Simple gifts

My step mother is in awe of how I manage to throw together a simple meal that tastes good. I don't love cooking, so I often seek the path of least resistance. Thanksgiving was a case in point. Instead of turkey, we had standing rib roast. Preparation for that involved copious amounts of salt and pepper, calculating cooking time on the calculator, setting the oven and the putting it in the oven. No basting. No stuffing. No brining. No covering with cheese cloth or other fancy preparations.

To that we added a green salad, grilled asparagus, baked potatoes, creamed onions, beets, a couple of pies. We all did a side dish, so no one had more than one or two things to prepare. It was a cinch. It allowed us time to do what is more important on Thanksgiving. Drink. Ha! And spend time chatting and taking our time tidying the house and decorating together. It was just laid back and relaxed.

My step father and drumming teacher couldn't make it, so we had way too much food, but leftovers are a wonderful thing, too.

I am thankful that we had a wonderful day together. How was your Thanksgiving?

Thanksgiving

My parents got in from Newfoundland yesterday. I am so excited they are here. It has been years since we had Thanksgiving together.

I am thankful for so much, this year. Thankful that we are going to Vietnam. Thankful that my mother found a lovely new apartment that she can afford. Thankful I am taking drumming classes. Thankful that my church is a vibrant, loving community. (We had 16 people at Bible study today!?!?!) I am grateful that my children are thriving, and that even in the midst of economic insecurity, Nguyen and I still love each other.

So much.

This Thursday, we are having a small (for us) gathering of 11 people. My father, step mother, mother, former step father, brother, my drumming teacher and my mom's friend. I think I might ask people to share what they are grateful for throughout the meal. And I found a beautiful prayer of Thanksgiving in the Book of Common Prayer that will suit the Muslim, the atheists, agnostics and Christians.

Blessings to all of you, dear readers. I am thankful for you, too.

God's Work

I have been gently, periodically inviting Nguyen to communion since we have been going to Grace. Two or three times he has come to the rail with us. In each case he has crossed his arms in front of his chest to receive a blessing.

Last night I told him about the priest at the Wednesday evening service. He shared as to how he invited his friend to take communion, even before he was baptized. His friend, for a couple of years, took communion. Then one day decided to be baptized.

I did it the other way around. I got baptized first. But at my baptism, I didn't intend for it to be a Christian thing. I did not recite a creed or agree to anything. I just surrendered myself to God and invited him into my life to do whatever work (lots) needed to be done. God took me up on my offer, sent Jesus knocking at my door and within a few days of the big dunk, I was a born again Christian.

My point is this. There are rubrics. There are guidelines and rules about how these things ought to happen. And then there is God's way. Which cannot be contained by the rules.

I was telling this to Nguyen last night because I think he wants, on some level, to take communion... but is afraid that he doesn't 'believe' enough to qualify. That, to me, is like thinking you need to be healed before you can take the medicine that will save you. Jesus was surrounded by doubters for his entire ministry on earth. I'd wager that MOST of his priests in the world have some levels of doubt at some points in their ministries. (correct me if I am wrong, anyone.) So, no. I do not believe that you have to sign a form or know what you are doing or put your thumb print on some cosmic agreement. I believe you simply have to be willing to open your heart to Jesus and let him invite you to the table. You are taking the body and blood of he who has saved the world into your physical self. It will heal you, whether you believe it or not.

Last night at Grace, a mentally ill, ex con homeless man took communion. He is delusional. He often just lies down and falls asleep in the pews. He stuck his finger into liquid pool of wax in the candle burning in front of him and traced a white wax cross on his forehead. During the service he sat muttering to himself. Who knows if this guy has been baptized. Who knows what is going on in his head. But God knows that he needs His love. His mercy. His tenderness. God knows he needs to take Jesus into his life.

I have taken communion three times in a Roman Catholic church. The first two times, I wasn't even a Christian. I didn't know the rules. I was attending church with friends and just walked up and received.

