I have noticed an alarming trend among some of the book groups I read along with online...there's this new genre called "Christian Suspense." I keep wondering...how does that work? Is it like, "Oh no, John-Boy isn't saved. He lives a hedonistic lifestyle. Will he ever see the error of his ways? Oh no, now he has a terminal illness...will he ever find his way to Jesus Christ so that he doesn't burn in hell? What will happen...will John Boy ever see the light...let's wait here in the dark, creepy night... and scare the beJesus out of ourselves (because we certainly wouldn't scare the hell out of ourselves, or maybe we would?) until John Boy accepts Jesus into his heart...will he get it done? Will he make it into the eternal kingdom?"
I'm telling you being a former English major, the future of the literary canon concerns me. Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about it (but not very often).
I could handle the Christian romances, what with the no pre-marital sex stuff and the vowing to honor and obey and the wives submitting and all that. It wasn't my cup of tea, actually made me a little queasy, but I could see the market (I mean, I do live in Indiana, home of Dan Quayle)...but suspense? This is a whole 'nother country.
So now you know what's happening at bookstores near you. Don't say you haven't been warned. But wait...what is that creeping up stealthily behind you? Is it Satan?!? The Christian suspense is killing me...
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Job Hazard
I went to a funeral today. That's sort of an occupational hazard as a hospice chaplain. I go to a lot of funerals. I go to so many funerals, in fact, that sometimes I get a little bit, how shall we say? Um...critical of funerals. I sort of, well, let me just lay it on the table here, I sort of, um...rate them. And today's, well it was probably, on a scale of one to ten, about a two.
I liken this rating system to the summer after college when everyone was getting married, and I became an expert critic of different wedding styles. For instance, when lighting the unity candle, I would find myself mumbling under my breath, "Don't blow out the individual candles. Don't do it, woman. Don't do it! You're still your own person." And when the individual candles were blown out with a satisfied puff, I'd practically drop my head in my hands and sigh, "Well, they just lost points there..."
Today's funeral was a two not because of the musical selections, while I'm not a big fan of the Gaithers singing "Because He Lives," (actually I sang a pretty wicked rendition of it while at our seminary talent show while dressed as my alter ego Faith Fay, along with my partners in crime, Chastity Fay and Charity Fay, while we were all wearing 4-inch heels, teased hair, and long fake red fingernails, ala Tammy Fay in her prime. Oh, and I also may have partaken a teeny, tiny, wee bit too much of the "communion wine" at the time, which only added to the vibrato of the Fay sisters singing...but I digress) while I'm generally not particularly fond of funerals that involve an altar call at the end, what truly led to the unfortunate two rating was a particularly distasteful eulogy by a nephew of the deceased.
Now, before you think I have become the most negative and sarcastic of hospice chaplains, let me speak in my defense over why aforementioned eulogy was so utterly painful to hear.
Usually I find family eulogies delightful. I often feel as if I get the best sense of who a person was when I hear their families speak. Indeed, when I perform a funeral, I spend hours with the family, asking questions, questions like, "What really made your father laugh?" "What legacy does your mother leave you?" "What was your brother's favorite story?" "What did you grandmother teach you?" "How was your sister different than other people?" I love the stories about the special Coney island sauce that someone made their son every year on his birthday, or the fact that someone went out on the mornings that it was below freezing and took the garbage man a cup of coffee. I believe that families and close friends have much better insight than I, as a pastor could ever have, to remember a life. My job is to listen to the stories, and then to tell them, to tell the stories of this child of God.
So, why was today so bad? Well, the nephew, let's call him, Joe, was a young whippersnapper. I'm looking at him and thinking, "Hmmm...perhaps a young Oral Roberts University seminary student?" He wore his expensive navy blue suit with his American flag lapel pin and he told a few happy stories about how his aunt liked to kiss little kids, and how she was good at remembering birthdays. And that was all well and good. And then he went on to talk about his aunt's faith, about how she loved Jesus and wasn't afraid to die, and this too was nice.
And then, he turned to his cousin and her family, the deceased woman's only child's family and looked each of them in the eyes where they sat weeping in the front row, a young family with small children. The nephew licked his lips and said, "Jennifer, Scott, Caden, Ariel, your mother, mother-in-law, your nana loved you all so, so very much. Never forget that..." and this daughter began to sob and nod her head...and the nephew continued, "And she loved you so much that she would want for you to find Jesus Christ, and to welcome him into each of your hearts...because she doesn't want you to go to hell. She wants to see you again. That was her last wish."
