All A Flutter...

"And why," the dear reader may ask, "the exciting subject line? Praytell what happy news might the contemplative chaplain want to share...could she...after lo these many months finally be pregnant?"

Um....NO. No, not so much. I say, while taking a great big slurp of my $4.97 for a liter bottle of chardonay wine (which will, in my defense, take many days or weeks to consume), my pre-dinner appetizer of choice these days...

NO...the big news is this...wait for it...

I'm practically bursting with excitement...for friends, I am typing this entry whilst sitting in my favorite comfy chair, burning incense, listening to a soothing piano CD, in my upstairs hideaway, in the room the girls have taken to calling "Christen's sanctuary." And I tell you all this because I used to have to type while my bum rested on the hard wood of a kitchen chair in he oh-so-public parlour of our home. I NOW HAVE ACCESS TO A LAPTOP! Yippee Coyote! Woo Hoo! I cannot contain my joy.

Our hospice is currently "going paperless" which means that each field staff member is issued a brand-spanking new laptop computer with all of the accompanying doodads. I have a car charger, y'all. And since my husband was wise enough to suggest we get wireless internet access at our house, I am now mobile.

Now granted, this laptop, it is not MINE, exactly. However, my assignment today from our COO was this, "Go home with your laptop. Play some games. Surf the net. Whatever...get used to your laptop." And I said, with wide-eyed wonder, "You mean I can actually use this for that kind of stuff too?" And she said...well, actually, she said nothing. But she sort of smiled at me, and in none of the paperwork that I had to sign, promising that I would replace the laptop if, God forbid one of the cats pukes on it and renders it useless, did it say that the use of laptop for, say, writing a blog sort of related to one's work was forbidden.

During the laptop training, my fellow chaplain and I were sitting on one side of the table, being quasi-more skilled at computing than some of our peers who needed more guidance, and I actually got to pull up my blog and say, "Hey, Scott, wanna see pictures of my cat? Wanna see a picture of me when I was three?" He humored me. "I have a blog! See?" I proudly blurted out to the COO. She smiled as she passed in that way that says, "Poor little girl, she doesn't get out much..."

The only problem with this new arrangement, and I'm actually a little serious about this, is that my family--yeah, they may not see me much. And my readers? You may start to hate my frequent musings and random posts. Soon you'll be saying, "Geez, would she just shut up already...someone go get the damn laptop and vomit on it or something..."

And now I have an important task for you, dear readers. My new laptop needs a name. Somehow her identifying sticker is rather non-descript (FIELD-22). Please help...I'll consider all suggestions and perhaps even award some sort of special blog prize for the winner...don't let us down.

And now I have to go back to carressing my Gateway's smooth silver skin.

There Were Days...

Oh, the days when I had 20+ hits on my blog...and then I don't post and I get 4 or so...

It's a sign. It's a sign, friends that I need to do a little more writing. I've been sittin' back on my haunches, doin' a little too much home-improvement (but, gee, ask me about my beautiful new periwinkle bathroom and my spic-and-span garage), watchin' a little too much of HBO's new show Big Love, readin' a few too many British writers during my spring break. Back to the grindstone I say, back to regular posts and deep thinkin'.

Yesterday I went on a little Menards run. I have big love for Menards, now that they built a store on the southeast side of my city, where few businesses dare to dwell, as ultimately, I believe that they are a tad bit racist and afraid of having stores in ethnically diverse neighborhoods. However, after Menards made their big move, I got all excited and made the decision that EVERYTHING (that I can't buy at my tried and true K-mart which proudly displays a banner saying "We [and then the big red heart] the South Side!!!! [notice the multitude of exclamation points, for they really, really love us]) would come from them.

On my way to aforementioned destination I saw one of my favorite southside characters--the man who stands on the corner of a major intersection with a bullhorn and yells unintelligable words to his audience (who are all in cars). I often pause, and try to listen to his words, as I figure if he has the, how shall I say...um...guts to stand in the cold and yell into a bullhorn, he at least deserves to be heard. But, alas, once again as I turned NPR down, all I heard was "Mhmpghs...lahifihglimmmsht...thriglshtils..." again. Nothing which made any sense of me. I sat at the intersection watching him. Wondering about his message...I mean, friends, he is out there a lot...like at least weekly.

