A visit from John of the Cross

I have mentioned before that I am a member of a yahoo group called 'Spark of the day'.

A couple of times a week, the moderator sends out a quote from John of the Cross. Usually is it without comment. It is a lovely little message in my inbox, usually inviting me to spend a moment or two thinking about what Juan de la Cruz has to say.

Today, he is talking about spiritual dryness:

God values in you the inclination to dryness and suffering for love of
him more than all the consolations, spiritual visions, and meditations
you could possibly have.

John of the Cross
"Sayings of Light and Love"

When I first converted, I was all about the consolations. God had used them to draw me to himself for years before I finally stopped resisting and became a Christian. It was the Holy Spirit who first got my attention, giving me mystical experiences which beckoned me to walk towards him. After my baptism, I experienced consolations intensely for months.

I would have a physical reaction during these experiences. I would feel slightly queasy, like I was going to faint. My head would swim. My extremities felt tingly. It wasn't as scary as it sounds. It was the sweetest high you can imagine.

Over the last year or so, these experiences have dropped off. And while I miss them, surely, I also feel that it might just indicate that my relationship with God is maturing. I am gradually letting go of the idea that mystical experiences=spiritual maturity. In fact, it might be just the opposite for me.

How about you? Have you found your relationship with God changes over the years?

What has your experience been?

Friday Five....

On Monday morning!


1. Favorite summer food(s) and beverage(s)

I love ice cream. Since I don't indulge in sugar much, these days, I drive to the nearest Brickley's (a family owned place). They have the best no-sugar added ice cream I have ever had. Maple Walnut.

I also love grilled lamb. Sometimes we shish kabob it. Sometimes just throw a marinated, butterflied leg on to barbeque and sometimes we eat it ground, like burgers, with yogurt and mint. I swear I must have been middle eastern in another life. If I had another life. Which I didn't. Because I don't believe in such things. ;-)

2. Song that "says" summer to you. (Need not be about summer explicitly.)

It's a Beautiful Day, by U2.

3. A childhood summer memory

Summer was bad for me after about the age of 11. I think I suffered terribly, from boredom, loneliness. Heat stroke. In fact, it has taken me YEARS to find any charm in summer at all. Part of it was that I was always chubby, which makes the heat unbearable. Part was that my parents got divorced and I could get away with sitting in front of the TV for months on end because everyone was off at work.

One bright spot: When I was 18 I worked in downtown Newport trying to sell long distance telephone service to tourists. I loved my coworkers and we had a blast. We even talked our way into the Newport Jazz festival with a tank of helium and our MCI uniforms on.


4. An adult summer memory:

I am learning to cherish tiny moments. So for me, sitting on my bench, talking long distance to my dad and looking up to notice a squirrel passed out on the mulberry tree after having over indulged in overripe berries. (Think tanked squirrel).

Or lying in my hammock and gazing at the sky through the branches of the old silver maple.

Or watching thunderheads roll in from the west. Grabbing the kids and sitting on our front porch watching the storm.

5. Describe a wonderful summer day you'd like to have in the near future. (weather, location, activities)

Cool weather. Walking on a deserted beach. At twilight.

It's a beautiful day!

Oh, blessed sacrament. I was so happy to take communion this morning after missing it last week. I can see, sometimes, how Catherine of Sienna wanted only the Eucharist for her meals.

The weather was stunning today, too. After church we piled all the bikes in the back of Nguyen's truck and drove to Bristol so we could ride the bike path. It was packed! We rode from Colt State park to the Audubon sanctuary and back again. Stopped for hot dogs at the town beach. Visited my mom in her new apartment. Had a nice dinner at a restaurant in Newport and topped off the evening by borrowing a fishing rod from a complete stranger and catching 4 blue fish off the Goat Island bridge. At sunset. In Newport.

The kids collapsed when we got home. Nguyen cleaned the fish. We are going to try smoking them in the gas grill tomorrow.

Thank you, Beloved, for the many gifts of this day.

Why I am a Christian, part 387

A friend came by for coffee this morning. She has been having a very difficult time with family issues. It would not be a stretch to say that her situation is causing her to suffer.

She knows I am a Jesus freak, and in fact, has been going back to church since I started talking with her about it. I know that it isn't an instant fix, but I also know that if she invites him to, God will help her through this painful time.

She is a Roman Catholic.

I told her: Your church does a particularly good job of helping to understand the role of suffering in our lives. John Paul II wrote an amazing encyclical about how suffering can be the doorway to salvation. Humans suffer. It is a common thing we all share. All of us at some point or another experience it. But because God knew that, he used his own suffering on the cross as the vehicle for redemption. Suffering will never be meaningless now. It always has the power to be redeemed through Jesus. People will fail you, but God never will let you suffer alone. And in fact, it is in your suffering that you reach out to him.

I think this helped her.

I have another friend who has been suffering from tremendous health problems for the last few years. One thing keeps leading to another and his health gets worse and worse. I keep thinking of Job.

But when I mentioned Job to him, recently, he laughed and said he was ready to move on to the psalms.

Of course! The psalms are much more of a complete picture of our engagement with God. We whine at him. We sing joyful praises. We thank him. Ask him to help us. Bow before him when he does. The suffering in the psalms is probably closer to what most of us actually experience because it is not unrelenting. We have moments or days or years of joy mingled in with anger or grief or loss. What the psalms teach us, more than anything, is that we must always turn to God.

I never really learned much about Buddhism. I read a few books, but at the end of the day, the idea of detachment just didn't work for me. I am a mom, after all. It seemed all too easy to detach if you were a monk or nun. But as a mom, detaching from my children seemed not only impossible, but undesirable. Unnatural. In the Buddhist scheme of things, my attachment to them will likely cause me to suffer at some point.

But what Jesus promises is that our Love, although we may suffer for it, will ultimately be the very thing that redeems us from suffering forever.

Last Day

Today is the last day of school. The kids wanted to ride their new bikes, even though rain is in the offing. I wrote thank you notes to their teachers and hauled out my dusty Huffy mountain bike that I bought at the thrift store a few years ago for $7.99. That's seven dollars and ninety nine cents. My helmet cost more!

I have forgotten how much fun it is to ride a bike. Around here, we don't have great biking areas since our neighborhood is surrounded on all sides by highway, river, huge 4 lane roads. But we cruise around in our little neighborhood and wave to folks who are working in their yards or buckling up toddlers on the way to preschool. The dogs are mostly confined and the squirrels know to get out of the road ahead of us. I know I am supposed to follow all the traffic laws, but in this small neighborhood, I get a little thrill when I fly through a stop sign on my bike. (Never when the kids are with me, of course!) I love the speed of being on a bike.

So, the bikes are dusted and oiled. The pool is open. We are heading to the library tomorrow for summer reading lists and packing our beach bag with sunscreen and hats.

Summer is here.

And I am feeling appropriately lazy.

Boom Boom

I went to my first drum lesson last night. I showed up at the Black Repertory Theatre with my djembe and ten bucks, feeling very shy. The teacher was friendly though. He is a young man from Mali, I think. There were three other students, all men. They seemed like they had been taking the class for awhile and were pretty good at following the rhythms.

I sucked.

As I knew I would. Not only do I not have natural rhythm, but it turns out that the physical act of drumming requires a kind of coordination that I apparently don't have. It's not even hand/eye. It's just hand. But you have to make your muscles do things that they simply do NOT want to. Like hit a bass note and then a slap all in one movement. I just want to pound the middle of the drum in 4/4 time and call it a day.

It turns out that in western Africa, the songs ARE the rhythms. There are rhythms for weddings and for funerals. Rhythms for celebrations and circumcisions. Rhythms for conjuring and for giving thanks. And people know them like we would know the wedding march or Pomp and Circumstance. It is the musical accompaniment of their lives.

In class we were learning 5 wedding rhythms. They seemed very complicated to me, especially when the teacher started playing the melody lines on the dun dun. I instantly lost track of what I was doing and started banging in all the wrong moments. Dear Teacher would then smile and stop the melody and get me back on track, patiently repeating the rhythm over and over until I could feebly follow along.

The other guys were generous about not rolling their eyes.

I regret to inform them that I am going to be back next week.

Ha.

Another letting go

Yesterday, at my former UU church, the minister that baptized me preached his last sermon before moving to his new church in Oregon.

We were greeted with many smiles and hugs. I recognized nearly everyone there. Knew everyone by name, as though I had never left. There only about 10 or 15 new faces. Everyone commented on how big and handsome the boys have gotten. They asked me how I was. Was I happy at my new church? Was it good to be back? I instantly felt the warmth that I loved so much about the place. It was like seeing family after a long trip away.

I was a bit surprised at how few people were in attendance. I didn't count, but it looked like there were only about 45 people in the pews. This on a day that was a significant milestone in the life of the church. Bell Street has lost a lot of it's members over the last year or so. I knew this, but was still, somehow, stunned.

