An Apple Not Far from the Tree

Angels Flying Over Me or the Golden Arches Approach

2010-05-08T17:34:00.011-05:00

Photo: "Angels in the Clouds" by Richard Seaman

My brother was a man of many talents and interests. He taught theoretical mathematics at a large university, played violin in the university’s symphony, and had a gift for languages.

The thing he loved doing above all other things, however, was flying. He and several friends formed a corporation, 418 Escadrille, named after their first plane, a Piper Cherokee, N-418FL. There were six of them and divided six ways they could afford the hangaring, maintenance and flying hours. They eventually moved up to an improved Piper Cherokee N-44411 (We named it the Full House.) and a Bellanca Decathlon. The Bellanca with its semi-symmetrical airfoil, constant rpm capabilities, and engine that allowed for sustained inverted flight made it possible for him to do aerobatics. It was something akin to heaven as far as he was concerned. At the same time, it gave many of us in the family heartburn at the thought that he might be in the thing upside down or flipping around in the sky at any given moment in time (better not to know or even think about when or where that might be).

To supplement his salary as a math professor (professorial rank salaries are pathetic at most southern state universities unless it is in field of athletics), and to pay for his love of flying, he got his flight instructor’s license. He could then fly and get paid for it. “Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!”

He once pointed out to me that at almost all of the airports in this country, without exception, when you made your last turn on your final approach, even if flying IFR, as you came out of the fog, light rain, mist or just the night, the very first lights you could make out were not the airport lights but Mickey Dee’s. He called it the Golden Arches Approach. He was unsure why this was true, but he said there was at lest one McDonalds, and sometimes several, hard up against almost every airport in America.

The reason I am thinking about him and the Golden Arches Approach this week is that I live in a neighborhood that is in a straight line with the end of the Golden Arches Approach in our city. Specifically, you can draw a line over my roof, over McDonalds in the nearby shopping center and come out right at the end of the longest runway at our “International Airport.” (So called on the days when the Chamber of Commerce is having delusions of grandeur.)

Since Wednesday of this week, our little airport actually has had a bit of an international flair. That’s the day the advanced jet for the U. S. Navy’s Blue Angels roared into the airport, shaking up the airspace in the small town on this side of the river that separates us from our larger sister city. The next day the remaining five swooped down, making their presence known to everyone in the greater metro area. They are here for an air show this weekend, but they have been entertaining the natives with their practice ever since they arrived. They have caused their share of fender-benders as normally careful drivers have been driving around looking up instead of ahead, and my cats are none too sure the backyard is such a safe place to be anymore.

As they begin their practice each day, it is as if some live dragon-like beasts have come to life in their lair and are venturing forth to assert their superiority over the sky. The sound starts as a low growl and grows to a rumble, and as they clear McDee’s and cast their shadows on my deck, they are screaming as they disappear as quickly as they appeared. China rattles. Foundations shake. Cats scurry and hide. As practice draws to a close, they let down overhead coming from the opposite direction, afterburners disappearing through the trees, or circle around and disappear completely touching down at the south end of the runway. Then all sound ceases. It is a strange, unreal quiet. The dragon is at peace for the day.

On special days like these when the Blue Angels fly over, I naturally think about my brother. He would have been here. He never got over the thrill of flight, of seeing airplanes and watching air shows. He would probably have flown in for the weekend. Who knows, he may have flown the Bellanca in the air show if the Escadrille still owned it…or not. Since he was just past 50 when he died and will always be that age in my mind, it is hard for me to realize that he would be 70 by now and might not be flying upside down in any craft since there are probably age limitations imposed by the FAA.

The days I truly miss him, however, are not the flashy times but the quiet times just about sunset, when I see a small Piper or Cesssna making its way home. I hear it as it makes its pass over Mickey Dee’s, throttles back and I can almost feel it as it touches down on the north end of the runway. I find myself wondering who the pilot is and who will be at the gate to pick him or her up. And I suppose I will always wonder if the pilot is aware, at all, of the Golden Arches Approach.

A Splinter, a Beam and Generosity of Spirit

2009-09-12T16:52:00.010-05:00

Photograph by David Bonta from his Blog Via Negativa

Several years ago, I heard a sermon that made a great impact on me. The topic was “Generosity of Spirit.” The priest related information about two former parishioners. Both of whom were self-made millionaires.

One was a vibrant young family man who had built up a successful business from scratch and lived life to the fullest. He went everywhere and tried everything. One of the most astounding things about him, however, was that he gave away between a quarter and a third of his earnings, annually, to those in need whether they might be considered “deserving” or not. If the need was there, he would take care of it. He did it quietly, without fanfare, with as few people as possible knowing where the funds had come from. He said to the priest, “First, it is the right thing to do; second, even if I lose everything I have, I made it once and I can do it again; third, I’ve learned that the more you give the more there will be to give; and besides,” he said, “It’s fun!”

The other parishioner was an older woman who was married to a prominent local healthcare provider in the community. It would seem his practice was a good one and one would assume it was profitable. She, however, had her own business. She owned a great many low-rent properties in the worst parts of town. She was, to be blunt, a slumlord.

Even though she was quite well off, she wore old, faded and patched housedresses and drove an old car that was completely rusted through. She was also a hoarder. On her porch were crates and boxes filled with old bottles, jars, rusty old nails and cans. The porch steps sagged and needed to be repaired. The roof on the house leaked and moldy newspapers were on the floor where they had been put down to absorb the water.

When the parish wanted to expand, make improvements or get anything extra to make parish life better, the young family man could always be counted on to lead the way and contribute more than his fair share. The older woman, however, was usually against it if it involved spending any of the parish’s money. She felt they would need that money later, for emergencies. She felt it should be saved (make that hoarded). They should keep it safe in the bank.

