Yikes!

Today it occurred to me, "Holy Mary Mother of God, I start preaching this Sunday and from now until eternity (or until the church finds a permanent pastor...which seems like a LOOONNNGGGG way off when you're planning sermons) I have to be wise and thought-provoking and erudite on a regular basis. And, friends, I am so not these things.

Examples of aforementioned thoughts...I look forward to the Saturday when I get my hair highlighted, because I get to read trashy magazines with headlines with exclamation points!!! (i.e. Brad and Angelina pluck each other's eyebrows for fun! Britany is adding an extra "t" to her name!!! Paris Hilton caught taking a Beano before celebrity chili supper!!). Another example of my gauche ways...I can't stop giggling inwardly when people mispronounce words (a client told me the other day that her mother felt much better after having a "vowel movement." I wanted to say, "Yeah, whenever I move that 'I before E' I feel better too...). How, oh how, can I be given the responsibility of interpreting scripture?!?

Shit. (See, another example of my unworthiness!) Just shit. Anyone have any brilliant ideas about Psalm 130? 'Cause I'm a little dry here...

Compulsives in Love

This week R. and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary.

Like most happily wedded folk, we decided to celebrate with a dinner out, sans children.

Fort Wayne has a veritable feast of restaurants in the area. We received some anniversary money from parental units to belly up to the bar. All week, as we did last year, we offered opinions on various fine eateries in the area that we have never been to. Conversations went like this, "Ooohh...I heard that Chops has the best bread in town, maybe we should go there..." and "You know, we've never been to Bleu Tomato..." and "Indian food sounds yummy, I've been craving curry..." Every year we have this conversation. And every year, we shrug our shoulders on the designated celebratory day and say, "It's up to you..." and then we stare at each other...and then one or the other of us (usually me being the more assertive one in this duo) says, "Oh, let's just got somewhere familiar, I already know what to order there...and we know it will be good." And the other one of us says, "Okay with me!" Ah, compulsives in love...where we always know what to expect and we like it that way, dammit.


Happy anniversary, my sweet R. I love that I know exactly what to expect in this, our cherished life together. May we have many more years of predictable delight together.

I Said Yes

Recently I received a phone call. The voice on my answering machine was the district executive of a district near me. The voice said, "There is a church that would like to call you as their pastor. Are you interested?" I laughed. I laughed loud and long and said to my husband, "Do they know who I am?" Because they are a tiny church, a tiny church which my ex-husband pastored when we divorced.

Did you hear that? The church my ex-husband pastored wanted me to consider pastoring there.

And one really must ask, "What the f@#$?"

And again, I laughed. And said, "Yeah, I'm not even going to bother returning that call." And I laughed again, in sort of a fake way, with an added "Ha!" punctuating the end for emphasis.

And that night I didn't sleep very well. 'Cause I kept thinking about that phone message. And the night after that I slept even worse. And I couldn't stop thinking about that little church, sort of like an ear-worm, one of those songs that you just can't stop singing ("It's a Small World," or "Louie, Louie" or "YMCA" or "The Lady in Red" [how about as a blogging comment y'all send your worst earwormed songs?]).

And the next day I called the D.E. and waved my little white flag of surrender and said, "I'm a teeny bit interested, but only as an interim, and only as pulpit supply, and only for a little while. And only as a second position, because I wouldn't be leaving my job as a hospice chaplain." And he smiled knowingly and said something pastoral which I can't remember now. And I left thinking, "What the f@#@ am I doing?" (notice how I've become more pastoral and don't cuss nearly as much but instead sort-of cuss?)

And the next night I called my very kind and good ex-husband in a big city in the Northwest to see how he felt about the whole thing...and he said, "No, I don't think it's too weird...it might be good..." And I got off the phone and wept, because God really got me with this one...quasi-reconcillation with my ex-husband and a call from the denomination which I felt abandoned me.
This grace stuff breaks me open and leaves me gasping everytime.

