Two Posts in One Day!

It's a quiet day at Chez Pettit-Miller. Robert is napping. I'm sitting in front of my sweet Dell, which has no name (I better work on that, as I believe all important appliances and cars should have names as it helps them to function more efficiently, and just feel, well, needed and valued...just ask Cicero the Honda Civic, he'll tell you of his worth!)

I'm not sure I have all that much to say, except that I promised some Disney stories and haven't come through. And now my memory is getting all fuzzy and I'm thinkin' "wha?" when I reread my Disney notes...

There is, however, one little vignette...not all that holy, but enough to make me smile and remember, nonetheless.

One evening, whilst Robert was meeting with his students I wandered on over to Downtown Disney with my Mom and the Dickster for dinner and shopping (did I mention my Mom and Stepdad were with us for several days of our journey? I loved, loved, loved having them there). Of course, as often happens, my mother and I dissolve in giggles over something and Dick smiles kindly and enjoys watching the women in his life act like giggling morons. All we have to do is start out with a few words to a story and we lose it..."Hey Mom, remember the day we took Grandma shopping at Linens and Things and she found the windchimes?" And we both laugh and laugh and Dick patiently smiles. "Hey Mom, remember when Connie Chung said 'Happy Hannukah'?" Oh, but the hilarity. Dick nods appreciatively. "Hey Mom, remember the night I put the collander on my head and pretended to be the statue of liberty?" Dick closes his eyes and nods. Thankfully, my mother still believes I am the silliest person on the earth, and my step-father nods his approval kindly. And occasionally, and I might add without the stimulus of any intoxicating beverages, we both dissolve into giggles. This was sort of one of those nights...

Mom, Dick and I wandered over to the Disney Marketplace which is Disney madness! Imagine everything Disney sells in their parks in one place, connected building to building. Imagine many, many people wandering around speaking in different languages, and oh, the Brazillian tour groups with the neon clothing and the flags (those of you Disneyphiles know what I'm talking about). Mom and I were there for a simple reason...we wanted to find a hat for T., oldest step-daughter extraordinaire, and at 12 years old, hard as heck to buy for [see Mom, how I used "heck" instead of that other word that you don't like it when I use]. Dick opted for the wise choice which was, to sit outside aforementioned Marketplace and people watch. Somehow in the midst of the Mickey chaos...in the midst of the Tinkerbell paraphenilia, and the Goofy accessories my 4'10" mother and I became dislocated and thus, were rendered incapable of providing Disney with our super wondertwin mother-daughter powers.

And, in so doing did, the right and natural thing. We both just stopped exactly where we were and waited for the other to find us. Thus, I was standing in "Mickey's Men's Ware" surrounded by subtle and unassuming polo shirts with mouse ears embroidered on the breast and Mom was in "Princess Playthings" surrounded by tiny little girls squealing at the $65 sparkly Cinderella dresses begging to be worn on their squirming bodies. We both just assumed that the other would find us. Great minds think alike.

Whilst standing in my appointed spot I took a moment to survey the scene. Bored men wandering around, led by several overzealous wives. Now, I am not one to stereotype based on gender roles, however, in this instance, I had little choice but to yield to the common belief, as there was little to refute the balding white middle class men being led by their beloveds.

A weary looking father, holding a sleeping toddler in his arms was being led by his wife toward a stack of T-shirts near me. Wife (let's call her Trixie), held up a Tigger T-shirt to her balding, overweight and tired-looking spouse.
"Here," she said perkily, "what do you think?"
Ed (the name I've chosen for said husband) said quietly and dejectedly. "I don't know. I think I'm more of an Eeyore kind of guy."
"Really?" Trixie said quizically.
"Huh."
"Geez, Trixie!" I wanted to yell, "Even I can see that and I don't sleep with the guy every night!"

Ultimately, my mother and I were reunited. And there's no big story there, apart from the fact that we both met halfway, having realized, at about the same time that perhaps the other was staying where they were. Like mother, like daughter. However, while Mama got to watch little girls having their innermost fantasies met by becoming Cinderella, or Pocahantes, or Ariel. I got to see women have their innermost fantasies dashed by learning that their husbands were not, indeed, the vigrorous Tigger types, but were instead merely "an Eeyore kind of guy."

Divine Opthamalogist

I've been thinking lately about how often I fall into the "Indiana fundamentalist Christian" camp of assuming God's doing bad things. I think it's because I swim in the water of Midwestern fundamentalist thought too much for my taste, and then feel infiltrated in every pore by conservative thought.

I grew up in Indiana. I actually grew up only blocks from where I live now (and that's a whole 'nother random story of how I ended up back here, the spiraling of life back on itself). I am accustomed to "swimming against the stream." I remember being told when I was in elementary school that I was going to hell because my father made the choice to leave the local United Methodist church as a pastor. I remember the disdain in the girl's voice when she hissed, "And to think...you're a minister's daughter!" when I didn't agree with her about whether Christians could listen to "mainstream" music (she claimed that the gate was narrow, as you know, and only a few could enter). I was the heathen girl who stayed outside the gate.

Last night R. and I watched the movie "Saved" with T. and B. It was an important movie for me to have them see, as it satirizes so much of what we live with in the Midwest. Praying for George W. (actually, I pray for George W. too, but my prayers are mostly like this, "Please, God, may George W. realize how incompetent he is and resign, but no wait, if he does that than Dick Cheney might step up and he's worse...so, please, um...well, please let them not be too mean. And please let all the laws they enact be laws that can be repealed when a more competent leader is elected."), inviting people up for altar calls, and assuming those who disagree with you haven't "found Jesus," is a mentality I find all to common in Fort Wayne.

It's making my head and my heart hurt.

I made a monumental decision this morning, as I stayed home from church. I lit candles in our library and sat on the floor in the silence and prayed, "God, please help me to be less cynical. Please help me to remember to respond with love to those who make me weary. Please provide me with the courage to reclaim Your call, because I'm simply so tired of not finding You here in Indiana."

But I don't think this is all "on God." A big part of it is learning to see with new eyes. So, I guess I'm praying for a divine opthamologist. I'm patient. It'll come.

So be it.

Six Words on Why I Haven't Blogged More Lately

Recirculated Airplane Air = Gastrointestinal Virus.

Yuck.

Notes from the Mousetrap

My sweet bloggies (as I see it if you "blog" [verb], than you are a "blogger" [noun] and if you are the one who has the blog imposed on them, than y'all would be the "bloggies"),

We are home from the land of rodents and over-priced cups of tea. We are home from the commercialization of the mouse, and the over-themed atmosphere. We are home to our two cats, one of whom can't leave me alone and won't stop licking my hands even as I type this (ergo, forgive the typos and blame them on my 21 lb. yellow-and white tomcat Cooper who missed his mama even though his grandma and grandpa visited him regularly and offered him numerous affections). We are also home to Maisie the wunder-dachshund who apparently charmed the kennel personnel, so much so that when we went to pick her up a day early (as our flight got in before the kennel closed) there were actually looks that I would refer to as "crestfallen." The conversation was thus:
C: Hi. We're here to pick up our dog.
Vet lady: Yes? And who is that? [Walking toward the file lookin' thing where the dog records
are kept]
C: It's Maisie. She's a dachshund?
Vet lady: Oh. (Long pause...and perhaps it was just me, but I thought I heard a sigh.)
C: We thought we wouldn't be able to get her until tomorrow but our flight came in on time
and we got here and...(I got on explaining pathetically as to why I'm a good canine parent,
or would that fall under the category of "obsessive?")
Vet lady: [Gushing] We loved Maisie. She was such a good girl. She hid under her blanket
and then we'd call her name and she'd wag her tail...here let me get Belinda for you... [Vet lady calls Belinda and whispers to other assorted vet folk that Maisie's "Mommy and Daddy are here." Anxious and exhilirated eyes peer at us.]
Belinda: [Emerging from a back office somewhere in the bowels of the Allen County Vet Hospital building.] Are you Maisie's parents? [Robert and I acknoweldge with humble nods
that we are indeed, the wunder-dog's mama and "Alphie" (Robert prefers to not be
called "Daddy" to a dog, assuming he's the master [Ha!] he likes to be known as the
Alpha Dog. T., B., and I think that Maisie has shortened it in her wee dachshund brain to the more diminutive "Alphie")] . Well, she's been a good girl. Shall I get her now or do you want to settle the bill first? [Robert and I nod enthusiastically that, "NO, we want our dog now, please, now--or perhaps that was just me, as she is my baby substitute extraordinaire."]

