wild and precious

Dying and Living

2009-03-10T12:18:00.004-04:00

I have an old friend who is living with ALS. This means, of course, that he is also dying of ALS. Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, ALS is a devastating illness and always fatal.

But then, so is life.

Not devastating, necessarily, but always fatal. I don’t say this to be flip. I say it to acknowledge the stark reality that we all do die. No way around it. Nobody gets out alive. My dad lived a good, long-enough life before he died this year. But his death continues to remind me, day by day, to live. This is my life. What do I want to do before it’s over? I’m also reading a book now – or maybe I should say experiencing a book, because reading it is only half the game – which was written after the author’s step-father died just 37 days after a terminal diagnosis.

That reality made her ask herself – what would I do with the next 37 days if they were my last? And she discovered that she wouldn’t take a trip around the world or any of those things we speculate about – like our own personal make-a-wish foundation. What she would do, she decided, is enjoy the life she has more intensely and intentionally. Patti Digh’s book, Life is a Verb, invites the reader to do the same.

My friend with ALS has a site where he and his wife write updates about their existence. Sometimes the wife gives a blow-by-blow of just what it’s like to watch your spouse deteriorate muscle by muscle. It’s excruciating.

But often the words are full of humor and love and delight in life. Especially when the writer is Rick, the friend who is dying. Rick is a gorgeous, athletic, popular, successful businessman. He and his wife were among my ex and my best friends. We spent several Thanksgivings together, none of us really wanting to spend the whole day with our families of origin. We took weekends in the Adirondacks and Finger Lakes together. The girls would have our nights out together and the boys, theirs.

Sometimes after spending extended time with this couple, my ex and I would be relieved to be home alone. It fascinated us how couples adjust to their own tensions and eccentricities, while finding other people’s hard to endure. We sometimes thought we had the stronger marriage. Now we have split and they are walking together through the valley of the shadow of death. The depth of their love and appreciation of each other rings through their writing.

I ran into another friend this week whose marriage had been up and down for a while. Then her father died. Turns out that experience did not deepen her marriage. Her husband’s emotional unavailability became the last straw and her father’s death ushered in the death of the marriage. If you only have one life to live, what are you going to do with it?

I started this blog after my own marriage broke up and I named it for that wonderful Mary Oliver quote at the top of the page. When I stop and think, honestly, about the percentage of time when I’m actually living as if my life were a wild and precious gift, it gives me pause.

I’ve been on a five-year journey of discovering what the next stage of my life should be. In the meantime, I’ve had five years of living my life as it is. Sometimes I get so frustrated that the future is not emerging in the way I expected, that I forget to live the day that has been given.

So this week, as I turn 46, I want to declare: this is my life. It isn’t the life I imagined. It isn’t the life I used to have. It isn’t the life I hope to have some years from now. But it is the one and only life I have and I intend to notice it, taste it, relish it, enjoy it, explore it, experience it in all its craziness and joy.

As we sang in church camp: This is the day that the Lord has made! I will rejoice and be glad in it!

Grief Revisited

2009-02-08T12:31:00.008-05:00

I am remembering that grief is a sticky interconnected web, the pattern stretched across the branches of a life, one string tugging on another, all the thin threads held together in tenuous contact. My father died four weeks ago and except for moments by his bed that day and again on the morning of his funeral, my grief has not taken the form of tears. I am a crier, so this surprised me. I cry at Hallmark commercials. I cry when I see other people crying. Sometimes I cry when I'm simply in the room with somebody who I sense is holding back tears.

Last night the grief came in spasmodic waves. I had a cold, so I was already feeling punky and decided not to go out to hear a friend's band I had been hoping to hear. Instead I watched a movie. I had a few borrowed from a friend sitting around so rather than go out, I picked one off the pile. The Story of Us. About divorce. Besides the fact of a predictable story, poor acting and a Hollywood ending (in the worst sense of that phrase), it was a stupid choice. But I watched it to the end, for some unknown reason. It is the story of how a marriage falls apart. It's painful to watch.

My own marriage's demise had plenty of similarities to the movie's as well as numerous differences. But it struck enough uncomfortable chords to send me into a place of deep disappointment -- over how my marriage turned out and, truth be told, how my life has turned out. Whatever happened to all the untapped potential that seemed brimming over the edges of my life when I was 24? By 34 I had chosen to stay in a difficult marriage and given up some career opportunities to make that work. By 44 I had left that marriage and the whole career path and all of the places where I had put down tentative adult roots.

Each choice I made along the way had an internal logic. It's hard to imagine that I could have or would have wanted to make any different choices at any particular point. But now the patchwork of ups and downs creates a strange and dissonant work of art. How have I gotten to this place -- broke, underemployed, alone? Me, with so much energy and intelligence and joie de vivre? Me, with all the economic and educational advantages I've been given? Is there something essentially broken in me that keeps me from quite getting my act together, not quite making it work, not quite making the best choices?

My mantra this year has been kindness. Whatever else I do in my life, let me be kind. But even at that goal, I often feel like a failure. And so, suddenly, I am thinking of my father and I am overwhelmed with grief. He, who led a life that reached so many tangible goals, as well as creating such vital though less tangible connections. The stories of his compassion and generosity have been pouring in from both expected and unexpected sources over the past few weeks. He was a great man. I want to believe that I was not a disappointment to him or that, even in the ways that I was, this was more about his misplaced expectations than about any real failing on my part.

Even as I write this, I can sense some Jimmy Stewart angels appearing to show me my life. I'm nowhere near jumping off any bridges and I have no doubt that I've had my moments, I've touched some lives, I've done some good. But in recent years I have come up against far more closed doors than open ones. I want to believe that even closed doors serve a purpose. I'd like to think that life is shutting off certain possibilities to me so that I can turn in a new direction and discover new opportunities. But then the furnace dies and I spend a weekend in a cold house with my son wondering how I'll pay the bill on Monday when I get it working again. And vague potentialities lose their appeal. I want steady work and a man around the house, if you must know the truth. I would settle for one or the other.

It occurs to me that I write more when I'm down than when I'm up ... perhaps the weeks and months of no blogging can be a reminder to me that I've been very happy for most of this past year. And even this past week. And probably will be most of next week. But today I'm grieving -- for dad, for my marriage, for my career, for my furnace, for that 24 year old and all her hopes and dreams, for that 34 year old, confused and determined, for that 44 year old, piecing life back together after the center did not hold. Today the tears flow. So be it. So be it.

When Death Comes*

2009-01-14T07:04:00.006-05:00

My father died at 1 p.m. on Monday, January 12. My mother and I were with him, one on each side, as he quietly, peacefully took his last breaths. I almost missed it. I had gone for lunch. This would have been a great irony. I am, as my Gentleman Friend (GF) likes to say, a good eater. So was my dad. We could always eat. Any time of day. Even if we had just finished a large meal. We appreciate food in our family. Eating was the last of Dad's pleasures to go.

So, I had gone to the hospital cafeteria where I had salmon in creamy dill sauce, wild rice and roasted italian vegetables. I bought my mom a sandwich (her request -- I didn't mean to have a nicer meal than she did) and was heading back up to the room where dad had been moved from emergency only an hour before. As I turned onto his floor a gaggle of nurses and CNAs saw me and exclaimed, "There she is now." They were paging me to come because my dad's death was imminent. I ran into the room. A friend of the family had arrived in my absence. He left the room as I entered and I took dad's side. I can't remember what Mom and I said at that moment. Nothing to each other, but maybe to Dad. We had been singing hymns to him that morning -- Holy, Holy, Holy and For All the Saints, that sort of thing -- and quoting his two favorite psalms -- the 121st and the 23rd. We both know all of these by heart and have for most of our lives and yet we stumbled over words and phrases again and again. We didn't know that Dad was going to die when he came in by ambulance that morning or else we might have packed a bible and a hymnbook for the moment. We weren't prepared for death.

What happened was this: four days before Christmas Dad took two bad falls. He was falling more and more, so this was not especially significant, except that Mom was unable to get him up and had to call in help both times. That was a Sunday. On Tuesday morning he had another bad spill, knocking the back of his head against the corner of a metal table on the way down. This time Mom managed to get him up and to the shower where she was busy trying to clean up all the blood when she realized it was a pretty bad cut. So she finished his shower, bandaged his head, changed his clothes, got him in her car and drove to the nearest urgent care clinic. They put 10 stitches in his head and sent him home, asking Mom to note if he seemed confused. Dad had beginning stages dementia, was mostly blind, mostly deaf and took too many painkillers for the various physical disabilities that kept him in chronic, crippled pain. Knowing whether he seemed more confused than usual was not a simple task.

But rather than complain about his head or his osteo-arthritis or degenerative disk disease pain, all day Dad complained about a sore place on his foot. Mom had taken him to the podiatrist a hundred times in the preceding months for this sore spot, but it clearly had become much worse -- the hole widening and deepening, the area around it turning odd, dark shades not usually associated with Caucasian skin. By the next morning, Christmas Eve, his foot was red and swollen and hot and the sore spot was black. Mom managed, once again (I'm not sure how), to get him into the car and off to a podiatrist. A different one this time, as she was fed up with the lack of help the previous one had been. This one examined Dad's foot, looked up at Mom and said, "I'll do what I can to save his foot." What???

So he cleaned and tended the wound, ordered an oral antibiotic, drew a line in red magic marker across Dad's upper foot and told Mom that if the redness and swelling got higher than the mark to go immediately to the emergency room. My son and I came to her house later that day. My ex was going to a 5 pm service at his church and then coming over to sit with Dad, so Mom, son and I could attend the 7 pm Christmas Eve service at her church. We got home from the service, looked at Dad's foot and knew we had to go to the hospital. Because my ex was there, the three of us managed to get him into a car (how had Mom done this on her own earlier that same day?) and Mom and I went off to the hospital, leaving the ex to put the son to bed and fill the stockings.

Around 2 a.m. they had run every test imaginable and admitted Dad to the hospital. He had cellulitis in the foot, as well as wicked bed sores on his rear end and signs of a small, recent heart attack. He was a mess from head to toe, quite literally. Dad stayed in the hospital for a week, one problem leading to another, but finally getting the infection under control. From there he went to a skilled nursing facility for rehab. With his fever gone and his medications more controlled than at home, Dad was actually quite lucid and in pretty good spirits for a few days. But when the first week in rehab turned to the second, he began insisting that Mom get him out of there and take him home. A week in the hospital, not moving out of bed, had greatly weakened him and he was having trouble even sitting up and holding a cup. There was no possible way he could go home. In spite of his generally good mental capacity, he could not comprehend this. Of course Mom could take care of him. She'd been doing it for years!

On Friday, January 9, Mom and I went to the financial planner's office. I am now the executor of the estate should anything happen to Mom, but this was my first time getting a real lay of the financial landscape. We needed to figure out the situation should Dad be spending months or years in nursing care, which is what we all believed we were facing at this point. The good news was, in spite of huge losses in 2008, Mom and Dad had been so frugal and wise with their money over the years that the planner assured Mom she could keep Dad in nursing care for 12 years before they'd run out of money. We all knew he wouldn't last that long, so this greatly put her mind at ease.

I spent that afternoon with Dad, so Mom could be home alone for a while. He was fairly lucid, but certainly more confused than he had been a few days before. I read him Christmas cards. He kept calling on the nurses to help him get up to pee. He could barely make it from the bed to the wheelchair even with two skilled helpers. As the afternoon wore on he got more agitated and kept saying what a mess things were. I couldn't get him to say what the mess was. Finally, I knew he needed to sleep, so I kissed him, told him I loved him and left.

I had plans to go out of town that weekend which I kept. There was no reason I shouldn't, as far as we could tell. We were gearing up for the long-haul. Months of a man miserable about being in a nursing home. He had said to Mom for years, "Don't ever put me in a nursing home! I'll die if I have to go to a nursing home!" I stayed in touch with Mom and she said that he developed an intestinal infection on Saturday. She was still able to feed him (a good eater, to the end) and get him to respond to commands ("Open your mouth a little wider"), but he stopped communicating verbally and rarely opened his eyes that weekend.

Then Monday morning came and the call that he was being sent to the hospital. Even then, Mom figured he'd gotten dehydrated from the infection or in need of IV antibiotics. As they took his vital signs, his fever was 106. His breathing was labored and his blood pressure was dropping rapidly. Just before I arrived the doctor asked Mom if she wanted extreme measures taken or just comfort care. She asked for comfort care. "Then I give him 24 to 48 hours to live." Death. We didn't know. When I arrived I spoke with the social worker and asked a hospice representative to come meet with us. I thought perhaps we could move him into a hospice facility and out of the emergency room for his last days. I knew from my time as a volunteer hospice chaplain that people could inexplicably hang on longer than expected and I wanted to be ready for the possibility of several days of bedside vigil. Hospice came, but the doctor arranged with the nursing home for us to take him back there, as he didn't think a hospice bed would open in time and knew we could get palliative care at the home. Discharge papers were in place when the doctor came in and told us that he had changed his mind. Dad wouldn't survive the transfer, he thought. They promised to find a bed in the hospital and admit him as quickly as possible, which they did, with great kindness and efficiency. Around noon, Dad was finally settled into his new room -- a quiet one with a beautiful view of the mountains. It was a gorgeous, bright winter day.

Mom and I sat with Dad for a few minutes and then we both realized we were hungry. Even at this point, we figured we had hours ahead of us. Mom asked me to go eat and bring her something. So I did. And almost missed the last moment. But not quite. I'm glad I was there.

I have no regrets, nor does Mom, but one can't help but think about some "what ifs" in those final moments. Mom would have spent the night with Dad, had she any idea of the severity of this infection. I would have gone to see him when I got home on Sunday. And more than that, I would have been kinder to him on Friday.

When I last saw him, he seemed so like he had for months. Demanding, irritable, but pretty lucid and generally OK. I was frustrated with him for not trying harder to sit up, to feed himself. He seemed perfectly happy to have it all done for him, but then angry that he couldn't go home even though he was making no efforts at rehabilitation. He complained about how tired he was. When he asked for water, I tried to insist that he hold the cup himself and get the straw to his mouth. I put it directly in both hands and shaped the one hand around the cup and the other around the handle. He dropped it. I caught it before it spilled and tried again. I snipped at him for not holding on, for not listening to what I was asking him to do. After a third attempt, I held it for him and put the straw in his mouth. But not compassionately. I did it with a huff.

I am not haunted by this interaction. I know that I am forgiven by God and by Dad, if that is a post-life possibility. I can forgive myself. But forgive does not mean forget and I believe that I will remember this moment for a long time. I hope I do. Because it is easy for me to think that had I known this would be the last time I saw my dad with any real life in him, I would have been so much more kind and gentle and patient. I would have compassionately given him the water as he asked and not scolded him. I would have gently rubbed his bald head while he drank. Had I known death was coming in a matter of days rather than months, I'm sure I would have been kind. I was kind on Monday, when it hardly mattered any more.

It's so utterly predictable to learn this lesson now. We never know which interactions will be our last ones. And so every single moment we are called to compassionate presence. There is not a one of us that doesn't know this. But how easy it is to live out of the grudges, the impatience, the frustration. How very human.

Dad is gone. We had a wonderful and difficult relationship for many years. We loved each other fiercely and wounded each other deeply. We fought and we made up. We criticized and we praised. We prayed together and we yelled at each other. We both clamored for Mom's attention and affection in our own ways and often in competition with each other. We could stay angry at each other for too long, but we were never estranged. We both knew we were the apple of the other's eye.

People have been saying this week, "Now he can see again and hear again and walk again!" I really don't know about that. I believe in resurrection, but I have no earthly idea what it means. What it looks like. Does Dad really have a healthy body now? We have joked about him being reunited with some of his obnoxious friends, about them all giving God hell together. Maybe. I don't know. What I do know is this: he lived 81 years. He touched more lives than I will ever know with his own compassion and faith and preaching of the gospel, in both word and deed. He loved Mom passionately, even though he demanded far too much of her for far too long. He did much good in his life -- serving every community he lived in with civic zeal, every church he pastored with vigor and enthusiasm. He loved life. He loved people. He loved God. He loved me.

And now he is gone. Blessed are those who die in the Lord.

*With apologies to Mary Oliver

Sunday School Redux

2008-12-24T09:51:00.010-05:00

For anyone who actually still reads this blog (that would be you, PJ), you may remember the Sunday School concerns I've had. This fall my ex decided to enroll our son in the Sunday School at the church that he has been attending for the past 2 years. This is a weird and wild post-Christian, creation spirituality church. I enjoy attending it once or twice a month and have agreed to support the boy's participation in the SS program. To give you an idea of the religious education my son is now part of, here is the teen's Christmas story performed in church recently. What can I say?

Merry Christmas, my friends.

My Thanksgiving

2008-12-01T17:04:00.006-05:00

This year I traveled to Cleveland for Thanksgiving to meet my new friend's family and friends. My friend used to be in a rock band, playing lead guitar. The band-leader/song-writer was Kevin McMahon, who went on to form other bands, including one called Prick (yeah, I know). In this video he's the guy singing and swinging on the perch, wearing the black bird suit. We spent half a day in his studio, listening to old cuts from the original band and jamming. (Well, I didn't jam, I listened and bopped around a bit).