So, today, I decide to make a difference in the life of my megaphone dude. I thought I'd just try a little experiment on my way to Menards, the store which actually seem to like us south-siders, and I waved at MM (that would be my cute term for Megaphone Man). Without skipping a syllable he waved back happily.

It wasn't until later that I wondered, "Does he think he just converted another soul for his mission?" And what would said mission be? Getting me to heaven? Getting me to accept Jesus as my personal savior? Getting me off crack? Getting me to subscribe to National Geographic? Getting me to shop at Menards?

Hmmm...

Regardless, it made me happy to make him wave back. And, I think God likes that kind of cross-cultural, cross-religious dialogue.

Dirty Diana

Why, oh why, do you get certain songs stuck in your head for absolutely NO GOOD REASON? I mean, really? Why, oh why, have I been singing the song "Dirty Diana" all afternoon? By who, by Michael Jackson? By Prince? Praytell, someone let the contemplative chaplain know why these lyrics are echoing in her head? Is it a sign from God that someone named Diana is in need of a hospice chaplain and they have very bad hygenic practices? Oh...when will the madness end.

On a happier note...tonight is my personal spring break. MC has spring break this week, which means R. is off for the entire week but since I only teach a once-a-week evening course, I get a three hour spring break this Monday night. I thought about going to Jazzercise tonight, but then thought..."Hey, it's SPRING BREAK might as well live it up." I may not have a Panama City beach house, but I've got me a Lean Cuisine personal cheese pizza and 21-lb. cat in my lap and a nice hot bath with patchouli bath oil in my future. The fun starts here (and yet if addressing my college self) I'd feel the need to say, "how did I sink so low?"

What else? What else? I've got your attention now and feel the need to make this post worthwhile, lest you feel overburdened by your internet surfing. Um....how can I impress readers so that more than 9 readers read per day? Magic tricks? Tap dancing? Secrets revealed?

Okay, here's one...when I was seven, I stole my friend Dora's scooby-doo rubber stamp. But, internet friends, don't tell anyone...especially not Dora.

More exciting tales of renegade adventures to come...

What Can You Do? Sometimes it's Random...

Here's the random post...

Today...I cleaned the garage. Yes, friends, you heard me right. I cleaned the frickin' garage. I reoganized boxes. I restacked boxes. I threw away, I mean recycled loads of crap. It took hours. And I am very proud of myself, she says, stretching her arm to pat herself on the back. Let's just call it spring fever (and not obsessive compulsive disorder, okay?).

And...I was a stellar step-mom and went with R. to watch T. in her choir concert in a town an hour away...which was very well-done (the concert, not my attending...). R. and I like watching white kids boogie down to spirituals. We especially like it when their choir directors actually let them clap their hands (which is the way it should be done, dammit [sorry, Mom, about the cussing, but it needed to be said]).

Not much more to report tonight...just checking in with the faithful few who read my paltry nuggets of pith (perhaps I should let my MC English professor advisor who retired in 1994 know that I use those kinds of words in my posts? Thank you Rowan for teaching me big words so I can understand NPR).

Okay...over and out for tonight. Tune in tomorrow for inspiring words and deep thoughts. I'm sure of it.

Body Writings

"and the body, what about the body?"
--Jane Kenyon

I remember the first time I was ever conscious of my body.

I was playing outside, wild, free and topless at around the age of four with my best friend--the one who shared my name and my unbounded energy. We swung, untamed, from monkey bars--the "Dome Climber" it was called--that hollow structure of black and white metal where I got my first black eye against my pale Scandinavian skin.

It was newly spring and the first warm of the season. We ran topless through the fenced-in backyard, yodeling and cawing like birds. Pure unadulterated, unblemished, unstained, fun.

My mother called us inside from the doorway of the back room, the room with its 1970s orange couch and homemade curtains. She stood framed by the old door calling to us, "Girls!" And when we raced each other to the asphalt porch, our sunken chests heaving, exhausted from our wild tear across the lawn, we were met with T-shirts draped over her outstretched arm. Mom smiled, "Here girls," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "why don't you put these on? You're getting too old to not wear tops, and besides, there are men working on the fence."

Indeed, there were men--topless men! Men who had invaded our sacred play space with their postdiggers and their other phallic tools. Men who we had forgotten were there after our initial curiosity, as we gamboled and and galloped across the green, green grass.

