Something I still miss

Okay, so I have been attending an Orthodox Church fairly regularly for almost a year now and there is much that I love about it. Many of my lifelong paradigms - yeah, I hate that word too, but it's all I could think of - have been altered and many things I held tightly over the years have been released. I don't think there is anything I would change about the way they express their faith. But I have to admit there is one thing that I miss. For lack of a better term, it is contemporary worship. But not just any upbeat guitar and drums with pretty back up singers and a state of the art sound system. And not a bunch of 'Jesus is my boyfriend/girlfriend' type lyrics.

There are a few folks who read this who have had the opportunity to participate in a time of worship with Bob Thomas leading. Bob is one of those rare finds -- talented and humble with this amazing desire to just find and then rest in God's presence. If you would like to come along, he's glad to have you join him. I miss that. I miss the occasional unstructured time in a small group just rolling with wherever the worship takes you. And now that I think a little more about it, I don't think it's necessarily being in the Orthodox church that makes me miss it. I visited other churches when I first moved here that were closer to what I was accustomed to and even they left me feeling a little . . . . I don't know . . . unfulfilled. I know, I know, it is not the purpose of a Sunday service to fulfill me. I just have this little selfish desire inside to find some place or group that gathers maybe once a month or a quarter or something and just goes with it.

It's interesting to me how we all have different ways of being drawn into the presence of God or maybe just sensing that closeness that happens every so often. For some it can only be found in the classical styles of traditional or liturgical churches and this contemporary worship band stuff is just silliness while others feel quite the opposite. I guess there is really no right or wrong. I've tried to convince myself that the whole modernization of the worship was a bad idea, but then I remember a quiet Saturday night in Plano, TX singing "Resting" or "I Love Your Presence" or "I Receive" and I really miss it. I really, really do.

Now this is nice

It is 2:00 in the afternoon. Quincy is at school, Adelaide is taking a nap, and Cameron - the 5 year old who usually spends Mondays with us - is home with his mom today. I've got a nice big cup of hot chocolate and it is snowing outside my window. (I live in the "no stick" zone below 500 ft, but it's still fun to watch.) This morning I finished copying most of my favorite Christmas tunes onto my new and improved holiday itunes playlist. Yes, I'm still a sucker for Christmas music, and though there are still some gaps in my collection, I currently have 119 songs and 6.4 hours. That should do for awhile.

Here's to a cozy afternoon.

Oh, by the way . . .

I have no title for this, but it ain't pretty

Oh Ted, Ted, Ted, Ted, Ted. Look what you have done to me. I know that really all the opinions have been voiced, and honestly I have nothing to add to the conversation. This is really about me.

When my husband first read the news story to me, I will openly admit that my reaction was one of disappointment, frustration, annoyance, very little hope that any of it would prove to be false, and zero compassion. I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh. (Or maybe more of a groan.) This stuff makes me crazy, partly because anymore it comes as absolutely no surprise. I listened as the discussion unfolded on one of my yahoo groups about the political motivation of the accuser and how it was just a ridiculous attack. And then I watched the tone change - not in a bad way, just less "it can't be true" to more "we all sin" - as the truth trickled out. I truly admire all of the folks out there who immediately took the high road and pointed out that we are all indeed sinners. Yes, it's true that there but for God's grace, go I. I am also impressed by the grace and wisdom by which his church has handled the situation.

But here is what pisses me off. The only reason this even came out was because he basically got caught, and then it all played out like a political scandal. It was spun like anything else straight out of the beltway. Step one: deny, deny, deny. (I did not have sexual relations with that woman.) Step two: admit a little, just enough that people will accept, maybe be a little understanding, but not turn on you. (Yeah, I tried it, but I didn't inhale) You see where I'm going with this. A little bit at a time, until we reach full disclosure. Maybe. We never really know, do we? And ya know what, I really don't even care about the alleged homosexual relationship or the drugs. I can get past that pretty easily. What I am having a hard time getting past is the postions of power in which these men find themselves be it by their own doing or that of their "followers" that seems to make it even more difficult to have human failings. (And don't kid yourself by saying that we're all just following Jesus. Many of us have been known to follow a man. I know I have.) I'm also left wondering how this was even kept a secret for so long. Was there really no one close enough to realize that something was amiss? Was there absolutely no one that he felt safe enough to confide in or confess to? How have we as a church come to this? What I'm wondering is this. All of these sins that we all know we have, that are no worse than that of Ted Haggard, nor are they any more hidden from God -- are they still hidden from everyone around us? Even those who love us most? I suspect that as Mr. Haggard struggled with these things, he was repenting and praying and seeking "deliverance" along the way. I'm doubtful that he was basking in it, but that he was likely trying to get a handle on it with God's help. Meanwhile, there was probably help to be had and things might not have gotten so ugly had he felt there was a safe place to confess.

Confession. That is a tough one. That is probably one of the biggest obstacles to me being chrismated into the Orthodox Church. It is not optional there. I'm not sure how it plays out during the rest of the year, but come Pascha (Easter), if you have not been to see the priest for confession, you do not partake in communion. In her book Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner does a whole chapter on confession and how she began the practice. I remember reading it and thinking "there is no freaking way I could ever do that". I can confess and ask forgiveness when I have wronged my husband. Apologize and take responsibility when I've wounded a friend. But to share with anyone my deep dark ugly secret stuff? That is something else entirely. Especially when it is a sin against God alone. Why burden anyone else with that? And who knows when it might come back to bite you on the butt. It's probably best to just handle it on your own.

So maybe this is where Ted teaches me a lesson. Maybe this is where I can find some common ground and maybe even a little compassion. I have plenty of my own little secrets and isn't that, along with my judgement every bit as repulsive as anything he's ever done? I have always been 'the good one' so any shortcoming at all is utter failure in my eyes. The dark part inside of me that sizes up everyone I meet before letting them show me who they really are. That sees all of their flaws and none of my own. And that's just one of my more regular sins. There are plenty more that probably don't need to be on a blog. But I'm really starting to believe that they do belong out in the open somewhere, as terrifying as that is to me. How can we ever be the whole and unified body of Christ as long as we hold onto our secret sins?


