to key those guys' cars when they do that? Not very Christian of me, harrumph.

Bishop Michael Curry addresses media at Lambeth Conference

Just beautiful.

Trip

We are off to Nova Scotia tomorrow. I would be grateful for any traveling prayers you can send our way. We'll be spending a week on the beautiful (so I've heard) Northumberland strait.

Probably won't be able to access the computer while I am gone. I admit, it always feels a little like a vacation when I am away from the machine. Though I will miss all my online friends.

Peace!

The Feast of the Blessed Sacrament

It is all about communion this weekend.

My friend Amy is the interim minister at a church in Pawcatuck and she is doing communion for the first time tomorrow. I have been thinking about that all week.

Tonight, I went to see my friend Sam in his band 'Entrain'. They were the headline act at the Feast of the Blessed Sacrament in New Bedford. Nguyen and the kids and I ate Portuguese food and drank the Madeira wine that the church uses for the Eucharist for the rest of the year. I am sorry I missed the big parade. I suspect they put some of the consecrated host into a monstrance and walk through the streets of New Bedford with it. I am sure it is a wonderful spectacle. Maybe I'll go next year!

While we were waiting for the band to start, we wandered around the side streets towards the church. It had all kinds of wonderfully gaudy decorations, a big plaster statue of the Virgin under a plexiglass cover. She was sporting a crown of blue Christmas lights and plastic flowers. At the entrance to the church, there were oak wine casks flanking the doors, to symbolize the Madeira wine that is made just for this feast.

We peeked in the door and realized that a mass was in progress, so we quietly backed away and wandered back towards the feast grounds.

Dinner was terrible, but wonderful, nonetheless. The food was pretty dreary. Overcooked and over salted. We had goat stew, baccalau, broiled chicken, caldo verde soup and fine Portuguese bread. The folks behind the buffet line offered to cook burgers for the boys and gave them an order of french fries to go with them. We sat at a table with a man who told us he had flown in from Seattle to attend the feast.

After dinner, which sat like a rock in the bottom of my stomach, I danced off all the calories while watching Sam and his band play. They were absolutely fantastic. I have to add music to the list of things that bring us together.

Thoughts on Communion

My brother used to live downtown in the Methodist Church on a busy cross street in Providence. Across the street there is a convenience store that carries the usual milk, bread and potato chips. At some point, they began to carry cigarette papers and crack pipes, too. This upset my brother a great deal. He hurled invectives at the place and refused to shop there, even though it was the closest place around.

Today, we were at the same church hanging his gallery show. He has a series of photos from his trip to Southern Africa and the show goes up tomorrow. At some point, hungry and thirsty, I said I was going across the street for some drinks and a snack.

I stood at the refrigerator looking at the selection of drinks, when I noticed a smaller glass front refrigerated case off in a corner. Inside were tubs of kefir, a kind of creamy yogurt cheese. There were also clear tubs of what looked like humus, a paste made of chickpeas and sesame butter, lemon and garlic. I grabbed a tub of kefir and walked to the counter.

The girl behind the counter suddenly perked out of her lethargy and got a little interested.

'Do you know what that is?' she asked.

'Yes, isn't it a little like yogurt?' I replied.

'Yes! That is right!'

At which point her father walked out from the back room. He saw the kefir on the counter and got extremely excited. He ran and got a plastic spoon.

'Do you want to try?' he asked.

'Of course!' I laughed. He opened the lid and I realized that I had chosen one that had already been opened. No matter. The spoon slid into the thick white cheese and he handed a big blob of it to me. Heaven!

'Have another!' he said as he took the spoon back and dunked it again. (I guessed at this point I was buying this tub!)

'Wait. Try this...' he said as he hurried to the little refrigerator and came back with a tub of humus. He took the same spoon and scooped a big mouthful onto the end of it. The humus was incredible. Nothing at all like the oily, mealy variety you find in the grocery stores. This was a creamy tan color with striations of the greenish olive oil drizzled across the surface.

'Now this!' he laughed, pulling the lid off of a little container of flan.

During this whole feast at the counter, I learned that they were Syrians who had been living in the United States for 15 years.

When they discovered that the kefir, and now the humus, were intended as snacks, they ran to a freezer and pulled out a package of Syrian bread. Out came a slice which the daughter quickly defrosted in the microwave. The father slather kefir and humus on the bread and handed me a chunk to try. Oh, Heaven again.

I brought the feast back to the gallery in the church and relayed this story to my brother, who was convinced that the place must have changed hands since he had moved. Honestly, I don't think so. There were the same lottery tickets and crack pipes, alongside the potato chips and rolling papers. It just took someone to notice the kefir in the refrigerator to make connection with these owners..

In the Acts of the Apostles, God visits St. Peter in a dream. Three times he tells Peter that no food is impure. That it is ok to eat anything, despite the strict purity laws of the Jews of the day. Peter protests repeatedly, insisting that he would never eat food that wasn't pure... never eat with gentiles as is proscribed by the law. But God insists and moments later it is revealed that the servants of a Gentile are waiting for him to take him to join their master in a meal.

It seems to me that sharing a meal is one of the great moments of connection we, as humans, experience. Being invited to taste the food of a new friend's homeland, joining a former enemy at the table to eat and drink, sitting with people you don't yet understand or know, is truly miraculous in it's ability to bridge the gaps between us. Jesus taught this every time he broke bread with the broken. To eat with someone is to accept, love, heal.

Christians do this every time we take communion. I suspect Jesus chose that particular way of connecting because it is so powerful. Eating and drinking with each other is intimate. It is loving. It is radical, too, sometimes. We are drinking from the same cup. The doctors and lawyers. The professors and teachers. The addicts. The homeless. The sick. The well. The housewives, working people, students. Together we drink from the same cup and eat of the same body. With all Christians, everywhere in the world, for all of eternity. And with the person next to us at the rail.

Acts 10

Screech

Last night at midnight, while reading evening prayer, I heard a screech owl. It sat for several minutes in the catalpa tree outside my window and called to me until I was finally motivated to get out of bed, grab my slippers and start for the door of my bedroom. By then, though, it had flown off.

In the din that is midnight in my neighborhood, the thrum of traffic from the highway, the sounds of cars on the main road nearby, the crickets and tree frogs, I heard an owl for the first time in my life.

This site has samples of the song. My owl sang both last night.

Miracles abound

Today was a day filled with miracles. It was one of those grace-filled days that leave you just breathless and grateful.

Today I am grateful for morning prayer, a beautiful liturgy of the Episcopal church, based on the ancient practice of praying the hours. I woke up this morning and turned to my prayer book, read the psalms and a passage from the book of Judges and said the Lord's prayer, all before having my morning pee.

I am grateful for bible study at Grace, a spiritual adventure with participants from all walks of life, all ages, all economic, social and ethnic backgrounds, all states of mental health. We bridge what would ordinarily seem like an enormous chasm to come together in love and gratitude as we explore God's holy word. Praise to you, Lord Christ, that you always (always!) show up to participate.

