The 8 Cow Wife

This was printed in Reader's Digest years ago ... I was probably a teenager at the time. It has stuck with me. Recently, I found it again:

JOHNNY LINGO'S 8-COW WIFE
By Patricia McGerr

When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costume. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: "Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father." And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, "You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife."

Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata, called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo would put me up. If I wanted to fish he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.

"Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining," advised Shenkin. "Johnny knows how to make a deal." "Johnny Lingo! A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter. "What goes on?" I demanded. "everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the joke." "Oh, the people like to laugh," Shenkin said, shruggingly. "Johnny's the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands, And for his age, the richest." "But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?" "Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!

I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. "Good Lord!" I said, "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away." "She’s not ugly," he conceded, and smiled a little. "But the kindest could only call Sarita plain.

Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands." "But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?" "Never been paid before." "Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?" "I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow." "Well," I said, "I guess there’s just no accounting for love." "True enough," agreed the man. "And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo."

"But how?" "No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’" "Eight cows," I murmured. "I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo." "And I wanted fish. I wanted pearls. So the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked, "You come here from Kiniwata?" "Yes." "They speak of me on that island?" "They say there’s nothing I might want they you can’t help me get." He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata." "Yes, I know." "They speak of her?" "A little." "What do they say?" "Why, just..." The question caught me off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time." "Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more. They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." I paused. "They wonder why." "They ask that?" His eyes lightened with pleasure. "Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?" I nodded. "And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too." His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita." So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.

And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. "You admire her?" he murmured. "She...she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata," I said.

"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata." "She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo." "You think eight cows were too many?" A smile slid over his lips. "No. But how can she be so different?" "Do you ever think," he asked, "what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when the women talk, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two?" This could not happen to my Sarita."

"Then you did this just to make your wife happy?" "I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different This is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands." "Then you wanted -" "I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman." "But —" I was close to understanding. "But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."

What I would have missed ...

I'll confess. Between American Idol and the primary debates, we've been eating too many dinners in the living room. But ... The Husband was working late and we didn't watch Idol last night (see: debates, Democratic), so ... okay.

I'm a big proponent of dinner around the kitchen table, but tonight, this is what I would have missed:

LW (now 2 1/2), going over to her big brother (11 1/2), taking his plate out of his hands, and making him dance with her to "I Just Want to Be Your Everything."

As Far As They Know, There's No Need for Church

So, everyone's buzzing about the Pew Forum's Religious Landscapes survey. And saying, why are there so many people who identify as UUs who aren't in UU churches?

What's wrong with our UU churches? we ask. Is it our liturgy, our music, our communities?

Well, based on my observances of 2 born-and-raised UU's, who still identify as UU's (my brother and sister), the issue is not about "our." It's not about our liturgy, our music, our sermons, etc.

It's about church, period.

And there's no rejection, no big issue. They just don't see why it's necessary.

So ... Brother is 50. Extremely successful, professionally. Doesn't really read books on spirituality or philosophy.

Sister is 54. Living a blue-collar life, and is a voracious reader about spirituality, especially new-agey things, like Jane Roberts.

Me: 38. Seminary student to become a UU minister.

All raised UU. All identify as UU. BIG DIFFERENCE: I'm the only one with kids.

I'm sure you've all heard the joke about what's a UU? An atheist with children. There's a grain of truth in that. Children have a way of getting us around to doing some of the things we've always meant to do.

Anyway, before we start fussing and fretting about how we do church, we have to address Why Should You Go To Church?

I mean ... a piping hot carafe of coffee, the Sunday paper, Meet-the-News-Nation-Sunday, a flaky danish, cuddly robe ...

I'm sorry, and my point was ?

Ah yes. Why you should leave all that and come to church on Sunday.

Community? Well, I love my community, but they'd all be strangers to Brother and Sister. And as far as they know, they get their need for fellowship met elsewhere.

Sermon? As far as they know, there's no life-changing message ... they find their inspiration in other places.

Music? As far as they know, there's much better music available in their CD collection. Oooh, or maybe going to a jazz brunch.

Sunday morning is prime real estate. Any weekend hours are. So to ask them to sacrifice that time to go to church ... well, as far as they know, there's just not enough time in the weekend. There's not enough value in it. As far as they know.

Now ... I harbor the sneaky suspicion that just like so many of us who walked into church that first day "for the kids" and wound up staying, becoming a small group facilitator, joining the Men's Group, agreeing to be Board president, finding transformation ... I think that if they took that first step, odds are, they'd take a second. And a third. And if they didn't ... well, that's a topic about our.

But first, we have to convince them why church. Because as far as they know ... they don't know much about church.

I guess I've drunk the kool-aid

I used to be an actress. No, no delusions of grandeur, it was during my youth and primarily through educational institutions. But it was my dream, and oh, the roles I got to play! Emily in Our Town. Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Kate Keller in All My Sons, a role that has stayed with me through this time of war. Elizabeth Proctor in The Crucible, where I learned that smearing Vapo Rub under your eyes to simulate tears is really not a good idea.

Alexandra in the Little Foxes. The Baroness in The Sound of Music (hey, in the stage play, she gets two songs.) Ouisa in Six Degrees of Separation.

Oh, I was lucky. Nothing huge, small productions, mostly for high school or university ... but I was blessed to play these roles, these acting roles that have shaped me, in one way or another.

In college, while I was in Little Foxes, I had my breakthrough moment. I looked around at my classmates, my castmates and realized ... these are the kinds of people I will be around my whole life. These are the kinds of people I will be.

They were fine people, but the whole process of training for the stage was so self-focused ... it is a rare person, I believe, who manages to be an actor who is not self-involved. The training, the auditions ... it's all about you. Your instrument. Your motivation.

And it's also not you. It's about becoming something other than yourself. And convincing someone that you can be exactly what they have already envisioned. Who Do You Want Me To Be?

I decided to get an English major. And become a writer.

"You'll be back," my advisor smiled at me. "You have the talent. You have the dream."

I don't say this to brag. I say this to show that sometimes, people who think they know you ... don't.

I didn't go back. Part of it, too, was that I knew I wanted the white picket fence. I wanted children and a husband to love me. I wanted a life more ordinary.

I got my English degree, and I became a writer, of sorts, first writing corporate materials, and then national advertising, and then websites.

And now ... sermons. But that's another conversation.

I got my life more ordinary and discovered that it was far richer than anything I could ever have imagined.

But I have to admit ... each year, watching the Tony's, or the Oscars ... okay, there was a teeny-weenie-tiny part of me that looked back wistfully.

This year, for the first time ever, I am watching the Oscars, and not even feeling the teensiest bit wistful.

During my time in marketing/advertising, I had the opportunity of going to LA for a photo shoot.

I am an extremely friendly, somewhat touchy-feely person . But I'll tell ya, the first time I was kissed on the cheek by someone I barely knew ... WEIRD, I tell ya.

I am so incredibly blessed, now. I get to spend time thinking about Meaning, with a capital M. I get to be around my beloved Unitarian Universalists, and though I have been known to refer to us as "freakin' Unitarians!" ... after yet another experience of the need for a financially strapped congregation to build a bathroom for blind transgender non-existent visitors ... this is my tribe. These are my people. And our hearts are so, so, so, in the right place ...

My path has been curvy. It likely will continue to be so. I had a dream last week that I was driving my car (minivan) on the freeway and the freeway suddenly went up up up and became steep steep steep until it was straight up and down. I pushed the accelerator down to the floor and realized that I was in completely the wrong vehicle to take this particular road. My car couldn't go forward. It stopped moving forward and began to free fall backwards ...

No mystery there. I am a mother of 4. How on earth am I going to do an internship?

I step out in faith. I step out in faith knowing that there are many other individuals who stepped out in faith, who possess an M.Div and a whole lot of debt, but have never been ordained ...

And still, I step out in faith.

And this year, watching the Academy Awards ... there was not an iota of envy. Of The Road Not Traveled.

Hey, I still (as this post proves) have my moments of self-involvement. But I'm in a world that says, Okay ... but now what are you going to do to win your victory for mankind?

No matter what happens, I am content with the road I am on. No, more than that.

I am happy.

"Morning Blessings"

Joys and Sorrows* just wasn't working for us anymore.

I won't get into the issue of whether Joys/Sorrows should ever be in a service. People on both sides, strong opinions, absolutely convinced they're right. All I'm saying is that it wasn't working for us. Same three people standing up or occasionally one member who would hijack the service, which led to no one wanting to share.

On top of that, we had several members wanting a quiet beginning to the worship service, as opposed to a chatting, gabbing entry into the sanctuary.

Enter, "Morning Blessings."

Here's how it works:

15 minutes before the service begins, those who want to, gather in the sanctuary. There is an usher outside the doors to gently shush anyone coming in and explain the ritual. We have a small table upfront with tealight candles in holders. One "lighting" candle is lit, so that members may use a long match to catch the flame, then light a candle. The facilitator, in a modulated voice:

Good morning. Welcome to this time of community and contemplation, where we may share the joys and the sorrows going on in our lives.