Her miserliness extended to parish dinners and potlucks also. At many such occasions, she would pass by the line of tables groaning under the strain of hams, roasts, casseroles of every description, salads, homemade breads and tempting deserts of all kinds to deposit her wonderful. . .bag of potato chips.

Sitting there that Sunday morning listening to the contrast between these two, it was easy to like the vibrant young millionaire and to want to cast stones at the miserly older woman. Since that Sunday much has transpired in my life and I have had a great deal of time to reflect, contemplate and question.

I have begun to wonder what forces molded her into the woman she became. Was she a child of the depression? Did her family have much and lose it, so that she was afraid of letting go of even a dime for fear of being plunged into nothingness again? If so, it is doubly sad that she has plunged herself into nothingness by her unwillingness to use the bounty God has given her for the good of herself and her community. She has, in effect, "burried her talent in the ground."

I know we all want to be like the young millionaire and we are quite put-off by the older woman. In truth, however, does each of us not harbor some of both of them in our psyche?

How many of us would glibly give-up a third of our net to total strangers each year, just blow it away without a second thought because it was “fun?” We try to be as generous as we can, and in that way we are like the young man, but isn’t there some part of us that holds back? Aren’t we all then hoarders in some way or another? I put it to you that there are much worse things to hoard than bottles, jars and rusty old nails or cans.

Mother Theresa said, “There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread.” How many of us have hoarded the love in our hearts? How many of us have failed to thank the many individuals who have helped us out along the way in this daily journey called life? How many of us are overflowing with God-given gifts and talents that we are too afraid to let go of, to put to any good use? How many of us are taking potato chips to the feast?

Isn’t it just a bit too easy to pat ourselves on the back, declare ourselves to be generous and point out the splinter in the older woman’s eye? Don’t we have beams a plenty in our own?

If we truly believed what the young millionaire said, “The more you give, the more there will be to give,” our world would be a more loving, giving place. Is that not the radical message of love, of being as Christ to our neighbor, that our savior taught us when he was on earth among us? “Lord, when did I see you hungry, thirsty, naked or in prison?” Well, he is there in many guises, among “the least of these,” for us to see every day if we were only more observant.

Perhaps we should not worry so much about the splinters in the eyes of others, but take the beams from our own eyes and look around us. As for the miserly older woman, I wonder when was the last time that someone truly was “as Christ” to her, loving her without reservation in the true spirit of agape?

LOL--Not Really! or AdNonSense

2009-09-12T12:06:00.008-05:00

I recently noticed that my little animated tuxedo cat gadget that has been purring and meowing in the sidebar of this Blog since Mu-man, my beloved tuxedo cat died, had picked up a rather tacky attachment. He was in the ad business and I didn't seem to be able to talk him out of it. I deleted him and re-installed him, but there it was again. It would seem that at some point in time I had clicked on some gadget or other and gotten us smack dab into the middle of Madison Ave. When this happened I have no idea whatsoever.

It wasn't so much that he had gone into advertising, it was what he was advertising. He was advertising conservative Republican politicians. He was advertising mail order ministerial degrees from fundamentalist seminaries (Liberty University). Hello! This blog is decidedly liberal and I am a very progressive Episcopalian. Could anyone at AdSense in all seriousness, even on some wild, full-moon driven moment of total insanity believe that I would wish for any of these ads to be up on this blog?

I have a mental image of a group of conservatives at AdSense zipping through my left-leaning little musings and falling in the floor laughing themselves into an hysterical froth finding exactly the type of total c**p I would hate to place in my sidebar and wondering how long it would take me to notice. In truth, if I had not been RIF-ed (yet again) from my job, I would not have had enough time to spot it.

How long have they been there? Who might have seen them? I am absolutely appalled! When I asked that AdSense be removed permanently from my Blog, there was a warning telling me that it could NEVER be resubscribed to again if I permanently removed it. Thank God!

My advice to anyone who might consider allowing ads on your Blog. Make sure you have some control over the ads that go up on your site.

Thoughts on the Anniversary of 9/11

2009-09-11T13:20:00.018-05:00

Today, as I have being constantly reminded by all forms of media since the moment my clock-radio sounded the alarm, is the anniversary of the attacks on the Trade Towers, the Pentagon and the United Flight 93 in Shanksville, PA that was destined to crash God knows where. Like everyone in America, and probably around the world, who was alive that day eight years ago and old enough to realize what was happening, I will never forget that morning.

I was on my way to work and was stuck in traffic, as was often times the case on McFarland Boulevard going into Tuscaloosa. At that time there were only two bridges spanning the Warrior River into the main part of town (except for a toll bridge to the far west that siphoned off a modicum of traffic from Highway 82 West to and from Interstate 59/20) but still that was negligible. Most of us were funneled right into the two centrally located bridges that were inadequate to handle the flow. These were assured to cause frustration and increased blood pressure and the lack of lanes meant that one person with car trouble or the most minor fender bender could snarl traffic to a crawl and even a moderate pile up could have you mired down for an hour or more.

I was looking forward to getting into the office that morning. One of our co-workers had called-in to a pair of local radio DJs and had won a biscuit breakfast with all the trimmings for the entire office from one of the fast-food restaurants, their morning show sponsor. I had actually left the house early, not my usual morning behavior, because I had been able to skip breakfast—then the traffic slowed to almost a complete standstill. It was not until much later that it dawned on me that many of my fellow commuters were probably also listening to the news on that awful morning.

