This is not going to go down as the highlight month of our married life. Definitely not. I have a much, much younger and obviously wiser friend who already knows you never marry the right one. Because that is not the point. Marriage is to make you the "right one." And it is here that I wish I had the link to that article my friend shared, but I don't. But I bet you could google it and find it out. And I bet you could google how to save a marriage and not one time would can openers come up. Not once.
And I would think by now (year 17), I would get it and obviously I hope he does. But I am not sure if either one ever gets it. Even after 50 years. Marriage is about becoming who you were meant to be and hopefully undoing who you were or were about to be. Hopefully.
So it is April something. That is how out of sorts I am. I can not even remember today's date. That is also how overly stressed I am. And to be honest, when I write it all down, it causes me to pause. And to say to myself, "Really? Get over your self." But life is crazy at times and we are human and we do become overwhelmed and forget who we are and at least on better days are trying to be.
April something and he would know exactly how many baseball games we have played already. To me, it seems like July already, but it is not. We are just getting started. And I can at least be thankful for the first time since my son picked up a bat, my trunk is baseball ready and so is my back porch. And I am stocked up on sunscreen, sunflower seeds and Gatorade. This is a huge accomplishment for me.
My garbage disposal is broken. It is driving me crazy. But it will be repaired early next week. My bathtub does not hold water and it has not for about five years now and for reasons beyond my comprehension this has pushed me over the edge this week.
My cat is on a vindictive pooping spree. She is also stalking me at night but that is another problem all together.
Middle schoolers just will not talk to you about really important stuff. Like that they have decided to quit wearing cups to baseball games because their cup underwear doesn't fit. Like that their regular underwear doesn't fit. Like that none of their shorts fit either. My son will ask me deep theological questions but will never tell me he needs new cup underwear...nope...not until it is a crisis.And no, middle school boys do not understand that protecting the family jewels is of paramount importance. Somehow, I the mom am suppose to receive this information via visions at night or something.
His cell phone was stolen last week and much to my surprise...that insurance they try to talk you into at the cell phone pirate store is really worth it...The cell phone pirates are in control of our mass communication ability, and yes it is highway robbery, and I really believe they are violating some monopoly laws, and I can not believe we as consumers are allowing this...but they do own the all ships...And here's the thing, I yelled at the cell phone pirate today and told him to his face I really thought he was lying to me and I could not believe that his company could even keep customers...and I hoped I never had to be his nurse. His response, he just smiled even bigger. And the replacement phone was still going to cost me 400 dollars. He didn't even bat an eye. So I call Vance and yelled at him for not buying cell phone insurance. Who knew? Obviously, not us. I did learn one thing...most reasonable people always back down when I rant...always. I have even been told after one of my rants was witnessed in a small town in Georgia over a smoking vs non smoking room...that they hoped never to be on my bad side. I am that bad when I rant. That bad. But obviously not bad enough for the cell phone pirate.
Saturday I was beyond mad at my husband for trying to tell me, who works in Winston Salem, and has already been to every sporting goods store in Winston Salem, looking for adult small white without a stripe baseball pants, that he who works in Greensboro and drives past Grahams everyday has not had time to stop in and buy pants. I hung up on him. Davis even said in a hushed voice, "Did you just hang up on Dad?" Yep. By the way, the pants were picked up today.
And I almost completely lost it when he implied I had more time than him because I have days off during the week. Word to the wise here. Never tell a nurse who works at any hospital on any shift and covers holidays just how much time and how nice it is that she has days off in the week. Never tell her that unless you want to pull back a nub. Nurses, next to nurse aides and residents and our military, are the most exhausted professionals I know, hands down. No contest. Period.
Tomorrow at 9 am I get to visit my dentist again and here I am at 10 pm already plotting several reasonable excuses as to why I could live with a temporary crown for the rest of my natural life.
My kitchen floor resembles home plate after 9 batters have been up. It is that dirty. And I, unlike the plate umpire, do not have a brush strapped around my waist to brush all the dirt away.
The only thing edible in my refrigerator is milk, carrots, four strawberries, coleslaw and hot dog chili. Oh, I do have some cheese that is growing penicillin and butter.
I have poison ivy. Every spring I get it. Every single one. Before I see the dentist tomorrow, I will be sitting at the CVS mini clinic getting a dose pack. And no, this will not improve my stress level.
We tried to have a date night Friday but the movie was so horrible we both went to bed mad that we actually spent 1.20 on it and had to return to Redbox. It belonged in the trash and Redbox should pay us to watch it.
The mildew on my shower now has its own complex pattern this is beginning to resemble zenderlings.
School is driving me crazy and I do not recommend returning at mid life to anyone is about to get the best of me.
My DAD thinks my yard is out of control. That is bad.
My hip is killing me. And when I will I realize I am not 20 anymore? And my stomach is hurting because I am chewing up that much ibuprofen.
And I feel like because we are so busy, that at best Vance and I are distant roomates.
I know part of the reason for my distress and I know the solution. And it is here I am not participating in my own recovery. And I would think by now in my adult life I would have memorized the definition for insanity....Repeating the same behavior hoping for different results. I have not learned yet that over committed, over planned, over scheduled, over extended lives never, ever work and are not conducive to relationships. Ever. Period.
And this is why we are fighting and I still don't get it...after all this time....we are not taking 5 minutes a day to connect.
But today instead of flowers he brought me a can opener. A can opener. My can opener has been broken for about 3 weeks now and when I sent him to the store at 9 pm tonight, he brought back besides everything we needed....A CAN OPENER...
And this is why, even at worst, marriage is always worth it. Even when you feel they don't hear you, even when you feel they are responsible for your happiness (and they are not), even when you feel they are acting like a total creep, even when they do not respond to your every whim (and who does), even when they leave their socks on the floor, even when they don't make the bed, even when they forget to thank you for dinner,
it is always worth it...
because nothing says I love you like a can opener...
Always remember to see the best in your partner, not the worst, always remember why you loved them in the first place, always say you are sorry...and always remember the day he bought you a can opener.
