Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. -- BCP
"Oh, good Lord, what do I give up THIS year?"
That seems to be a big question on the minds of some Christians when Ash Wednesday approaches. The usual answers are chocolate (or candy or sweets of any kind), sometimes coffee, eating junk food, or something that someone especially enjoys. Growing up a Southern Baptist I missed all the childhood angst of Lent since the SBs didn't acknowledge such a papist practice and besides, we were supposed to be penitent (but joyful in our certainty of heaven) all year so we didn't need a special season for it. The dichotomy was subtle, not at all like the bipolar shift from the raucous celebrations of Shrove Tuesday that suddenly and completely stop at the stroke of midnight and become the solemnity and quiet of Ash Wednesday. For SBs, "lent" was a word indicating that you had temporarily given something you owned to someone else with the expectation of getting it back at some point in time (although lots of neighborhood feuds have started over loaned items that never seemed to make their way home again).
Come to think of it, even though the word "lent" comes from the Old English word for "spring," "lent" in the sense of "temporarily relinquishing possession of " seems to work for me when it comes to the period of time between Ash Wednesday and Easter Eve. The giving up of something (or several somethings) for that period is taking something I own, or something I enjoy, or even something that is very important to me and loaning it to God for the 40 days with the expectation of taking it back Easter Sunday morning as soon as possible. It's the spring equivalent of New Year's when people make resolutions to give up bad habits and take on a new way of being, doing or thinking. Quite often the resolutions don't work and then there's the guilt to be dealt with. Lent gives me another shot -- a second chance. What I do with it is up to me. This time, though, it isn't just a promise I make to myself but a promise I make to God when I hand over, lend, my coffee, candy, cigarettes or whatever.
With the idea of lent as period of loaning something to God, the flip side is the church's newer suggestion of taking things on for Lent instead of merely giving something up. It's sort of like trading one thing for another but hey, if it works, do it. Going to church more often, developing a more structured prayer or Bible study practice, evevn doing more charitable work or more giving to others is also, in essence, loaning to God extra time and effort, with the expectation that at some point time and personal indulgences will be reclaimed. Duty to be penitent for a season will have been done and then normal patterns of life can be resumed, the coffee gratefully sipped once again, the exercises attempted (with more or less successful results) can be set aside and the time reclaimed for watching sports or the checking out the insides of the eyelids instead of watcing a round piece of unleavened flour and a cup of port being elevated.
The purpose of Lent is not just penitence, it's change. Unlike some denominations, Episcopalians aren't expected to wallow in contemplation of their sinfulness and their worthlessness without Jesus as a personal saviour and best pal. That isn't the Episcopal way. It is, however, an Episcopalian thing to be penitent in a quietly genteel way, remembering on Ash Wednesday and the 40 days of Lent following it that indeed we are and will always be dust. Not the center of the universe, not the ruler of all we survey, not even so good we can forget about acknowleging the little rottennesses we try to keep hidden in the darkest corners of our souls and psyches. We quietly struggle with the question of do we leave the ashes on our foreheads when we leave the church as a mark of our Christianity and our reminder to be repentant or do we rub them off because we don't want to brag about our piety by the quiet sign of the smudges and in obedience to the Biblical command not to show off our righteousness in overt, purely ritualistic ways. And over it all is the call to repentance and change, to remember that it isn't all about me and is all about God and God's kingdom.
At Easter we rise from the ashes of Lent. We gratefully grab that cup of cofffee, swipe a chocolate bunny or candy bar from the kids' Easter baskets, put the Bible and/or Prayer Book away for the next year and gratefully turn the alarm off and sleep in that extra hour on Sunday mornings. We take back the time, effort and energy we have loaned to God in the guise of giving up or taking on things for 40 short days, leaving 325 to indulge ourselves once again.
The ashes on our foreheads today are supposed to be a mark of commitment, personal commitment, to remember, to repent, to be deliberate in our choices, even to lend to God on a permanent basis. It's for our own good.
I invite you, therefore, in the name of the Church, to the
observance of a holy Lent, by self-examination and repentance;
by prayer, fasting, and self-denial; and by reading and
editating on God's holy Word. And, to make a right beginning
of repentance, and as a mark of our mortal nature, let us now
kneel before the Lord, our maker and redeemer. - BCP, emphasis mine
Maybe it's taking it out of context but "make a right beginning" stands out. It's an almost irresistable invitation to me from God and the church. Do I have the courage to make something a permanent loan this Lent?
Therefore we beseech him to grant us true repentance and his
Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do on
this day, and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure
and holy, so that at the last we may come to his eternal joy;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen -- BCP
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
What I Learned from Honi the Circle-Drawer
Honi the Circle-drawer
It happened that they said to Honi the Circle-drawer:
--"Pray for the rains to come!"
He prayed, but the rains did not come. What did he do?
He drew a circle, stood in it and said before (God):
-- "Lord of the world, your sons have turned their faces to me,
for I am like a son of the house before you.
I swear by your great NAME: I will not move from here,
until you have compassion on your sons!"
It began to drizzle.
He said:
-"I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain to fill cisterns, wells and caverns!"
A downpour threatened.
He said:
- "I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain of good-will, blessing and grace."
It rained as it was supposed to, until, on account of the rain,
Israel had to go from Jerusalem to the temple mount...
Simeon ben Shetach [the leader of the Pharisees] sent to him and said:
--"If you were not Honi, I would have you excommunicated.
But what can I do to you?
You are presumptuous before the Creator and yet he does as you wish,
like a son presumes on his father and he does whatever he wishes."
--- Mishna, Ta'anith 3.8 (source was found here)
I have liked the story of Honi since I first read it a few years ago. It was a neat story, it was catchy and it was interesting. Over the years I've thought of Honi several times, most recently during a search for a TR topic for our EfM class and I remembered having read about him when a student. I decided to pull him out, dust him off and look at him again.
Honi was a person of respect and trust. People went to him when their very lives were threatened by lack of rain. Probably they'd tried praying for rain themselves but apparently God wasn't listening. So, like brothers and sisters in a family who knew who had more clout with Mother or Dad, they went to Honi to ask him to ask on their behalf. "If you ask Mom she won't say know. She likes you best anyway." Ok, ask Dad, since this was a period where Mom had little control of much of anything other than to incubate, raise the kids and take care of the house. Dad did all the decisions -- including whether somebody would get what they asked for, who would inherit the whole show and how much dowry to pay to get the girls married off.
Honi asked Dad but no rain. Finally, in what seems like almost a fit of petulance ("I'm gonna hold my breath until you say yes!"), Honi drew a circle and stood inside it, daring God to refuse him again. Well, the rest of the story is in the Misha. It rained. The people had their needed water, Honi was more revered than before and even the local head of the Pharisees admitted Honi had more connections than a mob boss.
I like Honi. He had guts. I learned a lot from this story because it is a teaching story as much as a story to record an event long ago. Lesson #1 is that it always helps to know somebody with more connections than I have in case I can't get a problem resolved on my own. But I have to try to resolve it myself first.
Lesson #2 , persistence pays off. Ask once and it may not work. Ask twice and the chances of an answer get upped a bit. Nag and it might try the parent's patience but like water dripping on a rock, but eventually I will get an answer.
Lesson #3, be specific. Honi needed water to fill the underground cisterns and reservoirs. A drizzle wouldn't soak in because the ground was too hard-packed and dry. A torrent wouldn't soak in for the same reason, the difference being that the torrential rain would run off quickly, seeking out crevices, cracks, dry stream beds and the like, causing flooding and possibly a lot of damage to mud-brick houses and the people in them. It would also contaminate the cisterns by washing dirt and rocks into the water supply. Honi stuck to his guns; he knew what kind of rain he needed and so did God.
Lesson #4, the text chapter for this week contained references to the ancient belief (which is also a modern one) that God wills it, Deus vult. The name for this is voluntarism and it's common in the three major religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. God wills a drought so no rain falls. God wills an earthquake and the ground shakes. You get the picture. Honi decided to challenge the voluntarism and ask directly for what was needed. It was a massive poker hand and Honi raised the stakes. We know how that hand turned out.
Lesson #5, be specific. If I need something, ask for it but ask in detail. Heck, it worked for Honi.
Lesson #6, don't be afraid to argue if necessary. Abraham did and Moses had a few words to say to God about something he disagreed with. God didn't whack'em for that; God even changed his mind on one and found an alternative way with the other. There's more than one way to ... (no, I will NOT say "skin a ....")
Lesson #7, and probably the most important one, I won't always get what I ask for. I may not be God's favorite daughter (because God has daughters and pro ably like a lot of fathers, has a special bond with them) but I'm still one of God's daughters so I have a right to ask without fear. I am still a daughter of God, loved and watched over, even if I stamp my foot and pout. I am a daughter of God. If that is all I bring away from the encounter with the circle-drawer, that will be enough.
Thanks for the lessons, Honi.
