A son is born. And his name shall be called Grayson James Pettit.
All of us are well. And all is well. And all shall be well. Blessed Be.
Friday, March 30, 2007
For Unto Us...
A son is born. And his name shall be called Grayson James Pettit.
All of us are well. And all is well. And all shall be well. Blessed Be.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Packing it up, Thowing it in, Giving it over.
The other night I had a little "come-to-Jesus" meeting with myself. The meeting happened after sitting on the bathroom floor in my pajamas sobbing so hard that I began to wretch. The issue? When to stop working and begin my maternity leave.
Initially, I decided I would be a superhero and work right up until my due date, thus saving my precious twelve weeks of FMLA time to be with Grayson after his birth. Of course, I also thought that every single day of my pregnancy I would run three miles and eat only organic vegetables and fruits too. So much for dreams (I say, while popping another strawberry poptart into my mouth). However, I've come to the place where waddling, I mean walking, is hard and riding in the car puts too much pressure on my back, and I don't feel as if I'm giving my best emotional and spiritual energy to my patients. And so, despite the fact that I still have a few weeks to go before Grayson's birth, I think it's time to begin maternity leave. It's hard to say goodbye, though, especially knowing that statistics show that most of my patients will likely die in the next few months and I won't get to be part of that journey with them, that I will feel as if I am abandoning them (how selfish is that?). The overriding emotion for me, though, as I contemplate the time away from this agency is one of tremendous relief. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired of feeling as if I'm not giving the appropriate attention to those who I serve. I'm tired of being torn between the world of "work" and the world of "home and body." I think it's probably time to turn my energy toward making room, spiritual and emotional and physical room, for my son.
So, come Friday afternoon, I'll pack up some files and books and turn the light off on my desk and realize that the next time I sit here the calendar will be open to the month of June and there will be a new photo next to the portraits of T. and B. It's time.
Initially, I decided I would be a superhero and work right up until my due date, thus saving my precious twelve weeks of FMLA time to be with Grayson after his birth. Of course, I also thought that every single day of my pregnancy I would run three miles and eat only organic vegetables and fruits too. So much for dreams (I say, while popping another strawberry poptart into my mouth). However, I've come to the place where waddling, I mean walking, is hard and riding in the car puts too much pressure on my back, and I don't feel as if I'm giving my best emotional and spiritual energy to my patients. And so, despite the fact that I still have a few weeks to go before Grayson's birth, I think it's time to begin maternity leave. It's hard to say goodbye, though, especially knowing that statistics show that most of my patients will likely die in the next few months and I won't get to be part of that journey with them, that I will feel as if I am abandoning them (how selfish is that?). The overriding emotion for me, though, as I contemplate the time away from this agency is one of tremendous relief. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired of feeling as if I'm not giving the appropriate attention to those who I serve. I'm tired of being torn between the world of "work" and the world of "home and body." I think it's probably time to turn my energy toward making room, spiritual and emotional and physical room, for my son.
So, come Friday afternoon, I'll pack up some files and books and turn the light off on my desk and realize that the next time I sit here the calendar will be open to the month of June and there will be a new photo next to the portraits of T. and B. It's time.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Hypocrite
This afternoon I was called upon to do what I have done before; to speak in a class of fresh-faced college students about the work I do as a hospice chaplain. The critical difference between today's class and other classes in which I've spoken was that today's class was at the local Bible college, a Bible college significantly more conservative than my social milieu. This should not be surprising, as I do live in Indiana, which is not exactly Diane Feinstein country. But, I am always taken aback when certain assumptions are made about me because I am a chaplain. Mainly assumptions about my belief in Jesus Christ as the only way to heaven, and my understanding of the importance of "winning souls" before people die. Today I was asked, "Is it hard for you to just let people die when you know they aren't saved?" and "How do you feel good about your work knowing that so many people don't come to Jesus before they die? Do you feel responsible for that?" I don't think I gave them the answers they wanted, the easy pat answers, the answers which seem to guarantee a one-way ticket to heaven.
Instead I talked about the power of story as that crucible which holds us. I spoke of the power of being heard into speech and the importance of listening, and then listening some more. I told them that each person has to tell their own story, and find the ways in which grace and forgiveness and confession and guilt and loss and hope and resurrection have all played a part in weaving each person's life story. I talked of a God of love and forgiveness who is manifest in many forms and many ways and with many names. And many of their eager faces seemed to stare at me with blank stares. And then one young woman said, "I have a question for you...how many people in your agency are Christian?" And I wanted to bang my head on the table and say, "Who gives a flying fuck?!? Is it that important to label people into your all-important categories?"
Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite in my work, as if I am the one the least concerned with bringing my patients to kneel before the feet of Jesus. Instead, I would like to imagine Jesus sitting at their feet, washing their mottled toes, and healing their wounded hearts, completely unconcerned with their theological rules.
Perhaps I'll burn in hell for that. But, if that's the case, I think I'll find myself in good company with the other sinners.
Instead I talked about the power of story as that crucible which holds us. I spoke of the power of being heard into speech and the importance of listening, and then listening some more. I told them that each person has to tell their own story, and find the ways in which grace and forgiveness and confession and guilt and loss and hope and resurrection have all played a part in weaving each person's life story. I talked of a God of love and forgiveness who is manifest in many forms and many ways and with many names. And many of their eager faces seemed to stare at me with blank stares. And then one young woman said, "I have a question for you...how many people in your agency are Christian?" And I wanted to bang my head on the table and say, "Who gives a flying fuck?!? Is it that important to label people into your all-important categories?"
Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite in my work, as if I am the one the least concerned with bringing my patients to kneel before the feet of Jesus. Instead, I would like to imagine Jesus sitting at their feet, washing their mottled toes, and healing their wounded hearts, completely unconcerned with their theological rules.
Perhaps I'll burn in hell for that. But, if that's the case, I think I'll find myself in good company with the other sinners.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Listening for the Word--Sermon
This is the sermon I didn't get to preach last Sunday due to an ice storm which kept me home. It is based on three scriptures from the book of Mark (1:35, 6:45-46, 14:32).
When I was a little girl, my father and I had a daily ritual which began when he would come home each noontime for an hour to eat his lunch with my mother and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, my father would take me into the living room for our noontime confab, which I assume now was an attempt to rescue my mother for at least an hour from a spirited only child. Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at work. I’d tell him about who I had seen on the Captain Kangaroo show while I was eating breakfast, he’d tell me which of his parishioners stopped in for coffee at the church. I’d put on a mini-show for him. He’d show me a magic trick. Every day it was the same routine with a little different variation. Father-daughter time.
