Many groups of people have ways of getting folks to find out what they most value. For chefs, as Anthony Bourdain has reported, they play "last meal" -- it's your last meal, what will be on your plate? For fashionistas, it's about the closet -- you're leaving on a long trip, but can only take one small duffel. Go to your closet - what do you take? For home organizers, it's "house on fire" -- your house is on fire, and you have 5 minutes to get out. Assuming those you love are safe, what are the objects you grab?
So, okay, UUs. Prompted by a couple of columns, I say to you ... your UU house is on fire. You can only grab 3 things. What do you grab?
Of course, I don't mean "things" and this isn't the joke about the UU minister grabbing the coffee pot. I'm serious. I think we're at a point where our house is on fire and we have to decide what are the elements most important to us, so that we can discard the rest, and open our doors to let in new people. We've got some volunteers ready to help us put out the fire, but they're not sure if they're welcome.
So, culturally, what do you grab? I'm not talking theology. I'm not talking Principles and Purposes. I'm talking about those cultural things that aren't written down, and yet, often define us, whether we want them to or not.
How do you feel about people standing outside your front door, smoking? What about pickups in the parking lot, with gunracks in the back window? How about for a fundraiser, selling hot dogs outside a Walmart?
Your UU house is on fire. What are the three things you grab?
I'll go first.
* Inclusive language -- saying "they" rather than "he," saying "parents" rather than specifying "mommy and daddy," etc.
* Being known as the "gay friendly" church. I walk in a world of evangelicals. All I have to do is say, "I'm UU" and the glbt folks I meet know that I'm "safe." What a wonderful religion, where just revealing you're a member is taken as "code" for being accepting of others.
I'm still thinking about that third one.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Reverend First Name
A conversation arose on Facebook recently about the use of “Rev” in front of a first name. Reverend John. Reverend Jane.
The question was posed in terms of ministers using it themselves, as in signing a note, “Rev. Jane.”
I wonder, however, if this is being driven by the ministers as much as it is the parishioners.
Some history: if you want to be puuuuurfectly correct, not only is “Rev. John” incorrect, but so is “Rev. Smith.” Reverend is an adjective. So an envelope is addressed to The Reverend John Smith, and when you speak to him, he is Mr. Smith. And if you are not using the first name on that envelope or in an introduction, what is proper would be “The Rev. Mr. Smith.”
(a little background)
But language does change according to the needs of a society. Sometimes, a correction can take hold and stop the evolution. For instance, a few years ago, “penultimate” became the trendy word, but with incorrect usage: many used it to mean “beyond-ultimate” rather than correctly, “one shy of ultimate.” But then enough people spoke out to say, “No, that’s wrong,” and suddenly, it seemed, everyone knew the correct usage.
Other things are losing battles. I was one of those passionately explaining to all and a sundry that the year 2000 was not the first year of the new century, 2001 was. Guess what? I lost.
“Raised” is another one. It was not correct to say that you were “raised” UU, you were “reared” UU. But even William Safire had to give up that one.
And some are decisions of priority. I, an English major, fought against the increasing usage of “them, they,” etc. as a singular tense word to avoid the exclusivity of “him, he,” etc. when gender wasn’t specified. But eventually, I had to make the decision that inclusive language was more important to me than proper subject-pronoun agreement. A minister should understand that they have the right to be flexible …
So back to, for me at least, the important issues at hand – who/what is driving the “Reverend First Name” bus and does it fill a need?
I think “congregations” and “yes.”
UU congregations, especially those who haven’t always had a minister of their own, have two forces at work: on one hand, they understand that ministry is something we all do together. They are teammates with the minister; especially in small churches, the minister is not someone removed, several steps away from the laiety. He’s the guy in jeans next to you at the planning meeting, she’s the gal squatting down to show where the leak is in the nursery. So calling them by their last name would seem artificial, and a bit odd.
But, I am also seeing a move to set apart the minister. Perhaps because of that intimacy, perhaps as a reaction against the devaluing of ministers, (those who have ever been involved in a “why do we need a minister anyway?” discussion known what I’m talking about), a congregation wants to make sure everyone knows that this is the minister, and that the position itself is accorded a certain level of ceremonial respect. Hence, Rev. John and Rev. Jane.
I saw this happen in my own church. After a stretch with no minister, they got Rabbi Shaman. A bit to his surprise, they began calling him Rev. John.
It fulfilled two purposes. He was sanctified – set apart – but they also had the feeling that he was down in the trenches with them.
Was it that reasoned out? I don’t think so. I think it arrived fairly organically – we have a lot of children in our church, and being in the south, children here don’t call adults in church by their first names. They call them Mr. First Name and Ms. First Name. And so this was Rev. First Name. And it fit the adults’ needs as well. So Rev. John went with the flow.
Will this be one of those things where correction pulls us back to what is proper, or another evolution of language? I dunno. I kind of imagine it will be the latter. To paraphrase someone else’s remarks, Call me Rev. First Name, call me Rev. Last Name, call me Rev. Nickname, call me by my name. It’s all good …
p.s. And now you must excuse me to go play some music to try and get an pesky earworm removed. As I child, I was a fan of Mr. Green Jeans, on Captain Kangaroo. So when I heard, “Forever in Blue Jeans,” I thought it was, “Reverend Blue Jeans.”
Money talks
But it don't sing and dance and it don't walk.
And long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Reverend Blue Jeans.
The question was posed in terms of ministers using it themselves, as in signing a note, “Rev. Jane.”
I wonder, however, if this is being driven by the ministers as much as it is the parishioners.
Some history: if you want to be puuuuurfectly correct, not only is “Rev. John” incorrect, but so is “Rev. Smith.” Reverend is an adjective. So an envelope is addressed to The Reverend John Smith, and when you speak to him, he is Mr. Smith. And if you are not using the first name on that envelope or in an introduction, what is proper would be “The Rev. Mr. Smith.”
(a little background)
But language does change according to the needs of a society. Sometimes, a correction can take hold and stop the evolution. For instance, a few years ago, “penultimate” became the trendy word, but with incorrect usage: many used it to mean “beyond-ultimate” rather than correctly, “one shy of ultimate.” But then enough people spoke out to say, “No, that’s wrong,” and suddenly, it seemed, everyone knew the correct usage.
Other things are losing battles. I was one of those passionately explaining to all and a sundry that the year 2000 was not the first year of the new century, 2001 was. Guess what? I lost.
“Raised” is another one. It was not correct to say that you were “raised” UU, you were “reared” UU. But even William Safire had to give up that one.
And some are decisions of priority. I, an English major, fought against the increasing usage of “them, they,” etc. as a singular tense word to avoid the exclusivity of “him, he,” etc. when gender wasn’t specified. But eventually, I had to make the decision that inclusive language was more important to me than proper subject-pronoun agreement. A minister should understand that they have the right to be flexible …
So back to, for me at least, the important issues at hand – who/what is driving the “Reverend First Name” bus and does it fill a need?
I think “congregations” and “yes.”
UU congregations, especially those who haven’t always had a minister of their own, have two forces at work: on one hand, they understand that ministry is something we all do together. They are teammates with the minister; especially in small churches, the minister is not someone removed, several steps away from the laiety. He’s the guy in jeans next to you at the planning meeting, she’s the gal squatting down to show where the leak is in the nursery. So calling them by their last name would seem artificial, and a bit odd.
But, I am also seeing a move to set apart the minister. Perhaps because of that intimacy, perhaps as a reaction against the devaluing of ministers, (those who have ever been involved in a “why do we need a minister anyway?” discussion known what I’m talking about), a congregation wants to make sure everyone knows that this is the minister, and that the position itself is accorded a certain level of ceremonial respect. Hence, Rev. John and Rev. Jane.
I saw this happen in my own church. After a stretch with no minister, they got Rabbi Shaman. A bit to his surprise, they began calling him Rev. John.
It fulfilled two purposes. He was sanctified – set apart – but they also had the feeling that he was down in the trenches with them.
Was it that reasoned out? I don’t think so. I think it arrived fairly organically – we have a lot of children in our church, and being in the south, children here don’t call adults in church by their first names. They call them Mr. First Name and Ms. First Name. And so this was Rev. First Name. And it fit the adults’ needs as well. So Rev. John went with the flow.
Will this be one of those things where correction pulls us back to what is proper, or another evolution of language? I dunno. I kind of imagine it will be the latter. To paraphrase someone else’s remarks, Call me Rev. First Name, call me Rev. Last Name, call me Rev. Nickname, call me by my name. It’s all good …
p.s. And now you must excuse me to go play some music to try and get an pesky earworm removed. As I child, I was a fan of Mr. Green Jeans, on Captain Kangaroo. So when I heard, “Forever in Blue Jeans,” I thought it was, “Reverend Blue Jeans.”
Money talks
But it don't sing and dance and it don't walk.
And long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Reverend Blue Jeans.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Suicide
Okay, okay, I’ll talk.
Suicide has been swirling around me recently. Not, thank God, anyone I know. But the subject. Songs. A celebrity here, someone in town there, a movement against it. People losing jobs, losing themselves, feeling without hope.
Yes. Love is written on my arm.
“I don’t have time to talk about it,” I tell the universe as yet another reference drops into my lap. And today, Kinsi is writing about it, personally, and heartfully.
Okay. Let’s talk.
As I’ve written about before, my elder brother committed suicide.
I was 10 – almost. It was late at night, and I thought I heard my mother laughing. I opened my parents’ bedroom door, and my mother was sobbing. I had never seen her cry before.
They had just received a cold, brutal phone call. “You son was found dead, hanging from a tree.”
Since their other son was in the guestroom with his new wife, they knew who it was. They would have known anyway. He had had “problems” for years. It’s like he was born without that little bubble each of us has, that bubble that provides a bit of protection from the pain of living. Things that would make other people sad – injustice, starving children – would just slice him to the core.
He was a genius. Literally. A brilliant mind. And it extended into creativity. He could pick up a musical instrument the very first time, and within 30 minutes, be playing songs on it. He was a visual artist, crafting things out of found objects.
He hadn’t yet found the drive in himself to do the work you need to do in life. Schoolwork. Responsibility. So he dropped out of high school, decided to join the air force. My father signed the papers. They had already tried counselors, programs. Maybe this would do it.
Instead, he was introduced to drugs, hard drugs. Which only fed his demons inside.
He came home, tried doing different things. He wandered.
He was only 23 when he killed himself. He laid out his military papers so he could be buried for free. He laid out his little life insurance policy.
My parents had to identify the body. My father saw the rope burn marks on his neck, and something broke inside him.
My other brother, 21, newly married, newly graduated, took the job of cleaning out our brother’s apartment. A job my parents will always regret letting him shoulder. Because as those who have done it know, it is excruciating.
My parents still grieve. My dad still hates Father’s Day.
My children, as they became old enough to hear the stories that included “Uncle J,” have asked, “What did he die from?”
And I have explained, that just as you can get sick in the tummy, you can get sick in the head. And you can get help for it, just like with your tummy.