I sat in a pew with my friends and started to notice how different the interior of the space is from my new church. Bell Street Chapel was built over a hundred years ago by a wealthy man named James Eddy. He lived on the adjoining property, and envisioned this as a place for the Providence Religious Society, a humanist organization, to hold meetings. The architecture, therefore, is decidedly humanist. The main room is on the second floor. People walk up a huge set of stairs to the second floor, where they are elevated above the world outside. There is no focal point in the chancel, except the wooden pulpit itself. Hense, the preacher becomes the sole object of attention. By contrast, most Christian churches I have been in have the altar in the center. Or a cross or image of Christ. The priest or preacher is relegated off to the side, which reinforces that they are NOT the main focal point.

Steve's sermon was a sweet farewell. It seemed to follow a pattern of prayer, beginning with what he was thankful for, followed by an apology for what he did or did not do (confession!) and winding down with his gentle suggestions for the future. (Intercessions?)

But somewhere in the middle of the service, I began to realize that I felt disconnected from what was going on. It wasn't that I was uninterested... it's just that it seemed so aimless for me without a clear focus on God. I became more deeply aware of the fact that, by design, the object of worship in a UU church is the church itself. The community. The covenants. The relationships. A few years ago, Steve, in a moment of bravery, described the UU church as one in which people milled around at the base of the mountain, congratulating themselves that they could choose any path to the top and all would be valid. But sometimes they never actually started up the mountain.

People drift from UUism. The average UU is only a member for 7 years. After those 7 years are up, they either move on to other churches or religious organizations or just stop attending altogether. The vast majority of the folks I have talked to who have left Bell Street in the last year have simply stopped going anywhere.

I have my suspicions about why this is so.

Going to church every week requires more than just will power. In the beginning, you go because you like it, or you want to be with people, you feel at home, or you get something out of it. But there inevitably comes a point when you get tired or cranky. Things don't seem to be 'working' for you. You might be burned out or tired of the same old sermons. A relationship goes sour. Same old same old. So, one Sunday, you lie in bed and read the paper and drink coffee, instead.

It happens in Christian churches, too, I imagine. But in a Christian church, the focus of the experience is not just feeling good or hearing a great sermon or seeing friends or doing good works. It is about worshiping God. God who deserves, in all times and in all places, to be worshiped. It is that drive to worship that pulls me out of bed at the unholy hour of 7:30 every Sunday morning. If left to my will power alone, I too, would be drinking coffee and reading the latest home and garden section.

It is laying aside our own desires so we can focus on what is pleasing to God. Letting go, just for that morning, of the focus on ourselves and what we would normally want.

My whole experience of God while at Bell Street was one of a deep longing. Finding God in a UU church is a little like playing cat and mouse. He is there, of course. But you don't get to talk about him or drop to your knees to worship, or sing his name or taste him. You sneak him in, now and then, but he is always just beyond your reach. I grew to long for him so powerfully. I would sit in the sanctuary during a service and lose track of what was going on, gazing out the window at the trees and the sky, catching glimpses of my beloved in the clouds and leaves and birds. Longing. Painfully longing.

The first time I went to a Christian church after leaving Bell Street, I just sat and wept through the whole service. Here am I, Lord. Finally. Finally I can bow down and worship you, my Beloved.

If that longing for worship and connection to God isn't present, what keeps people coming? What draws people out of bed and into the complicated world of group relationships?

I don't know.

I am tremendously grateful for having discovered my longing for God at Bell Street. But I realized yesterday that I will never truly feel at home there, again.

Beloved,

I pray for all the souls who long for you and have not yet found you.

1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
  Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
  Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
  Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love.

2. Here I raise my Ebenezer; here by Thy great help I've come;
  And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
  Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God;
  He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

3. O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
  Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
  Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love;
  Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.

Now I can stink even louder

At Grace, we have done a little drumming lately.

Last week, before the service, we sat out on the front steps and played African and Caribbean drums, much to the surprise of the passers by. We were quite a spectacle, three almost middle aged women and a young man. The young man in question was, unquestionably, the most serious of the four of us. He might have felt a little pressure to be good since he just got back from a trip to Africa. The rest of us were free to stink. People in cars slowed down and rolled down their windows to get a better look. People walked up and talked to us. One man, an older guy, who lives at the shelter I think, said that he used to be a percussionist in a jazz band. (Maybe he can join us next time.)

So, today, I bought a Djembe from the Guitar Center. It is an inexpensive one with a goatskin head and a wooden body. It is African style, although it seems to have been made in Indonesia. I brought it home and played it for awhile before lunch, realizing that my neighbors get to hear every misstep... every bad strike.... every off bang.

I was shy with the kid in the music store. I suddenly felt very middle aged and dorky. I mean, what was I going to say? "I am buying a drum so I can play with my friends at church?" How totally lame. So instead I asked a few technical questions and pulled out my Visa card. "I'll take it."

Archaeology

I have been worried about my messy house lately. I can't seem to find the motivation to keep it clean. I get distracted by things like blogging and naps and lying in my hammock thinking about God. I spend too much time in my head and not enough with a sponge in my hand.

But the truth is, I get nervous in immaculate houses. My kitchen tools gig brings me into them once in awhile. Places that are not only fastidiously clean, but look like no one lives there. I have been in homes where there were no personal effects. All the stuff was purchased, new, from Pier One or some design store. No mementos or artwork. No books or papers or stuff handed down from family members. Sterile. It makes me nervous. It seems unreal to me.

And while it is true that my house could be cleaner, it is also true that unless you are an anal retentive neat freak, you will probably feel at home in it. You will know who we are by the stuff you see on the mantle. You will read the story of our family from the artifacts on the china cabinet that my dad built when he had his first home. It is painted cranberry and stained, now, with thirty years of smoke and grime from our various wood stoves and fireplaces.

My kitchen floor is like an archeology dig: Maybe not pot shards and middens. But the corner of a leaf of yesterday's lettuce or the remnants of a lemonade spill.

Dig in my sink drainer: Green onion, garlic skins, some acrylic paint or a pencil nub.

Our walls are painted earthy colors like cowslip yellow and ochre orange. hanging on it we have an antique Ames shovel, a photo of my dour great grandmother, paintings from friends and kids.

A collection of small animal skulls sits on a shelf.

There are a couple of crosses, too. A ceramic one from the dollar store in the kitchen. A barbed wire one from Arizona in the dining room. And on the mantle, a slate circle with a chi rho symbol carved into it. My dad made it for me.

Price Rite

After dropping off my kids this morning, I went to Price Rite, the local discount grocery store, to pick up some things.

4 heads of lettuce, for starters. I can't afford that at the regular store, and we go through so much of it because of the rabbit. So I pack my cart with romaine at $1.09 a head.

The meat aisle wasn't a big success. I found boneless chicken breasts for $1.99 a lb. But alas, no ground lamb. Or any lamb, for that matter. And the beef didn't look good.

As I was standing at the meat case wondering what to make for dinner, an employee pulling a big cart was backing out of the double doors to the back room.

"You guys f#$%ing suck..." he laughed. Then he realized that I had heard him.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize I was already on the floor"

I smiled at him.

"That's a fine way to say good morning" he joked.

"Let's try it again: Good morning!" he said.

"Good morning!" I laughed.

And it is.

$48.20

That is how much the lady at the used bookstore gave me for a big box of my tarot books and decks today.

I have been debating about what to do with these for awhile now.

Do I dramatically burn them in my driveway?

Ebay?

Give them to friends?

Give them to my rabbit?

I have really struggled. But in the end, I decided to sell them to the used bookstore for a tiny fraction of what they were worth.

I packed the box up a week ago, combing through my bookshelf for all the books that didn't resonate for my anymore. One by one I pulled them out, blew the dust off and packed them carefully into a big cardboard box. These are the remnants of who I used to be. The decks, especially, were ones that I loved. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a twinge of wistfulness as I packed them up.

So why get rid of them? Because I know that I don't need them anymore. My joy is found in God. My bible is all I the 'oracle' I need. If I am troubled, I take my troubles to Jesus. I don't need to know what is coming around the bend anymore. All I need to know is that when I get there, I will be in God's presence.

I don't want to talk about your future, either. Now, if you are hurting, rather than try and give you answers, I will pray with you and for you. I will point you to the one who has healed me. I will give thanks to him for saving me and ask him to comfort you.

So why sell them? Why NOT get rid of them?

Because they were stepping stones on my journey towards God.

Fall before the Lord

Over and over it mentions in the Bible that when people encounter God, they fall on their faces to worship him.

I believe it.

For a couple of years I had a centering prayer practice. I did it very badly. While I was supposed to be emptying my head so I could invite God in, I would often dwell on other things. Some days it was mundane stuff like the groceries or bills. But once in awhile I would meditate on things from my past, with an eye to understanding a situation with more love or compassion or religious clarity.