One day, my father came home during the noontime hour preoccupied and overwhelmed. It was during the Watergate scandal I believe, and while my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the latest national news. This was not a normal day. As many times as I would try to get my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal Gazette with only a half-hearted “hmmmm” or an uninterested “Oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious four-year-old can muster, climbed into his lap, patted the paper down underneath me and sat on it, and then took his whiskered cheeks in my little hands, turned his face toward me and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you. I need to know you’re listening!”
The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel message, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times, for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we find in Mark is busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always on the go. Reading Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples and welcomes children (sigh) all before noon and all without breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, all the while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness. He’s one of those kind of guys, an up and comer of sorts. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus went here, and now look, immediately he did this.” That Jesus was an activist is inarguable. But even in this account of Jesus’ life, we have glimpses of the contemplative side of this one who was himself the Word incarnate.
At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others or alone, to do some listening of his own, rather just that immediate speaking. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus finds his way to a quiet place to connect himself to the one who named him “The Word.” Even in the midst of all the action, there is the need to some profound listening. And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief. Mark tells of a whirlwind day early in Jesus’ ministry, shortly after his baptism where after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends’ mother-in-law, and then having a rally to heal all the sick, he found a place to sleep and awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, when after encouraging his disciples to practice self-care and find some space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and he multiplied the food and sent the disciples out on the water for some R&R so that he could again make his way alone to listen and pray on a mountain. And, let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, he asked his disciples to stay awake, while he went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, models for us the need to listen ourselves.
And while this would seem like a simple task, while each of us know that we are each skilled at listening to others, and even perhaps to the nudgings of our God, I would wager that we’re not as good at it as we may think. I would wager, that what most of us are doing is the passive act of hearing, rather than the ever so active task of truly listening, and there is a world of difference between those two.
Several years ago, I went with a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. One of the group activities while we were there was to sit outside on a sunny June day with our eyes closed and listen to what we heard around us. After several minutes of this listening, we were given paper and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds we heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded me as I participated with them. I was aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears to the voice of God. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird calls, and airplane sounds, wind in the trees, and the distant sound of a dog’s bark. True listening opened me and startled me awake.
I confess freely that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or ever, for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response. I remember lamenting to a spiritual director several years ago the doubt I have, and the deep yearning I have for the heavens to open and a booming voice to tell me exactly what it is that I should do in a given situation. And her response was, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God that God can afford to be subtle.”
I despised that response at the time for it’s lack of immediate gratification and direction from a Creator, but confess that it has grown on me in the years after and now provides me with hope. Perhaps God’s actions and purposes are so subtle around me, that when I stomp through them like a bulldozer demanding definite answers I miss those slight nuances. Perhaps when as a community or individual we listen only to the shoulds and oughts of our society, or when we remain afraid of truly opening our hearts to the subtleties and whispers of our Creator, but assert our own haughty opinions we are missing the deeper truth of Jesus’ message.
Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like the four-year-old that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for us to pay attention. Sometimes I imagine God folding down my newspaper of a daily life, and putting gentle hands on my face and steering me to look anew into the eyes of my Creator, while a loving voice says, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. You must listen.”
Friends, as we enter the mystery of the Lenten season, as we allow it to have it’s way with us, we are surrounded by the mystery of the ever-present Word. It seems as appropriate a time to listen as ever. And so, come away, come to a quiet place and find balance that we may each know our God anew.
Amen.
When I was a little girl, my father and I had a daily ritual which began when he would come home each noontime for an hour to eat his lunch with my mother and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, my father would take me into the living room for our noontime confab, which I assume now was an attempt to rescue my mother for at least an hour from a spirited only child. Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at work. I’d tell him about who I had seen on the Captain Kangaroo show while I was eating breakfast, he’d tell me which of his parishioners stopped in for coffee at the church. I’d put on a mini-show for him. He’d show me a magic trick. Every day it was the same routine with a little different variation. Father-daughter time.
One day, my father came home during the noontime hour preoccupied and overwhelmed. It was during the Watergate scandal I believe, and while my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the latest national news. This was not a normal day. As many times as I would try to get my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal Gazette with only a half-hearted “hmmmm” or an uninterested “Oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious four-year-old can muster, climbed into his lap, patted the paper down underneath me and sat on it, and then took his whiskered cheeks in my little hands, turned his face toward me and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you. I need to know you’re listening!”
The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel message, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times, for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we find in Mark is busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always on the go. Reading Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples and welcomes children (sigh) all before noon and all without breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, all the while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness. He’s one of those kind of guys, an up and comer of sorts. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus went here, and now look, immediately he did this.” That Jesus was an activist is inarguable. But even in this account of Jesus’ life, we have glimpses of the contemplative side of this one who was himself the Word incarnate.
At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others or alone, to do some listening of his own, rather just that immediate speaking. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus finds his way to a quiet place to connect himself to the one who named him “The Word.” Even in the midst of all the action, there is the need to some profound listening. And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief. Mark tells of a whirlwind day early in Jesus’ ministry, shortly after his baptism where after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends’ mother-in-law, and then having a rally to heal all the sick, he found a place to sleep and awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, when after encouraging his disciples to practice self-care and find some space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and he multiplied the food and sent the disciples out on the water for some R&R so that he could again make his way alone to listen and pray on a mountain. And, let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, he asked his disciples to stay awake, while he went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, models for us the need to listen ourselves.
And while this would seem like a simple task, while each of us know that we are each skilled at listening to others, and even perhaps to the nudgings of our God, I would wager that we’re not as good at it as we may think. I would wager, that what most of us are doing is the passive act of hearing, rather than the ever so active task of truly listening, and there is a world of difference between those two.
Several years ago, I went with a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. One of the group activities while we were there was to sit outside on a sunny June day with our eyes closed and listen to what we heard around us. After several minutes of this listening, we were given paper and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds we heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded me as I participated with them. I was aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears to the voice of God. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird calls, and airplane sounds, wind in the trees, and the distant sound of a dog’s bark. True listening opened me and startled me awake.
I confess freely that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or ever, for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response. I remember lamenting to a spiritual director several years ago the doubt I have, and the deep yearning I have for the heavens to open and a booming voice to tell me exactly what it is that I should do in a given situation. And her response was, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God that God can afford to be subtle.”
I despised that response at the time for it’s lack of immediate gratification and direction from a Creator, but confess that it has grown on me in the years after and now provides me with hope. Perhaps God’s actions and purposes are so subtle around me, that when I stomp through them like a bulldozer demanding definite answers I miss those slight nuances. Perhaps when as a community or individual we listen only to the shoulds and oughts of our society, or when we remain afraid of truly opening our hearts to the subtleties and whispers of our Creator, but assert our own haughty opinions we are missing the deeper truth of Jesus’ message.
Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like the four-year-old that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for us to pay attention. Sometimes I imagine God folding down my newspaper of a daily life, and putting gentle hands on my face and steering me to look anew into the eyes of my Creator, while a loving voice says, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. You must listen.”
Friends, as we enter the mystery of the Lenten season, as we allow it to have it’s way with us, we are surrounded by the mystery of the ever-present Word. It seems as appropriate a time to listen as ever. And so, come away, come to a quiet place and find balance that we may each know our God anew.
Amen.
Random Factoids of Little Significance to the Rest of the World
Pregnancy seems to have sucked all the creative energy out of me. What can I say? My body is probably busy perfecting a spleen or putting the finishing touches on some fingernails. Apparently my creative energy is being exerted in other directions at the moment. I'm sure Grayson will thank me later for putting attention there. So, here are a few random factoids which probably matter very little to any of you, but which reassure me that, indeed, I have been posting to my blog.
- The stray cats outside now are all named. I chose a mystic theme and choose to call the yellow and white one Hildegard of Bingen, who suns herself regularly near the pine tree and thus seems to lean toward the aforementioned mystic's joy of viriditas. The tiger has been named Julian of Norwich, just because I have an icon of Julian holding a tiger cat, and the little gray girl I have named Mechtild of Magdeburg. I have a hunch that there's a fourth tiger too, but I'm plain out of female mystics, so if anyone has any wisdom here, please say the word so the last isn't nameless.
- My parents came this afternoon to see the nursery and celebrate my step-mother's birthday and they surprised us with over 1000 diapers! Really! 1000 diapers! How amazing is that? Seems that since I announced my pregnancy, they have been squirreling away diapers, thus creating a dearth of diapers for other babies in the tri-state area. And now, they (the diapers, not my parents) are happily ensconced in Grayson's nursery simply awaiting their audition as worthy poop-catchers. Do you have any idea how much space it takes to store over 1000 diapers!? How high the tower is that all these plastic bundles can grow? They are giving R.'s DVD collection a run for the money.
- I now waddle. Enough said.
- Jim the Father and I are finishing a book on caregiving. Actually, Jim the Father is writing the book and I read it and say, "Yep, that's right on," or "Nah, doesn't work," or "I dunno...what do you think?" and for this I get credit for assisting in a book's creation. The book is, as far as I'm concerned, superb. The title, however, is leaving us stymied and I find that I become, well, irreverent and not-so-helpful in creative ideas when stymied (remember I am creating a new life here, so I cannot be blamed for my lack of creative powers). Some titles which should probably be vetoed, and for which R. and I will probably burn in hell for after throwing out lots of ideas: "They Wiped Your Butt, Now You Can Wipe Theirs: 12 Encouraging Truths for Caregivers" and "Sucks for You: 12 Thoughts on Why Your Life is Now at the Command of Another" and "When Caregiving Calls, It Might Be Best to Allow the Answering Machine to Pick Up." Burning in hell, I say. I will burn in hell.
- My belly button is still an innie. The fact that this makes me proud is something which should concern all of us.
Monday, February 19, 2007
And Today's Reason to Cry
As we all know, my pregnancy hormones continue to rage out of control and I am now big enough to be quite uncomfortable when sleeping, and so...add sleep-deprivation to pregnancy hormones and you can imagine how delightful I am to be around for long periods of time in the cold dark winter.
And, to add to this, we have a new situation in our happy home which has this animal lover a mite testy. I have lately discovered that we seem to be harboring at least two, and maybe three or four cats under our shed where they have somehow survived sub-zero temperatures and blizzard conditions of the past week. Today as the temperature soared at about 40 degrees, two of them were sunning themselves contentedly on the back fence, and one was climbing one of our pine trees. I see little tiny cat prints circling the shed, and Cooper and Moses are perpetually yowling or staring pensively out windows at their newest rivals, or would-be buddies.
I am an animal lover, specifically animals of the feline variety and stray cats utterly wound me. Would that I could take them in, keep them warm, feed them tasty tuna treats and let them sleep in my bed. But, there are obvious logistical difficulties with this (especially given the protective feelings of the two male cats who shark around my ankles as I type, and the fact that others in my family do not share my neurotic cat issues).
Chances are good that the cats are feral and wouldn't want human contact anyway. Chances are that after the snow melts they'll move on to greener pastures, grateful for the shelter of the shed. They all seem to be fat, fat, fat, so they're somehow getting the food they need. But, I can't help but gaze sadly out the window and wonder whether their little paws are too cold, or whether they worry about where their next meal is coming from. And then tears well up in my own eyes and I can't help but weep a little for my three new orphans.
Pregnancy. Not for the faint of heart.
And, to add to this, we have a new situation in our happy home which has this animal lover a mite testy. I have lately discovered that we seem to be harboring at least two, and maybe three or four cats under our shed where they have somehow survived sub-zero temperatures and blizzard conditions of the past week. Today as the temperature soared at about 40 degrees, two of them were sunning themselves contentedly on the back fence, and one was climbing one of our pine trees. I see little tiny cat prints circling the shed, and Cooper and Moses are perpetually yowling or staring pensively out windows at their newest rivals, or would-be buddies.
I am an animal lover, specifically animals of the feline variety and stray cats utterly wound me. Would that I could take them in, keep them warm, feed them tasty tuna treats and let them sleep in my bed. But, there are obvious logistical difficulties with this (especially given the protective feelings of the two male cats who shark around my ankles as I type, and the fact that others in my family do not share my neurotic cat issues).
Chances are good that the cats are feral and wouldn't want human contact anyway. Chances are that after the snow melts they'll move on to greener pastures, grateful for the shelter of the shed. They all seem to be fat, fat, fat, so they're somehow getting the food they need. But, I can't help but gaze sadly out the window and wonder whether their little paws are too cold, or whether they worry about where their next meal is coming from. And then tears well up in my own eyes and I can't help but weep a little for my three new orphans.
Pregnancy. Not for the faint of heart.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Helpless
This morning we sat together at McDonalds. We have figured out the perfect way to order breakfast now. We each order a cinnamon roll and coffee (we think McDonalds has the best) and then we order one hash brown and split it down the middle (we think they're greasy, but worth it). You have named McDonalds "Our Special Place." You have no idea what this means to me, to share a special place with just you. I have become accustomed to the special places and things you share with your father, but still marvel when you want to share things with me alone.