And the next week I sat in negotiations for an interim position with the D.E. and the search committee and I said, "Why do you want me, when I left your pastor? Why do you want me when I divorced a good man who you loved?" And a voice spoke up and said, "You are a good person, and K. was a good person, and we figure, it's not really our business to judge." And I saw other heads nod in agreement.

And in that instant, my heart and my voice said, "Yes, yes, yes."

Live From San Angelo...

...It's the Contemplative Chaplain, our roving reporter in the field.

Thanks to Vayden, the wonder-brother-in-law (who I'm convinced is hiding his superpower abilites from us mere mortals, abilities which include taming feral cats with his bare hands and prescribing pain medicine for hospice patients faster than a speeding bullet) and his trusty laptop, I have internet access in which to inform my sweet readers that, well, I may not be posting as much this week.

I am thankful, thankful for the exquisite hospitality of my sister-in-law who cooks mouth-watering food, and tolerates accomodating four houseguests for a week. I am thankful, thankful for my sweet girlies who tolerated a two day car trip with nary a quarrel. I am thankful, thankful for finally being off the @#$% Prednisone which made my mind a bad neighborhood I couldn't go in alone. And I am thankful, thankful for space from work to simply be.

Ahhhh.

Bad, Sick and Wrong

Anna Nicole Smith = Pregnant.
Contemplative Chaplain = Not So Much.

Patience...hard to come by.

But...poison ivy? Fading. So, for this and many other reasons life is still sweet. I simply need to keep breathing. And avoid TrimSpa ads. I think we'll all be happier that way.

An Open Letter to My Immune System

Dear Immune System,

First of all, thanks so much for taking such good care of me this past flu season, what with the amazing job you did protecting me from that nasty stomach flu that little miss B. had during Nutcracker season, and that hacking cough that was going around the office. Props to you and your minions for working so hard night and day to keep the cooties away. You guys rock, really.

But, it's time we had a little talk, I.S. (can I call you, I.S.? I mean, we know each other pretty well by now, right?). Dude, you need to chill a little with this whole poison ivy thing. I mean, I know you're just doing you job, protecting me from the vile weed and all that, but, just between you and me...the weed is gone, man. It's been pulled out of the yard, and it's in the trash, on it's way now to a certain death in a landfill hidden under mounds of coffee grounds and eggshells.

I know, I know, you were mad at me for touching it, even with the gloves on...and it probably wasn't a smart thing for me to do, but I don't know the difference between poison ivy and poison oak very well, so you'll have to forgive me for that. And I know, you're just doing your job by responding with the redness and the oozing sores and the itching, my God the itching. But, seriously, it's been almost six days now. You're being a little hyper-sensitive. Really, I mean no disrespect, but it's time to go back to fighting the real enemies, bird flu and West Nile virus and all that, those are the ones we've got to look out for, my friend. This poison ivy/oak thing, it's nothing for you to get so worked up about.

I apologize for the prednisone. I know there's nothing that hurts your ego more than having yourself suppressed, but rest assured it's only for two weeks or so, and believe me, this will hurt me more than it will hurt you. I'm the one who has to struggle through the insomnia and twitchy eyelids. Just consider it a little break...take a nap, take the kids to the beach, lull around in your pajamas. Relax, immune system, you deserve it.

Your ever lovin' partner in the fight against evil,
The Contemplative Chaplain

Read This

Quick post...more soon...but...read this: http://www.amalah.com entry for May 25th (entitled "Class of 1996). Beautiful, beautiful writing, this.

Aches

It is hard for me when one of the sisters is aching and we all can't be there in person. I know the Spirit holds those who need Her, but sometimes it would be nice for the Spirit to have skin. One of the sisters hurts tonight.

For those of you who haven't followed this blog, or to explain the ways in which I haven't been as clear as I could have been...the sisters are my spiritual home. The sisterhood, the women who name me and teach me of my place in community, even though I am an ordained minister and love my denomination, provide me with the most honest and authentic space in which I feel God's presence and peace.

