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.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
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
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Lizard Eater's Hat Goes to the Big Easy
Auspicious Jots left her home and went to Mississippi to do good work. After that, she drove to New Orleans. Lizard Eater finished up with LW's scans and a big ugly Old Testament midterm, farmed out her kids to accommodating fools, I mean, wonderful people, and also drove to New Orleans. Accompanying those two were Bad Bad Man and The Husband.
Jots recognized me right away, even though I was traveling incognito.
blogcognito? inblognito?
Bad Bad Man is practically an honorary citizen of New Orleans, so we put ourselves in his capable hands. The Husband mentioned that he is a fan of hole-in-the-walls, so BBM took us to nothing but hole-in-the-walls. Dives. Dark and funky. Fabulous, delicious food. Jots wouldn't use the ladies' room in any of them.
She has issues.
Actually, the first was not dark. But it was funky in that you should be thankful you get to eat there, and shaddup about the service. Mother's. We stuffed ourselves with cafe au lait, eggs, biscuits, homemade sausage and grits. Ahhh. Jots had fresh fruit. There's a reason she's built like Barbie.
After Mother's, we went back out into the drizzly rain well fortified. Walked around a bit, then headed into a hole-in-the wall bar/laundry/game room.
My clothes would have been much cleaner in college had we one of those.
Hung out, chatted, talked about our most interesting jobs. I could tell ya, but you know, then I'd have to kill you.
After that, we took a streetcar for a bit of a journey. Tip: don't let Jots ride sideways.
After she recovered, we headed to Cooter Brown's. It's a sports bar with really killer food. Jots, BBM and The Husband scarfed down some oysters before we dove into plump, perfectly cooked fried shrimp and muffalettas.
Mmmm.Later on that day, in amongst our wanderings, we found a pretty special forest. This was right after I spotted a white-bearded fella in a red shirt. "Look!" I squ
ealed, pulling on BBM's sleeve. "It's Santa Claus!""Huh. Looks like the same guy who asked me for a dollar yesterday," he said.
Well, duh! How do you think he buys all the toys for all the girls and boys???
Anyway, after that, we found the magic forest. Now I know where white flocked trees are born.
That evening, before we headed out for dinner, The Husband made them one of his famous margaritas. They marveled at them. "This really is the perfect margarita," they said. Yep. No argument here.
For dinner, we met friends of BBM at Mulate's. Zydeco music, great food, yum.
Ostensibly, Jots has retired from ministry. After being around her for 48 hours and watching her minister to everyone including the kindly white-haired gentleman whom she danced with, I say, "Um, tell me when you actually retire." You can take the girl outta the church, but you can't take the church out of the supposedly retired minister.
BBM's friend brought Jots something she'd left at a funeral convention. This is the sort of thing that makes her squeal with delight. Dead Marilyn.
Jots and I danced, thus liberating the floor for other same-sex couples, including an apparent threesome of suburban looking moms. Jots' observation: two women on a dancefloor will dance. Three will stand there and talk.
The Husband and I danced, Jots and BBM danced, Jots and the kindly white-haired gentleman danced.
We ate till we thought we'd pop. Shrimp and corn bisque, frog legs, crawfish, catfish, jambalaya, etouffee ... Laissez les bon temps roulez!
Sunday morning, we got up and headed down to the French market. Touristy, but I wanted a little Cafe du Monde. Cafe au lait et beignets, oui? Ah, non non non. Line going about 2 blocks long. We skipped that and hit a cafe for more grits etc. And coffee!
"Jots, if I take a picture in here, it'll be back lit."
"That's just the way I like 'em, Baby."
She is wise, my friend Jots.
Then, it was time for a mule-drawn carriage ride! On Jeeves! To the cemetery!
"Um, Liz?" said The Husband.
"Yeah?"
"Jots is positively beaming."
"Um, Liz?" said The Husband.
"Yeah?"
"Jots is positively beaming."Death becomes her. Really.
We wandered around, marveling at the generations of families all buried in the same crypt. Frankly, I'm envious.
Bad Bad Man found Marie Laveau's grave. He should be careful. I'm sure there's a few women who bought voodoo dolls of him in his youth.
Have I mentioned all the truly horrible dirty jokes he told during this trip? And the fact that my sweet Husband was egging him on?
He's a bad influence.
I'm not saying which one.
It was some time after this, once we'd be returned to the Market, that Jot's knee went out. I mean, OUT. Rheumatoid Arthritis ain't for sissies, folks. We propped her up against a streetpole and continued our souvenir shopping.
Oh, please, it's not like we didn't bring her back a tshirt.
Through a combination of piggy back rides on BBM's back and using The Husband and me as crutches, we managed to cripple down to Coop's, another great divey hole-in-the-wall bar with great food. No, great doesn't do it justice. Incredible.
But first, a Sazerac for me, Bloody Marys for them.
We wandered around, marveling at the generations of families all buried in the same crypt. Frankly, I'm envious.