Enjoy the experience of sitting in restorative silence until you are moved to speak. Please allow a few breaths of silence after a person speaks, so that we may focus our attention and energy on his or her concern.

(some people get up and light a candle. Some light a candle and speak. Some stay in their chair and speak.)

Let us pause to dwell inward. Spirit of Life, please meet us where we are, in our struggles and challenges, our happiness and sorrow. It is right that we pause to remember everyone, known and unknown, including ourselves, who need love and support; who are ill or in pain, either in body or in spirit; who are lonely or have been wronged. Let us open our minds and hearts to a place of quiet, to a silent prayer for the healing of pain, and the soft, gentle coming of love. Let us observe a moment of silence and let our thoughts be with those who have spoken or been spoken about, here this morning. (We wait about a minute, then close with Amen, Blessed Be, etc.)

So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive, of those who partake. I've had one person say she misses joys/sorrows in the service (her complaint is that she wants 'critical mass' to be present), but I've had many more say that they love morning blessings, that they normally wouldn't say anything in j/s, but since they know that the only people present are those who want to be there, they feel comfortable speaking. And several who enjoy the quiet before the service begins.

So, it's still too early to call ... but so far, it seems good. And in general, once someone comes for Morning Blessings, they keep coming. So the challenge now is to convince members to get up 15 minutes earlier ...


*For those not familiar with the term: Joys and Sorrows or Joys and Concerns refers to the time in the worship service when members are invited to stand up and share the major events in their lives.

BIG, HUGE Thank you ...

... to those who gave me Worship Retreat suggestions. They were all extremely helpful. And if you have any more ideas, send 'em on!

Worship Retreat

This weekend, my worship team is going to have a worship retreat. We've been operating on my worship vision since January, but I want an actual team vision of what we want worship to be.

So, hep me? If you had a team of dedicated, highly motivated folks who wanted to create great worship experiences, what would you have them think about? Question?

Give me your ideas. Much thanks. Mwah, mwah.

God Wants You to Have Sex

Weren't we just talking about sex and church?

God Wants You to Have Sex

An openly edgy Christian church in Ybor City is launching what they're calling a 30-Day Sex Challenge to help members improve their relationships and rediscover themselves.

Single folks are to abstain from sex for 30 days, even if they are in a committed relationship. Married folks, on the other hand, are supposed to have sex every day for 30 days...

"Of course, all the guys say it's genius," said Pastor Paul Wirth. "The married women think we're out of our minds."

Saving Souls

The article in the New York Times about petulant parents who have discovered that have to (gasp) make changes in the style of their homes to accommodate their toddlers has stayed with me.

It's not just about the issue of parenting. I mean, I am not one of those parents who thinks you must wrap everything in cotton-wool for the children, or that they must allowed to express their creativity (crayons on the walls?) in any way they see fit. But these parents are egregiously self-centered.

And I think that's more the issue. Ms. Theologian talks about the narcissistic system she sees in these parents.

Yeah. And it has me thinking about religion. Our religion. And what we are here for.

My contention is simple. I think we're here to save souls. Not from hell after death, but from that hell that was described in the NY Times article. A hell where "meaning" comes from having a Noguchi coffee table. A hell for the children wherein the punishment for not carefully holding the railing of the beautiful floating staircase is to plummet to the floor.

I know that I am idealistic. I know that it is quite possible that some of those parents mentioned go to church. Perhaps they even go to a UU church. (Inside, my heart cries, "Noooooo!")

I believe that we can save souls. I believe that if we provide dynamic religious education and worship services and covenant groups and opportunities to serve, that our children -- and adults, for that matter -- will search for meaning in books, conversation, nature, experiences...

Proverbs 22:6 says that if you train a child in the way he should go, when he is old he will not turn from it. Well, thank God that isn't true, or we'd have some empty pews, wouldn't we?

Like most -- if not all -- UU's, I agree with Channing that our goal is to stir up young minds, not stamp our imprint on them. I like to believe that if we encourage a person to stir their mind, they will continue to seek meaning ... and not in buying Shantung draperies.

I saw Love today

It was an old man, rather plump, on a bicycle ... one handlebar-holding hand with an equally plump grocery bag around that wrist and the other hand holding both the handlebar and a big bouquet of red roses.

I hope he took them to someone whose heart goes pitter-pat when he walks in the room.

Making a spectacle of oneself

Oh, I have so much sympathy for my friends who have extra behavioral challenges with their children. "Regular" kids are challenging enough ...

I got a taste of this today. Bo Peep is sweet and serene the vast majority of the time. But a few times a year, it's necessary for her to ... well, to completely lose her ever-loving-mind, as my mama used to say. Kind of like when your computer goes all wonky because it needs a reboot.

We live a half mile from the elementary school. Beautiful day, so I walked up to get them. We had barely left, when Peep began pulling back hard on the stroller. As if she wanted me to not only push the stroller home, but also drag her. This isn't unusual, so I just reminded her not to do that, as I often do.

Complete freak out.

Yanking back on the stroller, pulling on me, yelling, crying, oh, you name it. Kicking, screaming ... and refusing to walk.

I finally just plunked myself down on the sidewalk, told The Princess to take the stroller and walk on ahead, and told Bo Peep that it was fine, we'd just wait there til she was ready to be good. "Are you ready to be good?" "NO!" she hollered. I pulled out my iPod and put the buds in my ears. Stretched my face out to the warm sun.

"Are you ready to be good?" "NO!!!"

"Are you ready to be good?" "NO!!!"

Helpful Mom #1 stopped her minivan near us and leaned out to find out if I needed any help, or a ride. She was afraid perhaps I was ill or something. I thanked her for her kindness. She drove on.

"Are you ready to be good?" "NO!!!"

I like my iPod.

"Waaaah, you haaaaate me!"

I resisted the urge to explain that if I didn't love her and her siblings to the depth of my being, I would have thrown them in a volcano years ago.

We walk hand in hand a few yards. She continues wailing about how I don't love her, I haaaate her, I think she's a big dummy head, I'm going to burn her with fire, etc. I just walk, silently.

She throws herself down on the ground again. I wait. Eventually she gets up and we walk on. This repeats a few times. During one of those times, I just walk forward and go sit on the curb. A gaggle of kids come by and try to ask her what's wrong. She screams at them. Then Helpful Mom #2, walking home, stops and tries to comfort her and find out what's wrong. I call out, "Hi, I'm the mom, I'm right here."

She walks up and says, "She said her Mom is mad at her."

"Yup, pretty much," I say. She smiles sympathetically at me.

Helpful Mom #3 stops her minivan and asks if her son can walk to the corner with The Princess. Sure. (Little Warrior is sleeping in her stroller through all of this.)

I walk back over to Bo Peep. She has stopped her fit. I just want to get home. I hold her hand and we walk home. Now she is crying that she's a dumb, dumb, dummy.

During all of this, we've had Not Helpful Child #1, a classmate of The Princess, walking along beside me, offering her views on the whole situation, and that she can't understand why Bo Peep is acting like this, she never would. "What would your Mom do if you acted this way?" I ask. "She'd spank me on my BARE BOTTOM."

(We don't spank ... but I have to admit to having a little evil feeling of happiness that the girl said this where Peep could hear. Yeah, there is evil is this here mama.)

Anyway, we are home now. Bo Peep is lying in my bed, where I'm about to go have a talk about What Is Appropriate Behavior When Walking Home.

The Helpful People did nothing wrong. (Unless a Helpful Person called CPS because I just really don't have the time for it, right now ...)

But they didn't actually help in any way. So when I think about you mamas (and daddies) who have to deal with this on a regular basis, when you go out in public ... I'm sorry. And I'll try to be careful about not being helpfully unhelpful, myself.

Blog Voting

No matter where you live, no matter your religion, no matter your political affiliation, you can vote today:

UU Blog Awards

And I appreciate the acknowledgment -- the nominations for this blog were a thrill. Whether you vote or not, go read some of the nominated blogs and posts. These people are mad talented, I tell ya.

God says "Hello"

I was driving to school in the pouring rain. Thinking idly about God, and about how I have my perception of God -- a force filled with love and compassion, who would never be critical of people loving each other, whether they were the same gender or opposite. And how I really "know" this in my heart. And how others have a picture of a much different God, a god of fury and punishment, and deep in their heart, they "know" this is God. And I have friends who are complete atheists, and they "know" this to be true.

Am I completely wrong? This deep feeling of love in my heart that I feel connects us all, call it God ...

I was interrupted from my thoughts by a bright yellow light flashing on my right side, coming from behind. It was so bright, I jumped, and craned my neck, to find out where was the car that was pulling me over.

There was no car. But the light continued. FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

I craned again, trying to see where the emergency vehicle was.