The sisterhood has morphed from a group of college friends who had fun drinking Boone's farm wine into a profoundly and deeply connected group of sisters. We wear rings, wedding bands for some, reiterating our ties to one another. We gather once a year for three or four days to reconnect and recommit ourselves.

I count the statistics of who we are: six weddings, two divorces, three children, three miscarriages, two struggles with infertilities of sorts, eight college degrees, five graduate school degrees, currently living in seven different states (two in California, one in Indiana, one in Michigan, one in Ohio, one in Maryland, one in Colorado, one in Kentucky).

These are my sisters and they are my home. And tonight I hate how many miles separate us.

Pantyhose, Part Deux

In the interest of offering point/counterpoint in my blog, in looking at all points of view...I offer this take from a concerned reader, who shall remain nameless. He writes:

Feisty, aren't we? Taking on the powers-that-be over the issue of pantyhose. Can't say that I've ever taken on that battle myself. I've never let pantyhose bother me. Me, I just tough it out with my pantyhose. If my boss should ever want me to wear pantyhose, me, I'd toe the line. Me, I'd say "what color and how many layers?" and jump right into them. Me, I'd probably fudge just a bit, if I needed to, and cut off my pantyhose just about 4 inches up the leg and then I'd tape them up with some duct tape and then I'd sure be meeting the letter of the law and there could be no complaint at all. Me, I'd rally to the cause and make my boss see the seriousness of this situation by organizing a "pantyhose lineup" at the office each morning, everyone standing at attention with one leg stretched out, so a rightful inspection could be made, and I'd have commendations for "the most hospicey pantyhose" and "the oldest pantyhose" and "the pantyhose that have traveled the farthest." I'd carry this to the logical conclusion and have been signs made up, signs that people would wear taped to their backs, making it clear that the world was safe for dying folks, and the signs would say, "Me and my pantyhose are doing our part!"

But I understand that you are choosing to take a different approach, a more rebellious one. Me, I'd just start turning up for work with my pantyhose over my head and if anyone accused me of anything, I'd just say, "I'm wrrrng mm panfthofe like I'm sppossfd to."

Gentle reader, be forewarned. To quote the revolutionary lyrics of Les Miserables, "Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!...Will you join in our crusade? Who will be strong and stand with me?...Then join the fight that will give you the right to be free..."

Bare legs unite! Now I gotta go build my barricade...and find some duct tape.

That of Which I Do Not Speak

I am a woman who is divorced. This is part of my story.

I am a woman whose parents divorced. And this is also part of my story.

A pattern? Some would say.

Yesterday would have been an anniversary of sorts. And it is strange how far one comes in eight years. I noticed the date, not because it held special ceremonial influence for me, but because there was something in the familiarity of it as I wrote it that day which made me pause. May 16th. I would be lying if I said I didn't recognize it immediately. It was far more than "Armed Forces Day" in my dayplanner. Yes. May 16th, when in 1998 I stood in front of several hundred people in a white dress in front of a stained glass window and promised things I could not do.

My ex-husband and I are both happily remarried. Perhaps we had one of those "starter marriages" that sociologists talk about now. We were married for less than four years. And yet, we were together for far longer. We began dating my senior year of college, when I was just 22 years old and he was 24. It seems to me that when one is in their 20s and early 30s development happens rapidly, and so the years that Ken and I spent were sort of like "dog years" (and I say this with no disrespect and loving my dachshund...). We grew rapidly and constantly. We changed often and to the delight and detriment of one another. And so those years, less than a decade seem like far longer in my memory, in my dog brain.

Life with Ken was sort of like living in a college fraternity (or sorority) house. I laughed often; I shared myself freely and deeply with someone who knew me as I was at that time; I grew up with a peer. We shared bottles of wine and meteor showers and dinner parties and exhausting conversations. We shared backgammon games and cat parenting and mortgage payments and hymn sings. We shared bike riding and NPR listening and bread making and Barbara Kingsolver loving. We shared incense burning and Indigo Girls listening and Washington D.C. visiting and candle lighting.

