Praise God

Thank you, Beloved, for healing my precious child. He is getting better every day. I praise you and thank you.

And thank you, Beloved, for healing my soul. I praise you and thank you.

Let me be fearless as you draw me closer. Let me offer myself to you in faith. Let me be fearless.

Saint Therese of Lisieux

I first heard of St. Therese when my brother in law, a very devout Roman Catholic, came to RI on a pilgrimage from Texas to try and convert the rest of the family. Most of his siblings had left the Catholic faith on becoming adults and he had apparently received a vision or a calling to drive here and try and convert them back. As I was a non-believer, I was on the conversion list, too.

He had a series of photos he had taken of a concrete block he found in his yard with an iron cross embedded in it. It was a sign, he said. He told us about a town in Eastern Europe where some kids had seen images of the Virgin Mary. He told us about St. Therese. And he told us, at the dining room table of my house, that Catholicism was the only option if we wanted to go to heaven.

A fight broke out.

I went to hide in the kitchen.

My husband's family is a very stubborn and can be, shall we say, emphatic, about their opinions.

This incident occured at least 10 or 11 years ago. Since then, I was peripherally aware of this 'Little Flower' who had somehow managed to be canonized. I had heard about her, mostly in comparison with the 'Big' Teresa (of Avila) whose works I have read.

Sometimes God whacks me over the head with things. With the little flower, it was more gentle. A mention of her here... a comment about her there. My Spiritual Director recently suggested that the little flower might handle a situation in a certain way. A few weeks later I found out that Mother Teresa had named herself for her.

So, when I went to the church supply store to pick up a card for Fr. P's installation, I bought the "Story of a Soul" a slim autobiography which is the only writing St. Theresa did. And unlike most of the mystical writings I have attempted of late, I actually finished this one, in record time. I couldn't put it down. (And, incidently, Fr. P, your card wound up being my bookmark, which is why it hasn't arrived yet. I will put in the mail today and when you get it, you now know that it has been on a journey through St. Therese's book with me!)

Whenever I have read any spiritual treatise, the thing that always blows me away is that I can usually relate to something of what they say. I read and say, oh, I know what she is talking about. Or, yes, I have had that happen. With the little flower, I found myself nodding at every page. Yes. I understand this. I have felt that. I want to be more like that. It isn't that I am a saint in the making. No, indeed, just the opposite. It is that the saints are so... normal. At least in the sense that if you have any kind of interior life with God, it might very well look something like the relationship that someone else has with God. So, what feels profoundly unique to me is actually not that unique after all. Saints seem to be normal folks who have put their relationship with God at the very center of their lives. Which is really what all Christians aspire to, isn't it?

I loved reading The Story of a Soul. It reminded me that in my life, there are many opportunities to offer things to God. It reminded me that I can let go of many of the things which I used to find important and focus on the one thing that really IS important. And it gives concrete examples of how to do it.

This 'little' book packs a big punch.

The approach of Advent

Beloved

Advent is a seed that cracks open

in the warm darkness of our hearts

Backup

The cesspool guy was flirting with me.

First, he commented on my hair.

"I love your hair" he said. "Is that your natural color?"

I said yes, it was, and joked that I have my grandmother to thank for it.

"A lot of people would pay big money for hair like that."

I probably smiled. Secretly, I believe that my hair is one of my best assets.

I moved the toys that were strewn about on the driveway so he could back the big truck in.

Our toilet overflowed earlier today so I had called Nguyen, who came home and announced we needed to get pumped out.

I made a call to the cesspool people. The receptionist told me that they would be out this afternoon.

"Plug your nose" the guy said as he fastened the hoses together. "It gets pretty bad when I turn the pump on."

I went in the house to get a check and when I came out, he pointedly asked me

"how is your husband?"

I didn't recognize the question for what it was until after I said "fine" and then went on to tell him that Nguyen is doing well and still working with Ed, the cesspool service owner's cousin. (This is RI after all. You would never call a complete stranger to pump the crap out of your cesspool.) When he said didn't know who Ed was, I suddenly realized that he was, in fact, trying to ascertain my marital status.

"I have to go" I said, handing him the check.

And ran in the house to call my husband.

"Guess what?" I said. "The cesspool guy was flirting with me."

"Did he empty out the cesspool?" Nguyen asked

"Yes," I laughed.

"Ok, then," he said.

I was kind of relieved when the truck pulled away. The truth is, I don't really know how to respond when strangers flirt, and actually find it a little threatening.

Staph meeting

Noah has one of those virulent, antibiotic resistent, super bug staph infections on his leg.

I am keeping my concern to a dull roar. I am trying not to freak at every little itch I feel. And I am resisting checking his leg every five minutes to see if the infection is spreading. We used a permanent marker to draw blue circles around the bumps so we would know if they got bigger or smaller. So far, smaller, but probably not due to the generic antibiotic he was on over the weekend. Maybe his daily salad habit and the beautiful sunshine have given him a super immunity to combat the super bug.

Our doctor says that she hasn't seen this particular infection in 20 years. And has had three kids hospitalized with it in the last week. She is having us put goo in our noses and has Noah on a super bug killing cocktail that tastes about as horrible as a sulpher based medicine should. Monster farts in a bottle. 3 teaspoons of the stuff twice a day.

And yes, we are dousing everything with Purel. Which is probably one of the causes of this bad bug in the first place. But at this point it is a necessary evil.

I appreciate your prayers on this one, gang.

God doesn't do anything half assed.

Fr. Rich's sermon today was about how we often get things half right when it comes to God. We think we know what things are about, but we sometimes only know the half of it. Luckily, God seems to have a better grip on the big picture and whenever we are unsure of things, we can trust him to know what's going on, right?

Whenever I get a tug that God wants me to do something, my response to him is always:

"ok, but you have to give me the strength to do it."

I will basically agree to do almost anything knowing that in myself there is not the strength or courage or brains to do it, but God has all those things and can lend some of those attributes to me for awhile.

Last week, after the fiasco with the kids wiggling in the pew, I left Grace wondering if it was time to hit the road and find a new church. Again.

On Tuesday I went to the bible study. On Thursday I got a call from the assistant Rector asking if I would be willing to facilitate a Lectio Divina group for Adult RE on Sunday mornings. This, for all of you who know me, is God throwing me a bone.

Now, it is true, I would prefer if someone else were facilitating the Lectio Divina group since I am trying to avoid leadership roles, but I have been dying for such a thing since I joined Grace almost a year ago, so if God is asking me to do it, I say YES! And ask him to give me the tools to do it as he wills.

This morning I recruited one woman for the group and next week we are going to start. I am really excited.

In other news, I had a big fight with my kids about having to go to church at all today and I ended up yelling at them, at Nguyen, and finally shutting myself in my room for a good cry. Then I pulled myself together and dragged them, kicking and screaming, to church. I was grateful for the corporate confession. And grateful that they were a little quieter than last week.

I throw this one right back at God:

Beloved, You keep telling me loud and clear that you want us at Grace. You know as well as I do that I am not 100% comfortable there. You know I am willing to be there for as long as you want me to be. Thanks for the Lectio Divina thing. I am really really grateful. And please give me patience with the boys.

Amen.

Installation

Fr. P was installed, this morning, as the new vicar of a cute little church in an old mill town in New England. He invited Nguyen and the kids and I to attend and I must say, it was a pretty moving event.

First, the church was stunning. It is a medium sized granite building, with gorgeous, dark stained oak pews and what looks like a chestnut ceiling. It is warm and cozy and a very comfortable scale. As I was sitting there, I felt that perhaps the designers of churches such as these knew a little something about ideal congregation size. This church was designed to be a family, or at most, pastoral sized church. It never intended to be huge. It never aspired, architecturally, to be a mega anything. Rather, the intent, which is clear from the way it was designed, was to create a sense of community and intimacy. From what it sounded like this morning, that has been more or less the case for the last 150 years.

An installation is sort of like a wedding. There were clergy from all over the state, including the Bishop. The people of the church turned out in their finest clothes. They made a beautiful lunch and invited friends and family as witnesses. In essence, Fr. P is marrying this congregation. It is a mutual relationship where the parties agree, for better or worse, to grow together in their relationship with each other and God. They grow, in God's love, towards healing and wholeness and discipleship. It is powerful to recognize the hand of God at work in bringing these two parties together. When Fr. P, (the bride, LOL) walked down the aisle towards his pulpit, I got a little choked up, I admit.

Yesterday I met with my former minister (and baptizer.) I shared with him that my attitude towards marriage has shifted over the last couple of years. For most of my marriage, I think there was a kind of unspoken and unacknowledged 'escape hatch'. In the back of my mind I always thought that divorce was an option if things didn't go well. Since becoming a Christian, though, I have come to believe that marriage is a sacrament... and the option of bailing out has evaporated. What is amazing is that since then, I feel like my marriage has improved significantly. Now, with the escape hatch closed, running away is no longer a choice, so I am forced to figure out what needs to change. I am forced to do real work rather than blow things off. I have to look at my own behavior and attitudes and adjust them for the long haul. It has made me much happier in my marriage than I ever was before.