It happened that they said to Honi the Circle-drawer:
--"Pray for the rains to come!"
He prayed, but the rains did not come. What did he do?
He drew a circle, stood in it and said before (God):
-- "Lord of the world, your sons have turned their faces to me,
for I am like a son of the house before you.
I swear by your great NAME: I will not move from here,
until you have compassion on your sons!"
It began to drizzle.
He said:
-"I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain to fill cisterns, wells and caverns!"
A downpour threatened.
He said:
- "I didn't ask for rain like this, but for rain of good-will, blessing and grace."
It rained as it was supposed to, until, on account of the rain,
Israel had to go from Jerusalem to the temple mount...
Simeon ben Shetach [the leader of the Pharisees] sent to him and said:
--"If you were not Honi, I would have you excommunicated.
But what can I do to you?
You are presumptuous before the Creator and yet he does as you wish,
like a son presumes on his father and he does whatever he wishes."
--- Mishna, Ta'anith 3.8 (source was found here)
I have liked the story of Honi since I first read it a few years ago. It was a neat story, it was catchy and it was interesting. Over the years I've thought of Honi several times, most recently during a search for a TR topic for our EfM class and I remembered having read about him when a student. I decided to pull him out, dust him off and look at him again.
Honi was a person of respect and trust. People went to him when their very lives were threatened by lack of rain. Probably they'd tried praying for rain themselves but apparently God wasn't listening. So, like brothers and sisters in a family who knew who had more clout with Mother or Dad, they went to Honi to ask him to ask on their behalf. "If you ask Mom she won't say know. She likes you best anyway." Ok, ask Dad, since this was a period where Mom had little control of much of anything other than to incubate, raise the kids and take care of the house. Dad did all the decisions -- including whether somebody would get what they asked for, who would inherit the whole show and how much dowry to pay to get the girls married off.
Honi asked Dad but no rain. Finally, in what seems like almost a fit of petulance ("I'm gonna hold my breath until you say yes!"), Honi drew a circle and stood inside it, daring God to refuse him again. Well, the rest of the story is in the Misha. It rained. The people had their needed water, Honi was more revered than before and even the local head of the Pharisees admitted Honi had more connections than a mob boss.
I like Honi. He had guts. I learned a lot from this story because it is a teaching story as much as a story to record an event long ago. Lesson #1 is that it always helps to know somebody with more connections than I have in case I can't get a problem resolved on my own. But I have to try to resolve it myself first.
Lesson #2 , persistence pays off. Ask once and it may not work. Ask twice and the chances of an answer get upped a bit. Nag and it might try the parent's patience but like water dripping on a rock, but eventually I will get an answer.
Lesson #3, be specific. Honi needed water to fill the underground cisterns and reservoirs. A drizzle wouldn't soak in because the ground was too hard-packed and dry. A torrent wouldn't soak in for the same reason, the difference being that the torrential rain would run off quickly, seeking out crevices, cracks, dry stream beds and the like, causing flooding and possibly a lot of damage to mud-brick houses and the people in them. It would also contaminate the cisterns by washing dirt and rocks into the water supply. Honi stuck to his guns; he knew what kind of rain he needed and so did God.
Lesson #4, the text chapter for this week contained references to the ancient belief (which is also a modern one) that God wills it, Deus vult. The name for this is voluntarism and it's common in the three major religions: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. God wills a drought so no rain falls. God wills an earthquake and the ground shakes. You get the picture. Honi decided to challenge the voluntarism and ask directly for what was needed. It was a massive poker hand and Honi raised the stakes. We know how that hand turned out.
Lesson #5, be specific. If I need something, ask for it but ask in detail. Heck, it worked for Honi.
Lesson #6, don't be afraid to argue if necessary. Abraham did and Moses had a few words to say to God about something he disagreed with. God didn't whack'em for that; God even changed his mind on one and found an alternative way with the other. There's more than one way to ... (no, I will NOT say "skin a ....")
Lesson #7, and probably the most important one, I won't always get what I ask for. I may not be God's favorite daughter (because God has daughters and pro ably like a lot of fathers, has a special bond with them) but I'm still one of God's daughters so I have a right to ask without fear. I am still a daughter of God, loved and watched over, even if I stamp my foot and pout. I am a daughter of God. If that is all I bring away from the encounter with the circle-drawer, that will be enough.
Thanks for the lessons, Honi.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Callings, Transformations and Reality TV
I don't often watch reality shows (things like "Survivor", "American Idol", and the like leave me cold) although I will admit a secret liking for "Ice Road Truckers" and "Deadliest Catch" as well as "The First 48", "Dr. G" and stuff like that. It was, therefore, somewhat a surprise when last night I was flipping through the channels looking for something to lull me to sleep when I ran across a show I never watch, "What Not To Wear," and stopped. I had seen promos for this particular shows which piqued my interest -- making over an Episcopal priest. I didn't get to sleep until the last 5 minutes when they introduced the priest to her congregation and family in her new "incarnation" but I saw the whole rest of the program.
She had a lot going for her -- she was pretty, young, and had a collar. She also doubted her own ability to dress in a way that wouldn't cheapen her image as a priest or go together as a complete ensemble. I did have to admire her willingness to try and was very happy with the transformation. The hosts kept reminding us that she was a priest just as she kept reminding them that what she wore needed to be able to accommodate and be accommodating of her collar. Yes, Stacy, black clergy shirts are standard but why didn't anybody check into the colored clergy shirts before putting her into some glitzy t-shirt with a collar and dickey to go under the t-shirt? Still, they did work wonders and the subject looked great.
While watching, though, it occurred to me that this young woman had received a calling by God and had that calling tested and verified by so many people -- her COM, her bishop, her professors, her associates -- and the end result was that she was ordained a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek even if some don't think that any of it was legitimate simply because of her plumbing, her genes and her profile.
I thought about this for a while. So many times over the past decade or two I've wished I could get a call from God that could be tested, verified and approved. No matter how I wished it, prayed for it, or looked for it, it didn't come. This woman (and her many sisters in the clergy) had -- and for them I am grateful and happy. They have received something that isn't guaranteed to anyone, male or female, and in some places only to some males, at least the approval part (I'm sure God doesn't restrict calling only to women in certain parts of the world). There are parts of the world where a woman in such a profession (as well as such a calling) could not exist. Even in first-world countries where equality is a somewhat given, there are still stained-glass ceilings set at basement level: you are a woman, so be satisfied to serve by arranging flowers, doing the linens, teaching the children, fixing casseroles for collations and setting the table where you will never be permitted to preside or even in some cases to serve visibly. Remain invisible, remain in your place because God doesn't want women in jobs where they may have authority over men. Luckily for this woman and her sisters, she didn't have to deal with that. She probably dealt with plenty but at least she had the opportunity to answer her call, even if she couldn't put a smashing social-occasion ensemble together, accessorize a perfectly-tailored suit or even find a comfortable pair of jeans that were flattering as well.
In watching her transformation another thought struck me. Transformation is the operative word. More than just a new hair color and cut, new lipstick or blusher, more than new duds in place of pieces that may be comfortable but not quite runway-quality fashion, transformation is an inside job. Looking at her reaction each time she saw a change in the mirror, it was easy to see the transformation taking place. I'm sure at her ordination she underwent a transformation as well, maybe not as visible but very probably an inward glow that moved outward like Moses' face when he returned from the tent of meeting. Maybe her face reflects this glow not only when she looks in the mirror but when she elevates the host or shares the bread with those at the rail. I like to think of her --- and all her sisters -- with that glow. Even all her brothers, come to think of it.
I"ll never be on "What Not To Wear" and that's fine since I hate spotlights. I wouldn't mind a transformation or two, though -- maybe a call to do something that I can recognize as a call. I thought I had one once but it turns out I didn't. I found that out for myself and I'm glad. I'd have been a total flop at it. There's no reality show on earth that can make that kind of transformation.
So meanwhile, in between watching guys cussing and catching deep-sea bugs that I won't eat on a bet, accused criminals getting caught by folks with fingerprint powder and extensive knowledge of chemistry of all kinds of things, and dedicated forensic pathologists digging through bloody and complex bits to find the one clue to why somebody is no longer walking the face of the earth, I'll look around and see if there isn't something that is nagging at me, something pushing me toward something I'm either doing or not doing that might fulfill my wish, hope and prayer for a calling.
That okay with you, God?
She had a lot going for her -- she was pretty, young, and had a collar. She also doubted her own ability to dress in a way that wouldn't cheapen her image as a priest or go together as a complete ensemble. I did have to admire her willingness to try and was very happy with the transformation. The hosts kept reminding us that she was a priest just as she kept reminding them that what she wore needed to be able to accommodate and be accommodating of her collar. Yes, Stacy, black clergy shirts are standard but why didn't anybody check into the colored clergy shirts before putting her into some glitzy t-shirt with a collar and dickey to go under the t-shirt? Still, they did work wonders and the subject looked great.