We talked of many things, trivial and surprisingly intimate. Our conversation varied from jokes about frozen boogers in sub-zero temperatures to the latest antics of your nemesis, Johnny D. (who you always name with the last initial, as if I might confuse him with Johnny B. or Johnny Z.). But you quickly switched to a deeper level as you asked questions about what it was like for me to be a child of divorced parents, and whether or not I felt "weird" when both sets of parents were together. It is easy for me to understand you, and I know you ask me not only because I was a child who lived that kind of divided life, but also because you want me to know of your struggles as my step-daughter wanting to live into the hopes that all the adults in your life have for you.
School has been hard for you this year. Fifth grade girls can be nothing less than brutal in their dealings with one another at times. Teachers don't always understand. The pressure to get good grades is foremost in your mind. And there is a new baby coming into this family who may feel threatening to you as you ask what your role is now that you will no longer be the youngest. Your body is changing and growing and adapting. You vacillate between watching the Disney Channel and MTV.
After hiding away in the warm coccoon of McDonalds, with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting between us, the assault of returning to the cold and to our respective obligations felt overwhelming. You said, "Can't we just get stuck in a snow bank and avoid school and work?" I feel helpless when I hear those words, for how I would love to shield you from any pain, to grab you and shelter you from the winds of change, and the cruelty of others, and any illness or harm that could come your way.
I am not your mother. I know this. You have a mother who loves you and nurtures you and I would not dream of imposing on her territory. But I am your friend. And as such, I will do whatever is within my power to make you feel safe, and loved, and infinitely sheltered. And I will happily schedule McDonald's dates with you for as long as you'll have me. And I will marvel with each and every one at the girl-becoming-woman who fills me with such tender joy.
And you will weather these storms, my chickadee. And you will be stronger and truer because of them. And I will stand right behind you and prop you up lest you fall. Believe it.
We talked of many things, trivial and surprisingly intimate. Our conversation varied from jokes about frozen boogers in sub-zero temperatures to the latest antics of your nemesis, Johnny D. (who you always name with the last initial, as if I might confuse him with Johnny B. or Johnny Z.). But you quickly switched to a deeper level as you asked questions about what it was like for me to be a child of divorced parents, and whether or not I felt "weird" when both sets of parents were together. It is easy for me to understand you, and I know you ask me not only because I was a child who lived that kind of divided life, but also because you want me to know of your struggles as my step-daughter wanting to live into the hopes that all the adults in your life have for you.
School has been hard for you this year. Fifth grade girls can be nothing less than brutal in their dealings with one another at times. Teachers don't always understand. The pressure to get good grades is foremost in your mind. And there is a new baby coming into this family who may feel threatening to you as you ask what your role is now that you will no longer be the youngest. Your body is changing and growing and adapting. You vacillate between watching the Disney Channel and MTV.
After hiding away in the warm coccoon of McDonalds, with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting between us, the assault of returning to the cold and to our respective obligations felt overwhelming. You said, "Can't we just get stuck in a snow bank and avoid school and work?" I feel helpless when I hear those words, for how I would love to shield you from any pain, to grab you and shelter you from the winds of change, and the cruelty of others, and any illness or harm that could come your way.
I am not your mother. I know this. You have a mother who loves you and nurtures you and I would not dream of imposing on her territory. But I am your friend. And as such, I will do whatever is within my power to make you feel safe, and loved, and infinitely sheltered. And I will happily schedule McDonald's dates with you for as long as you'll have me. And I will marvel with each and every one at the girl-becoming-woman who fills me with such tender joy.
And you will weather these storms, my chickadee. And you will be stronger and truer because of them. And I will stand right behind you and prop you up lest you fall. Believe it.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An Open Apology to the Cat
Dear Moses,I am very sorry for accusing you of stealing my diamond ring from the dish on my dresser. But you can understand how it was an honest mistake, given your penchant for aluminum foil and all things shiny. And, don't forget how you like to stand on the dresser at night and wait patiently until I am sound asleep before you take your tiny white front paw and scoot, scoot, scoot things to the edge and then knock them loudly off onto the floor. And, there is also the simple fact that your curiosity for hiding Q-tips, barretts, bobby pins, tampons, bottle caps, milk jug rings, and earrings is the stuff of legend. Remember how just last month I lifted the area rug in the bedroom only to find all those aforementioned secret items squirrled away? I think it was pretty low down and dirty of you to point your paw at R. for that one. I'm not sure he'll forgive you as quickly...
But, it must be said, that I was wrong in pointing a finger of blame at you in regard to this whole ring thing. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I have been giving you, and for mumbling all those mean things which had the word "damn" and "cat" in the same sentence. For when the ring came tumbling out of a pile of old clothes on the floor of the closet, I realized I was wrong...or wait...wait just a minute...haven't I seen you lately gently opening the closet door? And didn't I see gray and white hair collecting on a pair of R.'s khakis? And where have you been in the middle of the night when you're supposed to be reclining on my feet at the end of the bed? And haven't you been a little bit bitter ever since I moved your litter box into the laundry room? Hmm...
I wasn't the president of the Garfield Spy Club for nothing, mister. I'm beginning to think my apology might be premature. But nevertheless, I'd hate to incur your wrath anymore, lest you find some creative place to relieve yourself. So, we'll just call it a day. Me with my long-lost ring on my finger, you with some savory catnip between your paws. And we'll just pretend this never happened, Thief-Boy.
Sincerely,
Your mother
Sunday, February 11, 2007
A Nook of One's Own
Coming of age when I did, being raised by a 1970s feminist mother who kept a copy of Our Bodies Ourselves on the coffee table in the living room, I was taught early on that a woman needs a space to herself. A room of one's own if possible. Virginia Woolf's feminist ideal.
I was an only child and my room was my safe haven. From green polka-dotted bedspreads, morphing into the pink princess dream, and then being clad in rainbows and unicorns in my pre-adolescent years, and finally settling into a classic blue with beautiful cherry furniture when I turned fifteen, my room reflected my identity. And I spent hours there, listening to music, reading books, writing in my diary, sitting in my bean bag chair, playing with my dollhouse.
When I went away to college, I was startled with how much I resented my roommate's things--the detritus of everyday life. I adored my roommate, loved the late night talks and shared confidences, but having to share a dresser, and a closet, and a refrigerator, were difficult for this only child to handle. I remember when sharing with a college boyfriend my struggles with sharing space his comment, "Geez, Miller, you're going to be hell to be married to some day."
As soon as I graduated from college I got my own apartment, and while I was afraid this would be a lonely thing, I embraced it with a freedom previously unknown. The tea cups in the kitchen were mine, the towels in the bathroom were folded the way I liked them folded, the sheets smelled like the detergent I chose to use, if I wanted to swig Sprite from the two-liter container in the middle of the night I didn't have to worry about anyone else's germs.
