Moses's Wardrobe

Today, on my day off, I finally got around to catching up on details that had been lagging for months...thank-you notes for baby gifts (if any of you gift givers are reading--I'm sorry, sorry, sorry for being so late in responding...it's just that there's been a baby and all...), leftover Texas trip laundry, scooping cat litter boxes, making a trip to the credit union, drinking my weight in chai tea, you know...the same old, same old.

But, there was this little niggling thing that has been hanging over my head since about January...the issue of the fundamentalist Christian resale store and the state of my maternity clothes. You see, in mid-January I dropped off a whole shit-load of maternity clothes I had grown out of and which had been worn about, oh, once before I grew out of them. I dropped them off that day when it was snowing and now, you see, it's near 90 degrees. So, it's time to do something. For lo, it is now summer.

In my defense, the official little form they gave me when I dropped the clothes off to be considered for resale said (and I'm quoting directly here...) "Once we have evaluated your items, we will then call you with two purchase offers, consignment or store credit. At that time you may choose the offer that best fits your needs. If we do not reach you, we will leave a message or continue calling until one or the other has been achieved. Therefore, it is not necessary to call regarding your items. We happily take this responsibility in an effort to make the process less complicated for you and your family."

So, you know, I got fatter. And then I had a kid. And then I took good care of that kid. And winter turned to spring and spring turned to summer and, lo and behold, I never heard from fundamentalist Christian resale shop (where all the proceeds seem to go to wacky Christian sectarian groups). And, they did say they would "happily take on this responsibility." I imagined the little fundie ladies with their hair in tight buns, wearing modest clothing and whistling as they sorted and tagged and labeled my merchandise and then anticipated a chatty, friendly phone call in due time. So, today...today on this 6th of July I placed a little call to the business which I shall refer to as Moses's Wardrobe, the happy place which had, sadly, never taken their appointed responsibility as promised.

Mr. Moses himself answered his phone and when I explained my dilemma, the not hearing from them, and the wondering what happened with all my shit, I mean stuff (cause I care about not hurting a fundamentalist Christian's ears), Mr. Moses said, "I have no record of it." When I explained that I had the little "Buying Policy" receipt thing and that, certainly, they must have SOME record, after all I did fill out that little 3x5 card with my name and address, I was told quite unhappily, "I have no record." I took a deep breath and asked Mr. Moses to please look through his records. And I was put on hold. For a long time. A long time.

And...Mr. Moses, he did come back on the line and ask if I, was "Christian." I figured, being a fundy establishment it wouldn't hurt to answer to that misnomer. He said, "Well, I talked to you and you said we could sell the following items..." and he named about a third of what I dropped off. I politely told him that he never spoke with me. And he said, "Oh yes I did." And I said, "Ah, no, we never spoke." And he said, "Yes, I did" with an oh-so-certain tone. And I said, "I would have remembered, and would have picked up the items you did not want to sell." This led into a firm and emphatic, "No, I spoke with you." I paused, thinking, "What the hell happened to 'the customer is always right?'" There was silence on the line. "Ma'am," Moses said, "I talked to you." And the way he said it insisted that he, Mr. Moses, who has never given birth but who owns a maternity store was right. Finally, in exasperation I said, "I am not crazy!"

We were getting nowhere. Grayson was crying loudly for a bottle. The dog was whining in her cage. I had to pee. Universes were colliding. I couldn't fight the patriarchy anymore. "Fine," I said. And that was that.

R., overhearing our little exchange, overhearing my voice rising higher and higher (and I swear, I am by no means a hysterical person) said, "You want me to call?" I think R. knew by then that when dealing with conservative men who think that they can win in a verbal argument by simply speaking louder and with more emphasis, having a penis might have its advantages in the patriarchal world.

R., having aforementioned necessary penis and deep voice, phoned and said three important words. Better Business Bureau. And mean Christian man seemed to perk up a little bit. We'll see what unfolds.

It was only later that I realized my problem. I didn't remind Mr. Moses of how much Jesus was crying about the way he was treating a fellow Christian. Or perhaps I didn't walk into the shop in a prairie skirt with my hair in a Nazarene french braid. Or maybe he just whiffed the scent of the secular humanist within me and knew I voted for John Kerry in the last election. Maybe he saw my "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker, or had an inkling that I once volunteered for NARAL and decided it was easy to write me off since I would certainly burn in hell in due time.

Moral of the story: Moses's Wardrobe sucks.

And Jesus doesn't like liars, Mr. Moses. And he may even have voted for John Kerry. So there.

And now, Mr. Moses, I need to go to bed so I can ask forgiveness for my mean thoughts about you. And compliment myself on not using your store's real name in this post, 'cause even those of us without penises do have some integrity.

Letter to Grayson at 3 Months-Old

Dear Grayson,

I should have written this letter to you on June 28th, but as your mommy spent her vacation lugging you around from hill to valley, and indulging in the tenderest steaks ever devoured and the smoothest scotch every to slide across ice-cubes (when aforementioned mommy was absolutely not driving, just so we have that clear ahead of time), this letter got delayed. But, I'm glad because something happened today which I wanted to make sure was recorded for posterity.

Today, your Grandpa and GramBee and I drove to Warsaw to visit Great-Grandpa Miller. We took him from his assisted living facility and drove him out to Chapman Lake, to the home which he loves and to the lake where both Mommy and Grandpa swam as children. We sat on the porch and looked at the water and I asked Great-Grandpa how many hours he'd spent just watching the lake and he smiled and told me he reckoned it was a whole lot. While Great-Grandpa napped, Grandpa and I walked you down to the swimming hole and dipped your tiny toes into the water in what Great-Grandpa named, appropriately, "The Miller Baptism." You screeched at first, because the water was cold on this 4th of July, but you quickly calmed and seemed hypnotized by the waves as they broke near the shore. I whispered in your ear the mysteries of this lake which has cradled me all these years, this lake which calms your great-grandpa now in his ninth decade. I promised you that I would teach you to swim in this swimming hole and that we would watch minnows and collect clam shells, and huddle near one another in towels on the pier.

You smile so much now. Your daddy and I call one of your smiles your "Dick Cheney" look, it's a half-smile where you don't seem to be entirely committed to the idea of smiling. The difference between you and our illustrious VP, however, is that your smile lacks all sense of guile.

Grammy wonders if you might be a leftie...as in your hand-coordination (we are already convinced that your politics will lean that way, and if they don't, well...we'll let your big sisters apply appropriate pressure where need be). You seem to be favoring your left hand as you bat for objects and shake your rattle and rub your ears. We'll see what unfolds, as with so much in life.

This month you met your Mamaw Amy and your Texas kin for the first time. Grandpa and GramBee flew with us and you sat quietly in the baby carrier, resting near Grandpa's heart, your face nuzzled into his chest where he worried you were suffocating as you snuffled and snorted contentedly. You were an impressive traveler, even more impressive than Mommy who needs Xanax to be lured onto an airplane. 92-year-old Mamaw Amy remarked that she never thought she'd live to see the day that after four granddaughters she finally had her grandson. She had reason to wonder, as your oldest cousin is in her 40s and expecting her own child to arrive from China sometime soon. You cooed contentedly at your Mamaw and were ultra-fascinated with her glasses and sparkly eyes.

So many people love you. I am honored to be one of them--honored to be your mommy and can't wait to continue to watch you unfold, my sweet, sweet boy.

Mommy

Where the Armadillo Roam Free

I know, I know, I know. I'm late in posting. It's Grayson's three-month-birthday and the least I could do was write my letter to him, but we've been on vacation in San Angelo visiting R.'s family and its downright anti-social to hide one's nose in a computer when kinfolk are admiring your babies, and your brother-in-law is refilling your glass with Johnny Walker Red.

So, posts will come. I promise. I lie in bed at night awaiting the screech of a newborn insisting I feed him and write post after post in my head. But alas, my trusty laptop is at home, awaiting my return.

Big news tonight, though. We chased down an armadillo and heard his click-click-clicking feet on the driveway. Armadillos, in my opinion, are proof that God has a sense of humor.

More soon. I promise.

And remember, don't mess with Texas.

Things I Learned This Week

So, I've been back at work for two whole weeks now. The first week was infinitely worse than the second, but I'm getting more accustomed to kissing my baby boy goodbye in the morning and I love, love, love watching the relationship which is developing with the G. man and his daddy, who acts as primary caregiver right now.