Can I just say that this is kind of different than participating in an ecumenical Thanksgiving service at a local main-line church?

(Technical difficulties prevented me from posting the video itself -- the link should work).

Democracy Taking Root

2008-11-09T16:15:00.010-05:00

There is no way to describe the euphoria everywhere I've been this week. A cosmic shift has taken place and we know it. I'm basking in it and I know we all want to bask in it for as long as we can. But basking can only be the beginning, not the end. I believe, as does Colin Powell, that Obama is a transformational leader. I would add that I believe his election in this moment of national crisis is a gift from God.

I also believe, as does Barack Obama, that power does not concede and that the road ahead for this country is a steep and rocky one. Gifts from God are not to be hoarded. They are meant to inspire us to generosity and compassion and courage. And courage will be needed in the months to come. This is no time to gloat, no time to let up. This is a time to stand up and fight. We no longer have the excuse that nothing can change in the current administration. We have seen the grass-roots at work and we have begun to remember that we can make a difference.

But just in case you doubt it, let me recommend a stirring documentary. Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai won the award for best documentary at this weekend's Asheville Film Festival. The film looks not only at her work in the Greenbelt Movement, but also her grass-roots democratic work for better government. I have admired Maathai for years, but I learned more about her courage, her commitment, her suffering on behalf of Kenya and her impact on that nation than I ever knew. Weaving Kenyan political history through the story of her life and work, the film highlights the enormous obstacles she had to overcome to do her work of planting trees to re-forest her native land. It's a must-see for anyone who cares about the environment. It reminds us in no uncertain terms that it is WE THE PEOPLE who must save our land. We cannot wait for the government to do it. We are the ones we have been waiting for.

And, not to boast too much, but can I just say that seeing this film was the highlight of a wonderful weekend in a beautiful city? Honestly, I do live in the nicest place ever. The River Arts District Studio Stroll was this weekend and I met a fabulous artist who inspired me with her faith, as well as with her beautiful work. The Film Festival brought to town a host of independent movies that, unfortunately, probably won't be making it to your local multi-plex. My new neighborhood night club had a fun, funky dance band Friday night and my son's neighborhood school had a sweet, playful Fall Festival that made lots of money for our Title I school, which needs it, while demonstrating work on our cob shed in our organic garden. Plus, the weather has been just dog-gone beautiful.

OK, back to basking while I sweep the leaves off my deck.

Pissed Off Presbyterians

2008-10-31T17:48:00.005-04:00

Kay Hagan, Democratic candidate for U.S. Senator from North Carolina, is running a strong race against Republican incumbent Elizabeth Dole. In fact, most polls show that Hagan is very likely to win, providing one of the turn-over seats in this year's senate. Because Dole, in spite of her money and Washington connections, has run out of ideas, she turned vicious. She's running an ad accusing Kay of being "godless." Kay happens to be an ordained elder in the Presbyterian Church and a Sunday School teacher. Kay's campaign ordered a "cease and desist" order which the Dole campaign (literally) laughed off. So now Kay is suing Dole for defamation of character. Her pastor and the Presbytery Executive have gone on the offensive for her. My mom, also a long-time Sunday School teacher and ordained Presbyterian elder, wrote Dole today saying "Shame on you!" Read more here ... if you aren't yet sick of nasty lies and character assassinations.

Generation Jones -- Who Knew?

2008-10-25T14:12:00.003-04:00

I don't watch TV, so apparently I missed out on this new designation for my generation. For years I have said that, although the stated years for the Baby Boomers' births were 1946-1964, I never, ever felt like part of that generation. Nor did I feel like an Xer. Well, turns out -- I wasn't alone. Generation Jones is the "lost generation" between the two and, as the generation shared by Obama and Palin, we are the group that could swing this election.

I once was lost, but now am found. Hallelujah!

A Good Weekend

2008-10-19T23:28:00.007-04:00

Saturday began with me getting in line before the polls opened to vote. The lines were already long when I arrived and were still long when I left -- lots of excitement in the room. That afternoon and evening, my son and I joined our local hiking meetup to make one of my favorite climbs. This was the view when we arrived. We stayed until the sun set. Hurrying down the 3.5 mile trail in the dark was a little creepy, but worth it.

And then tonight -- Sunday -- I went to a free James Taylor concert for Obama. Taylor is a Carolina native and is doing free concerts across the state this week to rally for Obama since we are one of the key battleground states. Additionally, I got to bring along my first real boss, a pastor I worked with in inner-city Indianapolis 20 years ago. He's in town for a conference, so we had dinner together and then went to the concert. His daughter (4 at the time I worked with him!) is now the Obama campaign coordinator for Indianapolis. It was the first time I had seen him in years, but we picked up like old friends.

This is what I call a good weekend. How was yours?

Manifest Obama

2008-10-16T08:20:00.002-04:00

This video was made at the Asheville Obama Rally I attended recently. Notice the joy in people's faces while waiting for hours in line. This is how the whole day felt. Joyous, hopeful, peaceful. The singer is a local musician -- Billy Jonas -- who is a wonderful, crazy guy. Very mellow in this, though.

Go Asheville! Go Barack! I'm glad the debates are over. Early voting starts today. Be the change, people, be the change!

The Cut

2008-10-10T22:15:00.006-04:00

Last month I bid on a haircut at a silent auction at a fundraiser for a local nonprofit and today I got that cut and now have a ponytail to donate to "Pantene Beautiful Lengths" for women with cancer. (Unlike Locks of Love, which requires a 10-inch ponytail, Pantene only requires 8). So here I am: the new do!

Barack the Vote!

2008-10-05T17:20:00.006-04:00

I just spent a blistering hot October afternoon standing in the sun shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people to hear the next president of the United States. He's here in Asheville preparing for the next debate. Today he focused almost exclusively on health care. As always, he was brilliant, funny, nuanced (imagine that!) and uplifting. All about who we can be as a people -- imagining our most decent and gracious selves as a nation. I love that message. (He did, however, get a couple of little sideways jabs at Gov. Palin.)

Michelle spoke here a few months ago and I went to that with my son, as well (yes, he had to stand for hours in the sun and crowd with me today, as well as then, to witness history). Her speech was actually the better of the two -- she is an astounding woman. She would make a great president herself, but I can't imagine a more wonderful first lady.

Today was the most diverse crowd I've been a part of since moving to Asheville more than two years ago. It feels so good to be coming together as a community, as a nation. And come together we will, because we must. Too much is at stake. For our children and for our world. This is a pivotal moment in our nation's history and we have to get it right this time.

North Carolina is going blue -- can I get a witness?

Waves

2008-07-10T21:00:00.007-04:00

Whenever I go to the ocean and spend a few hours diving in the waves, as I did last week, I am reminded of how much they have taught me. Occasionally you see somebody out in the surf who is clearly a newcomer to waves. Again and again they stand in the way of them and get smacked down. Now, if getting hit in the chest and head and back by powerful walls of frothy salt water is your thing, then go right on standing there and getting smacked. There are certainly worse ways to spend a day.

Personally, I prefer to face waves in a few other ways: diving over, diving under, moving out beyond them or riding them in. Of course, each way holds its own life lessons.

Diving over is tricky and only works if you catch it just before the big break. You have to know your wave and decide whether you have the traction on the sand shifting beneath you to make the leap. This way involves risk and quick judgement and the willingness to get a huge faceful of froth. But done right, it can result in a very pleasant floating, flopping ride to the other side.

Diving under is the easiest thing. Just put your arms over your head and face the wave and plunge straight in the the heart of it. But if you've never done it before, it looks scary. It's only once you've tried it that you understand that the quietest place in the surf is directly underneath the biggest waves. Ah yes, the old "there's no way out but through" philosophy.

Getting out beyond the waves usually means putting yourself rather far out into the ocean, which only works if you like being in the ocean over your head and trust that you have the strength to swim back in, even if a rip tide is pulling you farther out. To get beyond the waves you have to take a few in the face first, or try the diving under and over techniques often enough to get good at both. Beyond the waves can be choppy or peaceful and you are never guaranteed a wave-free existence, but what a place to hang out and enjoy the vastness of the universe. The risk is in straying too far from shore, but the pay-off is excellent.

Riding them in is the most fun of all but requires a willingness to eat some sand, scrape your knees on shells and occasionally feel as if you may be ripped apart. It also requires great patience in finding just the right wave to ride and catching it at just the right moment as the wall of water tips forward, but before the actual crest. But when you catch a great body surfing rise -- ah! What a rush!

Independence Week

2008-07-05T13:01:00.004-04:00

In addition to celebrating the independence of our nation this week, two other events occurred in my life with liberating effect.

Monday, June 30 was the last day that the former director of the center where I am now the current director was officially on the payroll. Of course, she is still calling to tell me what to do, but it really has very little impact on me these days. (Really, she called this week to suggest several things I ought to be doing during my vacation. No kidding.)

Wednesday, July 2, my ex and I went to court and are now officially divorced. There was a brief moment of breathless sadness and then ... relief. I am proud of how well the two of us handled this ending, sans lawyers or mediators or anyone else. We went through the whole process together, from separation agreement to final stamp of legal approval, and now it is finished and we are still friends. Thanks be to God!

And now, I am off on a vacation with my young one. See you when I get back.

I dedicate this to my Lord and Savior, Jesus

2008-07-05T12:24:00.008-04:00

The darling and irascible PJ has given me an award I clearly have not earned, but tearfully accept.

Here are the rules:

1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte Y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here: Arte Y Pico.

And because I never really follow all the rules, I pick these three:

Diane, for her theological depth and Midwestern good sense.

Doxy, for her pulls-no-punches writing on topics others don't want to touch.

and

Laura, because I ran into her yesterday and anyone who is a full-time pastor and mother of two charming young children, and can find time to blog and still look fabulous on a hot, sticky day at a parade deserves many awards.

Jesus is my Guru

2008-06-22T21:16:00.003-04:00

As a newly divorced woman in her mid-forties, I have entered a strange new world of dating. And I am doing it in the strange world that is Asheville. Being who I am, I tend to be attracted to men who are spiritual. This translates into my last three dates being with a guy who has been a devoted practitioner of a particular form of meditation based on some kind of yoga out of Hindu/Indian traditions. So, it has a guru. And he (date guy) does. I'm not a guru type of gal. My protestant gut is suspicious of any human being who claims too much spiritual power. Power corrupts and corrupted spiritual power may be the worst kind.

(Think inquisitions. Or Osama bin Laden, for that matter. Although I don't really think of either of those as spiritual, but political power which cynically used the spiritual weaknesses of people to rile them up. But that's another post.)

Anyway, I'm discussing my general distrust of gurus with this guy, who is trying not to become defensive about his love of his guru (he's gone to India 3 times to see him) and trying to share with me that it's really all about love -- increasing our love through meditation, blah, blah, blah.

So I say, "Well, Jesus is my guru. I don't need any other ones." And I realize it is true. That I do think of Jesus much in the same way he thinks of his guru -- as a human being who became so imbued with God-love that he was capable of extending it through not only his words and touch, but even through time and past death. While I'm fairly ambivalent about church these days, I am still crazy about Jesus. Though it defies intellectual understanding, I have experienced Jesus in encounters I will call mystical because I'm not sure what else to call them. I have been healed by these encounters -- spiritually, emotionally and physically healed. Not always in the ways I hoped to be healed, but in ways that powerfully changed me or the direction of my life.

I experience Jesus as a guy -- a real Middle Eastern Jewish guy -- who fully and completely got it. Got God. Got the point of life. And was transformed -- transfigured -- by it. And then became a conduit for transforming others. I don't know what happens to most of us when we die -- worm food? reincarnation? straight to heaven, do not pass go, do not collect $200? -- but I believe that Jesus, in some real sense, did not die. His body is dead and gone, but his spirit is alive and well. And not in some vague "everything is divine" sense, but in the sense of that Jewish guy who lived 2000 years ago and taught and walked and healed and was crucified. That his particular life experience -- incarnate, real, fully human experience -- was critical to his ability to continue through cultures and time to speak to us as fully human ones.

Perhaps there have been other human beings in history who share this category -- Buddha comes to mind -- but I can't attest to that. I can attest to Jesus. And because I experience him as still present, still available, still healing, I don't see the need for some other human to come along and claim some spiritual power into which I need to tap. I can go straight to the source -- the Big God -- or I can go to Jesus. And Jesus, having been human, is easier for me to get most days than the BG.

What about you?

Go, Hillary!

2008-06-07T13:17:00.006-04:00

Well, I'm inspired to break my two-month fast from blogging today because of Hillary Rodham Clinton and her powerful and gracious concession speech. I watched it start to finish and was moved to tears throughout. Unlike many people who got more angry the longer she stayed in the race, I found myself growing in admiration for her spunk. Those of you who have read my blog in the past know that Hillary was never one of my top choices for Democratic nominee. The war in Iraq was high on my list of reasons. Along with that were my concern that she is too much of a Washington insider to think in new ways about our country and its needs and that she is too much of a savvy politician to stick to strong progressive stances in spite of opposition.

Nonetheless, as a woman, a mother and a feminist, I am delighted that she did as well as she did. By staying in the race she did, as she said today, put 18 million cracks in that glass ceiling leading to the White House. She accomplished, as she said, the remarkable task of making it unremarkable that future women will be considered true contenders in such a race. Hillary Clinton is a brilliant woman, an inspired politician, and a great leader for our country. I believe that she will continue to be so in whatever the next role for her turns out to be. And I sincerely hope it is a significant one.

I am grateful that she came out so strongly and clearly for Obama and for the Democratic party. Good for her. In the coming months, may her followers be as clear and gracious as she was today.

Opening to Grace -- an ad

2008-04-08T21:21:00.005-04:00

I don't think I've ever used this space for an ad before, but I'm going to make an exception. There is an amazing woman by the name of Tilda Norberg who lives on Staten Island, where she practices and teaches Gestalt Pastoral Care. Throughout the year she does weekend retreats called "Opening to Grace" near Dingman's Ferry, PA, at her funky little retreat space. This fall the dates for her weekends are: Sept. 25-27, Oct. 16-18, and Dec. 4-6. Each retreat is limited to 6 participants, plus some helpers, and costs $300, which includes room and board. Gestalt pastoral care is a combination of Gestalt growth work, healing prayer and spiritual companioning. It's hard to describe. You kind of have to experience it.

I studied with Tilda for two years at her home/school on Staten Island. It was one of the most important experiences of my life. Given that my life has been a bit of a mess ever since, I realize I'm not the best walking advertisement. (But then again, I'm not sure this mess isn't partly a result of shaking up my comfortable little world. Sometimes healing isn't pretty.)

If this sounds even vaguely interesting to you, go to the website and read up on it. Or give Tilda a call and have a chat. I highly recommend her and this work. But maybe you shouldn't go if you like your life exactly the way it is. I'm just saying ...

In Defense of Church-Shopping

2008-04-04T12:30:00.010-04:00

I recently read an article by a former colleague of mine in which she bemoaned the American habit of church-shopping. I completely understand how she feels. I used to preach that same sermon. She criticized the concept that churches are "spiritual service providers." Yup, I've made that argument, too, back in my preaching days.

But let's consider the other side of the story. Let's say I'm a mom of a young child and worship on Sunday morning is the one hour a week I can hope to get some spiritual nourishment in community. I may sneak in my own prayer and devotion time through the week -- but not with other people. This is my only chance and I know I can get more out of it if my beautiful, squirmy, noisy, curious child is safely taken care of somewhere else. In a nursery. And the church I attend doesn't have one. Will I stay? Probably not. Could I be accused of only thinking of my own spiritual needs? I could. But what would be the point? That I shouldn't be taking care of my own spiritual needs? Don't women -- and mothers in particular -- get that message often enough? Take care of everybody else's needs first! Yours can wait.

Or take the accusation that one shouldn't leave because you disagree with the pastor. The truth is, anybody making this statement is probably a pastor. What is the point of worshipping week after week, listening to a person who preaches the Word and shapes the liturgy, if you have some fundamental disagreements with that person about that same Word and liturgy? Is this a tolerance test? Of course I'll disagree with any other human being from time to time -- we're human, after all -- but to state that agreement with the pastor should not be a criteria for whether one stays active in a church is an unrealistic and, frankly, disingenuous statement. You can bet the person making it, on his/her Sunday off, seeks out a worship service with a pastor they enjoy. (If they go to church at all).

Neither of the above are my current situation. But here is my reality: I'm a single mom working full-time as director of an agency, with two precious animals in my care, a home, yard and car that are my responsibility, and aging parents for whom I uprooted my adult life so that I could live near them. I am not complaining about these things. I love these realities. They are, in fact, my calling in life at this stage. Each one of them has a particular pull on my soul and energy and I do my best to honor all of those pulls. They are where my time, energy and love go, day after day. Taking care of a church community is not one of my callings right now. It has been for most of my life, but it isn't now. And that's true of many people sitting in our pews. They aren't called to take care of your congregation, preacher, so give them a break.