I was listening to NPR—I always listen to NPR—when I heard the live, on-air break-in that an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Towers. Since I had flown in that very air space with my brother in a Piper Cherokee, I said a prayer for what I assumed was some poor private pilot who had probably taken off from Teterboro and had a heart attack or stroke and strayed into Manhattan and the Towers. I prayed that not too many people below would be injured by the debris of his falling plane and the fire that would result from his crash. That was all I believed it to be, at first. Then came the second interruption. Then I knew. Then we all knew.

When I arrived at the office, I rushed in to tell everyone, but found they already had heard. They had gathered around the television in the break area in the kitchen and many were crying by now. The restaurant delivery person arrived with breakfast and found us all in tears. He seemed confused. He had thought we would be happy. He hadn’t yet gotten the news. When we told him, he fell into a stunned silence.

The only funny thing I remember of that day, and I mean it only in recalling the ridiculousness of the situation was this: it was the idea that somehow, we needed protection in our little corner of the earth from "Arab terrorist." I mean, the reason we live in Northport, Samantha, Coker, Buhl, Elrod, Greensboro, Eutaw or Sawyerville is precisely that no terrorist on earth could locate us on a map if he tried, in the first place, and in the second place, he would have absolutely no reason whatsoever to try in the first place! Even if he exploded something amongst us, it would not only not make a big splash, but hardly a ripple. We are decidedly little fish in a little ponds and not worth the effort--thank God!

It was one of the few days when our boss simply didn’t care if we stayed huddled around the television set or kept our radios going in our offices. We waited for any and all bits of information as it came in. As the morning progressed, of course, more bad news did come in—the Pentagon attack and finally United Flight 93. By noon, our boss had closed our office, a decision that got him in more than a little hot water with those higher up the food chain, but he said no useful work was going to be done that day so what was the point. He felt the trauma was too deep. We all needed to go home and be with our families. Since my family is all far-flung and I live alone, the family I went to be with was my church family. I left work and headed to Canterbury Chapel.

I had friends who were out and about on that day. One was grounded in Atlanta on her way back home. She said that she did something she didn’t think she would ever do. She got into one of the last available rental cars with some business men who were total strangers, but who were going to the airport in Birmingham where they, too, had left their cars in the long-term parking lot. When they arrived at the airport, everything they had was searched, their tickets were scrutinized, and they had to explain over and over why they were there, but eventually they returned their rental, picked up their personal cars and were allowed to drive home. It was over a week later before she got her checked luggage from the airline.

Another friend, an epidemiologist, was in Westchester, NY, working on a contract case study and was scheduled to leave LaGuardia that morning. Of course her flight was cancelled. She was in a rental car and when she called, they wanted her to return it. She said, “No way! This baby is going to get me all the way home to Alabama. Just extend my contract.” (Or some other similar words, you fill in the blanks.) After much back and forth, when they realized she was not going to return her car that is what they finally did. She was due back to be on a Cursillo staff. She drove almost 24 hours straight until she finally had to stop and grab some rest. She made it to the diocesan camp ahead of the pilgrims. There is a Cursillo saying, “This Cursillo is the best Cursillo ever!” I dare say that particular Cursillo was one of the most unusual Cursillos ever.

The epidemiologist and I, whenever we go to NYC, always stay with some Episcopal nuns in a convent on the Upper West Side of New York. One of the things I wondered about that day was where they had been and if they were all well. There was no way to get a phone line in, but eventually through the internet, I learned that all were accounted for and none were near the destruction when it happened.

A couple of years later, when my friend and I were at the Trinity Institute and staying with the Sisters, we got to hear of their experiences. They did everything from flip burgers/dish up all kinds of food and dispense psychological first-aid to give impromptu piano concerts (Sister Helena Marie) at St. Paul’s Trinity Parish during the noon hour for the emergency and construction workers. It seems she had sat down for a moment at the piano to soothe her own soul after completing her list of chores and on arising looked around noticed she had drawn an audience who wanted her to continue. This evolved into noon concerts by other musicians that she recruited, noting that it helped relieve the unrelenting and considerable stress under which these workers were forced to operate.

Finally, I would like to say a word or two about my flag. As I crossed the University of Alabama campus last night, leaving the Thursday evening mass at Canterbury, I noticed American flags lining the pathways of the quadrangle in anticipation of this day. I have also recently received several emails from friends and family reminding me to fly my flag today in remembrance of 9/11.

My flag is flying. My flag was already flying on 9/11 eight years ago. In fact, my flag has been flying on my porch in every house and apartment I have ever had (rented or owned). The only thing I did to my flag on 9/11 eight years ago was to lower it to half-staff. No one has to remind me about my flag.

I find that conservatives make a big mistake about liberals. They assume that we do not love our country, our flag, or what it stands for. Nothing could be further from the truth. They assume that it does not cause us pain to see our flag in flames. That is also not true; it does.

We love our country fiercely. But, loving my country does not mean excusing it when it tramples on the Constitution and individual rights and freedoms; it does not mean turning aside and not seeing when we torture prisoners. (“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (i.e. people) are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights…”) It does not mean pretending not to notice when the so called “Patriot Act” is anything but patriotic, but instead takes us down a slippery slope toward total governmental intrusion into our daily lives.

The events of 9/11 were horrendous. The terrorist of that day can only win if we help them by abandoning our Constitutional rights and giving in to the worst kind of Chicken Little “The Sky is Falling” mentality.

Whose Religion Harbors Fanatics?

2009-01-24T18:43:00.010-06:00

(Image from carryabigsticker.com)

A friend recently sent me an email, “A German’s View of Islam.” It basically stated that it is the fanatics that ultimately drive any group—religious, political, what have you, and that everyone else in the group just gets swept along. He generalized from that that we should be wary of all Muslims due to the fanatics that are currently active in the Islamic faith.