This week, though, was one of those weeks where one's learning curve seems to expand exponentially.

Examples? Why sure...

When a nudist dies, it is entirely appropriate to ask the funeral home to dress him in his finest, which is, um, nothing. Furthermore, they will talk with you seriously about this and no one will smile or laugh because you both are professionals. And this is as it should be, but it does add new meaning to the term "blue balls." I'm just sayin'... And I'm not saying how I know this. Just that I do.

That one can walk through the office for an entire day with spit-up stains on their shoulder and one will say nary a word. Whether this is because one's officemates are not highly observant, or because they feel sorry for a ten-pounds overweight post-partum woman in tight clothes, is still open for discussion.

That taking a dump can elicit more positive responses from a patient than a pastoral care visit anyday. I asked one of my patients with dementia yesterday, "How are your spirits today?" And Martha paused, in deep and faraway thought as if she was communing with her Creator and finally said, "It is well. I finally went. It made all the difference. It was probably two inches long. Bowel movements help a lot." And how do I respond? In the only way I could think of in the moment, "Amen, and amen." To which she added, "Hallelujah."

That seeing one's blue-eyed boy at the end of the day smiling and cooing happily when he drifts into his mama's arms is a reminder of why I value life and why I believe in what I do, which is helping people live to the fullest. And to that I add, a hearty "Amen and Amen."

One Hand

I'm holding a baby boy. I'm typing one-handed. It's a fussy kind of night. The spirit is willing for blogging. The flesh is preoccupied. A baby who must have tired himself doing important Amnesty International work (see impressive onesie, thank you Susan) wiggles in my arms and sends his own baby love out into the blogosphere.

Will a baby picture do until I have two hands?

Back

I've been back at work for three days now. I had always heard women who had babies talk about how hard it was to return to their professions and I confess that I thought, "What?!? I love my job. I am called to my job. What?!?" And then, I kissed my 2 month old baby boy goodbye on the forehead this morning and cried on the way to a job that, for the most part, I love.

It isn't as hard now. R. is home with the G. boy throughout the summer and I love, love, love watching the relationship that they continue to develop. I love watching Grayson coo and ahh at his daddy. I love that he coos and ahhs when I get home too. I love that R. brings Grayson for Tuesday lunches with his mommy at Hospice. And the staff love that they get their Tuesday baby fix. I love that on Wednesdays he hangs with Grandma K. and I can call her at a moment's notice and she'll give me the intimate details of every moment in our baby's existence.

But, autumn will be hard. Because I know that I will wonder in those two days a week when he's with a caregiver, "Who can care for him as well as his family can?"

I worked in daycare while I was in college. I was the woman,the college senior, you left your precious baby with as you went for work each day. I lied to you when your baby walked at daycare, because I didn't want you to have to accept that you missed her first steps. I was ashamed when your child reached for me in the morning, rather than preferring to stay with his parents. I worried about you when you wanted to take more sick leave time when she had a fever, but knew you had to be at work. I wondered what life was like for him when you worked twelve hours a day for five days a week because you had to show your boss you were a "team player." I loved your child. I cradled your child. I still feel partially responsible for your child. And we haven't met for nearly ten years. And now I understand you.

I've been on both sides. I believe children grow when they have relationships with adults other than their parents. Studies show that children who attend daycare are just as emotionally healthy as their "home-grown" peers. I know this. And yet, I miss my baby when I say goodbye in the morning.

Perhaps this will change when toddlerhood and the watching of Pinky-Winky are paramount in his mind.

We'll see...

Bad Day

Sometimes there are bad days.

Today was one of those.

It was hot. Hot as hell. And dry, too, which meant there were lots of cottony things swishing through the air and making this allergy-sufferer sneeze and wheeze and snort and have watery eyes.

And Grayson had gas. Bad gas. Which meant that he was alternately crying or farting. And I'm not sure which was worse. Except in the moments when it happened simultaneously, which sort of made him pause and look perplexingly around as if to say, "What, mother, was that strange noise?" And this, sort of made me laugh, which just pissed him off more.

And I have a rash. A bad rash. Which spreads over both of my legs and which the doctor called today "unspecified," which means we don't know what caused it, just that it itches. It itches badly. And after she prescribed the cortisone cream she said, "But, we should probably determine what the cause is, or it might come back." And I have wracked my brain and I simply don't know. I don't know at all. And the detective in me, the former president of the Garfield Spy Club, hates not knowing.

And I got some bad news. And it irritated me. And made me sad. And there it is. And it may have been caused by this here blog. And so be it.

But...in a not at all Pollyanna-ish way, I also am thankful for the poignant blessings of the day--family who love me, who love me enough to take me out for a Mexican fiesta supper (and then to a Babies R Us rendezvous to buy more waterproof crib pads--Ole!), family who send me consoling emails, family who stomp their feet in righteous indignation when I am hurt, a baby who smiles and coos and brightens when I am in his eyesight and friends who console and heal and hold out olive branches when they aren't even necessary.

And so, on this bad day, on this June 7th. I pout and protest and then I pour myself a glass of chardonay wine and think about what's next.

And I know that because God created peanut M&M's thereby prooving Her love for us, it will all be okay.

And Your Mama Dresses You Funny Too

Dear Grayson,

When you are eleven years old and everyone at school is making fun of the fact that part of the back of your head is flat, don't come crying to me. For it should be duly noted that I have consistently rearranged your sleeping arrangements to accomodate for this flat spot. Whenever I see you asleep, I move your head to the other side. I have added to the opposite side of the crib an amazing black and white images of dogs which seem to hypnotize you and send you into a rhapsody of joy cooing and kicking the likes of which you never do for us. This hypnotizing and rhapsodizing has come, however, only when the picture has been viwed by you while lying on the flat head side...when I, in an amazing feat of parental genius switch it so you'll be lying on your perfectly rounded side, you get pissed as hell and tell me about it. Loudly. 'And with a scrunched face and occasional shrieks for emphasis. I can only take it for so long...and thus, you can explain the flat-headedness to your peers. For the record, it is not my fault. Your pediatrician, and your father, seem relatively unconcerned...so I assume I'm simply being a neurotic mommy, for the 239,483th time.

However, the fact that you are dressed in outfits that disguise you as various Caribbean fruit and barnyard animals can be blamed on me, and might be something worth discussing with your therapist someday.

With abiding love and concern and absolutely no blame whatsoever,
Your Adoring Mother

Holy Mary Mother of God--Three (Albeit Skimpy) Posts in One Day

Dear Nasal Aspirator,

I simply felt the need to thank you for the amazing work you do on my newborn's nose. Since he contracted this nasty head cold from his sister, he spends a lot of time sniffling and snorting and hacking and grunting. You, my dear man, have been a God-send.

I apologize for calling you so many names--"Booger Burglar," "Nose Picker," "Nasal Negotiator," "Ass of an Aspirator," "Snot Sucker," among a few of them. You deserve a title, perhaps I should start calling you "Sir Nasal Aspirator," or "King Lord God Aspirator." Does that help?

I never knew before having an infant that you existed, and confess that when I saw you whilst in the hospital lying ever so innocently in the bassinet next to my son that I perceived you as some foreign invader and vowed that I would dominate you at all costs, and avoid your evil thief-like ways because, of course, my child would never be exposed to the evil germs that you were meant to dispel, for I would be the perfect mother.

But now, my friend, now I know better.

Please forgive me for boiling you in hot water today to sanitize you. I'm sure it wasn't a pleasant sensation. However, I'm sure you recognize it was for a greater good and were willing to sacrifice your rubber goodness for us.

Thank you, and Godspeed.

Your servant,
The Contemplative Chaplain

Mother and Son Conversation

Grayson: Gee, thanks Mom, for dressing me in this jaunty gingham onesie. I hear all the boys are wearing them this season.
Mommy: Oh sweetie, just wait until winter when you can wear the red velvet Santa suit I have stashed in the closet.
Grayson: I would prefer it if you allowed my father or sisters to dress me.
Mommy: Look, it was either you or the cat, and Cooper wouldn't have room for his tail in the Santa suit.
Grayson: Bloody hell. It's going to be a long couple years until I can undress myself without help.
Mommy: You gotcha, sweet cheeks. I'm counting on it.