I am grateful for breakfast with my new friend... an 18 year old with a vocation to the priesthood. We have only been friends for a few weeks and already I feel I have received great gifts from her. I pray, Lord, that I can offer her gifts, too.

Lord, I am grateful for my funny, silly, wonderful, children. They are, perhaps, the greatest gift you have ever given me.

I am grateful for my friend Amy and the amazing work you are doing in her and through her. I am privileged watch her journey unfold as she focuses her life on doing your work. Thank you for her ministry and her vocation, Lord, and for her friendship.

And oh, God, I can't even begin to speak of how grateful I am for the ministry of the crisis pregnancy center. I could never have guessed what it is like to be in the presence of such courage. These women are my heroes, Lord. They have such courage to choose the path of life. I can't say that I would have done the same had I been in their shoes at that point in my life. I can only stand in awe of them. I offer them all to you, Lord. I ask you to continue to be with them as they face the challenges in their lives. I know you are showering them in love and grace and I thank you for that. I thank you, Lord, for the babies who are coming into the world by your grace. You know them. You love them. They are your beautiful creation. I thank you, too, for the men and women who feel called to minister there. They are doing your work, Lord. Praise God.

Lord, I thank you for this day of miracles.

Blackberry Surrender

It started a few years ago. I think a songbird dropped a single poop in our flower border. In that poop, the seeds of destruction were hiding. A shoot emerged the following year. Nothing to worry about, right? I donned a pair of kidskin garden gauntlets and yanked the offending shoot from the ground. It broke off suspiciously easily. A few days later, dozens more sprouts made their appearances in it’s place.

Now, at this point, I must admit that I am a weed gardener. By that I mean that the only plants that survive in my flowerbed are basically weeds. Echinacea, liatris, daylily, tickweed. I planted loosestrife before I realized what havoc it was causing in our wetlands. I look longingly at Joe Pye weed and aesclepias, knowing full well they would take over whatever ground they are planted in.

So I am not averse to weeds in the garden, but I want them to be there in my terms. The blackberries were pushy. They shot through the sweet yellow flowered bush my Italian neighbor gave me as a cutting. They bullied their way through the weedy flowers I had haphazardly planted. They marched across the shady spots, the sunny spots and everywhere in between. And every year I tried to pull them up, dig them out, catch them before they blossomed and bore fruit…. Because God knows if they drop seed, we are in trouble. The whole neighborhood will be taken over.

But this year, I got side tracked and the canes began to blossom before I got to them. And then I realized that they were heavy with unripe berries. Hundreds of them, bright red, waiting to ripen in the sun. So, against my better judgment, I left them to ripen.

Today, the harvest began. How much trouble can they cause if we are eating them, right? My 7 year old and I went out with a plastic container and collected the first cup of berries. We washed them when we noticed tiny green creatures crawling around on them. Tomorrow we’ll see if more are ripe. Then the next day. Then the next.

In the mean time, I have my gauntlet gloves ready for the final attack at the end of the summer. But secretly I wonder if a blackberry border would be such a bad thing after all.


Note: I am cross posting this to Ask4Moms.com. That is the parenting blog I write for with three friends. Come check us out!

Goatskins

I have been replacing the skins on some African drums lately. This is a painstaking process to learn. You start with a whole goat hide. In my case, the hides I am working with are from Mali. It comforts me to think that the goats were enjoyed as stew by a family in Africa.

The first step in the process is to soak the skin in warm water. I set it in a plastic bin in the bathtub. After a few hours it is pliable and soft.

Then I trim the skin to the size of the ring that will hold it onto the drum. The ring is being reused, so it is rusty and old, usually made of rebar that has been welded into a circle. I try to position the backbone skin of the goat down the center of the ring because it is the thickest part of the skin and you want the sound to be even.

Once the skin is on the drum, I try to tighten it evenly all the way around, pulling a rope here and there until the rings are centered. I have yet to master the art of keeping the bottom ring of the drum centered. There must be a trick to it that I don't know.

And then, the shaving. It is safer to do this while the skin is still wet because it is less dusty. African goats have been known to pick up anthrax spores, which grow naturally in the wild. There has been at least one case of an American catching anthrax from a goatskin he was working with. (Actually, he was an African living in Brooklyn.)

So I shave the skin on the drum while it is damp. I use a double edged razor blade, holding it carefully in one hand, bending it slightly with my thumb so that I have a curved blade to work with, which is less likely to nick the skin. Slowly, gently, I draw the blade towards me, working from the head end of the goat along the sides. It is hardest to shave the backbone, where the fur is very thick. The first time I did this, I was left with a bunch of nicks and little mistakes. Luckily I didn't have to scrap the whole thing. Yesterday, though, my technique had improved and the skin was beautiful afterwards.

Shaving is the slowest and most demanding part of the process, even if it isn't the most physical. It requires incredible concentration. It is easy to mess up, and if you mess it up badly enough, you have to start from scratch with another skin.

But it is also, for me, the most intimate part of the process. I get to know the goat. I come across a little scratch from a thorny bush, or a bug bite scar. I take off a tiny bit of fur at a time, getting to know it's spots and patterns. It's smell. It's texture. Yesterday I noticed a tiny swirl of fur that made me smile. I remember those swirls on the withers of the goats I have known in the past. This goat is long dead, but it lives as an organic part of something that will become joy, music, love.

At the end, when I am vaccuuming up the fur from my patio, when my hands are stuck with brown and white hair, when I find stray bits in my water glass (or wine glass!) I give a little prayer of thanks for the goat, the tree, and the spirit of the one who built the drum.

A leap of faith

Today I emptied my email inbox AND the trash folder. Altogether, that were over 8000 messages. Most of them were spam. Some were notifications from the various online forums I belong to. Lots were emails from friends and family. But really, the amount had gotten so out of hand I couldn't see myself actually picking through them one by one to figure out what to save and what to dump. So off they went. Let's see if I trashed anything important. I will bet that nothing will be irreplaceable.

A clean inbox and an empty trash folder is the cyber equivalent of a clean desk.

Who is this beautiful young man?

Noah has been at sleep away church camp for the first time this week. Last night, I had to work, so Nguyen picked him up. I got home at 10 and found Noah, still up, brimming with excitement about how his week went.


I made some biffels. (Best Friends for Life)

I threw up. He said.

Andy, our councilor, was sick. (As in cool, not as in puking.)

He demonstrated his body building pose for me and told me about how cool chapel and compline and morning prayer were. He described the lake and the ox and showed me his arts and crafts project. I saw a picture of the kids in his cabin and heard about the navy showers. He lifted his shirt and showed me his six pack. He described how he and the biffels moved their bunks together so they could talk late into the night. His arm had all their phone numbers written in sharpie marker. He seemed to have grown 6 inches in one week. He gave me a big hug.

He can't wait to go next year.

Thank God for modern medical technology

My friend Carl's heart stopped last night, while he was home alone. Thank God he had a defibrillator hard wired into his heart. It kicked in, scared the crap out of him, and managed to bounce his heart back to work long enough for him to call 911.

So, I am asking you for prayers. This has been a long road. He has been on the list for a transplant for a couple of months and today I am grateful that he is still on that list.