I wonder if that is sort of how it is for Fr. P and his new congregation. They have chosen each other for richer, poorer, in sickness and health and are committing to working together through the joys and difficulties inherent in all relationships. All in the name of God's love. In Jesus' love. Which, as it happens, was the subject of Fr. P's most wonderful sermon today.

When Fr. P made his vows, he knelt, facing the altar, to say them. That is how we ought to approach all our significant commitments to God. In humility, with love and a little awe.


Congratulations, Fr. P.

Brushes with greatness

The RevGals Friday Five is about meeting famous people. Here are my answers:

1. Tell us about a time you met someone famous.

I didn't actually meet him, but once I tried out for David Letterman's stupid pet tricks. I had a rabbit that could pull a man out of a hat. To get to the audition, I put the bunny in a pet carrier and took a cab across manhattan. By the time we got there, she was understandably freaked out. Then, a studio full of dogs and cats didn't help matters at all. The producer was very nice about it, until Bunny pissed all over her. At which point it became clear that we were NOT going to get famous on David Letterman. Lost dreams. Alas.

Other celebs: I ordered lunch for Joan Armatrading when she was playing at the theatre I worked for. Marcel Marceau. (Didn't say much.) , Anna Moffa, and most recently I met Thomas Keating at a lecture at Brown. Oh, and I met Vincent Price back stage at my college theater. He wanted to know if it hurt when I got my nose pierced, and what did I do when I needed to blow my nose. Like I hadn't been asked those questions 1100 times before. He was actually really nice, though.

2. Tell us about a celebrity you'd like to meet.

Dave Matthews. Seriously. Mostly just to oggle.

Who I'd like to sit down and have dinner with is Jimmy Carter. I think he would be amazing to talk with.

3. Tell us about someone great who's *not* famous that you think everyone oughta have a chance to meet.

I met a nun, once, when I was 16. Yes I had the pierced nose. And the safety pins in my ears. And she saw right through that and talked to me like the searching soul I was. I have never forgotten her.

4. Do you have any autographs of famous people?

I used to have a letter from Farley Mowat, the Canadian author. And I got Marcel Marceau's autograph, too.

5. If you were to become famous, what would you want to become famous for?

I don't want to be famous anymore. It used to be my big goal, but not anymore. But if I was going to be famous, it might be as the mother of most fabulous (and handsome) kids ever.

Life before

I used to be pro choice.

I donated money to planned parenthood. I voted pro choice as a matter of course. In fact, it was a litmus test for candidates. I sneered at the right wing christians and accused them of being willing to sacrifice poor, disadvantaged mothers in exchange for an 8 week fetus. I believed all the arguments about 'quality of life' and women's rights, and, of all things, privacy.

Then, one night, while making love with my husband, I became powerfully aware that a life was becoming inside me. The next day, at a meeting at work, I felt a little hiccup in my womb and knew, just knew, that I was, in fact, pregnant. Clearly this was not a physical 'knowing'. No one can really know, after 12 hours, that they are pregnant. But I knew as surely as anything I have ever known that at that moment, life had taken root.

For the first trimester, I tried to hide my condition at work. I would show up in the morning and eat a whole bagel, with cream cheese, at my desk and follow it with a coke chaser for the nausea. I spend my day looking perilously green. When, at 12 weeks, I finally admitted that I was pregnant, everyone laughed because they had known it all along.

There was another woman at work who was further along than I was. She was due when I was around 3 months. One day I went into work and heard the terrible news. She had given birth to a little girl who had no trachea. The baby lived for just a few moments before dying in her parent's arms. We were all devestated. I was particularly devestated, in that way that all pregnant women are when they hear of such a thing.

A week later, my doctor proposed a standard series of tests to determine the health of our fetus. Nguyen and I asked to think it over. We went out to lunch at the Four Seasons in Cranston, and over Hunan Chicken, discussed our feelings. I told him that I believed that my friend's daughter deserved to live those few seconds. That it was not up to us to decide what value a life has. That I was prepared to open myself to loving this baby, no matter what the outcome. That I would never, under any circumstances, abort the fetus. So what was the point of knowing? What was the point of testing for things we would have no control over anyway? Nguyen agreed completely. At the time, his brother was dying of cancer and Nguyen was painfully aware of how precious life was. We sat and cried together at the table. We told the doctor that we did not want any prenatal testing. We made a concious decision to leave it all in God's hands.

And so we did.


That moment, the moment of making love with my husband, the moment I knew that I was pregnant, was one of the holiest and most miraculous moments of my life. It felt as though some switch got flipped. Some great, cosmic, machinery was engaging and I could sense just a tiny bit of the whole. I could see just a miniscule hint of the big picture.

Of the power of life.

That moment changed everything.

Is it really just 24 hours since yesterday?

It feels like yesterday was days ago.

And like yesterday, I spent precious little time reflecting on what day it is.

A friend came over for dinner a few weeks ago and somehow the conversation came around to 9/11 and the more we talked, the more we realized that while the surface has scarred over pretty well, the interior wound is still (forever?) festering. We, all of us, just sat and cried together when we recognized the impact that that day had on us.

So, today, when a friend sent me a link to an article in GodSpy, I read it and was very grateful for it.

There were tiny glimpses of grace in the chaos of 9/11 to be sure, but it's enduring legacy is fear, war, sadness and grief.

There IS one, though, whose legacy is to offer light, not fear. Joy, not grief. Healing, not pain.

And that One is whom I try and remember EVERY day. Not just today, or yesterday, or tomorrow.



Blessed LOVE,

From deep darkness, there is only one path to light. That path is your love and we follow it, grow into it, and with your grace, become it.

Give us, this day,

our daily bread. And forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have sinned against us.

Amen

And then I remember...

As I am sitting and eating a quick meal alone.

As I prepare to go to a meeting after a long day.

As I read the paper at the table.

I remember that today is my third anniversary. I got baptised 3 years ago.

And suddenly I feel better. No crankiness. A bit of meloncholy that I spend the day pissy instead of hanging out at a pond (my pond, maybe) or walking in the woods, or sitting in silence, in a pew.

But, as it is, it is a beautiful day... very much like the day three years ago. And I am really grateful.

Cranky

I admit it. I am miserable today.

First, it was the family kickoff for our new sunday school today, and Nguyen didn't want to come. Well, actually, he finally said he would come for the kickoff, but wouldn't stay for the service. I said, uh, no thanks. I mean, if the kids have to sit through the service, doesn't that send a weird message that he doesn't?

Which brings me to the second thing. Grace has moved sunday school to between the services, which means that I have the wiggly boys in the pew with me for the entire service now. Oh, sure, they gave us some crayons and paper and a little kids order of service to color, but by the end of the service I was really quite beside myself thinking that I won't ever get a peaceful moment of quiet in church again. (Can you sense how I am catastrophizing this?) (Is that even a word?)

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids. I love being with them. I get a chuckle at Emmett dutifully filliing out his puzzles on the jr. order of service and showing me proudly when they are done. But the service was over an hour long today and about 20 minutes into it the kids started and I was, well, ready to cry by the end of it.

Nguyen refuses to come.

The kids are bored out of their minds.

I was on the verge of tears all the way home.

(Breathing deeply)

I always hate reading people complain on their blogs... so I'll try and keep the whining to a dull roar in the future. (emphasis on dull? LOL)

But thanks for any comments you might have. I really need help with this.

prayer and bunny updates

For 3 nights in a row I have read the evening psalms from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. And prayed the little 5 part prayer that Fr. P gave me:

asking forgiveness for my mistakes
praising God
thanking God (usually these two meld together into a single love-fest)
intercessions for others
requests for myself

I read the psalms out loud.

Also, on a completely different topic:

I came home from walking the children to school this morning to find my very naughty bunny sitting on the sofa, chewing the buttons off the remote control. Going on the sofa is a new trick for him.

Now I will have no idea what channel I just turned to.

I see God

in the relationships in my life.

Sometimes it is harder to see him. Sometimes I have to look very carefully. But if I perservere, I begin to get a sense of the presence of God in my day to day stuff and it leaves me feeling grateful.

I have been having a hard time with a friendship lately. I have been feeling heavy and weighed down because she is in the midst of a crisis and I have been her shoulder to cry on for awhile now. Yesterday, that heaviness came to a head I began to feel so tired I couldn't even function.

I asked Jesus to help me navigate this situation. He pointed to a pool of water at his feet. There was a red crescent shaped image in the water, which I realized was a reflection of the gash in his side.

"Taste it" he said.