I love God. I love worshipping God in community. I need that community. And I am church-shopping to find it. Shopping has this negative, materialistic, self-centered image in the church and for good reason. I think a better metaphor is dating. I'm dating several churches (and other spiritual communities) this year. I thought I needed to hop from my last church-marriage into a new one and the trouble with that model is you don't give yourself time to learn and grow and figure out how you changed since the last time you made a commitment. So I hopped quickly into what I believed to be a long-term relationship with a congregation. I didn't sign on the membership line, but I did get very involved. Then, when I began sensing that the relationship wasn't really working, I felt guilty and confused about how to extricate myself.

Also, like my real-life dating these days, there is a child involved. And that makes a tremendous difference. (Unlike real-life dating, the child goes on most of my church-dates). It is not just my needs, but his that I consider. Is he surrounded by other adults in this congregation who demonstrate to him, implicitly and explicitly, the kind of Christian values I hope to help him develop? If that isn't happening in the congregation, I'm not staying. Just as in dating, I don't care how much I like the guy, if he's not somebody I feel good about my kid being around, it ain't happening.

And, as is true in my dating life (or my desire to have one, is more like it), I'm not really out for a long-term commitment just yet. I need a break from the hard work of that kind of commitment. I do want to just be able to enjoy the date without thinking too much about the future. Which means, next Sunday I may or may not want to spend time with you. I may want to go out with another church next week. Or I may be serially monogomous for a while -- a few months in this church, a few in that.

The bottom line is, church-shopping -- or church-dating, as I prefer to call it-- is going to happen. Churches and pastors need to deal with this reality without judgement. Just as not every date is going to lead to marriage, not every church-date is going to lead to a long-term commitment. Nor should it. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Hafiz -- a poem

2008-04-02T17:35:00.002-04:00

Don't surrender your loneliness

So quickly.

Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you

As few human

Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight

Has made my eyes so soft,

My voice

So tender,

My need of God

Absolutely

Clear.

My New Favorite Song

2008-03-31T20:13:00.001-04:00

So I'm a little late to the party, as usual. This one is for a special friend. You know who you are.

Holy Week

2008-03-26T11:41:00.004-04:00

Being asked to do the Presbymeme (below) gave me the impetus to blog about my Holy Week. Nothing Presbyterian about it.

Let's start on Palm Sunday. I got a 9 a.m. call from a new friend, raised secular Muslim, who has very bad feelings about Christianity in general, but is trying hard to respect mine. "Happy Palm Sunday!" he announced. "Oh. Is it?" I replied. I really didn't know. And that shocked me. Has there ever been a Palm Sunday in my entire life that I didn't wake up looking forward to the dramatic story that moves from triumph to tragedy? I loved waving the palms as a child. I love the Palm Sunday hymns. As a pastor, I always loved creating a parade from the outside to the inside of the church and moving the congregation from the exaltation of "All Glory, Laud and Honor" to the reality of death and betrayal still to come.

I went to Funny Little Church (FLC) -- the one I've blogged about from time to time this year -- at the usual afternoon time. They had palm branches there, but we really didn't do anything with them. The service was fine ... but it didn't feel like Palm Sunday. None of the triumph or the tragedy, really. Just another informal, lefty Baptist kind of thing.

In keeping with the lack of realization that it was Holy Week, I had made plans to celebrate the Vernal Equinox on Maundy Thursday. That day I had second thoughts, but having no church home that was doing Maundy Thursday, I kept my original plans. I went to a friend's retreat center (we do similar work and try to collaborate rather than compete) to do meditative dances. It was fine. But it was not Maundy Thursday, which may well be my favorite Holy Day of the year. Especially when foot washing is included. My churches have typically conflated MT and Good Friday, with communion first and then Tenebrae, on the theory that getting Presbyterians out to one mid-week service is asking enough and two would be impossible. I love that movement as well, from tight circle of friends huddled in an upper room, to public trial and betrayal. From gentle hope to dark hopelessness in such a short time.

On Good Friday, I attended my local Episcopal church (LEC), which is where FLC now meets, so they had invited us to join them. It was a beautiful service. We heard the whole gospel story of the betrayal, trial, crucifixion and tomb. The priest gave a beautiful homily using an illustration from modern-day Middle East about non-violence and compassion that was so moving and pertinent. He is a man clearly in love with God. We had a ritual with stones that we offered as something we needed to let go of in order to follow Christ. There was the Eucharist and healing prayer. We sang Taize music, mostly. Finally, I felt like I had joined Holy Week.

But that left Easter. FLC just doesn't do the Big Holy Days (BHD) well at all and I had decided some time before not to attend there, so as to preempt my disappointment. But the last BHD I had gone with my mom to her traditional Presbyterian church and left screaming in boredom and ended up offending her, because she really loves her church, so I didn't want to do that either. First I thought I'd just do LEC again or the Cathedral, always a good choice if one is in search of Pomp. But I wasn't in search of Pomp. I was in search of resurrection.

Then I got an invitation I couldn't refuse. To worship at the Men's State Correctional Facility. So that's what I did. Drove with some friends from FLC to the maximum security prison about an hour away and worshipped there. We didn't sing any of the hymns I love -- no Jesus Christ is Risen Today or Hallelujah Chorus or the wonderful Brian Wren Easter hymn to Beethoven's 9th. They sang gospel. And Amazing Grace. A retired Baptist minister preached. Good sermon.

It is a strange and discomforting place for me to feel so out of sync not with Christianity in the spiritual sense, but Christianity in the denominational sense. In spite of lovely, compassionate Christian people in all the churches I have attended over the past year, I can't escape the sense of deadliness I encounter there. Is it in me or in the churches? I suspect it is me dying to my old ways of being church. A long, slow death as it is turning out.

At the prison, there is so little pretence. You either get resurrection or you don't. If you don't, you're not there on Sunday. If you do, you can't not be there. What else is there when you are behind bars and have thrown yourself on the mercy of a living, loving Lord? This is a stance I understand. When my church let me go, God did not. God, in fact, picked me up even before they threw me down.

[Now, there will be some Presbyterians who will read this, who know my story and will jump in to say, "Oh, no. The church didn't leave you." To you, I need to say, please spare me. I know what happened and how. And until you have walked in my shoes, you really, really don't know.]

So I am dying a long, slow death to the ways of worshipping and understanding God and church and community and compassion that I lived so fully for so many years. It is not easy. And yet, it is also not hard. Because I know resurrection. I know it in my bones, in my gut, in the ligaments that hold me together. I know it, quite literally, better than I know myself. Because my self is also in this long, slow dying time. I don't know what I'll look like or sound like on the other side of the process I'm in, but I trust, that with Peter I will move from eager follower to quick denier to empowered leader. But also like Peter, I don't know if my former communities will recognize me when I get to that stage or will want to disown the more inclusive, more powerful, more merciful and impartial God that I am continuing to grow to know. There is no going back to the old ways. I have no desire or need to do so. But what is to come is yet to be clear. Resurrection changes things.

Happy season of resurrection, friends. May you know it in your life and may the church know it as well.

PresbyMeme

2008-03-25T21:33:00.009-04:00

OK, my blog bud Ruth tagged me for this one. To put it mildly, I'm pretty disconnected from being Presbyterian these days, but given how deeply I've been steeped in the past, I'll play along. The start for this one came from Bruce Reyes-Chow.

What is your earliest memory of being distinctly Presbyterian?
All my early memories include being distinctly Presbyterian!! I wasn't Catholic -- didn't wear a uniform and go to a special school or have a priest who wore a collar or have to go to confession. I wasn't Southern Baptist -- didn't sing praise songs, go to revivals, or believe that everybody might be on the way to hell. I was invited to think about and question scripture as soon as I started learning it. In a small Midwestern town what else could I be? Gee, I must be Presbyterian! (And then there was church camp, Logos, singing in the children's choir, Synod School, serving on the Presbytery Youth Council, being a YAD at Synod, the first ever Youth Triennium -- yes, I did just turn 45 -- Montreat youth conferences, Montreat mission conferences, being a YAD at GA, being a seminary intern at GA, working for the Presbyterian headquarters when it still was in NYC -- yes, I did just turn 45 -- and all those SERMONS!!!)

On what issue/question should the PC(USA) spend LESS energy and time?
g/l/b/t ordination. Newsflash: gays are people in whom the holy spirit moves. get over it already.

On what issue/question should the PC(USA) spend MORE energy and time?
whether they embody the healing power of Jesus in everything they say and do. If not, why bother?

If you could have the PC(USA) focus on one passage of scripture for a entire year, what would it be?
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me." (Psalm 51:10)

If the PC(USA) were an animal what would it be and why?
Ruth, I love you, sweetie, but I can't answer this one in polite company. Nothing good will come of it. (But your answer on this one was lovely.)

Extra Credit: Jesus shows up at General Assembly this year, what does he say to the Presbyterian Church (USA)?
"Umm ... excuse me. Is there some reason you're trying to save this denomination? Did you forget that whole thing in Matthew 16:25, Mark 8:35 and Luke 9:24? Ya think if it was crucial enough to make it into all 3 synoptics you might wanna pay attention?" (Oh, I love to send Presbyterians scrambling for their Bibles).

OK, hope I don't sound too bitter. I don't know many Presby bloggers so if you are one, play along and if you aren't one but want to answer for your own brand of religion, play along that way.

St. Patrick's Prayer

2008-03-17T22:03:00.006-04:00

I bind unto myself today
the strong name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One, and One in Three.

I bind this day to me forever,
by power of faith, Christ's incarnation;
his baptism in the Jordan river;
his death on the cross for my salvation.
His bursting from the spiced tomb;
his riding up the heavenly way;
his coming at the day of doom
I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself today
the virtues of the star-lit heaven,
the glorious sun's life-giving ray,
the whiteness of the moon at even,
the flashing of the lightning free,
the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
the stable earth, the deep salt sea
around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
the power of God to hold and lead,
God's eye to watch, God's might to stay,
God's ear to hearken to my need,
the wisdom of my God to teach,
God's hand to guide, God's shield to ward,
the word of God to give me speech,
God's heavenly host to be my guard.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the name,
the strong name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One, the One in Three,
of whom all nature has creation,
eternal Father, Spirit, Word.
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
salvation is of Christ the Lord. Amen.

(With thanks to my friend, Roy).

Parties

2008-03-15T23:08:00.002-04:00

I threw myself a birthday party tonight. It was fun. 8 interesting women joined me, most of whom did not know each other. There were lively conversations in all corners of the house. Then when we all ended up in one room eating, we covered such topics as:
*prostitution
*political wives and the choices we all make behind closed doors about the public faces we will present
*breast-feeding
*adoption
*the choice/circumstances to remain childless
*Obama-mania
*what kids are down-loading on their ipods
*at what age we began drinking (ranged from 12 to 21)
*the age at which someone first kissed our breasts (ranged from 14 to 32)
*the last time someone kissed our breasts ...

OK, that last one was just me. Feeling sorry for myself. Anyhoo ...

Other fun birthday parties I remember:

Age 5 -- my first big party with hats, games and lots of friends. I still love the photos from that one -- I graduated from high school with everyone who came to that party. Isn't that wild? Small town midwest America.

Age 12-ish? A taffy pull. Probably my favorite childhood birthday party.

Age 21 -- no party, but I was on a work-camp in Jamaica on spring break from my jr. year in college.

Age 35 -- again, no party, but finally pregnant and happy as a lark.

Happy Birthday to me.

2008-03-10T20:13:00.009-04:00

Tomorrow I turn 45.

It is interesting for me to think of my last two birthdays. On my 43rd, I was happily married (or so I thought), just completing a 6-month course in Martin Seligman's positive psychology, working part-time in a church where the long-term beloved pastor had died exactly one month before my birthday, nearing completion of a two-year course in Gestalt Pastoral Care, considering a move to North Carolina and generally enjoying my life immensely. Given what transpired over the next several months I sometimes look back and wonder if I was completely deluded.

But I know I wasn't. I was genuinely happy then. I remember that birthday as one of my best. I was rested and renewed after leaving my previous church (the one where I burned out) 1 1/2 years before. I was feeling excited about the possibility of a move near my parents. I was delighted with the courses I was completing and wondering how that learning might be integrated into my new life. I was grateful to the church where I had landed for the way they opened their hearts to me in the midst of their grief.

By my 44th birthday, I had moved and left behind all my community, I was unemployed, my marriage had fallen apart and my career seemed dead to me. I was as alone as I had ever been. But I was also relieved. The week before my birthday, my husband moved out (at my request) and I received two job offers and two more interview offers. I decided to go ahead and take my current job. So while everything was new and uncertain, life held possibility and relief from the end of the longest, hardest 8 months of my life.

Now it is a year later. I've been at this job for a while. I've been single for a while. I've started to build community. I've gotten used to being a child living near her parents again. I've taken a first stab at dating (yikes!).

There is so much for me to be grateful for. I'm a homeowner. I have a decent job. I'm meeting interesting people. I live in a great neighborhood. I have loving, caring parents. I have a beautiful, resilient son. I am making ends meet. I have a reliable car. I have a sweet dog. I live in an amazingly beautiful part of the world and an interesting little city. I have a good friendship with my ex. I have a supportive board of directors at work. I am physically healthy and mentally on the mend. I am competent and capable and likable much of the time.

Life is nothing like I imagined it might be two years ago. Nothing. Not a thing.

And I cannot imagine what my life will hold one year from now. At all.

I would like to be able to go back and pick up the pieces from that 43rd birthday -- the joy and wonder and hope I felt then. But the two years in between have been full of learning and humility and grace that need to be better integrated before that old joy can re-emerge, I guess. I am not unhappy. I am often able to laugh with ease. I feel connected to the people around me. Most days I can believe that more goodness and mercy lie in wait for me.

And so, I begin my 46th year of living. More humble, certainly. More wise, perhaps. Living, day by day, on faith in a way I could only hint at when life was easier.

*image "Humility" by Chidi Okoye

One Year Ago ...

2008-03-03T19:55:00.001-05:00

I became single.

Sunday thoughts

2008-03-02T20:53:00.005-05:00

OK, I'll take on the first two of my threatened blogging topics, since you commenters were so kind and encouraging.

1. I'm supporting Obama. Clinton has not been in my top three of the various Democratic possibilities at any point in the primary race. But, I have to say that I have grown more and more uncomfortable with the sexism leveled against her in this race. Not by Obama, but by pretty much everyone else. I won't detail it, as that has been done well elsewhere, but it does disturb me to the core. The truth is, while I don't support her for many reasons, her support of the Iraq war chief among them, I nonetheless find her brilliant, talented, articulate, savvy, strong and a formidable politician. Denounce her votes, if you must, stake your claim for other candidates, if you wish, but don't whine about her being bitchy or strident or over-emotional or under-emotional or a bad wife for staying with Bill or a good wife for staying with Bill or even (and I'm guilty of this one) too political. Like anybody who could win the presidential election is NOT too political?

Yesterday on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," Peter Sagal was doing his usual job of skewering her when Paula Poundstone, God love her, stopped him in his tracks with her snappy insistence that maybe we should just let the voters decide and shut up about it.

2. Home-(Sunday)schooling the boy. When my son was a baby/toddler he alternated between the nurseries at the Quaker meeting his dad attended and the Presbyterian church I served as pastor. When he was two, we moved for his dad's graduate school and ended up worshiping at an Episcopal church in the outback of New Jersey. Wonderful church. Then we moved for me to take a call and for three years (ages 3-6) he was active in the church where I served. He liked that church. This is the church where I burned out. Before I left the church, his dad had returned to worshipping among the Quakers and for the last two years we were in Maryland, the boy went with him. He liked that church too. So, three good church experiences within his memory: Episcopal, Presbyterian, Quaker.

Then we moved. And our lives imploded. We worshipped together for a while at a local creation-spirituality based non-denominational church. A wild and interesting place, but as the separation became a more certain reality, I went in search of my own church community. I landed quickly in a small ecumenical congregation made up of mostly renegade Baptists. Soon after, my son began coming with me and joined the Sunday school. He never liked it. At all.

Late this past fall, as we entered the holiday season, he became very sad. There were school problems -- icky teacher, class bullies -- and the reality of going through the holidays for the first time since his parents split. He constantly complained of feeling sick. We consulted a child therapist and his primary doc, ran blood tests to rule out physical illness and basically just did our best as parents to hold him through what was just a really sucky time in his life. We tried to give him space and encouragement to grieve and express his feelings and figure out some healthy coping mechanisms. But it was a hard time for all of us.

As a long-term, upbeat substitute came into his class and we made it into the new year and he reconnected with some of his best friends, things were looking up. Except when it came to church. He still hated it. He said he wanted to go back to the church where we had gone last year as a family, so we did. But he didn't like it as much as he remembered. (I think he just like that when we went there, we were still a family). I continued to talk to him about church and why it is important to me and that the fact that he didn't like it wasn't going to change the fact that we were going to attend somewhere regularly, so what might we do to make it more bearable?

Well, as he lived with this reality for a few weeks, he became more articulate about what was bothering him. And it was the other kids in Sunday School. He felt so left out and rejected that it was making him, literally, physically ill Sunday after Sunday. When I started really paying attention to this and seeing that he wasn't making it up (though he did have a role to play in the outsider status), it broke my heart.