Beloved,

I ask you to be with my friend Carl in the hours, days and weeks ahead. Give him courage. Comfort him. Heal him.

I ask this in Jesus' name. Amen.

One life

I have been teaching childbirth classes at a crisis pregnancy center here in RI.

It has been a little bit slow to start. For my first couple of series of classes I had one or two young mothers who would skip one or two of the classes. Some nights I would show up and no one would be there at all.

But we kept trying. The center's coordinator and I sat down and made a schedule for the classes for the whole year so now she can fit clients in according to due dates. People are starting to show up. Clients are coming in with their boyfriends or husbands.

I feel humbled and grateful that I can help these women prepare for their births. Some of them are confused and scared and I can reassure them that for at least this aspect of parenting, they can be prepared. And I help the dads, too. If the boyfriends or husbands show up, I teach them what to do to support their women during labor. I honor them for being a part of it. We are setting the stage for them to be active participants as parents and I tell you, you can see transformation happen before your very eyes. This is a miracle of God's grace.

Lots of times we get women who want to keep their babies and are looking for some support. But sometimes women who were planning abortions come to the center and change their minds. Sometimes those women end up in my class.

'Why do women who are planning an abortion come to the center in the first place?' I asked the coordinator.

She answered simply, 'The Lord brings them here.'

Which tells me that even in the midst of the chaos of fear, they are open, ever so slightly, to whisperings of God.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

My new boyfriend

It has been developing slowly, but I am pretty convinced that my 3 1/2 pound rabbit, Theo, has fallen in love with me.

Lately, when I am lying on my bed, reading, he will jump up and come over for a snuggle. He takes his turn getting scratched, then returns the favor by licking my hand. If I try and pat him at that point, he actually gets mad and shoos my hand away.

Last night, I came home late. I crawled into bed in the dark and all of a sudden realized that Theo was bouncing around on the bed. I was laughing my head off, especially when he started walking across my sleeping husband.

Sigh. I am in love.

A collect for those who need continuing care

Today I pray for those who are battling chronic illness:

Look with mercy, O God our Father, on all persons who have become ill, weak, distressed, or isolated. Provide for them homes of dignity and peace; give them understanding helpers, and the willingness to accept help; and increase their faith and their assurance of your love. This we ask in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

BCP

confidential to P+

Mat 25:32	Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats,
Mat 25:33	and he will place the sheep at his right hand, but the goats at the left.
Mat 25:34	Then the King will say to those at his right hand, 'Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world;
Mat 25:35	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,
Mat 25:36	I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.'
Mat 25:37	Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee drink?
Mat 25:38	And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee?
Mat 25:39	And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee?'
Mat 25:40	And the King will answer them, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.'

Why I love church, reason # 345

This week I have been in a blue funk. My oldest kid is still in Maine with his friends and I have been caught by surprise at how incomplete the household has felt. Also, one of my friends has been gravely ill and I visited him last week... and while that in itself is a good thing, I always feel frustrated by how much I haven't done. How much I can't do. How much this whole thing is in God's hands.

Yesterday I drove to Fall River for a drumming class and found, to my dismay, that even that wasn't enough to pull my from my depression. I got in the car to come home and cried, for no reason at all. Just because.

Today, I got up early, hoping to bring my sick friend with me to Grace, but he called to say he was too sick to go. I promised to say prayers for him.

When I got to church, I shared with friends that I was feeling punky. Then I noticed a young woman looking a little lost. I asked if it was her first time and she said, in broken English, that yes, it was. It turned out she is a South Korean exchange student visiting for the first time. I was flying solo today, so I asked her to join me.

Later, I was on the healing prayer team during communion. It was amazing to be praying for my fellow congregants. Truly, it feels like a privilege.

And then, after everyone had drifted back to their pews, I turned to my prayer partner and told her that my friend was ill and needed prayers. And suddenly, without warning, I started crying and said

"I feel like I have been a shitty friend to him."

At which point, the complexity of all my feelings around my friend's health crisis came to the surface.

So her prayers were for my friend, AND for me.

I got some prayers, said some prayers, made a new friend, and got to take communion with Jesus, all in one morning.

I love church.

What if?

What if you lived life as a ministry? What if you chose your work to be of service to God? What would it look like?

Many readers of this blog are, in fact, God's workers. You have dedicated your life to ministry in an official capacity, going to work for the Big Guy in churches large and small. Some of you are community ministers, too. Ministering to the poor, the disadvantaged, the indigent or mentally ill.

Lately I have been grappling with what it means to live a life of service. I have been inviting God to take me up on my offer to be of service to him. I don't know yet, what it looks like, but I know that there are already things I am doing that feel like ministry.

My kids, for example, are perhaps the greatest ministry of all for me. And my childbirth classes. The Lectio group at church. For the last couple of weeks, pinch hitting for my rector at the bible study. Serving dinner to my friends at the soup kitchen. Praying the office.

Living a life of service changes you, I think. The other day, I heard that one of my son's schoolmates was caught smoking pot. In another life, my first concern would be fear for my son. Worry that HE would somehow get involved with this kid and his drugs. And that fear was there, of course. But my first thought was that this kid needs an adult desperately. He needs healing. He is a deeply troubled kid. I am praying for him. And maybe, at some point I will be given an opportunity to talk with him. I pray for the Holy Spirit to help me be of service to this boy. In the mean time, I had a word with my son and we talked about why drugs are a very bad choice. It was a great conversation.

What if we all lived a life of ministry?

What would the world look like?

What would our lives look like?

It's not just me

That shifty thing seems to be catchy.

My brother lost his job this week. After 13 years, he was given two weeks' notice during a major restructuring. It wasn't just him. Every employee was laid off. The entire staff was given the pink slip.

Today in the paper I read that the electric monopoly here in RI wants to raise their rates by 21%.

Gas is $4.10 a gallon.

My oil bill was $900 to fill the tank last time and that was before the price of oil spiked.

Holy Shit. Moving to Vietnam is starting to look like a reasonable option. Anyone want to join me?

In other news, we are reading the book of Acts in our bible study and I am being reminded why it is one of my favorite books of the bible. I love the story of the Simon the magician and of Peter, who really mans up in this book. No more bumbling goofus. Nope, he is one tough cookie by this point.

Reading Acts with my friends at church is a sure fire way to keep me from being swallowed by fear. That and reading the daily office.

Here is today's psalm:

Psalm 142 Voce mea ad Domine

1	I cry to the LORD with my voice; * to the LORD I make loud supplication.
2	I pour out my complaint before him * and tell him all my trouble.
3	When my spirit languishes within me, you know my path; * in the way wherein I walk they have hidden a trap for me.
4	I look to my right hand and find no one who knows me; * I have no place to flee to, and no one cares for me.
5	I cry out to you, O LORD; * I say, "You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living."
6	Listen to my cry for help, for I have been brought very low; * save me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me.
7	Bring me out of prison, that I may give thanks to your Name; * when you have dealt bountifully with me, the righteous will gather around me.

The airline conspiracy

They won.