Bad Bad Man found Marie Laveau's grave. He should be careful. I'm sure there's a few women who bought voodoo dolls of him in his youth.
Have I mentioned all the truly horrible dirty jokes he told during this trip? And the fact that my sweet Husband was egging him on?
He's a bad influence.
I'm not saying which one.
It was some time after this, once we'd be returned to the Market, that Jot's knee went out. I mean, OUT. Rheumatoid Arthritis ain't for sissies, folks. We propped her up against a streetpole and continued our souvenir shopping.
Oh, please, it's not like we didn't bring her back a tshirt.
Through a combination of piggy back rides on BBM's back and using The Husband and me as crutches, we managed to cripple down to Coop's, another great divey hole-in-the-wall bar with great food. No, great doesn't do it justice. Incredible.
But first, a Sazerac for me, Bloody Marys for them.
Lunch: four bowls of dark seafood gumbo, followed by plates of shrimp etouffe, jambalaya, red beans and rice, and the most incredible fried chicken I have ever tasted. Ever. And I'm a southerner, y'all. We were moaning with joy. Wisely, we split two plates, so we weren't quite groaning with pain.
Bad Bad Man and The Husband went back to the hotel to get the cars. Gimpie's knee was doing a little better, so we slowly strolled around. There's so many great signs under which to take a person's picture!
Trashy Diva. I mean, really, what can top that?
Well, for Death Becomes Her ...
He's a Bad, Bad Man. But he's a heck of a tour guide. Priceless.
Bad Bad Man and The Husband went back to the hotel to get the cars. Gimpie's knee was doing a little better, so we slowly strolled around. There's so many great signs under which to take a person's picture!
Trashy Diva. I mean, really, what can top that?
Well, for Death Becomes Her ...
He's a Bad, Bad Man. But he's a heck of a tour guide. Priceless.
Go to New Orleans. Drink a Sazerac. Dance to Zydeco. Eat some crab claws. And know that you're helping a great place return to life. In return, it'll give you a little extra life in your life.
Even if death becomes you.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Radically Inclusive
I want the radically inclusive church. I mean, really radically inclusive.
A few years ago, the big buzz you heard at all the UU things was "Radical Hospitality." I went home from GA or Fall Conference or wherever it was, and looked on half.com for a book about radical hospitality. Found one. Bought it.
Boy, was this NOT the book all the UU's were talking about.
Puhleease, we talk about radical hospitality and often what we mean is "don't ignore people when they come into your church." That's not radical anything.
This book I picked up was written by some missionary-type Christians. They talked about picking up homeless folks and taking them home with them. And that, my friends, is radical hospitality. Not that I'm recommending you (or I) do the same. Just don't pat yourself on the back because you engaged someone in conversation and think that you're radically hospitable.
So, forgetting missionaries for the moment, what do I think RADICAL inclusivity within a UU church would look like?
Well, I can thank The Husband for this. As I mentioned earlier, I recently preached a sermon on Isaiah 6:8 at my seminary. I said "God" - a lot. I talked about being convicted by the Holy Spirit.
I am not a Christian. My definition of "God" is most probably quite different from that of my classmates. But I tell you and mean it: I did not say a single thing I don't believe.
The Husband heard my sermon, a few hundred times. (Well, I practiced it a lot, I knew I wasn't using a script.) It's a great sermon, he said. You should give it at church.
Uh, yeah, with a whole lot of editing.
See, I don't understand that, he said. (He is often about UU things as I am about communion -- if you didn't grow up with them, they're odd.) "UUs talk about being so pluralist, so inclusive. We have banners on the wall from different religions. So, you should be able to stand up and do that sermon."
Rabbi Shaman and I were talking about this recently. About having a UU message from the pulpit, but utilizing religious language that is Jewish, Christian, Pagan, Muslim, all those cool symbols and flags we post around the church ...
I think that would be radically inclusive. I don't think radically inclusive means that you exclude anything that might push someone out of their comfort zone.
Of course, you could have a church where the vast majority love the sort of language used by Christopher Hitchens.
Maybe the next "radical" that we're going to embrace is "radical congregational polity."
Huh. Now that might be interesting.
A few years ago, the big buzz you heard at all the UU things was "Radical Hospitality." I went home from GA or Fall Conference or wherever it was, and looked on half.com for a book about radical hospitality. Found one. Bought it.
Boy, was this NOT the book all the UU's were talking about.
Puhleease, we talk about radical hospitality and often what we mean is "don't ignore people when they come into your church." That's not radical anything.
This book I picked up was written by some missionary-type Christians. They talked about picking up homeless folks and taking them home with them. And that, my friends, is radical hospitality. Not that I'm recommending you (or I) do the same. Just don't pat yourself on the back because you engaged someone in conversation and think that you're radically hospitable.
So, forgetting missionaries for the moment, what do I think RADICAL inclusivity within a UU church would look like?
Well, I can thank The Husband for this. As I mentioned earlier, I recently preached a sermon on Isaiah 6:8 at my seminary. I said "God" - a lot. I talked about being convicted by the Holy Spirit.