So, I began to think about what it was I really want him to know about God and church and faith. I'm a firm believer in the need for community in our walk of faith. I want him to know the Scriptures. Even more, I want him to know the God found there. I want him to know about Jesus. I want him to learn how to pray. I want him to have other adults around him besides me and his dad who are intentional about their spiritual and ethical lives.

In my ideal world, he would learn this among peers at Sunday school as well as in inter-generational worship. But this isn't an ideal world. This is a world where my kid has been through hell recently. And not just recently. His ability to function well among peers is a hard-won case, complicated by his place on the autism spectrum. And the truth is, the church we attend is very cliquey. So much so that I almost left a few months ago. Except, where would I go? It's not like I have any fantasies about an ideal church made of ideal human beings. And there were others, like me, on the margins of the clique, whom I dearly loved.

So, we have come to a compromise. We will worship somewhere together every week. Most weeks, it will be at this same little church. Today it was at Quaker meeting. (And he liked it.) But I will not subject him to the rejection and sadness he has experienced among his peers at Sunday School, just so I can say I take my kid to Christian Ed. I am perfectly capable of teaching him the Bible lessons he would learn there and he is having a hard enough time among peers at school this year without having to do that again on Sunday. I want his affiliations with the Bible to be positive -- not based in a place where he felt physically ill.

So I am now officially home-schooling my child in Christian Ed. And maybe I'll take him Kirtan chanting or Sufi dancing one of these Sundays, too.

Things I Would Blog About ...

2008-02-25T21:12:00.003-05:00

... if I were still blogging:

1. The Obama/Clinton debates and how I almost changed my mind about who to vote for.
2. Why I've decided to home-school Luke for Sunday School.
3. The ache in my chest when I think about who I want to be in the world and how far short I find myself falling.
4. Living near my parents as an adult and what I have observed -- in them and in myself.
5. The hiking club I've joined.
6. The YMCA I've joined.
7. How much I wish my spiritual life were getting as much exercise as my body.
8. The grace I keep experiencing anyway.

Really, the last is what I would blog about daily if I could find the words. I used to get up and preach about it week after week. I tried to be authentic in my preaching and for the most part, I think I was. But the depth of both pain and grace I experienced in the implosion of my-life-as-I-knew-it over the past two years has left this raw, speechless place in me.

Maybe one day the words will come. Maybe not.

The Weird Book Tag

2008-02-10T11:37:00.000-05:00

From PJ.

Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more. (No cheating!)
Find Page 123.
Find the first 5 sentences and read them.
Post the next 3 sentences.

Here goes, from Anita Shreve's The Weight of Water:

"Yes. I searched her feet right off and they were stiff. I carried her over to my house."

How's that? Play along if you like.

February Bullets

2008-02-02T18:53:00.001-05:00

*Did anyone else see the very cool, star-studded video of Obama's "Yes We Can" speech before it got pulled off YouTube? And does anybody know why it's no longer available?

*I went to a Kirtan chant Friday night, a movie date with my ex Saturday night (no, we're not getting back together, but since neither of us had dates with other people and the child was at a sleep-over we figured, why not?) and an Imbolc celebration Sunday morning. I have a weird life, but I like it.

*I worked my tail off last week and it was worth it. I'm really beginning to feel like this job is mine. In spite of crazy former boss calling and cussing me out (really, I do not exaggerate) on Tuesday.

*Superbowl? What superbowl?

Hello, see ya later ...

2008-01-25T17:10:00.000-05:00

As those of you still paying attention may have noticed, I'm not blogging. It wasn't a conscious choice, it just kind of happened. Maybe the urge will return, maybe not. You'll know because I'll start commenting on somebody else's blog first, I bet. So, my blog buds who saw me through the last crazy year of my life, so long for the moment. Have fun in the blogosphere and let me know if anything momentous happens.

Mim? Meem? Mime? (No, too wordy)

2008-01-14T16:10:00.003-05:00

PJ has tagged me, so I have to join back in the blogging community, I guess. I've been actually ignoring all of my favorite blogs recently, to say nothing of my own. New job and some other emotionally distracting stuff has been taking my attention instead. OK, here goes:

- Link to the person that tagged you. (done)
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
- Tag six people and at the end of your post, link to their blogs.
- Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I've had short hair for most of my 44 years, except that I grew it out in high school, then dramatically cut it all off, did the same thing in college and now, have actually had it kind of long for two years. A life record.

2. Though I hang out with mostly Anglican bloggers, the current politics of TEC have bored me into ignoring most of what is going on. Sorry, folks. I know it's important and all that, I just can't force myself to care all that much. I went through the same thing in my own denomination -- from activist to apathetic. Maybe it's a phase.

3. My cat has had a gross skin disease for over a year now. I took him to the vet repeatedly at the beginning and dropped major amounts of money I don't have on shots, pills and more. The vet clearly didn't know what was wrong and the cat doesn't seem to be suffering, so now I just accept the disease as if it were male pattern baldness-- something that can't really be helped. I know, I know, I'm a bad, bad cat owner. Feel free to send money and I'll try another vet.

4. I've taken to considering the following a complete meal for myself and my son: carrots with ranch dressing, apples with peanut butter, crackers and cheese. And on a good night, hard boiled eggs with mustard.

5. I'm very moody. Ask anybody who's ever had to live with me.

6. Although I complain too often on this blog about what I find lacking in the various worship services I attend, I'm a worship junkie. I really can't go long without a service. And if I had all the time in the world, I'd probably go to several every week.

My blogging circle is so small these days, it's more like a semi-circle, but I'll try Diane and Laura.

On to New Hampshire

2008-01-05T08:31:00.000-05:00

Well, for all intents and purposes, Dennis is out of the race. Not that this surprises me, but still, I had hoped he might make just a little bigger splash. Richardson is still in and, let's face it, he's great vice presidential material. Southwest state, latino heritage, solid experience. I still like him for his diplomatic experience and outstanding environmental stances.

So, if I'm to be a pragmatist now (which I always am, really), do I choose John or Barack? I have to say, there is something lovely about the idea of having a US president named Barack Obama. But did anybody else find that his post-caucus speech was not all that? It has been getting nice reviews, but as far as I can tell, he didn't really say anything.

Discuss.

A Poem for My Ex

2008-01-02T07:21:00.000-05:00

On New Year's Eve day, my ex and I had a ritual of divorce. It was sad and powerful and beautiful. We each had two witnesses with us. We shared Scriptures and prayer, we offered our regrets and asked and received forgiveness, we shared our gratitudes, we shared our intentions to move forward in friendship and mutual care and to always put our son first. We held a rope between us and spoke words of release to each other and then had a friend cut the rope, freeing us to move forward into the future with love and joy. We held each other and bawled like babies.

In honor of the man with whom I shared 15 years of my life, with whom I grew up and learned how to love and learned some of my limits of loving, to the man who is a wonderful father to our beautiful boy, I offer this poem, with sincere hope that he finds love again.

"I Love the Way Men Crack" by Ellen Bass, from Mules of Love, Vol. 1.

I love the way men crack
open when their wives leave them,
their sheaths curling back like the split
shells of roasted chestnuts, exposing
the sweet creamy meat. They call you
and unburden their hearts the way a woman
takes off her jewels, the heavy
pendant earrings, the stiff lace gown and corset,
and slips into a loose kimono.
It's like you've both had a couple shots
of really good scotch and snow is falling
in the cone of light under the street lamp—
large slow flakes that float down in the amber glow.

They tell you all the pain pressed into their flat chests,
their disappointed penises, their empty hands.
As they sift through the betrayals and regrets,
their shocked realization of how hard they tried,
they way they shouldered the yoke
with such stupid good faith—
they grow younger and younger. They cry
with the unselfconciousness of children.
When they hug you, they cling.
Like someone who's needed glasses for a long time—
and finally got them-they look around
just for the pleasure of it: the detail,
the sharp edges of what the world has to offer.

And when they fall in love again, it only gets better.
Their hearts are stuffed full as éclairs
and the custard oozes out at a touch.
They love her, they love you, they love everyone.
They drag out all the musty sorrows and joys
from the basement where they've been shoved
with mitts and coin collections. They tell you
things they've never told anyone.
Fresh from loving her, they come glowing
like souls slipping into the bodies
of babies about to be born.

Then a year goes by. Or two.
Like broken bones, they knit back together.
They grow like grass and bushes and trees
after a forest fire, covering the seared earth.
They landscape the whole thing, plant like mad
and spend every weekend watering and weeding.

Sandy update

2007-12-22T20:25:00.001-05:00

Sandy took three walks with me today. First to the corner and back, then down the block and back and tonight around several blocks through the neighborhood! I am so encouraged. I had no expectation of such a quick recovery. Who knows? Maybe she'll be hiking mountains yet. What a good girl she is.

My Dog Sandy

2007-12-21T18:06:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, my dog Sandy had a stroke. This is a picture I took of her tonight.

Some of my blog-buds speak often of their dogs and I always enjoy hearing about them. I haven't said much about mine, but it certainly is not for lack of love. Sandy came into my life almost exactly 10 years ago. I had just discovered I was pregnant. My then-husband and I figured this meant we'd be less foot-loose and fancy-free, so we could settle down and get a dog. Both of us grew up with dogs and loved them, but also loved to travel and were not sure we were ready to be conscientious dog-owners up until then.

On January 2, 1998 we went to a wonderful animal shelter and began observing the dogs. Those of you who have adopted from shelters know how it is to walk by cage after cage of hopeful looking dogs, all barking and jumping and begging you to pick them! We took a few dogs out of the cages and into the "meeting room" for brief times of play. Sandy seemed especially eager to please and happy to see us. The staff let us take her out on the front lawn and run free with her for a bit. She made no effort to go anywhere other than where we were. She had already decided she was our dog, I think. She was. She went home with us that day.

Sandy had been a stray, with an unknown history. The vet where we took her to be spayed thought she appeared about 2 years old. She was well house-trained, knew the command to sit and loved people. The shelter just called her a "shepherd mix" which is what it said of about half of the dogs. (Those shepherds really get around). Over the years, taking her to dog parks and walking around, we discovered that she appeared to have traits closer to an Australian shepherd than a German one and probably had some kind of collie -- maybe border -- mixed in. She definitely had some herding instincts and absolutely no retriever in her. She happily followed the retrievers around in parks for the company, but seemed baffled by their need to have somebody throw something. She also doesn't swim. She'll wade, but the look of distaste on her face whenever she accidently steps in water a bit too deep is priceless.

Sandy is an exceptionally gentle dog. She doesn't jump up on people or play rough, but she loves to run around and chase people or other creatures. She has endured years of childish pushing and pulling without ever once snapping at my son. She loves hiking and other dogs. And she loves to sing along when the music is loud or we're all dancing or singing or giggling in the house. She has a nice howl when she chooses to share it.

Sandy has lived with us in four homes in three states. She was in foster care with my ex-mother-in-law for 10 months when we were living at an outdoor education center in the back-woods of northwest NJ and couldn't have our pets with us. She gained about 10 pounds that year! We got her back down to her usual 50 pounds with plenty of good walks once we got her back. I got custody of Sandy in the split because I have the fenced yard and the bigger home and because she has been more my dog all along. But the ex happily walks her on the days I work too long and keeps her when I travel. My mom has loved having a granddog as well as a grandson nearby and also happily dog-sits as needed.

Today Sandy has had two small walks around the yard. She looks like a very lethargic drunk when she's walking now. Normally, her food, water and crate are in our basement. Today I brought up the food and water and a blanket on which she lay very quietly for most of the day. I went down to work in my office for a while (also in the basement) and carried her down to be near me. I came up to get something and to my surprise, she followed me up the stairs. Going down is another story and so I've kept the door closed to the downstairs. (This means that my cat will now have to learn to use the cat door in the door to the basement, which he has refused to acknowledge exists for 1 1/2 years.)

Sandy has eaten and seems to have no problem swallowing. She can manage to take care of her business when taken outside. She just barked for the first time as someone approached the door, so I take that as a good sign. She doesn't appear to be suffering in any way, other than looking a bit sad when lying on her blanket. It must be so confusing for a dog to have this happen. To be out on a wonderful walk one evening and then wake up the next morning, twisted and shaking and unable to stand.

I'm pretty sure that Sandy will never join me on another mountain hike. Hopefully she'll regain enough strength and balance to be able to take a slow walk around the block and visit all her doggy friends. I am both sad and relieved today. Sad that she is not the dog she was two days ago and relieved that it looks like she will be OK.

December Diary, cont.

2007-12-20T12:18:00.000-05:00

I'm asking for prayers ... again! My son has been very, very sad this week. I need to hire a new office manager over the holidays because the volunteer who was going to cover January-February got a new job (found out late Tuesday). I need to take my parents to see my dying uncle who just went into hospice. I've got a lousy cold.

And my dog had a stroke this morning.

Too good not to share.

2007-12-14T19:47:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Mags.

December diary

2007-12-12T20:15:00.000-05:00

*Holiday party at my retreat ministry last night. A board member had prepared a ritual of jumping over brooms for the boss and myself. She jumped toward the door. I jumped toward the office. It was a nice event and good to ritualize the big threshold each of us is crossing as she moves into a part-time consultant role and I move into the director's seat.

*Today, however, she was in a predictably foul mood. This is not an easy process for her -- letting go of the reins of the organization she created. And she is not entirely letting go. I am stepping in with my eyes wide open. Maybe it will work, maybe it won't. Que sera, sera.

*The boy and I made an advent wreath together and have been enjoying lighting the candles and eating by candlelight each night that he's here. We have a deck of Advent discussion cards that we read from, which has been fun.

*I'm interviewing folks for the office manager position which will begin when the boss moves out and I get her office. Nice people. But I need someone with better computer skills than I've seen so far. Anyone out there want to move to Asheville for a low-paying, part-time job in a beautiful, funky little city? You'll have a great boss!

*My Christmas tree is up -- little organic one from a neighbor (have I mentioned that I love my neighborhood?) -- and it is mighty cute if I do say so myself. Also, white-light snowflakes on the porch.

*School situation with the boy's teacher has not really improved, so we're making the best of it by compensating at home. However, I made a new friend recently, who used to teach and is married to a teacher and they both were entirely appalled by my son's teacher's methods and the principal's defense of them, so I did feel somewhat justified. No need to go into details here, but basically she's all about punishing children for not reaching perfection on certain benchmarks. Not satisfactory passing grades. Perfection. Long-term punishment. We're talking months. There is not one person to whom I've explained the situation, except for the principal, who is not completely appalled. The neighbors/new friends/teachers really want us to take the issue to the district office, as they find her practices "bordering on abusive," but ex and I don't really have the energy or stomach to follow through on it.

*In spite of everything -- move, divorce, shitty teacher, sensory integration issues -- the boy is doing very well. He seems like a happy kid. A parent I don't know stopped me on the sidewalk the other day to tell me what a good boy he was. Out of the blue. It made me so happy to hear that from a stranger. He is a good boy.

*Ex and I continue to get along exceptionally well. And on those days when it makes me wonder whether we should make another effort at getting back together, we'll have just enough snippiness to remind me of certain character flaws that I really don't want to deal with again. I take them as little signs from God. Really, I do.

*Have tried out a couple of other churches recently. Yes, I've become the All-American church shopper. Met a lovely Episcopal priest this past week and she and I are having coffee next week.

*Life is good. In spite of crazy boss and mean teacher and loneliness and other things I could complain about, the truth is, life is good. I am healthy, my son is healthy, my parents are near-by and supportive, my separation is going smoothly, I am employed in a flexible and meaningful job, I live in a great neighborhood and I'm making some lovely friends.

LJ the Elf

2007-12-08T12:28:00.000-05:00

Click here for a special holiday message.

(Thanks, Jan.)

High horse update

2007-12-04T20:28:00.001-05:00

Caught some of "Living on Earth" tonight on the ride home from grandma's where my sick boy spent the day instead of being at school. Presidential debate on climate change. All candidates, both parties, invited. Three showed up: Dennis, Hillary and pretty-boy Johnny. Tonight they featured the comments of the latter. And ya know what? He inspired me! I mean, I actually got teary-eyed listening to the guy. He was really good. I may have to re-consider my position on him.

See? I can change my mind.

Difficult Dialogues, part 1

2007-12-02T22:01:00.000-05:00

Several events in the past week have me thinking about how we talk about Important Issues. There was an unpleasant conversation with my son's teacher and principal. There was a controversial play and follow-up comments both on the blog and in real life.

And there was a thread of comments on another blog where I was accused of "intellectual dishonesty." Granted, I had been on my high horse, but as it is a horse to which I have dedicated some of my professional time and much of my a-vocational energy to over the past ten years, it is a horse to which I am particularly committed. The topic was climate change and the commenter was defending the "nay-sayers" in part by suggesting that those of us who are astounded that nay-sayers still exist don't really know what we're talking about. I have no doubt that I have read, thought and worked on this issue considerably more than said commenter, but pointing this out would have been both rude and unhelpful. So I let it go and the blog-owner came in with her own delicately stated and thoughtful response, as she is wont to do.