Can you say "pastoral misconduct?" Can you say "family cruelty?" Can you say "manipulation?" Can you say, "Guilt trip?" I wanted to stand up and yell, "Out of order! Objection! Time out! No fair!" But, instead, I had to sit with my hands folded quietly.
And so I did what I do best in those moments...I began to pray, "God, help me to forgive this young man, just as you have forgiven me for my own inadequacies and judgments. And may this poor woman who grieves recognize Your unconditional love, and may she know You cradle her in her arms, just the way her mommy once did."
And perhaps in that moment, the fact that it was a two didn't matter so much anymore.
I liken this rating system to the summer after college when everyone was getting married, and I became an expert critic of different wedding styles. For instance, when lighting the unity candle, I would find myself mumbling under my breath, "Don't blow out the individual candles. Don't do it, woman. Don't do it! You're still your own person." And when the individual candles were blown out with a satisfied puff, I'd practically drop my head in my hands and sigh, "Well, they just lost points there..."
Today's funeral was a two not because of the musical selections, while I'm not a big fan of the Gaithers singing "Because He Lives," (actually I sang a pretty wicked rendition of it while at our seminary talent show while dressed as my alter ego Faith Fay, along with my partners in crime, Chastity Fay and Charity Fay, while we were all wearing 4-inch heels, teased hair, and long fake red fingernails, ala Tammy Fay in her prime. Oh, and I also may have partaken a teeny, tiny, wee bit too much of the "communion wine" at the time, which only added to the vibrato of the Fay sisters singing...but I digress) while I'm generally not particularly fond of funerals that involve an altar call at the end, what truly led to the unfortunate two rating was a particularly distasteful eulogy by a nephew of the deceased.
Now, before you think I have become the most negative and sarcastic of hospice chaplains, let me speak in my defense over why aforementioned eulogy was so utterly painful to hear.
Usually I find family eulogies delightful. I often feel as if I get the best sense of who a person was when I hear their families speak. Indeed, when I perform a funeral, I spend hours with the family, asking questions, questions like, "What really made your father laugh?" "What legacy does your mother leave you?" "What was your brother's favorite story?" "What did you grandmother teach you?" "How was your sister different than other people?" I love the stories about the special Coney island sauce that someone made their son every year on his birthday, or the fact that someone went out on the mornings that it was below freezing and took the garbage man a cup of coffee. I believe that families and close friends have much better insight than I, as a pastor could ever have, to remember a life. My job is to listen to the stories, and then to tell them, to tell the stories of this child of God.
So, why was today so bad? Well, the nephew, let's call him, Joe, was a young whippersnapper. I'm looking at him and thinking, "Hmmm...perhaps a young Oral Roberts University seminary student?" He wore his expensive navy blue suit with his American flag lapel pin and he told a few happy stories about how his aunt liked to kiss little kids, and how she was good at remembering birthdays. And that was all well and good. And then he went on to talk about his aunt's faith, about how she loved Jesus and wasn't afraid to die, and this too was nice.
And then, he turned to his cousin and her family, the deceased woman's only child's family and looked each of them in the eyes where they sat weeping in the front row, a young family with small children. The nephew licked his lips and said, "Jennifer, Scott, Caden, Ariel, your mother, mother-in-law, your nana loved you all so, so very much. Never forget that..." and this daughter began to sob and nod her head...and the nephew continued, "And she loved you so much that she would want for you to find Jesus Christ, and to welcome him into each of your hearts...because she doesn't want you to go to hell. She wants to see you again. That was her last wish."
Can you say "pastoral misconduct?" Can you say "family cruelty?" Can you say "manipulation?" Can you say, "Guilt trip?" I wanted to stand up and yell, "Out of order! Objection! Time out! No fair!" But, instead, I had to sit with my hands folded quietly.
And so I did what I do best in those moments...I began to pray, "God, help me to forgive this young man, just as you have forgiven me for my own inadequacies and judgments. And may this poor woman who grieves recognize Your unconditional love, and may she know You cradle her in her arms, just the way her mommy once did."
And perhaps in that moment, the fact that it was a two didn't matter so much anymore.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Lexapro Induced Anesthesia
I don't cry much.
Thank you, Lexapro.
You know, I'm the sort of person who would rather just show you her wounds, and admit to her weaknesses.
Well, here they are...I struggle with some sort of generalized anxiety. And, thus, the Lexapro. I love it, and...I hate it. I love that I no longer panic at each and every little stress-inducing issue in my life (i.e. when I find a lump in my back I am not rendered incapable of functioning for fear that it's cancer), and I hate that I feel so utterly disconnected from my deepest feelings.