“You know how when you have a bad stomachache, it feels like you’ll never get well again?” Yes, they know that feeling.
“Well, you can get so sad, that you feel you’ll never be happy again. But what happens with your tummy?” It finally gets better, they say.
“Yes. But you had to tell Mama or Daddy so we could get you medicine or take you to the doctor, right?” Uh-huh.
“Well, it’s the same with getting that sad. You have to tell someone. Even if you don’t believe you can ever be happy again, you have to tell someone. You can tell us, or a grownup friend, or a teacher. But you need to tell someone. Just say, ‘I’m sad, and I don’t know what to do about it.’”
So, right now … if you feel like this, if you find this … please.
Tell someone. “I’m sad and I don’t know what to do about it.”
If you are thinking about suicide, read this first.
Suicide has been swirling around me recently. Not, thank God, anyone I know. But the subject. Songs. A celebrity here, someone in town there, a movement against it. People losing jobs, losing themselves, feeling without hope.
Yes. Love is written on my arm.
“I don’t have time to talk about it,” I tell the universe as yet another reference drops into my lap. And today, Kinsi is writing about it, personally, and heartfully.
Okay. Let’s talk.
As I’ve written about before, my elder brother committed suicide.
I was 10 – almost. It was late at night, and I thought I heard my mother laughing. I opened my parents’ bedroom door, and my mother was sobbing. I had never seen her cry before.
They had just received a cold, brutal phone call. “You son was found dead, hanging from a tree.”
Since their other son was in the guestroom with his new wife, they knew who it was. They would have known anyway. He had had “problems” for years. It’s like he was born without that little bubble each of us has, that bubble that provides a bit of protection from the pain of living. Things that would make other people sad – injustice, starving children – would just slice him to the core.
He was a genius. Literally. A brilliant mind. And it extended into creativity. He could pick up a musical instrument the very first time, and within 30 minutes, be playing songs on it. He was a visual artist, crafting things out of found objects.
He hadn’t yet found the drive in himself to do the work you need to do in life. Schoolwork. Responsibility. So he dropped out of high school, decided to join the air force. My father signed the papers. They had already tried counselors, programs. Maybe this would do it.
Instead, he was introduced to drugs, hard drugs. Which only fed his demons inside.
He came home, tried doing different things. He wandered.
He was only 23 when he killed himself. He laid out his military papers so he could be buried for free. He laid out his little life insurance policy.
My parents had to identify the body. My father saw the rope burn marks on his neck, and something broke inside him.
My other brother, 21, newly married, newly graduated, took the job of cleaning out our brother’s apartment. A job my parents will always regret letting him shoulder. Because as those who have done it know, it is excruciating.
My parents still grieve. My dad still hates Father’s Day.
My children, as they became old enough to hear the stories that included “Uncle J,” have asked, “What did he die from?”
And I have explained, that just as you can get sick in the tummy, you can get sick in the head. And you can get help for it, just like with your tummy.
“You know how when you have a bad stomachache, it feels like you’ll never get well again?” Yes, they know that feeling.
“Well, you can get so sad, that you feel you’ll never be happy again. But what happens with your tummy?” It finally gets better, they say.
“Yes. But you had to tell Mama or Daddy so we could get you medicine or take you to the doctor, right?” Uh-huh.
“Well, it’s the same with getting that sad. You have to tell someone. Even if you don’t believe you can ever be happy again, you have to tell someone. You can tell us, or a grownup friend, or a teacher. But you need to tell someone. Just say, ‘I’m sad, and I don’t know what to do about it.’”
So, right now … if you feel like this, if you find this … please.
Tell someone. “I’m sad and I don’t know what to do about it.”
If you are thinking about suicide, read this first.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Slow Revolution - Alexi Murdoch
We had our music communion a couple of weeks ago, where I was introduced to this song.
We had two of our most talented women doing it -- one playing piano, very simply, and one singing ... occasionally with a breaking voice, because it affects her so much.
Powerful.
We had two of our most talented women doing it -- one playing piano, very simply, and one singing ... occasionally with a breaking voice, because it affects her so much.
Powerful.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Last Chance to Vote for Tom Stites!
The voting is about to close for the WeMedia Game Changer Award that I mentioned the other day. Tom is in the lead, but the gap is narrowing. Please go vote if you haven't, pass this on to your super duper networks, etc.
Vote for Tom!
Vote for Tom!
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Religious Experience for kids
The first religious experience (by which I mean, an experience in church, which is not necessarily a religious experience and in my case, certainly not) that I can remember, I must confess, involved those markers that smell fruity. We had each been given a copy of the 23rd Psalm, and were decorating it with markers and such. I had never encountered those markers and thought they were terrific. I keep sniffing my 23rd psalm later to see if the smell remained.
That is also the last experience at that Unitarian church that I can remember with any detail. I was about 12, we'd moved to an area closer to a UU church, so my parents took me. I finally complained to them that all we did was "talk about our feelings and eat donuts." They had already done the whole church thing with their first set of kids, so they were happy to go back to Sunday mornings of reading the newspaper and puttering around the house.
About a year later, I went to UCC Summer Camp with a friend of mine, who went to a UCC church. One week of being in nature, staying in screened cabins and taking cold showers, singing "I found happiness, I found peace of mind, I found the joy of living, perfect love sublime, oh I found real contentment, happy living in accord, I found happiness all the time, wonderful peace of mind, when I found the Lord."
I remember that week, and the week the following summer when I returned, in great sensory detail. The feeling of holiness sitting on a stone bench during the worship time. The feeling of warmth and closeness when we discussed God. Praying, s'mores, crafts, friendship. Singing, singing, singing. Silently meditating, sitting on the stone bench, the only light coming from the moon.
Now, it's not fair to compare the two. Sunday morning and summer camp are two different things. But it makes me think about what opportunities we're giving our kids for religious experiences.
And adults, for that matter.
--
I had already written the above post when I found this sermon of Rev. Anthony David's. It's good. "Amen" out loud good. What Kind of Unitarian Universalist Are You?
That is also the last experience at that Unitarian church that I can remember with any detail. I was about 12, we'd moved to an area closer to a UU church, so my parents took me. I finally complained to them that all we did was "talk about our feelings and eat donuts." They had already done the whole church thing with their first set of kids, so they were happy to go back to Sunday mornings of reading the newspaper and puttering around the house.
About a year later, I went to UCC Summer Camp with a friend of mine, who went to a UCC church. One week of being in nature, staying in screened cabins and taking cold showers, singing "I found happiness, I found peace of mind, I found the joy of living, perfect love sublime, oh I found real contentment, happy living in accord, I found happiness all the time, wonderful peace of mind, when I found the Lord."
I remember that week, and the week the following summer when I returned, in great sensory detail. The feeling of holiness sitting on a stone bench during the worship time. The feeling of warmth and closeness when we discussed God. Praying, s'mores, crafts, friendship. Singing, singing, singing. Silently meditating, sitting on the stone bench, the only light coming from the moon.
Now, it's not fair to compare the two. Sunday morning and summer camp are two different things. But it makes me think about what opportunities we're giving our kids for religious experiences.
And adults, for that matter.
--
I had already written the above post when I found this sermon of Rev. Anthony David's. It's good. "Amen" out loud good. What Kind of Unitarian Universalist Are You?
Monday, February 01, 2010
Everything I Needed to Know About Church I Learned at Weight Watchers
Okay, not everything, not by a long shot. But a lot.
1) Going every week matters. They can actually prove it with numbers -- those who attend lose three times as much weight as those who don't.
I can't imagine a way in which we could measure the effect that attending church has on congregants, but I think chances are good that there would be a positive correlation. For WW, it's two-pronged -- community and accountability. You go, you trade tips, you get motivated -- and you step on the scale. Every week, it's accountability time.
I have a mental cartoon of someone standing on a scale at a UU church. "That's wonderful, your soul has expanded 3 cubits this week and you've lost 3 ounces of selfishness!" Which leads me to ...
2) But the real work is done during the week. The half hour in the meeting doesn't yield any great results -- we're not on treadmills while we listen to the leader. The real work is done when we leave the meeting and apply what we've learned in our normal lives. It's when we choose to make a pan of stir-fried vegetables over microwaving a tray of mac and cheese.
And after church, it's when we decide to assume good intentions on the part of our co-worker, spouse, the person who just cut you off in traffic. Or when we're mindful about how we spend our time and money. Or any of the other choices that add up to living a deliberate, spirit-full life.
3) Having someone who can speak from experience matters. The only way you can work at WW is to be a "loser" yourself -- someone who lost weight on the plan.
Whether it's from the pulpit or in our small groups, speaking from experience, and not just something we read or heard, matters. This gets to the core of what we know. Or I guess I could say, "What we really know." There is a joke amongst parents -- "I was a better parent before I had children." It speaks to how confident (in some cases, arrogant) we were before having kids. "I don't have children, but if I did, I'd ...." And then we have kids. And we learn it isn't that simple. Speaking from experience matters.
Come to think of it, that's why I started going to WW. The BFF-DRE's Mom went and shrunk. And kept it off. Her experience spoke to me.
4) Those who aren't in it, will think it's a cult. Tee-hee.
"Why did I cringe away from WW?" I asked myself last year, as I kept watching the pounds slowly slip away, week after week. I think I had that "cult" idea in my head. And then I joined. And found that it wasn't anything as exciting as a cult, it was just, frankly, a hum-drum, common sense program. A commercial enterprise. You pay, you get their tools and access to meetings.
But when you're outside a group, it's always easier to feel that those inside the group are foreign. Before I had babies, I was that way about La Leche League. Militant Booby Pushing Cultists! I thought. And then I had babies. And went to some meetings. And it was just boring old mommies, trying to figure out how to nurse discreetly or up supply. Negotiating the terrain.
I see this in churches that don't have covenant groups, when you try to get them started. There is this fear that the small groups will become little cliques, that those on the inside somehow have more power than those on the outside. "I don't have time to be in a group, so I don't want there to be any," is an unfortunate message that has come through loud and clear. And then the person makes time to go to a covenant group, and learns that among all the benefits of the group, exclusivity isn't even on the radar.
5) If you work the program, it works. If you don't, it don't.
So you have the person who comes to church, excuse me, WW meetings, and they do attend regularly. They don't change their diet. They don't exercise. They don't count points. And they say, "This isn't doing anything for me! It doesn't work!"
Last year, for about 5 months, I worked the program conscientiously. I counted my points. I exercised, a bit anyway. And I lost 25 pounds.
Then the kids were out of school, and my schedule changed, and I had learned how to do it enough that even without working the program, I didn't gain weight. But I stopped losing. I stopped the program. It was a pretty simple corollary.
"I'm not being spiritually nourished," says the person who comes to church, but doesn't do further reading, participate in adult RE or small groups, or volunteer for any programs. This is the other side of #1, above. Ya gotta work the program. Christians say something about how going to church every Sunday doesn't make one a Christian anymore than sitting in a garage makes one a car. True dat. If you're not willing to make any changes in your life, then going to even the best sermons in the world every Sunday isn't going to do it for you.