So ... I'm thinking about conversations about the things that really matter to us. I mean REALLY matter and on which not everyone agrees. For example, I do not know how to solve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Honestly, I don't. I care deeply about the secure existence of Israel. And I believe strongly that buildling a wall, demolishing homes and farms and cutting off economic security for Palestinians is wrong. To me, holding these three truths together makes sense. I can care about Israel and not know how to solve the problems and know something wrong when I see it. Tonight, our church had an advent wreath-making time. Another woman present had also seen the Rachel Corrie play.

She: I find it hard to be impartial on this topic.
Me: Why would you want to be?
She: Well, there were Jewish people there who seemed very angry.
Me: Well, there are people who get very angry when I protest the Iraq war, but that doesn't mean that I need to change my convictions and become impartial about the war. I think the demolitions are wrong.
She: Some people would say suicide bombing is wrong.
Me: (thinking: some people? duh!)
Me (speaking): Yes, suicide bombing is wrong. But the connection is illogical. If only the houses of suicide bombers were being demolished, then perhaps that argument would have some validity, but demolishing hundreds of homes of people who are only connected by association is still wrong. It doesn't address the real problems that exist in the region; it merely makes them worse by literally walling them off.

There was more to the conversation, but you get the drift. Now, let me give some personal history. I have a severe case of WASPishness. I am a blond, blue-eyed, Protestant, well-educated mid-westerner, who could have joined the DAR had I wanted to. (I didn't). Both sides of the family can be traced back to colonial times, with relatives from England, France, Germany, Holland and probably more -- but all northern, western European and all here long enough to be thoroughly mixed together. I grew up in a small community with two industries: making fire-bricks from the local clay pits and hog farming. I do not exaggerate when I say that I had never met a Jewish person until I arrived at college. Given the diversity with which I have lived for the last 20+ years, this now shocks me, but it is nonetheless true.

So you might imagine how thrillingly exotic it was for me when I joined a college boyfriend at his home near DC for Passover. His large, extended family was there and I don't think his mother was particularly pleased that my waspy little ass had joined them. But the rest of the family were delightful. I learned much in my two days there. For example, they didn't just sip from the wine cup four times during the Haggadah. They drank four glasses of wine! A gorgeous, red-haired cousin stood up during the answering of one of the questions to give an impassioned, feminist mid-rash on the women who saved Moses' butt so that he could go on to get all the glory. I loved her!

Early on, his liberal New York relatives were discussing Israeli politics in the kitchen when his Orthodox sister and her family arrived, fresh from Israel and the kibbutz where they lived. Right away the liberals started in on the kibbutz dwellers, daring them to defend some recent action of the Israeli government. "Oh, shit," my friend whispered to me, "Let's get out of here before this place explodes." And he ushered me away, but not before I got a whiff of the diversity around that family table.

In the years since, I've continued to listen for that diversity. I'm glad that PJ piped in that she finds it anti-semitic to claim all Jews walk in lock-step or are too sensitive to withstand criticism. That's the kind of thing I can't really say from my cultural position, but it makes sense to me. It does seem to me that to give in to censorship in fact feeds the conspiracy theories of the all-powerful Jewish lobby controlling America.

When I stayed on the West Bank, I befriended a couple of the Arabic staff at the place I stayed. I would stay up late with them, drinking and listening to them quote Kahlil Gibran at length. They LOVE that guy. We talked about our families and poetry and education and religion and sometimes politics. I was shocked when, one night, one of them matter-of-factly stated something about how Jews run everything in America. I quickly jumped in and told them that this was only propaganda they had been fed and tried to give them as many real-life examples of how it wasn't true as popped into my head. They looked at me like I was stupid. They really couldn't believe that I was so blind, so naive, so ignorant of the workings of my own country. After a few minutes more of protest I realized I was making no head-way and shut up. It was a moment of realization of how deeply our fears can shape our beliefs.

We all have blind-spots. I have ideas where some of mine may be lurking, but they are blind-spots precisely because I can't see them. We all have the responsibility to wake up as much as we are able and to live with an awareness and maturity that allows for our short-comings, while still holding firmly to our convictions. We have a responsibility to listen carefully and respond compassionately when we disagree. But one of the things that saddens me the most about our country today (and, oh, there are so, so many things) is the willful blindness born of a strange mix of comfort and anxiety. We simply don't want to see the truth of our actions on the world. We don't want to believe there is a connection between our lifestyles and extreme suffering in other parts of the world or our foreign policy and the continued growth of terrorism.

How do we have these conversations? How do we speak difficult truths? Or more to the point, how do we learn to hear them? To be continued ...

The Words of Rachel Corrie

2007-11-30T20:58:00.001-05:00

Thanks for the well-wishes for my kick-ass dancing night, but my kick-ass friend called in sick at the last minute and I had a few minutes in which to decide whether or not to go by myself and decided ... no.

Today, however, I had a very different sort of cultural experience. I went to see the one-woman show The Words of Rachel Corrie. This is a powerful play produced by Alan Rickman and a reporter (whose name I forget and I'm too lazy to look up), who took the actual words of Rachel Corrie, from her diary and emails, and created a show about this 23 year old who was bulldozed over and killed by the Israeli Defense while she stood protesting the demolition of Palestinian homes. It has been banned in New York because of the one-sided nature of its portrayal of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. Of course it is one-sided. It's one woman's voice. One actual human being who was killed standing up for what she believed in. Rickman has spoken out strongly against the censorship the play has encountered. As for me, censor something and I'll go out of my way to see it or read it. So that's what I did.

The play was held at a local college and was followed by a panel of responders, including a Holocaust survivor. I appreciated the chance to have a conversation afterwards, but unfortunately couldn't stay for most of it because of a work commitment I needed to get back to.

So, at the risk of opening a can of worms I really don't need to open, I will say that I visited Israel and the Occupied Territories in 1990, during the first Intifada. I lived for five weeks on the border between Israel and the West Bank. There was a check point set up on the road right by the entrance to the place I was staying. This was long before the building of the wall, which goes right through that area now, so I didn't witness the demolition of homes and farms that Rachel did, but I did see a lot of difficult encounters and was deeply saddened by the effect that strict curfews, travel rules and economic barriers had on the Palestinian people.

It is a very complicated situation and not one I pretend to have any answers to. But I will say that the dialogue in Israel about the situation is far broader than the dialogue in this country. Jewish Israelis have a wide variety of opinions on the occupation, the wall, the possibility of a two-state solution and they are expressed vibrantly in the newspapers and the public square. Women in black --Jewish mothers who have lost children in the fighting -- protest the occupation daily and young Israeli soldiers complain about the Orthodox Jews (who have a strong influence on what the army has to do, but don't serve in it themselves). There are resistance movements within the military, with soldiers who refuse to serve in the territories. These are just some examples of the kind of dialogues I experienced there that I seldom hear about when this is discussed here.

Peace talks were once again attempted in Annapolis this week. The thought that the Bush administration could have any possible credibility in Middle East peace talks is so far beyond absurd that I won't go there. But that is not to say that I don't pray for the peace of Jerusalem. And all of the Middle East.

Ouch!

2007-11-28T15:09:00.001-05:00

A question for you parents out there: how do you deal with teachers with whom you disagree and principals who defend them to the hilt? I just came from a really, really hard parent/teacher/principal meeting, which his father and I had requested and, Lord have mercy, do I have a stomach ache. I need to get back to work, but I am really wiped out. Help!

(Breathing deeply: remember that your child is doing wonderfully in most areas of his life, in spite of all he's been through over the past year, coupled with his own unique little life issues ... remember that you are a good enough mom ... remember that the teacher is a beloved child of God ... remember that the principal is defending her territory and watching out for her teachers ... remember that this is not the most important thing in life ...)

And the thankfulness continues ...

2007-11-24T21:20:00.000-05:00

I'm playing along on this meme for Max, whose wise and witty spirit seemed to have vanished from blogland for a while, but who is back and has tagged me. Also, because as I have said before, gratitude is a wonderful spiritual discipline and one can never be too thankful. Really. So here goes.

Write down five things that you're thankful for.

Tag five friends who you'd like to see participate in this meme. (Optional) Include a link to the original at SmuloSpace in your post, and then visit the post yourself and place a link to your completed meme in the comments section so John can keep track of the thankfulness running around the blogosphere.

1. My son. It is impossible to imagine my life had he not been born. That I get to be his mother every day for the rest of my life is an amazing and wondrous thing. May I have enough wisdom to not screw him up too badly.

2. Tea, coffee, wine and whiskey shared with friends. Each of these things is gift enough on its own, but when consumed in the company of someone interesting and thoughtful and funny and kind, the value increases exponentially. I am thankful that this has happened repeatedly in my life over the last three weeks, with several people. An embarrassment of riches, really.

3. DVDs, popped in at just the needed moment, to get all those fussy children away from the dinner table and properly sedated.

4. Music. The sound of the soul.

5. Almost winning the trivia game at the local pub last night. I never win things like raffles, door prizes, slots. Never. Now, I do win at many board games, because I am one competitive b*t#h, but never at Trivial Pursuit. Never. So imagine the thrill, if you can, of ending round two of the weekly trivia game tied for first place. The last question is final jeopardy style, where you have to decide on a wager. If our team had wagered more we would have won the big kahuna. I wanted to wager more, but got talked out of it by team members. Had we wagered my amount, we would have walked away CHAMPIONS, because we answered correctly. But I'm not blaming my teammates, because they were troopers and, as it was, we walked away with second prize, which was, I kid you not, a thrill. We would not have ended where we did had I not challenged the game leader on one of his responses. Here was the trivia question: What denomination uses the Book of Common Prayer? In the comments, tell me what you think I said and what you think he said was the correct answer. For a bonus challenge, here was the final jeopardy question: Put the following cities in order of distance from NYC, as the crow flies: Moscow, Madrid, Honolulu, Los Angeles. (No peeking at a globe or map or using any electronic cheater toys.)

I have bad luck getting my blog friends to play along on these things, but if you feel like being thankful, in the comments or on your own blog, please join in.

More Worship Ramblings

2007-11-18T21:20:00.000-05:00

It was a year ago that I began attending the church I currently call home. My ex and I were still living together but were planning the split. I was working a dead-end temp job and was too emotionally washed-out to seek any social life at all. We had been in town only five months. I went to this church one week and then jumped in feet first the next. I made a financial pledge, put my son into the Sunday School, met with the pastors, and have been attending faithfully ever since. This is how I do church. Whole hog. I've tried to be half-hearted about church, but it doesn't work for me.

That said, whole hog isn't working for me right now either. I think I jumped too quickly, too desperate for a community. The politically progressive stances worked for me. The small informal circle seemed like a place I could actually make friends. The weekly potluck seemed almost like having a social life of my own.

The thing is ... the worship doesn't really work for me. It's too informal, to be honest. I have to confess: the kids running in and out throughout the service irritate me. This from the pastor who spent her career convincing old ladies that it wasn't sacrilege to have active children in worship. Wow. Weird to have the shoe be on the other foot. I want to say to the offending parents, "Don't you realize that the rest of us are here to WORSHIP GOD??!!"

OK, OK, it's not that bad, really. I do still enjoy children in worship, acting like children. Just reasonably well-behaved children, at least most of the time, please.

And then there are the sermons. One issue is that there is a different preacher every week. I mean, seriously, in a year, there is only one person I've heard preach more than a handful of times and I don't like his sermons. Which is the other issue. Let me just say that these folks, with a couple of notable exceptions, would have a hard time in a Presbyterian homiletics class. Bless their hearts.

Geez, am I cranky or what?

Also, last year there was an adult Sunday School class while the kids had theirs. I went every week. Sometimes there were only two of us, but that was fine with me, as it allowed me to get to know other people. This year, they dropped the class. Did anybody ask my opinion? Me, the only person who was in the class every week last year? Umm, no. It wasn't like they had to buy curriculum or plan anything. We just got together and read a chapter of the Bible and discussed it.

So, I found myself beginning to dread worship. But having made the family commitment and having this deeply ingrained belief that my child should be in SS and worship every week, coupled with guilt over the fact that the poor child has had seven congregations to adjust to in his 9 years (Presbyterian, Quaker, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Quaker, non-denominational and now Baptist), I am very hesitant to start looking around for another church home.

And yet ... have I mentioned that my son HATES this church? Well, I think he actually kind of likes some of the adults there and he loves a good potluck as much as I do, but beyond that, he has not connected with one single child at this church. Not one.

So today I told him that maybe we could keep going to his SS, but try some different things out worship-wise and only go to our congretation a couple of times each month. I told him about Taize and said maybe we could go to Taize services sometimes and Quaker meetings sometimes and Episcopal services sometimes and that when we didn't go anywhere else that we could worship at home.

And tonight, that's what we did. We went to SS and then came home and had dinner and afterwards had our own worship. We began by putting on a CD of Gregorian chant and then going into the little room off our living room which I call my prayer room and lighting lots of candles and some incense. Then he read (by candlelight) from this tiny little Gideon Bible that he got at the State Fair, which he loves. It's King James, which makes me crazy, but he asked me to give him an assignment and he opened up and read it straight through, with all the "he spakes" and so on. When he finished, I read the same story (the shepherd and the lost sheep) from our Family Story Bible (by Ralph Milton, highly recommended for anyone with young children looking for a children's Bible that won't gross you out) and we discussed it. I asked him if he wanted to read a Psalm and he piped up, "What about the 23rd since it's about shepherds, too?" (He remembered!) So he read it, King James.

Suddenly he asked, "How many verses are in Psalm 119?" (He knows this is the longest Psalm, because that's the kind of Biblical information that will stick with him).
Me: "I'm not sure but it's well over 100."
Him, finding it: "176."
Me: "Why don't you read the last verse out loud?"
Him: "I have gone astray like a lost sheep. Seek thy servant, for I do not forget thy commandments."
How's that for fitting a theme?

Next, I read a prayer from Edward Hays' "Prayers for the Domestic Church" and we added our own thanksgivings. About this time the dog wandered in, so I found the blessing of the pets in Hays' book and read that, too. We then offered intercessions for several people. I told him how the Quakers speak of "holding people in the light" and how I picture the person I'm praying for in my mind's eye and see them completely surrounded by a warm white light. So we did that in silence for a few minutes until he cleared his throat to let me know he was done with the holding part. (Says he, "I don't want to hold them there too long. They might have to use the bathroom or something. Besides, I was beginning to get bored.")

I suggested we sing a hymn or two. He picked "Deep and Wide," complete with gestures and leaving out words. I picked "Jesus, Remember Me," from Taize. We, or rather I, sang it through about 8 times.

Him: "Does it really go on that long?"
Me: "In a real Taize service it would go on much longer."
Him -- dumbstruck: "Why?"

Finally, we ended with a simple benediction (Me: "Go in peace to love and serve our God." Him (with a little prompting): "Thanks be to God!") and the ringing of my small Tibetan singing bowl.

We agreed that we would do this again, that we'd begin and end each time with familiar words and that it would be his job to sing the bowl.

Now if we could just figure out how to blow out all the candles without setting off the smoke detector.

Wait, Wait!

2007-11-15T22:30:00.002-05:00

OK, folks, tune in to your favorite public radio station Saturday to hear this week's game of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!" See if you can guess which of those laughs is mine. I just got home from watching the show taped in front of a live audience here in beautiful -- CHILLY -- downtown Asheville. (The show is normally taped in Chicago and apparently they brought their weather with them.)

Paula Poundstone is fricking hilarious. I haven't laughed that long and that hard in ages. Nobody looks like I expected them to. That's the funny thing about radio. Peter Sagal is short and bald and very, very funny.

Diary Dots

2007-11-13T21:09:00.000-05:00

*I have felt too tired to write most nights recently and nights are the only time I have in my schedule any more. But I think of my blog-land friends every night, whether I'm commenting or not.
*I have the coolest kid. A nine year old boy who knits and throws pots and does martial arts and loves to read and do math and build things and who is beginning (finally!) to show some interest in music. A kid who loves his heelies and new hiking boots (I missed sized 4 completely -- all his shoes were size 3 and it occurred to me he probably needed new ones -- yes, he is now size 5). He, like all young males, cannot go a day without extensive potty and body function language, but he also lets me snuggle with him in bed and cover him in kisses.
*The Bush countdown to the right is going very slowly, though I don't really hold out huge hope for these next elections anyway. But the countdown that really matters to me -- weeks until my boss is no longer my boss and I get to be the boss -- is seven and the last one we'll be on vacation, so really six. Yee-haw!
*Things I love about this town: the Film Festival and the Studio Stroll, both of which happened this past weekend.
*Things I love about this neighborhood: the neighborhood DVD store and the neighborhood coffeehouse and the neighborhood pub and the neighborhood pizza joint.
*I get to have dinner with my folks every week. For 26 years, we saw each other a couple of times each year. Now it's at least once a week. And my mom is a great cook and a lovely hostess, so that's a bonus. And they have a great view of the mountains off their deck, double bonus.
*In an attempt to be more social, I got off my back-end and made plans with five different friends over the next two weeks. Hallelujah, I have a social life! At least for two weeks.
*I can't complain, but sometimes I still do. Life's been good to me so far.

And now for a poem

2007-11-08T08:07:00.000-05:00

"The Worriers' Guild"
by Philip F. Deaver

Today there is a meeting of the
Worriers' Guild,
and I'll be there.
The problems of Earth are
to be discussed
at length
end to end
for five days
end to end
with 1100 countries represented
all with an equal voice
some wearing turbans and smocks
and all the men will speak
and the women
with or without notes
in 38 languages
and nine different species of logic.
Outside in the autumn
the squirrels will be
chattering and scampering
directionless throughout the town
because
they aren't organized yet.