I am not a Christian. My definition of "God" is most probably quite different from that of my classmates. But I tell you and mean it: I did not say a single thing I don't believe.
The Husband heard my sermon, a few hundred times. (Well, I practiced it a lot, I knew I wasn't using a script.) It's a great sermon, he said. You should give it at church.
Uh, yeah, with a whole lot of editing.
See, I don't understand that, he said. (He is often about UU things as I am about communion -- if you didn't grow up with them, they're odd.) "UUs talk about being so pluralist, so inclusive. We have banners on the wall from different religions. So, you should be able to stand up and do that sermon."
Rabbi Shaman and I were talking about this recently. About having a UU message from the pulpit, but utilizing religious language that is Jewish, Christian, Pagan, Muslim, all those cool symbols and flags we post around the church ...
I think that would be radically inclusive. I don't think radically inclusive means that you exclude anything that might push someone out of their comfort zone.
Of course, you could have a church where the vast majority love the sort of language used by Christopher Hitchens.
Maybe the next "radical" that we're going to embrace is "radical congregational polity."
Huh. Now that might be interesting.
Some of our best friends are straight ...
One of the things I love about LIFE if that if well-lived, you just keep learning stuff till the day you die. New experiences. New understandings.
Let me tell you about my father.
He came from a small town, and when he was college age, he went to visit a friend he’d grown up with. Well, the friend had two male roommates, one of whom was extremely flamboyant. That’s how he found out his friend was gay. This was in the late 1940s. My father was so shaken by this, he beat a hasty retreat. For years – no, decades – he was convinced that gays “recruit” young men. No arguments would sway him.
Round about his 60’s, three things happened: he got to know my brother’s law partner, whom he highly respected, and who is gay. He began reading those articles that said you’re born gay. And then, after retirement, he and my Mom were adopted by their new next-door neighbors, “The Boys,” a middle-aged gay couple.
He’s 80 years old, and if his knees could handle it, my dad would now be marching for gay rights, especially gay marriage.
This Thanksgiving, my parents will be going to dinner at The Boys’ house. There will be a total of 8 people – my parents, The Boys, another gay couple whom my parents are fond of, and a transgender lesbian couple.
My mother has raised an eyebrow over the years at her “Let Your Freak Flag Fly” kids and our friends, so it was with great pleasure that I asked her, with as serious a tone as I could muster, “Do you have any straight friends?”
She thought about it for a moment. Last Sunday, they hosted another couple for brunch. The nice lesbian couple from down the street.
“Well, not really,” she said. “We really should get ourselves to that little UU church congregation in town so we can meet some people like us.”
Yeah. No chance they’d meet anyone LGBT in a UU church.
Let me tell you about my father.
He came from a small town, and when he was college age, he went to visit a friend he’d grown up with. Well, the friend had two male roommates, one of whom was extremely flamboyant. That’s how he found out his friend was gay. This was in the late 1940s. My father was so shaken by this, he beat a hasty retreat. For years – no, decades – he was convinced that gays “recruit” young men. No arguments would sway him.
Round about his 60’s, three things happened: he got to know my brother’s law partner, whom he highly respected, and who is gay. He began reading those articles that said you’re born gay. And then, after retirement, he and my Mom were adopted by their new next-door neighbors, “The Boys,” a middle-aged gay couple.
He’s 80 years old, and if his knees could handle it, my dad would now be marching for gay rights, especially gay marriage.
This Thanksgiving, my parents will be going to dinner at The Boys’ house. There will be a total of 8 people – my parents, The Boys, another gay couple whom my parents are fond of, and a transgender lesbian couple.
My mother has raised an eyebrow over the years at her “Let Your Freak Flag Fly” kids and our friends, so it was with great pleasure that I asked her, with as serious a tone as I could muster, “Do you have any straight friends?”
She thought about it for a moment. Last Sunday, they hosted another couple for brunch. The nice lesbian couple from down the street.
“Well, not really,” she said. “We really should get ourselves to that little UU church congregation in town so we can meet some people like us.”
Yeah. No chance they’d meet anyone LGBT in a UU church.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
What do we prove?
After taking my OT midterm, I headed to the mall to exchange out my Mac power cord that died on me while studying for said midterms. After that, I did a little wandering, and was snared by one of those kiosk guys -- this one, selling some sort of a nail care kit.
He was good -- I'm usually adept at the polite smile and moving on, but I found myself in his clutches, literally, as he polished up one of my fingernails.
Now, don't tell Peacebang, but my hands are just not a point of beauty focus for me. Between cooking, playing guitar, helping kids build volcanoes, my fingertips are all about the functional, baby. If I manage to not have dirt under the nails or jagged edges, I am pretty fancy indeed.
But I had to admit, his little buffing, lotioning, was pretty dramatic. Looked like my fingernail had been polished. I wasn't even looking to buy, but he proved it to me.