When K. and I were married, living in a tiny brick cottage, I had a sun porch of my own, but it offered little privacy, and smelled of cat pee. While I loved the sun streaming in its windows, the books on my bookshelves were quickly fading, and in winter it was unbearably cold. It was with a sense of relief, even as it was tinged with sadness, when I reclaimed that home as my own.
I carried that sense of entitlement to one's own room, that deep need for private space into my marriage with R. and thankfully we had a home big enough that I could have my own room, which quickly became christened as "The Sanctuary." I painted it myself, a soothing blue. The furniture were all heirlooms from my family, the chest of drawers from my grandparents, the mirror which hung in my great-grandparent's home, the dresser which my parents purchased at an antique store before I was born. I adorned my sanctuary with candles, and incense, framed photos of those I loved, and icons of holy women. I spent countless hours in my chair, my feet propped on the ottoman, my prayer shawl draped around my shoulders, a cat on my lap.
Today was a turning point for me, as I packed up my books, and took down my photos in preparation for my sanctuary to become Grayson's nursery. Necessity requires that this room now be passed on to another, and while I celebrate the little one who will sleep embraced by its blue serenity, I mourn my sanctuary. I know that I will change as I become a mother, that I will yield and have to give in ways previously unimagined. But, it doesn't come without a bit of worry. Will I lose part of my identity, as I am losing part of my space? Have I forever forsaken the woman who craves her solitude and space?
This evening R. and I moved my reading chair into our bedroom, next to the window so I can look out over the pine trees in the backyard. Wonder of wonders, the blue upholstery matches with our light green walls quite nicely. R. gave up his top drawer so I can keep my pens and notecards next to my reading chair, and more importantly offered me the safety of our bedroom as private space whenever I need it, allowing it to shift and become more mine than his. I found a shelf upon which to place my candles and photos in an altar of sorts. And there is comfort in knowing that while I have had to sacrifice my room, I have gained a nook. And small spaces have their comforts too.
I'm only beginning to learn what motherhood entails. And I don't want to lose the Christen who seeks solitude in the process. I sense this is only the beginning of the journey.
I was an only child and my room was my safe haven. From green polka-dotted bedspreads, morphing into the pink princess dream, and then being clad in rainbows and unicorns in my pre-adolescent years, and finally settling into a classic blue with beautiful cherry furniture when I turned fifteen, my room reflected my identity. And I spent hours there, listening to music, reading books, writing in my diary, sitting in my bean bag chair, playing with my dollhouse.
When I went away to college, I was startled with how much I resented my roommate's things--the detritus of everyday life. I adored my roommate, loved the late night talks and shared confidences, but having to share a dresser, and a closet, and a refrigerator, were difficult for this only child to handle. I remember when sharing with a college boyfriend my struggles with sharing space his comment, "Geez, Miller, you're going to be hell to be married to some day."
As soon as I graduated from college I got my own apartment, and while I was afraid this would be a lonely thing, I embraced it with a freedom previously unknown. The tea cups in the kitchen were mine, the towels in the bathroom were folded the way I liked them folded, the sheets smelled like the detergent I chose to use, if I wanted to swig Sprite from the two-liter container in the middle of the night I didn't have to worry about anyone else's germs.
When K. and I were married, living in a tiny brick cottage, I had a sun porch of my own, but it offered little privacy, and smelled of cat pee. While I loved the sun streaming in its windows, the books on my bookshelves were quickly fading, and in winter it was unbearably cold. It was with a sense of relief, even as it was tinged with sadness, when I reclaimed that home as my own.
I carried that sense of entitlement to one's own room, that deep need for private space into my marriage with R. and thankfully we had a home big enough that I could have my own room, which quickly became christened as "The Sanctuary." I painted it myself, a soothing blue. The furniture were all heirlooms from my family, the chest of drawers from my grandparents, the mirror which hung in my great-grandparent's home, the dresser which my parents purchased at an antique store before I was born. I adorned my sanctuary with candles, and incense, framed photos of those I loved, and icons of holy women. I spent countless hours in my chair, my feet propped on the ottoman, my prayer shawl draped around my shoulders, a cat on my lap.
Today was a turning point for me, as I packed up my books, and took down my photos in preparation for my sanctuary to become Grayson's nursery. Necessity requires that this room now be passed on to another, and while I celebrate the little one who will sleep embraced by its blue serenity, I mourn my sanctuary. I know that I will change as I become a mother, that I will yield and have to give in ways previously unimagined. But, it doesn't come without a bit of worry. Will I lose part of my identity, as I am losing part of my space? Have I forever forsaken the woman who craves her solitude and space?
This evening R. and I moved my reading chair into our bedroom, next to the window so I can look out over the pine trees in the backyard. Wonder of wonders, the blue upholstery matches with our light green walls quite nicely. R. gave up his top drawer so I can keep my pens and notecards next to my reading chair, and more importantly offered me the safety of our bedroom as private space whenever I need it, allowing it to shift and become more mine than his. I found a shelf upon which to place my candles and photos in an altar of sorts. And there is comfort in knowing that while I have had to sacrifice my room, I have gained a nook. And small spaces have their comforts too.
I'm only beginning to learn what motherhood entails. And I don't want to lose the Christen who seeks solitude in the process. I sense this is only the beginning of the journey.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
In the meantime...
Writing and updating and essaying will happen soon...I promise. But in the meantime, be sure to check out this essay by Real Live Preacher, one of my favorites.
And the reason I cry when I read it is absolutely not hormone related, it's because RLP is the real thing.
And the reason I cry when I read it is absolutely not hormone related, it's because RLP is the real thing.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Fantasies Not So Accurate
I have a secret confession to make. And here I am, professing it to the world.
I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.
And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.
All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.
But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.
I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.
It is what it is. And there it is.
I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.
And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.
All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.
But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.
I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.
It is what it is. And there it is.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Third Trimester Hormonal Freak: A Real Life One Act Play
Characters: R. and C.
Setting: The comfortable family room of the couple's home. R., a dapper man with beautiful silver hair sits in his leather recliner. C., his seven-months-pregnant wife, who happens to be feeling especially frumpy on this particular Sunday evening is lying on the couch trying to get in a comfortable position where nerve pain doesn't shoot down her leg. They are happily watching the sitcom "The Office" that they taped earlier this week. It has been a good day and all is well, the dachshund snores contentedly under the blankets next to C., the cat purrs lazily while lying on the back of the couch. The show ends and R. fast-forwards to the next show, "Scrubs." But then...the action begins.
C: Wait! Don't start it yet.