I cupped my hands and lifted the cool water to my lips.

It was sweet.

The reflection of pain is not my pain.

So I called my friend today and said what was on my mind and shared my feelings and we talked for a long time. And I came away understanding that this process of navigating a friendship, is indeed, a gift from God. By speaking truthfully to one another, we enter a realm which requires courage and compassion and love. We can hold one another's pain without allowing it to drag us under. We can be selfless without self destructing.

I feel emotional about God today.

I am smack dab in the midst of a very busy day, with a reiki session this morning and a meeting with the president of the board of directors I am on this afternoon. Then kids. Then kitchen tools stuff. Then soccer practice, dinner, etc.

But in the lull, the moment of nothing, in the midst of the gap between busy things, I remember that I am head over heals in love with God.

Sometimes I feel a little bittersweet about the fact that I can share that with so few people in my life. If a friend (even a close one) were to ask how I was, or what I was up to, I would say all the things that I am up to, but probably wouldn't say that I was struggling with my prayer practice, or loving the liturgy each week, or dreaming of the day when I can pray the hours on retreat.

Which is where you, dear reader, come in. You, my friend, who reads this.

I thank God that there is someone I can share this with.

Putting it out there

I have been struggling with my daily practice since Advent of last year. Before that I was pretty disciplined with a centering prayer practice, sitting for 2 20-minute sessions each day. My actual meditation was wildly undisciplined... my head was like a little monkey dancing from thought to thought even as I was supposed to empty my head to prepare a space for God. But even with my monkey mind, I was very disciplined with the act itself. I sat, every day, two times twenty, for two years.

Since Advent, though, I have struggled with a regular prayer practice. In fits and starts I have tried psalms, a little five part prayer that Fr. P shared with me, centering prayer again, reading the Bible. But in the end I have fallen out of practice and most of the time don't do anything at all.

Which sucks.

So, today, when Fr. P asked me at lunch if I have been praying I had to admit to him that I haven't been. That I had a short stint in July where I was... but that it has been sporadic since then.

And I have committed that I am going to be able to say yes, next month, when we meet. Because I don't want to be embarrassed when Fr. P asks about it again. Because I know it is critical to my relationship with God.

Beloved,

NOTHING in my life is more important than meeting with you on a daily basis. Let me set time aside for you. Let me open my heart to you. Let me listen for you, intently, intentionally, and with joy.

Lord, please help me in this. I miss our daily time.

It's in the sachristy

Fr. Rich greeted me at church this morning by telling me that he had a book for me.

"It's in the sachristy" he said.

"What is a sachristy?" I asked.

He laughed as he remembered that I am a newbie.

"It's where the host and wine are prepared for the Eucharist."

He walked with me to show me the room in question. At Grace it is more like a hallway, with wooden walls on one side and a counter on the other. There is a little door in the wall that contains a cubby that holds the supplies. I was disappointed that the room was cluttered with some empty boxes and other stuff. It seems to me that even if it still plain bread, the host that will become the body of Christ ought to be treated with a bit more dignity.

Todays lectionary reading is on the rules of the pharisees. Jesus gets pissed off when they question the fact that the disciples don't wash their hands before eating, thus ignoring some of the dietary laws.

This is tricky stuff. If God gave the law, why did Jesus ignore it? He systematically violates the mitzvahs, touching the unclean, constorting with sinners, hanging out with the dead. Jesus is reminding us that the law was supposed to help us grow closer to God... not be used as a club to bludgeon each other with.

I recognize in myself a tendancy to be a pharisee sometimes. The law (as it is practiced in an anglican church) is such a wonderful revelation for me that I can become fixated on it. I once got all emphatic about priests praying the daily office. Nguyen was stunned at my vehemence. It was profoundly ironic considering I don't, myself, pray the office. I get really cranky when people are chatting in the pews before church starts. Aren't we supposed to be meditating and quiet? Sometimes I even get up and move to a quiet corner. I can be intractable about 'rules'.

But sometimes those rules are the structure on which I depend when my own volition fails. The simplest rule is to get to church regularly. I go, sometimes, out of a sense of obligation. It is the least I can do, I reason, for a God who has given me so much. It is the very least I can do.

This morning, after a very bad night's sleep, I woke up late and considered skipping church. I would have to rush. I might be late. I can go on Wednesday.

I got up.

I showered and dressed and remembered that I don't eat breakfast before communion anyway, so out the door I went, with plenty of time to spare.

I love the law.

But I love God more. I pray that I remember that the law is a means to a glorious end... not the end itself.

Today:

Grocery shopping. Alone.

Vacuuming the hay off the living room rug.

Listening to the Messiah. Full Blast.

(The Lord whom ye seek shall suddenly come to his temple...)

Mom and friends for lunch.

Homemade cornbread.

Happy dance

Oh what a glorious day!

My children went off to school this morning. Emmett proudly announced that he had brand new everything on, from his boxer briefs on out. My big little man started first grade, so I had the whole day to myself.

What to do? What to do?

At first, I was almost overwhelmed with the possibilities. But my house is a wreck after a long summer of having the boys home, so I wanted to do some tidying.

I cleaned the kitchen. I scrubbed the rice cooker. I mopped the floor. I shined my sink.

I started cleaning out my office, taking out bag after bag of paper and old bills and magazines and empty boxes. I even decided to pitch our old portable victrolla, which hasn't worked in about 40 years and is falling apart at the seams.

I practiced piano for the first time in weeks.

I sat down and watched half a movie on HBO.

I bought an iced coffee and drove to the school a few minutes early so I could chat with the other moms.

And then, the moment of truth: The boys came out of school all smiles and excitement. As we drove to the office supply store for Noah's back to school list, I chuckled when Noah was very carefully explaining to Emmett how buying lunch works.

"It's a chip system" he said. "Always order choice number one, which is the blue chip, so you don't get too confused."

"Ok" said Emmett.

After Staples, we walked over to the music store to rent a violin. Noah has decided, after two years of piano, that he would like to try another instrument. We ended up deciding to buy one because it was cheaper that way. The lessons are free at school, so the violin itself seemed like a bargain.

And then I took them out to dinner at the Newport Creamery because Nguyen had to work late. All through the meal, through the wrong orders, the ketchup messes and spilled drinks, I just couldn't stop smiling.



Tomorrow? Maybe I'll build some shelves.

Or buy a rug.

Or make a slip cover.

Or take a nap.

Or pray out loud.


Bliss.

What brings you joy?

When did you first realize that it was possible to have joy in your life?

What does joy mean for you?

Was there a time when you didn't have joy?

What changed?




Beloved,


Thank you for your patience and persistence with me. Thank you for leaving little crumbs for me to follow home.


You are joy. In you, I am joy.


I can't imagine life without you.

Tagged

by Singing Owl!

1. A friend who has blessed me:

I can't think of just one! I have so many people in my life who are blessings to me. Let me just say, you all know who you are, LOL!

2. An unexpected gift:

Having Jesus in my life was a huge suprise. And the biggest gift I have ever gotten.

3. A kind word shared with me recently:

My sister in law asked me for the recipe for my roasted asparagas. That was a huge! (She is such a good cook!)

4. Something that makes me stop and praise God:

I praise God when, in the midst of my day to day life, I catch a moment of grace and recognize God's signature on a series of events. I am always filled with such joy at those moments.


5. Something I’m looking forward to:

Kids are starting school on Thursday. (Insert Hallelujah chorus here)

6. A particular part of me I’m pleased with:

my unruly red hair.

7. Something in my life I wanted but never expected: close friendships.

8. A place that moved/moves me:

The pond where I was baptised. And, in fact, any body of water. All water is baptismal to me now.

9. One thing/person that always makes me smile: My very naughty bunny, Theo.

10. Most recent “love note” from God:

A tarot friend has been going through some changes lately. As a former tarot person myself, I still sometimes connect situations with particular cards. I told her that I thought she was going through a very 'King of Wands' time and suggested that the ace of cups is probably looming on the horizon. (It's the next card in the deck.) She decided to pull a card from her own deck and it was, of course, the ace of cups. We both just laughed because it felt like such a God moment. The card is an image of a dove (Holy Spirit) carrying the Host towards a waiting chalice. It is an image of the Eucharist. I am thinking she ought to get to chuch, LOL.

4 days late

but here is the Friday Five.

School:

1. What is your earliest memory of school?

I remember trying to read a book in kindergarten and being deeply frustrated because I really didn't know how to read. I also remember Fr. Cranston,the headmaster, walking around in his clericals. Carrying a stick. And I remember that my best friend in kindergarten was missing a foot. She used crutches and had a stump. She had lost it in an accident when her father was mowing the lawn. (Can you imagine her dad's guilt over that?) When I saw her again, years later, she had a prosthesis. I can't remember her name.