6) It isn't for everybody.
When we are converted, whether to WW or UUism or a particular kind of vacuum cleaner, it's easy to convince ourselves that what works for us will work for everyone. It won't. There's some for whom WW just doesn't do it. And the same is true for church. There are some for whom Unitarian Universalism just isn't going to fit, but going every week to a Catholic church and reciting the creeds and getting the juice and wafer will.
I went to Mass this past Saturday for a school assignment. Between eyeing the dead Jesus hanging in the back wall, the very businesslike Eucharist, and the message, (not to mention the kneeling), it just didn't work for me. But it obviously works for some. I don't begrudge them.
We're all just trying to negotiate the terrain.
As for me, WW worked for me, so I'm back on it, counting my points and all. And yes, occasionally I can get a bit enthused, like when I found the 1 point tubs of Litehouse caramel dip. And I go to church, and have been known to get a bit enthused there, and take it home, and then do something crazy like enroll in seminary.
"Work it, baby, work it! Own it ...."
1) Going every week matters. They can actually prove it with numbers -- those who attend lose three times as much weight as those who don't.
I can't imagine a way in which we could measure the effect that attending church has on congregants, but I think chances are good that there would be a positive correlation. For WW, it's two-pronged -- community and accountability. You go, you trade tips, you get motivated -- and you step on the scale. Every week, it's accountability time.
I have a mental cartoon of someone standing on a scale at a UU church. "That's wonderful, your soul has expanded 3 cubits this week and you've lost 3 ounces of selfishness!" Which leads me to ...
2) But the real work is done during the week. The half hour in the meeting doesn't yield any great results -- we're not on treadmills while we listen to the leader. The real work is done when we leave the meeting and apply what we've learned in our normal lives. It's when we choose to make a pan of stir-fried vegetables over microwaving a tray of mac and cheese.
And after church, it's when we decide to assume good intentions on the part of our co-worker, spouse, the person who just cut you off in traffic. Or when we're mindful about how we spend our time and money. Or any of the other choices that add up to living a deliberate, spirit-full life.
3) Having someone who can speak from experience matters. The only way you can work at WW is to be a "loser" yourself -- someone who lost weight on the plan.
Whether it's from the pulpit or in our small groups, speaking from experience, and not just something we read or heard, matters. This gets to the core of what we know. Or I guess I could say, "What we really know." There is a joke amongst parents -- "I was a better parent before I had children." It speaks to how confident (in some cases, arrogant) we were before having kids. "I don't have children, but if I did, I'd ...." And then we have kids. And we learn it isn't that simple. Speaking from experience matters.
Come to think of it, that's why I started going to WW. The BFF-DRE's Mom went and shrunk. And kept it off. Her experience spoke to me.
4) Those who aren't in it, will think it's a cult. Tee-hee.
"Why did I cringe away from WW?" I asked myself last year, as I kept watching the pounds slowly slip away, week after week. I think I had that "cult" idea in my head. And then I joined. And found that it wasn't anything as exciting as a cult, it was just, frankly, a hum-drum, common sense program. A commercial enterprise. You pay, you get their tools and access to meetings.
But when you're outside a group, it's always easier to feel that those inside the group are foreign. Before I had babies, I was that way about La Leche League. Militant Booby Pushing Cultists! I thought. And then I had babies. And went to some meetings. And it was just boring old mommies, trying to figure out how to nurse discreetly or up supply. Negotiating the terrain.
I see this in churches that don't have covenant groups, when you try to get them started. There is this fear that the small groups will become little cliques, that those on the inside somehow have more power than those on the outside. "I don't have time to be in a group, so I don't want there to be any," is an unfortunate message that has come through loud and clear. And then the person makes time to go to a covenant group, and learns that among all the benefits of the group, exclusivity isn't even on the radar.
5) If you work the program, it works. If you don't, it don't.
So you have the person who comes to church, excuse me, WW meetings, and they do attend regularly. They don't change their diet. They don't exercise. They don't count points. And they say, "This isn't doing anything for me! It doesn't work!"
Last year, for about 5 months, I worked the program conscientiously. I counted my points. I exercised, a bit anyway. And I lost 25 pounds.
Then the kids were out of school, and my schedule changed, and I had learned how to do it enough that even without working the program, I didn't gain weight. But I stopped losing. I stopped the program. It was a pretty simple corollary.
"I'm not being spiritually nourished," says the person who comes to church, but doesn't do further reading, participate in adult RE or small groups, or volunteer for any programs. This is the other side of #1, above. Ya gotta work the program. Christians say something about how going to church every Sunday doesn't make one a Christian anymore than sitting in a garage makes one a car. True dat. If you're not willing to make any changes in your life, then going to even the best sermons in the world every Sunday isn't going to do it for you.
6) It isn't for everybody.
When we are converted, whether to WW or UUism or a particular kind of vacuum cleaner, it's easy to convince ourselves that what works for us will work for everyone. It won't. There's some for whom WW just doesn't do it. And the same is true for church. There are some for whom Unitarian Universalism just isn't going to fit, but going every week to a Catholic church and reciting the creeds and getting the juice and wafer will.
I went to Mass this past Saturday for a school assignment. Between eyeing the dead Jesus hanging in the back wall, the very businesslike Eucharist, and the message, (not to mention the kneeling), it just didn't work for me. But it obviously works for some. I don't begrudge them.
We're all just trying to negotiate the terrain.
As for me, WW worked for me, so I'm back on it, counting my points and all. And yes, occasionally I can get a bit enthused, like when I found the 1 point tubs of Litehouse caramel dip. And I go to church, and have been known to get a bit enthused there, and take it home, and then do something crazy like enroll in seminary.
"Work it, baby, work it! Own it ...."
Monday, January 25, 2010
Tom Stites and the Banyan Project
Huge congratulations go out to former UU World editor Tom Stites. Because of his work with the Banyan Project, he has been nominated for the WeMedia Community Choice Game Changer Award. He needs your help to win it, though. Just go to http://wemedia.com/awards/2010-community-choice-finalists/ and click next to his name.
From Tom:
Apparently the Game Changer Award will be presented in May at the WeMedia conference in Miami; the winner presents the conference's keynote address to a room full of influential journalism people and -- most important -- foundation executives who include the top people from the Knight Foundation. Winning the award would give the not-for-profit Banyan startup a huge boost in its search for funding.
From Tom:
So -- if this is something you support, activate your networks, get that whole UU-interconnected thing working and get out the vote!Why should people vote for me, other than because you'd be doing the asking? Because at a time when newspapers are dying and the Supreme Court is bombing democracy, the Banyan Project would strengthen it.Banyan's journalism will be tailored to meet the distinctive needs of the hugepublic of less-than-affluent Americans, the everyday citizens so ill-served by mainstream news media. It will thus not only serve democracy but also address a significant justice issue: Media critics tend to overlook the class and economic injustice inherent in today's top-down journalism, which aims almost entirely at serving the elites, and the damage to democracy that it causes. Overcoming this injustice is a major element of what drives the Banyan Project.In short, Banyan exemplifies UU values, not only by upholding our Fifth Principle but also by creating a wholly new model for journalism rooted in a consumer co-op where the editors are accountable to readers the way a minister is accountable to a UU congregation.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Interseminary Retreat
So, last week, I met 3 others from my seminary, and we, plus our dean (my calls-himself-a-conservative-Christian-but-acts-like-a-liberal-theologian professor and advisor) drove three hours to an interseminary retreat. In attendance there, were conservative rabbinical students, Muslim seminary students, Catholic seminarians, and an assortment of liberal to mainstream Christian seminarians.
Yeah baby!
I have to back up and admit that I was quite nervous before we left. Why? I guess just because I didn't know what to expect -- there were no clear schedules or agendas sent out beforehand. Which caused me to remember that really, we need to be SO CLEAR on our websites about what people can expect Sunday morning, because I'm not a particularly anxious person, so surely there must be other folks who look at our sites, and make plans to come, but then chicken out at the last minute. But that's a sermon for another day.
But back to the retreat ... my suitemates included a young rabbinical student, an about-to-graduate Methodist from a Presbyterian seminarian who is my age, and my roommate (Baptist), from my own seminary.
That she and I were put together was intriguing, because we have a mutual friend who tried to match us up a couple of years ago. It was right after Obama's speech on racism. My roommate is a pastor at an African-American church close to my church. Our friend and I had the idea of putting together interracial dialogue groups. But then Little Warrior was diagnosed with the recurrence, so that went to the wayside.
But now, she was my roommate.
Tuesday night, the Jewish scholar gave a presentation on Abraham's angels, and what hospitality means within conservative Judaism. We chatted afterwards, found we had some similar experiences and clicked. Dontcha just love it when that happens?
The Jewish scholar, hereafter referred to as "The Kick-Butt Rabbi" (a name she has already been given by others, but that I wholeheartedly endorse), was also in my small group. I'm so glad, because she made things real interesting.
The next morning, there was a presentation by the Christian scholar (UCC) on the symbolism of Abraham's angels from a trinitarian perspective.
Afterwards, in our small group, the about-to-graduate Methodist from a Presbyterian seminarian asked the Rabbi what her thoughts were on the presentation. "Do you really want to know?" she responded. The seminarian answered in the affirmative.
The K-BR pulled no punches. "I was completely offended," she said. She went on to explain her feelings about Christians appropriating the Jewish Bible. "It's not the 'Old Testament,' it was not superseded by the New Testament, and Judaism did not end with Jesus," she explained. "You have your own scripture, use it!"
The Methodist seminarian and a Baptist from my seminary (not my roommate) were hurt and confused. This was their first time to run into this. "But, we're grafted from the same root," protested the Methodist.
"That is not what we believe," said the K-BR.
The conversation went back and forth. It was interesting to watch, but at a certain point, a bit frustrating, like watching people speaking two different languages. The Christians just genuinely could not relate to this idea of appropriation. So I jumped in, thinking of Garrison Keillor's recent essay about Christmas. I believe I even quoted his "buzz off" part.
"You know how some Christians feel about Christmas? 'Keep the Christ in Christmas' and that sort of thing?"
They nodded. They felt the same way.
"Okay, I believe that's how the Rabbi feels about her holy books." K-BR nodded assent.
"Now, how do you feel about the Tanakh being studied with forward, not backward motion?" I asked her. (Or something like that.) "Not using Christian theology to interpret it, but to give an understanding to the Judaism that informed Christianity?" K-BR endorsed that.
This, of course, didn't fully answer the wants of the Christians, who protest that they cannot interpret the Hebrew Bible without applying their Christian interpretations to it. It is their holy text, they believe, so for someone to say "Hands off" just doesn't connect. (Although I talked to my Methodist suitemate later, bringing in "Revelation is sealed," vs. Mormonism ... she got the point.)