And every once in awhile, I would experience such a thunderbolt of clarity it would feel like God was holding my head and turning it in the direction he wanted me to look. It felt like he was in the room with me, comforting me when I had to face some truth that had been plaguing me for years.

At those moments, I would feel physically compelled to drop out of the chair I was sitting in and kneel on the floor, face down, the warp and weft of the rug I was on, pressing it's impression into my bare knees, the marks of the wool knots on my forehead.

I would want to lay there for hours, sometimes. But I never did because I would grow impatient with the pain and get up, too soon.

The passage from Revelations yesterday described the elders of Heaven doing the very same thing: Falling on their faces before the Lord. They cast their crowns in front of Him.

What would that mean for me? What crown can I cast before him, I wonder? My biggest crown might very well be my own self. It is the most precious thing I have. Perhaps it is to be tossed in front of God, as a gesture of awe and thanks.

God's flair for the dramatic

I was reading from Revelations at church today.

In the middle of the reading, a huge thunderclap boomed overhead. The church practically shook. So I paused and waited for the sound to die down before continuing:

Reve 4:5 Coming from the throne are flashes of lightning, and rumblings and peals of thunder, and in front of the throne burn seven flaming torches, which are the seven spirits of God; 6 and in front of the throne there is something like a sea of glass, like crystal.

Around the throne, and on each side of the throne, are four living creatures, full of eyes in front and behind: 7 the first living creature like a lion, the second living creature like an ox, the third living creature with a face like a human face, and the fourth living creature like a flying eagle. 8 And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and inside. Day and night without ceasing they sing,

"Holy, holy, holy,

the Lord God the Almighty,

who was and is and is to come."

9 And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks to the one who is seated on the throne, who lives forever and ever, 10 the twenty-four elders fall before the one who is seated on the throne and worship the one who lives forever and ever; they cast their crowns before the throne, singing,

11 "You are worthy, our Lord and God,

to receive glory and honor and power,

for you created all things,

and by your will they existed and were created."

My kitchen tools gig last night was with some friends from my old church. It was great to see them again, and meet their friends.

I almost cried when I saw their son, who is now 16 and towers over me. I spent a wonderful couple of days with him and the rest of the teens just before leaving Bell Street. We went on retreat, the minister, youth leader and I. We walked the labyrinth and journaled and cooked together and played poker, hung out at the beach at night and recognized in one another the deep longing for spiritual connectedness. Dear Boy was 14 at the time, and interested in Buddhism. I had just inherited a small Thai Buddha statue from my grandmother, which for some reason I chose to bring along on the retreat. And then, for some other reason, chose to give to Dear Boy. He was a little blown away, I think. I had other gifts for the other participants, including the young Christian woman I was mentoring through the coming of age program.

I asked Dear Boy's parents about his spiritual life. Is he meditating? No, they said. He is too into girls and sports right now. They haven't been going to church lately.

Sometimes I forget I am getting old. But I am reminded of it when I see kids growing into adulthood.

I pray, oh Lord, that Dear Boy doesn't bury his longing for you for too long.

Hopes and Dreams

As it is graduation season, the RevGalBlogPals are doing a Friday Five on hopes and dreams for the future. From the past. In the present.

Here it is!

1. Think back to the time you left High School, what were your hopes visions and dreams for your life/ for the world?

I wanted to move to Japan and teach English to the children of rich business men. I also wanted to be a filmmaker.

2. Have those hopes visions and dreams changed a lot, or are some of them still alive and kicking? (share one if you can)

LOL, none of those dreams panned out, and really, none of them have survived. My interest in things Japanese faded after a disastrous semester studying the language at the University of Hawaii. And filmmaking, by necessity, took a back seat to earning money. I never really did understand the eyeline match, anyway. I would have ended up making weird western Ozu-like films that no one would have wanted to see.

3. Hebrews 11:1 " Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. " Comforting, challenging or frustrating?

I really have no clue what the first part of that quote means. How does something that is hoped for have substance? The second part is pretty challenging, too, as it is very difficult to find evidence for that which isn't seen.

4. If resources were unlimited, and you had free reign to pursue a vision what would it be?

My answer to this has changed dramatically over the years! Today, I believe it would be to organize some kind of worldwide program for kids of all faiths to get together and build relationships. I think that might just be the hope of the world. In a small way, my church is already doing this and I think that it is kind of a miracle.

5. Finally with summer upon us- and not to make this too heavy- share your dream holiday....where, when and who with...

I dream of going to the Holy Lands.

Really, I have to say, though, that the biggest of my lifelong dreams was to find joy. And that has been achieved, in spades.

Thanks be to God.

Happy Birthday to me

I am one year in to being a confirmed member of the Body of Christ and it has been a wild and wonderful ride.

Pentecost is my anniversary. And while my conditional baptism and confirmation weren't quite as life-upside-down-ish as my original Big Dunk, it has been a year of feeling more and more knitted into the fabric of our Lord's cloak.

My Catholic friends and relatives keep telling me that 'yeah, that's great, but you need to come all the way home.' (Direct quote from my brother in law who was visiting this weekend.)

I have come to understand that my faith, to the rest of the world, is never going to be 'right'. For my atheist family, it is too much. For my Catholic relatives, it is not enough. For my liberal friends I am too traditional, for my conservative brothers and sisters, I am way too liberal. And my Pentecostal friends are pretty sure that my interest in things liturgical must be a delusion, or worse.

But this morning, when, in my pajamas, I went over to the fence to talk to my neighbor whose mom just had surgery for pancreatic cancer... my faith was just exactly right. I'll pray for her, I said. And you.

'She is going to be a testimony,' he said. 'We all believe she can beat this.'

And suddenly, I too, believed that she could beat it. Even though I know it is the worst cancer there is. Even though my brother in law and grandfather both died of it. The strength of his conviction was so powerful I suddenly believed that Jesus could and would kick some cancer ass for this woman.

Today, my faith is exactly the right size.


Beloved Jesus,

Heal your servant, Edna. Give her strength and courage. Be with her family as they support her through this. Heal your servant, Lord, that she may continue to do your good works.

Amen.

Habit forming

It has been a long time since I have played the RevGalBlogPal's Friday Five.... but here we are.

This week we are talking about habits:

1. Have you ever successfully quit a bad habit, or gotten a good habit established? Tell us about how you did it.

17 years ago this August I quit a pack-and-a-half-a-day Camel Filters habit. How I did it: For about 3 months before the quit date, I told myself that as of that date I was going to be a non-smoker. I repeated this to myself all day long. I told everyone who would listen. I chose a symbolic date and pictured it in my head. This was long before internet support, so I bought a little book by the American Lung Association that had a step by step daily program for the first three weeks. It was brutal, but I did it. And have been smoke free since. (Well, except for the very occasional cigar... but I have even given those up now. I promised my kids I would never smoke again if they would promise never to start.)


2. "If only there were a 12-step program for _________________!"

Hello, my name is Rachel and I am a nap addict....

3. Share one of your healthy "obsessions" with us.

This one is so obvious. God.

4. Share the habit of a spouse, friend or loved one that drives you C-R-A-Z-Y.

My husband, because he has an underbite, chews funny, especially if his food is hot. Blow on the food, honey. It really works.

5. "I'd love to get into the habit of ___________________."

Exercising? Nah.

Praying daily? Been doing it pretty regularly since Easter.

Doing laundry once in awhile? Yup. And actually putting it away. That would be a GREAT habit to form.

Bonus: What is one small action you might take immediately to make #5 a reality?

Stick the current load into the dryer before it mildews and has to be washed a second time. As in, today. Like, right now.

Bonus 2: Try it, and let us know how it goes in a future post!

Really want to know? OK!

Playing

It has been almost a year since my last piano lesson, and I haven't played much at all in the interim. My piano is out of tune. The bench is covered with work papers and the top of the piano has a pencil sharpener where the metronome used to be.

But the other day, I sat down and played the Sinfonia from Handel's Messiah from memory.

Unity

Today, I pray for unity in the body of Christ.

Salad Dressing

I don't know if I have mentioned here that I am completely obsessed with Paul Newman's Olive Oil and Vinegar dressing. I mean, I could probably chug the stuff. We have eaten it every day for, oh, I don't know, 10 years or so. And it isn't just me that joneses for it. My kids, my husband... all of us.

About a month ago I wrote a letter to Paul Newman's company, demanding that they send me the recipe. I can't keep on buying this stuff, I huffed. It is $3.50 a pint and we eat it every stinkin' day and I am going broke. My kids college fund? Ate it with kalamata olives and feta cheese. That trip to Vietnam we keep talking about? Doused it on romaine lettuce and hearts of palm. The new kitchen cabinets? Poured over chopped tomatoes and cukes.

Sigh.

I got an almost sympathetic note back telling me that, NO, they wouldn't give me the recipe. But if I wanted, they'd send a couple of coupons. That isn't going to buy us plane tickets, but ok. I got an envelope with $2 bucks worth of coupons in the mail.