Grateful for husbands, can openers, wind, baseball pants, new bats finally arriving and stolen cell phones.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Silence of Saturday
I should not be surprised at all that he asks questions. That is what kids do. They ask questions that parents struggle to answer.
He usually wants to know when he will hit his growth spurt. He really wants to know when he will be an "adult." He wants to know who he will marry and how will he know she is the right one. He wants to know what he should do as an adult. He really wants to know how he will figure all this out. His mamma does not know. His mamma on her best days can not answer these questions for herself.
But Saturday he wanted to know two things. And his mamma didn't know the answer to those questions either. He wanted to know what the disciples did on Saturday. And he wanted to know when we would find out about the resurrection.
I told him as we dug in the dirt and pulled weeds and cleaned up the garden, I don't know what they did. The gospels were remarkably silent about Holy Saturday. But I suspect they told the story. I suspect as all grieving people do they told the story of their loved one over and over and over again until it became real. They told the story so they would remember. They told the story so everyone else remembered too and didn't forget the importance of the one gone. I suspect that it was here the gospels began. But I told him I really don't know. But it was a good question to think about. What do you do when hope is gone? How do you choose to respond when it appears to be over? How do you go on? What do you cling to when what you were clinging to is no longer? What do you do when you don't know what to do? How do you get back up when it appears you are defeated? What do you do when the worst thing has happened? I told him I hope he remembers this...For each week of his life...there is only one Saturday...AND there is only one Sunday. And I told him he gets to choose which day he will remember. I told him which day he chooses to live in determines whether or not he lives in joy or despair. I told him he gets to write the story. I told him that I hope he gives no credence to the Saturdays of his life...that he views the Fridays as Good...and in the spirit of the gospels...focus on Sunday...focus on Sunday...don't make Saturday the highlight. And the gospel writers could have...they could have told the story differently....The gospel writers could have focused on the silence of Saturday and not the applause of Sunday...It would have been easy to do...It would have been easy to take that awful story of Friday, live in Saturday and never see the truth of Sunday...and had they chosen to focus on the silence of Saturday instead of the thunder of Sunday...then the truth of the resurrection would have never left that garden.
I laughed at his second question. Laughed hard. And reminded him that when he was 5 and he ate all of his chocolate Easter bunny (all three of them), by 9 am in his church clothes and unbeknownst to me, and he was covered in chocolate and I was struggling just to get him clean enough for church (as if), and I was frustrated that his Easter shirt was a chocolate mess, and his shoes looked like he had played 9 innings of baseball in them, and I was in tears, and my ham was not glazed and my table wasn't set and I had 15 coming to dinner, and my cake was less than perfect, he said this...."Don't worry Mom...they will tell the same story next year." They will tell the same story next year.
So I said to him, I guess we find out about 11 am. About the time the choir sings the first note Charles Wesley's most famous hymn (or at least I think so, but then he wrote about 1000 or more so, who really knows)....Christ the Lord is Risen Today...Alleluia... But I also said, isn't it sad that we can't remember from one year to the next much less one week to the next...the joy in the story...that death is no more...that hope is alive and well...and isn't it really sad that for the most part we only sing that very famous hymn only on one day of the year...and isn't sad that we behave on most days as if we have nothing at all to be joyous about...when we have everything in the world to be joyous about...everything...and isn't it sad that we live as if the silence of Saturday says it all. It is a choice. We choose which day will be the highlight reel of our own stories. Do not live as if Saturday says it all and is if you have never heard the story of Sunday. Live as if it were 11 am Easter Morning every day of your life...
And when I read her blog this morning, I think she was right. And I read it through tears. It is the best way to live on Easter Monday or any Monday for that matter. And I think she is right, we all live through Fridays and Saturdays and wonder is it really worth it...and it comes down to this......will we focus on the silence of Saturday or will we live in the thunder of Sunday on Monday?
Choosing joy all my dear friends because all is grace...
For the rest of the story on how to live on Easter Monday..www.aholyexperience.com
He usually wants to know when he will hit his growth spurt. He really wants to know when he will be an "adult." He wants to know who he will marry and how will he know she is the right one. He wants to know what he should do as an adult. He really wants to know how he will figure all this out. His mamma does not know. His mamma on her best days can not answer these questions for herself.
But Saturday he wanted to know two things. And his mamma didn't know the answer to those questions either. He wanted to know what the disciples did on Saturday. And he wanted to know when we would find out about the resurrection.
I told him as we dug in the dirt and pulled weeds and cleaned up the garden, I don't know what they did. The gospels were remarkably silent about Holy Saturday. But I suspect they told the story. I suspect as all grieving people do they told the story of their loved one over and over and over again until it became real. They told the story so they would remember. They told the story so everyone else remembered too and didn't forget the importance of the one gone. I suspect that it was here the gospels began. But I told him I really don't know. But it was a good question to think about. What do you do when hope is gone? How do you choose to respond when it appears to be over? How do you go on? What do you cling to when what you were clinging to is no longer? What do you do when you don't know what to do? How do you get back up when it appears you are defeated? What do you do when the worst thing has happened? I told him I hope he remembers this...For each week of his life...there is only one Saturday...AND there is only one Sunday. And I told him he gets to choose which day he will remember. I told him which day he chooses to live in determines whether or not he lives in joy or despair. I told him he gets to write the story. I told him that I hope he gives no credence to the Saturdays of his life...that he views the Fridays as Good...and in the spirit of the gospels...focus on Sunday...focus on Sunday...don't make Saturday the highlight. And the gospel writers could have...they could have told the story differently....The gospel writers could have focused on the silence of Saturday and not the applause of Sunday...It would have been easy to do...It would have been easy to take that awful story of Friday, live in Saturday and never see the truth of Sunday...and had they chosen to focus on the silence of Saturday instead of the thunder of Sunday...then the truth of the resurrection would have never left that garden.
I laughed at his second question. Laughed hard. And reminded him that when he was 5 and he ate all of his chocolate Easter bunny (all three of them), by 9 am in his church clothes and unbeknownst to me, and he was covered in chocolate and I was struggling just to get him clean enough for church (as if), and I was frustrated that his Easter shirt was a chocolate mess, and his shoes looked like he had played 9 innings of baseball in them, and I was in tears, and my ham was not glazed and my table wasn't set and I had 15 coming to dinner, and my cake was less than perfect, he said this...."Don't worry Mom...they will tell the same story next year." They will tell the same story next year.