Upon learning that we had arrived, by Belinda calling "Maisie, Mommy's here!" The dog promptly peed all over her bed (what a greeting). There were multiple kisses. Much body wagging (dachshunds wag way, way more than their tails) and it was less than an hour before she was newly sporting her new doggie Disney T-shirt, which reads "Angel" and has a Minnie face and fake metallic gold angel wings launching from the back of it.

Her new shirt is a little tight, and Robert feared it was cutting off circulation, but I told him, "Honey, all the girls are wearing them this way...relax." I mean, really, fathers (oops, I mean Alphies) can be so overprotective of their daughter's (oops, I mean dachshund's) developing six or eight breasts.

There are so many more Disney stories to come...I tried to stalk the Divine whilst there, so that I might remember to tell my sweet bloggies. Every once in awhile Robert would say to me, "You're gonna blog that when you get home, right?" And I'd say, "You betcha, sweetcheeks." And then I'd adjust my Goofy hat and continue to do my sacred stalking.

I missed you.

On My Way to See a Big Rodent

Robert and I are packing up tonight, heading in the little car to get on the big airplane to visit the most famous rodent in America, Mickey Mouse. We'll be spending ten days having a magical time with Robert's magical students as he teaches Disney and American Culture.

So, I'll be away from the computer for a bit. Be search to check back in after January 24th for all sorts of exciting tales whilst in the mouse trap.

Be good while I'm gone, you hear?

Writings

Y'all are doing so good on "outing yourselves." Congratulations! Keep it coming!

Haven Kimmel, my favorite author ever and that's saying a lot because I pride myself on being a voracious reader (at least in my feeble mind) has come out with a new book of her essays (also see A Girl Named Zippy or her novel, The Solace of Leaving Early). She inspires me to remember childhood memories, and out of those memories comes this essay...do with it what you will (which is just reading it and saying, "Ah...but I remember those cafeteria lunches!")

The topic of the writing...in keeping with the idea that if one gives you a random idea or object you might just find some holiness in it...was "plastic cafeteria trays."

Elementary school lunches in their plastic trays. So organized, placed in their proper locales. Large rectangle for main dish--beef and noodles, macaroni and cheese, turkey tetrazzini, bologna burgers, or the East Allen County Schools dreaded "Chef's choice." Miscellaneous line of squares at the top, neat compartments for assorted fruits, vegetables--canned peaches or buttery beans--soggy strawberries or overcooked broccoli. But the circle, the round area on the tray was the Bermuda triangle (Bermuda circle?)--the mystery place--the instant mashed potates with their pond of gravy--the carmalized rice, drenched in a brown sugar sauce--the sticky sweet potatoes, yams, turnips. The circle was the secret--the hidden quest. What would it be? I practically skipped to lunch some days when spelling was especially easy...just wondering...

Russell, the mean, bald, overweight custodian who mostly growled, stared down the first graders at Village Elementary school as we'd line up to "turn in" our trays. We'd carefully separate our silverware and clang it into the appropriate containers, afraid of risking Russell's wrath with a misplaced fork. We'd hand him our plastic flesh-colored trays, quickly, shyly, gazing through our long baby eyelashes as he'd grab the plastic trays from our tiny hands and in three quick, loud, successive bangs extricate the left-overs of soggy corn or warm pears from their designated compartments. When the mashed potatoes were stubborn or the sweet potatoes extra sticky a bonus and unexpected earth-shattering bang was warranted, as Russell grappled with his hidden aggressions and inner demons at the Village Elemementary School trash cans.

Perhaps Russell had many demons. Because those trays echoed through the cafeteria and the mention of his name can still make me shudder.

National De-Lurking Week

Now, I don't ask much of you. I really don't sweet readers. You know me. I'm one of those folks who during the "passing of the peace" sort of stand up shyly and try to take a L O N G time to shake the hand of the developmentally-disabled woman who sits behind me at Robert's church, hoping it will take up time, because I don't know how to introduce myself to others very well and with Martha, it's easy. Martha already loves me. (P.S. I personally think Martha is kind of like God...she loves me regardless).

But, as I was saying. I don't ask much.

However...it's National De-Lurking Week and that means you have a role. Delurk yourself. Admit loudly and proudly that, yes, you read the Contemplative Chaplain. For you Brethren, this may be threatening, it may ACTUALLY mean that you read someone who...cusses...someone who cusses loudly at times...someone who is irreverent (and irrelevant in the eyes of the denomination, so what the bloody hell!?! But don't worry, no denominational bigwigs give a shit about my thoughts anyway).

Go ahead...post comments. Tell the world that you read my writings (tell me so you can "give me the big head" as the Anabaptists accuse). I know you're out there...all three of you (one of whom is my therapist and out of HIPAA rules I acknowledge that he doesn't have to delurk...although I don't care if he does).

I gotta go now and tell Real Live Preacher and Amalah and the nice Going Jesus lady how much I love them. And so...let's begin the De-Lurking revolution!

Lest You Think I'm Not Okay...

Perhaps my last post was a bit...well, a bit harsh.

Know that I was simply striking a "Job chord." You know...the classic "bad-stuff-happens-so-God must-have-done-it-thing." I was speaking mostly tongue-in-cheek. Never fear. I continue to believe in a God of goodness and grace and extravagant and ovewhelming love.

The sun was out today. I went for a nice long run. Robert and I are traveling to sunshine land on Sunday. There's light.

Letter to God

Dear God,

You and me, we've always been relatively close. Know what I'm sayin' big guy? We talk. We hang. As far as deity/creation go I think we've done pretty well together for the past 34 years.

However, I gotta tell ya. Lately...well, lately you've been pissing me off. I mean, first there was that hurricane that I did not get...and then you sent another one on top of it. Well, whatever...I mean Pat Robertson explained that one, right? [Not]. (And while we're on the topic of Pat...I wonder, why is it that you keep letting him use your name the way he does? I mean, can't you just smite him when he says crazy shit? Maybe not smite him badly, just a perpetual case of laryngitis? He is so bad for your image...you might want to consider that, get back to me on it.)

But, there's this whole business about me not getting pregnant. You're fucking with me, dude. And, only moments after realizing I was not pregnant, and was sitting at Panera waiting for my mom, holding back tears just barely, you shove that baby in my face...yeah, you know the one...the one being improperly held by the teenaged father...the one who was essentially ignored by his seemingly prepubescent parents seated at the table next to me. Now I ask you, how is it that you see fit to give one to them, and then deny one to Robert and me? You're damn lucky I didn't snatch that baby away and make a run for it through the shopping mall. Then I would have had a sin greater than "coveting" on my record.

All I can say is that you're lucky I've been so highly influenced by your Christian folk, raised by them and all that. You're lucky I like that Jesus boy so much, 'cause if I didn't, there'd be a whole lot of other deities I might look into...I mean, hell, there's a lot of nice almighty powers wantin' to get on my dance-card if you know what I'm sayin'.