2. Who was a favorite teacher in your early education?

Miss Hall was chubby and sweet and gave us dum dum lollipops when we did a good job.

3. What do you remember about school “back then” that is different from what you know about schools now?

Awe, heck, they smell the same to me. Paste and pencils and sweaty kids.

4. Did you have to memorize in school? If so, share a poem or song you learned.

8th grade:

Is this a dagger I see before me? The handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

and:

The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, that I may be filled from crown to toe, top full of direst cruelty.

I used to be able to do the whole darn speech. As a joke, I used to do it with a RI accent. Lady MacBeth from Cranston. I once did it for the founder of the RI Shakespeare Theater. He didn't find it amusing. At. All.

Is dis a dagga I see befaw me, da handle taud my haynd?

Mrs. Penny, the English teacher, was a big one for memorization. She drilled the 5 paragraph essay form into our heads so much so that I can still write one in my sleep. That little tidbit of information saved my butt in college, when I was too lazy to do homework. I would whip out papers the night before they were due and still snag 'A's because they were half-decently structured. Thanks Mrs. Penny.

5. Did you ever get in trouble at school? Were there any embarrassing moments you can share?

I never did my science homework in 9th grade (sensing a theme here?) and as a consequence, sometimes had to go down to the Headmaster's office to get swatted on the ass with a stick. But I loved the headmaster so much that it was more of a privledge than a punishment because we would spend the rest of the class period discussing all kinds of things that seemed infinitely more interesting than science. Coincidentally, the Headmaster was the same guy who I had in kindergarten, even though it was a different school. I wasn't the kind of kid who embarrassed easily, I must admit.

Fire and Brimstone

I stood at the lecturn this morning and was reading today's Old Testament reading when suddenly I felt all fire and brimstoney. I began to feel the words I was saying. My voice rose. I became emphatic. I paused and looked at the congregants in front of me. I could taste the poetry of the word of God in my mouth. It became huge. I wanted, for some reason, to shout.

I didn't. We are Episcopalians after all. I didn't want to scare anyone.

But for that brief time at the lecturn, I felt the power of the Holy Spirit speaking through my mouth.

Can I hear an amen, Brother?

Amazon.com

My mom told me that if you put her name in the search on Amazon.com, she comes up. A couple of her poems were published in a book of poetry called "Regrets Only", which is, not suprisingly, a collection on the theme of regret.

She was excited.

Getting on Amazon.com is a kind of benchmark for writers.

When my friend, Mark McElroy, wrote his first book, the biggest thrill for him was when he could find it on Amazon, before it was even released. Seeing it in the aisle at Barnes & Noble was another huge thrill. Holding his first copy in his hand, too. (It was a bit of a thrill for me, too, frankly, as I was in the acknowledgements!)

Yesterday I was searching on Amazon for a new porta potti for the camper.

Today I am looking at poetry.



What a world.

Emmett's wisdom

Emmett turns six next week. He has been full of pithy little statements lately. Things that make me realize that he is growing up. Fast.

Emmett in the car, while talking about a kid in the neighborhood who has been making fun of my children:

"Mom, I have never been mean in my whole life. Naughty, maybe, but not mean."


Emmett in a tearful rage after his brother beat the pants off him at Yugio:

"I don't play to have fun. I play to WIN...." (Must discuss that one with him!)


Summer is drawing to a close and the kids are BOTH off to school full time this year. After 10 years of full-time stay-at-home parenting, I am facing the prospect of, gasp, solitude. Every day. For years.

Part of me is jumping with joy.

And part of me is going to seriously miss the time I have had with my beloved children. They grow up so darn fast.

Grappling with Euthanasia

Because she was euthanized, Bumpus' death brought the issue of 'mercy killing' to the surface for me. In recent years, I have changed my opinion about it as it concerns people. I no longer believe that euthanasia is appropriate, for all the reasons I assume the Catholic Church offers. Death is God's realm and we are in no way qualified to determine when to end of our own or someone else's journey. I am a big fan of the culture of life concept. But what about dogs and other animals? Is it merciful to take their life if they are truly suffering? This is the second time I have participated in such a thing. While there may be salvific aspects to human suffering, is it the case for creatures?

When Jake first told me that his dog likely had a brain tumor and had had a stroke of some sort, he was already thinking ahead to the decision that inevitably exists when there is no medical coverage for such a situation. Money vs. quality of life vs. relief from suffering. My response was that if he chose not to take medical steps (ie MRI scans and Chemo and Radiation, et al.) then the litmus would be whether Bumpus is in actual pain. Not- "she is a pain in the ass because she is incontinent." Not- "I can't stand to see her this way." In other words, separating the selfish from the compassionate.

I honestly believe that Jake did that. He handled the inconvenience, the sadness, the frustrations, for months before the last, horrible, episodes. His decision to have her put to sleep was coming from a place of great love and compassion. He knew it was going to be a huge loss, for both him and his remaining dog.

So, is euthanasia wrong for animals, as I believe it is for humans? Or does God invite us, in this instance, to act on his behalf.... showing mercy and compassion to the creatures in our care?

Lazy Summer

What a wonderful thing camping is. We took the boys to a primitive campground here in RI for a few days and had the time of our lives. Beautiful weather, good fishing, a cute and tiny trailer and a tent for the boys all made for a lovely few days.

I forgot the camera (Jo(e), please tell me how you manage to remember! LOL) so instead made funny sketches of some of the details: a sassefras sapling, our clothes hanging on a line, the iron frying pan and enamel coffee pot.

On Thursday, we called my brother Jake and invited him and his remaining dog, Roo, to join us for dinner. We originally planned to have grilled flank steaks and roasted potatoes and corn and salad, but that day the boys and Nguyen caught 3 bass, one of which was HUGE, so we ended up having all of the above plus fish for an appetizer. Nguyen cleaned them and cooked them whole on the grate, marinated in curry and garlic and green onions. It was a flavor that brought me back to my own childhood, reminding me of summer mornings in Georgian Bay, with bacon, eggs and fried bass for breakfast.

At first, I was a bit daunted by the prospect of 5 days with nothing to do, but after awhile, I began to thoroughly relax and enjoy the pace. The kids found infinite diversions. I relished my naps and reading and sketching, bathing in the pond and cooking over the fire.

It was a lovely week.

Bumpus

died at about 2:45 this afternoon, in my brother's arms.

Her last day was very nice. She ate an oily can of tuna. Had a brief walk in the park. Took three healthy shits. Went swimming in the Providence River. Even flirted with an old flame.

I was grateful to be able to be there with my brother and his dog.

She was a good girl.

Saturday- new life and impending death

A lot happened yesterday.

First, the fun stuff.

Nguyen and I finished our picket fence and it is GORGEOUS!!! It is 4 feet high and painted off white to match the trim on our house. My job, yesterday, was to paint the tops of the pickets where Nguyen trimmed them.

While we were outside congratulating ourselves, a big redtailed hawk flew over our heads and vocalized that almost cliche sound you hear in cowboy movies. I had never, in my life, heard a hawk actually make that screeching sound.

Later, when sitting under the big Norway Spruce admiring my fence, a cicada landed on my foot. It was gorgeous, with emerald wings and big buggy eyes. If you didn't know what it was, it would be terrifying, I think, but since I do, I was delighted. We have just had a big hatching and the remains of the pupal nymphs are littered around the bottom of the tree. Cicadas spend several years underground as nymphs before they finally emerge to molt, take their adult form and mate. I called my brother, the nature photographer, to come and check out the cicada, but it flew away before he got here. However, as we were looking for it on the ground, we found a nymph crawling across the lawn. I have never seen a live one, so I was very excited. And it seemed to be heading straight for the spruce tree. When Jake got here, he set up his macro lense and started taking photos of the nymph. To our utter amazement, it crawled about 5 feet up the tree trunk, latched onto the bark and proceded to molt. Jake spent several hours taking shots of it as it crawled out of it's pupal exoskeleton and emerged as an adult cicada. Once he has his website updated with the photos I will post a link. It was remarkable. Something I have never, in my 41 years on this earth, seen before.

Now for the very sad news. Later in the evening, one of my brother's 14 year old dogs had 4 grand mal seizures in a row. She likely has a brain tumor and has been having seizures sporadically for about 2 months now, but this was a very bad episode. One after another. And none of the emergency vets in the area were willing to see her right away. She and my brother ended up sleeping outside in our yard for the night, with my brother next to her on the lawn. This morning she had two more seizures. We are fairly sure it is time to say our goodbyes.

Jake has had Bumpus and her sister since they were 6 weeks old. They are beautiful and gentle old girls. We are utterly devastated. Since I was up late with them, I ended up missing church this morning.

But God, I know you are with us. Please comfort my brother in this time of loss.