So I said to him, I guess we find out about 11 am. About the time the choir sings the first note Charles Wesley's most famous hymn (or at least I think so, but then he wrote about 1000 or more so, who really knows)....Christ the Lord is Risen Today...Alleluia... But I also said, isn't it sad that we can't remember from one year to the next much less one week to the next...the joy in the story...that death is no more...that hope is alive and well...and isn't it really sad that for the most part we only sing that very famous hymn only on one day of the year...and isn't sad that we behave on most days as if we have nothing at all to be joyous about...when we have everything in the world to be joyous about...everything...and isn't it sad that we live as if the silence of Saturday says it all. It is a choice. We choose which day will be the highlight reel of our own stories. Do not live as if Saturday says it all and is if you have never heard the story of Sunday. Live as if it were 11 am Easter Morning every day of your life...
And when I read her blog this morning, I think she was right. And I read it through tears. It is the best way to live on Easter Monday or any Monday for that matter. And I think she is right, we all live through Fridays and Saturdays and wonder is it really worth it...and it comes down to this......will we focus on the silence of Saturday or will we live in the thunder of Sunday on Monday?
Choosing joy all my dear friends because all is grace...
For the rest of the story on how to live on Easter Monday..www.aholyexperience.com
Monday, April 9, 2012
Word Up
Good Friday. At no other time of the year do so many of us sit in church in such uncomfortable silence. The Eastern Church declares it Great Friday. And he was right when he asked, "Why do we call it good, shouldn't it be called bad Friday since Jesus was crucified?" I agreed with him but on a larger level...Many a heinous crime has been committed on Good Friday in the name of the one crucified and on some level I think that should give us more pause. You can test anyway you like but Jesus was dead. I know many people who only go to church on Good Friday and do not come back on Sunday. They feel it is a better match for their souls. Sunday they feel is too cleaned up, too pretty. And on many levels I agree with them too. I really do love a Good Friday service. I like the silence, I like the darkness. I like the stripping of the church. It reminds us of the cost.
One of my most favorite pieces of music is Seven Last Words by Dubois. Actually my favorite part is the benediction. I will sit through that piece of dark, dramatic real music just to hear the benediction. I love that benediction. It almost doesn't fit the rest of the piece. Stuck at the end almost as an afterthought is this lovely, peaceful benediction. Christ We Do All Adore Thee..
I took my son to church Friday. He has seen more various Good Friday services than the average 13 year old. He has sat through Dubois four times now. He has seen a Cruxifiction service. He has seen low Protestant to high Protestant tradition on Good Friday. And he is always full of questions. I had high expectations of this choir Friday night. I knew that it would be beautiful. And it was. We were on word five.
"I thirst.", when it began. When my son began giggling so hard the church pew shook. I probably would not have been nearly as embarrassed if we had not been sitting next to the senior pastor's wife. Vance started it. As always. At times I think I need to sit in between the two of them so they will behave. Vance loves to draw on bulletins. He loves to take one moment of the services and draw a cartoon and sometimes he just wants to know what we are having for lunch. Tonight he underlined letters. W O R D U P. And Davis began laughing so hard. I began hear Cameo singing Word Up in my head right alongside of "I thirst." Word Up was singing right along in my head as candle five, six and seven were extinguished and it was still chanting in my head as the choir sang the benediction. Christ We do All Adore Thee. My most favorite benediction of all. I want it sung at my funeral. But not WORD UP. Davis finally stopped laughing, he said he just had to get a laugh out. I think Miriam my sit with us again if my two boys can behave. I personally will never hear Dubois again without hearing WORD UP. But it makes a good point. The seven last words spoken from the one who was the WORD...The seven last words that completed his destiny. WORD UP. It was finished. The teacher was now a teaching. He had shown them into the depths of God that caused some to see through and some could not. He had demolished the rock around their hearts. He had shown then dangerous ways to live. His part was done. WORD UP. I had so wanted to open this post with the WORD UP video playing but my gadget is broken. so sorry.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Would you like one egg or two with that pancake?
The gospel writers are remarkably quiet today. The Passion narrative does not include Wednesday. I don't know why. I don't believe for a minute Jesus and company were staying in that day. But if one is to believe the narrative, nothing gospel worthy happened. (The Church fathers were so lost as to what to include in the Daily Office during Wednesday of Holy Week, that we actually flip all the way to Acts and we read about John Mark. Talk about ruining the ending, here it is approaching the climax of the story and we jump ahead to read about the early church, which was all about Easter). But I think Jesus and his buddies were dyeing eggs. He would have loved doing that. And just having to referee the turf wars as to what color the eggs were going to be, would have given Jesus pause. And I can just hear Judas telling Jesus that there was only enough money for 1 dozen. That was one egg a piece. When I was little, (there were three of us kids,) my mom only boiled a dozen eggs and we each got 4. This was very distressing to me because I never got to dye an egg in every color. And I think it was this early childhood trauma that is the root of my egg decorating compulsion. How was I ever going to work that through in therapy? Guess what? We never celebrated Palm Sunday either.
The first year I bought 2 dozen. I held Davis' hand (he was 6 months old) and dropped them in the cups. I know, by now, everyone is thinking I am one very neurotic mother when it comes to creating childhood memories for my child. At 6 months, I am forcing him to dye eggs. Forcing. I learned today that most sane people, and I never claimed to be, think 6 months old is a wee bit early to dye Easter eggs. It is not like the dye is toxic. But probably sane mothers don't do this because babies have not unclenched their fists yet. But not me. Since I was not going to have a palm branch experience or Kodak moment, by golly we were going to dye eggs. The next year he was 18 months old and we dyed 9 dozen. Yep. 9 dozen. I have a very special egg holder that gently slides the egg into the cups of dye. And much to my very grateful surprise, he loves to dye eggs too. Still. We dyed eggs in every color and no matter how you hard you try...dipping the egg in all the colors still makes brown. I am not sure my heart would have recovered if he had hated decorating Easter eggs. That would have probably been therapy worthy. The palm branch disaster was about all the momma disappointment over Easter I could take.