"I believe, O Lord, and I confess that you are truly the Christ, the Son of the living God, who did come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the greatest. . . . "

"Forgive me of my sins, brothers and sisters."

"May God forgive us all."

What goes around . . .

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things in the whole wide world was when I would fall asleep while watching TV and my dad would have to put me to bed. I can remember being carried through the house when everything was silent, and him checking all the lights and locks to make sure his family was safe. Funny thing is that I don't really recall actually being put in bed as much as I remember being held in his arms. I loved this feeling to the point that I would either try to intentionally stay up past my bedtime or, more often, I would fake being asleep. At the time, I don't think I could explain why I liked this so much, but as an adult, I now recognize that amazing sense of security and safety of being held in my father's arms.

Fast forward 30 some-odd years. I now have a daughter who will be chatting away, fidgeting with a toy, or just squirming around under her blanket when we let her stay up to watch a movie or TV show with us. But when it is actually time for bed, all of a sudden her eyes are closed and she is perfectly still. . . . save the semi grin on her lips. As you go to pick her up, she actually helps you and puts her arms around your neck all by herself. She's a pretty bad faker, but the effort is just adorable. She's not to particular about whether it is Mom or Dad who carries her to her room, but I have to say that knowing what I know now, I really love it when it's Dad.

I'm sure there are some lovely devotional thoughts I could pull from this, but really I just wanted to draw the picture of something that seems to be inside us all.

Aaahhhh, winter in Oregon

9:00 this morning. This is across the street from our building and then looking around the corner down the street.
































3:45 this afternoon. Fog has lifted, but not much else has changed. This is what many days will look like over the next few months. It takes a bit of adjustment, but overall I really like it. Especially since very soon (hopefully) the rain down here will mean snow on the mountain. Snow park days can not be too far off.

Greetings from the road

Probably won't post much over the next week (I say that as if I post regularly) since we are currently in the land of country and Christian music for a wedding, followed by a road trip to NW Arkansas for a long overdue visit with my family. I have been away from the south long enough to forget how weddings are done around these parts. The bride is Alabama born and bred and sweet as can be. But man, I live in a totally different world. There are actually lots of things I would change about my own wedding if I ever got the chance for a do-over, but I think that with all the money and time in the world it would never be this perfect. I'm a fairly organized person, but way too type B for that. I think that's why Oregon suits me better. The first time I visited Portland, I noticed how many women had unstyled hair and no makeup. Then it occurred to me, what's the point since the rain just makes your face run and your hair frizzy. Here, I am definitely out of my element. The good news -- it really doesn't bother me so much anymore. As Adelaide said to me recently after one of her successful trips to the potty, "Look! I'm growing!"

Here's to getting a little more comfortable in my very own skin.

The Wonderful World of Poo

Warning: there is absolutely no redeeming value in the following post. In fact, it's kind of gross. Consider yourself warned.


She weighs 25 pounds soaking wet.



She has an affinity for all things pink.




She fancies herself a "ballerina princess".



And this petite, delicate, wisp of a girl can - and has, on more than one occasion - clog a toilet with a single bowel movement. I kid you not. The reason is that as adorable as she is, the child can be stubborn as an ox, and has taken to "withholding". (Last December, she gave herself a serious bladder infection, doing the same thing with "#1). It has been over a year since we began the "toileting" journey, and let me just say that all of those people and books and so called experts who would have one believe that girls learn faster than boys are just full of crap. No pun intended.

I think that most of us had these grand images in our minds of how we would do things just right when we had kids of our own. And then the kids get here, and they have their own little personalities and haven't read the same play book we have and it all becomes quite interesting.

Quincy's 'potty training' was really pretty easy. It seems like he was in his Spiderman underpants in no time and in the course of his life, I have washed out one pair of soiled pants. This daughter of mine is an entirely different story. First, let me assure you that she was NOT constipated. She just really hated pooping. I know that this is not an unusual thing for kids to go through, but let me tell you, it is absolutely maddening. We just kept thinking, she can't keep it in there forever. That is true enough, however, she is able to keep it in for up to 2 weeks. TWO WEEKS!!! Like I said, she weighs 25 pounds. How big could her colon possibly be?! Hence the clogged toilet over and over again. We would sit with her and hold her hand. We would leave her alone to work it out, so to speak, on her own. It just seemed to be getting worse. We could always see the tell-tale signs that something was brewing, when she would stop whatever she was doing, sit down, and just wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. When asked if there was anything the matter, the response was usually something like, "I DON"T need to go poop!"

We realized we needed to seek professional help, when her general distress began to turn to anger and just absolute frustration . . . for all of us. So we got a prescription stool softener/laxative. The doctor says she wants this to be as low stress as possible so we should probably go back to pull ups, because things would likely get messier before they got better. Okay. We will do our best. Just to show what she is capable of, she continued to hold it in. Well, not all of it, of course. After all, she is taking a daily laxative. So what began to happen instead was about every hour or so - sometimes every 15 minutes - we would hear, "I need to wipe my bottom and change my diaper". In one week we went through 29 pull ups. I'd be an absolute liar if I said we remained calm and low stress the entire time.

Then one night, the poo would wait no more. Unfortunately, (or perhaps for the best) she was in the bathtub at the time. Did you ever sing that song when you were younger about Jesus love is bubblin' over? Remember, it went "bubu-bu-bubblin". Evidently, that is what began to happen. Kind of like the tar pits or muddy hot springs. At least that's how Erik described it. I happened to be on the phone, but by the time I had to hand the call off to Erik, the poo had let loose. Not everywhere, but it was enough. It was in the tub, on the toilet, on the floor. You get the picture. And there stands Adelaide in the tub, just wailing while Erik is pouring bucket after bucket of water over her butt. I took over the clean up duties and tried to decipher what she was saying as she cried. "What? It's on your foot?" After a few more guesses I finally figured it out. My sweet, precious, and exceedingly obstinate little girl was weeping and saying "It's all my fault!" Broke my heart. We assurred her over and over that everything was alright and it was absolutely not her fault and no big deal at all. Got everything cleaned up and went on with our evening.