We didn't argue. We weren't angry. Mom wasn't being mean, in fact she kept smiling in a gentle, but realistic way. My best friend and I slipped our shirts on and ran back to the outdoor world. But we were somehow tamed, our wings had been clipped, our freedoms undermined. "The Men" had encroached on our turf, into our afternoon reverie and now we were the ones who had to change.

I think this is the first awareness I had that my body was somehow inappropriate--somehow something to be covered. Surely something to be guarded and whispered about, something which would make my bread-baking, PBS-watching, cooperative-learning, Dr. Sholl's-wearing mother purse her lips nervously about as she felt the need to protect her tiny chick.

I am 34 years old and I am still learning how to be aware of my body. I am still learning that while, at 34 I cannot freely frolic topless in my unsheltered backyard on a spring day (or, I could but oh, how it might upset [or fascinate?] the neighbors...), I can become familiar and safe in my own skin.

I often sigh and avert my eyes from the mirror as I prepare to bathe. In time, perhaps, I can begin to soften toward my worn skin which has been a safe harbor for lo these many years. And perhaps sometime soon, I'll remember what it feels like to have my body as unfurled as my soul again.

Hypochondriac

Those of you who know me well will find this blog entry completely and utterly unsurprising. For, yes, I am a hypochondriac. Certifiably. Undeniably.

When I have a head cold, my mean little mind says, "It's probably a brain tumor." When I get a paper cut that doesn't stop bleeding within a few seconds the bad bully of my inner voices say, "You probably have leukemia." In this wretched fear-filled universe which is the bad neighborhood of the interior of my head hangnails quickly become gaping wounds and stomach aches are esophageal cancers. I've spent countless hours worrying about: breast cancer, multiple sclerosis, heart attacks, colon cancer, ovarian tumors, and nasal polyps among other things. I am a walking encyclopedia of rare medical conditions. When the true condition is, anxiety, folks.

The remedy comes in recognizing my hypochondriacal nature (does that mean sitting in a room with other worriers who clutch their medical symptom dictionaries close to their chests and watch me with wary eyes and saying, "Hello, my name is Christen. I am a hypochondriac?") and popping an occasional Xanax.

And so, you ask, "Dear fragile Contemplative Chaplain, why do you do what you do? You're surrounded by dying people. You know death on an intimate basis and it ain't pretty." And my answer...well, my answer is this..."I dunno." Maybe I think it's an innoculation or something. Maybe it's because I'm trying to minister to my own wounded parts. Maybe it's because I feel the need to conquer my fear. Maybe it's because every time I watch a patient slip fearlessly into that great beyond I feel they're teaching me a lesson. I just don't know.

So, today...(you knew this post was going somewhere with one of my fears, didn't you?)...today I'm sitting in a meeting and I lean behind me to scratch my lower back and I realize that there is a, gasp, pretty big sized lump there. Not a surface lump, a sort of deep achy lump. "Oh no," I think, as my insides turn upside down. Shit. I don't have time for a hypochondriacal breakdown. I go to the bathroom and lift my dress and feel around on my back and realize that, yes, indeedy, it actually is a lump. And it's weird. And it's, well, lumpy and movable. And I sink down on the floor and start crying. Because this is what I do. Because, as you recall, my mind is a bad neighborhood and I was immediately conjuring up my death-bed scene.

Well...long story short...after a doctor appointment this morning...and .5 mgs. of Xanax...I can now happily report that I will not wilt and die from aforementioned lump in the next few days. However, I have a new friend in my life, something that is called a lipoma (which is a fancy way of saying a fatty benign tumor) which apparently is very common in the lower back and which will only need to be dealt with if it grows any larger and presses on any nerves in my back.

The doctor reiterated that I didn't need to worry. He reiterated that he could tell just by palpating it that it was a lipoma. He told me to relax. These babies don't become cancerous. They're very common. He offered to refill the Xanax. He was so clearly not at all impressed with my monstrously large (okay smaller than golf ball sized) new friend. I sat, taking deep breaths and thinking, "Thank God, I dodged the bullet again." Because you see, in the bad neighborhood of my head, scary things are just around the corner.