Now, before you think I am completely insane, (too late, you say...) I have spent the last 10 years trying to reproduce the recipe. I have the list of ingredients from the bottle. I have done some online sleuthing and discovered that Paul marinates his garlic and onions in vinegar before mixing it with the oils so that he doesn't have to use preservatives. I have tested and mixed and chopped and whisked, to no avail.

And it's not that I can't make a perfectly delicious homemade dressing. From a French uncle I learned about lemon, garlic and olive oil with kosher salt, all crushed with a wooden spoon in the bottom of a wooden bowl. It is fantastic.

But for some reason, whatever the addictive quality of the NOOO&V (Newman's Own Olive Oil and Vinegar) is, I couldn't replicate it.

Last night though, the Holy Spirit, friend of fermented grapes everywhere, came to me and I whisked this together:

1 clove crushed garlic
2 T finely minced red onion
1/8 c red wine vinegar
Juice of 1/2 a lemon
1/2 t prepared dijon mustard
Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste. (For us, lots!)
1/2 cup pure olive oil (not extra virgin) (or to taste)


Add everything except the oil together and whip with a whisk. Taste! If you like the flavors, add the oil and whisk to emulsify. Today I quadrupled the recipe and made it a big Ball jar.

It's good. Really good. And my family said it kicked Newman's ass.


Ya hear that Paul?!?!

Family photo op

I opened the Grace Church email newsletter yesterday to find this photo. It's a picture of Bishop Wolf pouring the baptismal waters in preparation for the Pentecost baptisms last year. My kids and I were among those who were baptized. You can see my sponsor, Adrienne, on the left, my sister in law, husband and me on the other side. My brother in law is poking his head out from behind me and the Canon to the Ordinary. Today I asked Fr. Rich if he has a high resolution copy of this image so I can print it up and frame it.

As I was driving home from a wonderful meeting at Grace today, I flashed on this photo and for some bizarre reason, burst into tears.

I think it was gratitude.

Did I make this up?

In an email to a friend, I said that when we sit at the communion rail and accept the body and blood of Christ into ourselves, we are connected, through Him, to all other Christians for all of eternity.

I said it again to my dear former UU minister, Steve, at lunch today. In that case, I was talking about the fact that the potential schism in the Episcopal church was not the whole story. There is much to hope for. I suggested that ultimately, when we take communion together, we are in communion with each other through Christ. Christ, who heals all wounds.

Did I make this up? Or did something I read somewhere sink in? I don't know. Someone quote some scripture at me!

More and more I am experiencing a sense of Christ's ability to transcend time and location, especially in the Eucharist.

Speaking of Steve:

He is off to a new church in Eugene, OR this summer. I admitted that I was sad he was going because even though I have left my UU church, there is a part of me that doesn't want it to change in my absence. I want it to be just as I left it, nearly two years ago. Isn't that funny?

Steve has been an important part of my spiritual journey. It was he who baptized me 4 years ago. I feel grateful to him.

Beloved,

Go with your servant, Steve. Help him be a good minister to his new church. Let him continue to be a light in the lives of those he encounters.... as he has been in mine.

Praise to you, Lord Christ

It is Ascension day!

I agreed to go to the Cathedral and sing with the choirs of Grace Church and St. John's for the evening mass. It was sort of funny, actually. My two kids sat in a very tall sided colonial pew where I could only just see the tops of their heads. There was a huge bunch of people singing in the choirs. The Dean of the Cathedral and the Deacon were decked out in their golden finest.

And about 8 people sat in the pews.

But you know what? It ain't about singing for the people in the pews, is it? No. I sang my heart out to my Beloved. Thanking Him. Praising Him. Having a great time, even when I missed a note or closed my eyes in rapture and screwed up the words.

I love the idea of Jesus up there praying for us. Today and every day, He sits at the right hand of the Father and keeps us in his prayers.

Thank you, my Beloved.

You are always in my prayers, too. Prayers of thanks and joy. Praise and gratitude. LOVE.

And speaking of prayers: A special prayer for a friend who has experienced a lot of deaths in the last week. Be gentle with him Lord. He is tender right now.

I got tagged!

Rachel at Swandive tagged me! I am so excited!!!


The rules are: People who are tagged start by thinking about 7 random facts/habits about themselves. Each player then must write about those seven things on their blog, as well as include these rules. Players then need to choose 7 people to tag and list their names. Don’t forget to leave each person a comment telling them they’ve been tagged.

1. I have a secret office supply fetish. Manila folders in bright colors make me swoon. I love reams of paper. A freshly sharpened wooden pencil is just. so. enticing. I once met a guy who had the same fetish. His mother had been a school teacher and he had a whole closet in his house filled with construction paper, glue and staplers. I was jealous.

The irony is that my office space is a disaster area. I yearn for organization because it doesn't come to my naturally.

2. I suck the last bit of ketchup out of the little plastic packet when I think noone is looking. It is habit that goes back as far as I can remember. And frankly it is disgusting when you consider that some stranger handled the packet on it's way to your takeout bag. Which I don't. Consider that, I mean, when I am in the act.

3. I am a little phobic about the summer. As a kid and teen I would get deeply depressed in the summertime, spending days and months in a dark room watching tv or listening to a radio. I still face summers with a certain amount of unease. Perhaps it is that I am a redhead and the sun is my sworn enemy. Beaches, for me, aren't fun, even though I love the water. Plus, as I have been overweight all my life, heat is not my friend. But my kids are teaching me to enjoy it more. At the beginning of the season we pack the car with a beach chair and an umbrella and spf 10,000 sunblock and head to little beaches and the ocean all summer long. I find I sometimes actually enjoy it.

4. I love kissing my rabbit. He has a soft nose and funny buck teeth and I have discovered that he loves it when I rub my nose on his and give him little kisses. I am a little allergic to him, but it is so worth the itchy eyes to get a little bunny love.

5. My favorite style of shoes is clogs. At the beach house last weekend, I walked around in a pair of lime green crocs for 3 days. My parents were very amused.

6. I read the bible in 90 days last year and am pretty sure that I retained about 3% of it. Although maybe, at this point, I could build a pretty good approximation of a temple. It sure gets described often enough.

7. John the Baptist is one of my favorite saints.

OK:

Here are the next 7 to be tagged:

Antony, Adam, Natalia, Emily, Mary Beth, Nancy, Widening Circles

Off to the beach

My parents rented a little cottage at the beach for the weekend and we are heading down this afternoon. My dear husband will meet us (much) later tonight. He is driving to New Hampshire tonight to attend the wake of his former boss, who, with his son, died in a canoing accident last weekend. (Prayers for them and their family are appreciated. David Sr and Jr.)

So I will be incommunicado until Monday, but I pray that I will be full of patience and love this weekend. I ask God to watch over Nguyen as he journeys to say goodbye to his old friend. I pray for good weather.

And today, as always, I am grateful that everything is in the hands of the Beloved.

Weekday Mass

It has been quite awhile since I have made it to Providence in time to go to afternoon mass at St. Stephens.

The hassle factor is high: I have to try and convince my husband to come home early from work, then fight traffic on Rt. 10 and downtown Providence for a half an hour. Meander around the block a few times looking for parking. Avoid hitting dazed Brown students who never, it seems, were taught to look both ways before crossing a street.

Then, on a beautiful, warm, sunny day, enter into a dark church that smells of old incense and waxed floors. Sit in creaky wooden chairs. Kneel on hard vinyl cushions. Say words from an old Anglican prayerbook. (Thees and thous and holpen. Meet and right so to do.) Listen to a brief homily about a Saint I never heard of.

And yet.

And yet.

There am I, approaching the rail. Getting on my knees in front of a priest I don't know that well. Taking the wafer into my hands and lifting it to my mouth. Feeling the cold rim of a silver cup on my lips. The warmth of the red wine making it's way down. The rest of the service is almost a blur. Driving home. More traffic. More wayward students.

But also sunset. Quiet when I get home. The kids are at soccer. I sit under a huge spruce tree and watch the sun begin to set behind the bank of newly leafed silver maples. Listen to the riot of birds

and realize that I have never,

in my life

been happier.

O Lord, open thou my lips

and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise.

I sang in the pick-up choir at Grace church yesterday and it was a great experience!

On the first Sunday of the month, our normal choir gets the day off and the rest of us can have a chance to sing unto the Lord in an informal gathering that rehearses for the hour before the service.

Yesterday I got to church early with my fabulous homemade rum cake and was collared by Mark, our choir director, as I was helping set-up breakfast. Are you going to sing today? He asked.

Uh, Ok. Sure. I replied. I'm game for anything that gets me closer to the altar.

It was the first time I have joined in, and I found it surprising.