So, since I'd been thinking about what we're selling in our churches, this made me think about us -- what do we prove? Especially to the people who aren't even looking to buy?
The price for this nail kit was too rich for my blood, so I moved on. But the next time I'm in a Walgreens, I'm probably going to pick up a little buffer set.
They work. Someone proved it to me.
He was good -- I'm usually adept at the polite smile and moving on, but I found myself in his clutches, literally, as he polished up one of my fingernails.
Now, don't tell Peacebang, but my hands are just not a point of beauty focus for me. Between cooking, playing guitar, helping kids build volcanoes, my fingertips are all about the functional, baby. If I manage to not have dirt under the nails or jagged edges, I am pretty fancy indeed.
But I had to admit, his little buffing, lotioning, was pretty dramatic. Looked like my fingernail had been polished. I wasn't even looking to buy, but he proved it to me.
So, since I'd been thinking about what we're selling in our churches, this made me think about us -- what do we prove? Especially to the people who aren't even looking to buy?
The price for this nail kit was too rich for my blood, so I moved on. But the next time I'm in a Walgreens, I'm probably going to pick up a little buffer set.
They work. Someone proved it to me.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
REAL EGGS!
A couple of weeks ago, I passed a small restaurant, and on the marquee, their words were:
REAL EGGS!
I drove past it, and about a mile down the road asked The Husband, "Is that really their big selling point?"
I mean, I could understand it this were wartime, or the Depression. They would be differentiating between themselves and those places selling powdered eggs. But now? Can you even buy powdered eggs anymore?
That got me to thinking about our churches, though. Are we still selling ourselves based on the circumstances from decades ago?
I mean, saying, "You have freedom of belief here!" is kind of like "Real Eggs!" isn't it? In a world of Bishop Spongs and Christopher Dawkins and heck, the New York Times, what are we really trying to sell? Our competition isn't the Assemblies of God Church down the road. Our competition is the Sunday news shows and soccer games and sleeping late. Guess what? The people watching Meet the Press and reading The New Yorker already have Freedom of Belief.
I don't want to try a new restaurant for REAL EGGS. You're going to have to find something else to sell me.
REAL EGGS!
I drove past it, and about a mile down the road asked The Husband, "Is that really their big selling point?"
I mean, I could understand it this were wartime, or the Depression. They would be differentiating between themselves and those places selling powdered eggs. But now? Can you even buy powdered eggs anymore?
That got me to thinking about our churches, though. Are we still selling ourselves based on the circumstances from decades ago?
I mean, saying, "You have freedom of belief here!" is kind of like "Real Eggs!" isn't it? In a world of Bishop Spongs and Christopher Dawkins and heck, the New York Times, what are we really trying to sell? Our competition isn't the Assemblies of God Church down the road. Our competition is the Sunday news shows and soccer games and sleeping late. Guess what? The people watching Meet the Press and reading The New Yorker already have Freedom of Belief.
I don't want to try a new restaurant for REAL EGGS. You're going to have to find something else to sell me.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Arrrgh
No phone call from the doctor yet.
So, no news.
It could be something real simple, like the doctor is out of town, or too busy, or anything.
Or.
Or there's something he's unsure of. And he needs to wait for the radiologist to make an official report.
You know, I remember being in college, studying for a Shakespeare exam. It was a hard one, too. And some students down the hall were being loud. I thought it was impossible to study.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Studying, A Haiku by Lizard Eater
Noise outside is loud
But just a whisper, next to
Noise inside my head
So, no news.
It could be something real simple, like the doctor is out of town, or too busy, or anything.
Or.
Or there's something he's unsure of. And he needs to wait for the radiologist to make an official report.
You know, I remember being in college, studying for a Shakespeare exam. It was a hard one, too. And some students down the hall were being loud. I thought it was impossible to study.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Studying, A Haiku by Lizard Eater
Noise outside is loud
But just a whisper, next to
Noise inside my head
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Can't Study Clowns Will Eat Me
Can't Study Clowns Will Eat Me Can't Study Clowns Will Eat Me Can't Study Clowns Will Eat Me
Things have been crazy ... yet great. Preached 5 times within 13 days. (Got double points today -- 2 services.) Assessment. An interfaith dinner. A baby shower. Stuff. Good stuff. It feels like things are moving. After five years, I'm seeing progress. Maybe I really will be a minister when I grow up.
My Big Fat Old Testament Midterm is Wednesday. Technically, a 3/4 term, but Wednesday it is. Studying, studying. Well, trying to. "Be able to place all of the latter prophets (Isaiah-Malachi) in their historical context, which might include date, circumstances, and contemporaries (both biblical and non-biblical). Also know the basic purpose or theme of each latter prophet" was one of the study hints.
If I take in my Assessment Tests that show that I am highly an abstract thinker, think I can get a pass?
Yeah, I don't think so, either.
Of course, the real issue isn't study style or thinking style or any of it.
Tomorrow, scans.
Specifically, tomorrow is 1 year scans. And an echocardiogram to see if the Doxorubicin gave any ill effects to her heart.