As the doctor was leaving I said, "Will this go away on its own?" And he smiled kindly and said, "No. You'll have it forever. " And then he paused and said gently, "If you want, though, you could name it?"

Hortense and I are going to go recline on the couch now and watch us some T.V. We've had an awfully stressful day.

After Having Posted That...

I realize that I was wrong, and that there really is something I should give up for Lent.

The act of transforming a perfectly decent shirt into a halter top.

I know, it's very 1976 and thus qualifies as "retro", but I've never really had the navel for it.

And, we'll save the white shoes before Memorial Day for next year, okay?

Ah, But What Is There to Say...

I know, I know, I know...I bitch about it regularly. I want to talk. I really, really, really want to say something and I don't know what to say.

What does the gentle reader want? Theological musings? Reflections on the day? Dirty little secrets? Pithy life pointers? Ho hum. How to fill these pages?

Let's see...I've recently uncovered the art of MEME's...damned if I know what they stand for (gentle reader, please enlighten this idiot). And here's the MEME that my sweet sisters on Rev Gal pals suggest..."Tell Us Four Things You Have Made a Practice of At One Time Or Another."

I think the idea is that we'll talk about what we've done for Lent. I'm not so much a "give up for Lent" kinda gal, being a low-church heathen. Instead, I try to be a "how can I enrich myself during this season?" And my idea was, "Ah, maybe...well, um...okay...not so much..." So, no, no I have not given up, or enriched myself throughout the Lenten journey. I have decided that since I'm preparing hours and hours of reading for the class I'm teaching that this sort of counts. Don't you think?

The other day I was sitting in my (very open spaced and more like a cubicle) office when I overheard one of our admission nurses at hospice make, what I thought, was a true "admission." Jean is a very devout Catholic woman, who takes her faith seriously, and still lets loose with a few colorful expletives now and then (which I, frankly, love in a person). Jean was talking to another nurse and saying, "I was going to give up smoking for Lent, but decided instead to keep smoking and just read the Bible each day as I did it."

And, then, there is my other favorite sacrificial Lenten story...when I was nannying in seminary, I took care of two adorable girls who were three and six. Both girls were raised Catholic, and after the oldest took her first communion, she was very intrigued with what to give up for Lent. She opted to give up chocolate. But, in the world of Connor and Claire, you could do whatever you gave up, but only on Sundays (is this Catholic understanding?) Connor's younger sister, three year old Claire, decided that she wanted to sacrifice as well and so, as she explained it to me, she decided to give up the worst thing she did. She decided that the worst thing she did was hit her sister. But, her mother told her that to give up this would make Sunday an awful day in the family...so Claire opted to give up chocolate too.

So, what have I made a practice of? Umm...in college I began running, which became addictive. And so, I worship on the sidewalks of the Crown Colony neighborhood regularly. I'm a convert. I have made a practice of early morning cups of tea daily. I've made a practice of evening quiet as I prayerfully reflect on the day, right before falling to sleep.

Big Oscar presentations on tonight...and despite the fact that R. and I have seen none of the movies, we'll see them all in the next year when they make it to HBO! So, I look at it as a preview of coming attractions. Yippee and pass the popcorn.

Big Jesus Love

So, I'm working on my feminist/womanist theology class preparations today. The topic is Christology. And it's such an incredibly huge topic...so many amazing thoughts and ideas. I've been reading Carter Heyward's Saving Jesus from Those Who are Right and Marcus Borg's Meeting Jesus for the First Time and all sorts of articles from "Daughters of Sarah" and oh my goodness, but I read them and say, "Yes! That's what I mean when I say I'm Christian! It's this Jesus! He rocks!"

Christianity has so often been co-opted by the religious right. So many of the lefties like me have allowed Jesus to become the imperialist, authoritarian, white, male, patriarchal grand poobah...when as I see it, he was a man deeply committed to allowing women (and all those disenfranchised) to have a voice, and a place. Geez, you gotta love a man like that.

So, I'm remembering why I love Christianity so much, I mean, wholly apart from the God factor...just the basics of the teachings make me swoon. Tonight, I've just got big Jesus love. And I say that without apology. Won't be long before I'm smacking a Jesus fish on my car and singing "Kum Ba Yah" on Karoke night.