Who knew that our very serious and a little intimidating choir director was so wonderful to work with? Not only does he have a sly sense of humor, but he is very good at leading. Clearly he understands that this is worship. I was worried that I would miss notes or go off key, but he shepherded us wonderfully. I felt very supported throughout the whole service, which allowed me to get my focus off my fear of screwing up and keep it on singing to God with joy. Which I did... in my raspy, nodes on the vocal chords, tenor.

We sang the psalm and played hand bells. We did a Taize chant. We sang an exuberant march at the end. We sang hymns from Pakistan and Tanzania and ancient Israel and France. And best of all, we got to sit in the choir seats, up in the chancel, right next to the pulpit and the altar.

I think I might just do it again next month.

This rabbit has lucky feet for sure

Rabbits have fur on the bottom of their feet. I suppose that is good for running on grass, but not so great for hardwoods, where they get no traction and tend to slide around a lot.

Thankfully, Theo managed to get moving yesterday.

My parents were over for my father's birthday dinner. Since they have been in town, we have been putting a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs to keep their dog, Hank, away from our rabbit, Theo. Theo normally lives in the living room, but for the duration of my parent's stay (1 month) we have him up in the boys' room.

I was in the kitchen with Dad and my step mother, Adele, when suddenly we heard a big scuffle and barking and claws on a wood floor coming from upstairs. For a split second, we didn't register what was happening, then, simultaneously, we realized, in horror, that we had forgotten to put the baby gate up. Hank had found Theo.

The three of us sprinted towards the stairs, yelling "HANK, NO!" at the top of our lungs. Suddenly, Theo came careening down the stairs, through my legs and into the dining room. Hank was tearing after him. I grabbed a handful of butt fur, while my dad managed to catch him by the collar.

I ran into the dining room to find Theo hiding under the shoe rack, trembling. Gently, gently, I picked him up. Dad kept Hank out of sight in the kitchen while I carried my very shaken bunny upstairs. Once I had him in the boys' room, I shut the door and put him on the bed to check him out. No cuts. No punctures. A tiny tuft of fur missing from his haunch, but no raw skin. The only visible sign of the encounter was a big bump on his nose, which I kissed to make better. We calmed him as best we could, plying him with raisins and bananas. He ate his dinner that night, which reassured us that he was going to be ok.

And this morning he pushed open the door of my bedroom and proceeded to eat my new leather sandal.

Good bunny.

At dinner last night we all said a special prayer of thanks.

Thank you, Beloved, for keeping our friend safe, yesterday.

Prayers for Vietnamese Christians

The Catholic Church in Dalat, Vietnam. My husband's home town.

Christians have been persecuted in Vietnam since the communists took control of the country in the 1950s. Slowly, over the last decade or so, they have been allowed more and more freedom of worship. Churches are open and services are being held.

However, an article in Christian Today reminds us that there is still much suffering.

Today, I ask that you include the people of Vietnam in your prayers.

God's Grace

Here's the thing:

When I was drawn to join Grace church a year and a half ago, I didn't know why. I didn't understand what my role was going to be at the church, or why God was calling me to become a member. In fact, I kept putting off sending in the membership card. I was a little surprised at the casual attitude Grace had towards membership. There were no classes. No prerequisite meeting with the priest. No discussion group or new member orientation. All we had to do was sign our name to a card and put it in the offering plate on Sunday.

And still, I held back. I didn't think Grace was really my church. Yes, I suppose I believed that God had brought me there, but in the back of my mind, it was just a stopover on the way to my real church (whatever that was).

But one day, a couple of months after I started to attend, my rector, Bob, happened to ask if I had sent in the card. (Why won't he stop asking me?!?!)

I'll do it, I thought. And I did. But not before meeting with Bob and telling him all the things I didn't like about his church. I am only agreeing to stay, I said, out of obedience to God.

Nice.

A few weeks later, I heard that we were in negotiations with another downtown church to discuss a merger and it was then that I began to get a glimpse of the edge of Christ's garment. I caught a little hint of the big picture.

I caught a glimpse of Grace.

In my heart, I was convinced that God was calling the members of Church of the Messiah, just like he had called me. I knew they didn't really understand why, any more than I did. But somehow, I just believed that they were being drawn to this behemoth of a church for a reason.

And as I got to know their rector, I began to believe that he, too, played some significant part in God's plan for Grace church.

There was grief for the Messiah folks. Loss. Sadness. Frustration. But little by little, just as there had been for me, I saw them beginning to get little glimpses of God's plans for them. I saw them begin to understand what they were doing in this strange land. And more and more, I felt that their priest was part of it too. He complimented our own rector so well. Their skills meshed together like two pieces of a bigger puzzle. It was clear that together, they could do so much more than either could as individuals. They were an amazing team.

But the agreement was that Fr. Rich would only stay a year. So a few months ago, he started looking for another gig. He went on interviews. He traveled around the country meeting with vestries. He collared deployment officers at conferences.

And all the while, I prayed. I prayed that he would be called to stay at Grace. That somehow we would work out the logistics, the financials, the details. With every trip, as he came that much closer to leaving, I became more and more convinced that he had to stay. We were his home. He is one of our priests. Please God, if it is your will that he stay, let him stay.

Last Sunday, Bob came to the Lectio Divina group. It was just three of us. We had a nice meeting, and as he was leaving, he turned to me and said,

"Rachel, I think your prayers have been answered."

I about wept for joy.

Which is what I always do when I catch a glimpse of the hem of Christ's garment... and see that in all the complexity of our lives, we are really just warps and wefts in his beautiful fabric.

At the service that morning, Bob announced to the congregation that Fr. Rich had agreed to stay on as a full time member of our clergy and he got a standing ovation.

Thank you, my Beloved.

I don't think we know what you have in mind for us, but I feel very sure that you have drawn us together for some reason. Guide us, O Lord, in the direction you would have us take. Teach us to be your ears and eyes and hands. Let us build the kingdom of your glory in our own back yard.

Help us bring Grace to Providence.

Quietly slip back into the conversation...

I took time off because I have been struggling with spiritual pride and wondered if the blog was contributing to it.

I am still not sure of the answer to that, but I do know that a month without blogging has resulted in much more attention to my personal journal and prayer time. And I have been more aware of my prayers being answered, which leaves me feeling humble and grateful indeed.

So, I am back, having fasted from blogging during Eastertide. Next year maybe I'll give it up for Lent instead, LOL.

(A lovely side effect of the blogfast is that I have been hanging out at your places. What luxury!)

One last time:

1. Have I done my daily spiritual practice?

Yes. I seem to be making a habit of getting on my knees a few times a day and it is wonderful. I think my knees are even getting used to it.

2. What unexpected opportunities has God put in my path since I last checked in?

A friend in crisis reached out to me and I spoke plainly to her about how God could (and would) help her cope with her situation. It was an amazing conversation.

3. Of the things I committed to doing, which have I done or not done since the last check in?

I did what I committed to doing.

4. What am I being called to do between now and the next time I check in?

I probably won't do this list again on the Big Dunk, but I think God is continuing to ask me to speak about him with people. Not complicate things too much, but just express as simply as possible:

Without God- Misery
With God- Joy

Week Three

Here's my check in for the week.

1. Have I done my daily spiritual practice?

Yes. I am still praying twice daily. I have been doing Compline with the kids each night. (When I am home.)

2. What unexpected opportunities has God put in my path since I last checked in?

I had lunch with two friends this week, both of whom have been having a tough time lately. It was wonderful to connect with them.

3. Of the things I committed to doing, which have I done or not done since the last check in?

I did what I hoped to do.

4. What am I being called to do between now and the next time I check in?

This week I am being called to speak plainly about the gifts that God has given me. I am going to work on that.

Finally, I am very excited because my church has offered a full time, permanent position to Fr. Rich who had temporarily come over with the merger last Pentecost. I believe that the Holy Spirit was in the midst of this process and am grateful that we got out of His way.

Thanks, God.

Week two

I miss my blog, LOL!

Here goes for week two:

1. Have I done my daily spiritual practice?

Yes. I bought a pillow at Marshalls last week to kneel on, and keep it on my bed, so it reminds me in the morning and in the evening to get down on the floor. It has helped a lot.

2. What unexpected opportunities has God put in my path since I last checked in?

This week the kids were on vacation and I took them to the movies with one of Noah's friends. Just spending time hanging out with them was good.

3. Of the things I committed to doing, which have I done or not done since the last check in?

I did what I hoped to do... spent time with the kids, prayed, read a book. It was a nice week.

4. What am I being called to do between now and the next time I check in?

Obedience seems to be an ongoing theme for me this week. I am called to look for ways to be obedient to God's will, especially as it concerns my daily practice.

Good Post Alert

Go read this.

It's good.

Week One

1. Have I done my daily spiritual practice?

Yes.

2. What unexpected opportunities has God put in my path since I last checked in?

A couple of things. First, a woman I was scheduled to meet with for childbirth classes was rushed to the hospital with severe pre-eclampsia. Instead of normal classes, I went to the hospital and talked to her about the cesarean she was going to undergo. I finished with a meditation, which left us both grateful and calm. Jesus figured prominently. I think the Holy Spirit knows a thing or two about birth. Her baby was born this morning and both are doing well.