R: (Pausing the tape and turning to C., assuming she will be making one of her myriad trips to the bathroom during the commercial break) Yes?
C: I just...well, I just feel like I've got to eat something or I'm going to throw up again. And I think it needs to have protein (tears welling up in her eyes and a catch in her voice).
R: Okay. (Long pause as he waits for C. to continue speaking or get up to find her protein-fueled food).
C: And...(struggling to sit up as her sciatic nerve throbs and her belly keeps her from moving gracefully) And...I just think I'm going to cry.
R: Oh no...I'm sorry...(Stands up gingerly and walks to sit next to C. on the couch).
C: (Bursts into anguished sobs) I'm hungry and I don't know what to eat. (More sobbing as tears pour dramatically down her cheeks).
R: (Hugging C.) I'm sorry.
C: And my leg hurts. And I need some protein. And I don't want to throw up again. (More sobbing, burying her face in R.'s shoulder, undoubtedly snuffling snot into the fleece of his sweat suit).
R: I'm sorry.
C: And I don't think I can do this (More tears).
R: Do what?
C: Be pregnant.
R: Well, sweetie, I think you're already doing it.
C: (A pause in the tears as this realization sets in) Oh....(more tears) But, I don't know what I want to eat. And I can't stop crying (more tears). This is so stupid.
R: It's okay.
C: Some day you're going to tell Grayson about the fact that his mom started crying because she couldn't think of anything to eat.
R: Probably. But it will make a good story.
C: (More tears) I need protein. I need someone to take care of me. My leg hurts. I hate this.
R: Would a grilled cheese help? (Whereby C. and R. make their way into the kitchen where C. sobs some more and R. suggests all sorts of delictable protein-rich treats to entice her).
Raspberry yogurt and green beans never tasted so good.
Tune in next week for more "Tales of the Third Trimester Hormonal Freak."
Setting: The comfortable family room of the couple's home. R., a dapper man with beautiful silver hair sits in his leather recliner. C., his seven-months-pregnant wife, who happens to be feeling especially frumpy on this particular Sunday evening is lying on the couch trying to get in a comfortable position where nerve pain doesn't shoot down her leg. They are happily watching the sitcom "The Office" that they taped earlier this week. It has been a good day and all is well, the dachshund snores contentedly under the blankets next to C., the cat purrs lazily while lying on the back of the couch. The show ends and R. fast-forwards to the next show, "Scrubs." But then...the action begins.
C: Wait! Don't start it yet.
R: (Pausing the tape and turning to C., assuming she will be making one of her myriad trips to the bathroom during the commercial break) Yes?
C: I just...well, I just feel like I've got to eat something or I'm going to throw up again. And I think it needs to have protein (tears welling up in her eyes and a catch in her voice).
R: Okay. (Long pause as he waits for C. to continue speaking or get up to find her protein-fueled food).
C: And...(struggling to sit up as her sciatic nerve throbs and her belly keeps her from moving gracefully) And...I just think I'm going to cry.
R: Oh no...I'm sorry...(Stands up gingerly and walks to sit next to C. on the couch).
C: (Bursts into anguished sobs) I'm hungry and I don't know what to eat. (More sobbing as tears pour dramatically down her cheeks).
R: (Hugging C.) I'm sorry.
C: And my leg hurts. And I need some protein. And I don't want to throw up again. (More sobbing, burying her face in R.'s shoulder, undoubtedly snuffling snot into the fleece of his sweat suit).
R: I'm sorry.
C: And I don't think I can do this (More tears).
R: Do what?
C: Be pregnant.
R: Well, sweetie, I think you're already doing it.
C: (A pause in the tears as this realization sets in) Oh....(more tears) But, I don't know what I want to eat. And I can't stop crying (more tears). This is so stupid.
R: It's okay.
C: Some day you're going to tell Grayson about the fact that his mom started crying because she couldn't think of anything to eat.
R: Probably. But it will make a good story.
C: (More tears) I need protein. I need someone to take care of me. My leg hurts. I hate this.
R: Would a grilled cheese help? (Whereby C. and R. make their way into the kitchen where C. sobs some more and R. suggests all sorts of delictable protein-rich treats to entice her).
Raspberry yogurt and green beans never tasted so good.
Tune in next week for more "Tales of the Third Trimester Hormonal Freak."
The View from the Pulpit
I am smitten. I may even have fallen in love a little bit. I wasn't going to do it. I was careful about the way I gave my heart. I set all sorts of boundaries and was careful to remain in control. And yet, when I sit on the pulpit side of the chancel and look out over my sweet interim congregation, my heart softens and it is through the gooey eyes of sugarlumps and wagging puppy dog tails that I see them.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...for they have accepted me exactly as I am (even as the ex-wife of a former beloved pastor). For they accept what little pastoral care I can give as grace. For they can sit with one another in a Sunday school classroom and respect the differences amongst themselves with neither fear nor anxiety. For the welcome they grant new visitors, flocking to them and surrounding them with interested questions and hearty hand-shakes. For the "mistakes" in worship which end up being holy hilarity and for the freedom they feel in their laughter. For the candor they share in the joys and concerns time, when simple joys like using a new snowblower are celebrated. For the melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls that age-worn and gnarled hands have kneaded to sell at the local fair and which raise money to send to their sister church in Nicaragua. For the honest way they yearn to be followers of Christ.
This morning my eyes scanned that sea of expectant faces as I stood up to preach and I thought, "I am not worthy of this." And the hush in that room said, "Christen, this is what grace is."
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...for they have accepted me exactly as I am (even as the ex-wife of a former beloved pastor). For they accept what little pastoral care I can give as grace. For they can sit with one another in a Sunday school classroom and respect the differences amongst themselves with neither fear nor anxiety. For the welcome they grant new visitors, flocking to them and surrounding them with interested questions and hearty hand-shakes. For the "mistakes" in worship which end up being holy hilarity and for the freedom they feel in their laughter. For the candor they share in the joys and concerns time, when simple joys like using a new snowblower are celebrated. For the melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls that age-worn and gnarled hands have kneaded to sell at the local fair and which raise money to send to their sister church in Nicaragua. For the honest way they yearn to be followers of Christ.
This morning my eyes scanned that sea of expectant faces as I stood up to preach and I thought, "I am not worthy of this." And the hush in that room said, "Christen, this is what grace is."
Friday, January 12, 2007
Marital Differences
Part of what it means to be married is to recognize and celebrate the things which unite and strengthen a relationship--the conversations while lying in bed at night, the ability to know one another's story and history, the utter acceptance of who you are. Even the struggle to understand one another's point of view when it doesn't coorelate with your own reality can become fodder to learn more about one another. I have come to find marriage is safe haven, and pilgrimage all in one. And I find that with each year that I am married I know myself more because of the nurture of the one I love.