Further Signs that I Have Become a Mother

Today I accidentally pulled a plastic container full of sliced watermelon soaking in sticky watermelon juice out of the refrigerator and dropped it on the floor where it splattered onto recently washed tile. This wasn't the sign of motherhood.

A split second after it hit the ground I yelled, "Oh Fudge!"

Those of you who know me well realize that this would not have been my F-word of choice just a few short weeks ago.

This concerns me.

Tenderness

Kosmas is getting older. His forgetfulness has increased in the last few weeks. Helen worries about him. She feels alone and frightened. They have been married for over 56 years. In this English speaking world which is far from the Greek village in which they grew up, Kosmas has always been the translator. Helen tells me, "I come here when I was 28 years old. I no learn English. Kosmas, he talk for me." I assure her that she is more fluent than she knows.

Kosmas and Helen are our neighbors, but more than that, they are our family. They have adopted us and claimed us as their own. They bless our children with traditional Greek ritual. They call themselves our Greek parents and grandparents. They keep us stocked in Greek pastry and Easter bread. They love us unconditionally. When Kosmas had a stroke several years ago, Helen called in the wee of the morning, speaking Greek frantically and R. was the one who called 911 for them. When R. and I were married, Helen called early in the morning saying, "R., today is your happy, happy. I bring you gifts." The gifts were the largest pan of baklava in the tri-state area for our wedding reception, and a crockpot to feed 20+.

Today I took Helen and Kosmas to the cardiologist where Kosmas was having an EKG done after being diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat. In the car during the fifteen minute car ride he asked three our four times, "Where we going? What we doing?" And Helen patiently spoke to him in Greek, reminding him of his doctor appointment. Each time he thanked her for telling him and then asked me what I thought the weather would do tomorrow. I repeated to him the weather report and he thanked me. It was 90 degrees today, and Kosmas wore a sweater. He thinks it's winter, and worries that I'm taking the baby out in the cold. He was relieved today that the baby was staying home with R.

When the nurse called Kosmas to come into the examination room I asked Helen if she wanted me to go too. She said, "Oh yes, Christy [her name for me], you understand what they say, you explain it to me." I sat in the corner and watched as the electrodes were attached to a smiling Kosmas. He charmed the nurse. He was such a cooperative patient, willing to do whatever they asked of him. He thanked the nurse for her help. He thanked her "very much."

When the examination was finally over, Kosmas sat on the edge of the table, feet dangling. "You can get dressed now, Mr. K" the nurse said. Kosmas smiled obligingly at her, thanked her once again and then looked at Helen. She quietly picked up his undershirt and held the neck open for him as he slipped his head through, and then she draped his white dress shirt over his shoulders while he shrugged his arms into it, and starting from the bottom of the shirt, she tenderly buttoned each button until she got to the neck, when she gently patted his cheek. "Thank you, Helen" said Kosmas, his customary phrase.

I almost had to turn away when I saw the intimacy shared in this simple act. I felt as if I were privy to a private encounter. I was ushered into the holy communion of true love. My eyes filled with tears, which I quickly brushed away. We got in the car to go home and Helen said to me, "Christy, Kosmas, you know, Kosmas is my baby. You have your baby. I have my baby. He needs me."

Helen doesn't need to learn better English. She is fluent in the universal language of love. And this is more than enough. And it is an intimacy which I am only beginning to learn.

Month 2

Dear Grayson,

You have been on this planet now for two months. I wonder how different the world seems to you than it did just four weeks ago. I am amazed at how much you have grown and changed. Already some of your clothes don't fit, which has sent your mother into a fit of nostalgia. I fold those too small sleepers and box them up and feel as if my heart is breaking. I suppose this is what all of parenting is--a saying goodbye, while marveling at who their little one is becoming.

Your biggest accomplishment in my eyes has been your endearing smile. God help me I absolutely melt when you give me that half-grin and look at me sideways with those sometimes crossed eyes (focusing is still a skill you haven't seemed to master). When you look at me that way, I could almost forgive you telling me you'd like to become a Republican someday. Or that you'd like to become a televangelist. Almost.

Don't try it, though, okay? Don't test me.

You had your first shots last week, and as is often reported, they were miserable for all of us. Your daddy held you, while Mommy choked back tears and the nurse was mercifully quick. Two shots on each thigh, with two Elmo band-aids to mark the spot. We tried to comfort you, but it was only when your big sister picked you up and carried you out of the pediatrician's office that you calmed. You've already learned that the little people must band together (the socialist in me is thrilled that you've figured out this political lesson so early). I am humbled by the fierce bond the two of you have formed already and as an only child am forever grateful that R. and his former wife have offered you the gift of two older sisters.

It is hard for me to fathom going back to work in a few weeks. I know your father will take exquisite care of you. I am grateful that one of your parents will be home to nurture you. I also know that I will be a better mommy to you if I continue the work I love and feel called to do. But, I know how much I miss you in even a short trip to the grocery store. Eight hours is a long time.

We're still trying to teach you what it means to sleep through the whole night. At this point I would bribe you with almost anything to get you to close your eyes at 11:00 p.m. and remain asleep until around 8:00 a.m. I'd even settle for a 12:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. slot. What kind of deal can we strike? You want a pony? Your tongue pierced at age 16? A summer abroad in Croatia at the age of 22? Some play-doh to smear into the carpet? I'm willing to wheel and deal here.

There is something so tender in watching your parents relate to your children. Your father and I are the bridge that connects you to each of your grandparents. I love watching Grandpa Jim taking you on elaborate airplane rides through the living room, watching Grandma Bernie nuzzle your soft neck, watching Grandma Karen cooing to you as she rocks you to sleep, watching Grandpa Dick whisper to you about his plans to take you to Disney World and telling you what attractions you'll share together.

In another month we'll get in a plane with Grandpa Jim and Grandma Bernie and fly to San Angelo, Texas to meet your almost 92-year-old Mamaw Amy and your Aunt Lois and Uncle Vayden. I can't wait to watch their faces when they are introduced to 3-month-old you. I can't wait to watch you forge relationships with your daddy's side of the family. We will take your umblical cord stump and bury it on the land where your daddy wandered as a little boy on the fish hatchery, in the same place where your older sisters have their umblical cord stumps buried, in the same place where your daddy will someday in the far distant future have his ashes scattered. This way, you'll always have roots in Texas.

You are my delight and my joy. And I love you beyond words, my sweet Lamb.

Mommy

Shots

Another boring mommy post...

Grayson got four (count them FOUR) shots on Friday morning. It probably hurt R. and me more than it hurt him. He sniffed his discontent quickly and then wailed, wailed, wailed until his big sister offered comfort (his parents, as you may recall collaborated with the mean nurse in holding him as the shots were administered).

He's had a rough two days. As had sweet Daddy who stayed awake with him all night last night. Mommy gets her turn tonight. I have a new realization. I Love Infant Acetaminophin. I mean, Love (with a capital "L"). I'm wondering if they market Infant Xanax, as we could use some in this house tonight at say, around 11:00 p.m...

Surreal World

I live in a realtively safe neighborhood in the Midwest. There are occasional burglaries. There are occasional domestic disputes. There are occasional fires. But, I feel safe where I live. I feel safe raising children in our area. There is a reputation that echoes in any racially diverse neighborhood that crime rates must be higher, or that safety must be a concern. Every time we've accidentally left our garage door open at night, our kind African American neighbors have called to remind us to close it. Every time we've hungered for a sweet treat, our Greek neighbors have supplied us with baklava. I feel safe calling my neighborhood home.

And yet, yesterday I stumbled into Surreal World.

I was out running (or walkunning as I should call it, that half running/half walking twilight that I have entered post-Grayson whereby my body doesn't know how to complete a good three mile run, and I end up half-staggering, half-limping the last mile). I was out running when I entered a strange world which involved hammers and pepper spray. In the midst of my exercise, while wearing headphones, I entered a battleground of sorts and I cannot shake this from my mind.

I have a habit on especially hard runs (as the last several have been for me) of focusing my attention on the pavement about three feet in front of me, of concentrating my effort on the ground only a few steps ahead, as a way of continuing each step. And with the headphones on, I was merely conscious of the 95.1 FM traffic report and the hot sun giving me even more premature age spots on my nose when I looked up and was about ten feet away from another reality.