But it was great to both witness the honest exchange and to come up with an example that seemed to resonate.
More later ...
Yeah baby!
I have to back up and admit that I was quite nervous before we left. Why? I guess just because I didn't know what to expect -- there were no clear schedules or agendas sent out beforehand. Which caused me to remember that really, we need to be SO CLEAR on our websites about what people can expect Sunday morning, because I'm not a particularly anxious person, so surely there must be other folks who look at our sites, and make plans to come, but then chicken out at the last minute. But that's a sermon for another day.
But back to the retreat ... my suitemates included a young rabbinical student, an about-to-graduate Methodist from a Presbyterian seminarian who is my age, and my roommate (Baptist), from my own seminary.
That she and I were put together was intriguing, because we have a mutual friend who tried to match us up a couple of years ago. It was right after Obama's speech on racism. My roommate is a pastor at an African-American church close to my church. Our friend and I had the idea of putting together interracial dialogue groups. But then Little Warrior was diagnosed with the recurrence, so that went to the wayside.
But now, she was my roommate.
Tuesday night, the Jewish scholar gave a presentation on Abraham's angels, and what hospitality means within conservative Judaism. We chatted afterwards, found we had some similar experiences and clicked. Dontcha just love it when that happens?
The Jewish scholar, hereafter referred to as "The Kick-Butt Rabbi" (a name she has already been given by others, but that I wholeheartedly endorse), was also in my small group. I'm so glad, because she made things real interesting.
The next morning, there was a presentation by the Christian scholar (UCC) on the symbolism of Abraham's angels from a trinitarian perspective.
Afterwards, in our small group, the about-to-graduate Methodist from a Presbyterian seminarian asked the Rabbi what her thoughts were on the presentation. "Do you really want to know?" she responded. The seminarian answered in the affirmative.
The K-BR pulled no punches. "I was completely offended," she said. She went on to explain her feelings about Christians appropriating the Jewish Bible. "It's not the 'Old Testament,' it was not superseded by the New Testament, and Judaism did not end with Jesus," she explained. "You have your own scripture, use it!"
The Methodist seminarian and a Baptist from my seminary (not my roommate) were hurt and confused. This was their first time to run into this. "But, we're grafted from the same root," protested the Methodist.
"That is not what we believe," said the K-BR.
The conversation went back and forth. It was interesting to watch, but at a certain point, a bit frustrating, like watching people speaking two different languages. The Christians just genuinely could not relate to this idea of appropriation. So I jumped in, thinking of Garrison Keillor's recent essay about Christmas. I believe I even quoted his "buzz off" part.
"You know how some Christians feel about Christmas? 'Keep the Christ in Christmas' and that sort of thing?"
They nodded. They felt the same way.
"Okay, I believe that's how the Rabbi feels about her holy books." K-BR nodded assent.
"Now, how do you feel about the Tanakh being studied with forward, not backward motion?" I asked her. (Or something like that.) "Not using Christian theology to interpret it, but to give an understanding to the Judaism that informed Christianity?" K-BR endorsed that.
This, of course, didn't fully answer the wants of the Christians, who protest that they cannot interpret the Hebrew Bible without applying their Christian interpretations to it. It is their holy text, they believe, so for someone to say "Hands off" just doesn't connect. (Although I talked to my Methodist suitemate later, bringing in "Revelation is sealed," vs. Mormonism ... she got the point.)
But it was great to both witness the honest exchange and to come up with an example that seemed to resonate.
More later ...
Friday, January 08, 2010
We interrupt this show for an important breakdown ...
Okay, so, I jump from the Interseminary Retreat straight into a Very Amazing New UU Curriculum Training. No problem, right?
Unless, of course, I have some conflicting feelings left from the retreat that I haven't dealt with?
The conflicting feelings were not at all about the retreat itself, or the interfaith dialogue therein, which was all wonderful and which I'm really going to write about, I promise.
No, the conflicttion was about ... what else, childhood cancer.
Issues: a) don't want to be "that" person -- the "Hi-my-name-is-Lizard-Eater-and-my-daughter-had-cancer-twice" person.
b) don't want to talk about it, period, because it's a conversation killer. Toddler with cancer -- it's gotta be right up there on the list of "Things That Have Been Enshrined As Too Horrible To Think About" ... at least, thinking about them for longer than a St. Jude's commercial.
So, I went to the retreat, with Not Going to Talk About IT fixed firmly in my mind.
And kept finding myself talking about it.
Didn't want to. But this was a religious retreat, we were talking about Deep Meaningful Experiences, and darn it all, it kept coming up. Not in any sort of a big way, but it just always seemed to be popping up; I kept having to reference it in some fashion. It's like this -- you're talking about hospitality and about the deep need people have to take care of each other. Well, I've had a pretty powerful experience of that this year. But I can't talk about that without mentioning Make-A-Wish. And I can't mention Make-A-Wish without explaining that my daughter had cancer. So I wound up doing this quickie little thing each time, that went kind of like:
"Okay, see, my daughter had cancer twice, she's 4 now, but she's completely fine now." Done all in one very fast breath, kind of like one giant word -- "Okay, see, mydaughterhadcancertwice,she's4now,butshe'scompletelyfinenow."
Inauthentic? Me?
And since then, I've been kicking myself over and over, not for being inauthentic, but for talking about it at all. "Can't you find other examples?" I berated myself.
This was one of those experiences where the real magic came through people being open and honest, two things that, for better or worse, I've always been. Probably too open and honest. Til now. Because the truth of the matter is, my pain can hurt others. It just can. A child with cancer is too many people's bogeyman.
But hey, retreat is over. I need to deal with it, and figure out a plan. Maybe I'll send an email to X, who has gone through something similar. When I get time.
That whole "God said Ha" thing.
So, I'm in this Very Amazing New UU Curriculum Training led by someone I've gosh darned nearly worshipped for years, and we're talking about religion. And emotion. And the connection. And then we watch a funny clip of a movie, except that it's not so funny because the funny character in it is me, happily going along, "Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Lincoln, other than that, the play was a success ..."
And then we listen to a song about a missing heart and armor and roadblocks and oh shhhhhhhhh....
I've mentioned before that God is occasionally not at all subtle with me because, I don't know, maybe I have a brick head or something?
So, here's the layout: It just kinda happens that on one side of me is the BFF-DRE who has lived and cried with me all through this. On the other side is Prez, whom I've known casually for several years, but who had the amazing "luck" to call me the night before LW had her Big Surgery (age 8 months) -- the friend who asked what he could do, and was tearfully told, "Well, if things don't go well, can you help me find a UU minister who will do the funeral?"
In front of me is Rabbi Shaman. Next to him was the Elder Stateswoman, who has sat silently and comfortingly with me in hospital rooms.
You know, because subtle doesn't work on me.
So, we listen to the song, and then we are to call out what we are thinking or feeling. And so, with tears now streaming down my face, I choke out,
"Sometimes we don't share our pain because it will hurt others.*"
You know how sometimes ... very, very rarely ... we're able to actually see ourselves as something separate, like another person? Well, there it was. "Oh you poor idiot," I said to her. "You were at a spiritual retreat. Your daughter just finished treatment a year ago. And she's had cancer twice. It WAS an intense experience. OF COURSE it is going to inform your feelings on just about everything right now, certainly on anything religious. I mean, really, you think the examples that spring to your mind are going to come from Schleirmacher or Kant or even Frankl? Your daughter freakin' had cancer. Twice. By the time she was 3. You poor, dumb, sweet girl."
So, the breakthrough happened. Unfortunately, sometimes when the waterworks start, the knob breaks off and there I am, a weepy leaky faucet.
Sometimes, a breakthrough looks like a breakdown. So be it. "So don't mind if I fall apart; there's more room in a broken heart." And this is Unitarian Universalism. Our religion. Our religion that helps with the healing of broken hearts. So may it be.
*Personally, it kind of pisses me off that the Hysteric Cleric (see comments: Dec. 29) called up God and ratted me out, but what can I say, it is a scary power he wields. The tattletale.
Unless, of course, I have some conflicting feelings left from the retreat that I haven't dealt with?
The conflicting feelings were not at all about the retreat itself, or the interfaith dialogue therein, which was all wonderful and which I'm really going to write about, I promise.
No, the conflicttion was about ... what else, childhood cancer.
Issues: a) don't want to be "that" person -- the "Hi-my-name-is-Lizard-Eater-and-my-daughter-had-cancer-twice" person.
b) don't want to talk about it, period, because it's a conversation killer. Toddler with cancer -- it's gotta be right up there on the list of "Things That Have Been Enshrined As Too Horrible To Think About" ... at least, thinking about them for longer than a St. Jude's commercial.
So, I went to the retreat, with Not Going to Talk About IT fixed firmly in my mind.
And kept finding myself talking about it.
Didn't want to. But this was a religious retreat, we were talking about Deep Meaningful Experiences, and darn it all, it kept coming up. Not in any sort of a big way, but it just always seemed to be popping up; I kept having to reference it in some fashion. It's like this -- you're talking about hospitality and about the deep need people have to take care of each other. Well, I've had a pretty powerful experience of that this year. But I can't talk about that without mentioning Make-A-Wish. And I can't mention Make-A-Wish without explaining that my daughter had cancer. So I wound up doing this quickie little thing each time, that went kind of like:
"Okay, see, my daughter had cancer twice, she's 4 now, but she's completely fine now." Done all in one very fast breath, kind of like one giant word -- "Okay, see, mydaughterhadcancertwice,she's4now,butshe'scompletelyfinenow."
Inauthentic? Me?
And since then, I've been kicking myself over and over, not for being inauthentic, but for talking about it at all. "Can't you find other examples?" I berated myself.
This was one of those experiences where the real magic came through people being open and honest, two things that, for better or worse, I've always been. Probably too open and honest. Til now. Because the truth of the matter is, my pain can hurt others. It just can. A child with cancer is too many people's bogeyman.
But hey, retreat is over. I need to deal with it, and figure out a plan. Maybe I'll send an email to X, who has gone through something similar. When I get time.
That whole "God said Ha" thing.
So, I'm in this Very Amazing New UU Curriculum Training led by someone I've gosh darned nearly worshipped for years, and we're talking about religion. And emotion. And the connection. And then we watch a funny clip of a movie, except that it's not so funny because the funny character in it is me, happily going along, "Yeah, yeah, Mrs. Lincoln, other than that, the play was a success ..."
And then we listen to a song about a missing heart and armor and roadblocks and oh shhhhhhhhh....
I've mentioned before that God is occasionally not at all subtle with me because, I don't know, maybe I have a brick head or something?
So, here's the layout: It just kinda happens that on one side of me is the BFF-DRE who has lived and cried with me all through this. On the other side is Prez, whom I've known casually for several years, but who had the amazing "luck" to call me the night before LW had her Big Surgery (age 8 months) -- the friend who asked what he could do, and was tearfully told, "Well, if things don't go well, can you help me find a UU minister who will do the funeral?"