While watching, though, it occurred to me that this young woman had received a calling by God and had that calling tested and verified by so many people -- her COM, her bishop, her professors, her associates -- and the end result was that she was ordained a priest forever, according to the order of Melchizedek even if some don't think that any of it was legitimate simply because of her plumbing, her genes and her profile.
I thought about this for a while. So many times over the past decade or two I've wished I could get a call from God that could be tested, verified and approved. No matter how I wished it, prayed for it, or looked for it, it didn't come. This woman (and her many sisters in the clergy) had -- and for them I am grateful and happy. They have received something that isn't guaranteed to anyone, male or female, and in some places only to some males, at least the approval part (I'm sure God doesn't restrict calling only to women in certain parts of the world). There are parts of the world where a woman in such a profession (as well as such a calling) could not exist. Even in first-world countries where equality is a somewhat given, there are still stained-glass ceilings set at basement level: you are a woman, so be satisfied to serve by arranging flowers, doing the linens, teaching the children, fixing casseroles for collations and setting the table where you will never be permitted to preside or even in some cases to serve visibly. Remain invisible, remain in your place because God doesn't want women in jobs where they may have authority over men. Luckily for this woman and her sisters, she didn't have to deal with that. She probably dealt with plenty but at least she had the opportunity to answer her call, even if she couldn't put a smashing social-occasion ensemble together, accessorize a perfectly-tailored suit or even find a comfortable pair of jeans that were flattering as well.
In watching her transformation another thought struck me. Transformation is the operative word. More than just a new hair color and cut, new lipstick or blusher, more than new duds in place of pieces that may be comfortable but not quite runway-quality fashion, transformation is an inside job. Looking at her reaction each time she saw a change in the mirror, it was easy to see the transformation taking place. I'm sure at her ordination she underwent a transformation as well, maybe not as visible but very probably an inward glow that moved outward like Moses' face when he returned from the tent of meeting. Maybe her face reflects this glow not only when she looks in the mirror but when she elevates the host or shares the bread with those at the rail. I like to think of her --- and all her sisters -- with that glow. Even all her brothers, come to think of it.
I"ll never be on "What Not To Wear" and that's fine since I hate spotlights. I wouldn't mind a transformation or two, though -- maybe a call to do something that I can recognize as a call. I thought I had one once but it turns out I didn't. I found that out for myself and I'm glad. I'd have been a total flop at it. There's no reality show on earth that can make that kind of transformation.
So meanwhile, in between watching guys cussing and catching deep-sea bugs that I won't eat on a bet, accused criminals getting caught by folks with fingerprint powder and extensive knowledge of chemistry of all kinds of things, and dedicated forensic pathologists digging through bloody and complex bits to find the one clue to why somebody is no longer walking the face of the earth, I'll look around and see if there isn't something that is nagging at me, something pushing me toward something I'm either doing or not doing that might fulfill my wish, hope and prayer for a calling.
That okay with you, God?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Reflection on an anniversary of sorts
Two years ago, sometime during the night, my world changed dramatically. It's not that it was a totally unexpected change; it had been foreseen long before yet that morning I had awakened to the usual thought of "Is today the day?" Normally at night the answer would have come, "No, not today," but two years ago I went to bed with the same answer only to receive a different one when I awakened the next morning. I got the answer, "Yes, today is the day."
No matter how expected, it was still a difficult time. While I didn't feel as fogged as I had anticipated, I still found it overwhelming. There was so much to take care of, so many things that needed to be done, so many things to go through and so many decisions to make. Even my old standby of "take one small step to the next thing that needs doing" didn't help as well as I'd experienced before. My two best friends kept reminding me, "Just remember to breathe" and sometimes even that seemed overwhelming. The tiny things got easier but the bigger things still loomed, daunting in their complexity and frightening in their uncertainty. Again, people helped to get me moving in the right direction, some opportunities came that I hadn't anticipated and so here I am, two years later, looking back at a time I would never want to relive again.
Despite my uncertainty and, at times, timidity, I found that I had learned some things, done some growing, and had some experiences that I had never had before and some I hadn't had for years. From the smaller things, like learning to shop and cook for one instead of two and how to cope with locking the keys in the truck without being able to call for someone to bring the extra set to the biggies like buying and moving into a new residence or deciding where and when to get major truck repairs done, it took some doing but I did it. Sure, there were lots of friends again to help, a wider pool than I had imagined, and with their help, I did it.
A book I'm reading, George A. Bonanno's The Other Side of Sadness, has been giving me things to think about that I'd never really considered. One is that what may be perceived as a normal method of grieving, even a well-known and accepted one such as Kubler-Ross's five stages, is not necessarily prescriptive or normative. In TV police dramas, law officers called to the scene of a dead body, even one lying in bed, often express feeling if not direct words about having to take a closer look at the widow because she just doesn't act like someone who'd just lost their husband or who had just found her husband dead on the floor. By the same token, there's always suspicion if there is too much emotion flowing around, like it's a put-on job designed to hide something nefarious. What's normal for one is quite abnormal for someone else. Thank heaven the police who came to my house were kind and courteous as were the paramedics and the coroner's investigator.
Another thing I learned from the book is that it's not just okay to laugh or find things amusing so soon after a death or traumatic event, it's quite common -- and very healthy. Life goes on, no matter how great the loss. People in New York after 9/11 got on with their lives, some sooner than others and some a little more successfully than others but people did get on with life. Katrina was another horrific event that changed lives forever yet for most, even if it meant transplantation or struggle to maintain even a modicum of normalcy, yet people used music, community, faith and laughter to get through an unimaginable situation. If they can do it and get through the tough times, then surely it must be okay. I could smile the first day but it was a little forced. It got easier over the coming days, for the most part, and I could enjoy joking around or enjoying a laugh with friends and family fairly quickly.
The major lesson I've learned from the book really isn't something I learned from the book, it just gave me the word I needed to describe how I feel about myself, my life, and the whole shootin' match -- resilient, the ability to bounce back. While I don't see myself hopping around on a trampoline, there have been many times I've felt I couldn't get much lower-- mentally, physically, emotionally or financially -- and survive. It hasn't been pretty, most of the time, and quite often I've felt that I've been lurching from lamp post to lamp post, getting bruised and battered by situations that had to be dealt with, but there have been periods when I felt my head was above water and life could be dealt with if not enjoyed. Being able to put a name to that process helps put it in perspective. Life's not going to be a bed of roses but even when I run into a thorn patch, it can be gotten through.
So here I am, two years on. I still talk to him as if he were in the other seat in the truck or seeing what I'm seeing but that's okay. I still miss coming home and not having to do things he would have done while I was out (like take out the trash). Even though our financial situation was far from totally stable, I still struggle with things like balancing the checkbook or keeping track of what needs to be paid other than regular bills -- like taxes and truck insurance. Those things may never change but I know I can survive if not thrive. I am a widow -- but I am not helpless or hopeless. I grieve - but I am not incapacitated by it.
Since tomorrow I have to go to work and perform as if it were any normal day, I have decided that today will be my day of reflection, of allowing myself to think, feel and review where these past two years have brought me. I will remember but not drown in those memories. I will be good to myself, remember to breathe, take the next small step and give thanks that I am able to do this.
Rest in peace, Ray. In many ways, you'll always be here and I'm glad of that. It's my turn to say "thank you." I know you'll understand that.
No matter how expected, it was still a difficult time. While I didn't feel as fogged as I had anticipated, I still found it overwhelming. There was so much to take care of, so many things that needed to be done, so many things to go through and so many decisions to make. Even my old standby of "take one small step to the next thing that needs doing" didn't help as well as I'd experienced before. My two best friends kept reminding me, "Just remember to breathe" and sometimes even that seemed overwhelming. The tiny things got easier but the bigger things still loomed, daunting in their complexity and frightening in their uncertainty. Again, people helped to get me moving in the right direction, some opportunities came that I hadn't anticipated and so here I am, two years later, looking back at a time I would never want to relive again.
Despite my uncertainty and, at times, timidity, I found that I had learned some things, done some growing, and had some experiences that I had never had before and some I hadn't had for years. From the smaller things, like learning to shop and cook for one instead of two and how to cope with locking the keys in the truck without being able to call for someone to bring the extra set to the biggies like buying and moving into a new residence or deciding where and when to get major truck repairs done, it took some doing but I did it. Sure, there were lots of friends again to help, a wider pool than I had imagined, and with their help, I did it.
A book I'm reading, George A. Bonanno's The Other Side of Sadness, has been giving me things to think about that I'd never really considered. One is that what may be perceived as a normal method of grieving, even a well-known and accepted one such as Kubler-Ross's five stages, is not necessarily prescriptive or normative. In TV police dramas, law officers called to the scene of a dead body, even one lying in bed, often express feeling if not direct words about having to take a closer look at the widow because she just doesn't act like someone who'd just lost their husband or who had just found her husband dead on the floor. By the same token, there's always suspicion if there is too much emotion flowing around, like it's a put-on job designed to hide something nefarious. What's normal for one is quite abnormal for someone else. Thank heaven the police who came to my house were kind and courteous as were the paramedics and the coroner's investigator.