There were forty or so youth, each of those I saw being African American. There was yelling. There was confrontation. There were girls wrestling on the yard of a suburban home. There was a boy being chased by a hammer-wielding man-child. There was a young woman crying out, "Help me, help me, I've been maced!" Traffic in the street was at a standstill. I had stumbled into a wonderland of sorts. This was not my home.

And even as I pulled the earphones out of my ears, and stopped to see what was happening, even as I noticed the maced girl being assisted by a neighbor, and another burly man yelling, "Break it up! Break it up!" even as I saw the stopped mini-van driver whipping out a cell-phone in what I can assume was a 911 call, I was aware that I was just an observer. My skin color set me apart. My status as 30+ year-old-woman made me different. While I was worried about these fighting youth, I was not afraid for my own safety.

How does a Christian walk into these places? What could I, a midwestern white woman do to stop the violence? Would the hammers be turned on me if I did more than slink by? Could I be an instrument of peace?

I don't know. I simply don't know.

I hurried home. I wanted to do what I could, which was to call the police. But before my route was finished I saw four or five police cars circling our neighborhood, and so I knew that part had been accomplished.

I am a middle-class white woman whose color protects her. Where am I called when violence erupts? And how do I follow the teachings of a peace-filled Christ? How do I heed the immortal words of St. Francis and sow love where there is hatred?

The answers to these questions both challenge and scare me.

I pray for those holding the hammers. I pray for those who see the violence in their eyes. God help us all.

Cheeky Goodness

I really try to sit down and type something. But this little face cajoles me into cooing and laughing instead. How am I ever going to get any writing done?

It will come.

Reflections and Resolutions

I've been rereading old posts on this here blog. Rereading with a more critical eye. Recognizing that, just as the newest public service announcement on TV suggests, one should be "careful of what you post," lest others...well, lest others...do what? Judge me? Find me? Resonate with me?

It's humbling to reread your blog. You find entries that you'd just as soon erase (geez, why'd I write that comment about my cat's bowel function?), and you find entries that remind you of why you started this blog in the first place (see most any blog about one of my Hospice patients).

I've been doing a lot of contemplating about where this blog is going (as I am the contemplative chaplain). And while the last nine months or more have been spent in more reflective writings on pregnancy and parenting, I realize that there is more than that within me. More than that which needs to be said. And so my resolution has become this: while I am on maternity leave it's fine to be Contemplative Mommy, but that is not the only label I want affiliated with my name. And so, this blog will represent all of that...the parenting, the partnering, the chaplaincy, the feminism, the Christen who is and the Christen who will become.

I continue to commit myself to being myself. Which means, not being, in this space, who my agency or my denomination want me to be, but simply being me. Irreverent, confused, hopeful, agitating, empathetic, exhausted and exhausting me.

So there. There it is. Let's begin again, shall we?

Ch-ch-ch Changes

I'm taking a break from the birth stories, because...well, it was getting a little boring...I will update, but I realized it was getting a little laborious to type (ha, pregnancy joke...laborious...I have not lost my sense of English major humor, even despite my sleep deprived brain). Which reminds me, that when the doctor told me we'd do a C-section he said, "So, ultimately I'll do the work rather than you?" I love Dr. S. so I didn't remind him that recovery from major abdominal surgery is not a fun endeavor and is indeed work, and besides, at that point I was so, so in love with Dr. S. for allowing a C-section that I had no words to condemn him.

Life changes when you have a baby. People told me this when I was pregnant. I truly believed them. I did. But, I didn't realize HOW MUCH, how very much, life changes. For instance, even if I have the opportunity to sleep (i.e. weekends when R. is not teaching the next day) I always have "mom ears." I worry about every little thing (okay, this isn't all that different than before, but the worries have gotten more particular, instead of global warming and the future onset of leprosy I now worry about the baby getting too cold [and thus catching pneumonia or some other rare Northern Indiana disease named after an obscure physician who discovered it], and the baby not pooping in 24 hours [and thus having a bowel obstruction or chronic non-pooping disease], and the baby smiling at R. and my father before smiling at me or my mother [and thus responding to deep voices rather than higher pitched ones and, logically, having a hearing problem, or a psychological disorder whereby they hate, hate, hate women], and the baby sleeping at night for more than five hours [because, of course, the baby might have some unknown sleep disorder]. Seems my hypochondriacal nature has transposed itself into hypochondriasis of the infant (there's probably another term for that).

But there are those other sentimental changes. There is this being who I adore heart and soul. And he needs me. There is this baby who trusts me and relies on me. And I better not screw it up. There is this person whose future rests, in part, in what we do now as parents. And while I am not a hard-core Baby Einstein pusher or organic baby-food promoter, I better do my best by him. There is this child who carries my heart on his sleeve, for it has moved from my own body. And I better be open to who he becomes, and how I respond.

And...it must be said, that temporarily, it is as if all of the rest of life has stopped. And this has begun, this parenting gig. So, bear with me dear readers, for it will be more balanced in time. But for now, I post as Grayson's mommy.

Ah Yes, Where Were We...Birth Story Part Deux

Now, children, gather around the fire and don't burn your little fingers or toes as I regale you with the second half of the birth story.

When we last left our heroine she was heading to the doctor's office with her hospital bag packed, remember that? The hospital bag with James Taylor CDs, peanut M&M's, Constant Comment tea bags, and all the other important doo-hickeys and whatnot that one needs when giving birth. But remember, that I don't think I'll be giving birth, mostly just being told to take it easy.

When I arrived at my sweet Dr. S.'s office (really, he is sweet, sweet and I will recommend him to each and every person who asks and he plays no fundy rock music in his office. In fact, I'm planning on giving him a nice bottle of chardonay when I see him next week to thank him for his kindness, and for pulling that baby out of my belly so nicely), my mother was there and we patiently bided our time until Dr. S. was ready to see us. I waddled into the waiting room, the nice nurse said, "I heard you're having some swelling," and then weighed me and said, "You've gained six pounds in four days. Hmmmm..." She had me sit on the table and said, "Let's see your feet..." and when she had my chubby heels in her hands she said, "Hmmm..." She took my blood pressure and said, "Hmmm...it's a little high...lie down on your right side immediately." So I did. And only then did the jungle drums beat in my head and make me a little nervous, and I started sniffling, but couldn't turn my head to my mother for comfort so mumbled toward the wall, "I'm scared." And my sweet mother rubbed my back and said, "It's just fine...relax..." and other comforting motherly things.

And then Dr. S. came in the room, and said, "I hear your swelling?" And he made a few attempts at humor to relax me and then said, "Well, Christen, here's the deal, you're blood pressure is high, and that means that you've got some preeclampsia going here." And I said, "How high?" And, knowing that I am a hypochondriacal nutjob he said simply, "Pretty high. So, here's the plan. We're going to admit you to the hospital." And I didn't know whether to be relieved or scared out of my ever-lovin' mind. "Do you have any other questions?" he asked gently. And I said, "Just this...am I leaving this hospital with a baby in my arms? Or are you just going to hook me up to some machines and tell me to relax?" And he smiled and said, "I think you'll be leaving as two rather than one." And with that, the nice nurse came and walked me over the skywalk to the adjoining hospital and I only sniffled a little bit and then became obsessed with whether or not R. would be able to arrive soon...

And, once again, dear readers, a baby calls...installment Part III soon...

We Tried to Pose the Dog This Way, but Settled for the Kid Instead

There may not be a Birth Story Part Deux yet, but there is this picture of the infamous boy with his less infamous parents, taken by the infamous Contemplative Photographer (a.k.a. Jim the Father).

Birth Story, Part 1

Some folks have written, "Oh, dear Contemplative Chaplain, sweet kind and lovely woman who really doesn't look ten pounds overweight, do please tell us about the birth of your adorable son." So, of course I must oblige. And, actually, it was just one person and she is very nice and gives me way, way too much leeway in her requests. She knows who she is.

However, given the fact that I'm not so great about keeping Grayson's baby book up to date and recognize that this blog might be one of the only ways he knows his history, and that I seem to like sharing intimate details online, and some of you actually do wonder how this little person came into being, and I need a topic to write about, here goes.

As many of you know, I was getting frustrated beyond belief with the last stages of this pregnancy. The puking, my God the puking, which was supposed to end with the first trimester...the inability to make it up a flight of stairs without getting breathless...the fact that my belly was large enough that there was nowhere for the dog to sleep on the couch next to me anymore...the fact that I had to give up working at a job I love before it was technically "time."