The second was that I decided to call a friend of mine who has been battling a chronic heart condition to check in. Not only have we scheduled lunch, but he told me that a mutual friend of ours lost her son last week. I missed the memorial yesterday, but called her today to express my sadness at her loss. We are going to get together in a week or so. I think God was at work in both cases.

3. Of the things I committed to doing, which have I done or not done since the last check in?

I have done everything I promised I would do. I made a prayer list. I prayed it everyday. I called my friend.

4. What am I being called to do between now and the next time I check in?

This is vacation week for my children. I believe God is asking me to be present to them this week. Have fun. Enjoy them. Love them. Also, I think I am being asked to say prayers with them at night before they go to bed. I also think that when I feel fear about our economic situation, or anything else, I am to get down on my knees and pray.

On retreat

Dear friends in Christ,

Now that Holy Week is over I am going to take a retreat from my normal blog programming and try something new. For a month, I will check in regularly (weekly perhaps?) and answer the following questions:

1. Have I done my daily spiritual practice?

2. What unexpected opportunities has God put in my path since I last checked in?

3. Of the things I committed to doing, which have I done or not done since the last check in?

4. What am I being called to do between now and the next time I check in?


Think of it as an ongoing meme, if you will.

I'll see you back here in a few days.

Love+
Rachel

Icons

Did you know you can take a class for writing icons? I found this out while surfing the 'net one day. Apparently you can fly to Kentucky or some place and spend a week with a Russian woman who will teach you how to create your own paints with powdered pigments and egg yolks and attach linen to wood with hide glue. Then you learn the basics of making an icon.

I want to do it. I am not particularly artistic, but I am so drawn to the images I can imagine it must be wonderful to make them.

What would I make?

At first, maybe a single image, like John the Baptist, or Christ the Pantocrator. Or Mary.

But then, if I got good at it, I would like to paint Jesus' baptism.

Mountains and valleys

My former UU minister, Steve, once told me a story about his friend. He went to the top of a mountain in the Himalayas and had a life-changing spiritual experience. His head and heart opened up and he recognized, for the first time, the one-ness of all creation.

As he was descending the mountain, a beggar came up and started asking for money. Steve's friend, in a fit of anger, pushed him away.

I laughed when I heard that story because it is so true. Often our mountain top experiences end with a thump.

And so it was with Easter. I willingly dove into the abyss of the Triduum, scaled the heights of Easter and then landed with a bump on the ass yesterday. It was as close to actual depression as I have come in years. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, I was ready to shove the first person that happened to cross my path.

A friend recommended reading Job and Ecclesiastes. I read the passion in John instead. And it helped, by God. It did.

Christ is risen indeed

Alleluia, Alleluia!

3 hours and a confession

After the three hour service yesterday, I went into the robing room with Fr. Rich and knelt on the floor (on a pillow) and made my confession.

For a couple of weeks I have tried to come up with a list of things to confess. I felt stymied by it. Ok. First the 10 commandments. A few measly sins rose to the surface. How about the 7 deadly sins? A couple of more things, but boy it felt like I was really stretching to come up with something. Am I really that pious, or have I just gone into denial overload?

And then, sitting in the dark church on Good Friday, the floodgates opened. I read the confession in the prayerbook. We are sorry for what we have done and for what we have left undone....

Suddenly it all came pouring out. I grabbed a pen and my little notebook and started writing furiously. I felt such despair staring at it in black and white. All this since my last confession, which was only a few months ago. All this. All this.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Confessing to Fr. Rich was a very different experience in some ways. The room, of course. The ringing telephone and occasional near interruption when someone accidentally tried to come in. At one point we agreed that Grace needs a confessional.

But even with the distractions and interruptions and vulnerability of feeling exposed, it was still a grace-filled experience. For a few moments, I felt myself sink into the despair of it... but then, began to feel pulled back up to the surface. It was similar, in a way, to baptism. After absolution (in Latin!) he asked if I wanted to sit on the little sofa for a few minutes to meditate. No, I said, I am going into the pews to offer a prayer of thanksgiving.

The morning's psalm was, remarkably, the same one I read after my first confession. In the darkened church, at 3:45 in the afternoon, I read it out loud.

Last night I felt so alive I couldn't sleep.



You turned my wailing into dancing;

you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.

O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever.

Psalm 30:11-12

A brief conversation with God on the way to church today...

Me:
Beloved, why is it called Good Friday?
It doesn't seem like anything good happened on that day.

God:
Because on that day,

you were saved.

The Waiting Journal

In my purse I carry a little black notebook that I call the waiting journal. I call it that because I usually only write in it when I am waiting for something. Lots of entries while waiting to pick up my children at the end of the school day. A few from the registry of motor vehicles. Dentist's office. Airport. Train station. Mechanics.

The entries always begin:

Beloved,

because the whole book is a series of letters to God.

I have kept this journal for the last 3 years or so, and am getting down to the last few pages of the notebook. So it seemed appropriate to get it out a write a little last night, as I watched and waited with Jesus at the Vigil of the Altar of Repose.

But then, I started reading it from the beginning. I only made it about a third of the way through it, but even that was kind of a revelation. Themes emerged in my relationship with God. The little cat and mouse that we seem to play is a regular theme. Consolations one week, dry desert the next. I bemoan it throughout the book, even as I know that it is part of the deal. My laziness at spiritual practice gets mentioned a lot. This week I forgot to pray the psalms, or centering prayer, or the daily office or whatever I happen to be doing at the time. I comment on it a lot.

The heady love affair with God is a constant theme, too. Anyone who didn't know who Beloved was might think I was writing to a lover. It is just as gooshy. And twice as embarrassing to reread. But I am made breathless by the intensity that comes across the pages. This relic of my relationship with God is a powerful testament not only to the miracle of my conversion, but also the the seasoning, the gentle aging of the relationship. I am less breathless, now. I am not given the same kinds of spiritual consolations I experienced early on. And yet, like a good marriage, the relationship is maturing.

Finally, there are many many entries about my spiritual teachers. Fr. P in particular crops up constantly. But others, too. People who have guided me on this journey. People who have walked with me on this path. I am humbled by the generosity that people have shown with their time and love.

The Vigil

The Holy Spirit and I make a pretty good tag team. I organized the all night vigil at the Altar of Repose and the HS got people to sign up. So we had people sitting in the dark church in the middle of downtown Providence from 8pm until 6am.

The altar was so beautiful. One of our parishioners, Christopher, decorated it with twinkling votive candles and white freesias in tall glass vases. During the Maundy Thursday service, we snuck over to light all the candles. I knocked over a vase and dropped a whole box of wooden matches on the floor. (I am guessing Christopher will not let me help again next year, LOL.) But still, we finished in time for the priests to carry the hosts and chalice and a small cruet of wine over from the main altar.

A word about the Eucharist: I know I have said it before, but I believe, beyond any doubt, that these elements contain the substance of Jesus. It could be my imagination, but how would I have even known to imagine that when I went to my first altar vigil? I didn't know about real presence then. And yet, sitting in the dark with them, I was overwhelmed with a sense of the presence of Jesus.

Last night, I sat for awhile in the pews, but then I walked up to the altar itself and sat at the feet of Jesus.

I was there for three hours. At first I was afraid of that much time. Would I get bored? Would I fall asleep? At one point the candles needed to be replaced, so I gingerly approached and one by one dropped little white disks of wax on top of the spent ones. Then, carefully, used a long lighter to light each one. Carefully, carefully, lest I accidentally disturb the precious chalice. A cruet of wine was sitting in front of the chalice. I leaned over to smell it. I knocked over another little vase, so I went out to get a paper towel and knelt on the floor before the altar, wiping it up.

I was both Mary and Martha last night.

In the past I have been afraid that if I was Martha, I would lose Mary. I was afraid that I couldn't be both. And I know the better part. But last night, I found Mary by being Martha... organizing the vigil, making a sign up sheet, putting signs on the door. Then watching in wonder as the Holy Spirit inspired people, strangers and friends, to come out on a cold spring night and sit in a dark church watching over a cup of wine and a few crackers for hours at a time. Including my husband, who was there from 1am to 3. And my friend Michelle who went from 12 to 2. Miracles.

One last thing-

All night, as I felt moved to weep, I was asking myself, Rachel, why weepest thou? Is it grief over his death and betrayal? Or is it joy for having been saved? And maybe I grew to understand that as a Christian, grief and joy are fused together by grace.