Discovering Pinterest this year has opened my world to the many, many ways to decorate Easter eggs. My egg decorating is pretty simple. I have tried "blowing" the egg out, but have only succeeded in breaking the eggs and causing a horrific migraine. I have used waxed to make designs. One year I made polka dot eggs. One year they were all monogrammed. I included the cat, the fish, every Tele Tubbie, and every friend Thomas the Tank had. Davis did have 108 eggs to dye. I have a friend at work whose daughter decorated the most amazing eggs this week. The technique was called zenderling. (I think.) They were stunning. Look it up on Pinterest. So I was amazed to learn this year of Greek Easter eggs. In the Orthodox tradition the eggs are dyed blood red. And I had to try it. THIS YEAR.
The English word for "Easter" comes for the word "Eostre". An Anglo-Saxon legend tells how the Saxon goddess Eostre found a wounded bird and transformed it into a hare, so that it could survive the Winter. The hare found it could lay eggs, so it decorated these each Spring and left them as offering to the goddess.
Rituals related to the goddess Eostre focus on new beginnings, symbolized by the Easter egg, and fertility, which is symbolized by the hare (or Easter bunny). Who knew? Originally bird eggs were dyed and somewhere it changed to chicken eggs. Which makes me think of last night.
I had dinner with my mother in law, and we ate at one of those all you can eat buffets with a Japanese theme, if you can imagine, which by the way, until last night I could not. I hate buffets. Besides the obvious health risks, the food sucks. This little adventure last night caused nightmares. I now have developed buffet PTSD. The first buffet station had octopus and I could actually see the suction cups. It had squid and I think that last tray was eel. I skipped all of that and went straight to the salad bar and bread. My mother in law sits down and says, "Look, I found fried frog legs. Try one, Kathleen, they taste just like chicken." You would have to know my mother in law to appreciate the next 10 minutes. She is one of those southern ladies who wants to try everything on your plate and insists that you taste everything on hers. Insists. Once, Davis called me on his cell phone lamenting that Grammy had force fed him hush puppies. Grammy kept telling me how delicious they were and they were the best ever. This concerned me greatly because apparently she had eaten enough frog in her life to declare these the best ever. This also implies that there is a worst ever fried frog leg. After swallowing a hurl, I began to wonder, where do you buy restaurant grade frog? And what cookbook do you find that recipe? And they do so closely resemble chicken legs, that never, never, never again will I order chicken out. And I am seriously rethinking the whole vegan thing. Ok, now my narrative has seriously wandered off track...back to Greek Easter Eggs.
During Lent, eggs are forbidden. Who knew? I certainly did not. In the Greek tradition the eggs are dyed blood red to symbolize the blood of Christ and each family member only gets 1 egg, which they break open and eat one Easter Sunday to symbolize the resurrection. Actually the tradition is more complicated than this, but you get the point. So, in theory, I only had to boil three eggs, four if you include my cat. Davis and I decided to do 3 dozen. Vance kindly lets us dye his eggs. He always does. Apparently there is very special Greek Easter egg dye for this. I could not find it. The alternative plan is to boil the skins of 15 (yes 15), Spanish onion skins, add vinegar and water and this will become a red dye. I could not find Spanish onions either. So I used a whole bottle of red food coloring. Unfortunately, I did not think this through. I mixed the food coloring in my favorite 12 cup Tupperware spouted bowl. It is now red. But our eggs are lovely.
Greek Easter Eggs...just one year try it...
Maybe the gospel writers took a break today for this one simple reason...in the middle of the drama of life...in the middle of all the tension of daily living...in the middle of conflict ridden relationships...in the middle of what looks to be a mess..when you are so ready for Spring to arrive and it has been dark for so long...when you are looking for hope at the bottom of a dark hole.. when you can not see past the Fridays of life...when you know Thursday is coming...and you can not avoid it...in the middle of the stress ...in the middle of it all...make space for the growing of your soul...and spend time becoming who you really are...and always welcome the needy, the sick, the poor...because there will always be enough and baskets will be left over...
And you just have to count daily graces: Easter eggs, dirt under fingernails, McCormick red food coloring, afternoon movies with teenagers, fried frog legs that you do not have to eat, lightning fireworks, hard spring rain, pulling weeds, two strong legs, the smell of pot roast at the end of a long work day, Sangria, luscious red strawberries, flaming Azaleas blooming two weeks early and the yard looks like Augusta National, returning verbena, lavender blossoms,dust bunnies, looking at courage in some one's eyes, hearing the unfurling of an other's dreams, hugs,tears...
Remember that Grace always leads...
Kathleen
The first year I bought 2 dozen. I held Davis' hand (he was 6 months old) and dropped them in the cups. I know, by now, everyone is thinking I am one very neurotic mother when it comes to creating childhood memories for my child. At 6 months, I am forcing him to dye eggs. Forcing. I learned today that most sane people, and I never claimed to be, think 6 months old is a wee bit early to dye Easter eggs. It is not like the dye is toxic. But probably sane mothers don't do this because babies have not unclenched their fists yet. But not me. Since I was not going to have a palm branch experience or Kodak moment, by golly we were going to dye eggs. The next year he was 18 months old and we dyed 9 dozen. Yep. 9 dozen. I have a very special egg holder that gently slides the egg into the cups of dye. And much to my very grateful surprise, he loves to dye eggs too. Still. We dyed eggs in every color and no matter how you hard you try...dipping the egg in all the colors still makes brown. I am not sure my heart would have recovered if he had hated decorating Easter eggs. That would have probably been therapy worthy. The palm branch disaster was about all the momma disappointment over Easter I could take.
Discovering Pinterest this year has opened my world to the many, many ways to decorate Easter eggs. My egg decorating is pretty simple. I have tried "blowing" the egg out, but have only succeeded in breaking the eggs and causing a horrific migraine. I have used waxed to make designs. One year I made polka dot eggs. One year they were all monogrammed. I included the cat, the fish, every Tele Tubbie, and every friend Thomas the Tank had. Davis did have 108 eggs to dye. I have a friend at work whose daughter decorated the most amazing eggs this week. The technique was called zenderling. (I think.) They were stunning. Look it up on Pinterest. So I was amazed to learn this year of Greek Easter eggs. In the Orthodox tradition the eggs are dyed blood red. And I had to try it. THIS YEAR.