On my first day of maternity leave, Karen the mother and I shopped like maniacal OCD women on ritalin. We hit Babies R Us for more receiving blankets, Target for a CD player for the baby's room, JC Penney for nursing bras, Olive Garden for lunch, Borders for just a few more board books to add to the already overflowing bookshelves, Macy's for hospital pajamas, and Starbucks for an afternoon snack (as we hadn't eaten in approximately forty-five minutes). And so, it was no surprise to me in the 70+ degree weather (the first warm spell of Indiana spring) that my feet were swollen to twice their size and my wedding band was cutting off circulation to my head (thus explaining the weird lightheadedness and visual disturbances).

On Tuesday, I decided to spend my day with my feet propped up on the couch. I, thankfully, decided to take off my wedding band (remember this detail for later), and moved hardly at all that day. When R. got home from teaching I moaned and groaned to him about water retention, being a beached-whale, yadda-yadda-yadda. He kissed me on the forehead and reminded me that I was, simply put, pregnant.

However, that swelling I mentioned, the feet and the hands. It did not go away. And my reassuring pregnancy tomes were no help. They all said, "Yes, swelling is normal in the third trimester, but if it doesn't go away overnight, perhaps you should call your doctor. Actually, listen to us and call your doctor Right Now. We mean it, don't pass go and don't collect twho hundred dollars, just call them now, fattie." On Wednesday morning, the feet could no longer fit into slippers and the fingers, they were adorable little sausages. I decided to heed the pregnancy tomes and call my doctor, twelve hours later than I probably should have (thank God I took off that wedding band, or it would have been sawed off...).

I, though, am a clean freak and had made an appointment to have the windows cleaned on that Wednesday morning. And, of course, I didn't want a doctor's appointment to interfere with my need for bird poop to be eliminated from my bathroom window. Certainly not. And so, despite my swelling, well, I had to get up at 8:00 a.m. for the nice cleaning men to come over. As they were concentrating on my windows, and as R. was grumbling about why I had agreed to such an early morning visit from the aforementioned cleaners, I decided to call the doctor. The very nice nurse on the phone listened to my predicament and said, "Um....so your shoes don't fit? And it has only gotten worse? Um...I don't want to alarm you, but we need you to come in RIGHT NOW. And, have you packed a hospital bag? Maybe you should throw it in the car, just in case." Oh. Well. Okay.

I lumbered up the stairs to tell R. who said cautiously, "Do you want me to stay home and go with you?" I was, in a moment of completely uncharacteristic anti-hypochondriasis, adamant, "Nah...it's probably nothing." Besides, the windows had just been cleaned and I certainly needed to enjoy them before blue jays had their way with them. I called my mother, gave her the scoop, told her it was probably nothing, hung up. Two minutes later she called back and said, "I think I'll just meet you there, so you're not alone." As the office was only a few minutes from her house I didn't object, figured she was just being an overprotective parent. I added a few more things to the "just in case" bag (included Constant Comment teabags, James Taylor CDs, and peanut M&M's) and zipped it up, kissed R. goodbye as he left for work, received the invoice from the window washers, put the dog in her crate, and hauled my pregnant belly to the doctor's office.

And now, dear readers, the baby is crying...and so...I leave you in suspense as you wait for Birth Story Part Deux. But ask yourselves, "Will she indeed be admitted to the hospital? And will R. get there in time if she does? Will she ever become unswollen? And will her windows be as clean as she hoped?" Tune in next time...soon.

1 Month

Remembering that imitation is the best form of flattery, I attempt my own feeble monthly letters to the one who has stolen my heart.

Dear Grayson,

Tomorrow you will be one month old. I look at the pictures of you from our luxurious spa-like stay at the hospital and marvel at how quickly you've grown. I have entered the world of parenthood, where children are constantly changing and morphing into new beings and there is little to do apart from pausing to shake one's head in wonder.

Here are things I have learned about motherhood in our short month together. The things people say about developing "Mommy Brain," whereby one forgets names, places, details, to even use the restroom is true. I cannot believe how scattered I have become, how difficult it is for me to concentrate. Of course "Mommy Brain" could also be affiliated with its quite accurate counterpart "Sleep Deprived Zombie." This is difficult for one who feels called to a contemplative dimension. I have said very few prayers, as concentration is shot to hell. Very few prayers, that is, except for the one I breathe countless times throughout the day and night as I inhale your delicate baby scent, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Also, on a more practical note, I've learned that there are amazing contraptions, gadgets and gizmos for parents and babies. I marvel in slack-jawed wonder at whoever came up with the idea for the Diaper Genie. I would give him or her a sloppy wet kiss and a nice aged bottle of Glen Livet scotch if I only knew who to credit. And, as for sleepers that zip rather than snap? Nobel Prize to that person. Immediately. And pacifiers? Perfect name for them. Enough said. And in time to come when you have a baby of your own, if someone tells you that swings are a waste of time? Hit them. Hit them really hard. Oops...we're pacifists, and Brethren pacifists at that, so I guess you'll have to be really passive aggressive with them. Maybe "forget" to tell them about an important church meeting or something.

Weekends change when you are a parent, at least in this household. Because your father is teaching and facing the end of the year stress of most professors, I stay up with you on the weeknights while Daddy teaches the next day, and Daddy does weekend duty. Therefore, whilst in college Friday and Saturday nights were filled with excitement as my roommates and I pondered what parties or dances we might attend, what boys we would flirt with, or how many bottles of Boone's Farm wine we might consume, life has changed. It is equally thrilling to know that on a weekend night after a glass of chardonay (a benefit of not breast-feeding), I can retire at 8:00 p.m. and sleep a full twelve hours while you are tended by Daddy. I'm not sure I've ever had a more fulfilling weekend night. I'm hoping this changes by the time you're seven or eight years old, or else you're going to have a pretty pathetic mommy, perhaps the kind who wears stretch-pants and makes you wear headgear to your eighth-grade holiday dance.

It's probably important to apologize at this time for that nasty comb-over I've been giving you. Ever since your baby hair started falling out, I act as your self-appointed baby groomer and dutifully brush your locks across your gigantic chrome dome of a head (sorry, it had to be said). Both your grandfathers remind me that you are in good company, but I'm afraid your comb-over rivals that of my former high school algebra teacher, and for that I am oh-so-very-sorry. Please don't join the Eagle Forum or any of Phyllis Schaffly's minions to pay me back, as Mr. Becker was a card-carrying member of the aforementioned associations.

You don't do so much "social smiling" as the baby books call it. However, I chalk that up to your discerning mind. There simply hasn't been all that much to smile at yet, I mean, let's face it Geroge W. is still in office. Perhaps your first smile will peak in mid-January of 2009? Your father claims that you did indeed smile at him when he was making faces at you last night. But, as I am the primary caregiver for the time being, I would prefer to believe that it was just gas pains and that you are reserving that first big smile for the woman who wakes up with you at 3:00 a.m. five of the seven days of the week. Having said that, your father is pretty silly when he wants to be and there is no other person I'd smile at in the universe given my druthers.

You are, for all intents and purposes, an "easy baby" it seems. When you cry, you're pretty clear about why you're crying. However, it's hard not to laugh at your fast-breathing, overexaggerated hyperventilation if you're not fed IMMEDIATELY. You breathe, quick-quick-quick through your mouth in what sounds like a Lamaze exercise. Once the problem is addressed, and an Avent bottle inserted properly into your full baby lips you usually calm. You often lie in your cradle in the mornings and stare at the light above you as if to say, "Take me to your leader" and coo contentedly or grunt vigorously. You hate, hate, hate having your diaper changed and you hate, hate, hate the one who changes it...for about thirty seconds (your memory hasn't developed that much...have you considered that it could be sleep deprivation?).

As a rabid feminist, I continue to dress you in gender-neutral clothing (although I am cheap as well and take whatever hand-me-downs or gifts that anyone offers, so you do have lots of blues in your wardrobe). You wear lots of greens and yellows and puppies and bunnies, and still today at the eye doctor's office a sweet little old woman approached me and said, "He's a beautiful boy isn't he?" I wonder if she would have said the same if I had dressed you in your "Future Feminist" onesie?