$300 in fees. Hours on the phone. Endless attempts at being patient with people who clearly could care less about any of it.

No trip to Newfoundland.

So, I finally get credit for our air miles. I transfered, at considerable non-refundable expense, some of my parent's miles so we would have enough for the flights to Canada. And then I call to make the reservations and there is exactly one flight to St. Johns available for the entire month of August, which flies out of Boston, via Toronto. We would land in St. Johns at 3am. But the single available return flight is 13 days later... which is impossible for us. In other words, Air Canada, United's nefarious demon-possessed partner in crime, has blacked out the entire summer for air miles users. And because Air Canada is run by the government, they don't have to play by any rules at all. They ARE the rules.

1 flight. For the entire month.

I give up.

I now have 100K miles which we are unable to use. I called my folks to tell them the bad news on Saturday.

Dad called me back this morning with a counter proposal. We think we are going to drive to Nova Scotia and hang out together at the halfway point for a week.

Airlines (all of them) be damned.

It's grim out there

I was reading a CNN.com article about what is going on in Zimbabwe. Things are deteriorating. Violence escalating.

And then, I got to this-

Watch people run in fear »

That is so bad it is almost funny.

I didn't watch. Instead, I wondered who came up with that tag for the video? And what kind of a world do we live in, anyway?


Lord, help me keep my eyes on you today.

The breaking point

was when I sat on the phone for over an hour this morning talking to a 'supervisor' in the United Airlines Mileage Plus call center in Manila, trying, for the 5th or 6th time, to get my air miles credited from our trip to Vietnam.

After 3 months of phone calls, letters, emails, more phone calls, I actually broke down and started crying on the phone.

We will not be able to fly to Canada this summer to see my parents if the miles don't get credited because we can't afford the $3200 it will cost to fly to Newfoundland. At this point, even if they DO credit the miles, it is looking unlikely that we will get them in time to get flights.

The worst thing is that the people they have manning the phones in Manila are like talking to a computer. Absolutely NO sense that you are dealing with a human being.

So there I was, an hour into the call, bawling my brains out, and the guy on the other end of the phone just kept repeating the same thing over and over again. 'We will send an email to Rapid City. No we can't call them. No we can't expedite this. No we have no record that you ever called."

I hate United Airlines.


edited to add:

I didn't work in call centers for 10 years for nothing. I found the back door toll number to the office in Rapid City, SD and called to speak to a nice woman who was able to fix the problem in less than 10 minutes. 3 months and 10 minutes later. Sigh.

For Father's day

In tenth grade, when I was in the midst of a miserable year at public high school, I had to get up at 6:00 to catch a bus at 6:30.

Almost every morning my father made me breakfast. My favorite was a bagel with cream cheese and red onion and a cup of black coffee.

Thanks, Dad. I have never forgotten that.

A vestige of my past life

During spiritual direction, I said that I somehow got the idea that the farther we are along our Christian path, the less likely we are to experience emotional pain and suffering. In other words, as we grow less attached to the world around us, and more attached to God, we should hurt less.

Where, dear reader, did I get this idea? There is nothing in the scriptures that promises that. In fact, it is basically the opposite. 'Pick up your cross daily' is not a promise that being a Christian will be a walk in the park.

And for me, it goes further. Somewhere in my head, I began to equate pain and suffering (especially emotional pain) with....sin.

I realize that when I am in pain, when I am suffering, I start looking around for a sin to blame. (And unlike Job, I usually can find something!) I have an underlying belief that I am inevitably the cause of my own suffering, through some sin or other. Not only that, I realize that I have a sense of shame around pain. I want to hide my pain because it is shameful.

Is this my past, new age, theology rearing it's ugly head? Is this the whole 'you draw this energy to yourself' stuff?

I remember when my friend Steve died of a drug overdose several years ago. I was devastated. But I knew that he was with God... off to a better place. I felt like I wasn't 'spiritual' enough if I was experiencing this much pain over his death. Thank God for the priest at the funeral, who preached on Jesus crying with Mary and Martha at Lazarus' grave. I suddenly felt permission to cry, to grieve.

I sometimes try to connect my suffering to that of Jesus, but if I have this underlying idea that I don't have the right to feel pain, it becomes a hollow gesture.

After rereading Job, I realize that I may never understand suffering, but that is ok, too. In the end, Job realized that he would never get it, either.

I need to pray about this.

Acts 5

Regular readers know that for the last couple of years, I have been facilitating a Lectio Divina group at my church on Sundays before the service.

I tell you, it has been an incredible gift. Every week we get together and read the gospel lesson for the day, and then prayerfully invite God to speak to us through it. And every week something extraordinary happens. The Holy Spirit shows up and we all more or less sit in awe and thanksgiving at the miracle of God's love.

I am finding that Lectio has impacted me in other ways... specifically in my ability to grapple with difficult passages in the bible.

Today, for example, at bible study, we were reading Acts 5. This is a brutal chapter about Ananias and his wife Sapphira dropping dead when it is discovered that they withheld on their donation to the Christian community. (I joked that this should be our Stewardship scripture passage this year... but my priest said no, darn it.)

It is a challenging passage, to be sure. But after a couple of years of regular Lectio, I have learned to resist the temptation to judge a scripture, and instead, let it speak to me. Engage with it. Grapple with it, yes, but in an open minded way. When I do this, crazy stuff can happen.

I always approach bible stories from the perspective that God is Love. That means that in stories where God appears to behave badly, I assume that I am not getting the whole picture. In the case of Ananias, though, it doesn't ever say that God struck him down. Nor does it say that Peter cursed him and he died. It simply states that when Ananias was confronted with the fact that he was holding back from God, he died.

I can put myself in his place. I know that there have been moments in my life when I was confronted with the contrast between Jesus' sacrifice and my own shittiness. Last year on Good Friday I spent the whole three hour service in such a state of distress that by the time I got to the confession with my parish priest, I was beside myself.

Let's imagine that Ananias and his wife were actually around when Jesus got executed. Let's imagine that they truly loved God... that they understood the power of Jesus' death and resurrection. But somehow, in the midst of their lives, they lost their connection to God just long enough to let petty fear get into their hearts. Fear of economic loss. Fear of the instability that happens when you give up everything. And that fear caused them to hold back on their donation, just as it does for me, sometimes.

When Peter confronts Ananias, in the blazing moment of realization, I can imagine being so grief stricken as to simply

die.

The Jews believed that when you encountered God, the energy was so great you couldn't survive it. You were annihilated on the spot. Is it possible that Ananias and Sapphira saw God in that moment? That, perhaps, it was not only the moment of their deaths, but also the moment of their redemption? I pray for his and Sapphira's souls that that was true.

In Lectio Divina, we invite God to speak to us through the scriptures. We open ourselves to how the scripture relates to our own lives. Today, I began to think about ways that I have been letting fear creep in and distract me from God.

Maybe this story speaks something totally different for you. That is the beauty of this living word, this gift from God.