In front of me is Rabbi Shaman. Next to him was the Elder Stateswoman, who has sat silently and comfortingly with me in hospital rooms.
You know, because subtle doesn't work on me.
So, we listen to the song, and then we are to call out what we are thinking or feeling. And so, with tears now streaming down my face, I choke out,
"Sometimes we don't share our pain because it will hurt others.*"
You know how sometimes ... very, very rarely ... we're able to actually see ourselves as something separate, like another person? Well, there it was. "Oh you poor idiot," I said to her. "You were at a spiritual retreat. Your daughter just finished treatment a year ago. And she's had cancer twice. It WAS an intense experience. OF COURSE it is going to inform your feelings on just about everything right now, certainly on anything religious. I mean, really, you think the examples that spring to your mind are going to come from Schleirmacher or Kant or even Frankl? Your daughter freakin' had cancer. Twice. By the time she was 3. You poor, dumb, sweet girl."
So, the breakthrough happened. Unfortunately, sometimes when the waterworks start, the knob breaks off and there I am, a weepy leaky faucet.
Sometimes, a breakthrough looks like a breakdown. So be it. "So don't mind if I fall apart; there's more room in a broken heart." And this is Unitarian Universalism. Our religion. Our religion that helps with the healing of broken hearts. So may it be.
*Personally, it kind of pisses me off that the Hysteric Cleric (see comments: Dec. 29) called up God and ratted me out, but what can I say, it is a scary power he wields. The tattletale.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Servant of God
Just got back from my interseminary retreat -- evangelicals and conservative Jews and Muslims, oh my! Will be writing more about that later. Short version: amazing, AMAZING experience.
On the drive back, our school sponsor, my calls-himself-a-conservative-Christian-but-acts-like-a-liberal-theologian OT professor and I were talking about movies. He's a bit of a movie buff, big fan of Pulp Fiction. I told him about From Dusk Till Dawn that the Hysteric Cleric turned me on to, which is worth watching (it's a vampire movie) if only for this exchange:
Seth: So what are you, Jacob? A faithless preacher? Or a mean motherfuckin' servant of God?
Jacob: I'm a mean, mhm mhm servant of God.
So, I'm telling Prof about that part, and joking about how the Hysteric Cleric and I have to figure out how to include that in my ordination service. "Well, you're a Unitarian Universalist, they wouldn't have a problem with that, right?" he joked.
"Eh, no, that would be a problem," I replied.
"Oh, so even in a Unitarian Universalist church, you couldn't say M-F?"
"No, no, that would be okay," I said, completely straight-faced. "It's the word 'God' ..."
On the drive back, our school sponsor, my calls-himself-a-conservative-Christian-but-acts-like-a-liberal-theologian OT professor and I were talking about movies. He's a bit of a movie buff, big fan of Pulp Fiction. I told him about From Dusk Till Dawn that the Hysteric Cleric turned me on to, which is worth watching (it's a vampire movie) if only for this exchange:
Seth: So what are you, Jacob? A faithless preacher? Or a mean motherfuckin' servant of God?
Jacob: I'm a mean, mhm mhm servant of God.
So, I'm telling Prof about that part, and joking about how the Hysteric Cleric and I have to figure out how to include that in my ordination service. "Well, you're a Unitarian Universalist, they wouldn't have a problem with that, right?" he joked.
"Eh, no, that would be a problem," I replied.
"Oh, so even in a Unitarian Universalist church, you couldn't say M-F?"
"No, no, that would be okay," I said, completely straight-faced. "It's the word 'God' ..."
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Happy New Year from Little Warrior
Champagne wishes and lollipop dreams for 2010. Little Warrior, Lizard Eater, and all the rest wish you a Happy, HEALTHY, New Year.
Goodbye 2009 and Thanks for All the Gifts!
For many, 2009 has been a rough year. Goodbye and Good Riddance, they say. I've had those years myself.
For us, 2009 has been great. Fabulous. Superlative.
Good stuff out the yin-yang. Wish trip to Disney. I got to meet my "twin." Trip with my family to New Mexico. Amped up my schooling. I said "Yes" to a lot. Wonderful things happened. Trip to New Orleans. Front row seats at the Nutcracker. Clear scans. Clear scans. Clear scans. And a need for glasses.
Of course, there were bad things, too. My mom had a heart attack, but she's fine now. I lost my godfather. Joy and woe are woven together fine.
As much as don't want cancer to define Little Warrior, or us, or our lives ... it has succeeded in defining the years since it appeared at our house.
2005: LW born. Great year.
2006: First diagnosis. Bad year.
2007: Clear scans. Back to school. Good year.
2008: Recurrence. Bad year.
2009: Clear Scans. Good stuff. Great year.
Little Warrior goes to play school two days a week. There, she's mastered patterns. Red tile, blue tile, red tile, blue tile. What comes next? we ask. "Red tile," she says.
It is difficult not to see a pattern in these years, difficult not to ask, "What comes next?"
Silly, of course. Nonsensical. Life is not that even, not that balanced. And there was good stuff in the bad years, too.
Yet part of me wants to hold on, kicking and screaming, like a 3 year old to his mommy's leg, to 2009. "Don't go! Don't go!"
And to 2010, the interloper, I look at it, wary. "I don't want to change things, I just want to be your friend," it says. "Yeah, prove it," I think inside.
Instead, I take a deep breath and say, "Goodbye 2009. You were wonderful and it's hard to see you go."
I take a deep breath and with what I hope is a warm smile, I turn to the new guest. "Hello 2010 and welcome ... looking forward to all the wonderful things you'll bring!"
For us, 2009 has been great. Fabulous. Superlative.
Good stuff out the yin-yang. Wish trip to Disney. I got to meet my "twin." Trip with my family to New Mexico. Amped up my schooling. I said "Yes" to a lot. Wonderful things happened. Trip to New Orleans. Front row seats at the Nutcracker. Clear scans. Clear scans. Clear scans. And a need for glasses.
Of course, there were bad things, too. My mom had a heart attack, but she's fine now. I lost my godfather. Joy and woe are woven together fine.
As much as don't want cancer to define Little Warrior, or us, or our lives ... it has succeeded in defining the years since it appeared at our house.
2005: LW born. Great year.
2006: First diagnosis. Bad year.
2007: Clear scans. Back to school. Good year.
2008: Recurrence. Bad year.
2009: Clear Scans. Good stuff. Great year.
Little Warrior goes to play school two days a week. There, she's mastered patterns. Red tile, blue tile, red tile, blue tile. What comes next? we ask. "Red tile," she says.
It is difficult not to see a pattern in these years, difficult not to ask, "What comes next?"
Silly, of course. Nonsensical. Life is not that even, not that balanced. And there was good stuff in the bad years, too.
Yet part of me wants to hold on, kicking and screaming, like a 3 year old to his mommy's leg, to 2009. "Don't go! Don't go!"
And to 2010, the interloper, I look at it, wary. "I don't want to change things, I just want to be your friend," it says. "Yeah, prove it," I think inside.
Instead, I take a deep breath and say, "Goodbye 2009. You were wonderful and it's hard to see you go."
I take a deep breath and with what I hope is a warm smile, I turn to the new guest. "Hello 2010 and welcome ... looking forward to all the wonderful things you'll bring!"
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
7 days
The Husband and I haven't had that much of a Christmas, nor Thanksgiving either, of our own choosing. In early November, we talked with the children about the gifts they received last year, many of which had been disappointing. We have a large playroom, with stained carpet, that seemed to be a perpetual mess. "What if," we proposed, "this year, our gift to you was a new playroom. A new floor, and we'd find a way to organize it so it was easier to keep neat. And maybe you could even ask Santa for his help with it."
Amazingly, they agreed to what was little more than a promise for a new floor and some cubbys. With enthusiasm, they each asked Santa for one small toy, and for him to help Mom and Dad with some things for a new playroom.
The Husband and I put a lock on the door before Thanksgiving, and began working our hearts out. Laminate on the floor, purged all the broken and unplayed-with toys, old game boards up as decoration on the walls, new game boards in a cabinet. (Once you realize that there's really no value in keeping the boxes, and you can instead put game pieces in baggies in a bin, and file game boards like books, it's amazing how many games can fit in a small cabinet.) Every evening, while the children watched Rudolph and Frosty downstairs, we worked.
December 23, we both realized something. Little Warrior's eyes were crossing. Almost immediately, we each had another realization. That it is rare, but Wilms' Tumor can relapse in the brain.
"It's subtle, not dramatic. I think we should wait until after Christmas. Give them a good Christmas. In case."
Somberly, The Husband said that he agreed completely.
7:30 am Dec. 25, we staggered out our bedroom as the children tumbled down the stairs. Santa came! Their stockings were stuffed and each had a couple of presents from Santa! Hmm. Perhaps Santa had decided not to help with the game room?
After ransacking our stockings, we went upstairs. The tv, about 15 years old, was outside the door. What the ... ?
We opened the door. In addition to all of our work, Santa had been there. He left a new tv. And Beatles Rock Band. And some videos and games.
I expected the children to be jumping up and down. Nope. Silently, barely breathing, they walked slowly around the room. For the first time ever, my children were speechless. "I'm overwhelmed," The Boy said.
And then ... Little Warrior sat down at the craft table. Bo Peep at the desk. And The Boy and The Princess sat down at what used to be their grandfather's chess table, and began playing.
Temporary insanity?
Eventually we made our way back downstairs for homemade cinnamon rolls and the rest of the presents from other family members.
Christmas afternoon arrived, bringing it with Lala and Pop Pop, our "adopted" grandparents, as well as The Hysteric Cleric and Mrs. Hysteric. Tofurkey and dry-brined turkey, agave carrots and potato gnocci. Wonderful company to be with, a party all around. And more presents, of course, including a very special book passed on from the HC from his library to mine.
Christmas evening comes and we can settle down now, just the family, in our new game room. "Bo Peep, go get me a towel from the laundry room," I instructed her. She came back, her mouth agape. "There's ... there's more presents, in the laundry room." "What's she talking about?" asked The Husband. "Y'all go down and help her," he told her siblings. They ran out and we giggled.
For the previous two weeks, amazon.com had run lightening deals on tons of games, selling them for 4.99. "I'm not getting anymore," I would inform the husband, and then they'd run another that was just too irresistible. We wrapped them all, and hid them in the laundry room, deciding on Christmas Eve that it would be more fun to wait until Christmas night to give them. We were right. "Monopoly!" "Clue!" "Guesstures!" "Trouble!"
We watched It's a Wonderful Life and cuddled with the children. And if we each hugged Little Warrior just a little harder and a little longer, it wasn't noticed by anyone.
Saturday, Sunday, holiday things and cleaning and leftovers. They wanted their friends to see the new playroom. Sunday night, The Boy could invite two friends to spend the night, then the next night The Princess, and so on. We dearly hoped.