You have developed a tender relationship with your big sister, B. She absolutely adores you and insists on picking you up and holding you as soon as she gets home. She changes your diapers, mixes your formula, feeds you, burps you, and comforts you. Keep this in mind, kiddo. She's got your back and in time to come you will have to refrain from embarassing her around significant others or annoying her with repeating the lyrics to the Barney theme song for hours at a time on our road trips to Texas to visit your beloved relatives there.

I am astounded by the utter joy you bring me. I am a more passionate activist, a more ardent feminist, a more earnest disciple because of the ways in which I want this world to be right for your generation.

I adore you beyond words.

Love,
Mommy

The Secret Which Shall Remain Hidden

R. and I had our first post-baby date this past weekend and Grayson stayed home with Grandma and Grandpa. I prided myself on the fact that I left the house with no spit-up on my shirt, and that while I can not wear my pre-pregnancy jeans yet, I no longer have the tell-tale post-pregnancy pooch which signals to the world that I now live in the world of stretch pants and Similac formula and obsess about things like the consistency of baby poop. I also found it admirable that I only called home to check on him twice while we were out, although I did sigh often throughout the evening and say, "I wonder what the baby's doing..." to which R. would respond for the sixty-seventh time, "He's probably sleeping, Christen. I mean, really, what else does he do at this point?" (In Grayson's defense, he also poops and eats, so he does have a busy social calendar).

Some may find our first post-baby date unique, for we spent it at a place most new parents don't find themselves. We spent the evening whooping it up at a drag show. It was a wonderful, refreshing change of pace from our normal routine. The small-town college where R. teaches, had their sixth annual drag show sponsored by United Sexualities, an advocacy group which supports the rights of gay/lesbian/bi-sexual/transgendered students on campus. R. is one of the advisors for the group, and as such, was being honored at the drag show. It was a delightful evening filled with both hysterical and poignant moments. There is nothing more freeing than watching students feel comfortable celebrating gender in new and unlikely ways, regardless of their understandings of sexuality. I was unbelievably proud of my husband, as students thanked him for his advocacy for them, and for his gift of being a "safe" faculty member who accepts and celebrates them exactly as they are.

All the way home we reveled in the night, replaying our favorite songs in our minds, remarking on how talented the students were, and how honored we were to be invited into their world. R. wore his pink princess crown, the gift from his students, proudly as we came in the house to cradle our sweet boy, who was taking his final bottle of the night from his grandma. We waved R.'s coveted princess wand around Grayson's head, wishing for him a world where all people felt free to express themselves and know that they were accepted by a loving God into an open-minded world. I sat down the next day and carefully penned into Grayson's baby book the night his mom and dad went out for their first date after he was born, and where they were. I want him to know someday how important it was for us to be there. I want to paste the photo of us with happy smiles on our faces into the pages of his Pooh Memory Book.

However, there is a secret which shall remain hidden throughout Grayson's life. A secret I breathe here only because I know that you, my sweet readers can hold it carefully and not breathe a word of it to my boy ever. The secret is this: for Grayson's very first outing, the first time he was allowed out of the house, we went to...Wal-Mart. It couldn't be helped. We needed formula desperately and it was the closest location in a pinch. And we did try to salvage the experience by having R. stay in the car with him while playing some Arlo Guthrie on the CD player to help counteract the Wal-Mart influence. However, in time, when my sweet baby grows up and asks in all innocence, "Mommy, where was the first place you took me after I was born?" I will calmly respond, "To an anti-war rally, followed by a trip to the organic market for non-fat soy lattes, and then a stop at the library to check out all the Booker Prize winners, and oh yeah, then we went to a drag show, and you my boy, opened your eyes wide in sheer wonder at all the sparkly sequined costumes, and your father and I smiled."

And I Am Not the Same

This baby lies across my back, milk-drunk. A sleepy smile, some automatic reflex, spreads across his crooked lips for an instant, followed by a scowl. His eyes dart around behind their lids. What must babies dream of? Giant breasts? Or in the case of Grayson, Avent bottles circling around him madly bidding him to feast the wonders of Similac formula?

I have learned that time passes quickly in the presence of an infant. Already I see miraculous changes in him. He is different than two weeks ago when he hardly opened his eyes. Now he watches, and his eyes cross and focus and refocus. Time passes quickly for mothers too, or at least for this mother. I begin to gaze at him as he lies asleep in my arms, and I look up and ten minutes has passed and I wonder if the clocks are wrong. I remain fixed on his face, amazed that I could love something so fiercely, so protectively.

Throughout my CPE experience (for those of you not in the chaplaincy business, CPE is the crucible which either kills or shapes you as a chaplain, it's the drill camp of hospital work, the grunt work whereby you are overworked and underpaid and taught that you will learn to love it), I was reminded that I did not completely fathom the love that God had for me, that I could not completely accept God's grace in my own life. Once, in my consultation interviews, the Spanish Inquisition/Therapy Session which brings you to the core of yourself, someone who had read my portfolio but didn't know me well said, "Christen, can you imagine God loving you as a loving parent cradles their newborn?" And I said, "I think so." But I was wrong, because the love I have for this helpless child stops me in my tracks. It makes me catch my breath. And I realize how impossible it has been for me to fathom God's love for me.

This is all so startlingly new. I am exhausted. I am exhilirated. I am not the same.

Life is Indeed Good

Another baby for peace.

Birth stories and particulars to come...

For Unto Us...

A son is born. And his name shall be called Grayson James Pettit.

All of us are well. And all is well. And all shall be well. Blessed Be.

Packing it up, Thowing it in, Giving it over.

The other night I had a little "come-to-Jesus" meeting with myself. The meeting happened after sitting on the bathroom floor in my pajamas sobbing so hard that I began to wretch. The issue? When to stop working and begin my maternity leave.

Initially, I decided I would be a superhero and work right up until my due date, thus saving my precious twelve weeks of FMLA time to be with Grayson after his birth. Of course, I also thought that every single day of my pregnancy I would run three miles and eat only organic vegetables and fruits too. So much for dreams (I say, while popping another strawberry poptart into my mouth). However, I've come to the place where waddling, I mean walking, is hard and riding in the car puts too much pressure on my back, and I don't feel as if I'm giving my best emotional and spiritual energy to my patients. And so, despite the fact that I still have a few weeks to go before Grayson's birth, I think it's time to begin maternity leave. It's hard to say goodbye, though, especially knowing that statistics show that most of my patients will likely die in the next few months and I won't get to be part of that journey with them, that I will feel as if I am abandoning them (how selfish is that?). The overriding emotion for me, though, as I contemplate the time away from this agency is one of tremendous relief. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired of feeling as if I'm not giving the appropriate attention to those who I serve. I'm tired of being torn between the world of "work" and the world of "home and body." I think it's probably time to turn my energy toward making room, spiritual and emotional and physical room, for my son.

So, come Friday afternoon, I'll pack up some files and books and turn the light off on my desk and realize that the next time I sit here the calendar will be open to the month of June and there will be a new photo next to the portraits of T. and B. It's time.

Hypocrite

This afternoon I was called upon to do what I have done before; to speak in a class of fresh-faced college students about the work I do as a hospice chaplain. The critical difference between today's class and other classes in which I've spoken was that today's class was at the local Bible college, a Bible college significantly more conservative than my social milieu. This should not be surprising, as I do live in Indiana, which is not exactly Diane Feinstein country. But, I am always taken aback when certain assumptions are made about me because I am a chaplain. Mainly assumptions about my belief in Jesus Christ as the only way to heaven, and my understanding of the importance of "winning souls" before people die. Today I was asked, "Is it hard for you to just let people die when you know they aren't saved?" and "How do you feel good about your work knowing that so many people don't come to Jesus before they die? Do you feel responsible for that?" I don't think I gave them the answers they wanted, the easy pat answers, the answers which seem to guarantee a one-way ticket to heaven.

Instead I talked about the power of story as that crucible which holds us. I spoke of the power of being heard into speech and the importance of listening, and then listening some more. I told them that each person has to tell their own story, and find the ways in which grace and forgiveness and confession and guilt and loss and hope and resurrection have all played a part in weaving each person's life story. I talked of a God of love and forgiveness who is manifest in many forms and many ways and with many names. And many of their eager faces seemed to stare at me with blank stares. And then one young woman said, "I have a question for you...how many people in your agency are Christian?" And I wanted to bang my head on the table and say, "Who gives a flying fuck?!? Is it that important to label people into your all-important categories?"

Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite in my work, as if I am the one the least concerned with bringing my patients to kneel before the feet of Jesus. Instead, I would like to imagine Jesus sitting at their feet, washing their mottled toes, and healing their wounded hearts, completely unconcerned with their theological rules.

Perhaps I'll burn in hell for that. But, if that's the case, I think I'll find myself in good company with the other sinners.

Listening for the Word--Sermon

This is the sermon I didn't get to preach last Sunday due to an ice storm which kept me home. It is based on three scriptures from the book of Mark (1:35, 6:45-46, 14:32).

When I was a little girl, my father and I had a daily ritual which began when he would come home each noontime for an hour to eat his lunch with my mother and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, my father would take me into the living room for our noontime confab, which I assume now was an attempt to rescue my mother for at least an hour from a spirited only child. Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at work. I’d tell him about who I had seen on the Captain Kangaroo show while I was eating breakfast, he’d tell me which of his parishioners stopped in for coffee at the church. I’d put on a mini-show for him. He’d show me a magic trick. Every day it was the same routine with a little different variation. Father-daughter time.

One day, my father came home during the noontime hour preoccupied and overwhelmed. It was during the Watergate scandal I believe, and while my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the latest national news. This was not a normal day. As many times as I would try to get my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal Gazette with only a half-hearted “hmmmm” or an uninterested “Oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious four-year-old can muster, climbed into his lap, patted the paper down underneath me and sat on it, and then took his whiskered cheeks in my little hands, turned his face toward me and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you. I need to know you’re listening!”

The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel message, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times, for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we find in Mark is busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always on the go. Reading Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples and welcomes children (sigh) all before noon and all without breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, all the while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness. He’s one of those kind of guys, an up and comer of sorts. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus went here, and now look, immediately he did this.” That Jesus was an activist is inarguable. But even in this account of Jesus’ life, we have glimpses of the contemplative side of this one who was himself the Word incarnate.

At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others or alone, to do some listening of his own, rather just that immediate speaking. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus finds his way to a quiet place to connect himself to the one who named him “The Word.” Even in the midst of all the action, there is the need to some profound listening. And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief. Mark tells of a whirlwind day early in Jesus’ ministry, shortly after his baptism where after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends’ mother-in-law, and then having a rally to heal all the sick, he found a place to sleep and awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, when after encouraging his disciples to practice self-care and find some space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and he multiplied the food and sent the disciples out on the water for some R&R so that he could again make his way alone to listen and pray on a mountain. And, let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, he asked his disciples to stay awake, while he went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, models for us the need to listen ourselves.

And while this would seem like a simple task, while each of us know that we are each skilled at listening to others, and even perhaps to the nudgings of our God, I would wager that we’re not as good at it as we may think. I would wager, that what most of us are doing is the passive act of hearing, rather than the ever so active task of truly listening, and there is a world of difference between those two.

Several years ago, I went with a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. One of the group activities while we were there was to sit outside on a sunny June day with our eyes closed and listen to what we heard around us. After several minutes of this listening, we were given paper and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds we heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded me as I participated with them. I was aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears to the voice of God. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird calls, and airplane sounds, wind in the trees, and the distant sound of a dog’s bark. True listening opened me and startled me awake.

I confess freely that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or ever, for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response. I remember lamenting to a spiritual director several years ago the doubt I have, and the deep yearning I have for the heavens to open and a booming voice to tell me exactly what it is that I should do in a given situation. And her response was, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God that God can afford to be subtle.”

I despised that response at the time for it’s lack of immediate gratification and direction from a Creator, but confess that it has grown on me in the years after and now provides me with hope. Perhaps God’s actions and purposes are so subtle around me, that when I stomp through them like a bulldozer demanding definite answers I miss those slight nuances. Perhaps when as a community or individual we listen only to the shoulds and oughts of our society, or when we remain afraid of truly opening our hearts to the subtleties and whispers of our Creator, but assert our own haughty opinions we are missing the deeper truth of Jesus’ message.

Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like the four-year-old that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for us to pay attention. Sometimes I imagine God folding down my newspaper of a daily life, and putting gentle hands on my face and steering me to look anew into the eyes of my Creator, while a loving voice says, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. You must listen.”

Friends, as we enter the mystery of the Lenten season, as we allow it to have it’s way with us, we are surrounded by the mystery of the ever-present Word. It seems as appropriate a time to listen as ever. And so, come away, come to a quiet place and find balance that we may each know our God anew.

Amen.

Random Factoids of Little Significance to the Rest of the World

Pregnancy seems to have sucked all the creative energy out of me. What can I say? My body is probably busy perfecting a spleen or putting the finishing touches on some fingernails. Apparently my creative energy is being exerted in other directions at the moment. I'm sure Grayson will thank me later for putting attention there. So, here are a few random factoids which probably matter very little to any of you, but which reassure me that, indeed, I have been posting to my blog.

• The stray cats outside now are all named. I chose a mystic theme and choose to call the yellow and white one Hildegard of Bingen, who suns herself regularly near the pine tree and thus seems to lean toward the aforementioned mystic's joy of viriditas. The tiger has been named Julian of Norwich, just because I have an icon of Julian holding a tiger cat, and the little gray girl I have named Mechtild of Magdeburg. I have a hunch that there's a fourth tiger too, but I'm plain out of female mystics, so if anyone has any wisdom here, please say the word so the last isn't nameless.
  
• My parents came this afternoon to see the nursery and celebrate my step-mother's birthday and they surprised us with over 1000 diapers! Really! 1000 diapers! How amazing is that? Seems that since I announced my pregnancy, they have been squirreling away diapers, thus creating a dearth of diapers for other babies in the tri-state area. And now, they (the diapers, not my parents) are happily ensconced in Grayson's nursery simply awaiting their audition as worthy poop-catchers. Do you have any idea how much space it takes to store over 1000 diapers!? How high the tower is that all these plastic bundles can grow? They are giving R.'s DVD collection a run for the money.
• I now waddle. Enough said.
• Jim the Father and I are finishing a book on caregiving. Actually, Jim the Father is writing the book and I read it and say, "Yep, that's right on," or "Nah, doesn't work," or "I dunno...what do you think?" and for this I get credit for assisting in a book's creation. The book is, as far as I'm concerned, superb. The title, however, is leaving us stymied and I find that I become, well, irreverent and not-so-helpful in creative ideas when stymied (remember I am creating a new life here, so I cannot be blamed for my lack of creative powers). Some titles which should probably be vetoed, and for which R. and I will probably burn in hell for after throwing out lots of ideas: "They Wiped Your Butt, Now You Can Wipe Theirs: 12 Encouraging Truths for Caregivers" and "Sucks for You: 12 Thoughts on Why Your Life is Now at the Command of Another" and "When Caregiving Calls, It Might Be Best to Allow the Answering Machine to Pick Up." Burning in hell, I say. I will burn in hell.
• My belly button is still an innie. The fact that this makes me proud is something which should concern all of us.

And, that's all I've got, friends. Perhaps just for fun I'll post last week's sermon and you'll realize that I do indeed ponder some deep things...Over and out.

And Today's Reason to Cry

As we all know, my pregnancy hormones continue to rage out of control and I am now big enough to be quite uncomfortable when sleeping, and so...add sleep-deprivation to pregnancy hormones and you can imagine how delightful I am to be around for long periods of time in the cold dark winter.

And, to add to this, we have a new situation in our happy home which has this animal lover a mite testy. I have lately discovered that we seem to be harboring at least two, and maybe three or four cats under our shed where they have somehow survived sub-zero temperatures and blizzard conditions of the past week. Today as the temperature soared at about 40 degrees, two of them were sunning themselves contentedly on the back fence, and one was climbing one of our pine trees. I see little tiny cat prints circling the shed, and Cooper and Moses are perpetually yowling or staring pensively out windows at their newest rivals, or would-be buddies.

I am an animal lover, specifically animals of the feline variety and stray cats utterly wound me. Would that I could take them in, keep them warm, feed them tasty tuna treats and let them sleep in my bed. But, there are obvious logistical difficulties with this (especially given the protective feelings of the two male cats who shark around my ankles as I type, and the fact that others in my family do not share my neurotic cat issues).