Meanwhile, Little Warrior is bouncing up and down, "Again, again! The Black-Eyed Peas!" We are watching their clip from SNL, singing "I Gotta Feeling." She shakes her booty. She shouts, "Let's kick it!" She sings, "Mazel Tov," turning around to inform me, "We say that!"
Will I know by tomorrow night? Will I be dancing, singing, shaking my booty tomorrow night?
Or.
You'll have to excuse me, just for tonight. I try to avoid the self-pity. Everybody's got something, as they say. It's just really hard to study for a test on Wednesday, knowing that tomorrow, my life could stop and begin spinning backward. Again.
This could be a really good week. Scans tomorrow. Get that mid-term out of the way Wednesday. My beloved Deep Listening group Wed night. Follow up with the doc on Thursday, which is highly enjoyable when, you know, it's good news. Friday, we toss our children into different households and meet Auspicious Jots and her entourage in the Big Easy.
It could be a fabulous week.
please.
Things have been crazy ... yet great. Preached 5 times within 13 days. (Got double points today -- 2 services.) Assessment. An interfaith dinner. A baby shower. Stuff. Good stuff. It feels like things are moving. After five years, I'm seeing progress. Maybe I really will be a minister when I grow up.
My Big Fat Old Testament Midterm is Wednesday. Technically, a 3/4 term, but Wednesday it is. Studying, studying. Well, trying to. "Be able to place all of the latter prophets (Isaiah-Malachi) in their historical context, which might include date, circumstances, and contemporaries (both biblical and non-biblical). Also know the basic purpose or theme of each latter prophet" was one of the study hints.
If I take in my Assessment Tests that show that I am highly an abstract thinker, think I can get a pass?
Yeah, I don't think so, either.
Of course, the real issue isn't study style or thinking style or any of it.
Tomorrow, scans.
Specifically, tomorrow is 1 year scans. And an echocardiogram to see if the Doxorubicin gave any ill effects to her heart.
Meanwhile, Little Warrior is bouncing up and down, "Again, again! The Black-Eyed Peas!" We are watching their clip from SNL, singing "I Gotta Feeling." She shakes her booty. She shouts, "Let's kick it!" She sings, "Mazel Tov," turning around to inform me, "We say that!"
Will I know by tomorrow night? Will I be dancing, singing, shaking my booty tomorrow night?
Or.
You'll have to excuse me, just for tonight. I try to avoid the self-pity. Everybody's got something, as they say. It's just really hard to study for a test on Wednesday, knowing that tomorrow, my life could stop and begin spinning backward. Again.
This could be a really good week. Scans tomorrow. Get that mid-term out of the way Wednesday. My beloved Deep Listening group Wed night. Follow up with the doc on Thursday, which is highly enjoyable when, you know, it's good news. Friday, we toss our children into different households and meet Auspicious Jots and her entourage in the Big Easy.
It could be a fabulous week.
please.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
A-HA! on that Freedom From Religion Ad
Well, I got my UU World today. It recounts some of the letters for and against the infamous Freedom From Religion ad. Old news, now. And then, at the end of the wrap, on page 13, comes a reply from Annie Laurie Gaylor, co-president of the Freedom From Religion Foundation:
They, and I, were mind-boggled by YOUR ad. Respect has always been a part of Unitarian Universalism. Mocking and belittling others is NOT a part of my religion -- it is a part of yours? Oh, I forgot. You want freedom from religion.
Yeah. I get that.
"Our ad was not an attack on the UUA, it was an espousal of the views of most Unitarians! Perhaps the infiltration of the UUA by new members who are not freethinking, who do not really understand its creedless position, accounts for this mind-boggling reaction."And suddenly, I get it. If you believe that those who have a problem with that ad are exclusively:
- new UUs
- not freethinking
- not understanding the creedlessness of Unitarian Universalism
They, and I, were mind-boggled by YOUR ad. Respect has always been a part of Unitarian Universalism. Mocking and belittling others is NOT a part of my religion -- it is a part of yours? Oh, I forgot. You want freedom from religion.
Yeah. I get that.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Assess This!
Got up at 3:45 am Monday morning and flew to the town of my candidate career assessment. Intensive and intimate, but since my personality is the open and ready to share type (you've never noticed that, right?), nothing bad. And I now have the test results to prove that I'm the open and ready to share type. And an extravert. And a big picture person. And "Joyful."
Very nice assessor, willing to go deep with me. No surprises in the assessment. Before we went over the test results, my assessor asked me to pick five words about myself. All five were represented in my test results, often in capital letters. So, I got confirmation that I know myself. Hmm. Is there a teensiest bit of disappointment, that perhaps there was some secret deep inside that even I didn't know about? Alas, I am no woman of mystery. Like Popeye, I yam what I yam.
And part of that, very comforting, is that I am, boringly so, of a personality type that is a good fit with ministry. There was some concern about my preternatural appreciation for ABBA, but with some trepidation, the assessor agreed that it's not technically a psychosis.