As I read this, I felt we should all be aware that those of the Islamic faith do not have the world market cornered on fanaticism. One quote really stood out to me: "It is the fanatics who zealously spread the stoning and hanging of rape victims and homosexuals." I don't know where he stands on rape victims, but it disturbs me greatly that an Archbishop of our own Anglican Communion, The Most Reverend Peter Akinola of Nigeria supports a law in his country that makes it a crime to be homosexual or even for a heterosexual to be the friend of a homosexual. It is punishable by 10-20 years at hard labor or death. That brings about such as state of fear, that just common Christian charity toward your fellow man becomes a terrifying act.

Another Bishop of our Communion, Samuel Musabyimana from Rwanda, has been tried and convicted at the World Court at the Hague for "Crimes against Humanity" in the mass murder of Tutsis. This "good shepherd" of our church gave the Tutsis of his flock refuge in his church then turned them in to the Hutu militia. His only request was that they be removed from the church before they were killed. (Obviously he didn’t want to deal with the mess in his cathedral.) They were hacked to death or near death with machetes and then the survivors were locked in a garage and burned alive with the aid of a couple of nuns who had some cans of gasoline handy. A truly proud moment for all Anglicans? . . .Not!

What I cannot understand is that with all of this being common knowledge, how many of our breakaway "orthodox" parishes have actually allied themselves to such churches as Nigeria (with their irregularly consecrated bishops being consecrated by none other than this same Bishop Akinola) and to Rwanda. Whatever can be said about Bishop Katharine Jefferts-Schori, or how you might personally feel about her, I don't believe you can point to a single incident where she has suggested that you treat another person as less than human or connect her in any way to genocide.

I guess my point is that absolutely all of us have our fanatics. So, maybe we should start by dealing with the logs in our own eyes instead of worrying too much about the splinters in the eyes of others.

As to the question: "Whose religion harbors fanatics?" "Absolutely everyone's!" is the horrifying answer.

Bishop Gene Robinson's Inaugural Prayer

2009-01-19T16:24:00.004-06:00

As usual this great, spirit-filled man has led the way for us all by praying for the exact things that needed to be prayed for at this time in our history.

Volunteer at Your Local Red Cross Chapter

2009-01-05T16:02:00.004-06:00

Do something adventurous in this New Year. Find your local Red Cross Chapter and become a volunteer. Disaster Services could use you as part of a Disaster Action Team--taking fire calls after hours, helping people who have just lost everything find a place to stay, a change of clothing, basic toiletries, food for their families, a way to form a plan to put their lives back together.

Caseworkers are needed in other areas, also. For example, Services to the Armed Forces Caseworkers enable communication between Service members and their families in times of crisis such as family illness or death or in times of joy such as at the birth of a child.

Perhaps you would rather work with Health and Safety teaching First Aid, CPR or AED courses. There are great Health and Safety courses aimed at children such as "Scrubby Bear" or "Whales' Tales." Would you like to go into your local elementary school and teach young children? How about becoming certified to teach a Red Cross Babysitting Course?

Every Chapter House needs individuals who are willing to answer phones, file, do data entry and all kinds of clerical chores. In this modern age of electronic marvels and wonders, most chapters, without exception, would love to have a “tech-ie" come through the door to volunteer.

Maybe you could roll up your sleeves and give the gift of life in the form of blood every other month. Maybe you could open your checkbook and give the gift of life in the form of a check to your Red Cross Disaster Fund.

We all have something we could give. Together we can save a life!

Justice Delayed--Yet Again

2008-11-02T18:38:00.008-06:00

The all too familiar envelope bearing the return address of the law firm handling the business of the Boo Cat, et.al. vs. the State Agency came in the mail Saturday. We have won, and won and won again: an Administrative Law Judge in the Attorney General's Office first ruled for us, then a Circuit Court Judge, and finally the Court of Civil Appeals. One might think that would be the end of it, but this is the American justice system; so, one would be wrong.

I knew whatever was in the envelope wouldn't be good news, because when the news is good, our attorney calls me on my cell phone. This was decidedly not a phone call. It turns out we are dealing with yet another Circuit Court Judge and he is no more sympathetic to the State Agency than any of the others. Since that is the case, they (the attorneys for the State Agency) have decided to drag some of his decisions back before the Civil Appeals Panel.

What they are trying to do is subtract any money we managed to eek out over the three years we have not been in their employ, following being unceremoniously dumped from our jobs without regard to tenure or the Fair Labor Dismissal Act, from what they owe us. The new judge said not only no, but that they owe us interest on the full amount (6% before the Administrative Law Judge ruling and 12% since then). In their twisted logic, they remind me of a friend from junior high school who, if you loaned her a quarter, and you then found a dime on the sidewalk, figured she now only owed you fifteen cents since God had repaid you ten cents of her debt.

A friend called the other day and told me that in a case where there was an attempt to force Consortia employees to sign annual contracts and give up many of their benefits, the Circuit Court Judge ruled against the Consortia stating that this had already been decided in the precedent-setting case of "BooCat vs. the Consortia." At the rate this is playing out, I may never get the back pay and interest I have been promised, but if all I get is to hear that other employees have been spared what we have all been through and to know, since my name is the name of record on the suit, those who would try will have to hear my name every time they try, gives me some measure of contentment.

The Image of the Hunter Christ

2008-10-18T18:15:00.010-05:00

What does Christ's image look like in your mind's eye? He has been portrayed in many ways, by all kinds of artists from the middle ages and renaissance to the modern era in paintings, sculptures and later in motion pictures.