Stay with me
Remain here with me
Watch and pray
Watch and pray

Funeral #1

This morning was Bruno's, at a very 1970's-ish Catholic church in Riverside RI. I was struck by the front of the church, behind the sanctuary. There was a huge series of square, grey granite columns reaching up towards a crinolated white ceiling. But here was the weird part: between the columns was an unabashedly modern stained glass of Christ on the cross. The image was broken by these many stone columns. I sat in the quiet and tried to figure out what in the world the architect was trying to convey by this. Was this supposed to show the intersection of the earth with God? Is that what this space was supposed to be?

I am not sure.

The service was ok.

I have come to realize that I can now respond appropriately when the priest says something because there is really not much difference between an Episcopal mass and a Catholic one. My friend Michelle, who sat next to me, might have been surprised when I knew all the words by heart to the various songs and prayers.

One thing is different though. During communion, instead of going to the rail, I knelt in the pew and prayed for unity in the Church.

We went with the family to the cemetery, and to a lunch after. It was a cold, rainy day.

Beloved God,

Comfort Bruno's wife, Isabel, in her loss. Be with the family as they struggle to understand his suffering.

A week off?

My friend Antony is taking a week off for Holy Week. For a moment I considered joining him, then thought, in horror, of what I would do with all these Holy Week feelings I have. I could write them in my diary, I suppose. I could tell them to Nguyen. Or God. But I feel them bubbling up to the surface and they get bigger as they come closer to the skin. Like my friend in the previous post. (Could I be having sympathy bustin' out I wonder?)

I feel like my deepest self is gurgling up towards the surface and it is a little exciting and a little scary because it can be so big and I imagine the only possible way to cope would be to throw myself on the floor of my church and weep. Or write about it.



And then there are the funerals. Two of them this week.

This morning my childhood dentist died. He was an old friend of my parents. He has been battling cancer for 10 years. Al leaves his wife, Jane, who is one of my mother's dear friends. My mom has asked if I will bring her to he funeral.

And tomorrow I am going to the funeral of another friend. He was a regular at my friend Michelle's several-times-a-year potluck parties. We have known Bruno for probably 15 years or so, celebrating all the important moments with him and his dear wife Isabel.

They are all in my prayers tonight.

Palm Sunday

I came home from church today feeling overwhelmed. I had difficulty talking when Nguyen asked how things went at an after-church meeting.

It felt like too much had gone on in too short a time.

First, before the service, an intense conversation with one of the Sunday School teachers. It was one of those "lets find a private place" kind of conversations which sometimes leave me feeling drained.

Then the service itself.

I still cannot look at a shrouded cross without feeling, I don't know, sick in my heart. Like I want to get on my knees, or lie flat out on the floor and just be in the joy and pain of what is coming. Holy Week is such an intense time.

The parade with palms around the Nave was amazing. 225 people carrying palms, waving and singing, playing drums and other percussion instruments, countered by the choir who was singing an ancient Gregorian sounding hymn that has probably been sung on Palm Sunday for centuries. The crazy, joyful exuberance before the truth of it: Those same people who waved their palms and shouted 'hosanna' were calling for Jesus' execution just a few days later.

And it is us.

Later, having a conversation with a friend, he seemed deeply agitated. But it was that good kind of agitated. The Holy Spirit kicking your ass, making you feel like you can't contain yourself within your own skin, busting loose and don't know what to do with it kind of feeling. It is glorious and scary and amazing all at once because you know, don't you, that it is so unbelievably true and anyone who says it is just endorphins is full of shit. It is, in fact, the truest truth there is.

There, I said it.

I recognize that feeling. Maybe feel a little wistful, even, because it has been awhile since I felt like that. Good God Almighty it is amazing to be stuffed full of the Holy Spirit. And even when you catch a little of the overflow from someone else's busting open, it can leave you a little tired.

So I am tired.

Like I want to lay down in my Beloved's arms
and rest for awhile.

Preparation

I admit, I haven't felt particularly penitential during this Lent. There have been many other things going on and it seems that once I came to grips with the difficulties, I just kind of sailed along. I chose not to confess on Ash Wednesday because it didn't feel like the right time. But I am feeling called to do so before the Great Vigil of Easter, so I asked Fr. Rich today if he would hear my confession after the 3 hour service on Good Friday. He asked if I had a preference as to which priest. (There will be 4 on hand that day!)

I don't.

Frankly, I am going to be nervous and shy no matter who it is. Does one ever get over that, I wonder? Fr. Rich emailed me this afternoon to say that he will be available to hear it.

This will be my first time confessing to one of my parish priests and it feels a little different. For one thing, there is no confessional box, so we will do it either at the altar rail or in the robing room (if there are a bunch of people milling about...). For another thing, I have only confessed twice before and both times were with my spiritual director.

But I feel sure that I am called to do this. I know that during Lent I have come face to face with some aspects of myself that draw me away from God. Sins, in other words, that impede my relationship with Him.

As Holy Week approaches, it feels right to begin to set the wheels in motion to offer to God the darkness hidden within my soul.

The Light is just below the horizon now...

Can you sense it?

Rest in peace

My sweet, elderly neighbor Mildred died on Saturday. Today was her funeral mass at the local Catholic church.

We have known Mildred since we moved into the neighborhood. When her husband, Tony, was alive, he was the loud, chatty one. He would show us his extraordinary garden, invite us to his many yard sales, and shout hello at us from across the street. In his later years, he started to lose his grip a little, and would drive erratically around the neighborhood in a huge old station wagon filled with stuff. When he finally went to a nursing home, we all breathed a little easier because we had been so worried he would hurt himself or someone else.

After Tony died, we got to know Mildred a little better. She came out of her shell and would stand by the fence and chat. It was tough for her without Tony. Her health started to fail and she got frail rather suddenly. She had heart problems and diabetes. But always had a smile for us, and sweets for the kids. She invited me for coffee once and talked about her sons and their wives and children. We gave her our phone number so she could call if she needed something. She said she liked that we always left our lights on at night because it made her feel safer knowing we were right there for her. At some point Nguyen started shoveling her walk every time it snowed, for which she would thank him with little packages of cookies or chocolate covered cherries.

Today her kids thanked us for keeping an eye on her all these years. The secret truth, though, is that it was a real joy for us.

She was a good friend and we are going to miss her.

Please pray for the soul of Mildred Siravo.

Great post alert!

My friend Emily has been writing about the shifts in her energy. Go Here to read it.

It's good stuff.

Reading her post made me realize that one of the things I LOVE about a liturgical church is that it has a rhythm to it throughout the year. Up and down, in and out. Year in, year out. And yet, the cycles are never exactly the same. It is more like there are intersecting energies that can mesh together slightly differently each year. The in cycle of inner examination can overlap the up (joy) time, or the down times. The outward energy, too, can be joyful one year or... what, hungry? the next.

God created cycles. When, like Emily, you stop fighting them and start honoring them, it can be an amazing thing.

Green

A sort of sage-ish color.

I bought the can originally to paint the old buffet that serves as an island in my kitchen. But last night, in a fit of that same spring cleaning craziness, I started painting the walls and ceiling of my bathroom. I ran out of steam and paint at around 11pm.

So picture this: a 1950s pink and black tile bathroom with a white hexagonal tile floor, white trim and green walls and ceiling.

I am not entirely sure it works either, but what the heck.

Cleaning house

Spring must be in the air because my thoughts are turning towards cleaning.

I went to the Big Blue and Red store today and bought new towels and face cloths for the bathroom and new stuff for my bed.

My room is a chaotic mess, with laundry, clean and otherwise, dust bunnies, a real bunny who visits when he can and chews up the wall paper and books. I have far too many books in my room, most of them from a lifetime ago. Many no longer feel relevant, so have become clutter.

I have summer clothes in boxes under the bed and a closet stuffed with things I don't wear and luggage and shoes and even a massage table in a big black canvas bag.

The tops of the bureaus are covered with dust and spare buttons and jewelry and wooden boxes filled with tarot decks I no longer read.

My bedside shelves have all the half read or finished books from the last several years, stacked and piled and hiding one another.

There is no peace in this sanctuary.

So today I stripped the bed of it's tired quilt and tattered sheets and replaced them with a new set of damask striped 400 thread count Egyptian cotton (clearance rack score) and an ivory cotton bedspread and shams and pillows and I started pulling out all the stuff that I no longer need. Which is nearly everything.

Out it goes.

Connection

Someone I met this morning was in a car accident on his way to the conference yesterday. He lost control on an icy highway and by the time he came to a stop the airbags had deployed and he had spun into the jersey barrier three times. He walked away shaken, but ok. His car is a wreck.

He related this to us at breakfast this morning. He wanted to be home. We worried about him having to drive his rental all the way back to Connecticut. We wondered whether we should drive him. No, he said. I'll be ok.

But during the Eucharist he was weeping. I don't know why. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Relief. Gratitude? I went over and stood behind him during the offertory and laid my hands on his shoulders and held him for a moment,

Praying to God in thanks and praise.

After the Eucharist

After the big service today, there was a lot of consecrated wine and hosts left. Fr. Rich knows I am obsessed with the host and chalice so he invited me to join him in going to the altar to drink and eat what remained.