So, get your shit together, buster. I'm waiting.

Your beloved daughter in whom you are well pleased,
Christen

Editor's Note: I don't happen to believe that God wills all sorts of bad things, dear reader. Just poking what fun I could out of my grumpy mood. Never fear. Christen the believer in creation spirituality and an ever-unfolding God will emerge again soon. And I think God's probably just as grumpy and frustrated as I am about this damn infertility thing, She's like that.

Someone said, "Hey Do This!" And I said,'Yeah...I'm a Lemming"

So, some of us blogger types have been talking...via computer, of course. So, our computers have been talking. And we say, "What the hell...let's do something which connects us to one another. Let's have one big blogging fest and let's write about a similar theme." So I will. So there. Here are the questions. Feel free to scroll over the not-so-interesting ones...

1. What did you do in 2005 that you've never done before? Hmmm... Well, I started work as a Hospice chaplain, caring for the dying. I went through the "passage" of advanced fertility treatments. Never done that before. Also, never been attacked by a housecat before...but was this year (Cooper's all better now).

2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I don't remember my resolutions from last year. So, apparently, I DID NOT keep them. However, this year I am bound and determined to commit, dammit. I will therefore promise to floss every night and take better care of my skin (sorry, Texas sun, this means you). And my dental hygenist will thank me and make me feel less guilty.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? Lots of people...two of the sisters from women's group and my sister-in-law. It's a virtual baby-fest.

4. Did anyone close to you die? I'm a frickin' hospice chaplain. You do the math.
Actually, both my paternal and maternal grandmothers died this year. I miss them both so much.

5. What countries did you visit? I've heard that Texas is called "A whole 'nother country." Does that count?

6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005? A baby whose last name is Miller Pettit. No preference in gender.

7. What dates from 2005 remain etched upon your memory and why? January 31, 2005. My mother calling to tell me my grandma was dead. Awful, awful, awful.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? Being hired as a chaplain at hospice after undergoing multiple interviews. Starting my own blog, despite my computer illiterateness.

9. What was your biggest failure? I'm choosing not to have failures this year. Let's just call them "growing pains."

10. Did you suffer illness or injury? Indeed, I was attacked by one of my sweet boy cats, Cooper. In his defense, he had a terrible injury and didn't know that it was his sweet mommy who was only lifting him up to take him to the vet. Regardless, the infection (not to mention the bite itself) forced me to take multiple Vicodin, and ended up with a trip to the Emergency Room. Cooper, however, is stellar now. And continues to wake me up at 6:32 a.m. to feed him.

11. What was the best thing you bought? Now is the time for all good Brethren to ignore this post--for good Brethren don't "buy" things. Nor do they talk about what they buy. Instead, they spend "quality time" in their Yurts singing folksongs. However, bad Brethren that I am, I did buy something that made me swoon. But do I get points for buying it for someone else? I bought my husband a DVD-recorder for Father's Day and the thought of all his VHS tapes being transferred to DVD, and thus saving room on our shelves is enough to make me faint.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration? Is it wretched that this question gave me pause. Like, long pause. Like, it's been a full five minutes and I feel like the grinch who stole Christmas 'cause I can't give you an answer immediately. (Obviously, I'm thinking on the LARGE scale...like public figures) cause my step-daughters give me reason to celebrate daily...

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed? As always, that would go to my buddy, George W. However, he had contenders this year in Tom DeLay and Pat Robertson.

14. Where did most of your money go? That would be the mortgage for Casa Pettit-Miller

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? A new season of "The L Word," Take-5 candybars, my new friends at work (big smooches to Lily and Marlene), finding an old long-sleeved T-shirt that I thought I'd misplaced, visits from my sweet Lynnie in NY, women's group gathering. So, so many things. I'm easily excitable.

16. What song will always remind you of 2005? Well, drat. I dunno. I pass.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? ummm...probably happier. I have a good life.
b) thinner or fatter? a teeny, tiny bit heavier. Just enough to motivate me to lose it.
c) richer or poorer? as I was technically a student last year, it's probaly the former.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of? Listened to T. and B. talk about their lives. Read. Eaten green vegetables.

19. What do you wish you'd done less of? Criticize myself about my body. Obsess about infertility.

20. How will you be spending Christmas? We spent many Christmases with family.

21. Did you fall in love in 2005? I continue to fall in love with my sweet husband.

22. What was your favorite TV program? Six Feet Under (may it rest in peace). The L Word. The Office. Scrubs. West Wing.

23. What was the best book you read? I've read so many, I can't recall. Some of my favorites: The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmell, any of the Phillip Gulley fiction books, Plan B, by Anne Lamott, so many more...

24. What was your greatest musical discovery? Lee's new album with David Frantz (The Living Room).

25. What did you on your birthday and how old were you? I ate wonderful Mexican food with my family and turned 34.

26. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? If the first IUI would have been successful.

27. What kept you sane? Again, my wonderful family and the chance to write.

28. What political issue stirred you the most? Oh, where to begin. I was furious at the treatment of the poor following Hurricane Katrina. I was furious at the treatment of the poor following recent legislation cutting their benefits. I was furious at the treatment of the poor as Republicans again received the tax cuts for the rich. The long and the short of it is, I have a really hard time with W.

29. Who did you miss? The cast of 6 Feet Under after they left.

30. Who was the best new person you met? My friend Lily.

31. Tell us a valuable life lesson learned in 2005. The dachshund, just because she's three, is not housebroken.

So, here's the year...read it and weep.

Holiday Recap

It's been awhile since my last post. The holidays bogged me down and kept me away from the computer. And now, the decorations are almost put away. The only things left under the tree (which Robert has promised to remove soon) are pseudo-pine needles and I can take a deeeeeeeepppppp breath again, and lose those pesky few pounds I gained eating way too many sugar cookies.

In keeping with my commitment to myself to not overwhelm myself with pregnant Mary images this year, I boycotted Advent season and avoided church (sorry, friends). Instead, I spent that time sitting quietly in my sanctuary (a.k.a the guest room) with candles lit pondering my own Advent journey of sorts. Infertility makes the whole holiday season a little lonely sometimes. It's hard not to take it personally (how selfish is that? Being jealous of Mary?). Regardless, it seemed like what I needed to do--my best defense mechanism--avoidance.

There are a few meaningful highlights of the season, though, which I will savor. I spent a delightful day with T., oldest step-daughter extraordinaire, spending her Santa-money on clothes. She is so beautiful, so wise. I marvel at the gift that she is and realize that I don't spend enough time finding out more of who she is becoming. I too often get caught up in the things she doesn't do: clean up her room, hug me goodbye, hang up her towels, clean hair out of the drain... instead of focusing on what she does do: listen well, respond creatively to solutions, share herself openly.

I received the amazing gift of all our family movies on DVD. My mother had the old 8MM tapes transferred and I saw some images of my growing up years I had never seen before. As an only child, whose parents are divorced, being given this kind of history connects me anew to my past, a past I have sometimes felt was forgotten as my parents moved on into their new lives. I have watched those old movies, my jaw dropped in slack-jawed wonder as I watch the Christen who was, and remember that my childhood was a halcyon dream-world of sorts.

And finally, I received from Robert the most amazing gift...it was hidden in my stocking. It was the gift which will keep on giving. Yes, friends, I received a "Jesus: The Action Figure." He is truly amazing. He has wheels on his feet for "easy gliding action" and his poseable arms are outstretched in a beatific pose of eternal love (but if you move them up it sort of looks like he's disco dancing). I appreciate that he looks authentically semitic, rather than a fair-haired golden boy. I can only imagine the fun to come.

And that, my friends, is the Miller report. Back to business. Over and out.