Monday morning, woke up. Fears I had tried to basket up for the holiday were tumbled all around me now. I waited til the office would open, then called the pediatrician. She wouldn't be in all week, so I agreed to see the floating doctor. In the waiting room, in the tall high-rise, I noticed a ladybug crawling on the arm of LW's chair. A sign? A good sign? Or a sign to be strong? Superstitions are never clear in these cases. We were called back to see the Floater Doctor.
She gazed into LW's eyes. She didn't see anything, but one eye, she couldn't get the refraction she was looking for. Did I want her to call LW's oncologist or ... "I'll call," I said.
At home, I called to leave a message for Dr. Onc. "Hello," he answered, in person. I explained. "Before an MRI, let me have her see a special opthamologist who's here at the hospital." He promised to call right back. He did. "Tomorrow, 1 pm," he said, in his clipped, Indian accent. Half an hour later, he called back. "We were able to move things, so your appointment is now at 10 am." He didn't have to explain. I knew. If things went bad at the opthamologist, there would still be time for scans in the afternoon.
The Princess had her friend spent Monday night, after the friend's mom said it was fine that I would leave early in the morning, leaving them with The Boy. Make hay while the sun shines, thought I. The Husband came home. He had talked to his mother about when he had an eye patched, as a kid. "Maybe it's the same thing," he said hopefully.
Bo Peep wanted to invite her friend for Tuesday night. "Let's wait til after the doctor appointment," I said vaguely.
Woke up early. Made coffee. Fed LW, mentally calculating at what hour she could safely get anesthesia in case of MRI.
Drove to the hospital. Passed all the same things I have passed for the last three years. Got close. Got teary. Bitched at myself to suck it up, soldier. One message beat with my every heart beat: I do not want to be here again. I was not referring to physical location.
Wait wait wait for the doctor. Get teary. Get hyperventilatey. Pull out iPhone to look at anything. Check email ... perhaps there's a message from God letting me know everything will be fine? Got God's "out of the office" automatic responder. iPhone Air Hockey. Winner. Winner. Winner. Read waiting room books to LW. "Mama, you're holding me toooo tight!"
Our turn. Sitting in the patient chair, LW looks across the room. She correctly identifies what's on the screen. Covers the "good" eye. Can't read most of it. Hmm. Is that good or bad?
Old, experienced, kindly opthamologist comes in. He talked to our onc. He knows what is at stake. He examines her and turns to me. "I think it is an eye problem," he says. "Not a neurological problem." He smiles at me, but adds, "But I need to dilate her eyes, and then I will see you in half an hour."
Drops. Waiting. LW is bored. And then, it is our turn to go back. The Kindly Opthamologist looks and looks into each eye. He holds different things up to her eyes. "I am going to write some terms down for you," he explains. "You can google them when you get home." Apparently my reputation has preceded me.
LW is far-sighted. When her eyes try to focus, she looks cross-eyed. Some cute glasses, and she should be good as new. He'll see her again in a month.
I can't hide my tears of happiness, relief, gratitude. "Am I your only patient's mother to be so thrilled her daughter needs glasses?" He chuckles. "Oh, even parents who haven't gone through what you have, if they see crossed eyes, they think, 'brain tumor.'"
I had not told anyone. Not my parents, not the BFF-DRE nor the Hysteric Cleric, no Facebook, no blogging. Too many people are invested in my little girl. No need to make them worry.
Now, I let them all know. Now, like my mother, even though she hadn't known to be worried, she and they can feel relief.
Happy New Year to all.
Amazingly, they agreed to what was little more than a promise for a new floor and some cubbys. With enthusiasm, they each asked Santa for one small toy, and for him to help Mom and Dad with some things for a new playroom.
The Husband and I put a lock on the door before Thanksgiving, and began working our hearts out. Laminate on the floor, purged all the broken and unplayed-with toys, old game boards up as decoration on the walls, new game boards in a cabinet. (Once you realize that there's really no value in keeping the boxes, and you can instead put game pieces in baggies in a bin, and file game boards like books, it's amazing how many games can fit in a small cabinet.) Every evening, while the children watched Rudolph and Frosty downstairs, we worked.
December 23, we both realized something. Little Warrior's eyes were crossing. Almost immediately, we each had another realization. That it is rare, but Wilms' Tumor can relapse in the brain.
"It's subtle, not dramatic. I think we should wait until after Christmas. Give them a good Christmas. In case."
Somberly, The Husband said that he agreed completely.
7:30 am Dec. 25, we staggered out our bedroom as the children tumbled down the stairs. Santa came! Their stockings were stuffed and each had a couple of presents from Santa! Hmm. Perhaps Santa had decided not to help with the game room?
After ransacking our stockings, we went upstairs. The tv, about 15 years old, was outside the door. What the ... ?
We opened the door. In addition to all of our work, Santa had been there. He left a new tv. And Beatles Rock Band. And some videos and games.
I expected the children to be jumping up and down. Nope. Silently, barely breathing, they walked slowly around the room. For the first time ever, my children were speechless. "I'm overwhelmed," The Boy said.
And then ... Little Warrior sat down at the craft table. Bo Peep at the desk. And The Boy and The Princess sat down at what used to be their grandfather's chess table, and began playing.
Temporary insanity?
Eventually we made our way back downstairs for homemade cinnamon rolls and the rest of the presents from other family members.
Christmas afternoon arrived, bringing it with Lala and Pop Pop, our "adopted" grandparents, as well as The Hysteric Cleric and Mrs. Hysteric. Tofurkey and dry-brined turkey, agave carrots and potato gnocci. Wonderful company to be with, a party all around. And more presents, of course, including a very special book passed on from the HC from his library to mine.
Christmas evening comes and we can settle down now, just the family, in our new game room. "Bo Peep, go get me a towel from the laundry room," I instructed her. She came back, her mouth agape. "There's ... there's more presents, in the laundry room." "What's she talking about?" asked The Husband. "Y'all go down and help her," he told her siblings. They ran out and we giggled.
For the previous two weeks, amazon.com had run lightening deals on tons of games, selling them for 4.99. "I'm not getting anymore," I would inform the husband, and then they'd run another that was just too irresistible. We wrapped them all, and hid them in the laundry room, deciding on Christmas Eve that it would be more fun to wait until Christmas night to give them. We were right. "Monopoly!" "Clue!" "Guesstures!" "Trouble!"
We watched It's a Wonderful Life and cuddled with the children. And if we each hugged Little Warrior just a little harder and a little longer, it wasn't noticed by anyone.
Saturday, Sunday, holiday things and cleaning and leftovers. They wanted their friends to see the new playroom. Sunday night, The Boy could invite two friends to spend the night, then the next night The Princess, and so on. We dearly hoped.
Monday morning, woke up. Fears I had tried to basket up for the holiday were tumbled all around me now. I waited til the office would open, then called the pediatrician. She wouldn't be in all week, so I agreed to see the floating doctor. In the waiting room, in the tall high-rise, I noticed a ladybug crawling on the arm of LW's chair. A sign? A good sign? Or a sign to be strong? Superstitions are never clear in these cases. We were called back to see the Floater Doctor.
She gazed into LW's eyes. She didn't see anything, but one eye, she couldn't get the refraction she was looking for. Did I want her to call LW's oncologist or ... "I'll call," I said.
At home, I called to leave a message for Dr. Onc. "Hello," he answered, in person. I explained. "Before an MRI, let me have her see a special opthamologist who's here at the hospital." He promised to call right back. He did. "Tomorrow, 1 pm," he said, in his clipped, Indian accent. Half an hour later, he called back. "We were able to move things, so your appointment is now at 10 am." He didn't have to explain. I knew. If things went bad at the opthamologist, there would still be time for scans in the afternoon.
The Princess had her friend spent Monday night, after the friend's mom said it was fine that I would leave early in the morning, leaving them with The Boy. Make hay while the sun shines, thought I. The Husband came home. He had talked to his mother about when he had an eye patched, as a kid. "Maybe it's the same thing," he said hopefully.
Bo Peep wanted to invite her friend for Tuesday night. "Let's wait til after the doctor appointment," I said vaguely.
Woke up early. Made coffee. Fed LW, mentally calculating at what hour she could safely get anesthesia in case of MRI.
Drove to the hospital. Passed all the same things I have passed for the last three years. Got close. Got teary. Bitched at myself to suck it up, soldier. One message beat with my every heart beat: I do not want to be here again. I was not referring to physical location.
Wait wait wait for the doctor. Get teary. Get hyperventilatey. Pull out iPhone to look at anything. Check email ... perhaps there's a message from God letting me know everything will be fine? Got God's "out of the office" automatic responder. iPhone Air Hockey. Winner. Winner. Winner. Read waiting room books to LW. "Mama, you're holding me toooo tight!"
Our turn. Sitting in the patient chair, LW looks across the room. She correctly identifies what's on the screen. Covers the "good" eye. Can't read most of it. Hmm. Is that good or bad?
Old, experienced, kindly opthamologist comes in. He talked to our onc. He knows what is at stake. He examines her and turns to me. "I think it is an eye problem," he says. "Not a neurological problem." He smiles at me, but adds, "But I need to dilate her eyes, and then I will see you in half an hour."
Drops. Waiting. LW is bored. And then, it is our turn to go back. The Kindly Opthamologist looks and looks into each eye. He holds different things up to her eyes. "I am going to write some terms down for you," he explains. "You can google them when you get home." Apparently my reputation has preceded me.
LW is far-sighted. When her eyes try to focus, she looks cross-eyed. Some cute glasses, and she should be good as new. He'll see her again in a month.
I can't hide my tears of happiness, relief, gratitude. "Am I your only patient's mother to be so thrilled her daughter needs glasses?" He chuckles. "Oh, even parents who haven't gone through what you have, if they see crossed eyes, they think, 'brain tumor.'"
I had not told anyone. Not my parents, not the BFF-DRE nor the Hysteric Cleric, no Facebook, no blogging. Too many people are invested in my little girl. No need to make them worry.
Now, I let them all know. Now, like my mother, even though she hadn't known to be worried, she and they can feel relief.
Happy New Year to all.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Things That Matter to Me, Christmas Edition
This tree.
It is made of propofol bottles. When she was getting radiation, we met a gruff anesthesiologist in his 80s. He had retired, but came out of retirement to do anesthesiology for the radiation patients. See, the only people who need anesthesiology for radiation are those under the age of about 5. So every morning, he comes in and works a few hours, for those “special” patients who are all scheduled first thing in the morning.
The most common anesthesia is propofol. His nurse explained that he takes all the empty propofol bottles, cleans them, runs them through the sterilizer, then takes them home. He and his wife glue them together with special glass glue, stuff them with tinsel and Christmas lights, back the whole thing with a special Christmas Tree shaped piece of felt, and give the trees he’s made all year to the pediatric patients he sees in December.
Little Warrior was treated in May. But she got one anyway.
You can keep your Fitz and Floyd, your Spode. This glass tree holds a place of honor in our household.
This crèche.