Act 5:1	Now a man named Ananias, together with his wife Sapphira, also sold a piece of property.
Act 5:2	With his wife's full knowledge he kept back part of the money for himself, but brought the rest and put it at the apostles' feet.
Act 5:3	Then Peter said, “Ananias, how is it that Satan has so filled your heart that you have lied to the Holy Spirit and have kept for yourself some of the money you received for the land?
Act 5:4	Didn't it belong to you before it was sold? And after it was sold, wasn't the money at your disposal? What made you think of doing such a thing? You have not lied to men but to God.”
Act 5:5	When Ananias heard this, he fell down and died. And great fear seized all who heard what had happened.
Act 5:6	Then the young men came forward, wrapped up his body, and carried him out and buried him.
Act 5:7	About three hours later his wife came in, not knowing what had happened.
Act 5:8	Peter asked her, “Tell me, is this the price you and Ananias got for the land?” “Yes,” she said, “that is the price.”
Act 5:9	Peter said to her, “How could you agree to test the Spirit of the Lord? Look! The feet of the men who buried your husband are at the door, and they will carry you out also.”
Act 5:10	At that moment she fell down at his feet and died. Then the young men came in and, finding her dead, carried her out and buried her beside her husband.

Shifty

Things are changing. My folks left. My kids will be out of school next week. I am planning to put the beach bag together with spf 8000 and an umbrella to go with my sand chair.

I have been feeling a little like I am standing on shifting sand. Nothing seems very stable, even though everything really IS pretty stable.

Do you ever find yourself having a hard time getting things done?

And you know what? My eyesight is getting worse and I think it gave me a stomach ache while I was trying to do some paperwork today. Is that possible?

Cold and gray and shifty.

Today I am missing Vietnam

My parents are heading back to Canada on Sunday and I am sad that they are leaving. Our trip to Vietnam in February really changed the dynamic of our relationship, I think. We are much closer after having experienced that together.

One of my favorite blogs is Vietnamese God. Always there are stunning photos of the country I miss so much.

Sigh.

Way closing

I have been reading a book on discernment by Parker Palmer, a Quaker, called Let Your Life Speak.

I am doing this because a friend has asked me to be on her 'discernment team' and it is required reading by the diocese of RI.

I have gotten to a chapter that I am getting something out of. When Way Closes.

There is, evidently, a Quaker expression, 'way opens' when God means for you to go in a certain direction and the way opens before you. I have certainly had this happen in the past. It happened when I stumbled on Bell Street Chapel, my UU church. And again with Grace Church, my current, Episcopalian, church.

But the author says that there is another variation on this... when a door closes firmly behind you before the next door has opened.

This, too, is something I have experienced. I left Bell Street when I knew it was time to close that door, even though my next step was far from clear. I had no clue what denomination I was going to be. No clue what church I was going to join. No sense of direction at all.... except that the Unitarian Universalists were NOT it.

Lately I have felt way closing behind me and am totally unsure of the the way forward. I have basically stopped doing my kitchen tools business. I am thinking that sales is NOT my way. So far I haven't completely abandoned it... keeping my toe in the water just in case the inspiration hits me and I want to resume my business. But the truth is, I feel the door closing and it is a little scary because I don't have the next thing lined up. I have absolutely no idea, in fact, what the next thing might be.

Here's where I stand:

I love my church.
I love to play my drum.
I love teaching.
I love learning.
I need to make some money. (not too much...)

Lord, I am asking you to nudge me, ever so slightly, in the direction you wish for me to go.

Sometimes my feelings get hurt

I am still a sensitive high school kid under this pulled together exterior. Sometimes the cool kids don't invite me to the party and I want to go in the girl's room and cry about it.

But damn it.

As a Christian, I think I am supposed to grow out of that. I am supposed to worry about what I can do for God. What I can do for others. Not what others may or may not think of me.

Sigh.

It is hard to break a lifetime of habits.

Jimmy Santiago Baca

My friend Emily fell in love with Jimmy Santiago Baca's poetry, and as is her custom when such things happen, she wrote him to tell him about it.

He wrote back.

Thus began a long and fruitful correspondence. He had started a foundation to bring literacy programs to prisons. She helped edit an anthology of prisoner's writing. She even invited me to write a crit of one of the pieces. My mother, a poet herself, wrote one too.

In all the time Emily has talked about Baca, I never read any of his work. I read the interviews she emailed me. I visited his site. I checked out his bio. But somehow I never read a poem or story.

So when Emily arranged for Baca to come to RI for a series of readings and workshops, I decided to go check him out myself.

I arrived at the reading at AS220 late. I was coming from a meeting and slipped in the back of the room and sat on the floor.

Jimmy read 3 poems and told stories between them. He is a great story teller. His poems are stories, too, drawing you deeply into the emotional core of what he is talking about. He read one, El Gato, about a man who saw hope and love and need in his infant daughter and at that moment turned from a life of violence and despair. I was breathless hearing this poem. The hope of the world is contained in this poem.

Afterwards, Emily invited me to join them for a late supper and I almost didn't go, but at the last minute, said yes.

I sat next to Jimmy and spent the next hour or so listening to him telling stories about his life. Emily laughed afterwards about the look on my face as I listened. I don't know what I looked like, but I know how I felt. I hung on every word. All I kept thinking was, this guy is a miracle. This guy's life is a miracle. God has pulled him from the abyss and I am sitting here, in a restaurant in Providence, witnessing a miracle of God's love.

What is the miracle? If you read Jimmy's bio, you learn that his life was shit. Prison, drugs, a completely dysfunctional family. It was bad. Like, so bad you can't imagine how anyone can drag themselves out of it, bad. Hearing him talk about his past was bizarre. The stories made my hair stand on end... and yet, there he was, this beautiful spirit. This big LOVE. This man who wants to help people who are desperate. This crazy-talented writer.

I think only God can pull off a transformation like that. I felt like I was sitting next to a miracle and it made me want to fall to my knees in gratitude.

I cried in the car on the way home. I thanked God in my prayers. I spent the next day in a fog.

At dinner, I told Jimmy that I think there are sometimes defining moments of transformation in our lives. That if we live a life open to them, these moments can change us forever.

There have been a few of these for me.

In every case, I suspected that something big was happening, but I didn't know exactly what. I suspected these moments had meaning far beyond what I could discern. That they were signs of some huge shift.

Now I add one more:

The night I had dinner with Jimmy Santiago Baca.

The spirit of Pentecost

Oh, boy, do the Episcopalians know how to put on a show! What a great scene at Grace church today.

First, it was packed. I'd say easily 250 to 300 folks in the pews. We had 6 baptisms, 3 dove kites flying around, 20 people reading the gospel in all different languages, and, yes, African drumming. Sidy, Lisa, Lucia and I played after the collect and after the gospel reading. Later, we played out on the sidewalk during the party at coffee hour.

For me, Pentecost is a personal favorite. My kids were baptized two years ago on Pentecost. I had the second part of my own baptism on that day. And I am just a sucker for the whole Holy Spirit descending to earth thing.