Chances are good that the cats are feral and wouldn't want human contact anyway. Chances are that after the snow melts they'll move on to greener pastures, grateful for the shelter of the shed. They all seem to be fat, fat, fat, so they're somehow getting the food they need. But, I can't help but gaze sadly out the window and wonder whether their little paws are too cold, or whether they worry about where their next meal is coming from. And then tears well up in my own eyes and I can't help but weep a little for my three new orphans.

Pregnancy. Not for the faint of heart.

Helpless

This morning we sat together at McDonalds. We have figured out the perfect way to order breakfast now. We each order a cinnamon roll and coffee (we think McDonalds has the best) and then we order one hash brown and split it down the middle (we think they're greasy, but worth it). You have named McDonalds "Our Special Place." You have no idea what this means to me, to share a special place with just you. I have become accustomed to the special places and things you share with your father, but still marvel when you want to share things with me alone.

We talked of many things, trivial and surprisingly intimate. Our conversation varied from jokes about frozen boogers in sub-zero temperatures to the latest antics of your nemesis, Johnny D. (who you always name with the last initial, as if I might confuse him with Johnny B. or Johnny Z.). But you quickly switched to a deeper level as you asked questions about what it was like for me to be a child of divorced parents, and whether or not I felt "weird" when both sets of parents were together. It is easy for me to understand you, and I know you ask me not only because I was a child who lived that kind of divided life, but also because you want me to know of your struggles as my step-daughter wanting to live into the hopes that all the adults in your life have for you.

School has been hard for you this year. Fifth grade girls can be nothing less than brutal in their dealings with one another at times. Teachers don't always understand. The pressure to get good grades is foremost in your mind. And there is a new baby coming into this family who may feel threatening to you as you ask what your role is now that you will no longer be the youngest. Your body is changing and growing and adapting. You vacillate between watching the Disney Channel and MTV.

After hiding away in the warm coccoon of McDonalds, with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting between us, the assault of returning to the cold and to our respective obligations felt overwhelming. You said, "Can't we just get stuck in a snow bank and avoid school and work?" I feel helpless when I hear those words, for how I would love to shield you from any pain, to grab you and shelter you from the winds of change, and the cruelty of others, and any illness or harm that could come your way.

I am not your mother. I know this. You have a mother who loves you and nurtures you and I would not dream of imposing on her territory. But I am your friend. And as such, I will do whatever is within my power to make you feel safe, and loved, and infinitely sheltered. And I will happily schedule McDonald's dates with you for as long as you'll have me. And I will marvel with each and every one at the girl-becoming-woman who fills me with such tender joy.

And you will weather these storms, my chickadee. And you will be stronger and truer because of them. And I will stand right behind you and prop you up lest you fall. Believe it.

An Open Apology to the Cat

Dear Moses,

I am very sorry for accusing you of stealing my diamond ring from the dish on my dresser. But you can understand how it was an honest mistake, given your penchant for aluminum foil and all things shiny. And, don't forget how you like to stand on the dresser at night and wait patiently until I am sound asleep before you take your tiny white front paw and scoot, scoot, scoot things to the edge and then knock them loudly off onto the floor. And, there is also the simple fact that your curiosity for hiding Q-tips, barretts, bobby pins, tampons, bottle caps, milk jug rings, and earrings is the stuff of legend. Remember how just last month I lifted the area rug in the bedroom only to find all those aforementioned secret items squirrled away? I think it was pretty low down and dirty of you to point your paw at R. for that one. I'm not sure he'll forgive you as quickly...

But, it must be said, that I was wrong in pointing a finger of blame at you in regard to this whole ring thing. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I have been giving you, and for mumbling all those mean things which had the word "damn" and "cat" in the same sentence. For when the ring came tumbling out of a pile of old clothes on the floor of the closet, I realized I was wrong...or wait...wait just a minute...haven't I seen you lately gently opening the closet door? And didn't I see gray and white hair collecting on a pair of R.'s khakis? And where have you been in the middle of the night when you're supposed to be reclining on my feet at the end of the bed? And haven't you been a little bit bitter ever since I moved your litter box into the laundry room? Hmm...

I wasn't the president of the Garfield Spy Club for nothing, mister. I'm beginning to think my apology might be premature. But nevertheless, I'd hate to incur your wrath anymore, lest you find some creative place to relieve yourself. So, we'll just call it a day. Me with my long-lost ring on my finger, you with some savory catnip between your paws. And we'll just pretend this never happened, Thief-Boy.

Sincerely,
Your mother

A Nook of One's Own

Coming of age when I did, being raised by a 1970s feminist mother who kept a copy of Our Bodies Ourselves on the coffee table in the living room, I was taught early on that a woman needs a space to herself. A room of one's own if possible. Virginia Woolf's feminist ideal.

I was an only child and my room was my safe haven. From green polka-dotted bedspreads, morphing into the pink princess dream, and then being clad in rainbows and unicorns in my pre-adolescent years, and finally settling into a classic blue with beautiful cherry furniture when I turned fifteen, my room reflected my identity. And I spent hours there, listening to music, reading books, writing in my diary, sitting in my bean bag chair, playing with my dollhouse.

When I went away to college, I was startled with how much I resented my roommate's things--the detritus of everyday life. I adored my roommate, loved the late night talks and shared confidences, but having to share a dresser, and a closet, and a refrigerator, were difficult for this only child to handle. I remember when sharing with a college boyfriend my struggles with sharing space his comment, "Geez, Miller, you're going to be hell to be married to some day."

As soon as I graduated from college I got my own apartment, and while I was afraid this would be a lonely thing, I embraced it with a freedom previously unknown. The tea cups in the kitchen were mine, the towels in the bathroom were folded the way I liked them folded, the sheets smelled like the detergent I chose to use, if I wanted to swig Sprite from the two-liter container in the middle of the night I didn't have to worry about anyone else's germs.

When K. and I were married, living in a tiny brick cottage, I had a sun porch of my own, but it offered little privacy, and smelled of cat pee. While I loved the sun streaming in its windows, the books on my bookshelves were quickly fading, and in winter it was unbearably cold. It was with a sense of relief, even as it was tinged with sadness, when I reclaimed that home as my own.

I carried that sense of entitlement to one's own room, that deep need for private space into my marriage with R. and thankfully we had a home big enough that I could have my own room, which quickly became christened as "The Sanctuary." I painted it myself, a soothing blue. The furniture were all heirlooms from my family, the chest of drawers from my grandparents, the mirror which hung in my great-grandparent's home, the dresser which my parents purchased at an antique store before I was born. I adorned my sanctuary with candles, and incense, framed photos of those I loved, and icons of holy women. I spent countless hours in my chair, my feet propped on the ottoman, my prayer shawl draped around my shoulders, a cat on my lap.

Today was a turning point for me, as I packed up my books, and took down my photos in preparation for my sanctuary to become Grayson's nursery. Necessity requires that this room now be passed on to another, and while I celebrate the little one who will sleep embraced by its blue serenity, I mourn my sanctuary. I know that I will change as I become a mother, that I will yield and have to give in ways previously unimagined. But, it doesn't come without a bit of worry. Will I lose part of my identity, as I am losing part of my space? Have I forever forsaken the woman who craves her solitude and space?

This evening R. and I moved my reading chair into our bedroom, next to the window so I can look out over the pine trees in the backyard. Wonder of wonders, the blue upholstery matches with our light green walls quite nicely. R. gave up his top drawer so I can keep my pens and notecards next to my reading chair, and more importantly offered me the safety of our bedroom as private space whenever I need it, allowing it to shift and become more mine than his. I found a shelf upon which to place my candles and photos in an altar of sorts. And there is comfort in knowing that while I have had to sacrifice my room, I have gained a nook. And small spaces have their comforts too.

I'm only beginning to learn what motherhood entails. And I don't want to lose the Christen who seeks solitude in the process. I sense this is only the beginning of the journey.

In the meantime...

Writing and updating and essaying will happen soon...I promise. But in the meantime, be sure to check out this essay by Real Live Preacher, one of my favorites.

And the reason I cry when I read it is absolutely not hormone related, it's because RLP is the real thing.

Fantasies Not So Accurate

I have a secret confession to make. And here I am, professing it to the world.

I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.

And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.

All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.

But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.

I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.

It is what it is. And there it is.