And then I realized .... through the dark grey evening, the bright sun had come through a small hole in the clouds, and because it had dropped, the sun was being blocked by buildings as I went past. Flash. Flash. Flash.

I had never seen anything quite like it, and I settled back in my seat, a bit in wonder.

Lighting streaked through the sky in front of , bright against the dark grey of the direction I was headed.

"Well, that's something," I said to myself. "Bright yellow light on my right, dark sky with lightning in front."

It felt like a message from ... well, from God. To come right at that time. An affirmation. I wondered, will I remember this moment? Or will it, in a few months time, just fade away ...

Lightning struck again, and then --

To the left of me, a giant, full spectrum, brilliant rainbow appeared. I turned my head slightly and saw that it was a complete half rainbow, with no break, going from one side to the other. It's been years since I've seen one of those.

I ... well, I'll admit it. I burst into a bit of laughter mixed with tears, a not uncommon response from me in times of profound spiritual emotion.

I understand that this isn't just completely random ... sun and rain and a rainbow appearing are, naturally, hooked together.

But one of the things that has stayed with me, from my time in the pagan world, is that just because something is natural ... doesn't mean it's not magic.

And to God ... hey, thanks for the gift tonight.

Sex and the Sanctuary

Okay, now that I was reminded of it ... a Lizard Eater sermon from a few years ago:

Sex and The Sanctuary

Intro

Let’s talk about sex, Baby! Preparing for this sermon took a lot of time. No, no, no, no double entendres. A lot of brainstorming time. See, I wanted a title that stood a chance of getting a good turnout. But I wanted to talk about canvass. I knew that if I stood here and simply said, “Ha, fooled you, Bait and Switch!” the safety of my physical being would be in jeopardy. So, how the heck to do I pull together such disparate subjects.

I tried talking about it with my husband. His suggestion for the sermon title was “Paying for Sex, How to Fund the Church of Our Dreams.” So he wasn’t much help.

I spoke with my two of my friends. One pointed out that making love and giving to our beloved church are similar in that both give a gift to both the recipient and the giver. “I just can’t make that sound family friendly,” I told her.

The other friend told me the joke about the couple who wanted to fly United on their honeymoon, but Southwest wouldn't let them. Not very helpful. She did, however, provide the title for this sermon, as she’s apparently been watching Sex and the City reruns on tv. She’s pretty frisky for a septuagenarian.

It sounds like a joke, and I’m sure we could come up with many naughty answers to the question “What do sex and money have in common?” We can discuss that afterwards in Corner Forum.

But here’s the two main commonalities: Number one, both sex and money are vitally important. They are both a source of life. In order for the human species to exist, there must be sex. And in order for our church to exist, there must be money.

Love

Of course, that’s not the start and end of it. Love is a vital component in both. Our Religious Education Chair, BFF-DRE, learned this in Catholic Sunday school, when her teacher taught that having sex just to have sex is like, rather than eating a delicious chocolate cake, just eating the raw ingredients. A bite of flour, a bite of butter...not the same thing at all.

Having sex with someone you love, but before you're married--well, that's like eating cake batter. It lacks the warmth and the texture of a real cake.

Sex once you're married, that's a rich chocolate cake, freshly baked. Mmm!

And best of all, sex for procreation, that's that rich chocolate cake, with a splendid fudge frosting.

Of course, this is where the Unitarians start thinking things like, “Actually, I like the cake batter the best,” and “Frosting is just too sweet for me,” and “Okay, now is the cake vegan?” Not to mention the “I prefer pie,” people.

But, my point and I do have one … sex with love is great, and many would argue, superior to sex without love. Well, giving to the church is a lot like that. It just flat out means more when there is love behind it. It’s not like paying the light bill. Electricity is very important to me, highly necessary, but I don’t feel warm and nurturing when I write out a check to the electric company. I do, when our church is on the recipient line. This church nurtures and sustains me and one of the ways that I nurture and sustain my beloved community is with money.

I remember the year we joined this church and hearing the word “canvass.” It was a term unfamiliar to me, as it may be for some of you new to our congregation. So, “Mommy, what is canvass?”

Well, dear, it’s like this … when a person and a church love each other very much … they both want to express that love by doing wonderful things. They want to put on interesting, informative worship services; they want to have a vibrant religious education program and they want to make the world a better place. Canvass is a time when people from the congregation go out and talk to other people from the congregation to find out what their dreams for the church are. A lot of the vision for the church comes from these conversations.

“But Mommy, I heard that people pledge when they canvass. How do you do that?”

Well, dear, a pledge is a promise of what each member and friend of the congregation is going to give to it, monetarily, during the next year. You can always change it later, if necessary, but it gives our treasurers a good idea of what we can budget for, and what dreams we can make come true.”

“Mommy, what’s a treasurer and a budget?”

Go ask your father.

Talking about Sex and Money

And that brings me to the other big thing that sex and money have in common – they’re both difficult to talk about. Now, to be fair, when talking about sex, I sometimes feel like giggling … and I never feel that way when talking about money. It would probably be more pleasant if I would. We often use euphemisms when talking about sex – getting some, getting a bite … the whole chocolate cake thing is making more sense to me. Same with money – moola, dough, cheese … I think I need to write a sermon about food.

Anyone with children … or anyone with parents for that matter, knows how challenging it can be to talk about sex. Trying to find the right words, trying to talk in generalities, purely as a hypothetical … I had to talk about this subject with my firstborn a little earlier than most. That’s one of those things that comes up when you’re pregnant four times.

So, his father and I answered our son’s questions. Then I heard about some books that were being banned up north in Northern County, books that happened to be part of the Unitarian Universalist Association’s sex ed course, Our Whole Lives. Of course, I ordered them. The books are called It’s So Amazing and It’s Perfectly Normal and they’re great and exhaustive. They talk about both heterosexuality and homosexuality, how babies are made – you may even learn something yourself. I recommend them.

Well, our little bookworm liked them, too. When we met up with my parents and my siblings for a Thanksgiving weekend, he brought them along. When it was time for bed, he said, “Okay, but let me get my ‘Sex’ books to read.” I didn’t know that my brother’s head could actually spin all the way around.

Even as adults, talking to each other, sex remains one of those things you can kid about, but not really talk about. And if we do, we’re often staring down at our shoes. And when someone does broach the topic, in personal terms, our instinctive response is often TMI, or “Too Much Information.” There are just things you don’t talk about, and sex is one of them.

And the other, is, of course, money. In fact, curiously, money seems to be even more of a forbidden topic than sex. Friends (usually women, my husband swears men never talk about sex with their friends) who will tell each other very intimate details about their sex lives, have no idea what the other one makes. We feel like there’s so much baggage that comes along with it. If I don’t make as much as you do, you might see me as not being as successful as you, or if I make more than you, that’s uncomfortable, too. Power is so wrapped up in money. There’s often the feeling among friends that the person with the most money is the person with the most power. And those who have more money may feel slightly ashamed – especially if you’re liberal. Both the person making $200,000 a year and the person making $30,000 a year have worked darned hard for the money.

All these feelings about money can make canvassing in a church community a tricky challenge. On one hand, that money is needed, and those who sacrifice so that they can give a little more should be appreciated. On the other hand, there shouldn’t be the impression that money is appreciated more than hard work. On the other hand, we shouldn’t act like giving money is nothing – it can represent pinching pennies, foregoing that new sofa so the church can have new curtains. On the other hand, usually those who are able to give more money don’t want it to be known that the money came from them.

Here’s a bit of shocking information: there are some UU churches that are completely open about their canvass … the amount pledged by each member is actually posted. I know, I know … what next, I get every couple to turn in a monthly report of how many times they’ve made love and how? And, inconceivable to most of us, there are churches such as the one my Mormon friend goes to, where you actually turn in your income tax statement, so as to prove that you’ve given your full tithe – 10% -- to the church. YIKES.

I’m not going to request that you announce publicly what you pledge, but there is a place you need to talk about it – in the home. A question that parents deal with is how much you should talk about sex with your children and at what age. Giving to the church is just like this. You need to be open with your children about canvass, otherwise they’re going to pick up information about it on the streets. “I heard that $5 a week is what the other guys are giving.” “I heard that you can’t get pregnant the first time you pledge.” Kids really mix things up.

It is said that you can tell what a person’s values are by peeking into their checkbook. Mine would definitely show a fondness for coffee and chocolate, but hopefully it also indicates a love for liberal religion in the form of this, my beloved church.

Power

I said that power is so wrapped up in money … well, obviously power is all wrapped up in sex or maybe it’s the other way around. It hasn’t even been two years since the Supreme Court ruled that what happens between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own bedroom is their business, not the state’s. In writing for the majority, Justice Anthony Kennedy said, "The petitioners are entitled to respect for their private lives. The state cannot demean their existence or control their destiny by making their private sexual conduct a crime."