The next day we had a breakthrough. I honestly do not know what clicked. All I know is that she was beginning the wiggle and I carried her to the toilet despite her protestations. And then she accidentally pushed. And then she realized that it wasn't going to hurt. And then she remembered that we had a bag of treats for when she pooped without crying. And then she found the Dora fruit snacks. It was like the planets had aligned. We spent the next 2 days unloading what she had been saving up for the past 2 weeks.

I wouldn't say we are done yet with the process, but we finally seem to be heading the right direction. Now I think she's a little disappointed when we go to 'see if there is any poop that needs to come out of my bottom' and nothing happens. However, she also seems to lose interest when the treats in the surprise bag are not her favorites. But we will stick with it and probably have a little more compassion on those parents whose kids may seem a little delayed in their "toileting" or various other skills. I have said many times that I don't care how many books there are out there telling us how to do this parenting thing right, ultimately we're all just guessing and doing the best we can. God bless us all.

Ouch!

You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.

-Anne Lamott

ht: Christina

What it's like, part II

It's kinda like country life versus city life. Or possibly European versus American. Take whichever one you relate to most.

My point is that virtually every other church on the planet that I have had any part of, seems, for want of a better word, "busy". It was certainly at it's worst when Erik was on staff, but I'm speaking in more general terms here. For instance, on any given Sunday you arrive and there is typically a sort of bustling about the place as folks are greeting one another, depositing children to their appropriate locations, settling into their preferred location in the sanctuary, gathering needed information in lobbies, and nowadays even having their coffee and pastry. People to see, places to go, things to do. Like a busy dowtown street. (Please don't take this to mean that I have anything against greeters, childcare, or even pastries, although I do resent coffee that is offered with no options for us tea drinkers.)

On the other hand, when I walk into St. Nicholas on Sundays, I walk into rest. I walk into prayer and adoration. I see it, I hear it, I even smell it. The service starts with Matins, and while I will admit that my family does not make it early enough for that part, I'm pretty sure that there is minimal socializing happening. (I do know that is what it's like at Vespers.) Even prior to the beginning of the prayers, the priest is attending to rituals in preparation for it, so typically there is always an air of reverence in the place. There is no break between the end of Matins and the beginning of the Divine Liturgy. It is all just one seamless event. The thing about Orthodoxy though, is that your level of participation is largely open. The general standard is to stand the entire time, but there are some chairs for those who can't. Light a candle if and when you want. Kiss an icon. Make the sign of the cross. While there is an order to the service, there are also many aspects that are kind of "at your leisure" and as a matter of your personal worship experience. But throughout, you are also a part of the larger event that is happening.

My parents still live on the farm where I grew up in the Arkansas Ozarks. Whenever I wake up there, I get this wonderful sense of peace. The place is situated at "the head of a holler" which in everyday English, means it sits at one end of a long valley. When you sit on the porch swing, the peacefulness of it just surrounds you, engaging all of your senses. You breathe it in deep and at the same time recognize the bigness of all that you see. There are no deadlines when you live out there. It's not that there isn't work to be done, but it's just on a completely different timeline. As my Mom and Dad used to say, "ain't nobody waitin' on us". You can take the time to take it in. And that's kind of how liturgy feels for me. It's very deliberate, but not in an effort to take care of business, but more like an effort to be present both here and now as well as there and then.

I don't think I will ever find the perfect analogy to describe it, but for now, this is the best I can do. Hope it makes at least a little sense.

Another debacle in the kitchen

It sounded good on paper. Cozy Cheese Strata. Not so appetizing in real life, though, huh? The good news is that I think I have found the common denominator on these two recent disasters. I'm pretty sure it is a combination of doubling and eggs. The recipes I am working from are either for 6 people or 2 . . . basically too much or too little for us. So what I was trying to do was take the recipe for 2 and double it. Seems simple enough, right? Sure, until you actually compare the recipes and see that the difference in the eggs is 1 small egg for the 2 person and 1 large egg for the 6 person. Come on! Now, what I want to know is this. Does anyone out there shop at a grocery store that actually offers small eggs? All I have ever seen are things like large, extra large, jumbo, stuff like that. Not fair, I tell you. Not fair!

I did have one dish turn out alright last week (read: fully cooked), but it still wasn't really . . . . "right". I'll keep trying, though. Quincy said something about lasagna last week. Maybe we'll give that a shot sometime soon. I'm pretty sure there are no eggs, so what's the worst that can happen?

Don't answer that.

Dig this

www.pandora.com

It is this really cool streaming radio site, where you can customize your radio stations. All you do is enter one song or artist that you like and it will find other music with similar harmonic style, rhythms, and other musical type terms that I really don't understand. (Sorry Fil and Mil, no classical in their library yet. It's a shame, I know.)
Anyway, I have been having a lot of fun with it as I always seem to be on the search for something new, as well something old that I haven't heard in a while. Sadly I am finding it to be true that the older I get, the less appealing I find the current popular music.
You can check out my stations at the lower left hand side of my page. If you do decide to go and create some of your own, feel free to share. I'd love to hear!

My little scholars

Sent both my boys off to school last week. Makes a mother - and a wife - so proud.




Hopefully, the big one will be finished before we are at the little one's graduation. (Just kiddin' sweetie!)

You thought I was kidding, didn't you?

"Honey, what are we having for dinner?"

"Ummmm . . . vomit?"

Seriously, I have problems in the kitchen. This one went wrong on several different levels, but believe it or not, we still actually ate some of it. Quincy even said he liked it, but that child (thankfully) will eat just about anything. The dogs and the garbage disposal got what was left. I think Aslan was pooping corn for about 3-4 days after.

Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun.