The BFF-DRE’s father made this for me, at her request. Each piece hand-carved, carefully put together. Each piece came in one of Dad’s old socks, gathered by the BFF-DRE’s mom, to keep them unscratched.
But see, that’s how the BFF-DRE’s family is. My house is full of mouthless teddy bears (so you can tell them anything when your sister is going through chemo, and they’ll never tell a soul), heating pads, baby blankets and other goodies, all made by the BFF-DRE’s mom. There’s one reason the BFF-DRE feels called to serve the world. Did I mention that the BFF-DRE’s father “retired” … and stays busy busy busy with Habitat for Humanity? Apple.Tree. Not far.
A TV.
It’s taken different sizes through the years, but I am not ashamed to say that it’s also a big part of our Christmas season. Poor kitchen table, during December, it sees us only at breakfast time or when we’re cooling cookies. The rest of the time, we’re in the living room for meals. Meet Me in St. Louis, Christmas Vacation, It’s a Wonderful Life, Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas. Only one is my Moby Dick, and that is the original of A Christmas Memory, with Truman Capote doing the voice-over. (Reportedly slowed-down, because his natural voice was so so high. Apparently the master tapes have been lost. So sad.
But there are others to fill the gap. Polar Express, Elf, The Grinch (the original), A Christmas Story. Rudolph. Frosty. sigh. Home Alone. The Husband likes his humor of the Three Stooges type.
Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. You don’t want some Razzleberry Gravy? REALLY?
So I'm not ashamed to say it. This time of year, I'm thankful for our TV.
A Christmas Feast
Not a meal, it's a book, long since lost its cover. My mother gave it to me Christmas of 1979 and it's filled with all the familiar Christmas stories to thrill a little girl's heart. "Yes Virginia," and "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," and Gift of the Magi and A Christmas Carol in Prose and "Think of having a whole penny for your very own. Think of having a cup and a cake and a stick of candy AND a penny. There had never been such a Christmas." And some other, less familiar, but no less wonderful stories, like Agatha Christie's "The Water Bus." Oh, it's so wonderful. Read it, please. And "The Peterkins' Christmas Tree." A family who gets a Christmas tree and it's taller than the ceiling ... so they cut a hole in the ceiling! Fancy that!
Every December, I crack it open again to read a couple of these familiar friends.
It is made of propofol bottles. When she was getting radiation, we met a gruff anesthesiologist in his 80s. He had retired, but came out of retirement to do anesthesiology for the radiation patients. See, the only people who need anesthesiology for radiation are those under the age of about 5. So every morning, he comes in and works a few hours, for those “special” patients who are all scheduled first thing in the morning.
The most common anesthesia is propofol. His nurse explained that he takes all the empty propofol bottles, cleans them, runs them through the sterilizer, then takes them home. He and his wife glue them together with special glass glue, stuff them with tinsel and Christmas lights, back the whole thing with a special Christmas Tree shaped piece of felt, and give the trees he’s made all year to the pediatric patients he sees in December.
Little Warrior was treated in May. But she got one anyway.
You can keep your Fitz and Floyd, your Spode. This glass tree holds a place of honor in our household.
This crèche.
The BFF-DRE’s father made this for me, at her request. Each piece hand-carved, carefully put together. Each piece came in one of Dad’s old socks, gathered by the BFF-DRE’s mom, to keep them unscratched.
But see, that’s how the BFF-DRE’s family is. My house is full of mouthless teddy bears (so you can tell them anything when your sister is going through chemo, and they’ll never tell a soul), heating pads, baby blankets and other goodies, all made by the BFF-DRE’s mom. There’s one reason the BFF-DRE feels called to serve the world. Did I mention that the BFF-DRE’s father “retired” … and stays busy busy busy with Habitat for Humanity? Apple.Tree. Not far.
A TV.
It’s taken different sizes through the years, but I am not ashamed to say that it’s also a big part of our Christmas season. Poor kitchen table, during December, it sees us only at breakfast time or when we’re cooling cookies. The rest of the time, we’re in the living room for meals. Meet Me in St. Louis, Christmas Vacation, It’s a Wonderful Life, Emmet Otter’s Jug Band Christmas. Only one is my Moby Dick, and that is the original of A Christmas Memory, with Truman Capote doing the voice-over. (Reportedly slowed-down, because his natural voice was so so high. Apparently the master tapes have been lost. So sad.
But there are others to fill the gap. Polar Express, Elf, The Grinch (the original), A Christmas Story. Rudolph. Frosty. sigh. Home Alone. The Husband likes his humor of the Three Stooges type.
Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. You don’t want some Razzleberry Gravy? REALLY?
So I'm not ashamed to say it. This time of year, I'm thankful for our TV.
A Christmas Feast
Not a meal, it's a book, long since lost its cover. My mother gave it to me Christmas of 1979 and it's filled with all the familiar Christmas stories to thrill a little girl's heart. "Yes Virginia," and "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," and Gift of the Magi and A Christmas Carol in Prose and "Think of having a whole penny for your very own. Think of having a cup and a cake and a stick of candy AND a penny. There had never been such a Christmas." And some other, less familiar, but no less wonderful stories, like Agatha Christie's "The Water Bus." Oh, it's so wonderful. Read it, please. And "The Peterkins' Christmas Tree." A family who gets a Christmas tree and it's taller than the ceiling ... so they cut a hole in the ceiling! Fancy that!
Every December, I crack it open again to read a couple of these familiar friends.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The "Hollywood Ending" of Job
I have learned so much from my calls-himself-a-conservative-Christian-but-acts-like-a-liberal-theologian professor in my Old Testament class this year. “Comfortable with the ambiguity” is a phrase he uses about himself. Love it. I did not have to leave logic or reason at the door.
Upon one thing, however, we are in profound disagreement. And it is not so much a theological difference as a philosophical one.
Job.
Specifically, the ending of Job. We’re both fans of the book. He, however, sees the ending of Job as a Hollywood ending, tacked on, that negates the rest of the book.
Boy, do I disagree. I think it’s real, and not Hollywood. I think it gives hope, yes, but legitimate hope.
So, Job has gone through all his pain and catastrophe. He has sat on a garbage heap, scratching his sores with broken pottery. What a picture.
He survived his asshat friends asking him what he did wrong.
He has even survived the wrath of God for daring to ask God, “Why me???”
And his life takes another turn. He has more children. He has wealth. He has friends who come and love him. He lives to be old. I think it fair to say that he finds joy again.
Does that mean he doesn’t continue to mourn the children he has lost? Does that mean he doesn’t struggle with the knowledge that it can all be taken away again? I think not.
But he lives life again.
I don’t think this is a Hollywood ending. I think this is life, or it can be.
So many times, we have a wonderful phase of life. And then we have an excruciatingly bad time. Catastrophe. We feel like Job. We feel everything has been stripped away.
I do not count myself in this group. Little Warrior is alive and playing in another room. I have lost innocence, sure. I have lost time. But I have not lost everything, not even remotely close.
But I have seen my parents go through it. I have seen other friends, including my dear friend L who lost a son to leukemia years ago and was an angel sent to help me during LW’s first bout with the beast.
They’ve gone through feeling that life was not worth living, and never would be again. And yet … life returned. Joy returned.
As my friend L said to me, at one of the very worst moments, “You will get through this.”
I have seen others go through catastrophe – having to leave a partner who had mentally changed into someone else – and never quite recover. Losing a life they built. They say to themselves, “I have had my great joy. And now it is over. It will not come again.” They do not allow themselves to fully live again.
Job refutes that. The book of Job says, you can get through this. And life can be good again.
But you have to get through it. You have to say, I am not going to live the rest of my life in the shadow. I’m going to grab life and find meaning again.
I believe that happy endings are possible. But I also believe they take us making the choice, to say, “Yes. I will live. And I will live fully. Intentionally. And I will honor the gift of life by embracing it.” With all my heart, mind, soul, and strength.
Amen.
Upon one thing, however, we are in profound disagreement. And it is not so much a theological difference as a philosophical one.
Job.
Specifically, the ending of Job. We’re both fans of the book. He, however, sees the ending of Job as a Hollywood ending, tacked on, that negates the rest of the book.
Boy, do I disagree. I think it’s real, and not Hollywood. I think it gives hope, yes, but legitimate hope.
So, Job has gone through all his pain and catastrophe. He has sat on a garbage heap, scratching his sores with broken pottery. What a picture.
He survived his asshat friends asking him what he did wrong.
He has even survived the wrath of God for daring to ask God, “Why me???”
And his life takes another turn. He has more children. He has wealth. He has friends who come and love him. He lives to be old. I think it fair to say that he finds joy again.
Does that mean he doesn’t continue to mourn the children he has lost? Does that mean he doesn’t struggle with the knowledge that it can all be taken away again? I think not.
But he lives life again.
I don’t think this is a Hollywood ending. I think this is life, or it can be.
So many times, we have a wonderful phase of life. And then we have an excruciatingly bad time. Catastrophe. We feel like Job. We feel everything has been stripped away.
I do not count myself in this group. Little Warrior is alive and playing in another room. I have lost innocence, sure. I have lost time. But I have not lost everything, not even remotely close.
But I have seen my parents go through it. I have seen other friends, including my dear friend L who lost a son to leukemia years ago and was an angel sent to help me during LW’s first bout with the beast.
They’ve gone through feeling that life was not worth living, and never would be again. And yet … life returned. Joy returned.
As my friend L said to me, at one of the very worst moments, “You will get through this.”
I have seen others go through catastrophe – having to leave a partner who had mentally changed into someone else – and never quite recover. Losing a life they built. They say to themselves, “I have had my great joy. And now it is over. It will not come again.” They do not allow themselves to fully live again.
Job refutes that. The book of Job says, you can get through this. And life can be good again.
But you have to get through it. You have to say, I am not going to live the rest of my life in the shadow. I’m going to grab life and find meaning again.
I believe that happy endings are possible. But I also believe they take us making the choice, to say, “Yes. I will live. And I will live fully. Intentionally. And I will honor the gift of life by embracing it.” With all my heart, mind, soul, and strength.
Amen.
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Right Way to Do Christmas
Lotsa talk about the “right” way to do Christmas – how to sing the songs, what kind of cards to send, what to buy, what to eat, what to do.
I come from a long line of “doing it wrong” Christmases, so these things don’t bother me. Plus, I actually make fruitcake* some years, and always send out a printed holiday letter. We’ve been sending out photo cards for 15 years, back before kids, when it was just us and two cats we’d affixed antlers to. You gotta have thick skin to do those subversive things. (Thick skin helps with putting antlers on a cat, too.)
One of my favorite memories is from the Christmas I was pregnant with The Boy. The Husband and I were in our little Austin house, my sister had just moved there, and The Husband’s younger sister had come for the holiday.
We knew that the next day was going to be a challenge. I won’t get into all the details, other than to say family members were coming in, and there was an affair everyone knew about, and a mean grandmother and …. well, you get the picture.