Empty and Full

2007-11-06T22:10:00.000-05:00

Life these days is both empty and full and I am sitting uneasily in the paradox.

Full: work is busy and constant. I never feel caught up. There is always something more I could be doing. I'm just keeping up. There is planning for next year and evaluating each program and improving the website and working with board committees and reorganizing financial records and working on advertising and ... and ... it's like parish ministry without the fun stuff. No worship leadership, no pastoral counseling, no sacraments, no rituals for life transitions. I miss that stuff. That would go in the empty column.

Full: being a single mom. I'm the one responsible for making sure he's fed, bathed, rested, well-balanced, to school on time, to bed on time, all homework done. I have to make sure there are groceries in the fridge, clean underwear in the drawer and money in the bank to pay the mortgage and the health insurance and so on and so forth. Even though his dad has him a few nights each week, I am completely responsible when he's with me -- nobody to pass off any of the responsibilities. Also: full in the sense that this really is the best part of my life. He's my dear, even when he's infuriating. And honestly, he's a wonderful boy. Funny and helpful and smart and sweet.

Full: homeowner and pet owner. Again, it's just me and with these responsibilities I don't get any breaks any days of the week. Every day, I'm the one to walk the dog and vacuum up the dog hair and make sure the furnace works and the lawn is mowed and dishes are clean and the cat has flea medicine and they both are fed and watered and the toilet works and is clean. No landlord, no husband, just me.

Full: having my parents near-by. Full in the sense of wonderful to get to spend time with them each week and full in that I'm spending time with them each week. Watching Dad descend into the land of unknowing and unknowable is hard. Watching Mom care for him and lose her companion of 55 years is harder.

Empty: my sense of what God wants of me. My sense of call. What am I doing here besides taking up space? I know I am called to love those around me, to be in the moment. I wish that could be enough.

Empty: my social calendar. I have no social life. Really. None. I keep thinking I should make an effort in this department, but all those "full" notes above leave me little time, energy or money. I miss having friends, but finding the time to make new ones is tough. And I'll confess, I'm kind of picky about friends. When my time and energy is limited I want to spend it well. I don't suffer fools gladly.

Empty: my bed. Big ole fecking king size one, too. Enough said.

This sounds whinier than I intended. What I mean to say is that life is kind of mixed for me these days. This is a hard time, I won't deny. I long for clarity. I'm tempted to find a palm reader and get some fix on what the future holds. But here I am, in the present moment (wonderful moment, according to Thich Nhat Hahn, but as Jerry May once said, "Yeah, Thich says present moment, wonderful moment, but sometimes the present moment just sucks.").

Empty. And full.

Today's Poem

2007-10-30T08:13:00.000-04:00

As Death Approaches

by Susan Deborah King

I can't believe I'm laughing!
I'd have sworn I'd be
shaking or sniveling.
And I sure didn't expect
a limousine.
I've never been in a limousine.
No biggy.
I've had better than fame.
Who needs the pressure?
As for fortune, I'm filthy.
That's why I'm laughing.
I've had so much love:
the giving, the getting.
It's shameful.
It's embarrassing.
And it's too late.
No one can take it away!
And I've had the pain
to help me appreciate it.
Thank God for the pain!
Easy for me to say
now that I'm going!
But no, seriously,
the kicks in the teeth,
the gut, the rugs
pulled out, slammed doors,
setbacks, snubs.
Without them, I'd
never have recognized
Love, bedraggled,
plain eyes shining,
happy to see me.
Do I want more?
Of course I want more!
I always want more
of everything: money, hugs,
lovemaking, art, butter,
woods, flowers, the sea,
M&Ms, chips, tops, bottoms,
trips — I did give up drinking —
time, sure, and yes,
I'd like to see
my grandchildren,
if there are any.
I'd like to see my books
but more has never
been good for me anyway.
Enough — that's what I've
always needed to learn,
and is there a better way?
So this laughter
I had to work up to
through so many tears,
it just keeps coming
like a fountain, a spray.
Let it light on you
refreshment, benediction,
as I'm driven away.

Yup, still a Calvinist.

2007-10-24T22:51:00.001-04:00

Got this from Kirstin, who didn't expect to be a Calvinist. I, on the other hand, would have been surprised to be anything else.

Eucharistic theology
created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Calvin

You are John Calvin. You seek to be faithful to Scripture, and to harmonize difficult sayings. You believe that in the Lord's Supper those who have faith are united to Christ, who is present spiritually, yet in a real way.

Calvin

81%

Orthodox

69%

Luther

69%

Zwingli

44%

Catholic

19%

Unitarian

Update

2007-10-22T19:18:00.000-04:00

Haven't been blogging much, way behind on reading my blog buds, feeling sort of overwhelmed by life at the moment. Some bullets, in no particular order:
* Got a bookcase from my mom on Friday (beautiful!) which made me start to sort through the umpteen boxes and shelves of books in my basement.
* Discovered mildew on most of them.
* Spent large parts of Friday, Saturday and Sunday in my basement wiping mildew off books and standing them around the dehumidifier to dry.
* Brutally rid myself of a large portion of my books -- 8 boxes now ready to give away.
* Reshelved rest of books. (I still have lots).
* Got horrible news last week of a young woman who volunteers in our office being date-raped.
* Got other sad news of a bad car accident with a church member who is now in a coma.
* Worked the past two Sundays, meaning I missed my own worship time.
* Missed LEAF, big, wonderful music festival near-by.
* Had my first live blogger meet-up with Jane R. of Acts of Hope! We ate sushi and I got caught up on much gossip from my alma mater.
* Still struggling with boss. Ended up in tears at office twice in recent weeks. This does not please me.
* On the other hand, had a good board meeting last week.
* Came home from the office sick today and spent afternoon sleeping or resting.
* Have a presentation to give on "Sabbath" later this week and can't find time to prepare for it. HA!
* Was treated to an amazing meal out last night after work and wished I had felt better to fully enjoy (though I did enjoy! Scallops, yum.)
* Am experiencing repeated blogger difficulties which is part of why I'm blogging less these days and ending this now.

A Message from Color of Change

2007-10-19T08:21:00.000-04:00

For far too long, the Republican party has suppressed the votes of Black folks and other minorities, while the Democratic party has stood by and done nothing. Now, President Bush and his allies in the Senate want to give Hans von Spakovsky -- the architect of some of the worst voter-suppression schemes in the last decade -- a six-year appointment to the Federal Election Commission (FEC). It's a slap in the face to Black voters and anyone who cares about democracy.

Can you tell your senators to reject von Spakovsky's nomination? It takes only a moment:

sign here

Republicans have been fighting for months to get von Spakovsky confirmed, and, last week, Democrats in the Senate caved. They made a deal with the Republicans that would allow von Spakovsky's confirmation to be voted on as a part of a "package" with three other nominees, essentially guaranting his appointment. Thankfully, Senators Barack Obama and Russ Feingold stepped up and blocked it.1,2 Now they need our support to convince their colleagues to do the right thing and take a stand against voter suppression.

Given von Spakovsky's history, it's sad they need any convincing at all.

A long history of undermining our vote

During his first term, Bush installed von Spakovsky in the Justice Department's (DOJ) voting rights section, which enforces the Voting Rights Act. There, von Spakovsky undermined the DOJ's historic mission of protecting minority voting rights and actually transformed the department into a tool to suppress the vote. Here are just a few examples:

When long-term, career attorneys at the Justice Department unanimously recommended rejecting Tom Delay's infamous Texas redistricting plan because it discriminated against minority voters, von Spakovsky led the charge to overrule these voting rights experts, and approved the plan.3 The Supreme Court later ruled that the plan violated the Voting Rights Act.

Similarly, when career attorneys recommended rejecting a discriminatory Georgia voter ID law -- a law that even the Republican Governor said would disenfranchise hundreds of thousands of Georgians -- von Spakovsky overruled them to approve the law.4 Again, the law was later struck down by the courts, with the ruling judge likening it to a Jim Crow-era poll tax.5

This summer, seven of von Spakovsky's former colleagues at the DOJ said that he blocked career attorneys from filing at least three lawsuits against local governments that had violated the voting rights of Black people and other minorities, and that he derailed at least two DOJ investigations into discriminatory election laws.6

Von Spakovsky's career in suppression didn't start at the DOJ. In 1997, he set the stage for Florida's 2000 voter purge when he wrote an article that called for purging felons from voter rolls. Serving on the board of the "Voter Integrity Project" (VIP) he quickly put his ideas into action -- VIP met with the company that designed Florida's purge to disenfranchise thousands of eligible voters, most of whom were Black.7,8 During the recount, von Spakovsky was in Florida as a volunteer for the Bush/Cheney campaign.

A key part of what has allowed von Spakovsky to push his suppression agenda is the myth that "voter fraud" -- individuals voting illegally, or voting twice -- is a real problem. Republican politicians invoke these concerns to justify stronger restrictions on voting and voter registration (like voter ID laws), as well as voter roll purges. But the problem simply doesn't exist. When the Election Assistance Commission (EAC) researched voter fraud, they found that it wasn't a problem.9 But before the EAC went public with its report, von Spakovsky pressured them to change it.10 The final report said that there was "a great deal of debate on the pervasiveness of [voter] fraud."11

Does the Senate support voter suppression?

As shocking as these examples are, they only scratch the surface. Hans von Spakovsky has built a career solidifying Republican control by disenfranchising untold thousands and subverting our most fundamental democratic right.

Bush gave von Spakovsky a recess appointment to the FEC in 2005 (which doesn't require Senate confirmation). Now he has nominated him for a six-year term. It's been clear since von Spakovsky's arrival at the FEC that he is playing the same role he did at the DOJ -- scoffing at the spirit of campaign finance laws, thumbing his nose at the law as he seeks to help create routes of circumvention."12

Republicans want von Spakovsky on the FEC so much that they threatened to block all FEC nominees unless the Democrats let von Spakovsky through.13 But last week, instead of fighting back, the Democratic leadership agreed to give the Republicans what they wanted -- a vote on all four FEC nominees as a package, which would have guaranteed von Spakovsky's appointment. By blocking that vote, Senators Obama and Feingold went against the leadership and thwarted its compromise with Republicans.14 That gave us the fighting chance we need to defeat his nomination.

It's hard to know exactly why Senate Democrats have come so close to letting von Spakovsky through. Some say it's because Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid is afraid that if he blocks von Spakovsky, Republicans will retaliate by blocking another FEC nominee who's a friend of Reid's.15 Some senators may just not care enough about protecting voting rights to make a real effort. Whatever the reason, it's part of a pattern that has existed for far too long -- Republicans trashing our right to vote and Democrats looking the other way.

A vote for von Spakovsky is a vote for voter suppression. Anything less than the strongest condemnation of his nomination sends the message that the Senate will turn a blind eye to Republican attacks on our voting rights. Let's demand that our senators send the opposite message -- that they will fight tooth and nail to defend the right to vote, and that their rejection of von Spakovsky's nomination is only the beginning of a much needed reckoning for his assault on voting rights over the last six and a half years.

Sign here

psssst ... Do something.

2007-10-19T07:42:00.000-04:00

Just in case any of my readers don't get these messages sent to you already, I wanted to pass this one along. That nuclear is now lining up to be counted as green is a clear sign of the Orwellian world we live in.

What I Did and Saw and Thought

2007-10-06T21:19:00.000-04:00

What I Did:
*Hiked the Appalachian Trail along the French Broad River up to Lover's Leap for a gorgeous view.
*Soaked in the natural mineral springs hot tubs
*Enjoyed a lovely dinner on a deck overlooking a creek
*Read
*Journaled
*Slept deeply for 9 hours
*Hiked up Max Patch, which one book calls the best views on the entire AT and another calls the best views in NC (photo above doesn't come close to doing it justice).

What I Saw:
*The rocky, wide French Broad River
*Kayakers practicing in said river
*A smattering of bright red and yellow trees amidst the green views
*Couples hiking
*Families hiking
*Friends hiking
*Dogs hiking
*Wildflowers galore: buttery snapdragons, purple clover, goldenrod, milky Queen Ann's lace
*Native grasses
*At least six different kinds of butterflies
*Gargantuan grasshoppers
*Bumblebees
*Wild blackberries
*Cerulean skies
*cottony clouds
*360 degree views of mountains -- as far as the eye could see in every direction!

What I Thought:
*I don't need to wait for the right job, the right relationship, the right boss.
*I need to practice the difficult task of loving with a whole heart here and now.
*Today. Tomorrow. This is it. This is my life. This is not practice, but the real thing.
*And God is calling me to love.

Here is the reading my spiritual director gave me this week, before knowing of my most recent considerations about my job and boss:

I Wonder
by Derek Tasker

I wonder what would happen if
I treated everyone like I was in love
with them, whether I like them or not
and whether they respond or not and no matter
what they say or do to me and even if I see
things in them which are ugly twisted petty
cruel vain deceitful indifferent, just accept
all that and turn my attention to some small
weak tender hidden part and keep my eyes on
that until it shines like a beam of light
like a bonfire I can warm my hands by and trust
it to burn away all the waste which is not
never was my business to meddle with.

Source: Pilgrimage, An Exploration Into God, by Ivor Smith-Cameron

I'm Off

2007-10-05T07:12:00.000-04:00

I'm taking off for a short retreat into the mountains for some hiking, quiet, and mineral spring hot tubbing. Hold down the fort while I'm gone.

Four Things

2007-10-02T19:01:00.000-04:00

I've been tagged by Diane for this Fabulous Four meme. A while back Kirstin tagged me and I never responded and then I felt guilty for weeks. So to avoid further guilt, here goes:

Four jobs I've held:
fry-vat scrubber at McDonald's
docent at the Audrain County Historical Museum
safer sex educator for women in prostitution
pastor

Four films I could watch over and over:
The Wizard of Oz (who couldn't?)
The Sound of Music (I'm such a sap)
sex, lies and videotape (only thing I ever liked James Spader in)
She's Gotta Have It (favorite Spike Lee joint)

Four TV shows I watch:
OK, I don't even get any TV reception these days. None. But if I did I would watch:
The Daily Show
The Colbert Report
Dave Chappell
(and to get away from Comedy Central) Countdown with Keith Olbermann

Four places I've lived:
Mexico, Missouri
Chicago, IL
Indianapolis, IN
Rochester, NY

Four favorite foods:
Guacamole
California rolls with plenty of pickled ginger
pecan-encrusted mountain trout
mashed potatoes

Four websites I visit every day:
(I visit an embarrassing number of blogs and I'm not going to narrow down to four of my blog buds. Sorry).

Four favorite colors (from the big Crayola 64):
Carolina Blue
Lime Green
Forest Green
Deep Coral

Four places I would love to be now:
A pub in Ireland
The coast of Spain
The Serengeti
The Carolina Coast

Four names I love but wouldn't name my children:
(well, I tried a couple of these for our son, but they got nixed by his dad)
Ezekiel
Isaiah
Hezekiah (noticing a trend here?)
and one of these things is not like the others:
Clyde (after my grandmother. yes, that's mother)

OK, since I didn't name 4 blogs above, I'll tag these 4:
PJ
Eileen
Grandmere Mimi
Doxy

Today's Portion from the Prayer Book

2007-10-01T20:54:00.000-04:00

Lord, open unto me
Open unto me -- light for my darkness.
Open unto me -- courage for my fear.
Open unto me -- hope for my despair.
Open unto me -- peace for my turmoil.
Open unto me -- joy for my sorrow.
Open unto me -- strength for my weakness.
Open unto me -- wisdom for my confusion.
Open unto me -- forgiveness for my sins.
Open unto me -- love for my hates.
Open unto me -- thy Self for my self.
Lord, Lord, open unto me!

--Howard Thurman

Good Therapy

2007-09-29T21:51:00.000-04:00

When in despair, turn to nature. (And God, of course, and the two are well connected, as we know). This afternoon I packed a picnic, then son and I headed out into the nearby wilderness to sit and watch an elk herd. Old guys with huge racks, young studs with sharp spikes, cows, calves, adolescent elk. The whole elk gamut. Wonderfully funny-looking creatures on their spindly legs, they nonetheless appeared majestic roaming across a verdant valley as the sun set over the world's oldest mountains. Son called it "an elkstravaganza".

If you've never heard an elk bugle, put it on your list of things to do. Good night, all.

A Patrick Prayer

2007-09-29T15:44:00.000-04:00

I'm not really much of a prayer-book kind of gal. The Presbyterians I grew up with did not have prayer books. We had Bibles and hymnbooks and that was sufficient unto the day. Then I hung with the Quakers for a number of years while sometimes sneaking into Episcopal churches. Later, I found myself delighted with the growing liturgical sensibilities of Presbyterians. But recently I've been more into silence and trees and secular poetry. Not so much the prayer books. However, I keep hanging out with all these Episcopalians online and getting saint days and angelogy and daily offices and such. So I got out my prayer book today (being much in need of whatever help I could find -- see below) to find this lovely little bit of celtic assurance. Enjoy.