That’s great and I cheered when the decision came down, but really, doesn’t it seem ridiculous that we had to wait until 2003 for the government to be told it can’t be a part of something so basic? Deciding who you will share your body with … your body … there’s only one person who should ever be able to make that decision and it is you. The state should have no stake in that. Of course, before 1873 you could get capital punishment for certain types of sex acts – even between married couples. Now, I’m not saying that the Religious Right wants to bring that back …

Sex, Money and Religion

Sex has always been a part of religion. From the Church of England’s “Book of Common Prayer” come the wedding vows, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship.” It is interesting to note that the Puritans in England petitioned to have that one phrase removed … with my body, I thee worship. And indeed, it is no longer a part of the American Lutheran or Episcopal services.

In a sermon given at Pathways UU Church, Rev. Anthony David wrote:

Hindu and Christian traditions both emphasize that if we do not know the gospel in our bodies, we will never know it. They both talk about how God takes on human form and all that it means to be human, and the implication here is revolutionary: that the world of nature and the body is a form in which the highest values can be known and loved: beauty, compassion, justice, forgiveness, peace. Even when things are painful, or difficult, or confusing, we can know that Creation is worthy of our trust and that our bodies are worthy of trust. They aren’t distractions from all things spiritual but ordinary places where we might make amazing discoveries about the Holy and the Sacred.

So, that gives a pretty good answer to “Why Have Sex?”

So, “Why Pledge Generously to this church?”

In the words of John B. Wolf, Minister Emeritus, All Souls Unitarian Church in Tulsa, OK:

"There is only one reason for being part of a Unitarian Universalist Church and that is to support it. You want to support it because it stands against superstition and fear. Because this church points to what is noblest and best in human life. Because it is open to men and women of whatever race, creed, color, place of origin or sexual orientation.

You want to support a UU church because it has a free pulpit. Because you can hear ideas there that would cost any other minister his or her job. You want to support it because it is a place where your children are not saddled with guilt or terrified of some celestial peeping Tom, where they can learn that religion for joy, for comfort, for gratitude and love.

You want to support it because it is a place where walls between people are torn down rather than built-up. Because it is a place for the religious displaced persons of our time, the refugees from mixed marriages, the unwanted free thinkers and those who insist against orthodoxy that they must work out their own beliefs.

You want to support a UU church because it is more concerned with human beings than with dogmas. Because it searches for the holy rather than seeking out the depraved. Because it calls no one a sinner, yet knows how deep is the struggle in each person's breast and how great is the hunger for what is good.

You want to support a UU church because it can laugh. Because it stands for something in a day when religion is still more concerned with platitudes than with prejudice and war. You want to support it not because it buys you some insurance policy towards your funeral service, but because it insults neither your intelligence nor your conscience and because it calls you to what is truly worthy of your sacrifice. There is only one real reason to be part of a UU church: to support it to the fullest extent with your time, talent and treasure..."

That’s why.

Sex and money … complicated things.

Conclusion

There are, I am told, sex therapists. Coincidentally, there are also canvass therapists. At General Assembly two years ago, I met with one of those canvass therapists and learned many things, the main item being “people don’t pledge to pay the light bill, they pledge to fund dreams.”

So, during this canvass time, think about your dreams. Dream big, knowing that together, we can change the world, and definitely our little corner of it.

Just as it is for sex, sometimes canvass can have unexpected consequences. In our church, we’ve had at least one case where canvassing someone ultimately led to marriage. So, you can just never tell what surprises canvass might have in store for you. Especially now that connected in your brain are canvass and sex.

Closing Words
Lastly, I leave you with the words of theologian Tina Turner:
There's a name for it
There's a phrase that fits
But whatever the reason
You do it for me

What's love got to do, got to do with it
What's love but a sweet old fashioned notion

Love has everything to do with it. Whether you’re talking sex or canvass. And after the service, please join us in the fellowship area for three different kinds of chocolate cake. That’s not a euphemism, there’s real chocolate cake out there.

Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

Ministers preach about sex.

If they're conservative, they preach about when, why and who ... should not be having sex. Abstinence, gays, and youth, oh my.

If they're liberal, they preach about orientation diversity.

But who is preaching about making love?

As usual, I have more questions than answers. Let me state unequivocally that I don't advocate a service of interpretive dance based on the Kama Sutra for your March intergenerational service.

First of all, is there a need to speak about healthy lovemaking?

I contend, yes. Heck, even Newsweek is running cover articles about the dearth of sex in married life. And from talking to friends, this epidemic doesn't seem to be limited to heterosexual couples.

Sex is a gift. It's our way to connect, to show love, to seek comfort, to affirm your coupleness. To "know" each other in a way that others don't. It is life-affirming and life-giving. It is simultaneously our most animal and our most transcendental act.

"But there's kids in our services!"

Yup. And I think it's fine -- nay, good -- for kids to get little hints about healthy lovin'.

Our children are over-sexualized at an early age by tv/movies/videos/ads/etc. But this has nothing to do with healthy, adult, committed, physical love.

Seeing Dad pat Mom on the butt every now and then or catching sight of Mom planting a big old kiss on Dad is setting up the framework for "this is what love is."

So, what's the preaching equivalent of a pop on the butt?

Treating sex as something that is not Voldemort is a start. "The thing which must not be named." "Making love." We can say it. Drop it in, in appropriate places. "We're so busy today ... time with family, time meditating, time making love, all of these take a backseat to ..."

We are sexual beings. Sexuality is a huge part of romantic relationships. I don't think we should hold off speaking about until it's in the confines of couples counseling.

Obama Inspires More Art

Two more videos/songs inspired by Obama:






This is very interesting, how people are getting so stirred up and are channeling it into music. Beautiful.

Fair-Minded Words

You don't have to adjust your blog categories to list this as an Obama fan site. Just wanted to post these words. I don't care who said them, they're a breath of fresh air. And good advice for many of us. Emphasis on the "me" part of "us."

"So let me end with just one other interaction I had during my campaign. A few days after I won the Democratic nomination in my U.S. Senate race, I received an email from a doctor at the University of Chicago Medical School that said the following:

"Congratulations on your overwhelming and inspiring primary win. I was happy to vote for you, and I will tell you that I am seriously considering voting for you in the general election. I write to express my concerns that may, in the end, prevent me from supporting you."

The doctor described himself as a Christian who understood his commitments to be "totalizing." His faith led him to a strong opposition to abortion and gay marriage, although he said that his faith also led him to question the idolatry of the free market and quick resort to militarism that seemed to characterize much of the Republican agenda.

But the reason the doctor was considering not voting for me was not simply my position on abortion. Rather, he had read an entry that my campaign had posted on my website, which suggested that I would fight "right-wing ideologues who want to take away a woman's right to choose." The doctor went on to write:

"I sense that you have a strong sense of justice...and I also sense that you are a fair minded person with a high regard for reason...Whatever your convictions, if you truly believe that those who oppose abortion are all ideologues driven by perverse desires to inflict suffering on women, then you, in my judgment, are not fair-minded....You know that we enter times that are fraught with possibilities for good and for harm, times when we are struggling to make sense of a common polity in the context of plurality, when we are unsure of what grounds we have for making any claims that involve others...I do not ask at this point that you oppose abortion, only that you speak about this issue in fair-minded words."

Fair-minded words.

So I looked at my website and found the offending words. In fairness to them, my staff had written them using standard Democratic boilerplate language to summarize my pro-choice position during the Democratic primary, at a time when some of my opponents were questioning my commitment to protect Roe v. Wade.

Re-reading the doctor's letter, though, I felt a pang of shame. It is people like him who are looking for a deeper, fuller conversation about religion in this country. They may not change their positions, but they are willing to listen and learn from those who are willing to speak in fair-minded words. Those who know of the central and awesome place that God holds in the lives of so many, and who refuse to treat faith as simply another political issue with which to score points.

So I wrote back to the doctor, and I thanked him for his advice. The next day, I circulated the email to my staff and changed the language on my website to state in clear but simple terms my pro-choice position. And that night, before I went to bed, I said a prayer of my own - a prayer that I might extend the same presumption of good faith to others that the doctor had extended to me."

Full Speech

Yes We Can: The Ring Tone

http://www.yeswecanringtone.com/

Evangelism through ringtones. Hmm.

Barack Obama - The Embodiment of a Promise

I was born in 1969. To me, and others of my generation, there was a promise made.

This promise came to us via Sesame Street and Free to Be You and Me and Dr. Seuss. It came to us through the writings of Judy Blume and Madeleine L'Engle. It was in our music.

It said that we are all one. And there is something loveable in all of us. And that if we just work together, we can accomplish anything. And that responding with love works. And we might not there yet ... but there's a dream. And we can make it real.

Our hearts have been broken, over the years. Disillusionment -- that's just life. Slowly, like all the generations before us, we became bitter. And cynical. Our first political memory was hearing our parents talk about something called Watergate. We read Alas Babylon in high school and wondered when it would be, that someone pressed The Big Red Button.