I am certain that I have come face-to-face with Christ or Christ's messengers on many occasions through daily interactions with others who have crossed my path and I theirs throughout life. The members of my EFM Class that attend Christ Church say that their Assistant Rector, The Rev. Dr. Margaret Scalise, puts it this way: "The Holy Spirit, She do get around!" I'm sure she would agree, since there is no adequate way to actually put it into words, that is quite an understatement.

Lately, when I think about Christ, I see the Christ who is in one of the stained glass windows in the nave or our little church. The window was given by Gray and Jemilu Hunter. It is a memorial to Gray's son who died young and tragically. I have no idea what they might think about my relationship with what I have come to think of as the Hunter Christ.

In times of melt-down level stress in my life, I find myself drawn to the pew in front of the Hunter Christ. His face has a kind, calm, benevolent quality that brings inner peace to me somehow. I sometimes arrive less than calm and have been known to angrily confront him about the situation that may be bothering me--why this person or that might be terminally ill, killed in an accident, driven to suicide etc. What might he have been thinking? Where was he when this or that was happening? Is he really there? Does he really exist? Does he really care?

As upset as I might be when I arrive, by the time I leave, I find that I have peace in my soul. The Hunter Christ seems always to have such a non-judgmental quality that lets me vent and lets me know that he is there and understands. It is he that made me with all my doubts and questioning mind; so, he patiently lets me work through them all.

Also, by the time I have left the Hunter Christ, I have prayed for everyone who is on my "altar of prayer," as a friend once put it. Before I leave the Chapel and His presence represented in the window, I like to say one Rosary using Dame Julian's prayer: "And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well." Amen.

A lonely, tortured soul now freed, first sings - then takes flight

2008-10-13T17:09:00.035-05:00

Over the years, our church has often been amazed and delighted by the music that poured forth from the beautiful Holtkamp tracker organ that we know we are beyond blessed too have in such a small parish. It is there due in no small part to the efforts Dr. Fred Hyde who was determined that, as the Episcopal Student Center at this state’s major university, we should not settle for anything less than a first class instrument. He also insisted that we should employ performance majors from the university’s school of music to be our organists.

There has been no lack of brilliant musicians who have filled the post over the years. They have all had their strengths, and just when we felt that this or that one could never be replaced as graduation day finally came, along would come another who would be surprising in his or her on way.

Most moved along rather quickly until Michael. Michael was with us for nine years. The range of his ability was astounding—from medieval chant to jazz and rock and everything in between. Though most of the congregation was probably unaware of it, often the unusual chant tunes we used for the psalms were Michael’s own, put forth under a pseudonym or with no attribution at all.

Michael uniquely understood religious music and how it fit into the liturgy of the church—not to “star” but to aid the message, the good news. For Michael music was to be the underpinning, to quietly add to the beauty, to enhance the experience of the worshipers without being obtrusive.

Michael, himself, could not tolerate obtrusiveness. We didn’t know exactly what Michael’s diagnosis was, but we knew that he had problems making personal connections. He had virtually moved into the choir room and turned it into a disorganized, messy place where he felt at home, but we felt more and more uncomfortable. We all loved Michael as much as he would let us, but that was not much and in the end, it was not enough.

After his mother died, Michael’s world begin to simply fall apart, including the loss of his job. He ended his pain among his plants by the choir room door in Murray House Courtyard with a bullet to his brilliant brain. In the doing, he transferred much of his pain to many of us. That is the way of suicide when those who are left are left wondering, "What if?"

Following his death we had a service of cleansing and renewal with a procession from the nave of the church, through the choir room to the Murray House courtyard and into the kitchen and nursery in Carroll Hall where Michael often cooked his meals and saw to his daily hygiene. We chanted psalms; incense was used, and Holy Water was aspersed.

When Fr. Jon poured Holy Water over the spot where Michael’s body was discovered, we said prayers for Michael. At the exact moment that the prayers for Michael began, a mockingbird flew into the willow tree by the choir room and began to lift his voice in song. It was loud and clear. He went joyfully on and on even though he was crowded, at what should have been an uncomfortably close distance, against a great many people from the congregation. As long as the prayers for Michael continued, the mockingbird continued. When the prayers for Michael ended, the bird became completely quiet and took flight. He flew over the roof of the church and disappeared in the late afternoon glow of the setting sun.

It was as if Michael's spirit was free to sing unguarded, at last, and his very soul had taken flight. “Fly free, Michael,” I thought. “Fly free, sweet happy soul, now released from all earthly pain and cares. Fly into the waiting, outstretched arms of your loving and welcoming Savior.”

(The Mockingbird photograph is a National Park Service image from Google Images)

Boo and Doc/6-Months Old/Columbus Day 2008

2008-10-13T13:21:00.018-05:00

This post is little else but progress photos of the babies, but that seems enough. They are at once the most destructive and the most healing force within the walls of my house. When the key turns in the lock at the end of some very long days, I never know what I will find pushed off in the floor--books, flower pots, what have you. Either or both little imps will have those wide-eyed, "Who me? Not I! Surely you don't think that I did that?" looks on their sweet little faces. Who could be angry?

They follow me from room to room like little puppies, curling up at my feet, and they cuddle up against me when I go to bed. After they think I am asleep, however, I can hear them ripping from one end of the house to the other getting into even more mischief.

Boo and Doc sunning themselves in the late afternoon on the window seat.

Miss Boo (she of the pink collar) and the wide-eyed innocent gaze.

Doc (he of the blue collar) stretching himself awake after a lazy nap.

The awesome twosome atop the roof garden of the Kat-Kondo, a favorite perch in the breakfast room.