Now for those not in the candidating loop, the assessment centers where you are sent are specifically for those entering ministry, and we UUs (at least at the one I went to), are a tiny percent of the patrons, most of them being Methodist, Lutheran, and so on. I say that to give some background to the following exchange:
I was telling my assessor about a numinous experience I had this summer. I said something about "of course, it wasn't like a literal voice from the heavens, and it certainly could be my imagination, and I'm okay with that; imagination and God are certainly not ...
"Why do you do that?" she interrupted me.
I knew what she was referring to. "Because I'm a Unitarian!!!" I said. And we both laughed.
And then we talked further about that. And I spoke plainly, without all of the extraneous protestations -- "God said to me ..."
We talked about why I feel the need to do all the explanations, clarifications, justifications, about how I am often speaking to people who have a wide range of understandings of the divine.
"Do you feel that is burdensome, or a challenge you relish?"
And I had never thought of it before, but the question made me smile. And light up. And say, "A challenge I relish." Because it's not about proving my vision of a divine. Or trying to convince others. It's about finding the common grounds in all of our understandings. This was a bit revelatory because I have had the experience of mentally rolling my eyes as we split into subparticles yet another word or concept. Really, Bill Clinton must be a Unitarian -- "It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is." -- classic UU! But it's a challenge I relish. For the past few weeks, I've been cogitating on a definition of God, fit for those who do not believe in anything transcendent. But that's a post for another day ...
A world where people just nodded in agreement if I said, "God said to me ..."? How flat! How boring! How spiritually lazy I could become!
(That doesn't mean I don't want it sometimes and want to keep my tight group of intimates whom they know what I mean, and I know what they mean, and we can skip all that.)
Now, this did bring up another issue -- that of being authentic. Which I've taken to refer to being upfront and honest about your doubts and uncertainties, but she made the point that if you believe in the transcendent, but don't own it, ya ain't being authentic.
So, I haven't seen the official report yet, but my assessment of my assessment is:
* I know myself
* I want to be a minister
* I'm a Unitarian Universalist
We ended early, and I had given myself a good cushion of time before my flight "just in case," so I wound up at the airport with 4 hours to waste. I asked about switching my flight, and learned that my time isn't worth very much, as I was unwilling to pay $87 to change it. Called The Husband, told him about the assessment and that I was just going to use the extra time to study for my Big Fat Old Testament Midterm.
And proceeded to instead eat a cinnabon and cruise Facebook.
My assessor probably would have predicted that.
Very nice assessor, willing to go deep with me. No surprises in the assessment. Before we went over the test results, my assessor asked me to pick five words about myself. All five were represented in my test results, often in capital letters. So, I got confirmation that I know myself. Hmm. Is there a teensiest bit of disappointment, that perhaps there was some secret deep inside that even I didn't know about? Alas, I am no woman of mystery. Like Popeye, I yam what I yam.
And part of that, very comforting, is that I am, boringly so, of a personality type that is a good fit with ministry. There was some concern about my preternatural appreciation for ABBA, but with some trepidation, the assessor agreed that it's not technically a psychosis.
Now for those not in the candidating loop, the assessment centers where you are sent are specifically for those entering ministry, and we UUs (at least at the one I went to), are a tiny percent of the patrons, most of them being Methodist, Lutheran, and so on. I say that to give some background to the following exchange:
I was telling my assessor about a numinous experience I had this summer. I said something about "of course, it wasn't like a literal voice from the heavens, and it certainly could be my imagination, and I'm okay with that; imagination and God are certainly not ...
"Why do you do that?" she interrupted me.
I knew what she was referring to. "Because I'm a Unitarian!!!" I said. And we both laughed.
And then we talked further about that. And I spoke plainly, without all of the extraneous protestations -- "God said to me ..."
We talked about why I feel the need to do all the explanations, clarifications, justifications, about how I am often speaking to people who have a wide range of understandings of the divine.
"Do you feel that is burdensome, or a challenge you relish?"
And I had never thought of it before, but the question made me smile. And light up. And say, "A challenge I relish." Because it's not about proving my vision of a divine. Or trying to convince others. It's about finding the common grounds in all of our understandings. This was a bit revelatory because I have had the experience of mentally rolling my eyes as we split into subparticles yet another word or concept. Really, Bill Clinton must be a Unitarian -- "It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is." -- classic UU! But it's a challenge I relish. For the past few weeks, I've been cogitating on a definition of God, fit for those who do not believe in anything transcendent. But that's a post for another day ...
A world where people just nodded in agreement if I said, "God said to me ..."? How flat! How boring! How spiritually lazy I could become!
(That doesn't mean I don't want it sometimes and want to keep my tight group of intimates whom they know what I mean, and I know what they mean, and we can skip all that.)
Now, this did bring up another issue -- that of being authentic. Which I've taken to refer to being upfront and honest about your doubts and uncertainties, but she made the point that if you believe in the transcendent, but don't own it, ya ain't being authentic.