Book Meme

1. One Book That Changed Your Life: Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time- Marcus Borg. I am not a big Jesus Seminar fan at this point, but this book was pivotal during my "I want to be a follower of Jesus but don't buy all the stuff I have to believe" phase. What is interesting is that once I was baptised and realized that I was going to be (gasp) a Christian, I DID believe all the stuff that just 3 days before I didn't. I think the Holy Spirit whacked me upside the head, but good. But Borg's book was helpful, nonetheless, because it gave me a way of approaching Jesus that I could relate to at the time.

2. One Book That You've Read More Than Once: I have read most of Yukio Mishima's books more than once.

3.One Book You'd Want On a Desert Island: The Bible. I know that is cliche, but it is true.

4. One Book That Made You Laugh: Heck, I could answer the bible to both of these next questions. I laughed, I cried, I was moved. But I'll throw in "My Secret History" by Paul Theroux.

5. One Book That Made You Cry: Yup, the Bible again. I can think of so many times when I have been moved to tears. I love, for example, the Luke story of when Mary comes and visits Elizabeth and fetal John the Baptist starts jumping for joy in his mother's womb. I cried when I read that. And the Mark Gethsemane story brings me to tears.

6. One Book You Wish Had Been Written. The Autobiography of St. Peter.

7. One Book That You Wish Had Never Been Written: What was that book that gave instructions for how to kill yourself?

8. One Book You’re Currently Reading: I have a bunch of books on my bedside table, including Teresa of Jesus, John of the Cross, Brother Lawrence, the Grail Bird, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church, among others.

9. One Book You’ve Been Meaning To Read: Confessions by St. Augustine.

Today I am grateful

for my 7 seat minivan.

On the way back from the beach my two boys and their friend Aaron were sitting all the way in the back

having a farting contest.

Thank you, Lord, for power windows and big cars. Even if the mileage, among other things, stinks.

I am going to be three

I know two posts in one day is excessive. I mean, can I really expect people to read TWO rambling posts?

But while I was taking my luxurious nap this afternoon, I was thinking about the fact that on September 10 I am going to be celebrating the 3rd anniversary of my baptism. And really, it just blows my mind that I have only been a Christian for 3 years. I am not joking when I say I can't remember life before. It seems that everything in my life up to this point was drawing me, inexorably, towards God.

This is a little bittersweet, too, of course. Last year, on my 2nd anniversary, I got the word from God that it was time to leave my church and set out for ports unknown. I spend a few months in the desert and finally landed in the biggest Episcopal church in town. So much has changed in the last year.

I don't miss my old church at all. I miss some of the people, to be sure, but I don't think I will ever again be able to live without worshipping God and Jesus in church again. (It was a Unitarian Universalist church for you newcomers to the Dunk.) I could never again spend weeks on end waiting for a passing mention of the Beloved.

I do, however, miss Steve, my UU minister. He was the one who dunked me. He was sort of a midwife-witness to the whole process. We walked on that early part of the journey together and I would love to sit over a coffee and share where the journey has taken me since we last talked. I wonder about his journey, too.

Maybe I'll give him a jingle.

Say, around September 10th.

Glorious Day

Low 80's. Sunny. DRY.

It is the perfect day for gardening or going to the beach or sitting under a tree and admiring my almost-complete new fence.

Or

Taking a nap.

Which is what I am going to do, as my children are at the beach with a friend today and I am feeling extraordinarily

langorously

deliciously

tired.



And, when I lie down to take a nap in the middle of the day, part of the luxury of it is that I can lie there and think about

Jesus

my one and only savior. My dearest friend.

Often I imagine conversations with him. I picture him sitting next to me, or standing near me, telling me things. He is always cryptic in these encounters. Not effusive, not emotional, just matter of fact and laconic. Sometimes funny, but always dry.

Sometimes silent.

Just imagining myself in his presence is often the best of all.

Sitting silently with my Beloved.

10%

I haven't shared this with anyone, but when I started selling high end kitchen tools, I decided that I would tithe 10% of my income from it, in addition to the small monthly payments I had already pledged to Grace church. So, each month, after getting my commission statement, I give 10% of it to Grace. It is a funny number, usually. $78 one month, $84 the next. I never told anyone at the church I was going to do it.

My business is growing.

I like the idea of tithing. It makes sense to me to acknowledge that God is both the creator and recipient of my success. It makes me feel more generous too. In fact, that is one very delightful side effect of this job. I give a LOT of stuff away. I share in my good fortune as part of the day to day job, whether it is giving a hostess a gift for having a successful party or giving my brother a full set of cookware I won and don't need. It is a wonderful thing to be in a position to give.

Also, since I now make enough money at my kitchen tools gig, I can volunteer some of my time as a childbirth teacher. It has freed me up to share my skills without having to charge for it, which opens the door to a whole new population. In two weeks I am going to teach my first, free, childbirth class for unwed moms.

10% tithe.

100% guaranteed delight.

Liturgy is the architecture for grace.

It is the structure within which I open my heart and receive God each week.

Today I sat in a very warm church and when the priest began the Eucharist, I imagined, for a moment, the angels and archangels, the whole heavenly host, smiling down at us. Applauding, even. Cheering, like fans at an olympic event. Rooting for us.

Today is the feast of the Transfiguration. It is one of the strangest and most wonderful stories of the bible. Jesus becomes luminous. He becomes the veil through which the light of God shines and illuminates the world.

I really can't remember what life was like before becoming a Christian.

It's time to come clean

Sometimes I am not the pulled together Jesus follower you read about here in the Big Dunk.

Sometimes I am a raving maniac. This has been the case in the last couple of days. This week was Vacation Bible School for the kids. For the first time all summer, I had 3 hours a day to myself. Which should have made me more calm and focused, right? No. Instead, the pressure of having this tiny amount of free time caused me great panic. What do I do with my three hours today? Do I read a novel? (yes. And actually finished it.) Do I go grocery shopping? (no.) Do I take my car to get washed? (Yes!)

So off I trundle to the car wash place to get my car washed, waxed and detailed.

I was told that the whole operation would take an hour and a half. I sat at a counter that faced a glass wall overlooking the cleaning bay. After the first hour went by, I grew concerned that I hadn't seen my car in the bay yet. I asked at the desk and was reassured that it was being worked on outside. After two hours, I went to the manager and asked what was going on. My car wasn't anywhere to be seen and I was getting really worried about how long it was taking. Turns out, the car hadn't even been started on yet. It was out back. Abandoned. Forgotten. Still full of sand and gunky sludge that the kids had spilled on the floor. Still covered with tar and bird crap.

I started to boil over. I was loud. I got tearful. I threatened to take the keys and leave.

The manager came over and asked what he could do to make it up to me. (Nothing. You can't give me my two hours back. I can't wait a minute longer. I have to pick up my kids now. There is nothing to be done.)

He tried to make it right, really. He even offered to pick the car up and drop it off for me the next day. I tried to calm down. Then, of course, I saw the little fish on the back of my filthy car and made some attempt to be civil. And felt humbled by my rage at something as stupid as a wasted couple of hours and dirty car.

Unfortunately, the severe thunderstorms on Wednesday knocked out the power at his place, so I am still driving around with sand and bird crap.

I shared all this with Fr. P at our lunch on Thursday. About how just when I think I am getting the whole 'Christian thing' something throws me off kilter and I realize that I have a LONG way to go. He suggested that perhaps these little relapses are, in fact, gifts of grace. They remind me that I don't have to be perfect at this. They remind me that I desperately need God. They remind me that in this aspect of my life, I have the grace to allow myself to admit I suck. It is a lesson that I apparently need over and over again. And I am grateful to both God and Fr. P for helping me remember that in my weakness, I find strength.

Summer books so far:

The Red Tent

Tons of people have recomended this book to me and I finally bought a copy before heading off to Chicago for a week. Finished it last week and my response is....

Huh?

Seriously. I can't for the life of me figure out what all the fuss is about. All my friends enthused over it. They are reading it in the book clubs in churches all over this great nation. I suppose taking a bible story and exploring from the woman's point of view would be a cool conceit, but, uh, this book is so poorly written I almost couldn't get through it. NONE of it seemed genuine. Not the relationships between the women, nor the relationships with the lovers. They all seemed false, somehow. And worse, boring. Yes, boring.

One reviewer on Amazon.com hit the nail on the head when he wrote that the author goes on and on about all the stories that get told in the red tent and never once tells us one of them. We just get to take her word for it.

I wish I had read that review before shelling out $15 bucks. Having been at a bunch of births, I can tell you right now I would be VERY suprised if Diamant has actually been at any. And since the basic premise of the book is that Rachel is a midwife, it would have helped if at least that part had been believable.

I wasn't impressed.