Reason Number One...

that I need to have a human baby soon is because the damn cat will only play "So Big!" (as in, [said in a cuddly-wuddly voice], "How big is Cooper? How big is my big blonde boy?" To which he bellows in the way that only a 21lb. brain-damaged cat can bellow) for so long before attacking me. Again.

But, alas. I am so not pregnant. I mean, I am as far from pregnant as one might possibly be. And I tell you this, as a woman who just learned it herself. And while that pisses me off immensely, given the freakin' injustice of it all, and the horrid invasive procedure aspect, at least I can have me a nice glass of chardonay with no guilt attached (I, unlike most Brethren carry no tea-totaling guilt...nay, I flaunt my drinking to the world. Look at me, world, I just bought me the big ass bottle of Sutter Farm chardonay on sale at Kroger, and goddammit I can drink it for a good seven days before I have to stop again!). And, of course, there is the solace that I have not just one, but two cats and one dog who still call me "Mommy," in their own wee little yowling and yipping cat and dog ways.

However, I have also learned lately that the thing I hate oh-so-much is when people get the sad look when asking about the fertility stuff. I cannot do the sad look. The, oh-you-poor-thing-with-the-barren-womb look, the one where they gaze just a little too long into your eyes as if saying, "I know how it feels to be so utterly devoid of hope...so empty."

Hold hope for our future or get outta Dodge, friends. I need no sympathy...empathy, yes. Sympathy, not so much. We'll have our little Ella and/or Grayson in time...and while the decision about whether she'll/he'll arrive straight from my womb or on a plane from China or Guatamala has yet to be determined, there is room for plenty of hope.

And, the reality is, that my life feels pretty graced as it is, so we can wait.

And now, Cooper sits perched next to my monitor (really, I didn't just write that to make some high and holy literary point, and bring this essay to full circle...he does, just sit here watching the cursor move on the screen...which makes the screen a little hairy sometimes when he bends in a little too close), so my calling as cat-mommy beckons.

"Here, Cooper, Here, boy... Tell Mama how big you are...you're SO Big, aren't you?"

For tonight, at least, I have a baby, even if his only discernable gift is eating Cat Chow and pooping in a big litter box (at least most of the time). But really, diapers are messy anyway.

They Take You In

It has been a quiet day, as most Sundays are in our abode. Cups of tea being made and finished. Cats making their way (despite all attempts at indicating to them that I am trying to ignore them that I am currently off duty as cat nanny, as I am writing and can't have them biting the end of my pen) onto laps and refusing to leave. Classes being prepared for. Student writings being read. When dusk comes, candles being lit. This is my Sabbath. My holy time.

R. and the girls went with me to my church this morning, and there is a wholeness I have when we can worship together as a family. For multiple reasons, R. and I worship in different communities, that decision being made for reasons of choice, but also for reasons of circumstance.

I need to worship with a CoB congregation to maintain my ordination (although I would chose to worship there regardless of that technicality). R. worships at a downtown UCC, a UCC that I actually have some history with, as I was confirmed there in the 1980s, it was the church my parents decided we should attend after my father left the United Methodist pastorate. We attended because it was progressive, and because my parents wanted me to experience an open community which let me question and grow and change, and affirmed my wanderings, rather than demanding that I tow the party line. It was a large church, and mostly I felt...well, lost in the community there. Lost with good theology being pumped into me, but lost nonetheless.

Now, I choose not to worship at aforementioned UCC on alternate Sundays currently not because I feel lost in the community anymore, in fact they have dwindled in membership due to their (wonderful) prophetic stances. However, I choose not to worship there on a regular basis for another simple reason, which is that I don't want to put all my effort into a church that I am not allowed to join. "The contemplative chaplain not allowed to join a church," the gentle reader may ask..."Pray tell, what convenience store did you rob? Or how much money did you steal out of the offering plate to make a membership offer off-limits?"

Actually, gentle reader, I am not allowed to join the downtown UCC not because of restrictions from the CoB, mind you, not because it would be frowned upon to have associate membership elsewhere, no. Instead I am not allowed to join as an associate member because I will not make a profession of faith which affirms that it is at baptism that we renounce evil. I have a hard time believing that those who are unbaptized should be affiliated with evil, and that we renounce evil only with a largely symbolic act (especially symbolic when it is a church, like the UCC, which espouses infant baptism). And further, how exactly does one define evil? R. is in a similiar quandry, but that's his story to tell.