Then, a year ago, at the Christmas eve service in Newfoundland, I went to church with friends and took communion. I know it broke the rules. I'd normally not do such a thing. But the idea of Christmas without it was so unbearable I simply couldn't not do it. I called the priest ahead of time and put him in the incredibly uncomfortable situation of having to tell me yes or no. At the time, it was respect for the church that motivated me to make the call. Now I wonder if really, it is just between me and God. I think next time I'll let the priest off the hook. (He said yes, by the way, even knowing it was against the rules.)

Here's the thing: Is it possible that those times I took communion were the beginning of my conversion? Can it be that the body and blood of God seeped into my soul and began it's work, years before I was to finally accept Jesus? Did God take my hubris (or ignorance) and use it to good? It can't be an accident that I remember, 15 or 20 years later, the exact moments of communion.

I know that you, my readers, have differing opinions on this. Comments are welcome.

I pray for all those who have not yet received. Open their hearts, O Lord.

God Poke

Wow.

How is a good husband a little like Jesus?

He loves you even when you are a jerk.

Last night, after my day of coming face to face with all kinds of major character defects, I shared it all with Nguyen. The good, the bad and the ugly. Stuff that is years in the making. Habits that were formed long before I was a Christian, that have clung tenaciously. I told him all about it. His first reaction was

"Wow, you really are messed up..."

At which point I allowed as to how that might not be the best response when someone is baring their dark souls.

We chuckled.

The gist of the conversation is that even though I am Loved with a capital "L" by God. Even though I have had close encounters with Jesus and the Holy Spirit, I am still spending way too much time and energy seeking approval from people I care about. I am a love junky and need constant, reassuring fixes that everyone Loves. Me. Best.

I gave him lots of examples of how this manifests, which were embarrassing, to say the least. But at the end of the whole thing, he gave me a big hug (which is rather rare for a Vietnamese guy) and told me that, yes, he loves me. Warts (sins?) and all.

He is a good egg.

Darkness descending

We are on Advent's doorstep, and right on cue, my sins have risen to the surface. It is almost comical, really. The other day I was thinking about making a confession for Advent and I honestly could not think of any sins.

So, this morning, a whole raft of them emerged in my drum addled brain. I rushed in late to bible study and of course, Romans 14 and 15 were talking to me. I walked to my car afterwards and laughed out loud at my own hubris. And God's gentle shove. And his mercy. Oh, Lord. His mercy.

Today, I'll spend some time in prayer.

And figure out a time to make my confession.

And look forward to lunch with Fr. P so I can start to figure out what is going on.

Advent approaches and God is right on time. As usual.

Oh, he was some powerful

I woke up with this in my heart today:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

St. Francis

Fasting from Drumming

In an email to a friend, I noted that during Advent I will be forced to fast from drumming classes because my teacher will be in Mali. And, oddly, during Lent I will be in Vietnam visiting my husband's family. So God has a built in balancing act to keep me from going too crazy during the penitential seasons.

Evangelist

My friend is church shopping. She is a lapsed Roman Catholic.

-Come to our Wednesday Eucharist, I said. It is quiet, and lovely. The whole thing is sung. It is in candlelight. Very beautiful.

-Can I take communion? She asked.

-Of course. I replied.

-Even without a confession first?

-Jesus ate with sinners. It's ok. Maybe you can talk about it with him before you come. Then we'll do the corporate confession together.

-Ok.

Lord. The fact that you love us, even in our weakness and sin, blows my mind more than anything else I can imagine.

New Blog Alert!

My cyber alter ego, Rachel, of Swandive fame, has begun a new blog for her God addiction. It is called

God Junky. Like crack, only better.

As one who recently spun off a second blog, I say go go go!

We are all travelers, here, folks. Let's keep each other company for the ride.

What joy

Last night, Grace started a new thing. They offered an evening Eucharist.

It blew my socks off.