But, and you knew there was a but here...no matter how you slice it, in my world there ain't no thing as an "Epiphany Tree." And I am already anticipating some sort of nonviolent demonstrations in order to ensure that the tree will safely make it back into it's box in the garage since my elephantine figure makes it impossible for me to do myself. But, the case has been made by the other partner in this marriage that there are all sorts of creative uses for a pine tree throughout the year which could change with the seasons...a Valentine tree, an Easter tree to hang with eggs, a 4th of July tree to decorate oh-so-patriotically, an autumnal theme with real leaves draped throughout it's branches. And, with the baby coming, there could be a Grayson themed tree with baby booties, and pacifers. Heck, during ordinary time we could just pick a theme and decorate. The possibilities are endless in our house based on the things we seem to have an overabundance of: cat hairballs, embroidery floss, bobby pins, old Beta tapes, half mangled dog chews.
As I said before, different viewpoints are all fodder for growth in a marriage. Who knows, I may have discovered my latest decorating passion. Or not.
But, and you knew there was a but here...no matter how you slice it, in my world there ain't no thing as an "Epiphany Tree." And I am already anticipating some sort of nonviolent demonstrations in order to ensure that the tree will safely make it back into it's box in the garage since my elephantine figure makes it impossible for me to do myself. But, the case has been made by the other partner in this marriage that there are all sorts of creative uses for a pine tree throughout the year which could change with the seasons...a Valentine tree, an Easter tree to hang with eggs, a 4th of July tree to decorate oh-so-patriotically, an autumnal theme with real leaves draped throughout it's branches. And, with the baby coming, there could be a Grayson themed tree with baby booties, and pacifers. Heck, during ordinary time we could just pick a theme and decorate. The possibilities are endless in our house based on the things we seem to have an overabundance of: cat hairballs, embroidery floss, bobby pins, old Beta tapes, half mangled dog chews.
As I said before, different viewpoints are all fodder for growth in a marriage. Who knows, I may have discovered my latest decorating passion. Or not.
Monday, January 01, 2007
O Captain, My Captain
Last night we sat at the dining room table and we played dominoes and I watched your sturdy hands, hands which have fixed numerous engines, and coaxed numerous machines into humming order, and hooked worms on countless fishing lines. I watched those hands as they shakily pieced together tiles of nine dots with other tiles of matching number and I noticed that while they are camouflaged with age spots from your years out in the sun at the lake, that they are the same strong hands which scooped up baby painted turtles for me, and placed them gently in my own small hands.We talked honestly last night about your aging, about what happens next for you in this life and in the next. We wondered and we pondered and as I told you stories of my Hospice patients you repeated softly, "Is that right...is that right" in your own reassuring, dulcet tones. I don't know who I was trying to comfort, you as you bravely face your mortality, or me, who marvels at the courage of you.
You have no idea how proud I am of you, of your ability to shift gracefully as your body changes and your vision dims, at your continuing sense of calm even in the face of gradual losses, at the smile that lights up your eyes when you talk about your home on the lake, and your life with my grandma.
I know you now better than I ever have, and I still feel sometimes as if I have barely scratched the surface of learning who you are, and what made you the man you are.
We sat around the table last night at the closing of a year, and when I left you said, "Goodnight, Granddaughter" and it felt like benediction.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Random Ramblings
So, in case you haven't noticed...I've been sort of quiet on this here blog. Not because my life has been quiet, but because I've just been sort of overwhelmed with Christmasy gift wrappings and sermon preparations, and dying patients, and self-esteem issues, and Indiana rain, and cat urinary tract infections, and in the midst of all this I've realized that I just haven't been feeling all that creative. "So," I said to myself, "Christen, why should you burden the world with your writer's block?" And I didn't. And thus, the same old post for a loooonnnnngggg time. Thus losing readers and boring the two of you left reading out of your skull (thanks for sticking with me, Mom and you, whoever you are in Clackamas, Oregon--you're a gem).
But, the thought has also occurred to me that the nature of blogging in general is to continue to post, even when the news isn't all that thrilling and to discipline myself to write, even when I don't think I have all that much to say. Thus, today's post. Ta Da!
Grayson continues to paw around in my belly like a little squirrel and I find myself closing my eyes and simply resting my hands on my formerly flatter belly and marveling at the tiny movements that his little hands and feet can make. However, he has already revealed himself as a tricky little turd because while he'll kick and punch like crazy for a full hour or more while I lie on the couch, the moment I invite his daddy over to rest his hands on my belly and finally get to feel his son, Grayson will stop. Immediately. R. believes that Grayson is pausing and listening to hear whether R. is near, and then laughs devilishly to himself at making his parents look like imbeciles.
The holidays unfold before us, before each of us and I am humbled by the gift of new life--new life of this son who I carry, and new life of the son who makes his way to each of us once again as a babe in the manger. In case I don't post again before the 25th, may the holidays fill each of you with joy and peace. Thank you for reading. Thank you for becoming part of my circle.
But, the thought has also occurred to me that the nature of blogging in general is to continue to post, even when the news isn't all that thrilling and to discipline myself to write, even when I don't think I have all that much to say. Thus, today's post. Ta Da!
Grayson continues to paw around in my belly like a little squirrel and I find myself closing my eyes and simply resting my hands on my formerly flatter belly and marveling at the tiny movements that his little hands and feet can make. However, he has already revealed himself as a tricky little turd because while he'll kick and punch like crazy for a full hour or more while I lie on the couch, the moment I invite his daddy over to rest his hands on my belly and finally get to feel his son, Grayson will stop. Immediately. R. believes that Grayson is pausing and listening to hear whether R. is near, and then laughs devilishly to himself at making his parents look like imbeciles.
The holidays unfold before us, before each of us and I am humbled by the gift of new life--new life of this son who I carry, and new life of the son who makes his way to each of us once again as a babe in the manger. In case I don't post again before the 25th, may the holidays fill each of you with joy and peace. Thank you for reading. Thank you for becoming part of my circle.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Why the Kid Will Be an Insomniac
Conversation in the P-M household this week.
C: (Poking at her ever-expanding belly) Wake up, baby. You haven't moved in 20 minutes. (Poke, poke, poke--walks into R.'s office where he is busy working at his computer). I think the baby is dead. He's not moving. Quick, talk about something that makes your voice rise, get riled up about something, he always moves when he hears your deep voice.
R: (With a calm look on his face as he turns from the computer screen) I can't get riled up over nothing.