Perhaps the best part of the day, for me though, was at 5:30. I was early for my drumming class, having brought Noah to youth group. So I laid down in the very last pew and just stared up at the ceiling. I said a quiet prayer of thanks for the fact that my step mother took communion today. And for the wonderful experience of playing with my teacher in my church. After today, I think he understands more about me, because church is such a big part of who I am.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of the Spirit in the church. I pray that we are worthy to receive you. I pray that we shine the light of your love into the darkness of this world.

Amen.

I will miss

the Wednesday evening Eucharist at Grace church.

It is winding down for the season in a couple of weeks. We don't know whether it will resume in the fall, but I pray that it does. It has become an important part of our week. And as much as some days I would love to sit in the chancel alone with my thoughts and meditations, I am mostly thrilled that my children and husband come with me each week to worship and celebrate.

It is a beautiful service. The whole thing takes place in candlelight. We sit in the choir boxes, facing each other. There is a lot of singing. The prayers of the people, even, are sung by the congregation. It is often deeply moving.

I am going to miss it over the summer. I hope it will continue in September.

Silly

I am not sure why, but for the last couple of days I have been finding myself completely hilarious.

Yesterday at lunch, I told my brother that we are having our house connected to the town sewers. So, after 81 years, the cesspool is closed for business.

"Just think, Jake, next time you have to throw up in our toilet, it will go down in one flush..."

Except that I was laughing so hard at my own joke he couldn't understand what I was trying to say. And I had a mouthful of roast beef sandwich and nearly choked to death. I was referencing, of course, a past incident that involved my brother and an apparently too strong marguerita.

My brother didn't find my little joke nearly as funny as I did, even when I was able to stop laughing long enough to tell him.

Today, another incident.

I was walking through Walmart (that in itself is embarrassing, but not that funny...) when suddenly I thought about a conversation I had with a friend and had an idea to make him a funny tee-shirt in response. I found my idea so utterly hysterical I started laughing out loud in the store. Like, almost pee my pants kind of laughing. Like they might have to call the guys in white coats kind of laughing.

I finally managed to pull myself together, but would periodically think about it again and just lose it. In the paper towel aisle, men's tee shirts, arts and crafts.

Everywhere I went, I left a trail of housewives, old women and stock clerks who must have thought I had forgotten to take my medication.

I have heard that sometimes people laugh during Pentecostal services at church. Holy laughter, they call it. I don't think the Holy Spirit has anything to do with my current silliness. But dang, I sure am keeping myself amused.

Critical mass

There were 7 of us in Lectio Divina this morning. The biggest crowd yet. And another woman asked me about it at coffee hour, so it looks like we might even grow out of our space.

We have been hovering at 3 or 4 for months. For the whole first year, we were lucky if two of us showed up. But God has plans for our little group, I think. So we are growing.

Thank you, Lord, for your presence when we gather in your name. It is such a gift that you join us every week.

Coming out of the closet

as a pro-lifer.

I have decided to participate in the annual 'Walk for Life' this year. The proceeds benefit CareNet, RI... which is an organization that supports pregnant women who are thinking about whether to keep their babies. CareNet also offers after abortion counciling, as well as parenting classes and support for women. My role with CareNet is to provide childbirth classes, which I have been doing for the last couple of years.

So, I am going to ask my friends and family to sponsor my walk.

If you would like to sponsor me, please email me. Click on my profile and there is an option to email me under the photo. You can donate any amount you want. The walk takes place on May 15th.

Thanks!

Hafiz

Back in my UU days, I was introduced to the 14th century Persian poet Hafiz by my friend Ray. He would come up to me at church and start quoting these wild and wonderful love poems about God.

Hafiz had a close friendship with God. He called him by various, affectionate, nicknames. He wrote love poetry to God. He chronicled his relationship over the years in lyrical poems that draw the reader, too, into a deeper intimacy.

Once, Ray and I did a lay led service that was centered around Hafiz poems. I still have the bulletin from that day! We stood together in the chancel and read poems of love. They were funny, sexy, deeply moving.

If you haven't yet encountered Hafiz, I urge you to check him out. He was so madly in love with God you can't help but be moved.

Here is an example from the book The Gift translated by Daniel Ladinski:


The Sun Never Says


Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

Another of my favorite new highs

Ok, in order of importance, the things that get me high:

a. God
b. Playing my djembe
c. Working out at the gym?!?!?!

The first two make sense, right? I mean, of course I get euphoric when God whacks me upside the head. Of course I feel like I am on a happy pill when I am playing drums with my peeps.

But working out? I can't imagine why it is so wonderful. There I am, slogging away on the eliptical trainer, listening to Salif Keita on my Ipod and I just can't stop grinning. While I am working out, I am usually thinking about a. and b. it's true. But sometimes I just want to close my eyes and sing along with the music. (Dangerous and irritating, I think...)

Yeah Planet Fitness.

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!

I am not sure what the problem is, but I seem to be crying an awful lot lately. Tears of sorrow. Tears of joy. Tears of awe. Tears of grief. Tears of gratitude. I need to keep a big bunch of tissues handy at all times because I swear I never know when I am going to start snuffling. And this isn't just a couple of moist eyes. This isn't the discreet glassy look that happens to some folks. This is great big salty tears rolling down my cheeks and ending up splattered all over the continental shelf that is my chest.

Today in Lectio Divina, it happened yet again. I joked as it started, telling my fellow contemplatives that I am going to start bringing Puffs Plus with Aloe because the chinzy toilet paper I was using to sop up the waterworks is making my nose raw.

Is it Holy week? The death of my sister in law? The trip to Vietnam? God whacking me upside the head with the Holy two by four of Christ? I don't know. I just know I am very raw and right at the surface and when I start to get a sense of God's presence I just can't hold 'em back.

Lectio Divina was incredible today. We had a new friend join us. The gospel was Jesus showing up and letting Thomas feel his wounds. This gospel says TWICE that Jesus showed up even though the door was closed and locked for fear. What a miracle that is. Even when we slam the door shut, he is there. He did that for me. He has done it for others in the Lectio group. I wonder if he has done that with you, too? As I sat and thought about the fact that for decades, I was in the desert of my own life, with the door to Jesus firmly closed, and yet he was still there, I just could not hold back the tears.

Thank you, God. Thank you. What wondrous love is this? Oh my soul.

And thank you, too, Lord,for my fellow travelers. When we gather, you are there.

My Hero

Here's what I am talking about. Check this guy out, my friends.

Not quite centering prayer

While driving home from the vigil of the Altar of Repose the other night, it occurred to me that I don't spend enough time just loving Jesus.

So lately I have been spending at least a bit of my prayer time sitting in silence at his feet, so to speak.

A few years ago I had a Centering Prayer practice. I would sit a couple of times a day, in silent worship. I used a kitchen timer to keep me on track.

This feels different. I have no expectation at all, including a time frame. I just sit (or kneel, or lie down) and, well, think of how much I love him.

Friday Five Millionaire edition

Singing Owl at Revgalblogpals asks what I'd do with a million bucks.

Here's my answer:

1. Tithe, baby. And on the gross, not the piddling net that I'd get after Uncle Sam gets their share. So, Grace Church would be a hundred grand richer.