We got excited -- so excited -- about Clinton. Only to be mocked, later, as he, too, had feet of clay. We were made fools of.

And there was an election. And it was looking good. We were hopeful. And then the "grownups" stepped in and seemingly said, no, we get to decide.

And things got bad. Really bad. So much fear, misplaced anger ... we wanted out, we wanted to find our way back to Sesame Street, where people are treated with respect, and kindness. Surely, we could all band together and find our way ...

And we sat, in shock, as half the country said, We Prefer Meanness.

Well ... that's how it felt.

And we sat, confused, broken and said, "Really? Really, there's more of them than us?"

"So it was all just a fairytale? Goodness and mercy and love and kindness? It was all just a silly story told to children?"

And someone spoke up. Someone who had also grown up with The Promise. And he said that he didn't see a black America and a white America, he saw America. And he spoke about kindness to others and fairness for all. And dreams. And hope. And all of us working together. All of Us Working Together. And taking that promise and making it really, truly happen.

And to our broken, disillusioned hearts, he found that tiny bit of hope that we had squirreled away.

And he says, Yes. We can.

Color-blind versus Race-blind

I've never understood it when people talk about being color-blind, in terms of race. As if in order to be non-racist, one must be so completely unobservant they don't notice the color of another person's skin. Or eyes. Or hair.

And I've watched all of my children. By about 3, they begin noticing everything. This person has curly hair, this person has red hair, this person has brown skin. And they have an appreciation for the differences, as anyone who has seen a toddler stroke the soft hair of another can attest.

But yesterday, I got my a-ha moment.

Color-blind and race-blind are two different things.

First, an earlier anecdote: The Princess (age 8) has a boyfriend, "Stan." I had been hearing about Stan for about a month. Apparently he thinks The Princess created the sun, so, hey, good man in my book. So this one day, I'm picking her up from school, and she points out the car window and says, "See, see, the boy in the green jacket??? That's Stan! That's my boyfriend."

Stan is a handsome little black boy, at that moment in a sea of white faces.

But the way she identified him was "the boy in the green jacket."

Well, about a month after that, she comes home, a little sad. Kids are teasing her and Stan. Eh, she's in 3rd grade, and that's when they tease you about having boyfriends and girlfriends. She shakes her head. "It's because he's," (she strokes the skin of her arm), "brown. And I'm ..."

"White?" I prompt.

She looks at me, a bit confused.

"Um, pink?" I ask.

"Peach," she says with the confidence of one who is arty and familiar with crayons.

Which brings us to last night ...

I was showing her the will.i.am "Yes We Can" video, and telling her a little about Obama, and why I like him. I mention that he's brown, too, like Stan.

She looks dubious. It's a black and white video. "He doesn't look brown."

"Well, we're all different shades of different colors," I say. "But people call him 'black' even though his skin isn't literally black ..."

She still looks confused, her forehead puckered. Suddenly, she sorts it out in her mind. A big smile appears. "Oh, you mean, he's like Pops!"

My dad is "white" but because he's spent 75% of his life outside, he's pretty dark.

Race-blind. Not color-blind.

Bubbe, Pops, and Fwog

My parents are "Bubbe" and "Pops" ... but I swear, these are not the people who raised me. THESE people are completely adorable.

They visited us back in the fall. They got home to discover a tiny stowaway ... a small green tree frog.

They are in the land of snow, and they knew it couldn't survive outside, so they brought it in and placed it in a houseplant.

4 months later, "Fwog" is doing well. They provide it with water and once a week, they drive into Albuquerque to purchase live crickets.

I don't know who these cute people are, but I assure you, they are not the people who raised me.

They will return here in March, and bring Fwog with them, to return him to his natural habitat. I will not be surprised if at that point, he velcroes himself to my mother. I mean, he's been hand-fed crickets.

I think it's time for my parents to get another dog.

A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

My crew is home from school. It's Friday, so they're lounging around the coffee table, eating popcorn and watching Hannah Montana. "Look at LW dance!" they laugh, as she wiggles her behind to the theme song.

Today, another mother is in the hospital, with her 7 week old daughter, who was just diagnosed with cancer. She is shattered. She is dizzy with it all, and with trying to figure out how she and her husband will deal with this. Who will be with the older children. Dad's work.

And the baby. Their precious, darling baby. Who just became a little warrior.

I know all this, because her friend found my post about breastfeeding a baby with cancer and contacted me.

And in a twist, the friend is UU, too. And then, even though we're across the country from each other, she knows friends of mine.

Total strangers. Connected via the internet. Connected via cancer. The interdependent web.

Whatever your spiritual practice ... prayer, holding in your thoughts, sending energy ... please do it, tonight. For "Baby Darling." And her family and friends.

Isn't it a marriage, even if it isn't legal?

Serious question, there. Because I quite possibly am missing out on a bit of vital information, perhaps some that would mean my butt would be thrown in jail.

My contention is that marriage is a religious sacrament, regardless of whether it is legally sanctioned or not. A baptism is a religious sacrament, and it's not legal. (Yes, I know that baptism certificates can be used to prove citizenship or age -- but that doesn't mean the baptism itself is a legal action.)

So ... wherefore "commitment ceremony"?

This came about because someone talked about performing marriage ceremonies "or commitment ceremonies" and I felt that hey, I wouldn't be doing commitment ceremonies, I would be doing marriages. Gay or straight. It's a marriage. A religious covenant between two people. (And I'm not referring to signing a government wedding certificate.)

So tell me the crucial information I'm missing.

"Challenged" Children and their parents -- do we have a place for them?

My online friend Nancy teaches me so much. She is a fabulous writer, and she would be a great teacher, even if everything in her life were "normal." But it's not. She has an adorable son who has the rare Williams Syndrome. This can make many things difficult, not the least of which is going to church.

She can't just drop her son off in the nursery and head to the service like so many of us. Her son needs special attention. So what are her choices? Seems to me she has two -- stay in the nursery with him or don't go to church. And where's the value in trying to soothe him in the nursery? Easier to do at home.

So this has me thinking about our churches. Does your church welcome autistic, mentally retarded, or "other" children? How do you do it? Special volunteers, special training?

Pulled out of the desert

Oh, don't you just love it when you've been wandering, wandering ... wandering around the desert, no idea where you are, you shoulda taken that left at Albuquerkay, to quote Bugs Bunny, and then someone quietly nudges you, and there's the path, right there?

Personal sermons and navel gazing in worship, oh my! What was my damage, Heather? I mean, I like some good introspection as much as the next person, and have a problem with the folks who just flat out refuse to look inside and consider their motivations. Was my problem one of the-sermon-as-therapy, or a desire for a call to action, or a fear of creating narcissism in the pews?

Or not.

The issue, which I realized as soon as I read Rev. Sean's words, was one of balance. And I have been to seriously out-of-balance churches.

I am constantly trying to offer a variety of preaching styles: prophetic, pastoral, psychological, theological, calls to action, calls to contemplation, sermons about what it means to be a church, sermons about the history of our movement and our congregation, “cheerleader” sermons, sermons that acknowledge brokenness and limitations… (Rev. Sean)

His entire post on what worship is like in his congregation is just ... well, for my taste and preferences, it's just delicious. I hope other ministers and layleaders will jump on the bandwagon and post what worship is like in their congregations. And I'm not just saying that because I'm leading a worship committee retreat next month.

But back to the point ... variety!

I like sermons that focus on the personal. Things that people can take back into their lives. But there is also a time for a call to action. I do not believe in the philosophy that says the improvement of the self, from the inside out, is the sole reason we are here. An essay was circulated at my church a few months ago that said that everything is out there for a purpose, and we need to just let it be, and focus on ourselves. Rather than marching for peace, rather than protesting injustice, we need to stay at home and meditate on finding peace within ourselves.

Egad.

And that is why I had the knee jerk reaction to the idea that every Sunday should focus on the personal, because I envisioned a church where, every Sunday, members goes deep into themselves, and think about why they do things, and think about poverty of the spirit and such, and how they really need to give themselves more love, and then they get in their cars and go home and have a nice dinner with their family and meanwhile, at the church next door, they learned about how the local food bank is really struggling, so after church, they all went down, went shopping for some of the items that were really needed and signed up to take turns manning the "store" where the needy could come "shop" for staples to get them through one more week.

Variety. Because we need calls to action and history lessons and a connection to the interdependent web and to each other and we need therapy and encouragement and education. And personal sermons, too, oh yes.

On Worship -- the Personal

Ms. Kitty has posted a very good quotation from the Rev. Tom Schade about Worship. I liked it, especially the last paragraph:

My sense is that we have placed our focus on the community building purpose
of worship as primary, and down graded the personal to the secondary
priority. And the result is that the communities we build, and the worship
services that celebrate them, become arenas for people to play out their
needs regarding themselves in community: their need for power, their sense
of exclusion, their desire for self-expression etc. The result is an
inwardly focused community about being a community.