Instead of sitting in the huge nave, we gathered in the chancel, in candlelight. We squeezed together in the choir loft and sang the liturgy, the psalm, the hymns. Three priests from outside of Grace are going to rotate this service. Last night was Maria DeCarvalho. She was extraordinary.

Mark Johnson, our very gifted choir director, sang and played the music, which was hauntingly beautiful.

For those of us who are busy busy busy on Sunday mornings, this evening Eucharist is a gift beyond measure. I found myself weeping as I sang.

In the dark church,

In the darkness,

God.

Joy.

All good things

When I became a Christian, I gave up some things.

I gave up my tarot card practice.

I gave up my Unitarian Universalist church.

I left behind the things that belonged in another lifetime. I cleaned house. I gave things away. I began to dismantle what was and look forward to what is.

And in each empty hole, God planted a seed. In each vacant place in my life, God filled me with his love. His gifts have been greater than anything I could have imagined.

Busy Sunday coming up

Worlds colliding is all well and good, but this Sunday there will be a LOT on the agenda.

First, I am singing in the pick up choir.

Second, I am going do some healing prayer during communion.

Third, a few of us are putting together an informal drum circle and playing during coffee hour.

All good things.

I pray, though, that in the midst of it, I remember to lay down at your feet, God, and take a moment or two to remember the lives of those who have passed into your arms. And remember to give you thanks, Oh God, for the blessings in my life.

Two worlds collide...

And it is GOOD!

Fr. Rich has invited my drumming teacher, Sidy Maiga, to start teaching classes at Grace Church in Providence. I am very excited about it. For one thing, I think it is a big deal that we open our doors to folks that otherwise wouldn't know about Grace and what we are doing. It is a wonderful way to reach out to people. It also offers the congregants at Grace another way to spend time together doing something we love. I am hoping that some of the kids who went to Africa will come to the class. It would be powerful for them, I think.

For me, it is exciting because drumming is a kind of prayer for me. It is, as the Malians say, a way to bring people together. There is power in drumming with other people. It breaks through barriers of race, economic status, religious affiliation, social status, even skill. It invites us to play, smile, laugh and love one another.

If you are in RI and would like to find out more about it, visit my other site for more information.

Lord,

You have created all that is beautiful in the world. In everything that brings us together, you are there. In all that is joyful, you are there. Thank you Lord, for the gift of music in my life. It brings me closer to you to make a joyful noise.

The fall light

I walked through the living room today and noticed that the afternoon light has changed. The sun is lower in the sky. It enters the room from a different angle. The trees in the front yard still have a few tenacious leaves clinging to the branches, so the light filtering through is somewhat dappled. It is a clear day. Not one cloud. The sunlight splays across the surface of our maple table, onto the wood floor, onto the yellow ocher wall.

Fall.

An early start

Usually I wait until Advent to pull out my Leonard Bernstein version of the Messiah CD. But since I was feeling crappy last week, I was indulging in the Easter half and it was like drinking a magic potion. I felt cured of what ailed me.

Bernstein created great controversy when he reworked the Messiah. Instead of three sections, he divided it into two: Christmas and Easter. He shuffled some of the arias and choral pieces. He moved the Hallelujah Chorus from Easter to Christmas, which was utterly scandalous to purists. (And the one change I disagree with.)

He also used a completely American cast, including 2 African Americans, which must have been quite forward thinking in the 50s.

I first bought my copy of the CD when I got baptized 4 years ago. Early in my first Advent as a Christian, I went to a 'Messiah Sing' at Providence College with my friend Carmen. I had never heard any of the music other than the Hallelujah Chorus, so it was all new to me. We stood in the Alto section, which isn't really where I sing. (Tenor, if you must know, LOL!) And I had a very hard time following all the lines of music. Plus I don't sight read, so I was bumbling around quite badly.