(from a much longer prayer by Patrick of Ireland--389-461)

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

Prayers, please

2007-09-28T23:24:00.000-04:00

OK, I haven't really wanted to blog about this, because this isn't really an anonymous blog. But here's the truth: I don't like my boss. Actually, if this were an anonymous blog, I would say it more forcefully. I have never worked with a meaner person. But she's Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde, so she knows tons of people and they like her. Which is kind of beyond me, but now I'm stuck with a decision. Do I quit a job after 6 months in a new city where I don't have good contacts, as a single mom with no money in the bank? Or do I keep taking the abuse and hope that something will open up? You don't really need to answer that, but prayers would be appreciated.

Happy Birthday!

2007-09-25T08:04:00.000-04:00

To
William Faulkner
and
Shel Silverstein.

Would you like some fries with that?

2007-09-18T22:11:00.001-04:00

With thanks to Mompriest.

Mind the Gap

2007-09-15T22:52:00.000-04:00

Went to opening night at the symphony yesterday, where my presence in the audience helped bring down the average age considerably. But that was in the audience only. Our conductor, (see photo) who is starting his 3rd season with us, is considerably younger than me. (His new wife was there tonight. She looks about 22). The first piece was by a composer younger than me by several years and the guest artist was a good bit younger still. Being the opening night, the conductor (who is not only young, but hot) introduced new members of the orchestra. The new oboeist looks approximately 13.

So, the audience made me feel young. The musicians made me feel old.

The first piece, Rainbow Body, by Christopher Theofanidis, won an international competition for new compositions when he was about 35. (He's an old man at 40 now and working on a new opera.) It was a lush, lovely piece. Jennifer Frautischi played Tchaikovsky's violin concerto in D to a standing ovation (two actually). She played with energy and drama. (And her dress was fab -- showed off her toned body very nicely, as she seems to spend almost as much time at Pilates as on her violin. Maybe that's what got all those old men to their feet). The second half was Elgar's Enigma Variations, which I found charming and beautiful. Mom said that was not her favorite Elgar, so I'm going to have to find some more of his stuff. We went to the pre-symphony talk -- always helpful for listening, I think -- and I was a little worried when I heard the Elgar was 33 minutes. I get restless with long compositions or long sermons. But the time flew.

Back to the age gap. Classical musicians have been worrying about graying audiences for a long time. And for those of us who have grown up moving to our music, it is such a different experience to sit very still for all that music. In fact, we didn't grow up sitting for much -- church, school, all the places a previous generation would have been expected to sit very still and quiet for long hours -- all changed in the 70s and beyond. A young couple sat in front of us -- he in the torn jeans and tee -- and were very affectionate with each other. You could see the uncomfortable responses on all sides as he sensuously kissed her fingers during the Tchaikovsky. My mom said after the first piece, "They need to get a bedroom."

It cracked me up, but brought to mind this whole audience age gap thing. At a rock concert touching would be not only fine, but expected. At the pre-talk the young conductor and guest artist joked about how some music gets old and boring for them after they've done it several times. Mom thought they were airing their dirty laundry and didn't like it. I thought it was authentic and interesting. But then, I'm part of the therapy generation where we talk about what we feel and think. My mom is of the "if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything" school.

A final thought: I was startled by the abrupt beginning of the concert with the National Anthem. Has that always been done and I just don't remember? I could never afford going to the symphony in DC, where I would have expected the stars and stripes, but back in Rochester, I don't remember the Philharmonic starting its concerts that way. Can anyone enlighten?

Anniversaries

2007-09-11T20:41:00.000-04:00

Six years ago I was in a new pastorate inside the Beltway. I was walking through our decrepid building with our property committee chair feeling overwhelmed by all the repairs needed on it when news starting coming in. By mid-morning people were stopping in to pray. By mid-afternoon shell-shocked neighbors were walking home from their capitol hill jobs-- the metro system having been shut down, the evacuation routes jammed with cars-- making the long walk through the city to the Maryland suburbs in stunned silence. I remember the eerie silence broken by the mad rushing of military planes and helicopters flying over and over and over the skies. I will never forget that week.

One hundred and one years ago a young Indian lawyer in South Africa led his first non-violent civic action, fighting against discrimination in that land. Gandhi went on to be the last century's leading proponent of non-violence.

Two anniversaries on the same day. Violence. Non-violence.

"I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life, that you and your descendents may live."

Voting News

2007-09-08T21:53:00.000-04:00

Just returned from the WNC State Fair and at the Democratic booth they were holding a straw poll for the primary. Our lot is not in keeping with Western North Carolinian Dems, it seems. Hillary had more votes than the rest of the candidates combined by a long shot. Edwards was next, Obama third. I cast the lone vote for Dennis.

In other State Fair news, I was reminded that I am really in the South, as the Sons of the Confederacy were well represented. Fair food seems to be the same across regions, however: funnel cakes, Sno-Kones and corn dogs. Which is weird, when you think about it. Here's the place we're promoting our region's agriculture ... wouldn't it make sense to have a regional diet based on that agriculture represented?

And have I mentioned that my son has discovered thrill rides this summer and can't get enough of them -- nor can they be dangerous enough? What happened to my shy kid who wouldn't even go on the kiddy rides two years ago? Now he's happy if he's barely strapped into a contraption hanging upside-down as far up in the sky as he can get while twirling in strange formations.

A New Challenge: The Cabinet

2007-09-07T16:51:00.000-04:00

My friend, Laura C, suggested that all the current Democratic candidates would make a good next cabinet. Which made me think ... who would I like to see? Below are some thoughts, though not a full cabinet. We need more women and people of color. Also, I don't want to take too many of our best senators and representatives out of those roles. Discuss.

President: Dennis Kucinich
Vice President: Barack Obama
Secretary of State: Bill Richardson
Secretary of Defense: Wesley Clark
Attorney General: Andrew Cuomo
Secretary of the Interior: Barbara Boxer
Secretary of Labor: John Edwards
Secretary of Health and Human Services: Hillary Clinton
Secretary of Housing and Urban Development: Eleanor Holmes Norton
Secretary of Energy: Al Gore
Secretary of Education: Howard Dean
Secretary of Veterans Affairs: John Kerry
Department of Peace: Mike Gravel!

Fool Me Once ...

2007-09-07T13:40:00.000-04:00

Y'all probably get all these MoveOn videos, but this one bears repeating, if only for the last line.

Australian humor

2007-09-06T22:08:00.000-04:00

The Chasers explain how to dress if you're a terrorist in Australia:

Political Choices: Discuss

2007-09-05T21:45:00.000-04:00

OK, my left-leaning friends of the blogosphere. It is still 14 months before we elect a president, but the early primaries make the Democratic election only 6 months away. The mainstream media narrowed the field to two months ago. But I'm not buying it. What if this election really was turned by the grassroots, the internet generation, a nation full of people tired of sound-bytes and caricatured candidates?

Personally, I've gone from falling in love with Barack, to backing Bill Richardson, to giving Dennis Kucinich a good look, to even reconsidering Hillary (if only because we'd get Bill back into the mix and because my son thought it would be "amazing" to have a woman president). I'm still undecided. What about you? If you could vote next week for the person you genuinely wish could be president, not the person you assume is most electable (that was the cry that brought us John Kerry, lest we forget) who would it be?

Discuss. (If there are right-leaning readers of this blog, I'd love to hear from you as well!)

A poem

2007-09-05T20:53:00.000-04:00

"Keys" by Nancy Henry

When things got hard
I used to drive and keep on driving—
once to North Carolina
once to Arizona—
I'm through with all that now, I hope.
The last time was years ago.

But oh, how I would drive
and keep on driving!
The universe around me
all well in my control;
anything I wanted on the radio,
the air blasting hot or cold;
sobbing as loudly as I cared to sob,
screaming as loudly as I needed to scream.
I would live on apples and black coffee,
shower at truck stops,
sleep curled up
in the cozy back seat I loved.

The last time, I left at 3 a.m.
By New York state,
I stopped screaming;
by Tulsa
I stopped sobbing;
by the time I pulled into Flagstaff
I was thinking
about the Canyon,
I was so empty.
Thinking about the canyon
I was.

I sat on the rim at dawn,
let all the colors fill me.
It was cold. I saw my breath
like steam from a soup pot.
I saw small fossils in the gravel.
I saw how much world there was

how much darkness
could be swept out
by the sun.

Since I Lost My Illegal Cable TV Reception

2007-09-03T22:03:00.000-04:00

... when the guy came to fix my interent connection, I figured I could get this fabulous item and take care of multiple needs at once. I can pretend I'm still watching TV while seasoning my meal with salt, pepper and prayer.

Between this and the plastic Jesus on my dashboard, I think I've got most bases covered.

Out of Purgatory at last!

2007-09-02T21:49:00.000-04:00

My four days without internet at home have finally ended, after 4 long technical phone calls and TWO FULL DAYS waiting at home for a technician who finally came at 3 p.m. on Sunday when I had just stepped out to buy groceries and spent two hours rewiring my house after which he told me everything was working perfectly and since I was about to be late to church I said "great" and headed out the door, only to come home to discover it was not working perfectly, but after TWO MORE very long technical phone calls, it finally is.

On the bright side, I did get some house-cleaning done and read all of last week's newspapers.

But now I have lots of blogs to catch up with. See ya!

Gratitude Adjustment

2007-08-31T18:56:00.000-04:00

Some things I've been dealing with recently:
*Long work hours
*the reality of being a single mom most of the week and alone the rest of the week
*the occasionally soul-deadening nature of my mostly administrative job
*my brilliant but somewhat crazy boss and her super-frenetic energy
*lousy plumbing
*a sick cat
*a dog shedding approximately three tons of hair per day
*old tax issues
*internet issues at home (as in, not connecting)
*money (as in, not enough of it)
*a deeply depressed friend who needs me at a time when I'm feeling I don't have much to give
*some distance from my congregation which is almost my only community outside of work and family and so feels particularly poignant to me ...

What I want to focus on:
*that I have a wonderful, wacky little son who is the love of my life
*that I have a job which puts me in touch with interesting people -- like the Buddhist woman I met yesterday who started a Zen Center for Women here in the mountains and brought a bottle of champagne to our place of work which we shared with her in honor of her birthday (which she couldn't drink in her community because of the no-alcohol rule)
*that my boss is phasing out her work and if I can hang in for four more months, I'll be the boss
*that I live in a gorgeous part of the country
*that I live near my mom who is one of my favorite people on earth
*that on lonely nights I have a very funny friend who is only a phone call away
*that I am mostly healthy most of the time
*that several old friends have contacted me via internet recently
*that I have a home and a car and a laptop and a comfortable bed and an iPod and a fridge full of food (when I remember to go to the grocery store)
*that I finally frigging figured out how to do bold and italics on my blog!

If the only prayer you ever say in your life is "Thank You," that would suffice. -- Meister Eckhart

Forever or today. It is enough.

2007-08-31T18:32:00.000-04:00

"Psalm" by Stuart Kestenbaum

The only psalm I had memorized was the 23rd
and now I find myself searching for the order
of the phrases knowing it ends with surely
goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life and I will dwell
in the house of the Lord forever only I remember
seeing a new translation from the original Hebrew
and forever wasn't forever but a long time
which is different from forever although
even a long time today would be
good enough for me even a minute entering
the House would be good enough for me,
even a hand on the door or dropping today's
newspaper on the stoop or looking in the windows
that are reflecting this morning's clouds in first light.

Two years after Katrina

2007-08-28T19:21:00.001-04:00

A little Catholic humor.

2007-08-26T17:52:00.000-04:00

You can kiss a nun once.
You can kiss a nun twice.
But you'd better not get into the habit.

Ramblings on worship, denominations and such, part 3

2007-08-23T21:49:00.000-04:00

So, if you've been following these ramblings you know that I am deeply rooted in the Presbyterian church with extended forays into Quaker and Episcopal congregations. From the Quakers I gained deep appreciation of silence and trusting in that of God in all people (though certain members of our current administration strain this belief to the breaking point) and the calls to simplicity and peace as a way of life for all followers of Christ. From Episcopalians I gained deep appreciation of the liturgical traditions and the centrality of the eucharist to Christian spirituality. All the traditions I lean towards have great respect for human intellect and are friendly toward the sciences.

So why, now, in middle age, am I hanging out with a bunch of Southern Baptists? Good, good question.

It's certainly not because I've suddenly gone anti-intellect or developed a disturbing case of fundamentitis. It's not because of their liturgy or their silence, that's for sure, cause there ain't much of either of those happening! It's for one simple reason: community.

When I came into a new town last year, in the midst of an uncertain career change and, it turned out, a marital implosion, I worshiped in a few places. This being the South, it was easy to figure out which churches would share my general social views, since they were in the minority. Theologically I am open and ecclesiastically I am interested in new ways of being church. So when I discovered (online) a church that was trying to do something new, that had a deeply ecological orientation and a great world band, I knew I had to try it. I went to this new church for several months. They had a "wailing wall" where people were invited to wander during worship and, given my life circumstances, I did. Week after week, at some point in the service, I would run off to cry at this little prayer alcove. I was glad it was there.

I loved the band. I enjoyed the preacher -- a jazz musician who wove music and poetry and dance and drama into each service with skill and grace. The congregation was hipper than any I'd ever been part of. I mean, if you were going to be in church on Sunday morning, this was the happening place to be.

But as my marriage disintegrated, I knew it wasn't my church. So he got the church in the separation and I went off in search of mine. My next stop was one I had heard recommended by a colleague in DC. So I checked it out. And I stayed. A little bunch of renegade Baptists, worshiping on Sunday afternoons in an Episcopal fellowship hall, in a circle of folding chairs, singing along to a guitar and sharing a potluck dinner every week. Nothing flashy there. But good folks, trying to live the gospel. A house church that turned 5 years old about a month after I started worshiping there, it had outgrown houses within a few weeks of its birth. Now it is outgrowing the fellowship hall where we meet and looking for new space to rent. We don't aspire to be home-owners in this congregation. Who needs the headache? We just need a big enough, flexible enough space that we can gather in a circle, sing our Iona chants and old Baptist hymns, and then break up the circle for dinner.

It's an uneasy fit for me in some ways. I am so not Baptist. I like liturgy. I like a broader hymnody. I get a little restless with all the lay leadership -- especially as the quality of preaching varies greatly from week to week, since we let just about anyone who wants to have a turn at the pulpit. But here I am. Because I found a group of pilgrims who want to follow Jesus. When that means standing up alongside the Smithfield workers at the state's largest pork processing plant or being the first in town to speak out against the possibility of war with Iran or choosing to re-order our retirement portfolios to better reflect our gospel values. And when it means listening at length to the prayers of our community.

What is church for me? This is an evolving question. I suppose there is nowhere I would feel entirely at home. And maybe that is part of the human condition. We aren't entirely at home here. The God-itch inside of us is always calling. Each of us has just a little corner of the truth-cloth and we keep looking around to see where the rest of our quilt might be. So far, my quilt has quite a mixture of textures and colors. I keep looking for the pattern, but I'm not sure there is one here.

And that is just fine with me most days.

Time for more Mary Oliver

2007-08-23T21:26:00.000-04:00

Landscape

Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky -- as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.

Heap o' plumbin'

2007-08-20T09:14:00.000-04:00

Having spent last night cleaning up shit from my bathroom floor, hallway, bathtub and, of course, toilet, when the plumbing backed up and burst out with vigorous mirth, I offer the following poem by Ogden Nash (with apologies to the poet and readers for the lousy formatting):

Lines to a World-Famous Poet Who Failed To Complete a World-Famous Poem; or, Come Clean, Mr. Guest!

Oft when I'm sitting without anything to read waiting for a train in a
depot,
I torment myself with the poet's dictum that to make a house a home,
livin' is what it takes a heap o'.
Now, I myself should very much enjoy makin' my house a home, but
my brain keeps on a-goin' clickety-click, clickety-click, clickety-click,
If Peter Piper picked a peck o' heap o' livin', what kind of a peck o' heap
o' livin' would Peter Piper pick?
Certainly a person doesn't need the brains of a Lincoln
To know that there are many kinds o' livin', just as there many kinds o'
dancin' or huntin' or fishin' or eatin' or drinkin'.
A philosophical poet should be specific
As well as prolific,
And I trust I am not being offensive
If I suggest that he should also be comprehensive.
You may if you like verify my next statement by sending a stamped, self-
addressed envelope to either Dean Inge or Dean Gauss,
But meanwhile I ask you to believe that it takes a heap of other things
besides a heap o' livin' to make a home out of a house.
To begin with, it takes a heap o' payin',
And you don't pay just the oncet, but agayin and agayin and agayin.
Buyin' a stock is called speculatin' and buyin' a house is called investin',
But the value of the stock or of the house fluctuates up and down,
generally down, just as an irresponsible Destiny may destine.
Something else that your house takes a heap o', whether the builder came
from Sicily or Erin,
Is repairin',
In addition to which, gentle reader, I am sorry to say you are little more
than an imbecile or a cretin
If you think it doesn't take a heap o' heatin',
And unless you're spiritually allied to the little Dutch boy who went
around inspectin' dikes lookin' for leaks to put his thumb in,
It takes a heap o' plumbin',
And if it's a house that you're hopin' to spend not just today but
tomorrow in,
It takes a heap o' borrowin'
In a word, Macushla,
There's a scad o' things that to make a house a home it takes not only a
heap, or a peck, but at least a bushela.