The English word for "Easter" comes for the word "Eostre". An Anglo-Saxon legend tells how the Saxon goddess Eostre found a wounded bird and transformed it into a hare, so that it could survive the Winter. The hare found it could lay eggs, so it decorated these each Spring and left them as offering to the goddess.
Rituals related to the goddess Eostre focus on new beginnings, symbolized by the Easter egg, and fertility, which is symbolized by the hare (or Easter bunny). Who knew? Originally bird eggs were dyed and somewhere it changed to chicken eggs. Which makes me think of last night.
I had dinner with my mother in law, and we ate at one of those all you can eat buffets with a Japanese theme, if you can imagine, which by the way, until last night I could not. I hate buffets. Besides the obvious health risks, the food sucks. This little adventure last night caused nightmares. I now have developed buffet PTSD. The first buffet station had octopus and I could actually see the suction cups. It had squid and I think that last tray was eel. I skipped all of that and went straight to the salad bar and bread. My mother in law sits down and says, "Look, I found fried frog legs. Try one, Kathleen, they taste just like chicken." You would have to know my mother in law to appreciate the next 10 minutes. She is one of those southern ladies who wants to try everything on your plate and insists that you taste everything on hers. Insists. Once, Davis called me on his cell phone lamenting that Grammy had force fed him hush puppies. Grammy kept telling me how delicious they were and they were the best ever. This concerned me greatly because apparently she had eaten enough frog in her life to declare these the best ever. This also implies that there is a worst ever fried frog leg. After swallowing a hurl, I began to wonder, where do you buy restaurant grade frog? And what cookbook do you find that recipe? And they do so closely resemble chicken legs, that never, never, never again will I order chicken out. And I am seriously rethinking the whole vegan thing. Ok, now my narrative has seriously wandered off track...back to Greek Easter Eggs.
During Lent, eggs are forbidden. Who knew? I certainly did not. In the Greek tradition the eggs are dyed blood red to symbolize the blood of Christ and each family member only gets 1 egg, which they break open and eat one Easter Sunday to symbolize the resurrection. Actually the tradition is more complicated than this, but you get the point. So, in theory, I only had to boil three eggs, four if you include my cat. Davis and I decided to do 3 dozen. Vance kindly lets us dye his eggs. He always does. Apparently there is very special Greek Easter egg dye for this. I could not find it. The alternative plan is to boil the skins of 15 (yes 15), Spanish onion skins, add vinegar and water and this will become a red dye. I could not find Spanish onions either. So I used a whole bottle of red food coloring. Unfortunately, I did not think this through. I mixed the food coloring in my favorite 12 cup Tupperware spouted bowl. It is now red. But our eggs are lovely.
Greek Easter Eggs...just one year try it...
Maybe the gospel writers took a break today for this one simple reason...in the middle of the drama of life...in the middle of all the tension of daily living...in the middle of conflict ridden relationships...in the middle of what looks to be a mess..when you are so ready for Spring to arrive and it has been dark for so long...when you are looking for hope at the bottom of a dark hole.. when you can not see past the Fridays of life...when you know Thursday is coming...and you can not avoid it...in the middle of the stress ...in the middle of it all...make space for the growing of your soul...and spend time becoming who you really are...and always welcome the needy, the sick, the poor...because there will always be enough and baskets will be left over...
And you just have to count daily graces: Easter eggs, dirt under fingernails, McCormick red food coloring, afternoon movies with teenagers, fried frog legs that you do not have to eat, lightning fireworks, hard spring rain, pulling weeds, two strong legs, the smell of pot roast at the end of a long work day, Sangria, luscious red strawberries, flaming Azaleas blooming two weeks early and the yard looks like Augusta National, returning verbena, lavender blossoms,dust bunnies, looking at courage in some one's eyes, hearing the unfurling of an other's dreams, hugs,tears...
Remember that Grace always leads...
Kathleen
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
If I close my eyes, I can hear him singing it. I really can. And I don't know why I thought of it today of all days, I just did. And I will never forget that chapter. And I think only Mahalia Jackson sang it better.
It was tough. His passing left a gaping hole in their hearts and they didn't know how they were going to fill it. I must have sat around that kitchen table every Tuesday at 1100 am for three months. He had the biggest hands I ever saw. Ever. I can only imagine how many babies he blessed, people he baptized, bread he broke with those hands. I can only imagine how often he closed them in prayer. He had been a local pastor for over 40 years. He said his knees bothered him alot. He was well over 6 feet tall. I wondered was it from all his hard work or from praying. Both I suspect. He could not name a favorite verse but he guessed it might be..."God so loved..." and he stopped with that. "God so loved..." He thought the best way to live was by absolute dependence on God...This is what his family told me every Tuesday at that kitchen table over tea and whatever cookies had been sent...Their grief was palpable...
So on that Friday morning I knew when I got the call it would be tough. Some passings just are. Some just leave larger holes than others. I suspect the size of the hole equates with the depth of one's loves for his fellow humans. I suspect that to be true. He lived long, he had lived right, he had lived well and he died well too...
He walked in and started singing. He started singing. Precious Lord. That is what he sang. (And yes, he nailed it.) And after I picked my heart off the floor and wiped my tears and held back a sob...and after he prayed and after he comforted and after he consoled and after he blessed...he walked over to me...
And he said...
This must be hard for you too...you have taken care of him for so long...and you must feel it too...And you must be very tired...And I was all of those things...every single one of them...BUT it was the only time...the first time...that anyone had ever consoled me at work...He and I both did hard work. I suspect he felt called... He still does the work. I have had to take a break for awhile. He did the work better than anyone I ever saw...and I wish I could bottle it and pass it out to everyone...I wish he could teach that...but you can't...