Another thing I learned from the book is that it's not just okay to laugh or find things amusing so soon after a death or traumatic event, it's quite common -- and very healthy. Life goes on, no matter how great the loss. People in New York after 9/11 got on with their lives, some sooner than others and some a little more successfully than others but people did get on with life. Katrina was another horrific event that changed lives forever yet for most, even if it meant transplantation or struggle to maintain even a modicum of normalcy, yet people used music, community, faith and laughter to get through an unimaginable situation. If they can do it and get through the tough times, then surely it must be okay. I could smile the first day but it was a little forced. It got easier over the coming days, for the most part, and I could enjoy joking around or enjoying a laugh with friends and family fairly quickly.
The major lesson I've learned from the book really isn't something I learned from the book, it just gave me the word I needed to describe how I feel about myself, my life, and the whole shootin' match -- resilient, the ability to bounce back. While I don't see myself hopping around on a trampoline, there have been many times I've felt I couldn't get much lower-- mentally, physically, emotionally or financially -- and survive. It hasn't been pretty, most of the time, and quite often I've felt that I've been lurching from lamp post to lamp post, getting bruised and battered by situations that had to be dealt with, but there have been periods when I felt my head was above water and life could be dealt with if not enjoyed. Being able to put a name to that process helps put it in perspective. Life's not going to be a bed of roses but even when I run into a thorn patch, it can be gotten through.
So here I am, two years on. I still talk to him as if he were in the other seat in the truck or seeing what I'm seeing but that's okay. I still miss coming home and not having to do things he would have done while I was out (like take out the trash). Even though our financial situation was far from totally stable, I still struggle with things like balancing the checkbook or keeping track of what needs to be paid other than regular bills -- like taxes and truck insurance. Those things may never change but I know I can survive if not thrive. I am a widow -- but I am not helpless or hopeless. I grieve - but I am not incapacitated by it.
Since tomorrow I have to go to work and perform as if it were any normal day, I have decided that today will be my day of reflection, of allowing myself to think, feel and review where these past two years have brought me. I will remember but not drown in those memories. I will be good to myself, remember to breathe, take the next small step and give thanks that I am able to do this.
Rest in peace, Ray. In many ways, you'll always be here and I'm glad of that. It's my turn to say "thank you." I know you'll understand that.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Thoughts on a Sunday Morning
As usual, I've misplaced something I later (and not too much later) wanted to see/use/read. Usually it's something simple like my car keys, cell phone, specific book or the like but this time it's an article I read on my newsreader this morning about Haiti. I know, there are millions of words being written about Haiti right now but this was an article that spoke of the Haitians who, in the middle of the death, destruction, fear and chaos, lifted their voices in hymns and songs of and to God, Catholics and Protestants joining together to affirm their faith in God and their faithfulness. When the city goes dark at sundown, the voices sing to banish fear and feelings of isolation. I find it amazing and also tremendously touching.
I wonder, if such a thing as the earthquake demolished a whole city and devastated an entire area -- say Texas or New York or Los Angeles -- in the way Port-au-Prince and Haiti have been devastated, would the Americans have the same reaction? Would they be camped in parks and empty spaces and would they meet together for prayer and sing hymns through the night? Somehow I sort of doubt it.
Faith seems to be tremendously important in Haiti. I'm sure many take comfort in the knowledge that there is a God and that God has prepared a heaven for them which will be very different from what they experience and endure on earth but I think that they may find remembering the first commandment (and the first of the two Jesus put out) a lot easier than maybe most of us do. Maybe a lot of us, me included, let "stuff" get in the way. Oh, I know I send up arrow prayers when I get in a jam and then usually remember to say "thank you" when it's over, but other than that I seldom go beyond grace at meals and sometimes prayers at night when I can't sleep and I think of someone I know or have heard of who is in trouble of some kind. When something good happens i don't jump up and down and cry "Praise Jesus!" or "Thank you, Father!" or even start singing "Alleluia." No, I might be looked on as some sort of religious fanatic and embarrass others around me with my actions. It's just not part of my staid, solidly (and sometimes rather stuffy and joyless) Protestant upbringing, the kind that tells you to keep your chin up and have faith in God just don't go talking a lot about it.
At times it makes me ashamed that I'm so quick to forget God when things are going decently and also so quick to call on God to fix things when they go rotten. Somehow I don't seem to remember to thank God for just everyday things like air, food, water, shelter and care. I don't seem to thank God for the ability to do certain things, even if they are physically painful just as I don't thank God when I wake up in the morning or lie down at night. I don't know that I could thank God for the draft around my feet even though it meant I had a house that left the rest of me draft-free. I'm not sure I could praise God if all I had were the clothes I stood up in and no certainty of food, shelter or medical care anywhere. It makes me feel tremendously lacking in something.
The Jews have a way of remembering what's important. There are countless prayers that all begin the same way, Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha‑olam, "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe" and which continues on to extol something that God has done for the people, from giving them candles to light on Shabbat to releasing them from captivity in Egypt. It gets the order right, praise God for some gift that benefits individuals and humanity in general, or even in times of trouble like hurricanes or earthquakes. It acknowledges that God is to be praised even when rotten things happen because God has a plan, God is in charge, God is God.
Béni soit l'Éternel, Baruch ata Adonai, Blessed be the Lord God the eternal who has given us life and hope in the midst of the unthinkable, or even the mildly uncomfortable.
UPDATE: Not 5 minutes after I posted this I found the article. You can see it here.
I wonder, if such a thing as the earthquake demolished a whole city and devastated an entire area -- say Texas or New York or Los Angeles -- in the way Port-au-Prince and Haiti have been devastated, would the Americans have the same reaction? Would they be camped in parks and empty spaces and would they meet together for prayer and sing hymns through the night? Somehow I sort of doubt it.
Faith seems to be tremendously important in Haiti. I'm sure many take comfort in the knowledge that there is a God and that God has prepared a heaven for them which will be very different from what they experience and endure on earth but I think that they may find remembering the first commandment (and the first of the two Jesus put out) a lot easier than maybe most of us do. Maybe a lot of us, me included, let "stuff" get in the way. Oh, I know I send up arrow prayers when I get in a jam and then usually remember to say "thank you" when it's over, but other than that I seldom go beyond grace at meals and sometimes prayers at night when I can't sleep and I think of someone I know or have heard of who is in trouble of some kind. When something good happens i don't jump up and down and cry "Praise Jesus!" or "Thank you, Father!" or even start singing "Alleluia." No, I might be looked on as some sort of religious fanatic and embarrass others around me with my actions. It's just not part of my staid, solidly (and sometimes rather stuffy and joyless) Protestant upbringing, the kind that tells you to keep your chin up and have faith in God just don't go talking a lot about it.
At times it makes me ashamed that I'm so quick to forget God when things are going decently and also so quick to call on God to fix things when they go rotten. Somehow I don't seem to remember to thank God for just everyday things like air, food, water, shelter and care. I don't seem to thank God for the ability to do certain things, even if they are physically painful just as I don't thank God when I wake up in the morning or lie down at night. I don't know that I could thank God for the draft around my feet even though it meant I had a house that left the rest of me draft-free. I'm not sure I could praise God if all I had were the clothes I stood up in and no certainty of food, shelter or medical care anywhere. It makes me feel tremendously lacking in something.
The Jews have a way of remembering what's important. There are countless prayers that all begin the same way, Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha‑olam, "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe" and which continues on to extol something that God has done for the people, from giving them candles to light on Shabbat to releasing them from captivity in Egypt. It gets the order right, praise God for some gift that benefits individuals and humanity in general, or even in times of trouble like hurricanes or earthquakes. It acknowledges that God is to be praised even when rotten things happen because God has a plan, God is in charge, God is God.
Béni soit l'Éternel, Baruch ata Adonai, Blessed be the Lord God the eternal who has given us life and hope in the midst of the unthinkable, or even the mildly uncomfortable.
UPDATE: Not 5 minutes after I posted this I found the article. You can see it here.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
An Accidental but Fortunate Find
Went into the dollar store yesterday to get a box of garbage bags so i could put away the Christmas tree. I didn't need a big box of them -- only one which was large enough to hold my little 3' tree and keep the dust off it while it's on its hibernation in the shed outside until next Christmas. Anyway, the dollar store was close, the prices were certainly good and I knew they had what I needed. Turns out they had more than just the garbage bags, TBTG.
There was a small table with books on it. Ok, normally I don't do my book buying at a dollar store but I usually look. This store seldom had anything much but what the heck. Lookin's cheap, ain't it?