The Sex Lives of Cannibals

I am a sucker for travel writing. I count Paul Theroux as one of my favorite authors. I love being an armchair traveler. This book, by J. Maarten Troost, is a fun read. As a late 20-something post graduate school graduate, he and his girlfriend decide to move to a tiny island in the Pacific for a couple of years. This hilarious (and sometimes snarky) book is the result. He speaks of his experiences there very frankly, but always with a definate and growing sense of affection for the people, which saves it from being a bitch fest. Reccomend it.

The Grail Bird

This is the true story of the most recent attempts at finding the possibly extinct Ivory Billed Woodpecker. Like the Sex Lives of Cannibals, it seems like a great heat wave read, as it mostly takes place in the swamps of Louisiana. I have a personal vested interest in this tale, as my grandfather was good friends with the fellows at the Ornithology Department at Cornell who first got the Ivory Billed on tape and film back in the 30's. In fact, we have a letter from a guy named Kellog telling my grandfather all about his exciting discovery.

Unfortunately, the author of this newest book is probably a better bird watcher than writer. I am about halfway through it and am finding it very (very) boring. Which it really wouldn't have to be the case, now would it? I mean, I would imagine a good writer would have a ball with the pursuit stories... what with cotton mouths and alligators and bird watching tourists from New Jersey.

I am not sure I would finish this one except for the personal connection. If you are a birder, get it from the library. Otherwise, probably a pass.

More on fences

It is said that good fences make good neighbors, but I have to disagree. Ours was a bad fence, falling down in wind storms, leaning precariously into our neighbor's yard. Barely keeping the kids from wandering over whenever the thought occured to them.

This weekend, we began the somewhat daunting task of building a new picket fence from scratch and our closest neighbor decided to come by to help. We have a good relationship with all our neigbors, more or less. We never speak ill of them. We help out when we can. We lend tools and borrow them. We keep an eye on each other's homes when someone goes out of town. It is a real neighborhood. This neighbor in particular has been a blessing to our family. He son mowed our lawn for years. His daughter watched our children when they were small. He and his wife have always been exactly the kind of neighbors you dream about: quiet, friendly, curteous, helpful. We hang over the fence, such as it is, and chat. We sometimes share the occasional beer.

Neighbor and I were assigned fence post painting duty. We were using rollers to coat the posts with cream colored latex stain. We fell into a kind of rhythm, each of us leapfrogging the other to the next post... 24 posts in all, some in shade, most in sun(which seemed less of an issue for Neighbor, who is African American). I turned an alarming shade of red, even with sunscreen plastered on my face. But we kept at it, sweating and chatting pleasantly. And then, out of nowhere, with no warning at all, Neighbor turned the conversation to Jesus. He confided that he has been experiencing the dark night. He confessed that he hasn't been going to church lately.

I know that he is born again, so I was stunned to hear he was struggling. (Why that should be a shock, I don't know, having gone through it myself as recently as last Fall.) It just suprised me, I guess, that my neighbor and I would be comparing notes about our walks with the Lord. That we would have this thing in common. We talked for awhile as we painted. I listened to his story. I shared my own dark night experience. I allowed as to how I have come to feel that being a Christian isn't for sissies, and that putting your faith in God in the midst of the darkness is probably one of the hardest things we ever have to do. But I told him that I believe God is a faithful companion and that I suspected that he wasn't as alone on this journey as he felt he was. He concurred. I asked him to promise me that he would go to church today. I suggested that he might just need to hear what the preacher had to say. He promised to go. I said I would pray for him.

Which I did. All during the service at my own church this morning, I was praying for my friend and neighbor that he would feel God's love this day. And everyday.

Neighbor is off to Miami for a week, so I won't know how his Sunday morning at church was until he gets back. But God, in the mean time, keep him close.


And thank you, Beloved, for our falling down mess of a fence.

The Friday Five... on Saturday

1. What's the high temperature today where you are?

Low 90's with about 100% humidity and a dew point higher than my IQ. Actually, today is better than yesterday, which ended in torrential downpours and crazed lightening storms and left us with even more humidity.

2. Favorite way(s) to beat the heat.

Swimming. Ice cream. Air conditioning. And a fun book about the tropics. Right now I am reading 'Sex Lives of Cannibals' by J. Maarten Troost. It is GREAT heatwave reading because it reminds me that no matter how hot it may be here, it is still a far sight cooler than, say, the equator. And we don't have people shitting on the beach on a regular basis.

3. "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." Evaluate this statement.

My zits would all concur.

4. Discuss one or more of the following: sauna, hot tub, sweat lodge, warm-stone massage.

Argh.

5. Hottest you've ever been in your life:

On my 30th birthday, I looked fabulous! A red headed babe with a tequila in one hand and a lime in the other.

Other hot experience:

We lived in Kansas City for a summer, in a house without air conditioning. It was the hottest and most depressing time of my life. No ocean. No breeze. No relief. By the end of July the house was sold and we were hightailing it back to New England.


Non-temperature related bonus: In your opinion... who's hot?

John of the Cross

And Dave Matthews.

The power of three

At vacation Bible camp next week, the boys will get three hours a day of craft projects, hymn sings and Jesus-yness while I get three hours a day of... solitude?!?!?!?

Christian formation for them, a few hours off for me. What (as my dear Jewish friend from New York would say) could be bad?

Three hours is enough time for a pedicure. For a bible study. For a morning of coffee on the front porch. With a friend.

Three hours is a potent amount of time.

As any good kabbalist knows, numbers have meaning.

I remember, even before becoming a Christian, when I was just beginning to get Jesus-envy in a big way, I met an online friend at a conference and when I discovered he was 33, my heart skipped a beat. Jesus was 33, I thought to myself. Jesus was exactly that age when his earthly ministry came to an end. 33, for me, will never be the same.

3 hours is the amount of time I sit in church on Good Friday.

3 hours might be enough time to collect my thoughts.
Do the laundry.
Weed the garden.

Change the world.

It's 10:29 AM

And I am still in my nightgown.

The kids are constructing major thoroughfares on the Turkish rug in the living room. They are putting their 'Ben Ten' action figure monsters in the handmade miniature rowboats my dad made for them for Christmas a couple of years ago and are sailing them under railroad bridges and around the monster bunny who threatens to eat all the wooden tracks.

It is hot out.

Yesterday, we got a package in the mail from Newfoundland. It contained 3 skulls: A fox, an otter and a snowshoe hare. And a letter from my father, in his beautiful hand, describing the difference between the teeth and jaw articulation of a carnivore and that of an herbivore. The kids examined the teeth, the jaws, the brain cases of the skulls. They listened as I read the letter and declared that it was good enough to be in a book. We wondered, given our own tooth structure and jaw formation, whether humans are carnivores or herbivores. Or maybe nut and seed eaters.

Which was what I had for breakfast today:

plain yoghurt, a nectarine and a handful of trail mix. Just the right start to this little adventure called life.

The broken bits

I have to admit,

it was tough coming back to a week's worth of stuff left undone. I was so grateful to everyone for taking care of the children while I was gone. But, uh, it was a bit tough coming back to unpaid bills, unwashed dishes, weeds choking my garden, etc. Not that I expected Nguyen to do all that stuff. It just makes you realize how much you do on a daily basis, I guess.

So I landed with a bit of a bump.

Church yesterday helped a lot. (As always!)

Our Rector and Associate Rector were both out of town, so our resident retired married couple priests were in charge and it was quite lovely. Bill gave the homily and Hope served the mass.

Here's a secret: For weeks now, I have been thinking that I would like to have a chunk of the big host that the priest uses in the very begining of the mass when she is consecrating the bread and wine. She lifts this big cream colored disk over her head and says (or sings) "By Him and with Him and in Him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever..." It is then broken into pieces and given as part of communion.

I have been obsessed with that big host, and every week had this little hope that I would get a chunk of it at the rail. I don't know why. Maybe it is bordering on idol worship, lol. But somehow I think I wanted to be connected to that moment, the moment when a pasty cracker of flour and water is transformed into the substance of God. Having a broken triangle instead of a complete circle, a small piece of a larger whole instead of something that is discrete and separate. I had this little spark of yearning that was finally satisfied yesterday, when Hope placed, in my right hand, a small chunk of the host. The edges of it were ragged, rather than smooth. The texture more airy. It dissolved in my mouth more readily, mingling with the wine as I savored the flavor.

It reminds me that God, as he manifests in the world, can be found in the imperfect, the rough, the broken.

In Spades

My goal when I flew off to my convention last week was to try and find ways of keeping God front and center throughout the time I was there. God apparently agreed with that plan and made it very easy for me by making his presence known to me in many ways, from bumping into a friend from Grace church, to getting to know my cabbie and leaving the cab with a curried goat recipe, to discovering that my flight out was delayed by a few hours, allowing me to get to see the Art Institute of Chicago on the last afternoon.

It was a spectacular week.