It's Fire Safety Week here at Red Cross

2008-10-06T14:10:00.007-05:00

Since coming to work for Red Cross, I have seen way too much of the aftermath of home fires. Get a fire safety plan, dear readers of this post. Look around your home. Are there too many extension cords? How many breakers or fuses have you blown lately? Where are you storing all of those old paint cloths or cleaning solvent rags? Fess up! When you go to work, have you ever left your clothes dryer going?

If there were a fire in your home, do you have an evacuation route? Does everyone know what it is and where you would meet up to count heads in the middle of the night? What about your pets? Who is going to be responsible for them? Practice in advance. Practice often so that you don't get rusty about the details. If it were to actually happen, seconds will matter.

Plan ahead. Be safe and live!

The Blessing

2008-07-28T20:16:00.005-05:00

Blessing given by the Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson, Bishop of New Hampshire, at the end of services at All Saints Church Pasadena on Sunday, July 15, 2007.

I surfed upon this after a particularly busy day at the office when I needed to put life into perspective and to feel God's presence and blessing. Suddenly there was +Gene's calm, thoughtful face giving me much to sort out about the actual implication of God's blessing and what it might mean in our lives. Truly, God has blessed us all with the gift of Bishop Robinson and the example of a spirit filled life lived in faith.

The Babies' Progress

2008-07-05T14:25:00.011-05:00

Boo and Doc are now eleven and one-half weeks old. They are romping all over and getting into absolutely everything. Learning NOT to get on the table and the kitchen counter has been a very hard lesson for Doc, but, by George, I think he's finally got it. Then again, who knows where any cat goes when their person is away from home. That is anyone's guess.

Doc in his favorite spot in front of the window seat in the breakfast room.

Boo on the roof of the Kitty-Kondo. "Ain't no mountain high enough!"

Because I Care

2008-07-04T07:03:00.006-05:00

The photograph is entitled A Ceiling Mural for the Smokers' Lounge and is the work of tfm446.

I came across this photograph at Web Shots today and could not resist posting it. I know there is nothing worse than a reformed drunk (or in my case a reformed smoker), but I have seen first hand the harm it can do. Well, I will step off of the soap box now and let the image say the rest.

God Smiled--She Usually Does

2008-06-21T18:14:00.005-05:00

The last two weeks have been packed full of fun, good news and prospects for good things to come. When you get out of the doldrums and the wind hits your sails, everything really starts happening all at once.

I attended the wedding of my cousin Phil's daughter, Priscilla. I had not seen this branch of my family for over five years. We have kept in touch around the corners, through this cousin and that cousin (mostly through Cousin Ann, who is the glue who keeps us all together), via the internet or a phone call here and there, but we had not visited face to face. It was a joyous time. He, like I, lost his mother, father and brother early on. He was lucky to find the love of a wonderful woman, Barbara, and together they made three beautiful daughters. The oldest, Natalie, has been married long enough to make them grandparents. Now the second has exchanged vows with her beloved. Could the beautiful youngest, Sarah Frances, who was named for her paternal grandmother, be far behind?

Aunt Sarah Frances had a beautiful soprano voice and was much in demand as a soloist during her life. When her young namesake sang during the service, those of us that were old enough to remember her could have closed our eyes and believed that she had joined us for her granddaughter's wedding. It was a beautiful moment.

While there, the up side of cell phone communication made itself known. No matter where you go, you are always reachable by those who need to communicate with you. My attorney called. The Court of Civil Appeals had reached a decision. In the matter of BooCat, et al v. State Dept. X et al, they found for BooCat. There is no settlement yet. That is yet to be worked out. I have no idea what that will mean in a practical or monetary way, if any, but he let me know that a precedent has now been set in State of Alabama labor law and that my name will be the name of record on the precedent henceforth and for evermore. If that is all I ever get, that gives me a considerable amount of pleasure, because I am convinced that one reason our director picked on me is that he thought I could be counted on to just fold my tent and disappear quietly into the night without a fight--well, wrong, Claude!

One thing I was able to tell my attorney was that I would probably not be returning to my previous position. American Red Cross has hired the BooCat and I have now spent my first week and one half on the job. I love the new job, but it is quite demanding, especially now while I am having to take all of the courses that Red Cross offers on various subjects so that I can be certified in various areas. I also kidded last week during a blood drive, when I rolled up my sleeves and delivered a pint, that I had worked some places where I thought they had exacted my very life's blood on-the-job, but in retrospect, this was the first job where, in point of fact, anyone had ever literally done so.

Coming home at the end of the day, sometimes as late as ten o'clock at night, has left me little time for blogging. I don't see how so many of you full-time workers keep up with the blogosphere. I have gone to sleep several times over my computer after dinner, given up and gone to bed. Maybe when the job evens out into a more routine existence, I'll keep up better. I hope so. Until then, it will be catch as catch can.

One of the awful things about being in an unjustly administered R.I.F. (Reduction in Force), subsequent lawsuit, and the whole appeals process as you win, win and win again to no avail, is that you start to believe that maybe the other side was right and that you have gotten too old, too slow, and are no longer an asset. When the final decision comes in and the final court panel says, "You were right all along and they were wrong to do what they did." it makes the fight all worth it. For it to happen on the heels of being hired in a wonderful new job and while I was attending a joyous family occasion made it all the better somehow. It was then that I knew God had smiled. She usually does!

Joy Has Returned or Baby Pictures

2008-06-03T19:18:00.008-05:00

Don’t you just love friends you whip out their baby picture albums and make you look at them? Well, get over it! This post is all about "baby pictures."