First I saw a book called "The Secrets of Judas." Ok, that looks mildly interesting and for a buck, what the heck. Then I saw it -- or rather, several copies of it. I found Jan Karon's A Continual Feast, One of the Mitford books but the book that was different. "Words of comfort and celebration collected by Father Tim." I nearly danced in the aisle as I grabbed a copy as if it were the last one in the world before slightly more sedately heading for the aisle where the much more prosaic (but still quite useful) garbage bags lived.
A Continual Feast was a key book for me about 2006 when the book came out. I'd enjoyed the series of course; it was like being back home even though I was about 2370.23 miles away, more or less. Opening the books I could just about smell the grass after a rain, the heady scent of magnolias and honeysuckle, the tang of wood and over it all, the faint hint of salt air from the river just over the hill and down the bluff.
A Continual Feast, however, was a book of sayings supposedly collected by Fr. Tim. Bits of wisdom from this or that writer, theologian, poet, humorist and the like fill the pages, each of which is set either in a handwriting font or as if typed on a typewriter (complete with strike-outs to remind us that this was from someone who didn't have a computer but rather something like an old Remington that didn't self-correct. It is a book I can open to any page and find something that resonates with me, succinctly put and full of profoundities. See why I was so excited to find it?
It even prompted me to keep a small journal of things I ran across that made me think or that I wanted to be able to find again (there's no chance I could remember them all). That little black composition book, small enough to fit in my purse but usually there on my desk or bookcase, The quotes cover all kinds of things and I used to use the book frequently for blogging or for when I felt i wanted to write something but didnt' really know what to write about. My little book, inspired by Fr. Tim's (and sometimes using Fr. Tim's) provided me with a lot of inspiration -- and probably more than enough words.So it's not a high-brow literary giant like, oh, I don't know, Fr. Raymond Brown's immensely in-depth study of the New Testament or the Oxford Encyclopedia of Christianity, or even something lighter on the order of Molly Wolf's essays or my copy of Julian's Cat but it still has things to say to me that I need to hear.
The quote on which my eye fell when I opened it just now?
God allows us to experience the low points in life in order to teach us lessons we could not learn in any other way. The way we learn those lsessons is not to deny the feelings but to find the meanings underlying them. -- Stanley Lundquist, Professor of Psychology, Cal State U.
Then there was:
Life is God's novel. Let him write it. --- Isaac Bashevis Singer
Maybe the book I found at the dollar store is my spur to start adding to my own little book of famous quotes, maybe even to start another. I only have a dozen or so blank pages left out of the 80 sheets in the book and lots and lots of things I've read that I want to remember. And maybe it's time for me to open the book and look for things to ponder. It's a sure-fire cincch there's something in there somewhere.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Letters to the Editor
I work at a local newspaper. I've been a reader of the paper since it first started 20-something years ago and began working for them over 5 years ago. I read the paper because (a) it covers our local area in more depth than the big daily from downtown does, (b) I feel I ought to since I work for the organization and (c) it's free. I never fail to read the obituaries, otherwise I might not know when someone I know (or a relative of someone I know) has passed on to greater glory and usually most of the stories, including the column by an assistant editor I'm not always that fond of. Mostly, though, even though it often feels like I'm in a train wreck, I never fail to read the letters to the editor.
I used to typeset the letters that came in through the mail and needed to be typed on the computer so that they could be inserted into the copy going to the printer and then to the hands of our readers. Oftentimes I found myself talking back to the writer, especially in the case of letters that were written poorly with bad spelling and grammar, letters from people with viewpoints with which I disagreed and vitriolic letters from people upset about everything, usually the paper's coverage of local politics, criticisms of the then-government and disgust with the paper's "leftist agenda" in printing other letters critical of something the writer held almost sacred.
I live in a fairly conservative, flag-waving, mostly Republican area. They generally favor the war in the Middle East, capital punishment, get-tough, manly guys like our county sheriff and dedication to "family values" including marriage and equal rights for heterosexual American-born (or at least naturalized) citizens only. There was a time I'd have felt perfectly at home here as it would have reflected the person I was growing up and in the area I grew up. I'd have been for what they were for, agin' what they were agin' and not too tolerant of anything else. I, like them, would have agreed with diversity -- so long as it consisted of only people who believed and thought kinda sorta almost nearly exactly like I did. Oh, others would be tolerated --- barely-- but they weren't REAL Americans, flag-waving, church-going (mostly), good Christian (pretty much, well, except for **** who everybody knew was... well, never mind) folks who feared God, loved the country and kept their own side of the street swept.
The letters to the editor in the paper I read now generally don't reflect who I am, what I believe or even what I consider Christian (a lot of the time, anyway). They may quote scripture but it is scripture selectively chosen, proof-texted to prove their point rather than contexted to show what the verse actually means. Words like "liberal" are often thrown in like bombs, not scattering germs or bacteria but feeling like whole clumps of stuff usually found in the barnyard or cow shed were contained inside. There are times I close the paper feeling dirty, and not just from the printer's ink rubbing off on my hands. My soul feels dirty and my heart hurts. Again I am convinced that for a lot of people here, diversity means only those who are just like them, something I'm not and can't be.
I grew to be who and what I am by a long process. Traveling and living in various parts of the US and the world has given me a view of the world as a whole quite different from that of the folks who still live within 50 miles of where they were born and never lived further than 200 miles from that spot either, only occasionally heading for the "big city" somewhere else for a short visit before scurrying back to their accustomed home. I've learned that skin color is not a measure of moral character or intelligence. I've learned that national origin and the consistent use of a language other than English is not a signal that the person is an illegal alien. I've learned that equality is more than a word, it's something that should belong to everybody, not to just those who already have equal rights( or most of them, anyway) but not to those who have been excluded because of their race, national origin, religion or (here it comes) sexual orientation. I've learned people who look like me can be just as ornery and cantankerous and sometimes vituperous and downright nasty in how they speak of and treat people just as those who look so very different can be kind, thoughtful, caring and downright willing to stick their neck out, give you the shirt from their back and help you out any way they can.
I live in this area and so I am forced to deal with the fact that I may be a left-footed ill-beotten offspring of the accidental cross between a horse and a mule in the view of many of my neighbors. Even on the internet there are places I feel more comfortable, places where people think sort of like I do and believe sort of like I do. There are places I don't go because I don't like the way they make me feel, namely dirty, unChristian, and heartsore that someone could know so little about me and people like me that they use words that are sharper than a serpent's tooth. Of course, they undoubtedly feel that places I feel comfortable are just about exactly the same way to them so we end up in an impasse. I can try to moderate my words, use "I" words to describe what I think and feel and try not to take things personally but my skin isn't always that thick.
I do believe in diversity. God created it and we need it. Most of all we need to deal with it. How can I make someone who thinks, feels, believes very differently than I do feel comfortable around me and people like me? Should I expect them to go to similar efforts to make me feel comfortable in an environment that doesn't reflect me or my thoughts, feelings or beliefs? If I wrote a letter to the editor, what would I say that would make my point clearly and honestly without ruffling someone else's feathers, stomping on their cherished beliefs or even making them feel like dirty scumbags because they think/feel/believe the opposite of me?
I wonder what kind of response I would get if I sent this to the newspaper as a letter to the editor? Would the Christians "get" that Jesus hung out with a diverse group who only slowly came around to his way of thinking and doing (not to mention that Jesus wasn't a Christian himself)? Would the Pagans and agnostics (maybe even an atheist or two) hear what I said and think that I might be a Pagan/agnostic/atheist sympathizer even though I may label myself "Christian" and have something to say worth reading? Would the Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, and Buddhists find something in my words that, even if they didn't agree with me, would make them stop and think in a different way about an issue, a point of view, a place to stand?
I'll read the letters to the editor as soon as I get to work (my driver always delivers the paper after I leave for the office). I'll possibly be irritated, frustrated, aggravated, hurt and maybe even downright angry but then too I might be pleasantly surprised to find someone with whom I can agree in principle if not in specifics. What I have to remember is that true diversity allows for all sorts and conditions of humankind. In order for me to have my say I have to allow others the same right. Once in a blue moon someone who writes to the editor even makes that very same point.
Oh, and I don't have to worry about sending this to my editor. The word limit for letters is 300 and I'm well over that. But at least I've had my say -- just like the people whose letters will get printed in the next edition.
I used to typeset the letters that came in through the mail and needed to be typed on the computer so that they could be inserted into the copy going to the printer and then to the hands of our readers. Oftentimes I found myself talking back to the writer, especially in the case of letters that were written poorly with bad spelling and grammar, letters from people with viewpoints with which I disagreed and vitriolic letters from people upset about everything, usually the paper's coverage of local politics, criticisms of the then-government and disgust with the paper's "leftist agenda" in printing other letters critical of something the writer held almost sacred.