My "other" journey

Anyone who has known me for more than, say . . . ohhh . . a 24 hour period, probably knows that I am a far cry from a domestic goddess. Perhaps domestic pauper would be a little more accurate. However, I have found myself once again, with this strange desire inside of me to become profecient in the kitchen. (I'm also trying to keep my home tidier and in better order, but one lofty goal at a time here folks.) This isn't my first attempt, but for whatever reason, I seem to have more resolve this time around so we'll see how it goes. I actually stuck my toes in this water back at the end of spring, got discouraged during the summer, but now I'm back. In an effort to perhaps up the entertainment factor of my blog for my 3 readers, I thought I'd document my, err, odyssey? So far this week has seen 2 culinary travesties and 1 meal that we didn't throw away, which for me is a moderate success. So stay tuned kids, you never know what the future may hold . . . .

By the way, if I make it to Arkansas next month, my mom said she could teach me to knit. Could be interesting . . .

Another suggestion for your listening pleasure . . . .

Ray Lamontagne. The CD I am currently to is "Trouble", but I know he just released a new one that is probably every bit as good or better. If you don't trust me, go sample it on itunes. Or go check it out at the library. You may have to wait awhile, but I think it's worth it. If you like mellow, relaxing, folksy type stuff, you will think so too.

What it's like . . . part 1

It's like finding your birth parents. Only you didn't know you were looking for them.

That's how I often feel about the past 9 - 12 months I have spent in the Orthodox church. Like I've discovered this whole . . . heritage, I guess is the word, that I never knew was there. All of a sudden I have 2000 years of family history and to be honest, I feel a little cheated that I didn't know about this sooner.

I am pretty much your typical Heinz 57 type American. A little of this, a little of that. Mostly Anglo with a little German and American Indian mixed in. The thing is, I know precious little of my family history. My paternal grandmother immigrated at the age of 2 (I think) from Germany. For much of the first half of the last century, being German was not something you particularly wanted to call attention to. The family stopped speaking the language or practicing any traditions, and today I don't know that my grandmother could string together a simple sentence. On the other side, my mom's mom was raised in Kellyville, OK by her Indian father and older sister. Her mother had died when she was 2 years old. We were always told that great Granpa Doty was full-blood Cherokee, but that has been called into question over recent years. Regardless, there was some Indian blood, they were poor, and things just weren't good in Oklahoma. (I still have my Grandmother's class ring that was the last thing purchased before the banks closed during the Great Depression.) It was another heritage that seemed to be viewed as shameful and one we know so very little of. Oddly enough, I know even less about the background and families of either of my grandfather's and they are the ones with all the Irish and English in them. Go figure. Both are/were wonderful men, but I know nothing of the world or ancestry that shaped them. No photos. No letters. No oral history. Nada.

My spiritual life seems to be very similar. I have spent the vast majority of my life in "non denominational" churches. Most of them were able to trace their roots all the way back, ohhhh . . . . . . 10 or 15 years. The really old ones could go all the way back to the 70's! Before that, I don't really know what there was. According to my upbringing, just sad, lifeless "denominations". My mom's family went to the Christian Church or Church of Christ or Disciples of Christ or something like that. My Dad's family didn't go anywhere. Several of the churches that I personally have attended were birthed out of the "Jesus Movement" of the early 70's in Southern California. I could probably tell you pretty accurately the story of John Wimber's journey to Christ and his foundin of the Vineyard (now known as the Association of Vineyard Churches.) Going back further than that I could also tell you the story of Oral Roberts and how his healing ministry was started after he came to know Christ. But I can't connect those two and it seems like since they are part of the same family - not just Christianity, but even very similar expressions of it - I should be able to somehow.

Now, however, I have this seemingly endless line of ancestors who have done all these amazing and courageous things, and most importantly have passed it on, reasonably untainted, from one generation to the next. Now I take part in some of the very same events that those ancestors did in the very first century. I hear/sing some of the very same hymns as St. John Chrysostom did in 4th century Constantinople. I see their pictures every week and am reminded that I am a part of something so much bigger than me. I am able to read their writings so I know what they felt and thought. I can know how they lived and how they died. This "genealogy" so to speak, is not without it's dysfunction or corruption, but there doesn't seem to be any effort to hide that. No one seems to be particularly proud or fond of Arius, but we still talk about him because his beliefs played a part in shaping and defining us and what we believe. And not just Orthodoxy with a big O, but really all of orthodox Christianity. I think it's kind of sad that I didn't know things like this before.

On more than one occasion I have said something to my husband about wishing I could be part of a Greek or Italian family. One reason is because they are just so passionate about everything they do. The other is because they have such a rich history and they treasure it. I grew up believing that "traditional" pretty much equaled dull and uninteresting, but I have an entirely different perspective now. Tradition can indeed be lifeless habit if you allow it, but what I have experienced of it over the past year is truly a beautiful thing and I am grateful to have discovered it.

Simple vs. Easy

This morning, while visiting a friend's blog that I rarely frequent, I read this quote. "Simplicity does not reveal the level of effort involved." It was said during a business meeting, and then the blog went on to sing the praises of the simplicity of using a Mac and some other technical things pertaining to his work. I found the quote interesting, nonetheless. (ht to Chuck) And then later this morning, in the book I have just barely started reading (Julie and Julia), there was a brief paragraph on how "simple" is not exactly the same as "easy". Hmmmm. . . . . . .

As much as I really hate to admit it, perhaps living simply does take a greater amount of effort than I would like to accept. When you really think about it, It is harder to prepare a meal than to go out, call for delivery, or grab something at a drive through. And shopping! I get frustrated enough trying to locate what I need in the merchandising disaster that is Old Navy, and shamefully have remained too proud to really make an effort at Goodwill mostly because I can't find any rhyme or reason to the order of things there. Even making the choices to NOT be involved in every activity, every form of entertainment, every distraction available seems difficult in our go go go culture. I'm actually getting pretty good at that one though, mostly because my children are still quite young, I moved far away from my social network, and quit going to church for awhile. As I branch out more and my kids start getting older and wanting to try new things, those choices will come again I'm sure.

It just seems like simple should equal easy, doesn't it? I really waaaant it to equal easy. I'm starting to think that is not the case, though. I believe I'm going to have to mull it over for awhile before I'm really certain. In the meantime, I still hold to the idea that regardless of effort required, the payoff for cutting the clutter - physical, mental, emotional, wherever it may be - out of our life is still worth it. Right?