Total blog cattiness

2007-08-18T12:23:00.000-04:00

OK, this is completely unnecessary cattiness, but I just stopped by a blog I rarely visit any more, though it was among the first blogs I discovered. Back when I discovered it, it was mostly an emergent church blog. Then the blogger went offline for a while and came back with an all-new blog. The reason I rarely visit is that I just don't find it interesting any more. Now here's the catty part. This particular blogger takes lots of photos and posts them. Of herself. Herself alone. Herself and her hubby. Herself and her kids. Herself and her friends. Rarely of those people by themselves. No, with her. So, her face is almost always at the top of her blog and I don't mean in one of those cute little side photos. Now, I once put a photo of my face on my blog, but almost immediately regretted it (I didn't take it down for historical purposes -- it was my first post ever). And I love it when my blog buds put up the occasional special event photo where they are included.

But this constant self-photo thing. Is it just me or is that a little weird?

(p.s. Yes, I will get back to worship theme eventually ...)

Ramblings on worship, denominations and such, part 2

2007-08-13T15:22:00.000-04:00

I noted below that I've served as a pastor for 13 of the 17 years I've been ordained. The off years have given me a chance to visit lots of churches and worship in many traditions. One year my then-hubby and I took time to do volunteer mission work -- including a couple of months with homeless families in rural Maryland, 3 weeks with homeless cows in Russia, and the rest of the year as house-parents for ex-offenders. Lots of worship opportunities over that year -- gorgeous Orthodox singing in candlelit churches with floor to ceiling icons, old ladies prostrating themselves repeatedly in prayer all around us; twelve-step meetings; outdoor services with homeless children and various dogs and cats wandering in and out of the circle; and months of masses at the progressive urban Catholic parish where then-hubby was then-worshiping.

This latter church was the sponsor of the ex-offender ministry where we were living, so we chaffeured the guys back and forth to masses whenever they wanted and every Sunday. When I first started worshiping there, the iconoclast in me refused to genuflect or cross myself or say what I felt was a horrible line in the mass: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." Somehow, it struck me as that wormish theology aimed at keeping the masses bowed down low beneath the Pope and other Truly Holy People.

Over time, I came to love that line most of all: "only say the word and I shall be healed." I loved that we said it circled around the table, squeezed onto the altar, singing together, hugging our way through the peace, looking around at faces as diverse as one might hope for in the kin-dom of God. Old, young, many-colored, gay, straight, homeless, known criminals, local politicians, affluent business owners, questioning youth. None of us worthy. All of us worthy. All of us standing in the need of healing and hope, holding out our hands for the body and blood. I also found myself loving that my body was invited into worship: I genuflected, I knelt, I crossed myself repeatedly, I raised my hands for the Lord's prayer. Sometimes I have to stop myself from doing those things now in places where they would be suspect.

[Later, that whole congregation got ex-communicated. After years of slaps on the wrist from the loving and liberal bishop-- for the women who served on the altar, for the glbt ministries, for the open ecumenism--it finally came down from on high that they needed to shape up. The issue that finally did them in? Open communion. They had the gaul to serve the precious body and blood of Jesus to (gasp!) non-Catholics. (In fact, as an ordained woman, I co-officiated at the mass at that church.) Who was the one to finally call it quits on the church? None other than our beloved Benny, back when he was still the Ratz. But I digress ... ]

My roots among the Presbyterians are deep. I love my church. I love that my own Dad laid hands on me to ordain me to the Ministry of Word and Sacrament in the very church where I had been baptized and confirmed and where I had listened to him preach about 2000 sermons. I loved going to the World Mission Conference as a child and later the Youth Conference and the Youth Triennium and our General Assembly as a Youth Delegate and then as General Assembly staff and later still as a seminary assistant to the Stated Clerk. I loved knowing our missionaries from around the world and visiting my own brother doing mission work in Haiti when I was a teen. I love my church.

And, given a Sunday not leading worship, I never attend a Presbyterian church. Really. One of the other years I wasn't serving a church, I was working on Presbytery staff (that's like a Diocese, for the uninitiated). Some weeks I preached at our regional churches and other weeks, I felt obligated to visit various of them. That lasted about 3 months. Then I couldn't take it any more. "The church isn't dying of liberalism or conservatism!" I would whine loudly to anyone who would listen, "The church is dying of boredom!"

Honestly, Presbyterians can be dull as dirt. I hate to say it, but it is true. And let me say this as clearly as I can: there is no greater sin than to take the Gospel of our Lord and Savior and make it BORING! I mean, really, how does one accomplish that? Jesus in not boring! Grace is not boring! The eucharist is not boring! People, please!

So I found an Episcopal church and hung out there for the rest of that year. Then I went back to a preaching gig.

Two and a half years ago I left my last called position. I needed a break. I needed to re-group. I wondered what else might be in store for me. I thought I could figure all that out in 6 months to a year. Still wondering. In the meantime, I have done lots of supply preaching, some church consulting, and non-church work of various sorts. Still, unless I'm working there, I don't go Presbyterian. My first Sunday off after leaving my last church was World Communion Sunday. I knew I wanted to be among the Presbyterians for that one. So I went to a friend's church. He's a great preacher. And everyone leading the service was old and white, as was all the music. On World Communion Sunday. In one of the most diverse cities on the planet. Heaven help us.

So my general rule on non-working Sundays was either Quakers, where at least I'll get some silence and I won't have to endure a boring sermon or Episcopalians, where at least I'll get the liturgy and the eucharist, even if the sermon is boring. For more than a year in DC this is what I did: the Quaker meeting where my hub and son attended or the neighborhood Episcopal church, generally alternating between the two.

Then I moved and needed to establish myself and my family in a congregation of my very own choosing. To be continued ...

Ramblings on worship, denominations and such, part 1

2007-08-12T15:32:00.000-04:00

My son is returning home this afternoon from eleven days of vacation with his dad. That's the longest I've ever been apart from him and I can't wait to see him home. But the timing means that I'll be missing church since my congregation of choice meets at 5:30 p.m. So I did this morning what I do whenever I'm in need of a random worship service: I went Episcopal.

Today I opted for the Cathedral. Built in the 1890s by George Vanderbilt to accompany the Biltmore Estate, which is across the road, it is a little architectural gem. (Yes, little, though the Cathedral). I had been told the Dean was model material and sure enough, there he stood: tall, thin, with his thick, wavy, salt and pepper hair, looking like he could have stepped out of the pages of an Eddie Bauer catalogue (except for the silly white dress he was wearing). His sermon was passable, in spite of him starting with a long baseball story (is there anything more boring?) and in spite of the fact that the man was full of nervous energy and never stopped moving around in the pulpit, which made him a bit dizzying to watch. It was also too long, because he decided that today's text on Abraham was not enough information and we really needed to follow Abe all the way from the land of Ur to the near sacrifice of Isaac. (He didn't preach on this week's gospel). Still, his basic point was moving and reminded me of a lovely post by Kirstin.

I came home pondering what makes church work for me. This is something I ponder quite regularly and something I thought about incessantly when I was serving as a pastor, which has been about 13 of the 17 years I've been ordained. I could say that I love a good sermon, and that would be true, but I also loved the years I spent attending silent Meetings for Worship among the Friends.

I could say that I love good music, and that would also be true, but my tastes are so eclectic that I tend to get bored with the music at any one congregation. For example, the place I now attend, a small, very informal church, has a wonderful lead musician, who plays guitar and writes much of what we sing. We also do a fair amount of Iona and Taize music, and some good old Baptist hymns and some good old protest hymns and spirituals like, "Down By the Riverside." We have a guy who plays the djembe and a young Down syndrome man who plays another drum and a various musicians who join on other instruments from week to week: clarinet, cello, banjo, piano, flute, fiddle. The congregation likes to sing and we often have beautiful a capella singing with lovely harmonies.

But today it felt like a relief to sing traditional hymns accompanied by a wonderful organist on what seems to be (I know little of these things) a terrific pipe organ. What could be better than a grand opening hymn, organ booming, choir soaring, singing these words to the tune of Truro?

Redeemer, come! I open wide
my heart to Thee; here. Lord, abide.
Let me Thy inner presence feel;
Thy grace and love in me reveal.

(They had Wonder, Love and Praise in the pews, which we used only for the Sanctus this morning and I'm guessing it doesn't get used all that much there.)

So, Episcopalians. That's where I like to go on random days. I love the words of the Book of Common Prayer, though I do get tired of the male language. (My little congregation is adamantly gender-free in references to God and humanity. But Jesus, being both, is still allowed to be male.) I went to my neighborhood Episcopal church on Ash Wednesday and had high hopes because it was a) nearby and b) rumored to be progressive. It was both those things, but it was also very low church.

Here's the thing. If I want low church, there are a hundred denominations I can attend. When I go to an Episcopal service I want liturgy. Give me a little smells and bells, cause I'm not getting that with my Baptist buddies. Present the eucharist with dignity, cause that's what you folks do. If I want "chat and chew with Jesus" I can get that elsewhere.

Of course, I also like a church to be reasonably child-friendly and I don't want dignity to roll over into snobbery. If I come dressed in less than my best, I still want to feel at home. If I forget to genuflect or whether "Praise to you" or "Glory to you" comes before or after the gospel reading, I don't want to be made to feel foolish. But I've been to several Episcopal churches that have found just the right balance: good liturgy, warmth, a welcoming spirit, and a eucharist that makes me remember I am in the presence of Holiness.

Today's thoughts. To be continued.

Once

2007-08-12T09:12:00.000-04:00

Saw this sweet little heartbreak of a movie last night. All about music, lost loves, seeking something new, taking risks. Recommended.

(Had to be somewhere with air conditioning. Still hot as hell here in the mountains, where the altitude usually keeps us cool, but not this week.)

OH NOOOOOOOOOO...

2007-08-11T16:11:00.000-04:00

I just finished Book Six of Harry Potter. The young 'un returns from vacation with his Dad tomorrow, with his new (birthday present) Book Seven in hand and, according to this morning's phone call, ready to start reading it. So I stayed home today and finished The Half-Blood Prince. NO, NO, NO! I don't like the ending at all. No wonder everyone has been waiting so desperately for The Deathly Hallows.

But no spoilers here. I can't tell you how grateful I am to have avoided spoilers so far. Everyone has been so polite about it. It almost gives me hope in humanity after all.

The Stealing Continues

2007-08-07T22:13:00.002-04:00

Thanks to BlueGal for this one. If you don't know the original rap "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-a-Lot, you may not fully appreciate this folk version. But listen anyway, in honor of all women with nice big booties to shake.

Because Eileen is a Bad Influence, One More ...

2007-08-07T21:49:00.001-04:00

You're the City College of New York!

Emerging from an area of difficulty and hardship, you have risen
to be a leader and champion for diversity. Though you have egalitarian motives,
your surroundings are still derisive and often difficult. And while you claim to
be small, you're actually much larger than you seem. You speak several languages.
For inexplicable reasons, you love escalators.

Take the University Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Because I Can't Seem to Write a Real Post ...

2007-08-07T21:45:00.000-04:00

You're Ireland!

Mystical and rain-soaked, you remain mysterious to many people, and this
makes you intriguing. You also like a good night at the pub, though many are just as
worried that you will blow up the pub as drink your beverage of choice. You're good
with words, remarkably lucky, and know and enjoy at least fifteen ways of eating a potato.
You really don't like snakes.

Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

And For a Lighter Touch ...

2007-08-03T19:12:00.000-04:00

This is the kind of humor my mom and I share. She gave me this one just after I separated from my ex. Think she was trying to tell me something?

Yeah, we're particularly fond of Bruce Eric Kaplan. And I just found out he was a co-producer of my all-time favorite TV show, "Six Feet Under."

(I need to figure out how to post the cartoons directly, but in the meantime, enjoy the links.)

Jail Time?

2007-08-03T18:43:00.000-04:00

Watch this if you want some insight into the crux of the anti-abortion question.

Anna Quindlen has a great column in the current Newsweek based on this YouTube clip. She concludes: " ... there are only two logical choices: hold women accountable for a criminal act by sending them to prison, or refuse to criminalize the act in the first place. If you can't countenance the first, you have to accept the second. You can't have it both ways."

Amen, Anna.

Addendum: apparently, the embedding of this video has been disabled. If the link above no longer works, try to cut and paste this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uk6t_tdOkwo or google "Libertyville abortion protest."

Happy Birthday!

2007-07-30T10:09:00.000-04:00

Nine years ago today, the love of my life came into the world. What a wild and wonderful ride it has been. Hooray!

Rainy Day Thoughts While Waiting for a Friend

2007-07-24T09:01:00.001-04:00

If you had asked me a little over a year ago (and you wouldn't have, because I wasn't in the blogosphere yet), I would have said I had five really close friends: one from jr. high, one from high school, one from college, one from my seminary years (though not from seminary) and my husband. None of those folks lived near me, other than the hubby.

Over the course of the last year, I lost my husband. He's still a friend, but obviously the friendship is strained and will never be as intimate as it once was. I also had one of my closest friends fall away as we both endured pretty hard life transitions and did so very differently. I have been wondering whether to reach out to her again, but I know that I do not trust her as I once did. Another friend (see yesterday's post) is now closer in distance, but her own life difficulties have made it harder to stay tight. That might change. And with another friend, we've simply fallen out of touch from years and years of not seeing each other and rarely speaking any more.

That leaves one friend. She's coming today for a visit so I'll be out of touch for a few days, probably.

I'm starting to make friends in this new city. It is a slow process at this stage of adulthood. Not like college or grad school when you can sit around for hours shooting the shit. We all have jobs and mortgages and kids and parents to care for. Our lives are busy and we sneak in walks or talks over coffee when we can. I have lived in eight places in the past twenty-two years. Now I feel like I'm starting over in so many ways -- career, relationships, place, sense of self.

On Sunday the sermon was called "Sweet Surrender." Using the Martha/Mary passage, the preacher talked about moving beyond doing or being, beyond action or contemplation, into a kind of surrendered living where we practice daily allowing our lives to be shaped by the spirit, so we learn to know instinctively when to be in the kitchen working and when to be sitting at the feet of Christ listening. Last night I was reading Sue Monk Kidd on this same topic: surrender. Using the image of the caterpillar beginning the work of the chrysalis, she talked about "diapause," a process where caterpillars can actually put off the timing of the cocoon for up to a year if they don't feel ready yet to leave behind the caterpillar life. How hard it is, she noted, to really let go of who we have been and surrender into a new life, trusting God to shape us into who we might become. We let go a little bit and then grab hold of some old security again. Bit by bit, we let ourselves be changed. Or we don't.

Surrender is not my strong suit. Yet I long for this next stage of life to be God-driven, God-shaped, God-fragranced. I long to let myself be surprised by the workings of grace. God, save me from being Martha when I need to be Mary, and when the nurturing, sacred work of Martha needs to be done, let me do it gracefully. Amen.

Shopping, Redux

2007-07-22T21:39:00.000-04:00

Just spent the weekend helping a friend get settled into a nearby city to start a new job. She has been stuck in a horrible, god-forsaken place for the last seven years, during which time she grew deeply depressed, as well as physically ill. I'm so delighted that she's out of there, has an interesting new position at an area college and is within easy driving distance for weekend visits.

Some of you will remember my post on shopping. Being with this friend was an eye opener. During her depression she became a compulsive shopper and her new place is piled floor to ceiling with her purchases, most still in their boxes or with tags on, never opened, never used. Four coffeemakers, for example. Close to a hundred new towels. She realizes this is crazy. She said to me, "I hope I'm never that sad and lonely again."

Yeah, me too, my friend. Me too.

The Illusionist

2007-07-20T22:48:00.000-04:00

Having depressed myself with Sick-O last night, I needed me some eye candy. Mmmm, mmm, I loves me some Edward Norton. The Illusionist is a fun flick. This photo isn't from the movie, cause the movie shots weren't close ups of the boy. Sweet dreams.

Back to the Pope ...

2007-07-20T18:09:00.000-04:00

Now I Feel Sick-O

2007-07-19T22:37:00.000-04:00

Just saw Sick-O. I was working on my personal budget today and since I'm now living paycheck to paycheck, this budget really has to be followed. When I added up what I spend monthly on health insurance and then paying for the therapy, medication and so forth my health insurance doesn't cover and thought about what I could be doing with all that money if I lived in Canada, England, France, Cuba or pretty much anywhere else in the civilized world, I got quite depressed. Great. Now I'll need more therapy and medication that my health insurance won't cover.

Ed's Funny

2007-07-19T08:27:00.000-04:00

Thanks to Ed for this good laugh. As my self-description says, always in search of a belly laugh, and Ed provided it today.

What Conservatives Say When They Think We Aren't Listening

2007-07-18T16:15:00.000-04:00

Oh dear. If you can stomach it, try this article: Neocons on a Cruise. Written by a reporter from the Guardian (UK) who infiltrated a cruise for readers of the National Review.