I really agree with that ... and then I thought, "but wait!"

(Edited before posting: The problem is that I then tried to anticipate how others whom I know would interpret the above. Always the first wrong step.)

... Because I also worry about some of our "personal" worship services. The ones that, as I joked on Ms. Kitty's blog, are the Omphaloskepsis Services. (omphaloskepsis: the study of one's navel.)

Now, if you've read this blog for more than 2 seconds, you know that I am certainly guilty of a heavy amount of navel-gazing myself. So, why do I shy away from it in a Worship service?

I think that it's a matter of "bad" navel-gazing services. The ones that I've walked away from feeling that they promoted a focus-on-self-to-the-exclusion-of-all-other.

I think some of the best Worship services I've participated in are the ones that have caused me to look inside, face some things about myself.

Aha! she says, thinking as she's writing. Perhaps that is the difference. The service that causes you to look inside and face things about yourself, versus the service that talks about how great you are, and how any problems that you have, come from the outside. The way you were raised. How others treat you.

This is ... still ... unformed. Still thinking. There's something ... on one hand, there are the personal worship experiences that allow me to learn more about myself, and to feel a connection with the rest of humanity.

And then there are the services that seem to encourage a self-centered feeling, with "me" as the center of the universe.

Ugh ... this is making my head hurt, and you are certainly welcome to just STOP READING NOW.

Because I'm not opposed to giving time to the self. The DRE-BFF and I had a talk last week, about how often our services are on Great Grand Issues, but if you talk to people, what causes them stress and fear are the personal, "small" things -- too many charges on their credit cards, too much weight on their body, too much clutter in their house. Not enough time. And we agreed that there need to be more messages helping people to negotiate all of this.

I feel like I'm looking at a painting, squinting, and saying, "I don't like it. But I don't know why."

(Apologies to both Revs Kitty and Tom for looking at the Mona Lisa and writing a review of the bit of gray fluff attached to the frame. But it's helping to clarify some stuff in my head.)

See ... omphaloskepsis, party of 1.

Spanking, a kid's view

I don't have a whole lot of memories from when I was very young -- I'm envious of those of you who can remember events from when you were 2 or 3.  But I do have two strong memories, and both were about thinking, trying to understand something.  The first was the idea of "nothingness."  I can very distinctly remember trying to understand nothingness.  "No, not that, that's space.  No, not that, that's sleep."  I think I was about 6 or 7.

The other strong memory I have was about spanking, trying to figure it all out.  I guess I must have been about five.

My thinking was as follows:

• Grownups say that hitting is wrong.
• But I really think that spanking is hitting!
• Mom and Dad say spanking isn't hitting.
• So, what's the difference between spanking and hitting?
• Hmm.
• Hitting can be anywhere, but spanking is on my bottom.
• Okay.
• But ... my bottom is one of my privates.  That's what Mom and Dad say.
• So, spanking is hitting me on one of my privates.
• And Mom and Dad say they do it because they love me.
  

I just couldn't make it fit, logically.  It was very confusing.  

How Can I Keep from Singing?

Ms. Kitty has me thinking about songs that affect us deeply, that, to some extent, are a definition of who we are.

Isn't it amazing how a song can do that ... in the words of Killing Me Softly, "...strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words  ..."

For me, the song is How Can I Keep from Singing, as done by Eva Cassidy.  Spend the .99 and download it.  If you have heard an unethusiastic UU congregation mumbling it in a service, you've never really heard this song.  It is soulful and exultant, as done by the late singer.

My life goes on in endless song
above earth's lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear it's music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness 'round me close,
songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
while to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
how can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble sick with fear
and hear their death knell ringing,
when friends rejoice both far and near
how can I keep from singing?

I shared it with my mother and she is now in love with it, and wants it played at her funeral.  "You'll never want to hear it again," warns a friend of mine, who recently had to bury her father.  So my mother and I argue, good-naturedly, over the ownership of the song.  But I can't really argue.  After all, I want it played at my funeral.

Everybody's Doing It ...

Sifting through their blogs, pulling up a handful of writings that they think are special.

I thank the persons who have nominated me. A "conversation" I had with God made your list. It made me happy to re-read it, and even happier to know that it touched something in someone else.

And that's why we blog, right? Otherwise, we'd just have private journals on our computers, for no one to see.

So ... some of my other ones I'm glad I wrote:

Revelation is Not Sealed
Welcoming Congregation for Parents of Young Children
How to Kill Your Church in 8 Easy Steps

Is There a Place for a Devout Unitarian Universalist?
I am "Margaret"
Yes, There IS a Right and Wrong

No More "Lesbian" -- Gayelle

Huh.  Apparently there is a movement afoot to not use the word "lesbian" and to instead use "gayelle."

The Husband told me about this, and I must admit that my reaction was first confusion as to the name.  I thought he meant something like Ga-El.  "Wasn't that the real name of Superman?" I asked, puzzled.  He guffawed, then explained, no, it's like Gay-Elle.

I'm not a lesbian, so I don't have a dog in this hunt.  But it is curious to me ... as feminists, we have tried to go to non-gender specific titles -- don't call me actress, don't call me waitress.  I'm an actor.  I'm a waiter.  

The argument against just "gay" seems to be that it's associated with male homosexuality.  But again ... so was "actor."  (Oops, I don't mean that as a joke ... I mean that "actor" was associated with "male actor."  Not male homosexual actor.  Necessarily.)

Now ... and I swear, I'm not making this up ... gayelle also has another meaning.  And it's associated with cockfighting.  Comedians, start your engines!

If this becomes the new term, preferred by the lesbian community en masse, I have no problem. But expect some jokes.  Any group that tries to go by a new term faces that.  But eventually it'll become mundane and common.  And "lesbian" will become an old-fashioned term that someone's grandma will use, like mine used "mongoloid."  

Now that I think about it ... the word "lesbian" has been a difficult term for two people whom I've known.  Like my homophobic high school drama teacher wouldn't let us start us "International Thespian Society" because it sounded so much like "lesbian."  Or my mom's cousin who, when asking his eldest daughter about her sister, said ... "Do you think she's a Lizabethan?"

I can't make this stuff up, folks.

Every Third Tuesday

Every Third Tuesday

Every third Tuesday, I am a Buddhist
I empty my mind and lighten my heart
And try to let go of attachments

Every other Friday, I am a Christian.
I look for the least of these
And try to love God and my neighbor

The full moon of the month finds me Wiccan;
I honor the dual nature of God
And find my rhythm as maiden, mother or crone

On the 15th of the month, I am humanist
I respect science, integrity of fellow humans
And all that we have learned and have made

Every fourth Wednesday, I am Hindu
I take a breath, and understand that what is unfinished now
Will remain for me to continue … next life

On alternate Fridays, I am Jewish
'Y'varekh'kha ADONAI v'yishmerekha,
I tell my children, softly touching each head

And the Thursdays and the Mondays, and the Saturdays and Sundays,
And all the other days in between
Find me reading, or listening, or watching

Philosophers, Muslims, Mormons, Baha’i and more
Fill my heart, touch my soul
And yet …

The one thing that none of these provide
To me
Is the certitude that they are The One

They lend me wisdom, sing to my heart
Cause me to question, help me find answers
Make me more me

And at the end of the day, every day,
I am Unitarian Universalist.

In parcel and in pledge
And with all my heart, all my soul,
All my mind and all my strength
I honor this faith
I hold it close
As it lets me run free.

Do You Have an Implicit Preference About Race?

Harvard Implicit Preference Test

"Your data suggest little to no automatic preference between European American and African American."

I would be lying if I said that didn't give me a bit of relief.  But isn't that an issue for liberals?  That we're wondering if somewhere in us, society had hidden away a bit of prejudice that will pop out, through no control of our own?

I know that I am guilty of sometimes expecting a certain response from a certain group, based on past experience.  If there are any that are race or culture based, I'm not aware of it.  Mine are more things like expecting a single child-free person to have an "I don't have kids, but if I did, I'd ..." attitude.  Which is unfair.  (And probably says more about me ... yes, I've run across that attitude several times, but more importantly, I recognize that I was guilty of it.  As the joke goes, we all were better parents before we had kids.)

Anyway, I just took the black/white test.  It will be interesting to see where I fall in other categories.

God is talking to you through my blog:

"Go Get a Tetanus Shot!"

Hopefully, of course, you are much smarter than The Husband and I, and you've kept up to date on all the necessary vaccinations and boosters.  We have not.

So yesterday, being good UUs and friends, we went over to a friend's house and helped her dig out her broken sewage line.  Well, The Husband helped dig, I helped watch kids.  More or less.

So today, hearing this, my smart mother said ... "And has he had a tetanus shot?"