So, I haven't seen the official report yet, but my assessment of my assessment is:
* I know myself
* I want to be a minister
* I'm a Unitarian Universalist
We ended early, and I had given myself a good cushion of time before my flight "just in case," so I wound up at the airport with 4 hours to waste. I asked about switching my flight, and learned that my time isn't worth very much, as I was unwilling to pay $87 to change it. Called The Husband, told him about the assessment and that I was just going to use the extra time to study for my Big Fat Old Testament Midterm.
And proceeded to instead eat a cinnabon and cruise Facebook.
My assessor probably would have predicted that.
Monday, November 09, 2009
"I Am Jesus."
Mother-in-love came up and stayed with the family today so that I could fly away and get my assessment. Conversation she had with Little Warrior -- they were listening to Christmas music in the car (MIL is in a church choir and learning some new songs):
LW: They said 'Jesus!'
MIL: Um-hm. What do you know about Jesus?
LW: I am Jesus.
MIL: Uh ... what do you mean by that?
LW: Well, like, when I take cupcakes to the hospital.
Sure beats the Apostles Creed for me.
LW: They said 'Jesus!'
MIL: Um-hm. What do you know about Jesus?
LW: I am Jesus.
MIL: Uh ... what do you mean by that?
LW: Well, like, when I take cupcakes to the hospital.
Sure beats the Apostles Creed for me.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Skydiving with an Outline
Ogre said, "I want to hear more about the first steps on that path to no manuscript."
First, you have to really want it. It is definitely skydiving without a parachute. Well, not entirely -- that would be preaching without any notes. I still had my one page outline, even if it was on the lectern behind me.
Is it worth it? Oh yeah! Warning: it just may ruin ya for using a manuscript. Today, I guest-preached at one of my favorite little churches. I was doing a sermon I've given at other churches; it is heavy with the quotes, so I wasn't even going to attempt to not use my manuscript.
Meh.
I mean, they liked it, it seemed to go well. But for me, it was like the difference between giving pastoral care over the phone versus sitting next to the person. There is an intimacy that comes from eye contact, and when you have less time looking down at notes and more time with the eye contact ... and even better, when you can roam down next to people ... it's addictive, I tell ya.
So, how to do it?
1) You do have a manuscript as a part of the process. In Power in the Pulpit: How America's Most Effective Black Preachers Prepare Their Sermons edited by Cleophus James LaRue, most of the preachers talk about manuscript as an important part of their process. By writing out a manuscript -- not just an outline -- you find the rhythm of the sermon, and you find particular turns of phrase that you want to be sure to remember.
2) After that, create your "pulpit outline." I learned to do it on one page, horizontal layout, two columns, like a book. (Because I'm at a Christian seminary, and many of the preachers here will put their outline in their bible.) This includes a little information about your introduction, the proposition/big idea of your sermon, the main points, and any examples/illustrations. And info on your conclusion.
3) Memorize your introduction. Whereas the rest of the sermon, you can work from your bullet points, you want your introduction to be smooth and well-memorized. This will give you the comfort and confidence to relax and enjoy preaching the rest of your sermon.
For me, the above book was liberating, because one point that was made (by several of the preachers, as I recall) was "Look -- by not using a manuscript, you probably will drop something here or there. But it's okay. This gives you the freedom to include in things that just hit you there as you're preaching."
I am, first and foremost, a writer. Doing a sermon this way taught me the important lesson of "Get OVER yourself. Your words are not so precious that you can't lose a phrase here or there. It's about the lesson, it's about the stories, it's about the application. Using just the exact 'perfect' word is overrated."
My next step: to try using index cards or a very small notebook, so I can carry my main points (and any quotations) with me as I walk away from the pulpit. I felt like there was a bungee cord attaching me to the lectern, as I had to get back to it if I wanted to glance at my outline.
So ... have just preached 3 times in 6 days. Whoo-hoo! Early tomorrow am, I'm leaving on a jet plane to go get my career assessment.
Wonder what they'll tell me I should be when I grow up ...
First, you have to really want it. It is definitely skydiving without a parachute. Well, not entirely -- that would be preaching without any notes. I still had my one page outline, even if it was on the lectern behind me.
Is it worth it? Oh yeah! Warning: it just may ruin ya for using a manuscript. Today, I guest-preached at one of my favorite little churches. I was doing a sermon I've given at other churches; it is heavy with the quotes, so I wasn't even going to attempt to not use my manuscript.
Meh.
I mean, they liked it, it seemed to go well. But for me, it was like the difference between giving pastoral care over the phone versus sitting next to the person. There is an intimacy that comes from eye contact, and when you have less time looking down at notes and more time with the eye contact ... and even better, when you can roam down next to people ... it's addictive, I tell ya.
So, how to do it?
1) You do have a manuscript as a part of the process. In Power in the Pulpit: How America's Most Effective Black Preachers Prepare Their Sermons edited by Cleophus James LaRue, most of the preachers talk about manuscript as an important part of their process. By writing out a manuscript -- not just an outline -- you find the rhythm of the sermon, and you find particular turns of phrase that you want to be sure to remember.