But somehow I was not myself. And I could not find myself. And I missed myself. And as much as my sweet Ken wanted to assist me, there were callings apart from him, and journeys on which I could not allow him to go, journeys of which I had to travel alone, even though I knew it hurt him.

I tell these stories because there is no one to tell them if I don't, in the same way that there is no one to tell the stories of the happy years of my parents marriage if I don't tell them. Ken and I lived in that time. And there were good days. And they should not be forgotten.

A few months ago, in a late night of deep conversation and more than one open bottle of wine, a friend asked me whether I would reconsider marrying Ken if I could. I took a sip of my second glass and said, "Never. Not ever. We grew up together. We told one another our stories."

And then we moved on. And it was good too.

Rebel

Recently, a memo circulated in my office. Essentially, writ in black and white among other dress code rules this new addendum, "Direct Care Staff need to wear panty hose or socks."

Being of the "don't ask, don't tell" persuasion, I decided that a chaplain did not qualify as "direct care staff." I decided that I was instead, indirect care. Yeah. I don't directly come right out and say, "So, you gonna get to heaven?" Nor do I directly administer morphine or Ativan from my own hands. I don't directly change adult diapers. And due to my inherited directional disability in driving, I often don't even drive directly to the patient's home with out getting lost. I am, however, an expert in justification. And so, my direct care directives for myself were satisfying, um...well, me. I figured if my bosses didn't like my indirectly satisfying personal code of dress (a code of honor of sorts, if not indirectly), then they could talk to me about it directly. And again, you know, the Bill Clinton approach would be followed, "Don't ask if I'm direct staff, and I won't confess to being direct either." Sort of an indirect way of handing it, I'd say (proof, once more, that I am indeed indirect).

I noticed that others seemed to be following my philosophy. And all was well and good in the world of hospice care, as we wore our professional long skirts with bare legs and attractive leather slide-back shoes or penny loafers or pumps (God forbid, no open toes, as that is verbotten as well). It was if we all had an indirect secret. But no one was talking about it.

And, wouldn't you know...someone brought it up in a staff meeting with those at the top. Someone who shall remain nameless, but who, would probably be more of a direct type person.

And all hell broke loose. Boss-type people disagreeing about appropriate dress. Human resource type people throwing their hands up in the air and sighing in exasperation. Nurses and social workers feeling that direct care staff was being discriminated against. One worker saying she felt like, and I quote, "a clown in my white socks." A clown, friends! Something had to be done. And that had to be done by someone with an English major. For the something which had to be done, had to be done in writing, nay, not just in writing, but in a MEMO.

And a self-proclaimed savior and prophet rose from their midst, a hero of the people, an unwitting observer who was minding her own business, oh so indirectly, but who heard the cries of her people and realized that this was about justice...this was for a cause, and she could never walk away from a cause, especially when that cause related to sticky pantyhose in 90 degree heat.

And it came to pass that a letter was written, by someone who shall remain nameless. And it was respectful. And it used quotes like, "Perhaps the managerial team might consider..." and "I recognize that there may be objections, of which I am not aware to having bare legs."

The letter was delivered to the human resources office. An uprising has begun. Justice will be done. I'll keep you posted on the movement, indirectly of course.

I can tell you that as I walked out of the office this afternoon our human resources director, who was wearing pantyhose, whispered, "Rebel!" when I walked past her. I turned to her and winked (although perhaps the black power gesture would have been more appropriate? No, too direct...).

Sometimes you just have to kick the dust off your feet as you leave, even if you're only leaving for a half hour to ride over to Office Depot for a new ink cartridge.

Mother's Day

Yesterday my Mom and I spent the day together. We went to our book club, then after loading up my step-father's SUV and, donning our gardening clothes and our baseball caps ( I was wearing the lucky Manchester College hat that, toward the end of his life, my Grandpa took to wearing to protect his balding head from the sun), looking like a renegade Hoosier version of Thelma and Louise, armed only with spade and shovels, we descended on my former home (where my dear friend is living now, and actually moving from in a few weeks). The reason for our trek--to rescue all the perennials I tended and nurtured while I lived there from the certain fate of being torn out and paved over to become yet more parking for the nearby (fundamentalist) church which bought the house. You know the line, "paving paradise to put up a parking lot..." and all that.