God showed up on the first morning, when I discovered that one of my party was going to skip breakfast and head over to Holy Name Cathedral for mass. Before leaving for Chicago, my friend Kathy had told me to try and go there, so I immediately said I would like to join her. Yes I felt sadness that I couldn't take communion... but it was amazing to see this huge cathedral filled to the brim with people on a sunday morning. And the homily wasn't bad, either.

I felt God when I went and sat by myself on the riverwalk near our hotel. I felt his presence when looking into the leaves of a tree I couldn't identify. When I discovered a level of calm and peace within me I didn't know I had. I knew God was present when, after 4 days of rooming with two other women, it occured to me that I still felt serene.

I met God's presence on the plane ride back, when I got bumped to a new seat, wedged between two men, neither of whom was thrilled to lose the precious empty middle seat. But I struck up a conversation with the man on the window and it turned out he runs a charity to help build a school in his hometown in Haiti. He and his wife live in Brockton. I wrote him a small check on the spot and we spent the rest of the flight talking about ways that each one of us can help in a world gone mad. There were several points in the conversation when I was moved to tears by the grace of God. I am sure we will be in touch again, especially when Nguyen and I think about doing something similar in Vietnam.

The biggest thing, for me, was that I felt utterly unselfconcious for the whole time. I felt good in my skin. I didn't worry about what people thought of me. I offered to say grace at meal times. I realized that the confession has really shifted something in me. I feel like a different person. I feel, for the first time, humble and confident and totally at ease with myself, which of course means that I am at ease with everyone else. I felt, for the first time, fearless about who I am. It was an amazing week.

And the convention was cool, too! On the first day I won a drawing and ended up with hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars worth of Pampered Chef products. I won't know until it all gets delivered! LOL. (Why God thinks I need all these pots and pans, I don't know, but I am sure I will figure out what to do with it all!)

Beloved,

All week, I remembered that your Grace is enough.

It is enough.

Into the Belly of the Beast....

I am heading to Chicago for a Pampered Chef sales convention tomorrow, at the crack of dawn.
(Pre-dawn, actually) and will be away until Thursday night.

I'll be bringing my Book of Common Prayer, along with a copy of The Red Tent, which I just bought yesterday at Borders.

I am packed. (Bag) Shaved. (Legs) Polished (Toenails). And ready to go.


Here's my prayer: In the midst of the rah rah sales stuff, in the midst of the late night girl fest, (we are sharing rooms) I pray that I will remember that Jesus is the center of my universe.

I pray I'll find moments to remember that.

Have a great week you guys.

RevGalBlogPals Pet Peeve Friday Five

1. Grammatical pet peeve- irregardless. It is NOT a word, dangit.

2. Household pet peeve- Kids leaving snail trails of jelly and other sundry sticky things on every horizontal surface.

3. Arts & Entertainment pet peeve (movie theaters, restaurants, concerts)- Cell phones.

4. Liturgical pet peeve- This is an interesting one! I would have to say I can't stand the 'too polished' homily. You know the one. It sounds like the preacher practiced in front of the mirror for hours to get just the right tone of voice. Ends up sounding empty to me.

5. Wild card--pet peeve that doesn't fit any of the above categories- Today my pet peeve was the lady that gave me the hand under the chin sign when she was mad that I didn't see her trying to pull into the street.

Uh. Sorry Lady. I think next time someone flips me off I might just cross myself, LOL.



Bonus: Because all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God: What do YOU do that others might consider a pet peeve?

Oh, don't even get me started. I am all too aware of my own faults, having just confessed them all last week! LOL. But I guess the number one thing that drives my beloved husband crazy is that I sometimes throw cans in the regular trash. Just to be rebellious.

On the fence....

2 of my neighbors have vinyl fences. One is a 6 footer, completely enclosed, offering a lot of privacy and no maintenance at all. At night, car lights reflect off of the shiny white vinyl.

My other neighbor's vinyl fence is a picket style... less glare, to be sure, but still a weird, unnatural, white.

We are in the process of replacing our fence this year. When we bought the house it had a 4 foot stockade fence in terrible shape around all 12000 feet of our yard. Because it was such a huge amount of fencing, we spent years replacing posts, repairing the uprights, picking up sections when the wind blew it down. The previous owners had failed to use pressure treated posts or creosote, so the posts would rot and were replaced by more junky posts. We eventually started replacing them with galvanized posts, but it was a haphazard job.

Then one day, we took the whole thing down.

At first, we weren't sure we were going to replace it at all. But after a summer of living on a corner lot with no visual barrier between us and the street, we relented and are going to install a 4 foot, wood, picket fence which we are going to stain to match the trim on our house. (Off white)

Here's the thing. I love pickets. And more, I love pickets that are flaking paint. Maybe it is a Wabi Sabi kind of thing, but to me, an old picket fence with flaking paint is a thing of immense beauty.

In Newfoundland, they don't have a lot of vinyl fences yet. When my parents were looking to put up a fence near their little guest cottage, they scored a whole bunch of old fence sections from the Anglican church down the road. The fence is just simple boards, cut at an angle on the top, painted white... now flaking badly. My parents installed them just as they were and they are beautiful in the middle of a green meadow.

There was another fence behind the house when they bought it. It is probably my favorite fence of all time... a kind of a waddle made of spruce sticks, stuck upright in the ground and then secured by some cross bars. By the time my parents aquired the house, the boughs were bleached a stunning gray by the years of wind and weather. The whole structure leaned precariously to one side. It had long since lost its ability to prevent a moose from getting into the kitchen garden.

So, this summer we are building a picket fence around the yard. I'll put a coat of cream colored stain.

And wait patiently for it to start to flake off.

A woman of substance....

Now for something completely different:

Clothing stores for curvy chicks.

Uh.

What is it about clothing manufacturers that assume that curvy women are either 13 years old or 93?

I am going away to a kitchen tools convention in Chicago this week and needed to pick up a few things to pack. So off I went to Lane Bryant for bras and a set of pajamas. First, why DO pajamas cost 50 bucks at LB? That is just sick. And I am not talking some frilly fancy neglige type of thing. Just a basic tee shirt and bottom. (I am sharing a bed with a friend to save hotel fees, so I decided that pjs were a better bet than my usual sleeping attire, which involves a night gown that winds up hiked up around my shoulders by morning....) Pass on the pjs at LB, though. I am NOT ponying up that much cash.

And whoever thought low rise pants on a fat girl was a good idea was probably smoking crack.

Second stop: Catherines. This place actually had a cute set of pajamas for half the price, plus a pair of rayon pants that saved the day. I can wear the pants for two days with different tops and save on suitcase room in a big way. Plus, they are pre-wrinkly, so I don't have to iron them when I get there. But OMG, what a bunch of fugly crap that store had. Hideous red, white and blue pseudo cruisewear. Horrifying polyester stuff I thought went out in the 70s. (Tell me that isn't back, please.) And mostly stuff that might look passable on a woman twice my age. (82 in dog years.)

Final destination: Marshalls. This is always the worst of the worst of the plus sized stores. All the hideous stuff that didn't sell at deep discount in the retail stores ends up in the racks. But miracles of miracles, I found the perfect tank to go with the aforementioned rayon pants... and a foundation garment that no one else seemed to have: a split slip. (Chicago is hot in the summer, my friends. Curvy women need a split slip to keep their legs from getting stuck together when wearing a skirt.)

After all that... the goofy fashions, the insane prices, the fitting room mirror (the horror)...

I went to the 5 pm mass at S. Stephens:

Evening prayer.

Communion.

A great homily.

And the clothes are better, too.

St. Benedict's day

“Rightly, then, the liturgy is considered as an exercise of the priestly office of Jesus Christ. In the liturgy the sanctification of man is manifested by signs perceptible to the senses...; in the liturgy full public worship is performed by the Mystical Body of Jesus Christ, that is, by the Head and his members.

“From this it follows that every liturgical celebration, because it is an action of Christ the priest and of his Body the Church, is a sacred action, surpassing all others” (Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, 7. St. Benedict).

When I was searching for a church, it became apparent to me, early on, that I was being drawn to an apostolic, catholic and liturgical tradition. Apostolic in the sense that the teachings and traditions of the church had been handed down, Bishop to Bishop, since the beginning. Catholic in the sense that it was a universal, global body, and liturgical because it somehow made sense to me that the emphasis of the service had to be the Eucharist and the prayers to God... not the homily. This is about as radical a departure from Unitarian Universalism as you can get!

I do sometimes wish that my church was more charismatic. It wouldn't hurt us to have a few 'Amens' shouted out now and then. We tried dancing in the aisles once... when we had a U2 Eucharist. It was pretty obvious that most folks were pretty uncomfortable being out of the neat pews with the doors on them. But if I have to choose between singing a plainchant psalm or getting fired up by a preacher, I am going for the psalm every time.