2. Set up some kind of foundation to help kids in Vietnam go to school. In Vietnam, kids have to pay, even for public school... so the poorest don't get to go. The fee is $20 per year, so I could send a LOT of children to school. I'd buy a little shack in Dalat, too, so my husband and kids could fish in the pond all summer.

3. Pay off the mortgages. Mine, my brother's, my in-law's. All of them.

4. Put some cash away for the kid's education.

5. Buy an African strap for my drum and spend a couple of months in Mali to study drumming. Every year. In fact, maybe I'd set up a drumming school for my teacher and give scholarships to kids who can't afford lessons.

The Great Vigil

Saturday:

The church was pitch black, even as the last of the daylight was fading outside. Because there had been a near miss with the new fire at some point in the past, Steve, our sexton, was outside on the church steps kindling an inferno in a flower pot. He had big barbeque gloves on and smoke billowed into the narthex, even through the closed glass doors. The whole scene was so funny I chuckled out loud and got 'shushed' by a woman I didn't know. Maybe her Easter hadn't come yet.

I love the Great Vigil. It is another long service. On Saturday it was almost two hours. There is a lot going on, between the Old Testament readings, the candles, the first Eucharist and the Hallelujah Chorus. But the part I love best of all is the Baptisms.

This year, we had one. It was someone I knew. An adult who has been coming to Grace for quite some time. He has been coordinating the soup kitchen on Saturdays and is a sweet and gentle young man. At first I didn't realize it was he who was getting the dunk. I thought perhaps it was a member of his family. But when no baby appeared in the front pew, I began to put it together.

In our church, we sing the litany of the saints during the procession to and from the Baptismal font. The choir sings the names of the saints and the congregation sings back "stand by us now".

Saint John the Baptist.... stand by us now.
Saint Mary Magdalen.....stand by us now.

D.was walking with his sponsors back towards the font.

I love adult baptisms best of all, because I know what it is like to get socked by the Holy Spirit as an adult. I relive my own baptism and feel great joy at theirs. And I feel privileged to be a witness to the beginning of their transformation.

The next morning, at the Easter service, I approached D.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I asked.

"No," he laughed.

"The Holy Spirit is going to kick your butt..."

We laughed and hugged.

Because we both knew it was true.

Struck dumb

Good Friday:

Three hour service at Grace. I sit in a pew, alone for most of it, clutching my rosary beads. I can't bear the idea of sitting through those three hours without the Mother with me. Every now and then I pray a decade. I have no idea what mysteries I am praying, except that they are sorrowful.

No,

Joyful.

I am beaming.

I can't stop thinking about the night before. The Vigil at the Altar of Repose. The first time I felt a sense of absolute adoration of our Lord in the consecrated host.

Adoration.

I have a confession scheduled after the service, but I can't think of what I am going to say.

Last year, I was flooded with things to confess during the Good Friday service. I kept looking at my priest, while he was kneeling during the prayers, and thinking of all the things I was going to say to him. By the time the actual confession came, I was beside myself with grief.

But not this time.

This time, I feel light and free and joyful. I have a few things to say, sure. Grave things, even. But I can't help feeling that during the night, while sitting at the feet of my Lord, they were all forgiven.

"It is finished."

The preacher on Good Friday is Bishop Steven Charleston. He's amazing. He walks down the aisle and looks you in the eye. And holds your gaze while what he is saying sinks in. He is talking about the conversion of life. About leaving your pain at the base of the cross. About inviting Jesus, TODAY, to heal you. If there had been an altar call, I swear you'd have seen a church full of Episcopalians step forward.

I praise God during the meditations. But they don't resonate for me. My Easter has already come. It came last night.

The service comes to a close. I kneel as the bells are tolled. It goes on for a long time. People are weeping around me. I weep too, but realize that I am full of

Joy.

I wait for my priest outside the sacristy. He comes out of the robing room and tells me that the Bishop will hear my confession.

I go into the robing room. There are no confessionals at Grace. The Bishop stands to greet me. There is a chair for me. I sit.

"I feel unprepared, Bishop" I say.

"How so?" he asks.

"I feel like my sins were all forgiven last night. I am not sure I can make a thorough and accurate confession today." I explain about the Altar of Repose.

"Do you wish to continue?" He asks."You don't have to."

I tell him, yes, I want to. I am not sure why.

So we begin. I kneel on a cushion next to the chair and I try to be as searching and as thorough as I can. I mumble a few things. I feel remorseful as I say them, but it is like a retroactive confession. Jesus has already washed me clean.

Finally, I just fall silent. I am praying: Lord, if there is more that you want me to say, please help me remember.

Nothing.

I can't speak for a long time. I wonder if the Bishop is uncomfortable in the silence. Or impatient to get home. Or bored. Or as dumbstruck as I am.

I finally manage to finish.

It is finished.

I am absolved.

I am asked to pray for the Bishop, a sinner, like me.

A man forgiven. Like me.

A man of God.

Like me.

We embrace, say goodbye, go on our way.

For me, Easter came early this year.

Sweet Jesus at the altar

Maundy Thursday:

Only one person signed up for the overnight vigil at the Altar of Repose and she didn't show.

A few emails back and forth between me and my fellow 'altar' coordinator. I agreed to sit the vigil between 10:30pm and 1am. He would sit until 10:30. We'd see if we could find some other folks to sign up at the Maundy Thursday service. I made a few calls and left messages. We agreed that we might have to close the church early if no one came.

I left immediately after the service on Thursday and drove to Cumberland for the monthly drum circle. I know it was weird, book-ending two of the most solemn events of the Triduum with some raucous djembe playing, but I decided, by golly, that if I was going to sit the vigil for hours on end, I might need to blow off a little steam first.

Drumming ended at 10. I raced back to church and entered through the side door. There were two people sitting in the Messiah Chapel. My friend, James, and a man I didn't know.

The big stone altar under the carved image of Jesus was covered with twinkling votive lights and tall glass vases, each with a single stem of some kind of pure white flower. In front of the chalice that contained the consecrated host, there was a red votive light. The church was chilly and quiet. The two men were sitting quietly, in silence.

My new cell phone died, so I had no idea of the time as I sat in the pew. I think hours creeped by.

I wanted to get closer to the consecrated host, so I grabbed a needlepoint kneeling cushion from the rail of the little chapel and moved it to the base of the stone altar on which the chalice was resting. I sat at the base of the altar, my back leaning against it. I closed my eyes and felt like I was in Gethsemane. But strangely, I didn't feel anguish or sadness like I usually do while sitting the Vigil. Instead, I felt a sense of calm, love, forgiveness. Love. I felt like I should be praying, but I kept saying to myself

'Lord, I ask you for nothing. I just want to love you. I just want to love you.'

There was a knock at the side door. My friend Vera arrived. It was midnight.

I went back to my seat at the base of the altar. I was in shadow, so I don't think I was distracting to the others. Eventually James and the other man left.

I sat at his feet. I leaned against the stone.

Just let me love you, Lord.