On the way there it rained, and it was cold, cold for May--temperatures in the 50s. We watched the sky ominiously, and my mother, ever the optimist would say periodically, "Look, it's clearning over there, I think..." I'd furrow my brow and say, "Well, maybe..." (thinking, "Yeah, clearing sort of like the sky did before whisking Dorothy away to Oz..."). But, lo and behold, we pulled into North Manchester and the rain...it stopped. My Mom said, "See?" as if she were not the least surprised..."It stopped." "Yeah it Did!" I replied dubiously, waiting for the next shower. Didn't come. Until WE DROVE HOME. I credit my Grandpa, the consumate lawn man, for watching over us from his lofty perch atop some cloud somewhere, and his daughter, who is ever so hopeful, and sees the glass half-full on a regular basis.

We pulled out perennials--yarrow, hostas, lambs-ear, lady's mantle, phlox, daisies, poppies, coneflower. We were, oh-so-ambitious. We hauled big-ass stones to edge my new flower beds (picture two very short women in baseball hats, covered in mud trying to pick up boulders..."Bend from the waist...Okay, um, Mom...we can't lift this one." General laughter as we imagined what the neighbors were thinking). It was a day. We were exhausted. We came home and celebrated with carry-out dinner from our favorite local Italian restaurant, and then retired to separate bathtubs to take steaming hot baths to wash off the dirt and ease our sore biceps and backs.

On the way home, we said to one another, "Aren't we having fun?" (which was my Grandma Soderstrom's stock question whenever we took her for an outing). We were. We did. And somehow in the midst of that day, intermingled in plant roots and raindrops, my grandparents were alive with us again, a true Mother's Day gift.

We are from hearty stock. Formed from my Grandpa's love of nature, his consumate craftmanship of tending plants and shrubs (which were often a perfect circle, like little balls dropped by a benevolent God in a straight line in front of his house), and from the optimism of my Grandma, who believed wholeheartedly in the goodness of the universe, and of people, and of her God, my mother and I live and breathe their lessons as naturally as we inhale oxygen.

It was a perfect Mother's Day.

I love you, Mama. I'm proud to be your daughter.

Oh So Random...

You know...it's one of those random days. I like to call them Tuesday. Random Tuesday.

I promise you'll get more from me soon...but I've been busy, hell I didn't call Jim the Father for 3 whole days and that's unheard of in these parts...(by the way, have I plugged his website lately...http://willowgreen.com. How cool is he? I mean, really...look at those meditations?!?)

What else is random that I can share with my sweet blogosphere...

• Anyone know of any good weekend rental condos or cottages for a group of amazing women who need a place to stay in the fall? The sisterhood is desperate...we're also procrastinators.
• Have I told you my house is naked? I tore out her front bushes...or rather the nice folk from Treescape did. Now, I'm going to be a wild and crazy (read: boring) old lady who plants hostas and impatiens (did you know they're not called "impatients?" Not me...I thought one was Impatient growing them...how wrong am I?)
• So after gettting emails from a few (two, select) students which said, "Dear Professor, you suck. I learned nothing in your class. I think feminist theology is stupid...." (from two students, who ironically have two of the lowest grades...and who said essentially "I wanted answers to religious questions and you just posed more questions...this ruined my G.P.A."), I had the wonderful affirmation of several students who contradicted the critique. Monday night, I met with multiple students as they talked about their final projects, one of whom wrote later, "This class has changed my worldview. Thank you." Ah....that's all I needed. I have to remember that there are folks who want answers, and when I pose questions in class it is especially disheartening, and thus there are the aforementioned critiques. Thank you, fundamentalist movement.
• Ah, but the fertility quest continues...Big sigh. Big, big sigh. If God is all loving, than certainly God/ess is anxious for me to bring new life into his world...She's just taking so long...what's up with that?!?