I live in a fairly conservative, flag-waving, mostly Republican area. They generally favor the war in the Middle East, capital punishment, get-tough, manly guys like our county sheriff and dedication to "family values" including marriage and equal rights for heterosexual American-born (or at least naturalized) citizens only. There was a time I'd have felt perfectly at home here as it would have reflected the person I was growing up and in the area I grew up. I'd have been for what they were for, agin' what they were agin' and not too tolerant of anything else. I, like them, would have agreed with diversity -- so long as it consisted of only people who believed and thought kinda sorta almost nearly exactly like I did. Oh, others would be tolerated --- barely-- but they weren't REAL Americans, flag-waving, church-going (mostly), good Christian (pretty much, well, except for **** who everybody knew was... well, never mind) folks who feared God, loved the country and kept their own side of the street swept.
The letters to the editor in the paper I read now generally don't reflect who I am, what I believe or even what I consider Christian (a lot of the time, anyway). They may quote scripture but it is scripture selectively chosen, proof-texted to prove their point rather than contexted to show what the verse actually means. Words like "liberal" are often thrown in like bombs, not scattering germs or bacteria but feeling like whole clumps of stuff usually found in the barnyard or cow shed were contained inside. There are times I close the paper feeling dirty, and not just from the printer's ink rubbing off on my hands. My soul feels dirty and my heart hurts. Again I am convinced that for a lot of people here, diversity means only those who are just like them, something I'm not and can't be.
I grew to be who and what I am by a long process. Traveling and living in various parts of the US and the world has given me a view of the world as a whole quite different from that of the folks who still live within 50 miles of where they were born and never lived further than 200 miles from that spot either, only occasionally heading for the "big city" somewhere else for a short visit before scurrying back to their accustomed home. I've learned that skin color is not a measure of moral character or intelligence. I've learned that national origin and the consistent use of a language other than English is not a signal that the person is an illegal alien. I've learned that equality is more than a word, it's something that should belong to everybody, not to just those who already have equal rights( or most of them, anyway) but not to those who have been excluded because of their race, national origin, religion or (here it comes) sexual orientation. I've learned people who look like me can be just as ornery and cantankerous and sometimes vituperous and downright nasty in how they speak of and treat people just as those who look so very different can be kind, thoughtful, caring and downright willing to stick their neck out, give you the shirt from their back and help you out any way they can.
I live in this area and so I am forced to deal with the fact that I may be a left-footed ill-beotten offspring of the accidental cross between a horse and a mule in the view of many of my neighbors. Even on the internet there are places I feel more comfortable, places where people think sort of like I do and believe sort of like I do. There are places I don't go because I don't like the way they make me feel, namely dirty, unChristian, and heartsore that someone could know so little about me and people like me that they use words that are sharper than a serpent's tooth. Of course, they undoubtedly feel that places I feel comfortable are just about exactly the same way to them so we end up in an impasse. I can try to moderate my words, use "I" words to describe what I think and feel and try not to take things personally but my skin isn't always that thick.
I do believe in diversity. God created it and we need it. Most of all we need to deal with it. How can I make someone who thinks, feels, believes very differently than I do feel comfortable around me and people like me? Should I expect them to go to similar efforts to make me feel comfortable in an environment that doesn't reflect me or my thoughts, feelings or beliefs? If I wrote a letter to the editor, what would I say that would make my point clearly and honestly without ruffling someone else's feathers, stomping on their cherished beliefs or even making them feel like dirty scumbags because they think/feel/believe the opposite of me?
I wonder what kind of response I would get if I sent this to the newspaper as a letter to the editor? Would the Christians "get" that Jesus hung out with a diverse group who only slowly came around to his way of thinking and doing (not to mention that Jesus wasn't a Christian himself)? Would the Pagans and agnostics (maybe even an atheist or two) hear what I said and think that I might be a Pagan/agnostic/atheist sympathizer even though I may label myself "Christian" and have something to say worth reading? Would the Jews, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, and Buddhists find something in my words that, even if they didn't agree with me, would make them stop and think in a different way about an issue, a point of view, a place to stand?
I'll read the letters to the editor as soon as I get to work (my driver always delivers the paper after I leave for the office). I'll possibly be irritated, frustrated, aggravated, hurt and maybe even downright angry but then too I might be pleasantly surprised to find someone with whom I can agree in principle if not in specifics. What I have to remember is that true diversity allows for all sorts and conditions of humankind. In order for me to have my say I have to allow others the same right. Once in a blue moon someone who writes to the editor even makes that very same point.
Oh, and I don't have to worry about sending this to my editor. The word limit for letters is 300 and I'm well over that. But at least I've had my say -- just like the people whose letters will get printed in the next edition.
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Year, New ???
It's January 1. I'm glad to see it finally get here; 2009 was pretty much a wash with lots of house repairs, truck repairs, aches & pains (which aren't going to go away, I think, and which wil probably increase), etc. I can't say 2010 is going to be a whole lot better (I'd settle for a little better) but I guess I'll just have to wait and see.
I'm feeling a lot of resistance to taking down the Christmas tree I wasn't all that eager to put up just last month. Adding the little fake crystal ornaments seemed to have set something free in me that I hadn't really realized was so caged. I guess that was the Christmas present God had for me this year.
I also feel a sense of accomplishment to have added book #156 to my annotated bibliography I've been keeping since 2002. Harry Potter and Precious Ramotswe aren't on the list but just about everything else I've read is -- at least the theological/religious/spiritual books. A lady at church that I really have very little in common with suggested I keep the bibliography when I remarked that I couldn't remember books I'd read or often what was in them even if I could remember the title. I have thanked her many times for suggesting this as I've been able to revisit things I've read and have some idea of what books to look in to find something I vaguely remember.
I don't make resolutions. I've found that that's a sure-fire way to fail yet again. When I finally came to the conclusion that I had to stop smoking because I simply couldn't afford to buy cigarettes any more I had to go cold turkey. This was in December, too early (or too late) for a New Year's resolution. Six years and almost one month later I look back and see the journey. I didn't say anything to anybody --- that fear of failure, especially in the eyes of other people. I didn't even tell Ray. Oddly enough, nobody even noticed for almost a month. There have been times, lots of them, I would have killed for a cigarette but aside from one puff about 5 years ago I haven't succumbed. I've even reached the point where stale smoke smells nasty (although fresh smoke still smells fairly good). If I have to make a resolution this year I will do it quietly, hoping I can accomplish the goal but knowing myself well enough to expect failure.
Some will call me a defeatist but I prefer to think that I know myself far better than anyone else can. Friends have faith in me and would encourage me IF I let them know what I was doing but shoot, I'm better at encouraging others than getting encouraged. I've told several people that I'm their #1 cheerleader and it's how I feel. I can encourage them and feel pride in their accomplishments that I never feel in my own.
I should probably resolve to lose weight (like just about everybody else in this country), eat more healthy food (and conversely, cut back on the pizzas and burgers), pray more, study more, go to church more, control the inner anger I feel (and sometimes show in inopportune moments), try to see the bright side, spend less on "stuff" and save more $$, but somehow saying on paper that I am going to do any of these feels like a setup for failure. Like faith, I guess I just have to go on "as if" and let God take care of me in whatever way God wants while trying hard not to get in God's way myself.
I may have a bad case of acedia but I guess the only one who can pull up my socks and get on with my life is me. With God's help.
That's about as much of a resolution as I can make on this day, January 1, 2010.
I'm feeling a lot of resistance to taking down the Christmas tree I wasn't all that eager to put up just last month. Adding the little fake crystal ornaments seemed to have set something free in me that I hadn't really realized was so caged. I guess that was the Christmas present God had for me this year.
I also feel a sense of accomplishment to have added book #156 to my annotated bibliography I've been keeping since 2002. Harry Potter and Precious Ramotswe aren't on the list but just about everything else I've read is -- at least the theological/religious/spiritual books. A lady at church that I really have very little in common with suggested I keep the bibliography when I remarked that I couldn't remember books I'd read or often what was in them even if I could remember the title. I have thanked her many times for suggesting this as I've been able to revisit things I've read and have some idea of what books to look in to find something I vaguely remember.
I don't make resolutions. I've found that that's a sure-fire way to fail yet again. When I finally came to the conclusion that I had to stop smoking because I simply couldn't afford to buy cigarettes any more I had to go cold turkey. This was in December, too early (or too late) for a New Year's resolution. Six years and almost one month later I look back and see the journey. I didn't say anything to anybody --- that fear of failure, especially in the eyes of other people. I didn't even tell Ray. Oddly enough, nobody even noticed for almost a month. There have been times, lots of them, I would have killed for a cigarette but aside from one puff about 5 years ago I haven't succumbed. I've even reached the point where stale smoke smells nasty (although fresh smoke still smells fairly good). If I have to make a resolution this year I will do it quietly, hoping I can accomplish the goal but knowing myself well enough to expect failure.
Some will call me a defeatist but I prefer to think that I know myself far better than anyone else can. Friends have faith in me and would encourage me IF I let them know what I was doing but shoot, I'm better at encouraging others than getting encouraged. I've told several people that I'm their #1 cheerleader and it's how I feel. I can encourage them and feel pride in their accomplishments that I never feel in my own.