Friends who live in two condo communities down on the river applied for a grant to manage a feral cat colony that lives in the woods behind them. There are two generous women who have been feeding the colony made up of beautiful, ebony shorthairs. They are healthy and thriving--a bit too well. The grant is for the trapping of the colony members, to neuter or spay them and give them their shots, then to release them back to the colony as a means of controlling the population and keeping it healthy. There is also starting to be an understanding that when a colony is doing that well, even with some outside help, they are filling some ecological need. At that particular location on the river, they are more than likely keeping down the rodent population.

When very young cats or kittens are trapped that can be socialized, they may be adopted out to interested individuals who will agree to the neutering/spaying terms. Since I have never had any animal who was not neutered or spayed, this was a no-brainer for me. Since I had just lost my old tamed feral cat that I had shared my life with for over sixteen years, my friends from church who lived there and helped write the grant made sure I found out as soon as the first two kittens were caught.

They came to me on May 13, and Dr. Tim Hammond, Veterinarian Extraordinaire (who also happens to be a Thurifer Extraordinaire), told me they were four weeks old, probably born on or around April 15, an easy birth date to remember, and that it was okay that I had made the decision to give them Kitten Chow instead of KMR Kitten Formula. He wormed them, pronounced them to be in excellent health, and we made the appointment, in one month, for the first shots.

They started off life being confined to a small area of the house with hard surface flooring until I was sure they understood what the liter box was all about. Since they have brains at least as large a Einstein's, they got that down in ten seconds flat. Over the next week or two, barriers began coming down until they got full run of the house, and run cannot begin to describe it as they rip from one end of the place to the other at full-tilt chasing cat toys and each other with enough zip to solve the world energy crisis. If we could only figure some way to harness all of that kitten power, OPEC could go begging.

Boo, the girl, is the alpha. She is pushy, pushy, pushy. "Here I am. Pick me up. Feed me. Deal with me." Doc, the boy, while a bit larger is quieter, shyer, and started off life herein, hiding under things, and with me saying, "Where is Doc? Have you seen Doc, Boo?" But, when he came out and came around, it would seem that he is going to be the snuggle-bunny. He is the one I find curled up against me in bed when I turn over in the night, the one who sleeps at my feet (and is there now) when I am at the computer, the one who follows me from room to room content to quietly be where I am. Boo is not content to quietly be anywhere. When she arrives she lets everyone know she has made it, at last!

I am happy that, once again, there are cats under this roof. A house without cats is no home at all. When I turned the key at night and opened the door, the yawning darkness with nothing alive inside began to be unbearable. Now, happiness and light run to greet me. Joy has returned.

As promised, or threatened, depending on your point of view, the rest of this post will be devoted to "baby pictures."

Doc and Boo, first night at home, age approximately four weeks.

Doc and Boo, at approximately 6 weeks of age and almost doubled in size.

Boo in her usual, "Deal with me," mode.

Doc contemplating a little light bedtime reading on brain chemistry.

More pictures are sure to follow in the weeks to come whether you want to see them or not. Just remember, you have been warned!

Tough Blessings

2008-05-29T09:41:00.023-05:00

St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Houston, Texas, reported to be the largest Episcopal Church in the United States and, if truth were told, the richest one as well, just became richer than most of them can yet imagine. On June 1, the beloved Rector of our little parish will be arriving among them to be their Vice-rector. My prayer is that they will actually appreciate the man they are getting.

He preached and celebrated his last service for us on May 25, and there was not a dry eye to be seen. Father Kenneth Leigh Fields, who has been the Episcopal Chaplain at the University of Alabama and Rector of Canterbury Episcopal Church and Student Center for the past eleven years is a rare man, indeed. He is one of those powerhouse individuals who is open for business 24/7. Our little chapel has five Eucharist services per week and Morning Prayer is read every weekday morning. During Lent we add weekday Noon Eucharist services. Additionally, he seemingly has time for everyone and every problem. His door is, quite literally, always open. Moreover, the man does not have a judgmental cell in his body.

I knew that I could tell Ken absolutely anything and there would be no judgment rained down on my head nor would I experience any change in attitude from him when next he saw me. Our relationship would be the same as ever. Ken is the only person currently alive on earth who knows absolutely everything there is to know about me, every sin--real or imagined, every triumph and downfall, every joy and sorrow. I talked to an "assembly-line shrink" at my local mental health clinic (required by my insurance provider) for six years and was never able to resolve the issue that had plagued me for forty-five years causing my recurring depression. I was finally able to get it up and out and deal with it in Ken's office. I trusted Ken with the information. I could never quite decide to trust the shrink. (That lack of trust proved to be well founded.) That Ken is moving to the ends of the earth to Papa Bush's church, no less, is rather scary to me at the moment. It is rather like being in the Atlantic Ocean and having the ship with my lifesaver aboard lock through the Panama Canal and into the Pacific.

While being absolutely sorrowful that we are losing him, I am happy for Ken. The parish administrator, Sharon, one of my Daughters of the King sisters, and I had been praying for Ken and his family for some time. Ken and his wife, Mary Alice, at a time when most people their age are thinking about preparing for retirement, were instead, taking care of their daughter, Shannon, and her family, including two beautiful young boys, Logan (under the age of 3) and Jonah (not yet 1). Their son-in-law has a rare and excruciatingly painful vascular disease, polyarteritis nodosa (PAN). Since our arteries go through every organ of our bodies, this disease can and does cause horrific damage and pain willy-nilly throughout Tim's entire being. When he became unable to work, insurance went out the window, so the terrible expense of keeping him alive and his pain under control fell on Ken and Mary Alice.