2) After that, create your "pulpit outline." I learned to do it on one page, horizontal layout, two columns, like a book. (Because I'm at a Christian seminary, and many of the preachers here will put their outline in their bible.) This includes a little information about your introduction, the proposition/big idea of your sermon, the main points, and any examples/illustrations. And info on your conclusion.
3) Memorize your introduction. Whereas the rest of the sermon, you can work from your bullet points, you want your introduction to be smooth and well-memorized. This will give you the comfort and confidence to relax and enjoy preaching the rest of your sermon.
For me, the above book was liberating, because one point that was made (by several of the preachers, as I recall) was "Look -- by not using a manuscript, you probably will drop something here or there. But it's okay. This gives you the freedom to include in things that just hit you there as you're preaching."
I am, first and foremost, a writer. Doing a sermon this way taught me the important lesson of "Get OVER yourself. Your words are not so precious that you can't lose a phrase here or there. It's about the lesson, it's about the stories, it's about the application. Using just the exact 'perfect' word is overrated."
My next step: to try using index cards or a very small notebook, so I can carry my main points (and any quotations) with me as I walk away from the pulpit. I felt like there was a bungee cord attaching me to the lectern, as I had to get back to it if I wanted to glance at my outline.
So ... have just preached 3 times in 6 days. Whoo-hoo! Early tomorrow am, I'm leaving on a jet plane to go get my career assessment.
Wonder what they'll tell me I should be when I grow up ...
Friday, November 06, 2009
The Uni-costal Preacher
Wednesday was a really good day.
My preaching professor had invited me to be the preacher at this week's Wednesday chapel at my seminary.
Fine enough, right? I mean, I preach all the time. Of course, I'd be preaching in Christian, which is my second language. No, actually, it's probably about 5th, after Ubbi Dubbi, Pagan, and French. Hubbi, mon magick ami!
But to make it more of a challenge, I've been pushing myself to preach sans manuscript. I had a one page outline on a lectern, but I mostly did the roaming preaching, walking down closer to the congregation.
And I preached fairly charismatic, as that's the most-spoken language of my classmates.
Sitting in the front row before going forward, it was a surprise when I got up and faced the audience to find that every professor and the school president were there. Manuscript! Manuscript!
No manuscript.
What a blast. Now this is the kind of roller coaster I could get into.
I received some really nice comments afterward, including one from my favorite professor, a soft-spoken man of few words, none of them hyperbole. "You were good," he said in that way that some people have that just has a particularly satisfying ring for all its simplicity.
So, a powerful affirmation of what I want to do.
(Next week I'll see the video and will come plummeting back to earth, but let me glide for now.)
What made it 100% good? I did not preach anything I did not believe wholeheartedly. I used some language not often heard in a UU church -- convicted, Holy Spirit, God, humility -- but it was all me, baby.
Me. The Uni-costal.
My preaching professor had invited me to be the preacher at this week's Wednesday chapel at my seminary.
Fine enough, right? I mean, I preach all the time. Of course, I'd be preaching in Christian, which is my second language. No, actually, it's probably about 5th, after Ubbi Dubbi, Pagan, and French. Hubbi, mon magick ami!
But to make it more of a challenge, I've been pushing myself to preach sans manuscript. I had a one page outline on a lectern, but I mostly did the roaming preaching, walking down closer to the congregation.
And I preached fairly charismatic, as that's the most-spoken language of my classmates.
Sitting in the front row before going forward, it was a surprise when I got up and faced the audience to find that every professor and the school president were there. Manuscript! Manuscript!
No manuscript.
What a blast. Now this is the kind of roller coaster I could get into.
I received some really nice comments afterward, including one from my favorite professor, a soft-spoken man of few words, none of them hyperbole. "You were good," he said in that way that some people have that just has a particularly satisfying ring for all its simplicity.
So, a powerful affirmation of what I want to do.
(Next week I'll see the video and will come plummeting back to earth, but let me glide for now.)
What made it 100% good? I did not preach anything I did not believe wholeheartedly. I used some language not often heard in a UU church -- convicted, Holy Spirit, God, humility -- but it was all me, baby.
Me. The Uni-costal.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Scan-xiety scheduled
Okay, so, I have my super intensive Career Assessment/Head Shrinking on Nov. 9. One of the forms I had to fill in laid out several "issues" and asked what my current status was with them. Anxiety, fear, worry, stress, and some others.
To which, for each, I basically put, "Not a problem right now, but one week before scans, HOOOBOY!"
I phrased it a little different.
So, we just found out when scans are. Exactly one week after the career assessment.
Well. They can't say I didn't warn 'em.
To which, for each, I basically put, "Not a problem right now, but one week before scans, HOOOBOY!"
I phrased it a little different.
So, we just found out when scans are. Exactly one week after the career assessment.
Well. They can't say I didn't warn 'em.
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