Um ... huh.  He was knee deep in sewage and um, no.  

"You have 36 hours from time of contact to get one."  (How does my mother know this stuff???)

Tomorrow, 8 am, The Husband is going to chat with the good people at the clinic down the street; I know there is some concern about what kind you get, and whether you get the slow-acting vaccine, or the antivenin.

The panic I'm feeling right now was entirely preventable.  I'll be getting my shot ASAP.

Go get yours.

Yesterday was January 18

I could never forget that date.  Yesterday went straight by me, though, simply because I didn't know what day it was.  

Today, I am sorting through LW's clothing -- this still fits, this needs to go to Assistance Ministries -- and I picked up a long, pink, one-piece outfit.  Somehow, it had been left in the drawer long past its prime.  It's size 9 months, and it looks brand new.

My breath catches.  Everything slows.  I tear up.

It looks brand new because after January 18, 2006, Little Warrior couldn't wear one piece outfits.  She needed tops and bottoms so that the port on her side could be accessed, or so that nothing would rub against the biopsy cut that went from one side to the other, or so that her kidney tubes could drain.

January 18, 2006, our life changed.

January 18, 2006, I got up in the morning and went to playgroup and had lunch in the car (chilaquiles, I remember) while I waited for our appointment with the pediatrician who I knew was going to laugh at me, worried about this strange bulge on Little Warrior, and say that it was just gas.

An exam -- a worried look on the pedi's face -- a trip down the road for an x-ray -- a phone call before I even made it home, saying, "Don't go home.  Go immediately to the Children's Hospital ER.  It looks like a tumor."  

A horrible, ghastly 1 1/2 hour rush hour, barely-moving-traffic trip to the ER.  Just me and Little Warrior, who wasn't Little Warrior at that point, she was just my sweet little baby who was a bit smaller than her siblings had been at that age.  She didn't even have teeth.

Just me and my head, which swam as I sobbed, so scared ... so very very scared.  You think the scene with the pretty girl hiding in the closet while the horror movie murderer waits is scary?  

Puh.  The mom-in-tennis-shoes stuck in traffic, headed for the ER scene is the epitome of fear.

There are no words.  There are no words.

A long, long time in the ER ... hours that felt like months.  Here came The Husband, he paced, I cried.  

Finally, late late late at night, they took us up in the elevator, where they had a room set up for LW.  I was too busy looking at LW and trying to keep her from fussing, I didn't see ... but The Husband did ... the elevator doors opened, and a sign said, "Pediatric Oncology."  The Husband nearly bent double from the punch in the stomach.  "They haven't diagnosed her yet," he thought with rage.  "How dare they put us here!"

We settled in, and then it was midnight, and January 18 was over.

2 years later, we are still paying off medical bills, even with "good" insurance.

2 years later, we still hop on the emotional roller coaster, 2 days before scans.

2 years later, we still stiffen when a child complains of a stomach ache.  Or Little Warrior coughs.  Wilms' usually recurs in the lungs.

But here it is, 2 years later ...

I am more in love with The Husband than ever.

I am back in seminary, and it feels like it's exactly where I should be.

I fuss at Little Warrior when she spills a glass of milk.

It is 2 years later ...

And we were lucky.

 

Lovely Hot Chocolate

Goodness, if you were just to look at my blog recently, you'd be convinced I was really in a mood, wouldn't you?

Well, for the most part, I haven't been. I've been enjoying a bit of cold weather and feeling homey. Classes haven't started yet, at either seminary, so I've been puttering around, enjoying a fire in the fireplace and candles on the mantel. Oh, I do love candles!

And I enjoy a good cup of chocolate. This is one of my favorite recipes. It's not as killingly-rich as the hot chocolates made with bar chocolate. You can drink a big mugful of this, put your tootsies up by the fireplace (or on the oven door, as I did when I lived in an apartment) and cuddle in with a good book. I recommend Here If You Need Me by our own Kate Braestrup.

If you're making this today, just use whatever cocoa powder you have on hand. But then, really, find your local Penzey's store, or order online. Penzey's spices are really, really amazing and their dutch-process cocoa is miraculous. I have been known to make up a single cup of cocoa for myself, just mixing hot milk, dutched cocoa, some agave nectar and vanilla -- right in the cup. No need to cook the cocoa to get it to blend, like what is needed with regular cocoa powder.

But when it's a cold Saturday and you have a houseful of people you love going in and out, make this:

Brown Sugar Hot Chocolate

3 tablespoons Penzey's dutch process cocoa powder
1/3 cup water
1 quart milk
¾ cup packed brown sugar
¼ tsp salt
splash vanilla

Stir cocoa, sugar, salt and water in a medium saucepan over low heat until. Gradually whisk in milk, then vanilla until evenly blended. (If you have an immersion blender, use it to froth this up.)

Even better: substitute cream or half and half for part of the milk, e.g. 1/2 cup cream, 3 1/2 cups milk.

Watching "Jesus Camp" with The Boy

Yeah, I'm late to the party.  A & E has had Jesus Camp in rotation, so The Boy and I watched it.  (The Husband, too ... but he's a morning person, so he went to bed, halfway through.)

The Boy is 11, and due to the area we live in, has already had to deal several times with the Jesus Camp crowd.  The kid in kindergarten who said he was sorry, but he couldn't be his friend anymore, since The Boy wasn't a Christian.  The boy in second grade who said he wasn't going to leave The Boy alone until he said that Jesus Christ was his Lord and Savior.  (The Boy's  words to me at that time, "Mom, I told him that I respect his worth and dignity but that's just not what I believe!")  The kid in 4th grade and 5th grade, his best friend, who learned about Unitarian Universalism, and told everyone that The Boy was an evil wizard and should be shunned.

So, no, I didn't think Jesus Camp was too mature for him.

This movie just hurts me.  Anyone who is a parent knows that kids cry easily over selfish things (they skin their knee, someone hurts their feelings), they don't cry easily over sentimental things.  The way I cry over a Hallmark commercial or over hearing a particularly spiritual hymn ... kids, as a rule, don't do that.  They have great empathy (she says, having accidentally watched Bridge to Terabithia with her crew last week) and will cry over things sad. 

But the crying you see in Jesus Camp, as they are whipped (whipped being the operative word) into a frenzy ... that's from fear.   That's not tears of emotional joy.  That's fear and drama.  Look at their faces.  Stark.

This is not a case of a liberal seminary student not understanding a particular world.  I grew up in the middle of a holy roller world, though (thank you, God, and Unitarian parents), I was not a part of it.  I held my best friend from high school when she sobbed about her abusive husband.  A Mormon, she believes that if she leaves him, she won't see her children in heaven.  

I was there, at 18, when our other best friend,  a beautiful young man who much later would come out, told me that he had figured it out -- he was asexual.  At 18, he had convinced himself that he would never be in love ... never be loved.  Because that was better than being gay.  (When he did come out, his parents disowned him.)

I was there when Jennifer J. was singing "Jump" by the Pointer Sisters and suddenly, in horror, exclaimed, "Oh my God, I'm singing a Satanic Song!"  (When I questioned her, she explained that any song which does not glorify the Lord is a Satanic song.)

I was there when our dance team, 75% or more who belonged to the Big Southern Baptist town church, would go to church on Sunday and be told that dancing was a sin.

I was there when friends would be invited with other friends to church lock-ins.  Except at these lock-ins, first they fed you pizza, then, they locked the doors and explained how you were going to Hell if you didn't get saved right then and there.  I still don't like the term "lock-in" when we use them in our UU churches.

I was there, 14 years old, when my 13 year old friend very sorrowfully said to me that she was so sorry my brother had gone to hell (because he committed suicide when I was 9.)

This is not about Christianity.  As the saying goes, some of my best friends are Christian.  My children have the privilege of a grandmother who is a Christian, who was recently baptized (she was a Methodist before that), who is a beautiful person who wants to follow the life lessons of Jesus.  I, myself, quote Jesus more than I do any other.

And this isn't anything new.  When my father was a teenager, he began questioning.  He confided this to a friend who announced, "He doesn't believe in Jesus -- let's kick his ass!"

This about a hateful religious indoctrination that yields up scarred and bitter adults.  And then we, Unitarian Universalists, have the job of teaching these adults to not be so knee-jerk negative to Christianity.

This is about ugly theology.  

Oddly enough, Ted Haggard seemed to me to be the most sympathetic when he explained that these children are taught that they are a gift from God.  I didn't hear anyone else talking about that.  It seemed the only context in which I heard "love" was, "YOU need to LOVE GOD!"  

Jesus said suffer the little children to come unto me.

I don't think he meant this kind of suffering.

When Ethics Fails ...

We have the law.  And for that, I'm grateful.  I am a big fan of lawyers, being a sister to one.  

Sometimes, things break your way.  Sometimes, when someone doesn't want to "do the right thing," the law says, Uh, yeah, you don't have a choice.