Other people's children

When we decided to have children, we knew that we would have to establish boundaries, set limits, and dole out consequences. When the second came along we realized that somewhere down th road we would be involved in all kinds of various conflict resolutions. We would teach our children - hopefully - how to be kind, gracious, and all those "mannerly" type things.

Enter "the neighbor kid". Now, my kids have played with plenty of other children and I am well aware that they are far from angelic. But the thing is, up to this point they have always been playing with the children of MY friends. People who for the most part share some similar parenting philosophies. People whose children I already adored. This is my first foray into the world of new friends whose parents I have virtually no relationship with at all. I've seen my kids cry before while playing with other kids and I've seen my kids make the other kids cry, usually because they threw a block or got a little too rough with the wrestling or what not. But never had I heard any child speak those dreaded words "I'm not you're friend anymore!" or "if you don't stop I am just out of here and I am never coming back to your house again". Seriously. Here are just a few examples of conversations overheard or even spoken directly to me from said "neighbor kid".

Here's one from a few days ago . . .
Me (after hearing Adelaide wailing outside): "Quincy what game are you guys playing?"
Quincy: "Well, I don't really don't want to tell you cuz I don't think you're gonna like the answer."
Me: "Quincy, it's true I may not like the answer, but I will always love you no matter what. You need to tell me the truth."
Neighbor Kid: "Don't tell her"
(Quincy did tell me the truth and accepted the consequences like a man.)


Just yesterday . . .
Quincy: "Mommy, [neighbor kid] just slapped me on the belly."
Adelaide (crying): "Mommmmy, [neighbor kid] just hit me with their legs!"
Me: "Neighbor kid, why did you slap Quincy on the belly?
Neighbor kid: "Well, he was just being very rude to me!"
Me: What exactly did he do that was rude?"
Neighbor kid: "He is just telling me what to do and he is not the boss of me!"
Me: "Again, what exactly did he tell you to do that was bossy and rude? I need to know so I can explain to him what he did wrong."
Neighbor kid: "He was telling me to stop hurting Adelaide"
Seriously, as near as I can figure from the stories of 2 5 year olds and a 3 year old, Adelaide was accidentaly injured through the course of some game. Quincy says something in defense/protection of his sister. Neighbor kid slaps Quincy's belly. There was actually a face slapping incident a while back, but I can't remember the details of that one.

From early on in our relationship . . .
Neighbor kid (spoken directly to me upon leaving): "You need to give him a lesson on how to be nice because yada, yada, yada. . . "

Neighbor kid: "Do you have pop tarts?" (This one just happened as I was typing when the wrappers were spotted in the trash. Sure, not thaaaat rude, but still a little more forward than I would like my children to be at someone's house.)

As I said before, my kids up to this point have always played with children whose parents I already had a relationship with. We're all okay with correcting each others children and to be honest, none of my friends kids have ever caused any real trouble. Truth be told, it's usually mine who need to have their behaviour corrected. So what do you do when someone else's child is just flying in the face of everything you consider mannerly? You don't know how they are disciplined or if they are disciplined at all. It's really not my job to train someone else's child anyway, right? And another thing . . . Quincy and Adelaide ask plenty of questions, but neither of them have ever gotten into the whole "why" thing. Neighbor kid is the freaking mayor of Why town. It just makes me crazy. I have found myself getting so frustrated and realized I was getting rougher and sterner than I probably should have with 'neighbor kid'. So now I am just trying to regroup and focus back on my kids and their behaviour and just hope and pray that some of it rubs off or that we discover some new friends who live in the complex once school starts. It also makes me pray all the more that what we have planted in them is rooted enough that they will not be easily swayed by by what they see other kids doing all around them.

So anyway, that's my quasi rant for the day. Just needed to get it off my chest.

Good Tunes

Damien Rice. "O"

For when the kids are in bed and you just want to chill with a glass of wine or a good book. Tender and quiet one moment and then intense and passionate the next. I couldn't tell you what half of his lyrics are, I just love his music.

And now for something completely different, I've gotta go watch Rock Star: Supernova now.

Is my son "saved"?

Born again.
The 4 spiritual laws.
The sinners prayer.
Asking Jesus into your heart.

These are phrases that have been a part of my life for about as long as I can remember. Lately, they are starting to sound more and more like a foreign language. What in the world do those things really mean, and where did they originate? How old or young are these concepts? Do they have any rightful place in my faith? Admittedly, I am spouting before searching, but I can certainly still ask, right?

Let me relay a little story. Back in our early "courtin'" days, Erik accompanied me to my college roommates wedding. Her whole family is very dear to me and I respect them a great deal. It mattered to me what they thought of this new guy in my life. Within minutes - seriously, mere moments - of being introduced to "Pastor Paul" (did I mention that my roommates dad was a minister?) he asked Erik point blank when he came to know the Lord. You see in my world, there is a point of demarcation and if you really meant it, then you would know the precise moment that you became "born again". I had no idea how Erik would respond. I am sad to admit it today, but the truth is I was disappointed when he had no real "testimony" to offer, at least not by my definition. I doubted his salvation.

Now, here I am today with a 5 year old son. A son who is learning about God and Jesus and Faith (big F intended). A son who has quesions to ask his mother who daily questions what truth and Faith and this Christian life really are. Here is what I still believe right now. God does not have grandchildren. While our Faith can certainly be passed on, it certainly is not a part of our DNA. Each of us must make our own personal choice. However, I am no longer convinced that that choice needs to look or sound any particular way. Seriously, if one does not pray the sweeping "forgive me of my sins and come into my heart" prayer, (whatever 'come into my heart' means) are we not truly followers of Christ? Right now, Quincy believes that God is real. He also believes that God and Jesus are one and that Jesus is always with him and loves him no matter what. What if he never prays "the" prayer? Are all his beliefs for naught?