Sitemeter Whore

There are those nights when you really, really want to post. 'Cause you really, really want to let your readers know (the now four of them out there...) that you haven't forgotten them and that you do want to be a good website diva. But, you think, "well, shit. I've got not all that much to say."

I have become a sitemeter whore. Yes. I read how many of you check my blog each day. Not so many. Which is fine. Because those who do...you're worth 1823 regular readers. Here are some interesting things I've learned from those who do read. A whole lot of you come because I'm part of a web-ring of women preachers, that's your entry page. Welcome. Some of you read my blog because you know me, some of you lurk because you wonder about me. Welcome.

I do want to apologize, however, to whoever was searching on MSN for the words "porn," and "Christen." Somehow my website triggered what you typed, but probably not what you wanted...(I think it was that reference I made once about my gay male cats and their porn behaviors around 3 a.m. combined with my name that caused MSN search to pause on my site). I trust that you found what you were looking for in another place...good luck with that.

So, I screwed up today. At least, I think I screwed up. I was talking to J. the father on the phone shortly after a medical procedue that can only be called invasive in the extreme. In that phone call I was musing about what names R. and I would hypothetically call our future children...being all anal-retentive we know these things in advance, having probably decided them a few weeks into our engagement. Remember that I was all Xanaxed out, relaxed, wordy, uninhibited. I was telling my father words that I had initally planned on keeping a surprise (I am so, so not good at surprises), which was that I was hoping that if I ever had a boy to name him Grayson James (James being Jim the Father's birth name). But somehow, either in my Xanax induced stupor or in the inferior phone connection, my father heard, "I will name my child James." And thus, it was sort of a sad moment when in conversation this evening, when my father called to check up on me, Dad said, "I was so overwhelmed at your news that I forgot to ask what the baby's middle name might be if it were a boy." Um...shit. What a let-down. I feel like I'm a failure as a daughter now. But James is a great middle name, right? Woo-hoo...Grayson James. Perfect. Right?

My youngest girlie is herding my into the family room for family movie...so, I'll bid all four of my readers a fond goodnight. Thank you for listening to my random musings...

My Brother Phil

We have been busy this weekend.

After a few days of both Robert and I being felled by Gastroentestinal Virus Lite, we emerged from our cocoon for rehearsal for Plymouth U.C.C.'s annual Boar's Head Festival, in which a motley cast of at least a hundred or more descend on a downtown church and put together one of the, hands-down, most meaningful worship services I have ever attended. There is only one weekend of rehearsal, and one night of dress rehearsal before performing this medieval nativity story, but the cast know their parts so well and are so accomodating in teaching the newbies, that in some form of Christmas miracle, the story always unfolds without any major hitches.

When Robert and I were dating, we went to see the festival. And I reminisced about the years I spent in the show growing up...starting as a caroler, moving on to a king's serving girl...graduating through the parts as I grew into new costumes. At the age of eleven, I fixed my eyes on the costumes of the "Ladies," the women who played the medieval guests of the Lord of the Manor, and who wore the shiniest, and most respendent of the festival costumes. Sometimes I would stand near them backstage, and reach my hand out to touch the pearls which draped from their dresses. I always wanted to be a lady, and I remember whispering in Robert's ear that night three years ago of my deep childhood desire.

The next year when the letter went out to recruit staff, our names were on it with our roles, "Lord and Lady" written afterward. Robert teased me that day, "Told you I'd make you a lady one day..." And then he tried on the tights he gets to wear with his medieval tunic. An entirely new sensation for him. And perhaps not entirely unpleasant?

I have come to enjoy the first day of practice, reaquainting myself with the characters who play some of these longstanding parts. There's the fellow-lady, the one who wears blue, who tells all the kids to be quiet backstage in the most annoying of tones, and then laughs louder than anyone else as she plays euchre with the wassailers. There's the sweet lesbian couple who play the part of peasants carrying eggs and bread. There's Ricky, the archer, who sings each part quietly under his breath.

It doesn't take more than an hour or so of practice before we become cognizant of Phil's presence, Phil the inn-keeper/cook, a man who has been in the festival each of the past 31-years, and now travels back from his home in Chicago to participate. Phil, perhaps the nerdiest cast member, who has affixed himself to Robert and me like glue and tells us long and detailed stories about what has been on Oprah lately. Phil, who occasionally laments that he has a "lard ass," something I'm not sure I would broadcast to someone I know only marginally. Regardless, Phil is a fixture in the festival, and I admit that my eyes lit up when I saw that he was indeed back again this year (even if it did mean dodging him at the cast party, where last year he kept Robert and me busy regaling us with tales of his trip to France circa 1978).

The final scene of the Boar's Head involves all of the cast members approaching the stable. Lords and Ladies mingle with peasants and serving girls. The choir quietly sings the song "Let All Mortal Flesh" and we each journey to the front of the sanctuary to get a glimpse of this child who has come to redeem us, who has come to set us all free. We walk forward individually...a huddled mass, but each on our own journey. We don't touch. We just walk slowly, reverently.

In the darkness, as we reach the manger, we bow, and in the crunch I reach for a hand to hold, for the final scene calls us to hold hands with those around us as we leave the stable, each renewed by our encounter with the Christ child. We leave brothers and sisters. Often it is Robert, just at my elbow, kneeling as well, whose hand I find in that gaggle of people, but as I reached out in the dark last year, I felt an unfamiliar hand which grasped mine tightly. When the lights came up, I turned to see Phil, holding my hand on one side as with his other hand he supported a man who plays a withered woodsman. Phil stood proudly, but I saw the wetness of his eyes as he faced the congregation. "Yes, here we are. A huddled mass of humanity who have limped toward the Christ child and come away changed," I thought. And then Phil and I walked down the aisle, the strains of "O Come All Ye Faithful" echoing in our ears and I remembered that I, like my brother Phil, am one of the motley fools who gather here. I, like my brother Phil, bring my lard-assed self into this place. And I, like my brother Phil, come away a new being. Thanks be to God.

Big Thoughts, Big Dreams

Just came from an appointment with Dr. B. the fertility guru.

We're moving into a new phase of the fertility dance. And I'm still getting used to some new phase ideas. You see, I'm an old-school girl at heart. I think I've been spending some time mourning the fact that fertility hasn't been easy for us, and that I've had to let go of a few of my dreams (which were probably a bit unrealistic to begin with). And my mind has a hard time wrapping itself around different ideas.

Robert is better about this. More flexible. Less rigid. He continues to be a mensch. He's relaxed and easy-going and so at home in himself and his identity, and willing to let me wonder, and ramble and occasionally rage.

Yep, it's a new world I'm embarking on, this world of being more open to new ideas--being called out of a wilderness of sorts. And while it's intriguing...it's also so very new. And I'm weird that way...weird with that change.

But I'm getting there. And, God willing, and I hope She does... someday they'll be a little person (who if she or he is even half as enchanting as T. and B. will be a wonderkind) wandering into our family's life with my Swedish blue eyes and Robert's wry sense of humor. We'll see what unfolds...

On Losing the Creche

There was exciting news from my mother a few weeks ago. She left a message on our answering machine whilst we were out ferrying the girls to Nutcracker rehearsals. In practically breathless delight she said, "Christen! Guess what!?! We found your creche!"

Now, before you think it, let me say it. I know. Only in the home of a minister does this kind of news warrant more than a raised eyebrow. For we live in a world, I believe, full of lost creches. I could get all sentimental about putting "the Christ back in Christmas" and "remembering the reason for the season," but frankly, those lines are getting a bit trite and tired and overused and we've all seen them on too many church billboards on the backroads for the past month. In my life, the symbol of the missing creche works a bit better, for at the heart of this season there is, for me, still a hollowness.