I used to cry often. I cried at Hallmark commercials, and the periwinkle shades of lilacs, and cried while watching my step-daughters dance. I cried while reading Lucile Cliffton poetry, and I cried at Indigo Girls' ballads. And now, I'm a little more...well, stoic. And while this keeps me from worrying about so much, it also keeps me from experiencing so much.
This all goes to say that for the first time in weeks (or months?) I wept. And the reason is this: (bear with me I don't know how to link things yet...) http://www.reallivepreacher.com (essay on open communion). Oh my God(/ess). Why is it this makes me weep? What in me longs for this kind of meal?
My week is almost over. I am grateful. I need some space.
Thank you, Lexapro.
You know, I'm the sort of person who would rather just show you her wounds, and admit to her weaknesses.
Well, here they are...I struggle with some sort of generalized anxiety. And, thus, the Lexapro. I love it, and...I hate it. I love that I no longer panic at each and every little stress-inducing issue in my life (i.e. when I find a lump in my back I am not rendered incapable of functioning for fear that it's cancer), and I hate that I feel so utterly disconnected from my deepest feelings.
I used to cry often. I cried at Hallmark commercials, and the periwinkle shades of lilacs, and cried while watching my step-daughters dance. I cried while reading Lucile Cliffton poetry, and I cried at Indigo Girls' ballads. And now, I'm a little more...well, stoic. And while this keeps me from worrying about so much, it also keeps me from experiencing so much.
This all goes to say that for the first time in weeks (or months?) I wept. And the reason is this: (bear with me I don't know how to link things yet...) http://www.reallivepreacher.com (essay on open communion). Oh my God(/ess). Why is it this makes me weep? What in me longs for this kind of meal?
My week is almost over. I am grateful. I need some space.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Sluggish
There are days when you wake up and your sinuses are kicking the shit out of you with little mini combat boots between your eyes and you think, "Oh, but if I only could make it not hurt, if only I could make those things which make my eyes water and my nose stuff up not bloom..." And then you have a realization...Voila! And you think, "I should take me some of that there Claritin-D, it's on that there television ad and promises me that I'll feel good as gold." And you gobble down a little white pill and then...a l l d a y s t a r t s d r a a a a g g g g i n n n g g g. And pretty soon you think, "Well, freakin' devil bunnies, my nose is clear but my life, it is in slo-mo." Ever have one of those days? I'm still recovering from my Claritin hangover.
As of today, I have counted four, four close friends, acquaintances, or family members who have given birth in the past week...so welcome to the world William Marcus and Emily Jane and Conner Michael and Alexander Joseph. But I'm wondering with four births in one week...what was happening 9 months ago that I missed...what party were these folks at...and what was in the water that was being consumed? Hmmm...
Three more weeks of being referred to as Professor. Three more weeks of having 2/3 of the class stare at me with looks of disbelief and/or apathy as I wax poetic about feminine images of God and the works of Mary Daly and Carter Heyward and Rosemary Radford Ruether. I think I'm ready for this gig to be over. Mostly, because I feel as if I am not gifted as a teacher, and I constantly feel inadequate, as if I'm not giving them enough as if we're not covering enough ground, as if there are miles and miles and miles of more ideas to mention and I'm doing the world of feminist theology a diservice by not being more eloquent. Oh forgive me, my erudite sisters.
R. found a yummy new creamer for our coffee today...coconut! How happy am I?
As of today, I have counted four, four close friends, acquaintances, or family members who have given birth in the past week...so welcome to the world William Marcus and Emily Jane and Conner Michael and Alexander Joseph. But I'm wondering with four births in one week...what was happening 9 months ago that I missed...what party were these folks at...and what was in the water that was being consumed? Hmmm...
Three more weeks of being referred to as Professor. Three more weeks of having 2/3 of the class stare at me with looks of disbelief and/or apathy as I wax poetic about feminine images of God and the works of Mary Daly and Carter Heyward and Rosemary Radford Ruether. I think I'm ready for this gig to be over. Mostly, because I feel as if I am not gifted as a teacher, and I constantly feel inadequate, as if I'm not giving them enough as if we're not covering enough ground, as if there are miles and miles and miles of more ideas to mention and I'm doing the world of feminist theology a diservice by not being more eloquent. Oh forgive me, my erudite sisters.
R. found a yummy new creamer for our coffee today...coconut! How happy am I?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
P.S.