I get the impression in the Christian world - at least in the circles I have been in - that we parents carry this sort of burden, if you will, to ensure our children's salvation. That we can't really rest until our children have stated in no uncertain terms that they are on board. It's almost like we strive for that moment when we can wipe our brow, let out a big sigh and know that we are good parents and our children are going to heaven. And most of all, we need something to point to so we can say "see, that's when it happened". Is God really going to hold me accountable for my children's salvation or am I simply accountable to be honest with them and share with them what I have come to know as the truth, foggy as that may be at times? And is salvation a moment in time or something that occurs over a span of time? Or does it even have to be either/or? If I live my life following Christ the best I can, and Quincy follows along, is that enough?

My husband still does not have an event to point to, but I no longer doubt his salvation. I still don't know what to make of my son, though. I'm pretty sure I need to let it go because after all, it is personal. But I am finding that old habits and beliefs die hard. Once again, is it really my responsibility to make sure he chooses to follow Christ or do I just need to provide him with the tools to make his own choice? I remember the anxious thoughts I had when I was pregnant with Quincy. This often overwhelming sense of responsibility to raise up a decent human being and then add on top of that leading him to Christ. Yikes! My husband shared what I believe to be some very wise words with me at that time. He said that without a doubt, we will pack some emotional baggage for our children. No parent is perfect and we really should realize this at the beginning. But the best part of what he said was this. "All we really have to do is love him and show him Jesus." I know that is terribly simplistic, but I'm a pretty simple gal. I still am not sure of the answer to my question, but I am slowly learning to loosen my grip and trust God to lead not only me, but the rest of my family as well.

Good Times

Sunday we went to a birthday party for a 4 year old. (Fortunately, Connor's mom is a smart lady and only invited 3 other little boys knowing full well that would be plenty to handle.) I had a crock pot recipe I thought I would try (for those who know me, I'll give you a moment to catch your breath -- yes, I am making a greater effort at cooking) and checked it to see if I needed to get it started first thing in the morning or if it could wait until we returned from the party. I know you're wondering what this has to do really with a kids birthday party but just stay with me. Turns out the recipe was 1 hour on high and 3 on low, so I figure the party is at noon, there's really only 3 guests, so we'll probably be home by 2:30 or so. We'll eat a little later than usual, but should be able to prepare the meal, no problem. At 6:30pm I arrived back home.
Ah, but you now think that my title is sarcastic and that I have a tale to tell about all kinds of plans gone awray. Not so, my friend, not so. Let me start from the beginning. First we all - and I mean all 4 of us - go to a meeting at REI from 9-11:30. Yeah, pre-schoolers love nothing more than to sit through an hour and a half long work meeting for mom and dad. They actually held up pretty well and did us proud. Then the kids and I dash off to Target because we have not yet selected a gift. We get that and I realize I failed to put the wrapping paper from home in the car so we could head to the party directly. A short delay, but it's just a mile back home and then we're off. It was a busy morning, but we are only 15 minutes late and still the first to arrive so no worries at all. And then 6 hours went by. Connor has a good sized fenced back yard with no real hazards of any sort, so that alone was a huge treat. The kids played inside, the kids played outside, the kids just had a ball. There were some organized activities, but for the most part it was just freestyle. Meanwhile, the parents hung out around the kitchen table and then out on the deck and just enjoyed some food, some drink, and some conversation. And that's why I still haven't had my crock pot chicken. At no point was there an awkward lull that said it's probably time to wrap things up now. And the hosts just never ever gave off any vibe that they really needed people to get out of their house. In fact, I think it was around 4:00 that Boris brought out big glasses of wine for everyone, and by big I mean the size that you do not serve your guest and then expect them to immediately get in their cars and drive. I wasn't entertained. I was engaged. I learned so much about my new friends and they learned about me. We all met back in September and have just never gotten together. It was just such a lovely afternoon. Good times. Good times indeed.

Square peg

Do we ever really outgrow that nagging need to fit in? Here I am, solidly into my 30's and still hoping that people will like me. I don't need everyone to like me, just the cool kids. How pathetic is that.
When I started visiting churches here in the Portland area, I was not looking for a home. Quite frankly, I just wanted to see if there were any churches out there that didn't give me the heebie-jeebies. And after a number of uncomfortable - and one downright horrible - experiences, I found a really great place - Evergreen - that really was as close as I've ever seen to what we were trying to do with Sanctuary back in happier times. (Maybe not happier, but at least easier.) I eavesdropped on the forum for hours on end, and when I finally visited the people actually lived up to everything their web site said they were. They were kind, genuine, witty, smart, lovely, gracious people. I stopped visiting other churches (outside of St. Nick) and have become fairly regular there. But here's the thing. After about 9 months of attending off and on, having some folks over for dinner, attending some community events, participating a little on the forum, I just don't fit. But I really waaaaant to fit. They're all really cool people. It seems like we have things in common. But I just get this vibe that no one wants to really know me. Although, I will readily admit that I very well may give off a vibe that I don't want to be known. For some reason, I have a hard time making eye contact when I'm there, and my conversations are soooo strained. I am totally accepted there. But something is still amiss. With me, that is, not with them. It's a great place. Truly. In fact, if I meet people who are looking for a church, it's the first place I would recommend. It's just that it's like the really cute guy, who totally gets your jokes and likes to hang out with you, but there's no way it's going to be anything more. Sort of. Maybe not.
What I'm starting to wonder, though is that maybe I'm just not supposed to fit.

I don't know how to describe it . . .

Went to St. Nicholas again today despite Quincy's protestations that he doesn't like to go there because he has to be quiet. My curiosity regarding the Orthodox faith aside, there is something about this parish that I have been trying to describe in my head for some time now, and just can't seem to figure it out. Every Sunday that I go there, I leave with this feeling of a big internal sigh. Like, "aahhhhhhh, that was a nice time". My first inclination is to say that it's easy. (Yeah, like a Sunday mornin'.) But then I think more and realize that it's really not. Even if you're not Orthodox and wrangling two small children, it is impossible to disengage during the service. As Erik has said before, you can not forget for a moment where you are. Orthodoxy also requires much of you outside of the Divine Liturgy on Sundays. The Orthodox observe various fasts, confession, and the daily office (among other things, I'm sure). Perhaps, though, what feels so easy to me is that I have learned these things by observation rather than being told all of the rules and regs. The atmosphere has been so warm and inviting from the very first day we walked in. The people have been nothing but gracious and accepting. We are "protestants", we attend randomly, we arrive late and stay in the back. We volunteer for nothing. Yet, we are accepted. And without greeters or assimilation pastors, I might add.