Being a man after God's own heart...you just don't see it everyday...you just don't...and I will never forget...how he sang the man home...and how he took care of everyone in the room that day and saw that they were comforted...including the nurse...and it has left an impression on me...if you stand still long enough on any given day...
Jesus walks up..if you open your heart on any given day...Jesus walks up...and I am glad I stood still enough that day to see...
All is grace,
Kathleen
It was tough. His passing left a gaping hole in their hearts and they didn't know how they were going to fill it. I must have sat around that kitchen table every Tuesday at 1100 am for three months. He had the biggest hands I ever saw. Ever. I can only imagine how many babies he blessed, people he baptized, bread he broke with those hands. I can only imagine how often he closed them in prayer. He had been a local pastor for over 40 years. He said his knees bothered him alot. He was well over 6 feet tall. I wondered was it from all his hard work or from praying. Both I suspect. He could not name a favorite verse but he guessed it might be..."God so loved..." and he stopped with that. "God so loved..." He thought the best way to live was by absolute dependence on God...This is what his family told me every Tuesday at that kitchen table over tea and whatever cookies had been sent...Their grief was palpable...
So on that Friday morning I knew when I got the call it would be tough. Some passings just are. Some just leave larger holes than others. I suspect the size of the hole equates with the depth of one's loves for his fellow humans. I suspect that to be true. He lived long, he had lived right, he had lived well and he died well too...
He walked in and started singing. He started singing. Precious Lord. That is what he sang. (And yes, he nailed it.) And after I picked my heart off the floor and wiped my tears and held back a sob...and after he prayed and after he comforted and after he consoled and after he blessed...he walked over to me...
And he said...
This must be hard for you too...you have taken care of him for so long...and you must feel it too...And you must be very tired...And I was all of those things...every single one of them...BUT it was the only time...the first time...that anyone had ever consoled me at work...He and I both did hard work. I suspect he felt called... He still does the work. I have had to take a break for awhile. He did the work better than anyone I ever saw...and I wish I could bottle it and pass it out to everyone...I wish he could teach that...but you can't...
Being a man after God's own heart...you just don't see it everyday...you just don't...and I will never forget...how he sang the man home...and how he took care of everyone in the room that day and saw that they were comforted...including the nurse...and it has left an impression on me...if you stand still long enough on any given day...
Jesus walks up..if you open your heart on any given day...Jesus walks up...and I am glad I stood still enough that day to see...
All is grace,
Kathleen
Monday, April 2, 2012
Spring Cleaning
I have a new addiction. Pinterest. I have not completely figured it all out yet, but I am hooked. Today, I found this really cute idea for a pedicure. Color blocking. Fuchsia, orange, and red. It was so cool. Much to my dismay, I learned that the Easter bunny I am sporting on my big toe is not the Easter bunny at all. It is more like a Playboy bunny. And that carrot in his hand, well it is not a carrot. That might be what they call it in their country, but in our country we call it something very different. Just saying. So, I am kind of desperate to find a new design.
If Pinterest is to be believed, (and who doesn't believe everything on social media?) the fresh, new ingredient for the spring is figs. Figs. Fig and goat cheese pizza. Fig burschetta. Fig and walnut salad. Figs. And he hated figs. Absolutely hated figs. At least that is how Mark saw it.
What really happened and when, that final week, is up for debate. But the gospel writers agree on a few common things. He rode triumphantly into Jerusalem. He wept over Jerusalem. He talked alot. They ate supper. He prayed in the garden. He cleaned house, literally and figuratively. There was a trial. He was crucified.
But Mark is the only one who tells us he hated figs. Mark also tells shares with us, that Jesus could become testy when hungry. Me too. I become extremely testy. Just ask Vance. Unfortunately, wailing out loud is not sociably acceptable behavior for adults. At this is one of the things I wish we would never outgrow. Crying when we are tired and hungry. I also think we should never outgrow crayons and paste. But, apparently Jesus thinks it is ok. To become angry when hungry, I mean. And this comforts me more than you will ever know. And I know he would never give up crayons, given his love for writing in the dirt.
He hated that fig tree so much it withered up and died. I am not sure why this is not listed as a miracle. The O'Briens have this fig tree at the beach that they have been trying to kill for 20 years and it just won't die. So, I kind of consider killing a fig tree to be a miracle.
It is not clear if he ever got anything to eat that day or not. Judging by the whole incident in the Temple later on, I am guessing not. And apparently right up there on his favorite list of things to do was cleaning. Clearly he loved to clean. After killing that fig tree, we get a lesson on how to clean house. I am by know means a domestic goddess. And I firmly believe that dust is a protective covering and it really won't kill anyone to see your dirty bathroom. Those dishes in the sink can always wait. Always. And it really does not matter that you have to clear a path to find your bed at night. And I promise, you will sleep just as well in that unmade bed as that made one. And please keep all those little, tiny fingerprints on the doors and mirrors. Before you know it those little, chubby hands will be waving goodbye to you at college. And one other thing and this is very, very important...your girlfriends keep house just like you do. Promise. So go ahead and give yourself a break and lower the bar. And if you keep good snacks and a bottle of wine on hand, no matter what your house looks like...people will think you are Martha Stewart. Promise.
We like to think that if Jesus walked into our houses he would not turn anything over, throw anything out the window, raise an eyebrow or even a voice. We like to think our house is more like Mary and Martha's. But probably our house is more like the Temple than we care to think.
He really only had one message for us that day. Just one. And it was a biggie. And on most days we forget. One can argue with words...but deeds are beyond argument. WOW. We can talk all day long about how much we love, how we don't hate, how strong our moral center is, what we think is absolute truth or not (as if any of us really know), what we believe we are called to do, how much we care, how far we will go to help our brother...but Jesus said the bottom line is this...
Jesus said if your deeds are not matching your words...then clean house. Throw out indifference and care about everyone. Turn the table that you sit around complaining upside down and replace it with the table of gratitude. Block the doorway to negativity. Make your house a house of prayer and praise. Dust doubt off the counter and sweep it right out the door and never, never let it visit again. Believe and then just do it.
"Preach the gospel at all times, use words if necessary." St. Francis.
Asking for grace to keep my house clean....