I should probably resolve to lose weight (like just about everybody else in this country), eat more healthy food (and conversely, cut back on the pizzas and burgers), pray more, study more, go to church more, control the inner anger I feel (and sometimes show in inopportune moments), try to see the bright side, spend less on "stuff" and save more $$, but somehow saying on paper that I am going to do any of these feels like a setup for failure. Like faith, I guess I just have to go on "as if" and let God take care of me in whatever way God wants while trying hard not to get in God's way myself.
I may have a bad case of acedia but I guess the only one who can pull up my socks and get on with my life is me. With God's help.
That's about as much of a resolution as I can make on this day, January 1, 2010.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas Ornaments
Decorating the Christmas tree has always been a big deal to me. From the time I was a small child, getting the tree set up (a real cedar when I was a child, an artificial most of my adult life) was something to be done on Thanksgiving weekend; it was like we just couldn't wait any longer to see the twinkle of lights and the glimmer of tinsel. Then we got down to the nitty-gritty. Opening the box of ornaments was like looking at a well-thumbed and beloved family album. Each ornament seemed to have a story to tell, a story repeated every year and every time someone noticed it. Each one was precisely placed so that it didn't overshadow (or was overshadowed by) another ornament. The tree became more than a symbol of the Christmas season, it became where our family history became focalized.
When I married and moved away, it became time to start growing new family memories. I didn't bring any ornaments from home, probably because our family situation had changed so much and partly because I moved away in August, hardly a time to think about Christmas. so our tree started from scratch. We bought ornaments at the BX -- mostly colored glass balls but one group of frosted glass with gold trim and a citrine rhinestone on each and their complementary gold balls with white trim and a pearl. They were beautiful and I loved them.
The year my son was born we added more memories to the box that came out every Christmas. Since we lived in a place where snow never came, I made snowflakes out of paper doilies and hung them from the ceiling around the tree, something I did for several years. This time the BX had a set of four little plastic cutaway balls in different colors, each with a little soldier-musician inside. They were placed low on the tree, partly so the baby could see them and partly because the cat (our Dammit) would bat at those and leave the more breakable stuff higher up.
Time went by, each Christmas usually adding one keepsake ornament to represent something significant. But just as seasons change, relationships do too and when my son was 4 his father and I separated and divorced. I got most of the ornaments but had to find new ways to make the season like the Christmases I had known. I wanted that for my son. He presented me with an ornament he had made at day care -- two pieces of green felt stuffed and glued together with some sequins glued on. The next year he had graduated to a clothespin reindeer with googly plastic eyes and a green and red blanket across his back. Yet another year was a handprint in clay that went on the tree although in toward the trunk so it wouldn't fall off and get broken.
We added a string of three graduated glass bells at the bottom of the tree, our "cat alarm" we called it. If the tree moved even slightly, the "alarm" would go off and we could rescue it from the cat. Mostly though, Dammit curled up under it, demurely tucking her paws under her white shirt that had partially given her her name ("damit" was Filipino for shirt or dress -- the extra "m" came from repeated injunctions for her to get off the table, to stop climbing the curtains or when surveying the wreckage of another ornament, or tipped-over flower pot).
More time, more changes. The little sailor with the semaphore flags joined the others in the box that reappeared every year, sometimes in very distant locations from where they were packed away the Christmas before. The next year we added a funny little 'possum hanging by his tail from a branch and reading a book -- an ornament we got for my dad and which always made him laugh. Dad liked critters like 'possums and alligators and the like.
I remarried and we formed a new family with a new tree. The old favorites came out and new ones added. One year we had mostly wooden representations of toys including trains that were a passion with my husband and airplanes for a little boy who wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. I even found a wooden cat on a stepladder holding a star. There was something for everybody. There was the year we made ornaments of stacks of cinnamon sticks wrapped with red and gold ribbon. Each year there were a few new ornaments to tell a story like the tiny English cottages and church that represented my fascination and passion for David Winter cottages or the little train station that had a light inside.
The little boy with the big blue eyes and blonde curls grew up and eventually moved away. He still came home at Christmas and the same ornaments were there to greet him. Every year we added another cat ornament for me, a train ornament for my husband and sometimes an ornament sent by a friend who knew just what would look good on our tree and remind us of them like the three kittens in a mitten from a friend who adopted a cat the year I adopted her Geordie's two girl cousins, Jane and Maggie, from the same breeder. The ornament cats weren't colored like the three we had but it didn't matter. It was the memory it evoked that counted.
Then not many years ago we went to put up the tree and ----- the ornament box was full of tinsel and strings of lights but no ornaments. We checked another box and yet another. A few stragglers appeared, like the three kittens in the mitten and Dad's 'possum but we couldn't find the rest of them anywhere. The tree looked pretty bare that year and my heart sank a little more each time we ran across a box we hadn't searched and which might just possibly…. but it never was. I made some salt-dough ornaments to hang on the tree but somehow they just weren't the same; they couldn't be. Yet this is what we had so it was grit your teeth, pick up your chin and get on with life.
The Christmas after my husband died I had moved into a small place and given away the tree, the lights and most of whatever was left of the life and Christmases we had shared. I hadn't felt like celebrating Christmas for several years -- depression mostly-- but I felt like I needed to at least put up something small to mark the season. I bought a little tabletop tree with the lights already strung on it. That was fine; it was always husband's job to string the lights and that year he wasn't there to do it. That's as far as Christmas went, except to hang a wreath on the door. I had bought outside lights but just couldn't find the time or the energy (or much desire) to put them up. I'd lost a lot in a short period of time -- a husband, a house, hours at work, three pet cats along with at least 3 ferals outdoors, and those missing ornaments were just one more thing to grieve.
I still grieve those losses. It seems so petty to miss things like missing cats or tiny cottages or clothespin reindeer at the same time I am getting used to living alone but it's like missing an arm or a leg. Sure, I can get by without them but their very missing state seems to embody all the losses I've had over the years -- the family, friends, happy places, happy memories, the illusion of security and belonging that I once took for granted and even the once almost overwhelming joy of Christmas.
This year the little tree is up once again, loosely anchored to the wall to add stability from the occasional cat incursion. This year I looked at the almost bare branches, empty except for the little colored lights, and decided it needed something. I had bought some clear plastic crystal-shaped things to do something with (or maybe just because I liked them) the year before and it occurred to me that I could hang just a few on the tree and gussy it up a bit. I found some in different shapes in the store and also some others on strings that I could take apart and add to hangers. The tree is now fairly decorated with dangles and bell-shapes and rectangles and faceted spheres. Even with the lights off, the crystals catch the light and shine. I feel better. They will never replace the ones that were lost but it's my job now to make new memories and find new ways of coping. Putting crystal shapes together helps me feel creative again and the work with my hands gives me satisfaction. The boys seem to like them too -- or perhaps they are fascinated because now and then one "drops" off (often with a little help) and they make a noise as they roll across the floor.
Merry new Christmas to me. Hang on, there's a bare branch over there that needs something. And so it goes.
When I married and moved away, it became time to start growing new family memories. I didn't bring any ornaments from home, probably because our family situation had changed so much and partly because I moved away in August, hardly a time to think about Christmas. so our tree started from scratch. We bought ornaments at the BX -- mostly colored glass balls but one group of frosted glass with gold trim and a citrine rhinestone on each and their complementary gold balls with white trim and a pearl. They were beautiful and I loved them.
The year my son was born we added more memories to the box that came out every Christmas. Since we lived in a place where snow never came, I made snowflakes out of paper doilies and hung them from the ceiling around the tree, something I did for several years. This time the BX had a set of four little plastic cutaway balls in different colors, each with a little soldier-musician inside. They were placed low on the tree, partly so the baby could see them and partly because the cat (our Dammit) would bat at those and leave the more breakable stuff higher up.
Time went by, each Christmas usually adding one keepsake ornament to represent something significant. But just as seasons change, relationships do too and when my son was 4 his father and I separated and divorced. I got most of the ornaments but had to find new ways to make the season like the Christmases I had known. I wanted that for my son. He presented me with an ornament he had made at day care -- two pieces of green felt stuffed and glued together with some sequins glued on. The next year he had graduated to a clothespin reindeer with googly plastic eyes and a green and red blanket across his back. Yet another year was a handprint in clay that went on the tree although in toward the trunk so it wouldn't fall off and get broken.
We added a string of three graduated glass bells at the bottom of the tree, our "cat alarm" we called it. If the tree moved even slightly, the "alarm" would go off and we could rescue it from the cat. Mostly though, Dammit curled up under it, demurely tucking her paws under her white shirt that had partially given her her name ("damit" was Filipino for shirt or dress -- the extra "m" came from repeated injunctions for her to get off the table, to stop climbing the curtains or when surveying the wreckage of another ornament, or tipped-over flower pot).