I think another thing about it is that they tend to approach things rather simply. There is a council and they do have meetings. There is a choir and they do practice. There are vesper services twice a week. But for some reason, things just don't seem as busy as most churches of which I have been a part and that feels nice. In our culture of 'doing' rather than 'being', it's almost as if churches today feel the need to call attention to their ministries and programs to demonstrate how they are serving God in addition to just getting people to participate. I know that's not necessarily the intent, but it just feels so busy, and St. Nicholas, while they do have a few different "ministries" and opportunities for service, it never comes across as something for which you are being recruited. For example, for Pascha (which is another post entirely unto itself) there is a giNORmous feast. The only solicitation for folks to bring something was a giant white board in the parish hall with the various categories -- bread, main course, cheese, dessert, drinks, etc. (My favorite was seeing that Deacon Kevin would be bringing beer.) That was it. People didn't have to be reminded by announcements, emails, or bulletins. This happens every year. Everyone knows how it works.

I'm still not really capturing what I want to express. It's something that goes beyond the logistics. The people there just don't come across as your typical busy urban Americans and I don't know if that is just that this parish draws in a particular type or if it's the Orthodox expression of the faith that helps nurture that.

I'll have to keep processing . . . . .

Chew on this . . .

"The opposite of faith is not doubt. It's certainty. It must be nice to be so certain, but it's not true for so many people. You know, I do not have an interesting theology, but I know enough to take care of the poor, and I know enough to take thirsty people glasses of water." -Anne Lamott in an interview with the Dallas Morning News

In my humble opinion, Annie rocks.

So well said

This reading was in the compline prayers for Holy Week in a book called "The Divine Hours".

"Faith is strengthened, increased and enriched by those very things that escape the senses; the less there is to see, the more there is to believe. To adore Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration, to love the will of God in extraordinary things, does not show as much faith as loving the will of God in ordinary things and adoring Jesus on the cross." Jean-Pierre de Caussade

I have no idea who Jean-Pierre de Caussade is, but I find his words beautiful.

God Bless James Dyson

Finally. No more little white poofs of fur to constantly pick up. Thanks to the IRS (I know. Whoever says that?) and the generosity of some friends as well as strangers we were able to purchase the Dyson DC14 animal last month, and so far it is everything we ever hoped for in a vaccuum cleaner. And trust me, when you live with a Samoyed you have very high hopes for a vaccuum cleaner. Seriously, the suction on this machine is remarkable and Mr. Dyson says it will never ever stop. Based on what I have seen so far, I believe him. If you have gone through your fair share of vaccuum cleaners and it is remotely financially feasible, please do yourself a favor and get yourself one of these. I'm pretty sure you'll thank me.

Community Schma-munity

I really hate labels, and I dislike buzz words just as much if not more. "Community" is one of those once beautiful words that now tastes icky in my mouth. I have my opinions on who to blame for it, but I'll keep it to myself . . . for now.

When I lived in Bourbonnais, IL there was not much variety in the way of radio stations. Seems we were just out of reach of all the great stuff available not far up the road in Chicago. So you just had to grit your teeth as the top 40 station played a lot of crappy music while simultaneously driving the little bit of good music to an early grave by playing it over and over and over again until it no longer sounded even remotely creative or original. The station call letters were WBUS so I liked to refer to it as "death by the bus". Perfectly good music just utterly destroyed by overexposure.

But I digress. My point is that this inevitably is what happens whenever we are compelled to label things. It happens everywhere - realtionships, social movements, it's all over the business world - but I'm speaking specifically about the church. We always have to come up with some cool new way to describe ourselves and it just ends up killing perfectly lovely descriptive words that never did anything bad to anyone. The buzz started with "postmodern" which has morphed into "emerging" and if things go according to Bob at Evergreen, "organic" is next up. Words used to describe some specific churches include "missional", "experiental", and back to the origin of this post, "community". Like I said before, I really like that word. I love the image it conjures up in my mind of people laughing, crying, eating together, looking out for one another's kids, borrowing cups of sugar and what not. I think it's great, and have been drawn to places who mention it. Anymore, though, if I go to a church that uses the word, it means virtually nothing to me. Here's my beef . . . . if we have to name it and call it out as something important, and say "ooo, look at us, we value community, is it really authentic? I mean, come on, it's a freaking church! Shouldn't some things just be understood? If I have to sign up somewhere so that someone will invite me to coffee, something is amiss. If the congregation has to be reminded to notice and welcome and be nice to visitors, we have problems. If we're all just being nice and warm and welcoming to one another, won't that include the visitors? It just seems like community is something that should happen on it's own and not a job we have to do or something we have to talk about ALL THE TIME. (Death by the bus.)

We have been visiting a church off and on for about 8 or 9 months and never once has the word "community" been mentioned. Yet it is one of the warmest places I've ever been. As a matter of fact, they don't label anything. To my knowledge there is no web page of their values and their statement of faith is basically the Nicene creed. They just are. It just seems to me that our time and energy is better spent being and doing rather than identifying and labeling.

But that's just me . . . . .

Bad wife. No biscuit.