Alright...over and out...R. and I have big plans tonight...mostly catching up on TV shows we've missed...Big Love, Sopranos, West Wing. Ah...that's blessing in itself...

Learning

End of the day visit. New admit.

I drive to the house in the North Central neighborhood, only blocks from where we lived when I was a little girl (I'm a sucker for anyone who lives in this neighborhood...). I cross Kentucky Avenue and find the house, a two-storied glory with a beautiful old iron fence. Someone in this home gardens. I see coral-bells and tulips in their last moments of wonder.

Inside I find a man in his 50s. He sits, amidst the hardwood floors and antique pieces and rocks ever so slowly in his recliner. He is the caretaker of a Catholic cemetery. "Best work I've ever had," he says slowly. He has a brain tumor, a glioblastoma. It makes him talk quietly; he is reflective as he speaks, weighing each word.

"You know," he says, "I feel awful for Susan (his wife). I couldn't have it if she died before me. The good Lord is looking out for us, seeing as I get to go first. She's stronger than I am. It's better this way."

Joe talks about his three sons. He talks about the joy of parenting, about how we raise them to be independent, it's the most delightful and sad task in the world--this letting them go.

I say, "It sounds as if you are at peace." He nods--an affirmation. "Today is a good day," he says. "I can't complain. Look at this sunshine?" I can only nod.

We talk awhile. And then the doorbell rings...

I pause, remembering the two boys in white shirts, navy pants and ties that I saw wandering from door to door as I drove onto the block earlier this afternoon. Mormons, perhaps? I usually shoo them away gently. "I'm a minister," I say. "I know about Jesus." Then I smile, and thank them for stopping. I pride myself on my gentleness.

But when the doorbell rings, Joe rises slowly. With his shuffling gait he makes his way to the door while I wait, assuming he'll send them on their way. I hear the conversation.

"Good afternoon, Sir. We're from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. How are you?" Joe speaks softly and I can't hear. There is the exchange of words. I sit, expectantly, waiting for Joe to emerge from the front porch. It's okay, I can wait.

Five minutes pass. I have finished the paperwork on my initial assessment during Joe's front-door encounter. I pause and listen carefully to the conversation around the corner, wondering why Joe isn't back yet. I hear the mormons, these fresh-faced young boys say, "Do you have a few moments so we can speak our faith to you?" And Joe responds openly, "Sure...why don't you sit down with me here on the sun porch."

I emerge after the first few questions they ask, quietly from the living room. Joe is sitting on a wicker chair listening to them explain the book of Mormon. I walk over to say goodbye and tell him I'll come back early next week, when I can spend time with both him and his wife. He smiles, and introduces me to the "Elders." These elders who probably reek of Noxema.

Joe says, "I'm not so good with names anymore, can you introduce yourselves before you go?" I tell them my name, that I'm Joe's hospice chaplain. I hit the word "hospice" hard. It's my code to these boys...a code that says, "be gentle with him," or "listen well to him," or "he has wisdom that you're 18-year-old spirits have yet to know." Mostly I want to say, "Listen. Listen. Listen. You are in the company of one who can convert you."

Joe smiles up at me from his wicker chair. "Come back," he says softly.

Wild horses and evangelistic mormons couldn't keep me away.

Christian Suspense

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...

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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

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.

All A Flutter...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There Were Days...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm...

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

Dirty Diana

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

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

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

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

More exciting tales of renegade adventures to come...

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

Here's the random post...

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

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

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

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

Body Writings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypochondriac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Having Posted That...

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

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

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

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

Ah, But What Is There to Say...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Jesus Love

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

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

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

Reason Number One...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Take You In

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1000+

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

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

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

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

Mi Padre

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

I love this picture.

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

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

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

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

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

The Reason...

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

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

Obsessive Compulsive's Garden of Eden

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

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

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

Look Ma! I figured out how to add pictures!

A Feline's Valentine's Day

'Twas Valentine's Day yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Reasons To Be Content

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

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

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

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

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

The Professor, She is Naked!

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

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

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

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

A Letter I Will Never Send

Dear You,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May you be well,
Me