But Christmas Eve, it was just the 4 of us. At some point, we decided to go downtown and take a carriage ride up and down Congress Ave. What fun! We were singing some of our favorite holiday songs – Merry Christmas from the Family, Please Daddy Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas, and others of that ilk.
Our carriage driver was not pleased. “Look at the other carriages!” she hissed at us. “They’re singing things like ‘Silent Night.’”
See. We were doing it wrong. And having a blast.
Back home about 10:30 pm. I remember the time, because I pulled out my guitar and we began singing more songs. For some reason, about 11:15, I started improv-ing a song about the next day’s festivities. It was bad. REALLY bad. Have I mentioned that the affair-person’s name was Rick? Which very conveniently rhymes with what we thought of him that year.
To quote Arlo Guthrie – “Hey, I knew it wasn’t the best song I’d ever wrote.”
They kept goading me on. At some point, they decided that it would be real cool if I continued riffing until midnight. My fingertips have never quite been the same.
The next day happened and it was, indeed, stilted, stiff, and not great.
But that Christmas Eve was fabulous.
--
On the “right” way to do Christmas, I just laugh. Because I have my things, too. Thank goodness both The Husband and I came from families that opened presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve. That might have been a deal breaker, there. There are certain things that really matter to me. But that’s a post for another day.
* It’s a dried apple cake soaked in brandy and it’s fabulous, too.
I come from a long line of “doing it wrong” Christmases, so these things don’t bother me. Plus, I actually make fruitcake* some years, and always send out a printed holiday letter. We’ve been sending out photo cards for 15 years, back before kids, when it was just us and two cats we’d affixed antlers to. You gotta have thick skin to do those subversive things. (Thick skin helps with putting antlers on a cat, too.)
One of my favorite memories is from the Christmas I was pregnant with The Boy. The Husband and I were in our little Austin house, my sister had just moved there, and The Husband’s younger sister had come for the holiday.
We knew that the next day was going to be a challenge. I won’t get into all the details, other than to say family members were coming in, and there was an affair everyone knew about, and a mean grandmother and …. well, you get the picture.
But Christmas Eve, it was just the 4 of us. At some point, we decided to go downtown and take a carriage ride up and down Congress Ave. What fun! We were singing some of our favorite holiday songs – Merry Christmas from the Family, Please Daddy Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas, and others of that ilk.
Our carriage driver was not pleased. “Look at the other carriages!” she hissed at us. “They’re singing things like ‘Silent Night.’”
See. We were doing it wrong. And having a blast.
Back home about 10:30 pm. I remember the time, because I pulled out my guitar and we began singing more songs. For some reason, about 11:15, I started improv-ing a song about the next day’s festivities. It was bad. REALLY bad. Have I mentioned that the affair-person’s name was Rick? Which very conveniently rhymes with what we thought of him that year.
To quote Arlo Guthrie – “Hey, I knew it wasn’t the best song I’d ever wrote.”
They kept goading me on. At some point, they decided that it would be real cool if I continued riffing until midnight. My fingertips have never quite been the same.
The next day happened and it was, indeed, stilted, stiff, and not great.
But that Christmas Eve was fabulous.
--
On the “right” way to do Christmas, I just laugh. Because I have my things, too. Thank goodness both The Husband and I came from families that opened presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve. That might have been a deal breaker, there. There are certain things that really matter to me. But that’s a post for another day.
* It’s a dried apple cake soaked in brandy and it’s fabulous, too.
Singing ... for non-singers
Unapologetic product plug ahead, but bigger questions/issues to follow. Do you know anything about singing meditaton?
I've kind of used the "When I breathe in, I breathe in peace ..." as a singing meditation, especially with my children. Then a friend brought my attention to a book she has out now.
You can also listen to some of the clips.
Listening to the clips, it felt very familiar. I was in a "goddess group" (we jokingly called ourselves the "Chocolotta Coven") some years ago. It was pretty laid back -- we'd sit in comfy chairs around a coffee table/altar, nothing High-Pagan about this, no robes, rarely a planned-out ritual. One of the things we'd do was chant and sing. No rhyme or reason -- one person would start with one, we'd sing that for a while, then another would begin a different one. I never felt self-conscious or weird -- we were all there because we wanted to be. And it was laid-back and comfortable.
Anyway, the chants/songs definitely enhanced the experience. I have to admit, I have a low comfort level for ... oh, what would I call it? Well, mentally, I call it "frolicking," based on a time many years ago, when those leading a spring church service announced, "Okay, now we're going to go out into the parking lot for a Spring Frolic!" There are people who can do that sort of thing with no inhibitions, no self-consciousness. I am not one.
I think it holds me back in some ways, and I'm working on that. Not so that I can frolic in the parking lot. But so that I don't let the outer "woo woo" trappings close me off from experimenting with things that may enhance my own spiritual practice and development. I mean, the thing I love most at church right now is our "Deep Listening" group. It took a little time to feel comfortable in the silence.
So I think I'm going to have to check this singing meditation out. Seems like a great idea for a covenant group.
I've kind of used the "When I breathe in, I breathe in peace ..." as a singing meditation, especially with my children. Then a friend brought my attention to a book she has out now.
You can also listen to some of the clips.
Listening to the clips, it felt very familiar. I was in a "goddess group" (we jokingly called ourselves the "Chocolotta Coven") some years ago. It was pretty laid back -- we'd sit in comfy chairs around a coffee table/altar, nothing High-Pagan about this, no robes, rarely a planned-out ritual. One of the things we'd do was chant and sing. No rhyme or reason -- one person would start with one, we'd sing that for a while, then another would begin a different one. I never felt self-conscious or weird -- we were all there because we wanted to be. And it was laid-back and comfortable.
Anyway, the chants/songs definitely enhanced the experience. I have to admit, I have a low comfort level for ... oh, what would I call it? Well, mentally, I call it "frolicking," based on a time many years ago, when those leading a spring church service announced, "Okay, now we're going to go out into the parking lot for a Spring Frolic!" There are people who can do that sort of thing with no inhibitions, no self-consciousness. I am not one.
I think it holds me back in some ways, and I'm working on that. Not so that I can frolic in the parking lot. But so that I don't let the outer "woo woo" trappings close me off from experimenting with things that may enhance my own spiritual practice and development. I mean, the thing I love most at church right now is our "Deep Listening" group. It took a little time to feel comfortable in the silence.
So I think I'm going to have to check this singing meditation out. Seems like a great idea for a covenant group.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Posole and Conversation
I am getting more and more like my father as I get older. It would probably be better for me if I were instead getting more like my mother -- she is genteel, dignified, and never leaves the house without a perfectly accessorized outfit and a list of errands and items needed. But instead, I leave the house to take LW to playschool, intending on returning straight home, only to get a thought of this or that and then find myself at Fiesta, looking for posole, clad in a velour jogging suit.
My father has a habit of getting into conversations with strangers, which makes my mother roll her eyes, and used to embarrass me. Well, now I am the one in those conversations. Now, sometimes, it's not my fault. People just come up and talk to me. The Husband swears this never happens to him. He is, however, 75% deaf, and thinks that I talk to him far less that I actually do. So it's possible there are many people wondering about that cute man who completely ignored them in the grocery store.
Anyway, so I am in our local Mexican grocery, looking for fresh posole, when a very nicely dressed lady addressed me. "They don't have the After Eight mints. Isn't that crazy? This is the time you need them!" We chatted a bit about After Eight mints. See now, I didn't initiate that one.
But I am completely culpable for the next. I was on a different aisle, loading up on Ibarra Mexican drinking chocolate tablets and picking up another molinillo, when I overheard a nice white lady asking a store employee about an enchilada sauce. "It's not a red sauce. We can't eat red sauce anymore. But it's on enchiladas."
The employee, confused, was directing her towards some instant mixes. I couldn't help myself. I spoke up. "What you want is 'chili gravy.' You can find a recipe for it online." I added, "If you don't find what you want in the mixes." She won't. There's no such thing as a chili gravy mix.
The lady responded, "It's not red sauce." She looked at me suspiciously, the way any normal person would look at a red headed white woman in a black velour jogging suit, who thought she knew better than the Mexican employee.
"Yes," I answered. "But are you looking for a brown sauce? That goes on Tex-Mex enchiladas?"
"Yes," she said.
"It's called 'chili gravy.' There's no meat in it, but that's what it's called. You start like you're making a regular gravy ..." She and I discussed the details.
I continued filling up my basket -- stuff for a Texas care package for the California relatives, some Zatarain's for our Christmas shrimp cocktail, a cream cheese empanada for me, since I forgot to eat breakfast, as I didn't know I was going to be running errands this morning.
I ran into the white lady a few rows later. She was looking at the mixes. "I'm going to look for that recipe," she promised me, guiltily.
Well, she will or she won't. There are those of us who get our answers from strangers in the grocery store, and those who don't.
I never did find that posole.
Robb Walsh's Chili Gravy Recipe, via Homesick Texan
My father has a habit of getting into conversations with strangers, which makes my mother roll her eyes, and used to embarrass me. Well, now I am the one in those conversations. Now, sometimes, it's not my fault. People just come up and talk to me. The Husband swears this never happens to him. He is, however, 75% deaf, and thinks that I talk to him far less that I actually do. So it's possible there are many people wondering about that cute man who completely ignored them in the grocery store.
Anyway, so I am in our local Mexican grocery, looking for fresh posole, when a very nicely dressed lady addressed me. "They don't have the After Eight mints. Isn't that crazy? This is the time you need them!" We chatted a bit about After Eight mints. See now, I didn't initiate that one.
But I am completely culpable for the next. I was on a different aisle, loading up on Ibarra Mexican drinking chocolate tablets and picking up another molinillo, when I overheard a nice white lady asking a store employee about an enchilada sauce. "It's not a red sauce. We can't eat red sauce anymore. But it's on enchiladas."
The employee, confused, was directing her towards some instant mixes. I couldn't help myself. I spoke up. "What you want is 'chili gravy.' You can find a recipe for it online." I added, "If you don't find what you want in the mixes." She won't. There's no such thing as a chili gravy mix.
The lady responded, "It's not red sauce." She looked at me suspiciously, the way any normal person would look at a red headed white woman in a black velour jogging suit, who thought she knew better than the Mexican employee.
"Yes," I answered. "But are you looking for a brown sauce? That goes on Tex-Mex enchiladas?"
"Yes," she said.
"It's called 'chili gravy.' There's no meat in it, but that's what it's called. You start like you're making a regular gravy ..." She and I discussed the details.
I continued filling up my basket -- stuff for a Texas care package for the California relatives, some Zatarain's for our Christmas shrimp cocktail, a cream cheese empanada for me, since I forgot to eat breakfast, as I didn't know I was going to be running errands this morning.
I ran into the white lady a few rows later. She was looking at the mixes. "I'm going to look for that recipe," she promised me, guiltily.
Well, she will or she won't. There are those of us who get our answers from strangers in the grocery store, and those who don't.
I never did find that posole.
Robb Walsh's Chili Gravy Recipe, via Homesick Texan
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