There is something sacred for me about remembering the quiet stable, and what happened in the dark, rather than expending all our energy trying to aim the bright light of the season on that quiet space in Bethlehem. But, now I'm losing you, aren't I? For I'm starting to sound all preachery. When actually I'm preaching to myself...the woman who is awake at 2:51 a.m. sifting through the quiet spaces of her own memory to search for the God who meets her in the dark.

The creche somehow had gotten lost on one of my many moves from college to seminary to my first pastorate to my home now. I think it got stored in my parents home for "safe keeping," where it lay buried until they moved into a new home last year.

It is not a remarkable creche. It's plastic. I'd not call it exactly "politically correct" as creches go. One of the three kings is clearly modeled after one of those wretched racist lawn jockeys from the 1950s. A few of the lambs don't stand up right and sort of have to lay sideways at the baby Jesus's feet. I sort of imagine them as slain in the spirit. Because I don't like imagining the SPCA folks breathing down my neck, I made an executive decision this year and refrained from displaying the one menacing shepherd who is holding a stick up as if to beat the hell out of any of his poor flock. I never liked him anyway, and his plastic is a little warped so he falls over all the time like Paul when the scales fell from his eyes.

But this creche has mileage. It is one of my earliest memories of Advent. And as such, it has found a home in our library this year. When I was a little girl my parents made sure the creche was accessible to me. It was always on a low table in the living room where I was invited to wrap my sticky fingers around the pieces and reenact the main event. Sometimes I would fly the angel over the whole shebang while singing The Gloria Patri. Sometimes I would line all the figurines up for a parade and pretend that they were going to McDonalds for Big Macs. Sometimes a cat would knock the baby Jesus out of his manger and he'd be missing for days on end. The creche was real to me as a child in a way that it isn't as I've grown older. The creche held a mystery, yes, but it was a mystery that my seven-year-old mind accepted unequivocally. I confess that some of that has been lost as I've aged.

However, having said all that, I proclaim proudly now: I found the creche this year. And in so finding, am spiraling my way back to that dark place where God finds me, indeed, where God finds all of us. Breathing quietly in the stillness.

Insomniacs Annonymous

I feel like I should begin this post with the confession, "Hi. My name is Christen. I'm an insomniac." And there would be several others who would mumble. "Hi Christen." Some of you in the front row, the recent converts would answer a little too enthusiastically, hyped out on your coffee (would they serve coffee, though at Insomniacs Annonymous meetings? Hmmm...).

I blame you all for some of this insomnia, though. Now that I know some more folks are reading, thanks to your nice posts and personal emails (which I love, love, love) I lie awake at night composing blog posts in my head, little love notes to the cyber-world. And I swear, some of my best postings have simply had to be released to the universe like a prayer, because my feet were simply too warm to go padding down the steps to the parlour to my Dell at 2:32 a.m.

No deep thoughts tonight. Just a simple list of delightful joys of the past few days...a laundry list of blessing.

1) Realizing that (knock on the simulated cherry-wood computer desk) apparently the 36 hour "danger period" has passed and neither spouse nor self have had bodies inflicted by gastroenteritis, despite it's recent unexpected jaunt in the House of Rotting Pillars (as I affectionately and occasionally refer to mi casa).
2) Reveling in two-days of much needed exercise after a week-long hiatus (as in, I was too lazy to haul my ass across town after work) in my Jazzercise routine [Ed. note: Stop laughing. I know, I didn't have me pegged for a white-suburban mom type either. Rest assured, I don't wear spandex, and I happen to enjoy dancing to songs like "Play that Funky Music White Boy." It appeals to my inner superstar, despite the fact that I am hip dyslexic and can't shimmy to save my life].
3) Sharing coffee with an old friend and learning delightful news about his life. News I cannot tell. News I really want to tell. But news I cannot tell. Because I can keep secrets. Really. I can keep secrets really well. At least until Monday.
4) Becoming closer to new friends. Finding kindred spirits. Big sigh here.
5) Having a birthday on Thursday...and anticipating all sorts of delectable desserts in my future.

Alright, friends...I'm going to make my way up the stairs to my sleeping husband, and try to will myself to sleep, sleep, sleep now that these miscellaneous thoughts are committed to computer. Over and out. Good night.

And Henceforth It Shall Be Known as the Performing Arts Vomitorium

WARNING: IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, STOP READING NOW. IT ONLY GETS WORSE.

She made it through the dance. That's the good news. One of our sweet little Nutcracker bon-bons, one of the ones who dons the drindel and crowns her head with fake long braids made out of pantyhose, was stricken with the vilest of stomach viruses, and the miracle is this: she made it through the dance, through the hot lights on stage, through the possible anxiety of performing. And not only did she make it through...she sparkled and R. and I watched through tears.

It was after the dance, in the green room (which has an oh-so-poignantly-appropriate name now) where, all hell spilled forth. Enough to drown a small country, like perhaps Lichtenstein. It was copious. It was tsunami-like. It was projectile. It was macaroni-and-cheese redux. Do I have to paint a clearer picture?

Now, I am not a vomiter. Not so much. I have a relatively strong stomach, and as such, I get sort of, how shall we say? Freaked out when any such activity happens in my vicinity. A secret fear I have had is that when the crisis arises, and I've known that ultimately it would someday, I would flee for the hills if either of my precious step-daughters should begin to toss her cookies.

But today I feel I have earned my title of step-mother, for I did not leave. Nay, I stood proudly, with my hand gently resting on Little Miss B.'s back. And while I did not have the sense to grab a trashcan, nor did I have the sense to step away so that my sling-back dress shoes would not be splashed, I did remain. And the beauty of it (and believe me that this was not what one would call a "beautiful" scene, surrounded by the children of Fort Wayne's oldest money [of which we are not a part, but rather one of the artistic "fringe" groups]), was that it didn't even occur to me to leave her. Instead, I did what I could which was to murmur, "It's okay, baby."

That night as I was tucking her into bed, she said, "Am I forever going to be known as the kid who threw up at the Nutcracker?" "No, no," I said, even as I flashed the picture of Peter Pentsos puking all over my snowboots after a 7th grade ski trip. There are some times when perhaps it's better to shield your children from the world's grim truth.

Later, on That Same Monday Night

And, lo, she did have a good bath. And God looked at it and saw it was good.
And, lo, she did have a good cry in that bathtub. And God looked at her and wept with her.
And, lo, she did call her friend Lee. And he did reassure her and this reminded her that God acts through community.
And, lo, she did decide that if she wasn't pregnant in a year or so, she would just get another dog.

And then God laughed. God laughed really, really hard. God laughed so hard that She almost wet Her pants. And God said, "You can do that, but it'll piss R. off. And besides, you haven't been all that successful in the potty-training with the one you have. So, maybe you'd be better off if you just kept trying to have that baby."

And the woman sighed. And wiped her tears. And took her dachshund with her into the family room and watched some reality television. And the woman was comforted.

Why Don't I Listen?

It's a Monday night. I have a love/hate relationship with Monday nights. On one hand, the optimist in me, loves the quiet that our house is on Monday. R. teaches on Monday night and I love, love, love the stillness here...which is odd, because it's not like R. is some wild and crazy guy, not like he fills up space in a room, in fact he's inclined to hide-out in his cave, I mean, office. But, there's something about the utter stillness of an uninhabited home. I putter. I read. I knit. I journal. I light candles. I take a bath. Mostly, it's just all about me.

But, Monday night can also be a lonely night. As Anne Lamott says about her own mind, "it's a dangerous neighborhood that no one can go in alone." And tonight I did the worst thing one can do with "bad mind." I...get ready for this...are you braced?...got on the frickin' internet.