I wanted to kiss the chalice that held the host, but I was afraid I'd knock it over or get lipstick on the beautiful white embroidered cover.

So I just sat at his feet. Just let me love you, Lord. Nothing else. Just love you.

I felt a great sense of joy that I could sit like this. I knew that if I was anywhere other than my own Grace church, I'd have to sit in a pew... which is ok, too. But truly, I wanted to be as close to the Host as I could. I wanted to be right there.

Just let me love you Lord. Nothing else.

I got up. Some of the candles had gone out. I gently pulled replacements from the glass bowl they were held in. I gingerly moved the little vases aside and brought the glass votives to the front of the altar, so as not to knock over a vase or disturb the chalice. I replaced the white wax disks and carefully lit them, sliding them back into position.

Just let me love you, Lord. Nothing else.

I sat back down and lay my cheek against the cold stone of the altar. I had been weeping the whole time.

Finally, I heard Vera moving about and opened my eyes. She was standing, looking at the altar, at the carved image of Jesus, at the chalice. I stood up and walked over to her. Gave her a hug. Held her for a moment.

Then the two of us sat on the steps that lead up to the altar and started talking about what Jesus has done for us in our lives. We witnessed to the power of his love. Shared our doubts and fears. Smiled at Jesus' patience with us.

There was a knock at the side door. My friend Paul was standing there, waiting.

It was 3am.

He came in and said that he would stay until dawn.

Vera and I walked out into the cold night, empty streets, full moon. I got in my car and drove home.

Just let me love you, Lord.

Nothing else.

A new Friend

My friend, John, has become a real Friend. This week he joined the Religious Society of Friends.

We have been corresponding for a few years now...and this is a huge shift for him. But lucky for us, he is starting to blog about it, so you can follow the story yourself.

http://friendlyhesychast.blogspot.com

Shrouds

Palm Sunday was a busy day for me. I was playing drums for the procession around the church and I was reading the part of Jesus in the Passion narrative. I was distracted and a little nervous.

Then, I walked into the church and saw all the crosses shrouded in red fabric and truly, I choked. I wanted to just crawl down the aisles on my knees and beg him to forgive us.

I have asked my parish priest to hear my confession on Good Friday and I am almost sick at the thought of sitting for three hours listening to the last words and THEN having to go in there and tell my priest all the crap that I do, day in day out, that holds me back from God.

Oh, Jesus. Your mercy is great.

Holy Week is here.

Ashes to ashes

It has been a tough week around here. My husband's 46 year old sister died, unexpectedly, on Friday, from complications after a mastectomy.

I was out of town at a conference and didn't have my cell phone charged. On Saturday evening I came back and heard the bad news. We are pretty shattered.

This week has been a kind of slow motion process of getting ready for a wake and funeral, and then actually going through it. On Monday night we went to the funeral home and saw her laid out.

I grew up in a culture where death was never faced head on. We didn't do wakes or funerals in my family. At best, we would do some sort of an informal memorial gathering, using weeks or even months after the actual death. Everyone was quietly cremated. We never saw the body. We never went to church. We never did any of that.

I have come to feel that it is better to just come face to face with it. There was something beautiful and extraordinary about touching my sister in law's body. Holding her hand. Runny my hands over her hair. Kissing her forehead. Smoothing her dress. Her flesh was cold. There was no life there. But those were the exact things we would have done in life and it was comforting, even as we knew that she was already in the arms of God.

Chau was loved deeply. At 9 months old, she had slipped from death's fingers when she survived a terrible illness. She didn't escape unscathed, however. Her brain was permanently and profoundly damaged from the fever. She had epilepsy. She was paralyzed on one side of her body. She was mute. She probably understood at about a 3 year old's level. In a family that is uncomfortable with physical affection, she was always doted on and adored. She loved kids and they loved her. My niece, from the time she was an infant, was incredibly attached to her. Chau would even share her dolls with Emma. It was a sweet relationship.

At Swan Point Cemetery, in Providence, they let you go to the cremation. So after the wake and the mass yesterday, this morning found us on a rainy, cold day, saying a last goodbye. We arrived at the chapel early and sat waiting. She arrived in a big cardboard box, which made me smile a little. The funeral home guys wheeled the box in on a cart and stood back to let us have some time with her. We took off the lid to have a last moment. Then we followed her into the room, watched as they loaded her into the furnace and my brother in law pressed the button to start the process.

Later, as I sat with my boys, I asked if they were scared about it. No, they said. I reminded them about what we heard on Ash Wednesday, that God makes us from dust and to dust we return.

Chau is not dust. She is in Heaven with God.

Thank you, Jesus, for the 46 years. We know they were a gift.

Banh Xiao

 

Nguyen took this picture last time he was in Vietnam. It of a girl making the pancakes I keep talking about.

Crash landing

My parents said that they got very depressed when they got back to Newfoundland after the trip to Vietnam.

I was too busy to be depressed, but today, finally, it hit. I just feel... ugh.

Luckily, my drumming class is tonight and I hope it will pick up my spirits.

In the mean time, a couple of stories from the trip:


An afternoon in.

We wanted to stay in the hotel, one lunchtime, because we were all tired and going into the streets in Nha Trang was, in itself, exhausting sometimes. Nguyen went to the lady that made banh xiao, the little rice flour pancakes stuffed with seafood and dipped into fish sauce. A few minutes later he came back with enough for each of us to have 4 of them. And 6 china bowls for the fish sauce. And 6 china plates for the banh xiao. And 6 pairs of chopsticks. And a plastic bag with the liquid sauce in it. And another with the lettuce and cilantro and hot peppers. The lady must have thought he was a little crazy to ask for 24 banh xiao to go, but by this point he was a regular, so she entrusted him with all the gear on his word he would bring it all back, clean. Which he did, of course. (We washed it all in the sink of our hotel room!)

The total cost was less than $5.

Portraits

I never felt comfortable photographing the locals because it felt a little intrusive. But Nguyen had no such hesitation.

One morning he went to the market near our hotel in Saigon and started taking photos of the ladies in the food stalls. They must have thought he was Japanese because of his big camera! So they started joking about him in Vietnamese, saying he should pay them 5000 dong each to take their pictures. He laughed and said, "how about 10,000?" (about 65 cents) They were a little embarrassed he understood them, but told him that tourists often take pictures in the market, but never come back with the photos.

Nguyen came back to hotel and found a photo processor across the street. While we mosied around the neighborhood, the store was making prints from our digital card. A couple of hours later, the kids, Nguyen and I returned to the market and started handing out the pictures. The ladies laughed their heads off! And were so thrilled, too. They fussed over the kids and asked me lots of questions that I didn't understand. Some of the ladies who didn't get pictures were disappointed, so we promised to come back some day and take their pictures, too.

Today's lunch.

I miss the food in Vietnam, so today for lunch I made a little stir fried beef with Chinese broccoli and noodles. It took me about 10 minutes, cost less than a McDonald's lunch and tasted almost as good as the street stall noodles I ate in Nha Trang. Plus, I used less than 3 ounces of beef, so I have plenty for dinner tonight, too.

Screw the South Beach diet.