But oh, the music. What music! There were particular pieces that just blew me away.
"And he shall be called Wonderful. Councilor. Almighty God, the everlasting power, the prince of peace...." I cried during that one. Because he IS wonderful.

The next day I went to Barnes and Noble and lucked into getting Bernstein's version.

It is interesting to me that a Jewish conductor seemed to understand the power of the Jesus story so deeply. I have heard several versions since then, and none, as far as I can tell, have nearly the power that Bernstein brought to it. The Pastoral Symphony, in particular, is one of the most astounding pieces of music I have ever heard. The first time I listened to it, it was like experiencing Christmas and Holy Week, Advent, Lent and Epiphany all at once. There is the tenderness and sweetness of the violins heralding the birth, but just under the surface, the double bass foreshadows the crucifixion. I still weep when I hear it.

By now, having listened to the cds more or less nonstop every Advent and Lent, I can sing the whole score. I know every word, at least of Bernstein's version, which is shorter than the standard productions.

And today, while listening to the Christmas half, I heard a little voice from the back of my car singing along.

Thank you Handel. Thank you Bernstein. Thank you God.

I am already thinking ahead to Advent.

Leaving the mire behind

A great lunch with spiritual director and a day of drumming at my kids' school have both left me feeling happy and grateful and not at all feeling sorry for myself. And no, the laundry is still not done. And yeah, the guy in the pew might have been just a tiny bit out of line. But all is forgiven and processed and it is a beautiful day here in New England... the first day of fall. The leaves are doing their thing and the air is crisp and I am getting a new drum on Monday and all is right with the world.

It shocks me, sometimes, how close to the surface self doubt is. I can fall into it so easily. Which might surprise people because I seem very confident on the surface. But the surface never reveals the depth, does it? It reflects back what is on the outside.

Today, Lord, I am grateful. I am grateful for my director, with whom I have been meeting for 4 years now. (wow!) I am grateful for this beautiful day. I am grateful that yesterday went so well. And I am grateful to not have to be an expert at any of this stuff.

Alleluia.

One other thought: I have been especially grateful at the people God has brought into my life. My Catholic friends may shudder at this, but I am convinced that if God had wanted me to be a Catholic, he would have sent me a Catholic priest instead of an Anglican one.

It's a pity

My spiritual director is coming for lunch tomorrow and all I can say is 'Thank God'. This week I have been tormented by self doubt and self pity.

In church on Sunday, the guy that sits behind us leaned over during the 'Peace' and commented that the kids were dressed pretty casually for church. At least I think that is what he said. I honestly couldn't really hear him. But oh did I take that and make a nice big club to beat myself with. I am a crappy mom. My kids are ragamuffins. They don't have decent clothes because I am too lazy or distracted to sort their laundry. I am too frazzled on a Sunday morning to notice the rips in Noah's pants until we are halfway to church and by then it is too late to turn around for him to change.

And I suck at drumming.

And my husband's business is falling apart and he is afraid to tell me what is going on because I am the.worst.wife.ever.

By the time the priests started blessing the sacraments, I was sobbing. The kids didn't know what had happened.

"Are you ok, Mom?" Noah asked

I tried to pull myself together.

Church is as good a place as any to fall apart. Maybe better than most, in fact, since it is not completely unheard of to weep in the pews for no apparent reason. But I couldn't help feeling that in the middle of my pity party, there was some sin at the bottom of it. Desolation is a construct of my ego and will. It is me being angry about the circumstances in my life and not taking responsibility for the things I have control over and letting God handle the rest. It is me acting like a victim. I said the confession with extra energy on Sunday. First the pity party: Sorry, God, that I am a crappy mother and a bad laundress and an insensitive wife and a shitty drummer. But then the real confession: I am sorry for feeling sorry for myself.

Now where is that laundry basket?

Painting swap

My mother's friend Michelle moved out of state to be with her new boyfriend. She is in her 60's and had lots of stuff. Too much. So she was trying to winnow it down to a manageable amount. She asked my mom if I would be interested in her dining room table.