Kathleen
If Pinterest is to be believed, (and who doesn't believe everything on social media?) the fresh, new ingredient for the spring is figs. Figs. Fig and goat cheese pizza. Fig burschetta. Fig and walnut salad. Figs. And he hated figs. Absolutely hated figs. At least that is how Mark saw it.
What really happened and when, that final week, is up for debate. But the gospel writers agree on a few common things. He rode triumphantly into Jerusalem. He wept over Jerusalem. He talked alot. They ate supper. He prayed in the garden. He cleaned house, literally and figuratively. There was a trial. He was crucified.
But Mark is the only one who tells us he hated figs. Mark also tells shares with us, that Jesus could become testy when hungry. Me too. I become extremely testy. Just ask Vance. Unfortunately, wailing out loud is not sociably acceptable behavior for adults. At this is one of the things I wish we would never outgrow. Crying when we are tired and hungry. I also think we should never outgrow crayons and paste. But, apparently Jesus thinks it is ok. To become angry when hungry, I mean. And this comforts me more than you will ever know. And I know he would never give up crayons, given his love for writing in the dirt.
He hated that fig tree so much it withered up and died. I am not sure why this is not listed as a miracle. The O'Briens have this fig tree at the beach that they have been trying to kill for 20 years and it just won't die. So, I kind of consider killing a fig tree to be a miracle.
It is not clear if he ever got anything to eat that day or not. Judging by the whole incident in the Temple later on, I am guessing not. And apparently right up there on his favorite list of things to do was cleaning. Clearly he loved to clean. After killing that fig tree, we get a lesson on how to clean house. I am by know means a domestic goddess. And I firmly believe that dust is a protective covering and it really won't kill anyone to see your dirty bathroom. Those dishes in the sink can always wait. Always. And it really does not matter that you have to clear a path to find your bed at night. And I promise, you will sleep just as well in that unmade bed as that made one. And please keep all those little, tiny fingerprints on the doors and mirrors. Before you know it those little, chubby hands will be waving goodbye to you at college. And one other thing and this is very, very important...your girlfriends keep house just like you do. Promise. So go ahead and give yourself a break and lower the bar. And if you keep good snacks and a bottle of wine on hand, no matter what your house looks like...people will think you are Martha Stewart. Promise.
We like to think that if Jesus walked into our houses he would not turn anything over, throw anything out the window, raise an eyebrow or even a voice. We like to think our house is more like Mary and Martha's. But probably our house is more like the Temple than we care to think.
He really only had one message for us that day. Just one. And it was a biggie. And on most days we forget. One can argue with words...but deeds are beyond argument. WOW. We can talk all day long about how much we love, how we don't hate, how strong our moral center is, what we think is absolute truth or not (as if any of us really know), what we believe we are called to do, how much we care, how far we will go to help our brother...but Jesus said the bottom line is this...
Jesus said if your deeds are not matching your words...then clean house. Throw out indifference and care about everyone. Turn the table that you sit around complaining upside down and replace it with the table of gratitude. Block the doorway to negativity. Make your house a house of prayer and praise. Dust doubt off the counter and sweep it right out the door and never, never let it visit again. Believe and then just do it.
"Preach the gospel at all times, use words if necessary." St. Francis.
Asking for grace to keep my house clean....
Kathleen
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Live an epic
I have been thinking about this post all week. I mean obsessing. Believe or not except for the Easter Egg and church date story, I don't give much forethought to what I am going to blog about. I don't plan them. But those two stories just begged to be told. I mean just had to be told. Stories are like that. They are meant to be told.
Today's gospel reading is my favorite of Passion Week. My absolute favorite. I love Palm Sunday. It is my favorite Sunday of the entire church calendar. It is epic. And I just love using my new word. Just love it. Any who, I had given up by 5 am, of having anything blog worthy on Palm Sunday. Yep, I had given up by 5 am.
It is the making of an epic. You have a borrowed donkey or two (depending on which version you read), a King, a parade, kids doing Kodak moment cute things that just make you tear up, an Oscar worthy musical score, a Messiah who is an absolute hoot, breathtaking scenery and everyone has to admit, Jerusalem is pretty show stopping especially with that Temple in the background, a supporting cast that just can't be outdone and engaging dialogue.
But I have been disappointed on more than one Palm Sunday. First, there is the whole temptation to wear your Easter frock early. Palm Sunday is just always so beautiful and more often than not, seven days later on Easter, we sink back into winter and it is too cold to wear our Easter frocks. One of my reasons for having a child and (I am serious as a heart attack), was so I could watch my child process on Palm Sunday. I had dreams about this. I tried to teach Davis to walk early so he could process at the age of 14 months. I sang him "All Glory Laud and Honor" as a lullaby. A palm tree was the first tree he could identify. We practiced at home. I tried to teach him at 13 months of age to say HOSANNA. Really. As if. When he was an infant, I would tuck palm branches in his baby bucket during Lent. Seriously. We practiced "the wave." I actually bought him Palm Sunday clothes not Easter clothes, Palm Sunday clothes. So you can imagine my profound disappointment at the age of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 he refused to walk down the aisle with the other children on Palm Sunday waving palm branches singing hosanna. You can only imagine. When he was two, we stood in the vestibule together. He was permanently attached to my leg, sobbing, "NO, NO, NO." He had thrown his palm branch on the floor and clutched his chubby hands into fists. People were staring. He was having no part of it that day. The senior pastor at the time kindly suggested the nursery that morning. I think he was planning on taking him there himself. We repeated this at age 3 and 4. At age 4, he leapt into my arms in the church parking lot that morning and rapped his arms so tight around my neck, I struggled to breathe. By age 5, he began asking at Ash Wednesday was he going to have to walk down the aisle? By age 8, he had nightmares the week before. I gave up finally at age 8. The drama. The drama.
I really have no explanation for my love of Palm Sunday. None, except it is a Kodak moment. And I love that hymn. And I love palm trees. I love donkeys. And it is so dramatic for church processionals. I mean it is high drama for church liturgy. High drama.