I can't say I'm an especially big Dixie Chicks fan, but seeing as how they got an especially hostile response from many rah-rah pro-war folks, this pacifist chick sort of sat up and took notice. I just found their most recent song and thought, "Yes. Yes. Yes." Especially in regard to their treatment by fervent pro-war Bush backers.
Check it out, if you have the inclination, at:
http://www.dixiechicks.com
Check it out, if you have the inclination, at:
http://www.dixiechicks.com
Only Beginning
I have been filled to overflowing with simple delight as I continue to watch spring unfurl and fling itself with wild abandon into a hungry world. After my run this afternoon, I lay my weary body down on the bench on our front porch and watched our birch tree leaves dance against the blue sky and again it occurred to me, "I am so utterly blessed to breathe in this mystery."
Last night one of the sisters, one of the circle of eight sisters, came to speak to my class about her spiritual journey as a woman with one foot firmly planted in the world of the organized church as a pastor, and with one foot treading into the mysteries of neo-pagan and goddess thought. I watched her speak so wisely to my students, and remembered the girl who was...the girl who initimidated the hell out of me when she lived on the opposite wing of Oakwood Hall, who amazed me with her intensity, and her intelligence, and her independence. And then I remembered the roadtrip to Pennsylvania to visit the parents of a friend, when I recognized how fiercely alike we were, the roadtrip where it seemed all pretense was stripped away and we became vulnerable and true to one another. And these images flashed through my head as I listened to her share of brother Jesus, and sister spirit and, again, I realized my joy at being connected to the souls of such good women.
Last night she said as we stood looking in a mirror together, "When I was in college, I was only beginning to become the woman I am now." And, as one who has a tendency to glorify the Christen of old, to feel as if perhaps I was my truest in those days, my most passionate and bright, I had to pause and honor that journey in my own life, for I to am still only beginning to become the woman I am created to be.
But, what an incredible trip it is.
Last night one of the sisters, one of the circle of eight sisters, came to speak to my class about her spiritual journey as a woman with one foot firmly planted in the world of the organized church as a pastor, and with one foot treading into the mysteries of neo-pagan and goddess thought. I watched her speak so wisely to my students, and remembered the girl who was...the girl who initimidated the hell out of me when she lived on the opposite wing of Oakwood Hall, who amazed me with her intensity, and her intelligence, and her independence. And then I remembered the roadtrip to Pennsylvania to visit the parents of a friend, when I recognized how fiercely alike we were, the roadtrip where it seemed all pretense was stripped away and we became vulnerable and true to one another. And these images flashed through my head as I listened to her share of brother Jesus, and sister spirit and, again, I realized my joy at being connected to the souls of such good women.
Last night she said as we stood looking in a mirror together, "When I was in college, I was only beginning to become the woman I am now." And, as one who has a tendency to glorify the Christen of old, to feel as if perhaps I was my truest in those days, my most passionate and bright, I had to pause and honor that journey in my own life, for I to am still only beginning to become the woman I am created to be.
But, what an incredible trip it is.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Risen, Indeed
spring song
the green of Jesus
is breaking the ground
and the sweet
smell of delicious Jesus
is opening the house and
the dance of Jesus music
has hold of the air and
the world is turning
in the body of Jesus and
the future is possible
--lucille clifton
the green of Jesus
is breaking the ground
and the sweet
smell of delicious Jesus
is opening the house and
the dance of Jesus music
has hold of the air and
the world is turning
in the body of Jesus and
the future is possible
--lucille clifton
Thursday, April 13, 2006
But, Maybe You Misunderstood...
...that my new baby is nameless...
I know, I know, it's Maundy Thursday and all...but, let's put things in perspective here...[that was sarcasm...I actually do have my priorities in a reasonably appropriate order].
It's just...so sterile to just be called FIELD-22 your whole life.
Okay, I'm off to bed now, with my new computer right in between R. and me under the covers. Nice and snug.
Nighty-night.
I know, I know, it's Maundy Thursday and all...but, let's put things in perspective here...[that was sarcasm...I actually do have my priorities in a reasonably appropriate order].
It's just...so sterile to just be called FIELD-22 your whole life.
Okay, I'm off to bed now, with my new computer right in between R. and me under the covers. Nice and snug.
Nighty-night.
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.
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.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 20, 2006
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...
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...
Saturday, March 18, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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.
--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.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
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.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
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.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
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.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
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.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
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
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
Sunday, January 29, 2006
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."
Saturday, January 28, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Six Words on Why I Haven't Blogged More Lately
Recirculated Airplane Air = Gastrointestinal Virus.
Yuck.
Yuck.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
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.
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!
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!
Sunday, January 08, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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