C: What about the Patriot Act? Loss of free speech? C'mon...that stuff can really make you mad if you let it.
R: (Gently speaking) Christen, let the kid sleep. He's just sleepy.
C: I hate sleeping babies.
I have a sense I'll regret that last statement in about six months.
C: (Poking at her ever-expanding belly) Wake up, baby. You haven't moved in 20 minutes. (Poke, poke, poke--walks into R.'s office where he is busy working at his computer). I think the baby is dead. He's not moving. Quick, talk about something that makes your voice rise, get riled up about something, he always moves when he hears your deep voice.
R: (With a calm look on his face as he turns from the computer screen) I can't get riled up over nothing.
C: What about the Patriot Act? Loss of free speech? C'mon...that stuff can really make you mad if you let it.
R: (Gently speaking) Christen, let the kid sleep. He's just sleepy.
C: I hate sleeping babies.
I have a sense I'll regret that last statement in about six months.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Teach Your Children Well
Last night tragedy struck in our neighborhood when our next door neighbor's home was destroyed by fire. It was around 11:30 p.m. when the we heard the first sirens. Ultimately, there were five or six firetrucks out front, and we saw huddled figures in cars, where Elmo and Lucille sat with their son watching the devastation of their home. I can imagine few things more devastating than watching your possessions thrown out windows in a vain attempt to keep the fire from finding more fuel. The sound of axes crushing walls in search of the offending spark, and the acrid smell of smoke snaking into the night sky.
We did what we could as good neighbors. Offered safe haven, blankets, water, coffee. But, Elmo and Lucille needed little more than to huddle together in the womb-like warmth of their Ford, their watchful eyes squinting against the onslaught of smoke.
Miss B., our more pyro-phobic child, slept soundly through the ordeal, despite the fact that her window faced the lights of the firetrucks. But, R., Miss T. and I sat in the library watching the drama unfold as the night progressed. It seemed impossible to sleep.
After the first trucks pulled away, and Elmo and Lucille were left with only a few soot-covered firefighters rolling hoses and carrying out mattresses, R. went out to check again on whether they needed anything. They were leaving to stay in a motel, they were shocked--but fine. They thanked us.
Miss T. and I watched from the window as R. talked with them. T. said, "That's it? The firetrucks are leaving? What do Elmo and Lucille do now? They're just standing out there! And they can't go back in the house!" I explained that they would sleep elsewhere tonight. And T. said, "I know, but where are the chaplains? Don't they come in to help now?"
I could have kissed her on the lips. She understands my job. We've taught her well.
When I got home from work today, Elmo was standing in his driveway near a mangled pile of his blackened furniture and drywall. I stopped and said, "I'm so sorry, Elmo. I don't even know what to offer to do for you...just know that anything you need, we're happy to help with." Elmo shielded his face from the bright afternoon sun and said, "You know, we're blessed. My family is fine. That's all I needed."
Oh that we might all learn from Elmo's wisdom this year at Christmas. Oh, that I might ponder all of this in my own fragile heart.
We did what we could as good neighbors. Offered safe haven, blankets, water, coffee. But, Elmo and Lucille needed little more than to huddle together in the womb-like warmth of their Ford, their watchful eyes squinting against the onslaught of smoke.
Miss B., our more pyro-phobic child, slept soundly through the ordeal, despite the fact that her window faced the lights of the firetrucks. But, R., Miss T. and I sat in the library watching the drama unfold as the night progressed. It seemed impossible to sleep.
After the first trucks pulled away, and Elmo and Lucille were left with only a few soot-covered firefighters rolling hoses and carrying out mattresses, R. went out to check again on whether they needed anything. They were leaving to stay in a motel, they were shocked--but fine. They thanked us.
Miss T. and I watched from the window as R. talked with them. T. said, "That's it? The firetrucks are leaving? What do Elmo and Lucille do now? They're just standing out there! And they can't go back in the house!" I explained that they would sleep elsewhere tonight. And T. said, "I know, but where are the chaplains? Don't they come in to help now?"
I could have kissed her on the lips. She understands my job. We've taught her well.
When I got home from work today, Elmo was standing in his driveway near a mangled pile of his blackened furniture and drywall. I stopped and said, "I'm so sorry, Elmo. I don't even know what to offer to do for you...just know that anything you need, we're happy to help with." Elmo shielded his face from the bright afternoon sun and said, "You know, we're blessed. My family is fine. That's all I needed."
Oh that we might all learn from Elmo's wisdom this year at Christmas. Oh, that I might ponder all of this in my own fragile heart.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Hey, hey, hey!
I am proud to introduce you to a new blog...be sure to cruise on over and check it out.
http://contemplative-photographer.blogspot.com.
Jim the Father's debut blog. Ain't he somethin'?
http://contemplative-photographer.blogspot.com.
Jim the Father's debut blog. Ain't he somethin'?
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wherein Exciting News is Announced
And so it came to pass that on November 29th at 10:30 a.m., I did waddle into the ultrasound room at Dr. S.'s office, and was accompanied by my sweet husband and not just one but two sets of grandparents, wherein we learned that, Baby P-M does indeed possess, as the technician said, "boy parts." And lo there was much weeping and laughing and all sorts of overwhelming sensations.
I still am a bit shocked, as I really was pretty convinced that it was a baby Ella rather than a baby Grayson kicking around in my belly. It is still so foreign to me that my body, my female body, my feminist-with-every-inch-of-her-being body, could create a male. I'm not sure I know how to "do boy."
And then I realize, that by creating this kind of stereotyping, this sense that boys are that much different than girls, that I am perpetuating the kind of wretched stereotyping that believes that boys care about things like monster trucks and WWF wrestling, and that girls care about things like Barbie dolls and hair salons. What kind of namby-pamby feminist is that?
I can't wait to look into the eyes of my son and see the sensitive soul that lurks within. And today, I am humbled by the chance to welcome and adore him. Advent feels very fresh this year.
I still am a bit shocked, as I really was pretty convinced that it was a baby Ella rather than a baby Grayson kicking around in my belly. It is still so foreign to me that my body, my female body, my feminist-with-every-inch-of-her-being body, could create a male. I'm not sure I know how to "do boy."
And then I realize, that by creating this kind of stereotyping, this sense that boys are that much different than girls, that I am perpetuating the kind of wretched stereotyping that believes that boys care about things like monster trucks and WWF wrestling, and that girls care about things like Barbie dolls and hair salons. What kind of namby-pamby feminist is that?
I can't wait to look into the eyes of my son and see the sensitive soul that lurks within. And today, I am humbled by the chance to welcome and adore him. Advent feels very fresh this year.
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