Now, I had the best of intentions. I recently learned that one of the weblogs I read regularly (see www.amalah.com) had some links to other weblogs and found that, lo and behold, they were women who had struggled with infertility and were, at long last, bringing to birth new life (be that through biological parenting, or adoption, or finding new outlets for their parental urges). It was filled with light and hope and joy and I thought, "Ah, yes. I need me some of that."

And so, when one of the inferility blogs I check posted her list of links I thought, "Ah, more women who have fought the good fight, who have found hope. Let me refresh myself with these good words." And, well...no. No, not so much. Instead I read, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of infertility I will not be afraid...and yet I am afraid...and I will never get pregnant forever and ever, Amen." And I got, well, how shall I say? Freaked out.

And so let me say this, and let us put it aside and pretend that it doesn't exist. Oh My God. I am afraid that I will not get pregnant. And, that by not getting pregnant I will have missed out on something HUGE.

When R. and I started this fertility odyssey (isn't that a nice literary analogy? Sort of makes it feel like a grand adventure?) Dr. B. the ferility-guru of the midwest said (without even knowing my hypochondriacal tendencies), "Christen, whatever you do, don't get on the internet. It'll just make you crazy." And R. looked at me with a stern look, and I all but took the boy scout oath that no, I would never, under any circumstances google the words, "Infertility women blog."

Drat. Damn me and my inquisitive mind.

The Heavy Things...

This morning I attended the first funeral for an Iraq war veteran. I hope it will be the last.

I was struck by the power of the marines, keeping vigil over the body from the moment he left Iraq throughout the long days and nights of travel, and until burial. I was struck by the minister reading the verses from Psalm 139, of God following us throughout our journeys, not unlike that Marine, keeping watch.

And even for this bleeding-heart liberal, left-leaning pacifist, the beauty of that faithfulness was striking.

I ache for the family of this young veteran. I simply ache. I ache for the wife of almost 11-months that he left behind, and the parents who will never hear their child's voice again.

War is hell.

I wonder what would happen in our culture if more high-ranking government officials were required to attend these funerals and listen to these stories.

War is simply hell.

I believe this very young man, the one with the dazzling smile, and contagious spirit must rest in the very lap of God now.

Oh Jepthah...

This is the text of the sermon that Jim the Father and I preached this morning (a remix of a sermon initially preached at Manchester CoB lo those many years ago). I wish I had the guts to call it what I think it's real title should be..."Oh Jephthah, you Slimy Bastard." Somehow, I don't think the Brethren would like that so much. But it would make me feel better...The text is based on Judges 11:34-40, one of those scary texts which make me glad I'm not an ancient Israelite woman. We preached it together, side by side, sort of like the dueling banjoes.

Here 'tis...

CHRISTEN the daughter:
Then Jephthah came to his home at Mizpah;and there was his daughter coming out to meet him with timbrels and with dancing. She was his only child; he had no son or daughter except her.

--Judges 11:34

I know something of what it means to meet a parent with timbrels and dancing, for I, too, am a daughter. I too know what it means to have a father away on a journey, perhaps even a
dangerous journey, and to await his homecoming. When I was young, my father took a trip to Israel. He was gone only for a few weeks but it felt like decades through my eight-year-old eyes. When his plane returned several weeks later on a cold winter evening, I was at the airport to greet him. It was a long wait. The night was windy, and the runway was covered with a slippery sheet of ice, and each time the plane would try to move, it would slide and twirl precariously. I waited expectantly in the darkness, squinting out at the inky black.
It was a couple of hours before they finally pulled that plane to safety. I watched my father disembark, looking haggard and worn--his suit wrinkled, his tie askew, his beard having grown in more fully than when I had last seen him. I remember the euphoria of having a parent return home, the absolute euphoria of knowing everyone in my little world
was safe and accounted for. It’s easy for me to imagine Jephthah’s daughter, watching for her father to come over the hill. It’s easy for me to imagine her relief in knowing her own small family was reunited at long last.

JIM the father:
She was his only child; he had no son or daughter except her.

--Judges 11:34

The writer of this story wants to make sure we get the point. “She was his only child,” the writer states, and then goes back and says it all over again: “Except for her,

he had no son or daughter." It was just Jephthah and her. The book of Judges gives his daughter no name. Tradition, however, has named her—Sheila—and that’s the name we’ll use for today. Jephthah and Sheila, Sheila and Jephthah. I can imagine the relationship they might have had because I also have only one natural-born child, and that child is a daughter. I can imagine what it might have been like for Jephthah when Sheila was born, because I remember when Christen was born. It happened one Wednesday, about noon. There had been difficulties during labor and she was finally delivered by Ceaserean section. Everything turned out
well—both mother and daughter were fine. But 34 years ago hospitals had a rule that any child delivered by C-section was immediately placed in the intensive care nursery and kept there for several days. The first time I laid eyes on Christen was through double plate glass windows.
I stood there that evening, stretching forward as far as I could, trying to see all of her I could see. I became aware of someone standing beside me. I turned to see that it was a nurse.
She said, “She’s a real cutie, isn’t she?”
I said, “She sure is.”
She said, “You’d like to hold her, wouldn’t you?”
I said, “I sure would.”
She said, “You know it’s against regulations, don’t you?”
I said, “Yes, I know.”
She looked me full in the face for a few moments before she spoke her next words.
“When visiting hours are over tonight, and you’re about to turn right and head down the stairs, don’t turn right. Turn left. You’ll find a laundry closet, and the door will be ajar. Step inside.”
At 8:30 I did as I was told. After fifteen minutes of standing in the darkness of that closet, there came the sound of approaching footsteps and the door was nudged open and this saint of a nurse deposited into my arms my newborn daughter. With a finger to her lips which reminded me to be very quiet, she said, “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
It would take several hours to adequately describe those fifteen minutes. I held my daughter in my arms and I told her for the first time her name: “Christen.” I introduced myself to her, I said, “I’m Jim. I’m your father.” I touched her soft cheeks, her tiny wisps of hair, her perfectly formed little toes. And I marveled at the utter miracle of her. She had come from nothing, and now she was this: a living, breathing soul. Her soul and mine were linked, and the thought of it took my breath away, and we were bonded for all time. I can imagine Jephthah had his moment as well. I imagine all of us have our moments. Maybe it was when we as parents bonded with a child, or when we as a child grew especially close to a parent, whatever our age.
Maybe it was when we connected with another person as we had never connected before and they became our mate or our spouse, our matching half that made us feel more whole. Maybe this joy of our life was one who joined our family by choice rather than by birth. The story of Jephthah and Sheila is the story of love, and inasmuch as the story of love is a universal story,
than their story is our story—your story and my story and Christen’s story.

CHRISTEN the daughter:
When he saw her, he tore his clothes, and said, “Alas, my daughter!” You have brought me very low; you have become the cause of great trouble to me.

--Judges 11:35

What bewilderment, what confusion must have crossed Sheila’s mind. Her father was acting very strange, tearing his clothes, yelling loudly. I imagine her looking around nervously at the servants who must have followed her out of the house, the sound of timbrels still echoing in the air. Here stood a blameless young woman, an innocent girl, who had no idea what her father had done.

JIM the father:
Jephthah said to her, “You have become the cause of great trouble to me. For I have opened my mouth to the Lord, and I cannot take back my vow.