There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his last week. Many. There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his life. Many. He could have skipped the whole dramatic entry and the story would have still been good. He could have skipped the whole dinner with his friends (Mary and Martha) the night before and the story would have been good. He could have told her not to wash his feet the night before and walked into Jerusalem with dirty feet. It really wouldn't have changed the whole of the story. He could have done many things but he chose the epic way. He chose living large and living out loud. And maybe that is why I like the story...BUT I think the reason I love it is what SHE said this afternoon...and it made me think..
She is a twenty something who has literally walked to hell and back, almost died, and really didn't know until this week if she would see her next birthday.
She said to me as I was walking out...and I don't know why she said it except it was my best Palm Sunday sermon ever...I mean ever...It was epic..
"I have been thinking...you can live your life one of two ways...you can just fade out of this life quietly...you can just not engage life OR
You can live an epic...You can live an epic...
That is what I am going to do...I am going to live an epic...I don't want to just fade out...I don't want not to have sucked every last drop of goodness out of each and everyday...I don't want to be numb...I don't want to miss any single moment of any single day...
I am going to live an epic..."
and her story just had to be told...just had to be...
Epic living that is what he said we could have. He said we could life. He said we could live the epic life.
We all are going to die. We are going to have a last week. We are going to have last dinners with friends. We are going to fall and break our hearts. We are going to pray and beg God...please no. We are going to know days where we feel like God has abandoned us. We are going to know pain. We are going to have sleepless nights. Our friends were run away and disappoint. We will know loneliness. We will know despair. Grief will be an unwelcome companion. Tears are going to fall. We will be betrayed by those who love us most. We will be humiliated. We will be mocked. But we have a choice...we have a choice...
We can just fade away or we can live an epic. We can live an epic.
May all my kind friends live fully into their epic, may all by friends know that life the whole of it is worth living, may none of us just fade away but live an epic...Live an epic.
All is grace,
Kathleen
Today's gospel reading is my favorite of Passion Week. My absolute favorite. I love Palm Sunday. It is my favorite Sunday of the entire church calendar. It is epic. And I just love using my new word. Just love it. Any who, I had given up by 5 am, of having anything blog worthy on Palm Sunday. Yep, I had given up by 5 am.
It is the making of an epic. You have a borrowed donkey or two (depending on which version you read), a King, a parade, kids doing Kodak moment cute things that just make you tear up, an Oscar worthy musical score, a Messiah who is an absolute hoot, breathtaking scenery and everyone has to admit, Jerusalem is pretty show stopping especially with that Temple in the background, a supporting cast that just can't be outdone and engaging dialogue.
But I have been disappointed on more than one Palm Sunday. First, there is the whole temptation to wear your Easter frock early. Palm Sunday is just always so beautiful and more often than not, seven days later on Easter, we sink back into winter and it is too cold to wear our Easter frocks. One of my reasons for having a child and (I am serious as a heart attack), was so I could watch my child process on Palm Sunday. I had dreams about this. I tried to teach Davis to walk early so he could process at the age of 14 months. I sang him "All Glory Laud and Honor" as a lullaby. A palm tree was the first tree he could identify. We practiced at home. I tried to teach him at 13 months of age to say HOSANNA. Really. As if. When he was an infant, I would tuck palm branches in his baby bucket during Lent. Seriously. We practiced "the wave." I actually bought him Palm Sunday clothes not Easter clothes, Palm Sunday clothes. So you can imagine my profound disappointment at the age of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 he refused to walk down the aisle with the other children on Palm Sunday waving palm branches singing hosanna. You can only imagine. When he was two, we stood in the vestibule together. He was permanently attached to my leg, sobbing, "NO, NO, NO." He had thrown his palm branch on the floor and clutched his chubby hands into fists. People were staring. He was having no part of it that day. The senior pastor at the time kindly suggested the nursery that morning. I think he was planning on taking him there himself. We repeated this at age 3 and 4. At age 4, he leapt into my arms in the church parking lot that morning and rapped his arms so tight around my neck, I struggled to breathe. By age 5, he began asking at Ash Wednesday was he going to have to walk down the aisle? By age 8, he had nightmares the week before. I gave up finally at age 8. The drama. The drama.
I really have no explanation for my love of Palm Sunday. None, except it is a Kodak moment. And I love that hymn. And I love palm trees. I love donkeys. And it is so dramatic for church processionals. I mean it is high drama for church liturgy. High drama.
There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his last week. Many. There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his life. Many. He could have skipped the whole dramatic entry and the story would have still been good. He could have skipped the whole dinner with his friends (Mary and Martha) the night before and the story would have been good. He could have told her not to wash his feet the night before and walked into Jerusalem with dirty feet. It really wouldn't have changed the whole of the story. He could have done many things but he chose the epic way. He chose living large and living out loud. And maybe that is why I like the story...BUT I think the reason I love it is what SHE said this afternoon...and it made me think..
She is a twenty something who has literally walked to hell and back, almost died, and really didn't know until this week if she would see her next birthday.
She said to me as I was walking out...and I don't know why she said it except it was my best Palm Sunday sermon ever...I mean ever...It was epic..
"I have been thinking...you can live your life one of two ways...you can just fade out of this life quietly...you can just not engage life OR
You can live an epic...You can live an epic...
That is what I am going to do...I am going to live an epic...I don't want to just fade out...I don't want not to have sucked every last drop of goodness out of each and everyday...I don't want to be numb...I don't want to miss any single moment of any single day...
I am going to live an epic..."
and her story just had to be told...just had to be...
Epic living that is what he said we could have. He said we could life. He said we could live the epic life.
We all are going to die. We are going to have a last week. We are going to have last dinners with friends. We are going to fall and break our hearts. We are going to pray and beg God...please no. We are going to know days where we feel like God has abandoned us. We are going to know pain. We are going to have sleepless nights. Our friends were run away and disappoint. We will know loneliness. We will know despair. Grief will be an unwelcome companion. Tears are going to fall. We will be betrayed by those who love us most. We will be humiliated. We will be mocked. But we have a choice...we have a choice...
We can just fade away or we can live an epic. We can live an epic.
May all my kind friends live fully into their epic, may all by friends know that life the whole of it is worth living, may none of us just fade away but live an epic...Live an epic.
All is grace,
Kathleen
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