More time, more changes. The little sailor with the semaphore flags joined the others in the box that reappeared every year, sometimes in very distant locations from where they were packed away the Christmas before. The next year we added a funny little 'possum hanging by his tail from a branch and reading a book -- an ornament we got for my dad and which always made him laugh. Dad liked critters like 'possums and alligators and the like.
I remarried and we formed a new family with a new tree. The old favorites came out and new ones added. One year we had mostly wooden representations of toys including trains that were a passion with my husband and airplanes for a little boy who wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. I even found a wooden cat on a stepladder holding a star. There was something for everybody. There was the year we made ornaments of stacks of cinnamon sticks wrapped with red and gold ribbon. Each year there were a few new ornaments to tell a story like the tiny English cottages and church that represented my fascination and passion for David Winter cottages or the little train station that had a light inside.
The little boy with the big blue eyes and blonde curls grew up and eventually moved away. He still came home at Christmas and the same ornaments were there to greet him. Every year we added another cat ornament for me, a train ornament for my husband and sometimes an ornament sent by a friend who knew just what would look good on our tree and remind us of them like the three kittens in a mitten from a friend who adopted a cat the year I adopted her Geordie's two girl cousins, Jane and Maggie, from the same breeder. The ornament cats weren't colored like the three we had but it didn't matter. It was the memory it evoked that counted.
Then not many years ago we went to put up the tree and ----- the ornament box was full of tinsel and strings of lights but no ornaments. We checked another box and yet another. A few stragglers appeared, like the three kittens in the mitten and Dad's 'possum but we couldn't find the rest of them anywhere. The tree looked pretty bare that year and my heart sank a little more each time we ran across a box we hadn't searched and which might just possibly…. but it never was. I made some salt-dough ornaments to hang on the tree but somehow they just weren't the same; they couldn't be. Yet this is what we had so it was grit your teeth, pick up your chin and get on with life.
The Christmas after my husband died I had moved into a small place and given away the tree, the lights and most of whatever was left of the life and Christmases we had shared. I hadn't felt like celebrating Christmas for several years -- depression mostly-- but I felt like I needed to at least put up something small to mark the season. I bought a little tabletop tree with the lights already strung on it. That was fine; it was always husband's job to string the lights and that year he wasn't there to do it. That's as far as Christmas went, except to hang a wreath on the door. I had bought outside lights but just couldn't find the time or the energy (or much desire) to put them up. I'd lost a lot in a short period of time -- a husband, a house, hours at work, three pet cats along with at least 3 ferals outdoors, and those missing ornaments were just one more thing to grieve.
I still grieve those losses. It seems so petty to miss things like missing cats or tiny cottages or clothespin reindeer at the same time I am getting used to living alone but it's like missing an arm or a leg. Sure, I can get by without them but their very missing state seems to embody all the losses I've had over the years -- the family, friends, happy places, happy memories, the illusion of security and belonging that I once took for granted and even the once almost overwhelming joy of Christmas.
This year the little tree is up once again, loosely anchored to the wall to add stability from the occasional cat incursion. This year I looked at the almost bare branches, empty except for the little colored lights, and decided it needed something. I had bought some clear plastic crystal-shaped things to do something with (or maybe just because I liked them) the year before and it occurred to me that I could hang just a few on the tree and gussy it up a bit. I found some in different shapes in the store and also some others on strings that I could take apart and add to hangers. The tree is now fairly decorated with dangles and bell-shapes and rectangles and faceted spheres. Even with the lights off, the crystals catch the light and shine. I feel better. They will never replace the ones that were lost but it's my job now to make new memories and find new ways of coping. Putting crystal shapes together helps me feel creative again and the work with my hands gives me satisfaction. The boys seem to like them too -- or perhaps they are fascinated because now and then one "drops" off (often with a little help) and they make a noise as they roll across the floor.
Merry new Christmas to me. Hang on, there's a bare branch over there that needs something. And so it goes.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
On the diocesan election in LA
The Diocese of Los Angeles has elected two new suffragan bishops --- both female. That in itself would serve as front-page material in some journalistic elements but no, the big news is that one of them is lesbian on top of being female (of course, to be lesbian I think you HAVE to be female, don't you?). That she is in a long-term committed relationship is an offense in some areas, notably in some areas of the Episcopal Church (some areas already halfway or more out the door) and the Anglical Communion (notably parts of the US, parts of Africa and parts, it seems, of the UK).
Before the election of Mary Glasspool was even cool, the Archbishop of Canterbury jumped up and began proclaiming that the election would have "important implications", yadda yadda yadda. What it amounts to is "you PROMISED to exercise restraint! NOW look what you've done! BAD! BAD! BAD!" This isn't the first time the ABC has butted into the affairs of TEC --- remember his comments during and after General Convention about what was expected of us and how it could reflect on how we were perceived and continued to be part of the Anglican Communion? He certainly didn't waste any time -- or mince any words.
Which makes it all the more galling. You have churches that are part of the Anglican Communion espousing life prison sentences and even death for GLBT folk in their countries as well as possible imprisonment for any foreigners who serve the GLBT communities or even speak out against the proposed legislation. The silence from Lambeth Palace is absolutely deafening. It's been weeks and weeks yet he hasn't said a word, EVER, about the boundary crossing much less the inhumanity. I simply do not understand.
For a long time our Presiding Bishop was silent on the issue but she has broken her silence in a statement that was pastoral, well-crafted and strong. It felt good to hear her words, words many had despaired of ever hearing.
Yet Lambeth has commented, as usual, in a way that encourages the one wing and denigrates the other.
I would like TEC to cease contributing more than a modest sum to the Anglican Communion and its arms. I would like to see TEC continue building relationships around the world and providing aid to those in need in whatever country they may be. I would like the bishops and standing committees to approve the election of Mary Glasscock. They have approved some elections of bishops-elect about whom there is dis-ease with their position and concern whether or not they would remain part of TEC yet they were the duly elected bishops of their dioceses and the dioceses surely chose the candidates they felt the Spirit had sent them.
As for the ABC, my respect for him as primus inter pares is gone. I cannot respect a person, no matter how exalted, who seems to be catering to bullies and backstabbing friends. the bullies will never be appeased until they control Lambeth Palace and the Anglican Communion itself. The friends will try to retain bonds of affection even when they are slapped in the face again and again and yet they will grow tired eventually and ask why such treatment is so necessary.
Archbishop Rowan, change your brand of tea. Whatever you're drinking, it feels like you've ingested jimson weed tea instead of Earl Grey, and the delusions you have been given as a result have seriously disrupted the reality of the world, the Church and the Anglican communion. You can't win with the bullies. They have no respect for you or your office, no matter what you do to appease them. And you will lose the friends who have supported you even when you stab them.
God help us
Before the election of Mary Glasspool was even cool, the Archbishop of Canterbury jumped up and began proclaiming that the election would have "important implications", yadda yadda yadda. What it amounts to is "you PROMISED to exercise restraint! NOW look what you've done! BAD! BAD! BAD!" This isn't the first time the ABC has butted into the affairs of TEC --- remember his comments during and after General Convention about what was expected of us and how it could reflect on how we were perceived and continued to be part of the Anglican Communion? He certainly didn't waste any time -- or mince any words.
Which makes it all the more galling. You have churches that are part of the Anglican Communion espousing life prison sentences and even death for GLBT folk in their countries as well as possible imprisonment for any foreigners who serve the GLBT communities or even speak out against the proposed legislation. The silence from Lambeth Palace is absolutely deafening. It's been weeks and weeks yet he hasn't said a word, EVER, about the boundary crossing much less the inhumanity. I simply do not understand.
For a long time our Presiding Bishop was silent on the issue but she has broken her silence in a statement that was pastoral, well-crafted and strong. It felt good to hear her words, words many had despaired of ever hearing.
Yet Lambeth has commented, as usual, in a way that encourages the one wing and denigrates the other.
I would like TEC to cease contributing more than a modest sum to the Anglican Communion and its arms. I would like to see TEC continue building relationships around the world and providing aid to those in need in whatever country they may be. I would like the bishops and standing committees to approve the election of Mary Glasscock. They have approved some elections of bishops-elect about whom there is dis-ease with their position and concern whether or not they would remain part of TEC yet they were the duly elected bishops of their dioceses and the dioceses surely chose the candidates they felt the Spirit had sent them.
As for the ABC, my respect for him as primus inter pares is gone. I cannot respect a person, no matter how exalted, who seems to be catering to bullies and backstabbing friends. the bullies will never be appeased until they control Lambeth Palace and the Anglican Communion itself. The friends will try to retain bonds of affection even when they are slapped in the face again and again and yet they will grow tired eventually and ask why such treatment is so necessary.
Archbishop Rowan, change your brand of tea. Whatever you're drinking, it feels like you've ingested jimson weed tea instead of Earl Grey, and the delusions you have been given as a result have seriously disrupted the reality of the world, the Church and the Anglican communion. You can't win with the bullies. They have no respect for you or your office, no matter what you do to appease them. And you will lose the friends who have supported you even when you stab them.
God help us
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