I don't know too many people who can say that even the UCC, which is reputed by so many fundamentalists as having "loose morals," will keep them from joining (although I am welcome to affirm the church motto and "come see where the journey takes me"). My journey, however, seems to have a roadblock temporarily stopping it in regard to this church. I'm only a little bitter about this, however. And have been trying to be patient with my theologically unlikeminded "brother in Christ" who pastors said UCC church.

Ah well...I have found a home in the Anabaptist margins with my folk-singin,' yurt-livin,' mustacheless-beard-sportin,' buddies. We do just fine, thanks. I've learned through the Beacon Heights Church of the Brethren what home is, the place where when you have to go, they have to take you in. With love, with grace, with acceptance. I have such an incredibly shoddy attendance record, and I am still met with hugs and support. I'd like to think this is what Jesus wanted to have happen in these communities created in his image.

However, I have digressed from what I wanted to say about family, and sharing a pew with my family. But perhaps what I must remember is that I share a pew with my larger family whenever I attend my sweet little CoB, for they have invited me in, regardless of who I am and that's what sisters and brothers are supposed to do.

1000+

So, I've hit the 1,000 hits mark on this here blog. Ye Olde Site Meter reports that some folk are reading this (of course my own checking to see if anyone read probably accounts for 80% of above hits, so yippee for 200 hits!).

But, then I went and added pictures and NO ONE commented. It was as if there was a huge void in the universe, and while I knew people were still reading (gee, thanks Site Meter), NO ONE said anything. It was sort of like when I teach my class and students stare at me and I can get no read on their emotions. I find I want to say to them, "Look, throw me a bone here, give me something! Do you agree, disagree? Heeeeeellllllllpppppp Me Out!" That's sorta how I feel sometimes about my writing. I kiss it and send it out into the universe and think, "Well, I wonder how that one will fly." Perhaps the picture addition was sort of like when The New Yorker added Tina Brown as an editor (1992 or 1993ish?) and people rioted politely in the Guggenheim (actually, no, I'm joking here, but isn't that where you would imagine New Yorker readers to demonstrate?). But, my dad still complains about it on a regular basis, reminding me that even 13 years after the fact that he doesn't like change. Which, I guess, I can't complain about because we are sort of cut from the same cloth. Remember the "New Coke?" Yeah, still bitter about that, despite their attempts at fixing the huge error by reinstiling the classic.

Anyway, my neurotic little mind says, "Oh no, perhaps they all think you've gone and got the big head, what with the photos and all. You should have remained a simple faux Brethren girl." It's okay, I'm in therapy. I'll work through my neuroses.

Otherwise...life is relatively calm in Chez P-M, where all the men are academics, the women are worriers, and the children are, for the moment, stomach-flu-free.

Mi Padre

There are some things I don't write about easily. Some things that are harder to say. And often, this comes out of deep emotion, and deep gratitude.

I love this picture.

I have one version of it, an earlier (or later) version where we're both facing the camera, me with my arms wrapped around my Dad's neck, resting my chin on his shoulder. The picture sits next to my computer. It is in an old brass frame, left over from one of my Dad's offices, lost in a move as he up-sized his office space, and added portraits of me as I grew (and as he shed those ridiculous brown shoes and gorgeous wide maroon tie and bell-bottomed pants). I look at the picture often as I sit in front of my Dell. I look at what my mother refers to as the "Miller mouth" which rests on both of our faces and at the way we sit so easily, so comfortably close to one another, our arms intertwined, our eyes laughing.

Dad and I have always been close. But we haven't been close in that way that some father and daughter duos are. I've never been my dad's tomboy (forbid the thought). I've never hung out with him at company picnics (what?). I've always paused a minute at the Father's Day card selection because lawn-mowing jokes, and golfing stories, and fishing jokes never really suited Dad. And it didn't honor the connection we had.

How could I say to him, "I am so much like you that sometimes I gasp in recognition?" or "I am so utterly spellbound to be blessed to be your daughter?" Words like these sound like idol worship, and I know my father better than to revere him in a holy way. Instead, I recognize his weaknesses (some that are similar to my own) and gather the cloak of his unending love around me and sink into it's familiar safety, and offer my own humble and unconditional love back.