Something happens in the process of the mass. Something shifts. The host becomes God. The wine is his blood. For me, there is no question that the real presence of God is there. How it happens, I don't know. Theologians have been fussing over that since the reformation. But however it works, I honestly believe it does.

I am not a theologian. I know nothing about the mechanics of any of this. What I know, is that every time I go to mass and take the body and blood of my Lord into myself, I am sanctified by it. I am transformed. Made whole.

New! Improved!

Ok. Feeling a tad more grounded today. The third day after confession. I don't know why the floaty feeling can be so unnerving, but by late yesterday afternoon I really felt like I was just going to jump out of my skin. All that energy is rare for me, I guess.

Anyway, I called Fr. P because it became ridiculously important for me to talk with someone who knew what this process is all about. I felt an almost immediate sense of relief when he called me back. Like, ok, I am not going insane. (Sometimes a close encounter with God creates such a sense of melancholy and longing I think I am just going nuts.) As always, he had simple, understandable and infinately wise comments, which I put into practice as soon as I hung up. (Pray. Tell your family you love them. Let Christ's love move through you, to them.)

Today, church was wonderful. I am growing to really love it at Grace. Communion was amazing, too, like a God-seed being planted in fertile ground.

And yes, I had a big, goofy, grin all morning long.

Love

I am still not sure what to make of it. At the time of the confession, I was experiencing all kinds of different feelings, but now, looking at it with a days distance, the thing that strikes me most profoundly is the feeling of pure love. I just felt filled with Love. Embraced by Love. Part of Love.

Yesterday I felt a little like a caged cat, so full of feelings that I didn't know what to do with them. I found myself weeping with joy.... wanting to talk about it with someone, wanting to share what had happened. It WAS like the Big Dunk in that way, I think.

In my life, there have been a handful of experiences that were truly transformative. My baptism, my first encounter with the Holy Spirit, the birth of my kids, the first time I met my husband. And now, the muggy afternoon in July when I felt, for the first time, maybe, the pure Love of God infusing me to the very core of my being.

And like any good 'mountain top' experience, I expect to crash land with a bump on the ass. But so far, I am still gliding. I am high with it. It was like something in that box opened a doorway, so I could look at the width and breadth of my life and see, really see, for the first time, the whole image... not just the part that was visible to me at the time. I can look at my life with the same love and compassion that I believe God looks at it with. I can see it from a broader, more gentle, perspective.

Maybe that is the true gift of penitence. Maybe in inviting God to forgive our sins, we also find a way to forgive ourselves. We see ourselves, for that moment at least, through the eyes of the one who built us, knitted us together in our mother's womb, who knew us before we were born. Maybe the miracle of this is that we can catch a glimpse of what it is like to see ourselves in all our frailty, and love, truly love, what we see.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation

Fear coiled up in my belly like a snake, constricting my guts every time I thought about what I was about to do. It was a mild day, not too hot. Muggy and overcast. My fear wasn’t about admitting my sins to God. I was already well aware that he knew each and every one intimately… and probably some that I didn’t even recognize. Nor was my fear about facing Fr. P with my sins. I trust him to be compassionate and non-judging. Instead, my fear was that I would somehow do it wrong. I began to panic that I had made some mistake. That I wouldn’t say enough. Or too much. That I would dwell on insignificant things or gloss over important ones. The day before I even considered calling the whole thing off because I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what a sin was. Or what the point of confession was. Or why I had felt moved to ask for one.

I arrived at the church early, expecting to spend a few moments alone, but Fr. P came driving up behind me, so we got right down to business. We said very little to each other. I wonder if he was nervous too?

While he got dressed, I sat in the Lady Chapel and prayed. “Open my heart, Lord. Let me be honest. Let me offer these sins to you fearlessly.”

Fr. P came into the chapel wearing a black cassock, a long surplice, a stole and a black, square, hat. He knelt at the rail to say his own prayers and then got up and motioned for me to follow him into the nave, where the confessional box was.

It was hot in that back corner of the church. An amber lightbulb illuminated the inside of the box. There was a kneeler and a tiny shelf on which to balance the prayerbook. A crucifix hung on the wall next to the screen that connected to the adjoining box. We began the sacrament reading from the Book of Common Prayer. It was just like in the movies: “ Forgive me, for I have sinned”. The sacrament begins with a general confession and then there is an innocent looking line in the text that indicates for you to fill in the blank with your own details. As this was my first confession, I had a lot of ground to cover, spanning a lifetime of moments or actions where I willfully turned from God.

All was silent save for the whisper of my own voice speaking my sins in the order that God reminded me of them. I read from a little notebook, skipping things and going back to them as it seemed appropriate. Explaining things. Opening my heart in the heat of that box and laying it on the shelf to be teased apart by the Holy Spirit.

The snake loosed its grip and slithered away, leaving in it’s wake another emotion: Grief. Grief at the person I was. Grief at the cruel, heartless, selfish, sinful things I have done. Tears and sweat rolled down my face. Every now and then I would glance through the screen at Fr. P and he sat, staring straight ahead, listening with his whole heart. Listening for grace in the pile of shit I was laying at his feet. He was mostly silent, save for a few questions of clarification. Twice he mentioned that I might wish to discuss something during spiritual direction, but quietly emphasized that it would be up to me to bring it up.

My knees hurt. I was acutely aware that I might be doing damage to my injured one, kneeling on a hard step covered with coarse carpeting. I tried, at one point, to stand up to ‘shake it off’ but it was awkward and uncomfortable to be standing. I knelt back down and tried to shift position, but no matter where I moved, the pain followed. Then, I remembered Jesus, and invited the pain to become a sacrifice, a part of the penance. I carried it with me like a cross. I accepted it and in fact, became grateful for it.

Sweat rolled down my back.

Almost imperceptibly, another feeling began to emerge. It was so subtle I didn’t recognize it at first. Joy. Grace. Love. I felt deeply, unconditionally loved. By God. By my friend on the other side of the screen. By Jesus and the Holy Spirit. The sense of love suffused that dark, hot box and I could feel it profoundly. The world felt as light as my heart. As we neared the end, I found myself saying “That’s it. That is all.” We read through the rest of the prayer book and ended with Fr. P suggesting I read psalm 30 aloud as an act of thanksgiving and asking me to pray for him, a sinner.

Part of me wanted to hold this experience close to my heart, sharing it with no one, save God and Fr. P.

But then there is this stupid grin, heart-too-big-for-my-chest-and-feeling
-like-it-is-going-to-burst-forth-like-the-sun-behind-a-cloud, giddy kind of feeling that suggests this might be a good thing to share with others. Share the fact that I couldn’t stop smiling. That I woke this morning with joy in my heart. The joy of resurrection. Of redemption. Of reconciliation with Him whom I most adore.

And the joy of having shared this with my friend, my director, who has been on this journey with me from before it even began.

The joy of being a penitent.

Gracious, Beloved, God,

By you and with you and in you

is my salvation.

Amen

A perfect Sunday

begins with church. Today I facilitated the bible study, for the 3rd time in a few weeks. For the first time, though, the conversation really felt like it worked. People had wonderful insights. They listened thoughtfully to each other. They related the bible passages to the present situation. It was remarkable, actually. We were reading Acts 21-22 and found many ways of relating it to the present threatened schism of the Episcopal church.

I was also the lector for the second reading this morning... about the generosity of the Macedonian churches. It was a pretty involved reading and I managed to get through it without choking. I love when that happens.

Because I was reading, I sat up front, which I never do. I like quiet before the service and find the front of the Nave to be way too social. But today, I just went with the flow and actually enjoyed being front and center.

After church, the kids and I got home and found that Nguyen had prepared a fantastic picnic lunch. My brother showed up and we drove down to Jamestown, to Fort Weatherill State Park, for a picnic by the ocean. It was cool and windy, and still very damp. We bumped into old friends from Bell Street and were sad to discover that they, too, have left our old church. But it was great to see them and catch up.

Then, we drove around to Beavertail lighthouse and hung out down by the tidal pools in the rocks. The tide was out, so we saw all kinds of wonderful creatures, from tiny crabs to sea anemones (in a shocking green color that the aquarium staff said they had never seen before!)

The kids were like little goats, darting around on the rocks, causing their mother to catch her breath in alarm. But they had a blast and didn't get swept out to sea. All in all, a good thing.

Last stop: Ice Cream in the village of Jamestown. It was a little soft for my liking, and melted all over us before we had a chance to finish it, but I will say it was delicious! As I have recently forayed into homemade ice cream, I was very appreciative of the fine quality. (I had death by chocolate.... It was divine!)

Finally, over the bridge and back to our side of the bay. The temperature and humidity climbed as we approached home. We all just crashed when we got back... Nguyen and Emmett on the sofa, me in bed upstairs and Noah, the sole hold-out, relishing that he had control of the remote and could watch Animal Planet with no argument from anyone.

What a delicious day.