--Judges 11:35

With these words we begin to get a handle on Jephthah’s anguish. To truly understand that anguish, we must first understand Jephthah himself. He’s introduced in the book of Judges just a few verses ahead of this one. He’s described in three ways, and in this order: first, he is from Gilead, just south of what would later come to be known as the Sea of Galilee. Second, he was a “mighty warrior”—he was aggressive, strong, scrappy. Third, he was the son of a prostitute.
His father later had three more sons by his wife. Once they had become adults, Jephthah’s brothers disowned him, all because of who his mother was. So with no family, no inheritance, no home, Jephthah struck out on his own and he ended up forming a gang of ruffians. Imagine Hell’s Angels on camelback—that was Jephthah. A man who found it hard now to trust; a man who needed to control in little ways, because he had lost so much control in large ways. Along the way he married and, of course, he had a child. One day his former kinsmen looked him up because they had a problem: their enemies, the Ammonites, were threatening war. And the Israelites needed a no-nonsense commander for their army, someone who could beat a few heads, someone like Jephthah. His response to them was this:“I’ll lead you into battle on one condition:if we win, I automatically become your leader in all other affairs.” His kinsmen thought a moment and they all high-fived. And Jephthah, nervous now about this upcoming battle that had so much at stake, decided he wanted to increase his odds for winning.
So he made a vow with God. He said, “If I can have just this one victory, I’ll promise this: when I return home, I will offer as a sacrifice whatever or whoever first comes out of my house to greet me.” Well, Jephthah led the Israelites into war, and they soundly defeated the Ammonites, and Jephthah was proclaimed a hero. And returning home, he rounded the bend to find someone running to greet him. Someone he didn’t want to see at that moment. And what did he do? He shouted, “My daughter, you have become the cause of great trouble to me.”

CHRISTEN the daughter:
She said to him, “My father, if you have opened your mouth to the Lord, do to me according to what has gone out of your mouth, now that the Lord has given you vengeance against your enemies, the Ammonites. And she said to her father, “Let this thing be done for me: Grant me two months, so that I may go and wander the mountains, and bewail my virginity,
my companions and I.”

--Judges 11:36,37

In light of this unimaginable horror, Sheila made a simple request. She asked to be surrounded in her final days by only those who could give her comfort and support, she sought out those sisters the ones who could most purely demonstrate God’s presence in her life. She chose to retreat to the mountains, which the scriptures regard as holy places. I can easily imagine the circle of women who journeyed with Sheila, the women who must have held her hands, and wrapped their arms around her, and wiped away her tears, and allowed her to rage, or to curl into a fetal position and not move if she needed. The women who offered her the comfort and stability that Sheila’s own father could not provide, safety that he may not have even been able to understand. All the while, I feel sure that it was these women, these sisters, who represented God’s presence to Sheila, God’s ability to journey with us when we feel the most alone. I understand Sheila’s request for I too have been sustained by my sisters. At various times in my life I have been cradled by the loving arms of a group of seven other women whose bonds of communion and sisterhood have run strong and deep since we were in college together.
Throughout the past twelve years, it is this circle of strong and compassionate spirits whose very presence reminds me: “You will not be alone. Not ever. Know that you will never be without our love.” I have seen in their eyes the depth of God’s love. It is a depth I’m sure Sheila could identify in the eyes of her sisters as well.

JIM the father:
“Go,” he said and sent her away for two months. So she departed, she and her companions,
and bewailed her virginity upon the mountains. At the end of two months, she returned to her father, who did with her according to the vow he had made.

Judges 11:38

The father in me wants to understand the father in Jephthah. Why did he make such a foolish vow? Didn’t he know what could happen? And why—why in heaven’s name did he persist with that promise? Didn’t he realize that maybe God wouldn’t want that promise? Didn’t he see that God never spoke, that there was never a sign that God even recognized that promise?

The father in me wants to understand the father in a man who could say, “Go.” Did he wish her to run away and never return? Did he ever accept responsibility for blaming this on her, of all people? Did his heart break as she turned to go with her sisters? And did his heart break even more when she returned two months later? The father in me wants to understand the father in Jephthah, and the father in Jephthah is silent.

CHRISTEN the daughter:
That, our friends, is the story of a daughter and a father, Sheila and Jephthah, as seen through the eyes of another daughter and father. And now the question becomes, “So what?”
What do we do with this story? How do we bring it forward in time? Dad and I have struggled here. This is not an easy story to tell, or to hear. And, we have this problem: we just plain don’t like Jephthah. We don’t like what he did or why he did it. So how do we salvage this story? And how do we make sure this is a sermon? We’re going to suggest three ways, because every good sermon has three points (!), this story can speak to us today.

JIM the father:
The first way is simply this: We can allow the story of Jephthah and Sheila to serve as a reminder for all time, and the reminder is, “Never again.” Never again should anyone be allowed to think that God wants a father, in any way, for any reason, to take the life of a daughter. Therefore, this is a story we dare not forget, and that means even us, especially us.
For we live in a country where every day an average of four women die at the hands of the men in their lives, men they know well. We live in a country where, if you totaled the number of all women who had been killed by their intimate partners, that number would be greater than all the soldiers killed in the Vietnam War. We live in a country where one in four married women has been or will be battered, where women are ten times more likely than men to be victimized
by someone they know well. I believe our story today can be a starting place to send a message,
and the message is, “This must stop!” For the sake of women, for the sake of men, for the sake of our children, for the sake of our children’s children, the hurting of women in all its various forms must come to an end.

CHRISTEN the daughter:
There is a second lesson which goes hand-in-hand with this first. It is essential that we be in touch with our own rage,and with our own propensity for violence. In a seminary course I took several years ago a professor who impressed me with his gentle and quiet manner spoke of the power of nonviolence and pacifism in his own life. He said, “I am frightened by people who talk of nonviolence as if it were an easy thing. It has not been for me. When I delve deeply into myself, I have found my own capacity for violence. And I now know the radical power of nonviolence in a new way.” Both you and I need to search out the violence in our own beings,
whether it comes from a deep anger or hurt, whether it manifests itself in striking something or someone, or in verbally lashing out, or in silently sulking and brooding. If Jephthah can teach us anything, it is that we must attend to this psychological violence demonstrated in his need to control, and his need to bargain. I often imagine God shaking a head and saying, “Oh Jephthah, you’ve misunderstood.” And the awareness has dawned on me that God has probably shaken a head at me as well. At all of us.

JIM the father:
There is a third message our story holds for us today. And that’s the message that’s carried by Sheila and her sisters as they lived their days to the full on that Near Eastern mountaintop,
as they cried and sang and hugged and danced and prayed. Across all these centuries, they send us an unequivocal word of hope. That when God’s face seems hidden to another, it is people like us, it is we that can help bring that face to the light. And when God’s embrace is most needed by another, then our arms can serve as God’s arms. And when God’s presence is what is yearned for more than anything else, by offering our companionship we can be a sure sign that God is there, and has been all along. Sheila and her sisters remind us that when we truly care for one another, we can look to our left and our right, and there is God. When we truly prize one another, we can reach before us and behind us, and there is God. When we truly want what is best for one another, we can link our arms in one giant daisy chain of life, and right in the center of it all, God is there.

CHRISTEN the daughter:
So there arose an Israelite custom that for four days every year the daughters of Israel would go out and lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite

--Judges 11:39-40

Isn’t it interesting that, of the two people in this story, it’s the one who’s unnamed who’s best remembered and most loved?

JIM the father:
Isn’t it interesting that, of the two people in this story, the one who’s depicted as stronger is, in the end, not necessarily the one in whom the most strength resides?

CHRISTEN the daughter:
Isn’t it interesting that, of the two, father and daughter, it is the younger who has so much to teach the older?

JIM the father:
It is these realizations that lead us today to wonder: what if more of the daughter had rubbed off on the father?

CHRISTEN the daughter:
What if more of the feminine way could have mixed more readily with the masculine way?

JIM the father:
What if they could have lived their time on earth—especially their adult time—more together,
more side-by-side, more hand-in-hand?

CHRISTEN the daughter:
And even if they could not, could not we? How? By condemning violence powerfully, including any hints of violence in our own lives.

JIM the father:
How? By cherishing our children tenderly, both those near and those far, those who know by name and those we don’t.