I am a woman who has learned that men should listen to her, because I was listened to by my father. And I am a woman who has learned that she deserves to be respected, because I was honored by my father. And I am a woman who has learned that she can be vulnerable, because she witnessed her father's honesty. And I am woman who as a feminist is not afraid to know God paternally, for I have been fiercely loved by a father.

And today, I write the words that are inscribed in my heart. Just because. Just here.

The Reason...

I haven't blogged today is that my Donny and Marie paper dolls finally arrived from E-Bay. I've been humming "I'm a Little Bit Country...I'm a Little Bit Rock and Roll" and putting Donny's purple socks on and off him for hours.

Check in tomorrow, I'll try to post then as my Sonny and Cher paper dolls won't arrive until Wednesday from E-Bay.

Obsessive Compulsive's Garden of Eden

So, I finally figured out how to post pictures. Oh my God the excitement. You're gonna say, "Christen, we sure wish you'd never learned this, cause we're frankly a little scared by your zeal at documenting things now..." or perhaps you'll say, "Thank the good Lord in heaven that you finally recognized that your computer does more than just send those fancy-pants letters you like to send." Regardless of what you say...you now can receive all-photos, all the time. If you're an avid reader (Mom...I'm talking to you) you might want to scroll back through previous entries as I now have illustrated some of them.

The girl, she has gone wild. Almost as wild as she went on this day, when it appears she chose to accessorize her beautiful 1970s era hat with a tasteful scarf. All I needed to make the outfit complete was a little more cowbell.

I've gone almost that wild and crazy. Now I just need to find me a nice bold scarf.

Look Ma! I figured out how to add pictures!

A Feline's Valentine's Day

'Twas Valentine's Day yesterday.

As Robert and I are more low-key types on Valentine's Day, we don't go out and buy one another plush teddy-bears measuring 36 inches tall. We're not big fans of singing cupid telegrams, or sparkling diamond pendants or tie clips.

I am proud to say that I thought ahead and had a festive bag full of dark chocolate yummies strategically placed where my hermit-boy husband would notice them on top of the pile of clothes he had set out to wear after his morning shower. Watching a wet-headed Robert say, "Oh! What's this?!?" was, to put it oh-so-nerdily a tremendous joy. "I'll have to hide them from the girls!" he remarked. That's my boy, always thinking ahead!

Robert's Valentine's gift for me was a beautiful bouquet of Oriental lilies. Vibrant magenta on the tips with pure white centers and the most striking orange-yellow stamens (I'm hoping that I'm adequately recalling 11th grade Botany class with that term).

I had to have a minor procedure yesterday at sweet little Dr. B.'s office, which rendered me incapable of movement for much of this morning, and, knowing that I would be bed-bound, moved the vase of flowers onto my dresser, where I could see them whilst lying in bed. The lilies smell wonderfully, and the only problem with them, is that if you accidentally brush them with your hand, you end up with an orange stain on the spot where they came into contact with skin.

I shut Cooper and Moses, the 21 and 19 lb. wonder cats out of our bedroom last night, not wanting them to be tempted by the lure of the lilies' intoxicating aroma which might beg them to try to take a bite out of their petals, but apparently I forgot when I finally got out of bed this afternoon to pick up Miss T. from school to again shut the bedroom door.

Upon my arrival home, I was checking email at the computer...taking care of business...etc. when I heard Cooper's plaintive meowing (which sounds mostly like a sick cow, as Cooper was in a moped/cat collision several years ago which, according to the vet, has rendered him incapable of meowing modulation...his own form of cat brain-damage [but dammit, he's lovable...]) and turned to see my blondish cat with the white muzzle and chest now stained a deep yellowish-orange.

"Cooper," I bellowed, "Where have you been?" To which he tried to act all nonchalant, or as nonchalant as you can act when being a 21lb. brain-damaged cat.

He was so utterly busted. It won't be long before you see him, and his stained muzzle on a post-office wall.



Thankfully, my lilies seem to have weathered their Cooper fondling. I guess cats need Valentine's Day affections too.