Sure, I said. I'll take a look at it.

But we were out of town the weekend she moved, so her upstairs neighbor was in charge of letting people into the apartment to get the stuff she'd promised to others. We almost forgot all about it until one night after dinner Nguyen said

Let's go look at the table.

Ok.

We got in the truck, with the kids and headed to Providence.

The table is great. A very old funky maple top with oak legs. It had leaves at one point, but now makes due with a couple pieces of plywood. In it's closed state it is a big square.

The apartment was completely vacant by now, except for a painting leaning against the wall. It's back was facing out, so all we could see was the wooden frame and the back of the canvas. But somehow it looked familiar to me. I walked over and pulled it back from the wall. It was one of my grandmother's paintings. I caught my breath.

My grandmother was a magnificent painter. She went to art school in London in the 30's and had the beginnings of a promising career when she gave it up to have a family. Later, when the children were grown, she began to paint again. She taught art history at the Walnut Hill School in Massachusetts. Her technique was unique in that she never used brushes, instead pressing the paint against the canvas with a palette knife. I always said that a blind person would love her paintings because they could feel the images in the dried oil paint.

I am taking this, I said the neighbor. I can't leave it in an empty apartment.

Oh, she replied. It has been promised to someone. You can't take it.

I am sorry, I said. My grandmother painted this and I can't leave it here. Have the person it was promised to call me. I'll make sure they get it.

The neighbor looked slightly panicked when she realized that I was going to take the painting. I wasn't leaving it. I felt bad, but I wasn't leaving it.

Who is it going to? I asked.

Someone name Pat.

Oh. That's my mom. I'll get it to her.

But even in the empty apartment, I knew I didn't want to give it up. I had never seen it before and I was completely enthralled. It is a long, rectangular painting of a forest floor, with a trillium in the center. I was struck by the fact that the flower wasn't painted in... it's image was created by leaving blank white on the canvas and painting around it. It reminded me of the Japanese style of art, where the empty space is the image.

I brought it home and put it on the wall over the mantle. It looked as though my entire house was designed around it- the colors, the textures and tones. It was like finding an unexpected treasure somewhere. Something so precious, yet so surprising.

When I told my mother about it, she wanted it. She said I had to give it to her. I started to cry. This was my gift from Granny, whom I miss terribly. Ok. I said. You can have it. But let me hang it on my wall for just a little while.

The next day, my mother called me and said I could keep it. She had talked to Michelle and they agreed that I should have it.

I have another painting of Granny's in my guest room that is a favorite of mine, but never really looked like it belonged in my house. How about if I bring it over, I said.

It is stunning on my mother's wall, an explosion of teal and purple and apricot, a copse of trees on a rock in Georgian Bay in a storm. The exact right painting for her.

The exact right one for me.

I miss you Gran. Thanks for the painting.

Prayer

My husband and I have been having some problems with our business over the last year and yesterday some of that stuff came to a head.

So today I talked to my priest, and can I just tell you? I can't imagine what it is like to live life without a community of faith. No, he didn't have any real answers for me. He asked a couple of questions and made a few comments and suggestions, but mostly he listened. And at the end of the call, he offered to pray for us. Which brings me to tears to even think of it. Because there is something so powerful knowing that you are being prayed for. That in the intimacy of someone's relationship with God, in the power of the moment of their connection with everything that is power, you are there.

I pray for my priests, every day, too. I pray for my parish priests and my spiritual director. And my church. It is powerful, offering the people and the community you love to God.

I admit my prayer life has been somewhat half assed in the time I have been a Christian. For some months, I am more or less steady with some kind of daily check in. But whole months have gone by where I was spotty at best. I'd hang my head when my director asked about it, embarrassed to admit that I was inconsistent with it. Because why wouldn't I want to sit with God every day? Why wouldn't I want to listen, pray, speak to him? I don't know. What else matters?