CHRISTEN the daughter:
And by honoring the presence of the God who dwells in all of us, in all seasons of the year, and in all seasons of life. Amen.

Gone

I was away for the past few days...the Church of the Brethren women (for further CoB info, or if you're wondering from which occasionally wacko sect I speak, check out our website at www.brethren.org) had their big hooplah. Lots of amazing hymn singing (with inclusive language [which wins way bonus points in my book]), lots of incredible connecting with other CoB clergywomen, and lots of insightful ponderings from Jan Richardson, who was our leader (check out her amazing books on Amazon). I roomed with Tracy, one of my closest friends...and I know what good friends we are because our cramped quarters at Casa D'Cottonwood Lodge didn't seem at all painful to this highly sensitive introvert.

The food was adequate. And, our bunk beds in aforementioned lodge were a bit, how shall we say? Ummm...wanting. Lots of dead ladybugs. Ventiliation and heating inadequacy.

While being Brethren, alas, I am a middle-class girl who, we must remember was raised United Methodist. My prayer on the way to the retreat was, "Please, God, let it have decent bathrooms....please let it be nicer than other YMCA camps I've stayed at..." And I know this is not a Brethren prayer. But, forgive me, I do have my Episcopalian moments (where they have wine and cheese as their pre-worship appetizer). My prayer, sadly, was not answered.

However, the workshops were lovely...the leadership was amazing...and despite YMCA standards (with chicken nuggets and tater tots as the "healthy fare") I came away nourished and thankful.

I missed you all. And passed this website along, like the weblog whore that I am, to others. I panic that I have been too bold...

And, And, And...

I finally figured out how to change the @#$% settings on this blog so you can leave message even if you are not an eblogger! Yippee! Comment away!

Benediction

A few times a month I visit Bridgette. I sit on the floor next to the recliner where I can usually find her in the locked Alzheimer's unit of a nursing home. I sit on the floor, and rest my chin on the arm of the upholestered chair, and touch her arm gently and talk to her softly. Sometimes I sing hymns to her, or hum quietly. Bridgette mostly spends my time with her staring into space, or fidgeting with her right hand, rubbing her palms up and down again and again on the leg of her polyester pants. She sits, her shoes laceless, the remnants of her chicken stir-fry lunch dried on her shirt, seemingly oblivious to this well-meaning Hospice chaplain.

I've heard tell that she has family, a sister from California who comes once a year or so, but whose health is also on a downward spiral. The nursing home notes don't mention other visitors, so I suppose the Hospice nurse, social worker and I would be the only dates penciled into her hypothetical daytimer.

Bridgette has a particularly debilitating form of Alzheimer's. Bridgette is more than just "pleasantly confused." Her dementia has alienated her even from her language, from the common grammar and syntax which she has known for a lifetime for when she tries to form sentences, her speech comes out in a backward and stilted way. In the past six months, I have never heard her form a complete thought, or even string a few words together in a coherent fashion. Instead, in the rare instances that she does speak, her verbs and nouns get all jumbled and she'll say, "Yes..said.. that.. we.. here" or "I.. think.. don't.. so..he...well." The words are a random mix...jumbled...tangled. Thankfully, Bridgette doesn't seem to notice after one of her proclamations is met with confusion by others. But I simply smile and nod. And then Bridgette goes back to wearing a hole in the fabric of her pant leg.

Today seemed to be no different than any other visit. The Jamaican nurse who cares for Bridgette greeted me in the hallway and said, "You here to see Miss Bridgette today?" And then to Bridgette, "Miss...look, your friend...she's here again." Bridgette kept at the task at hand of fidgeting. I sat on the floor, greeted her, hummed my hymns, rested my chin on the chair, ran my fingers gently up and down her wrist. The Jamaican nurse and I talked about how pretty Bridgette's hair looked. The man who smells like urine sat behind me and poked at my head while asking, "Do you have any 3/8ths socket wrench?" It was sort of a typical Friday with Bridgette in the Alzheimer's unit.

I got up to leave after about fifteen minutes. I leaned forward to kiss Bridgette on the forehead as I always do, but this time Bridgette stopped me. In an effort that required eye-hand coordination, Bridgette took both her hands and cradled my face as I got about six inches away. I stopped, shocked at her reaction, startled even further to notice that she was looking me in the eyes, training herself on me. I paused and just watched her, five or ten seconds passed, and then in a clear voice Bridgette spoke, "This is all good."

A full sentence. A human connection. The words of God spoken through an ailing woman's lips. I have never heard a more beautiful benediction. It is, for today, all good.

People Ask Why I Don't Post...

And I say...

I know, I know, I know. I am truly glad I'm not one of those reporters who have a weekly column that they have to write each week, or egad, a sermon. Instead I prefer to be one of those, "when the mood strikes" kind of writers and when you've had a few days like mine, the mood hasn't struck.

First, there's been the insomnia. The wacky "I want to sleep, God, please let me sleep, and yet I'm awake and staring at the digital clock numbers" kind of insomnia. This insomnia has been enhanced by the wildly alluring "Cat Race Around the House/Boy-0n-Boy Cat Porn Tease" which is my two male (and neutered) cats. Add to that mixture, the crazy dreaming about the home I lived in when I was seven but which was surrounded by a toxic waste dump which was threatening to pollute me, but which my spiritual guru was just walking through without being burned by the foamy red ooze (huh...figure that one out? I mean really, I actually did have a really relatively sweet and innocent childhood despite the tremors of divorce which erupted when I was eleven or twelve, and which even then was relatively rational and calm).

On top of the insomnia has been the partner insomnia...that is, my sweet husband's insomniac issues which leave a lonely spot in our bed and which, for some reason unbeknownst to me, cause me to bolt upright, out from under the quilt, and search for him in the mess of covers on the left side of the bed. He, meanwhile, is watching exciting documentaries about the Bubonic plague on the Discovery channel in the family room, documentaries with soundtracks of people coughing ominously. What can I say, this kind of stuff soothes him.

Second, the family issues. Things have simply been hairy here. Emotionally. Really hairy. And I'm spent, absolutely spent. I find myself (true confessions here) sitting with my jaw dropped and drool pooling on the pillow next to me watching some truly inane reality television on MTV which involves lots of bleeps as sultry language is edited out, and lots of teenaged girls obsessing about their hair extensions and prom dates. And what's worse...I like it. I like it because I don't have to think...it's like handing Cheerios to a toddler in a highchair. I'm a drooling toddler, only moments away from a complete meltdown if my whole grain goodness is taken away.

Third, the "what-if's" of fertility treatments. I cannot get my brain around the notion that I simply have to just shut my mind off and allow things to simply be. As the wise and wonderful fundamentalist Christian Dr. B the fertility master (who limits his listening choices in his office to strictly Christian rock [so the refrains sound like this, "Oh, Jesus...Oh, Jesus...Oh, Jesus...I love you" sung by breathy female vocalists...not the most, ahem, "appealing" music to be played in a reproductive doctor's office if you ask me, in fact I think studies would show that sperm actually swim more lethargically when exposed to Jesus music])told me in a perhaps costly three-digit-phone "consultation" this week, "Remember, this is in God's hands." Dammit, but I've never been good at taking my sticky hands off the controls. And frankly, that's easy to say from a man who has four pictures of strikingly beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed genetically perfect children sitting on his desk.

So, that's why I've not been posting...spent, grumpy, sarcastic, spiritually dry, searching for meaning. Yep. That sums it up.

And, to be honest, no one really asked me why I don't post more often. But I like to pretend I have an imaginary audience who reads this and clamors for my attention like I'm the White House Press secretary.

And, now, how are you feeling? (She asks in her best chaplain voice, all the while making meaningful eye-contact and nodding her head compassionately).