Reasons To Be Content

The cursor is blinking tauntingly at me. And I'm feeling sort of quiet. I simply don't have a lot to say, but wanted to be in communion with this here weblog, as I know there is nothing more frustrating than to day after day after day log on to a website and see that the blogger has neglected to blog yet again. Makes one kind of grumpy, understandably. And I don't want my dear readers (a.k.a. my therapist, my parents, Robert, and my sister-in-law [at least in my mind]) to harbor any ill-will towards me.

I realize that for the first time in quite awhile I'm feeling quite content.

For some unexplained reason, the rat-race which has been the fertility quest has slowed to a sort of leisurly stroll through the maze. I have yielded, finally, or perhaps for now, to the recognition that I'm doing all I can and that there is nothing more for me to do but be still and wait.

In the meantime, the class I'm teaching fills me with life and questions and passion. I continue to delve into the mystery of the feminine divine and gasp in recognition at what I have, at times, forgotten. The reality is that we move in God, we swim in the very current of the birthing waters of God, and She is in us, and through us, and with us--and with Her we create this ever-changing masterpiece of life. And the beauty of it, is that we simply need to remember this, to remember to breathe in her goodness and power and compassionate grace.

So, I have reason to be content today. And for now, life is sweet.

The Professor, She is Naked!

So, I've been busy.
Really busy.
What, have I been doing?
Not the laundry.
It's piling up.
Not knitting.
My latest dishcloth remains in the same state of unfinishedness.
Not catching up on any outstanding correspondence.
Oh, so sorry those who are waiting for me to respond.

Instead, I have been reading.
Reading and reading.
Trying to cram all of the feminist theology into my head that I can.
Because now I teach it.
And I'm convinced that I really shouldn't be teaching it.
Because I'm sure I'm not that smart.
And yet, students are sending me emails that start like this, "Dear Professor Miller."
Holy shit.
Utterly holy shit.

I'm convinced that it won't be long before one of these students (students who, I might add, were born in 1987 the year that I was a freshman in high school and french kissing Lance Adams in his family's rec room), stands up and announces to the class, ala The Emperor's New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen, "Look! The professor is naked!" It won't be long before my students recognize that I feel utterly bewildered that they look to me for wisdom.

Having said all of this, I also must add these words...I feel alive.

A Letter I Will Never Send

Dear You,

I dreamt of you again last night. It seems all of this preparation for teaching a college course reminds me of college, and my mind does strange things with it all. I suppose after we were roommates for so long, it's not as easy for the dark gray matter in my head to extricate you. Your face and your voice echo there somehow, even though we have moved in different life paths and haven't spoken in well over three years.

You were the sister I never had. And now you are the one I will never completely understand.

My dream last night was rich in meaning. In it, we were in college again, living in Oakwood Hall, the real Oakwood, not its imposter redux version. We were living in separate rooms, on separate floors, just as we did our junior year of college, although we practically wore the carpet down traveling between those two rooms in that year of 1993. In my dream, I recognized a beautiful tree outside my second-story window, a tree ripe with juicy, red apples. I realized that if I stretched my arm out the window, I could just barely pull the fruit into my waiting fingertips. I ran to the phone and called your room and asked, "Do you like apples?" And you were enthusiastic in your response and I said, "Well, hurry, and come to my room because there are apples, so sweet, just hanging outside waiting for us to eat them." And you said, "I can't. And more than that I won't. There are things I cannot do." And you hung up on me. And I didn't understand why. And I began to cry. And then I walked to the window and reached my arm out as far as I could and gently, a warm apple, fell into my outstretched fingers. And I pulled it toward me, and saw that it was good. And I took a bite.

When I left K., I bit the apple. When I asked for a divorce, I was banished from the Eden of your good graces. You disowned me, wanting nothing more to do with me and my kind. Of course, you finally sent the obligatory note reminding me that you couldn't be supportive, but that you would "hold me in prayer."

Do you have any idea what it means to be abandoned by the one who you thought was your sister? Do you realize how painful it was to recognize that the apple needed to be eaten? That living in Eden sheltered me from the realities of wisdom and truth. Do you see that God still clothes and shelters those of us who eat the fruit? That we are not cut off from God's grace?

Sometimes I miss you. I miss a shared language and a sense of being understood to the core. I miss talking over cups of hot tea and the sharing of hot bread fresh out of the oven.

But mostly, now, I wonder whether that world was just a lie, whether that Eden was just an imaginary place.

May you be well,
Me

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.