The COBRA company went to their legal department to get permission to turn down our payment.  Their legal department said, Um, you don't have a choice.  A person has 45 days to opt in to COBRA and you don't get to circumvent that right.

And then the COBRA company had to call the benefits administrator at The Husband's last company and tell her, um, ma'am, you have to do this.  You have to process their application.  

It's not just the right thing to do, ma'am.  It's the law.

--

p.s. I said a prayer for the benefits administrator today.  How sad, to be so completely empty of human compassion that you enjoy the feeling of hurting someone more than the feeling of helping them!  I have no confidence that praying for someone actually affects them in any way.  But it affects me, and helps me get my soul on straight.  I said this prayer before we got the good news.  Would I still be carrying that feeling of compassion for her if we'd received discouraging news?  Ohhhh ... probably not.  Baby steps.

All Ministers ... Your Comic Strip is Here

Okay, now I've delved further into the below comic site.  Ministers, go NOW and check out the archives.  

New Comic Find -- Finding Elim

Since I married a PK (Preacher's Kid) and my kids will be PKs, I love this.

Casually Evil

When I think "evil," I generally think of major evil.  Hitler.  Pol Pot.  Serial murderers.  Mortal evil.

So ... what about venial evil?  Casual evil?  

I'm referring specifically to someone actively choosing to do something that hurts another, for no good reason.  

Not surprisingly, this isn't just something I began contemplating while meditating.  No, it bursts forth from selfish concern.  We are dealing with a person who has a teensy bit of power, and is using it to make our life considerably more difficult.  It does not save her from work; it does not save her company from money.  The only thing it does is give us (in this case, financial) pain.

Oh, I hate it when someone refers to something but doesn't explain ... okay, in a nutshell, we had to go on COBRA for one month.  The COBRA company says our check bounced.  Our bank says they never received the check.  (There's plenty of money in our account.)  The COBRA company says, okay, just send us another payment, as long as the benefits administrator at your old company says it's okay.  With no justification, she says No.  

What did you do to piss her off? I ask my mild-mannered husband, whom everyone likes.  (Really.  It's quite irritating.  Everyone likes him.)

 Nothing, says he.  This is just how she is.  She is famous throughout the company for being mean, just for the joy of being mean.  But she knows the right people, so she's never fired.

I'm agog at this.  I know that like so many, I can err on the other side -- being too desirous that people like me.  But really, really?, there are people who derive pleasure from causing someone else pain?

Okay, even as write that, I know it sounds naive.  

We have other avenues that we are pursuing, but meanwhile, here I am, still agog.  She doesn't hate us (well, unless she hates everyone, which seems like it may be the case), she's not saving her company money, she's not saving herself work ... maybe she thinks she's noble and is teaching us a valuable lesson about bouncing checks?  No, says The Husband.  I laid it all out and showed her that it's bank error.  She doesn't care, he explains, much like a physics professor explaining a complex problem to a thick student.

Casually evil.

I wonder if she goes to church.

Not faster than Chutney or Kitty ...

but still a respectable showing.

74 words

Touch Typing online

Just the Facts, Ma'am

Granted, not real specific. That whole anonymity thing.

I'll be back at my local seminary at the end of January.

For the first time, I'll be taking an online course at a UU seminary.

I was contacted by the editor of an ethics journal, and my paper on ministering to the difficult person may be published. (Total surprise. I just submitted it because that was a requirement of the class.)

I am once again Worship Chair at my home church. We're going to be trying some new things; I'll report here on whether they worked.

I need to get my butt to the gym. (This is not opinion. This is fact.)

Shout out to Peacebang: Happy Birthday, Darlin'! The world is richer because you were born. Better dressed, too.

How Do You Treat Up and Comers?

An email conversation with a Minister-Angel has me thinking about how treat up-and-comers (in any profession) and how I've been treated as a seminarian, by ministers.

My father was a middle-manager for the latter part of his career.  I went to his retirement party and there were people there who had worked with him 20 years previous.  It seemed like everyone there had a story to tell about how my gruff Dad had helped them rise in their careers.  Some of it was tough love -- like when he took a young hotshot out and told him that he needed to dress better and speak correctly -- but always, it was encouragement.  I don't think he ever felt threatened, even as they went on to bigger and better things.  (He managed salespeople and as often happens in that field, his employees frequently earned more than he did.)  He celebrated in their successes.

In my pre-family life, I was the young hotshot, in the field of marketing.  I had one boss who fell into the insecure, threatened category and that was misery, I can tell you.  But I had three other bosses who championed me, guided me, and celebrated my successes.  Probably not coincidence, the three "encouragers" have gone on to have fabulous careers, whilst the insecure bully has not.

I haven't had any lengthy contact with ministers, as a seminarian.  But the difference in reaction to me introducing myself as a seminarian has been quite interesting.  So far, the reactions have always fallen into two groups:

The Encourager:  this minister reacts with a warm smile, interest ("Where are you studying?"), and words of encouragment.  S/he seems genuinely happy to meet someone who is going down the path.

The Chill:  this minister either gives a slight, patronizing smile ("Oh, you want to be a minister.  How cute.")  or -- more bewildering -- gives a quick, dismissive nod, as if what you've said has absolutely no relation to them.  It's quite bizarre, and I'm not entirely sure that I'm projecting when I say that the air drops 20 degrees and I suddenly become invisible.

Not that I exaggerate.

I have fussed at myself over the latter before -- "What, you expect this very busy person to drop everything they're doing and throw roses at your feet???  Hi, the world doesn't revolve around you!"  But then I'm around An Encourager and it makes the difference more dramatic.  Really, it doesn't take more time to give a warm smile.

So, I'm trying to give attention to myself and whether I'm unconsciously giving encouragement or a chill to others.  I saw someone (probably on Oprah) talk about how she tries to smile whenever her child comes into the room, because so often, we frown -- need to comb his hair, straighten her dress.  But that frown or that smile are being seen by the child and they take it as an expression of your feelings about them.

I have people that I can encourage.  What power!  What an opportunity!  May I use it with love.

 

A Toast, a Toast!

We have a toaster.

This is a momentous thing, you see, because I have never in my life owned a toaster.  We just weren't a toaster family.  We were a toast-in-the-oven family.  Not that I'm complaining.  When The Husband and I were dating, I was sick, and he offered to make me cinnamon toast.  He brought me this dripping, syrupy ... thing.  What is that?  "Cinnamon toast," he said, Duh very much in his tone.

That was how his mother made cinnamon toast.  Toast the bread in the toaster, then smear it with butter and sprinkle on cinnamon and sugar.

Fast forward about a decade, when his sisters were visiting us.  I made "real" cinnamon toast ... buttered bread, sprinkled generously with cinnamon and sugar, and toasted in the oven til the sugar puffs up and gets crunchy.  They went crazy.  They asked me for the recipe.  The recipe.  For cinnamon toast!

Where was I?  Ah yes, the toaster.  The only time I was ever around a toaster was when we went on vacation and stayed at a kitchenette with a toaster.  At those times, I even got to have Pop Tarts.  (Because, according to my Mom, you had to have a toaster to make them.  Wily fox.)  

Like many things in life, such as whether you read Newsweek or Time, use Hellman's or Miracle Whip, and open gifts on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning, this childhood experience of being a toaster-less family carried into my adult life.  Really, it was superfluous, right?  Another thing to clutter my kitchen.

Well, my whole family has gone mad for eggy and soldiers, and making 5 pieces of toast every morning seemed a waste of oven energy.  So, for slightly over $20, we have a 4 slot toaster that's even big enough for bagel halves.

This is so thrilling.  So exciting.  I am making tons of waffles tonight, so we'll have freezer waffles at the ready.  You know, in case the muppets ever get tired of being mini Brits.  Or we run out of eggs.

But cinnamon toast will still be made in the oven.

Happy Heart

Good news.

Had an appointment for Little Warrior to get an echocardiogram and an EKG -- her first, since going off of the heart medicine.  

Perfectly normal.

Which indicates that the heart problem was due to all of her organs being squished into her chest by the tumors ... and not a completely separate, coincidental case of cardiomyopathy.

Which was my contention all along.

We're very grateful, of course.  And I'm a bit ambivalent about the whole situation.

Here's the deal ... 

LW received chemo before her surgery, to try and shrink the tumors.  They didn't shrink.  So the oncological team recommended that we go to another chemo, a class that can cause later heart problems.

We had to get okayed by the cardiologist.  The cardiologist said that she had a separate, unrelated heart problem, and that if she took that type of chemo, it could cause immediate heart failure.

This cardiologist has also written papers about this chemo and how it shouldn't be used.

Upshot:  we didn't do the chemo; we had the surgery immediately, it went well, all has been fine since.  Knock-wood-Please-God-Thank-Yew-Jesus.

I'm grateful she didn't have that chemo.  But I feel like we were manipulated.

Hmm.