Really? I said. Are you sure it's ok?

It was sweet wine. Heady and thick. I knocked back half a glassful in a big single gulp and then ate two of the little round crackers.

I thirst...

I took another big sip from a pottery chalice when it was offered to me.

Be careful, one of the several priests said. It is 18% alcohol.

It's ok, I thought.

I am already drunk on him.

Thoughts before the Eucharist

There are a lot of priests... each wearing their clerical collars. The women still look to me like their collar is a badge of honor. There is an air of "I told you so" about them. Maybe the men look that way too, come to think of it.

In another life, I might have wanted to be a priest. To be the one to stand at an altar and ask God to turn a lowly cracker and a sip of common wine into the body and blood of our Lord, Jesus Christ. I am still in awe every time I see it.

But I am not sure I could navigate the humility and hubris of the collar. I am not sure I would ever get over feeling self conscious.

And then there is the small matter of running a church.

Beloved

You are a sweet taste in my mouth, Oh God
A joyful flutter in my heart
The beat of a drum, thrumming in my veins
The breath of Love in my lungs
To you, my Lord, I give everything
From you I get everything
Bliss, oh Love, is mine

Snow and sleet and hail and rain

Well, no hail, but plenty of the other stuff as we drove towards Worcester Mass to attend a Provincial Seminar on growth, vitality and evangelism in the Episcopal Church. But we got here before the worst of the Nor' easter and settled in for a plenary session on conflict management, followed by a break, dinner and a few glasses of red wine sprinkled throughout.

I have my own room.

Since it is Lent, I am not watching the latest updates on Anna Nicole. Instead, I bought a book of poems by Mary Oliver, which made me think of my former UU church. I also bought a book of hours based on the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer and the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. (I might already own that one, come to think of it. I'll have to check when I get home. I know for sure that I haven't read it.)

I am typing this in a little room off the lobby of the Doubletree. The keyboard sticks but I really wanted to check in and say that it still shocks me a little to be in a group of Christians.

Because Jesus comes to us in such a personal way and I always find it marvelous that he comes to you and the other guys at the table and that person over there, too. He is a big lover, that one. He loves us all. And sitting in a room full of Christians still feels, at times, like a kind of abundance I never believed could be true.

And yet, we are still on this walk alone. Even in a crowd of believers, I manage to feel like I am an outsider. But maybe that is the nature of living as fallen beings in this fallen world.

I'll check in tomorrow. In the mean time, peace. Good will. Love.

Temptations

It is said that once you commit your life to Christ, the devil takes great delight in tempting you in various ways. While I don't necessarily believe in little guys with horns and pointing tails, I do notice that I am tempted by things from my past on a regular basis. Things I know for a fact aren't good for me.

For instance, when I first quit smoking 16 years ago, I would have dreams in which I smoked. I would wake up in a panic, trying to remember if I had really lit up, or if it was just a dream. Sometimes, in the dream, I would realize I was smoking and get upset.

Same thing when I gave up sugar and refined flour. I recently had a dream I was chowing down on some kind of gooey muffins and woke up feeling like I had betrayed myself.

So it is with tarot reading. About a year ago I decided that I wasn't going to read for people (or myself) anymore. I began to feel, more and more strongly, that it was too easy to inadvertently cause harm to people. I am not a licensed therapist. I am not God. (LOL, neither are therapists!) So it is inappropriate for me to be giving people advice about how to live their lives. At that time I had just finished reading the bible in a whirlwind 90 days and came to the conclusion that while there are instances of God's people with the gift of prophecy who were able to use it for God's purposes, it was too much hubris for me to put myself in that category. And more importantly, I knew that there were times when the people I read for were using my reading as a substitute for their own relationship with God, and that is clearly proscribed in scripture.

So I put down the cards and haven't picked them up since.

But here's the thing: Like my dreams of smoking and eating cranberry walnut muffins, tarot occasionally comes back to haunt me. After so many years of looking at the world through the patterns of the cards, I still, on occasion, 'read' the signs. I'll be driving along and look at the sky and it will remind me of Waite's knight of swords. Or I will realize that I am in the midst of a 'Sun' cycle. And a couple of times in the past week or so have been asked to read for others. It is an opportunity for witness, I suppose, when I gently but firmly say no, and explain why.

Out of the blue, today, a friend from one of my old online tarot communities sent me a spread of cards and asked for help interpreting them. I looked at it and all kinds of things sprang to mind. The cards were shouting (as they often do) and it was an act of will and obedience to send her a note explaining that I would pray for her instead.

God, give me the strength to do your will in all things. Let me do what is healthy for myself and others. Let me be a light in the lives of others. Let me trust in your will.

Amen.

18 and up

Last weekend was delightful.

We stayed in a bed and breakfast in South Yarmouth called The Captain Farris Inn. There was a canopy bed, double jacuzzi and a private entrance to the room.

Who knew, after 18 years, that we still would have so much fun together?

We ate dinner at an Irish Pub (courtesy of the Inn) and drank Jamesons and Smithwicks and ate lamb stew and lazy man's lobster.

We walked on the frozen ice on Skaket beach until I accidentally fell through and got soaked up to my knees.

We found a gorgeous walk along a salt marsh and tidal flats that wound around the beach head and ended with a killer view of the ocean.

We took bubble baths and read our best sellers and ate our chocolate and drank our wine and, well, you know the rest.

It was a blissful time.

At one point, while sitting by the fire at the Irish pub, I leaned over to Nguyen and said

"I think the two biggest accomplishments of my life have been my kids and my marriage."

18 years down. Many more to go, God willing.

Bath and Bodyworks

foaming bath gel in Eucalyptus: $2.50
2 best sellers: $24.75
1 bottle of red wine and a couple of pieces of Dove dark chocolate: $12.00
1 buttercream mint candle: $1.50

A weekend (without kids) on the Cape for our 18th wedding anniversary: Priceless

Taking a break

I have a kitchen tools gig tonight with a myriad of things to do before hand, but want to check in and say a word about this whole, crazy, being a Christian thing.

Today I had to admit that I probably am no longer a baby Christian. I think I might very well be a toddler now.

For one thing, I think I have been weaned from God's breast. In the early days, God's consolations were like mother's milk to me, nourishing and sustaining my relationship with him. No longer am I the fretful child squirming on his lap. Now I feel safer about exploring the world on my own, knowing all the while that if I need to, I can run right back to his arms.

I am starting to walk a little.

I have found I can take a few steps
before falling on my ass.

(Is that a swear?)

Thank you, Lord.


In my prayers this week:

My dear Fr. P who hasn't been feeling his best lately.
My Rector, Bob, who took 14 kids from Grace and traveled with them to South Africa for the World AIDS conference this week.
Fr. Rich who is holding down the fort at Grace.
M.E. whose dad has just been diagnosed with liver, back and lung cancer.
JMK's nephew, who just came back, injured, from Iraq.
And my dear husband, who continues to face economic uncertainty.

Be with all of them, Lord.

Thanks

For all your prayers, my friends. Things are looking better this week.

We still aren't sure what we are doing with our business, but we have gotten past the despair stage and are squarely into 'curious'.

What I mean by that is that we are curious about how this will unfold and what the future holds. We have less fear. We seem to be trusting that God has a plan and will reveal it as he wills. There are still wrenching decisions to make, but we don't have to make them today.

Plus, one of the amazing things about being a Christian is that there is always the potential for redemption in suffering. God's grace infuses even the darkest moments. He can use the bad for good. So even in sadness or despair, there are elements of grace. I have been finding them, sifting through the grief to capture them. And in so doing, notice that the grief recedes.

A week into Lent and I have failed at almost everything I promised. I haven't been reading the New Testament every day. I haven't been celebrating Compline with my kids every night. I have been cussing a blue streak. About the only things I have actually managed so far is the 'no tv' and no meat on Fridays.

But I have felt close to God in the midst of it. I pray that he will forgive me, even as I believe that he has already done so.

re-Lent-less

This raw, ripped apart veil thing can be tough. Yeah, hanging with the Big Guy for a month and a half is good. Yeah, nothing brings us closer to him that the occasional bout of suffering. Last year it was my health, this year's line up: financial insecurity.

God's schedule seems to be getting more precise, too. In this case, two days into Lent, my husband and I found ourselves in a financial crisis. (My husband owns a small machine shop. Needless to say, manufacturing in the US is all but gone and we are just coming to realize that our business is in serious trouble.)

What to do? Do we cancel our tithe? Fret about the grocery bill? Sell all our assets and move to Vietnam?

Or do we trust?

Change is imminent and I am cycling through all of the Kubler-Ross phases of grief. But I am remembering that God has not forsaken us and am sometimes managing to find joy even in the midst of loss.

Oh, and the TV thing has been good. I think when we do finally pull it back out of the basement, we might just ban it from the living room and stick it in our guest room.