When I started this blog, I told no one. I can't really explain why. I could try, but I doubt it would make any sense to anyone. Trust me, you do not want to go that deep into the workings of my brain. I just wanted some kind of secret place that was all mine. (I can not go and pee with any confidence that I will actually be alone for the duration of the event.) There may be strangers who read bits of it here and there, but I never know. They're quiet, so really, I never even know they are there. (Again, a place like this does not currently exist in my world.)
It has been a few months now, and I still have not told anyone about this. My friend Cori knows because I posted a response on her blog not knowing that it would link back to mine. (By the way, you should visit hers sometime. mommystories.blogspot.com. Totally more fun to read than this.)
Anyway, I have now been truly discovered. Last week my husband found out I was blogging, and to see and hear his response you would think I was trafficking drugs while he was at work. I guess I can understand his, I don't know, surprise . . . disappointment . . . . concern? And I'll admit that I was intentionally keeping it a secret so in a way it's good that it's out there now. Although, now I actually have someone audibly harping on me to post something. That could be good or bad. We'll just have to see. Perhaps this will be our new mode of communication since we primarily work opposite shifts at work. (Hey honey, we need milk.) So yes, I have been a bad wife, but I feel confident that my marriage will weather the storm. For now, I must blog in an effort to keep the peace and redeem myself, one post at a time.

A lesson from a 4 year old

On Wednesday mornings, the kids and I go to Community Bible Study. We take highway 26 at the latter part of rush hour to get there. Here in the Portland area many of the onramps have 2 lanes that control entrance with a signal during the busier times. These signals are a popular location for folks in need. As we approached this past week, I had nothing to offer and did the cowardly thing and selected the signal furthest from the homeless veteran on the other side. As we pulled away to enter the highway, Quincy pipes up with "Mommy, who was that man?" Before I could respond, he was answering himself (and totally guilting his mother). "He was sad and we didn't do anything for him. We're supposed to give him something. We should always try and help people."

You see, recently there were some just expired Clif/Luna/granola type bars at work that are perfectly fine to eat, but they have to be removed from the selling floor. These are written out of stock and usually end up in the breakroom for staff. Erik and I grabbed a bunch and just kept them in the car so we would have something to offer whenever we came upon anyone less fortunate when we were out and about. Clearly, this did not go unnoticed by the 4 year old in the back seat. Of course, we had also taken the opportunity to educate him on our responsibility to our fellow man whenever he did ask questions as to who that was and what did we just give them. But you're never really sure what all is truly sinking in. So just in case any parents out there think that their children don't hear a word they say or even moreso, don't notice what you do, I've got a console full of Clif bars, hand warmers, and lip balm that reminds me otherwise.

How have I not heard of this before?

I have no words to describe the sickening feeling in my stomach when I read these articles. I am apalled that we are more concerned with our interests in Iraq under the guise of "democracy" when human rights atrocities like this are happening elsewhere. These stories are not for the faint hearted......

www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2006/001/19.34.html

www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2006/001/18.30.html

I guess it's settled then

While watching Rick Steve's Europe last week, Quincy asked me if Allah was Spanish for God. (Rick was in Turkey.) Not wanting to open up any complex theological exchange with my 4 year old I simply answered that Allah was the name that Muslims use while Christians are the ones who call him God. That, of course, led to the question of whether we were Christians. Oh great, what do I do now? I opted for honesty and told him that Mommy and Daddy were Christians, but that he and Adelaide will need to choose if they want to be. There was just a brief pause before he stated with confidence "Mommy, we'll be Christians too because we like to call God God." Simple enough, right? I think I'm just gonna leave it at that for the time being.

Did I really just say that?

There are some words, phrases, and many full sentences that you just never ever expect to come out of your mouth. And then you become a parent. Case in point,

"Sweetie, the poop really wants to come out of your bottom, but you have to help it get out. That's why you have to push."

This is what I have come to. Oh my.

I really like Saturday nights. . .

Ahhh, we are finally back into the old routine that had just been unintentially established. Saturday has kind of become my Public Broadcasting night o' fun. For the most part, I no longer work on Saturday nights which makes me very happy. So with that annoyance out of the way, the day can hold any number of things from laundry to a trip to the Children's Museum or just exploring our new city. The evening, however, generally goes something like this.
4:30 - The kids and I head to St. Nicholas for the weekly Inquirer's class from 5:00 - 6:00. Listen to Prairie Home Companion on the way. (The more time I spend in this class, the more I love the Orthodox Church.)
6:00 - Head back home listening to "The Thistle and the Shamrock", a Celtic music program on OPB.
6:30ish - Arrive home, have something simple to eat and maybe do a little channel surfing with the kids.
7:30 - All 3 of us settle in to watch "Rick Steve's Europe". I really love Europe and love even more that my 4 and 2 year old will sit and take it in with me. The past 2 weeks have been in Turkey which dovetails nicely with the Church history we have been learning at Inquirers class.
8:00 - Bedtime for the little people. Brush teeth, clean up, read stories, say prayers, give Adelaide the 3 blankets and 5 stuffed animals that she requests, turn on the musical selection for the evening, close the door and let out a nice big sigh. Globetrekker is usually on while I make a cup of tea and catch up on the Evergreen forum, a few folks blogs, and a little email.
9:00 - This is when my "programs" really begin. Yes, I have become a British TV junkie beginning with my favorite, "As Time Goes By". The rest of the night goes in 30 minute increments as follows.
9:30 - "My Hero"
10:00 - "Keeping Up Appearances"
10:30 - "My Family"

You know what I think it is that I love so much about my Saturday nights? They are incredibly simple. And the things I do spend my time on remind me of a simple life. The Orthodox Church for instance. Been around oh, a couple thousand years, yet it's really incredibly simple in it's structure and beliefs. And St. Nicholas is such a quaint and unassuming parish with such lovely people who really seem to take life slow. (Excluding Father George, who goes 90 miles and hour at all times.) And then I spend the rest of my evening vicariously in another country where life moves at a much leisurely pace. I can't really remember about England, but in much of Europe, you can't even buy gas on a Sunday because everything is closed. In Switzerland there are 2 hours in the afternoon during the week that all of the shops close for lunch. On "As Time Goes By" they are often running to 'the corner shop' for some little thing they need like . . . syrup. I wish I had a corner shop. And on all the shows there is much conversation happening over many cups of tea. I realize it is TV and not necessarily real life, but if you have spent any time in Europe at all you know there is still a definite difference in their pace of life versus ours. My Saturday night line up reminds me of what I hope to have in my own life, home, and family one day. It relaxes me and give me just a weekly dose of motivation to continue my efforts to simplify everything.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a cup of tea.