Since Ken is a student center chaplain, most of his salary comes from the Diocese of Alabama. He has not had a raise from the Diocese since he arrived. When Sharon and I prayed, I think our prayers were more along the lines of, "Please, let this be the year the student center chaplains get a raise, Dear God." not, "Let Ken get a really great job in another state, in a very rich parish, making more than twice his salary here and more than the Bishop of Alabama!" But what we actually prayed for was for good things to happen for Ken and for his family, and we got exactly that. Not only is the family getting sorely needed extra funds, but St. Martin's is connected with St. Luke's Hospital where Tim can get first rate care from a medical staff that specializes in treating illnesses such as his.

It isn't as if Ken went looking for St. Martin's. They came looking for him. They asked, several times, before he finally said he would consider the move. When he flew out and talked with them and they made the offer yet again, he knew what he had to do. God had offered him a lifeboat in the flood. It was what his family needed. As Sharon and I reminded each other through our tears, it is exactly what we had asked God to do for Ken and his family. So, what was our problem? We should just shut up, quit crying and thank God.

God, why does is seem that some blessings are harder to thank you for than others? As for those who are gaining from our loss, the parishioners of St. Martin's in Houston, "For what they are about to receive, please, Dear God, let them be truly thankful."

Book Meme

2008-05-21T15:29:00.009-05:00

I saw this at Paul’s, he saw is at Padre Mickey's; he saw it chez Caminante.“What we have below is a list of the top 106 books most often marked as "unread" by LibraryThing users.

Bold the ones you've read; underline the ones you read for school; italicize the ones you started but didn't finish.”

My results are below. How about you?

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Anna Karenina
Crime and Punishment
Catch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wuthering Heights
The Silmarillion
Life of Pi : a novel
The Name of the Rose
Don Quixote (Does a book study group at church count as school or fun?)
Moby Dick
Ulysses
Madame Bovary
The Odyssey
Pride and Prejudice
Jane Eyre
The Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov (Ditto. See above)
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and Peace
Vanity Fair
The Time Traveler’s Wife
The Iliad
Emma
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
Mrs. Dalloway
Great Expectations
American Gods
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Atlas Shrugged
Reading Lolita in Tehran : a memoir in books
Memoirs of a Geisha
Middlesex
Quicksilver
Wicked : the life and times of the wicked witch of the West
The Canterbury Tales
The Historian : a novel
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera (in progress)
Brave New World
The Fountainhead
Foucault’s Pendulum
Middlemarch
Frankenstein
The Count of Monte Cristo
Dracula
A Clockwork Orange
Anansi Boys
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible : a novel
1984
Angels & Demons
The Inferno (and Purgatory and Paradise) (Ditto. See above.)
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Mansfield Park
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Oliver Twist
Gulliver’s Travels
Les Misérables
The Corrections
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
Dune
The Prince
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes : a memoir
The God of Small Things
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-present
Cryptonomicon
Neverwhere
A Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
Dubliners
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Beloved
Slaughterhouse-five
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake : a novel
Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
Cloud Atlas
The Confusion
Lolita
Persuasion
Northanger Abbey
The Catcher in the Rye
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance : an inquiry into values
The Aeneid
Watership Down
Gravity’s Rainbow
The Hobbit
In Cold Blood : a true account of a multiple murder and its consequences
White Teeth
Treasure Island
David Copperfield
The Three Musketeers

The only book I have ever gotten in trouble over was On the Road. It was given to me by my brother when he had finished it and I took it to school for recreational reading during our free reading period. It was confiscated by my 6th grade teacher who called my mother and asked if she knew what I was reading. She told him she didn't but was not surprised and also let him know that, at my age (12), my reading material was not censored. He was rather shocked since we went to church together and she was considered to be a rather Godly and upright woman. Her opinion, which she shared with him, was that I would be exposed to a great many things in life, good and bad, and that being sheltered and overly protected would not help me discern the one from the other. He did request that I keep that particular book and others like it exclusively for home reading in the future. She agreed to that. It was not until years later that I became aware of the controversy that had swirled around that particular book when it had been published.

What is wrong with this picture?

2008-05-09T13:57:00.007-05:00

The following is lifted from The Tablet, a publication of the Catholic Church in the U.K.:

Williams has pre-Lambeth meeting with Pope Benedict

Robert Mickens

Two cardinals and six bishops will represent the Roman Catholic Church at the Anglican Communion's forthcoming Lambeth Conference, sources confirmed in Rome this week, as the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, held private talks, his second to date, with Pope Benedict XVI at the Vatican, writes Robert Mickens...

The meeting and the news of the Catholic delegation were interpreted by some commentators as Vatican support for Dr Williams, whose leadership has been challenged by some of his fellow Anglican bishops over disagreements on episcopal ordination for women and gays. But Catholic and Anglican sources in Rome told The Tablet that this sort of support should not be seen as extraordinary. They pointed out that it has always been Vatican policy to favour unity within other Churches and ecclesial bodies.

Although it has not yet been officially announced, the sources said that Cardinal Ivan Dias, an Indian who heads the Congregation for Evangelisation of Peoples at the Vatican, and Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor, Archbishop of Westminster, were to head the eight-member delegation of Catholic observers at the Lambeth Conference. The other six Catholic bishops were said to be from 'different parts of the world'.

For the complete article go to http://www.thetablet.co.uk/articles/11433

It is not that I mind if individuals from other denominations attend Lambeth as observers. Count me as one, however, who does not think His Grace should go about inviting others to the table when he has excluded duly elected and consecrated bishops from his own communion and has set about putting up all kinds of other roadblocks, such as Windsor Report Loyalty Oaths, as pre-conditions for attendance. This man becomes more vexing by the nanosecond. If he is going to swim the Tiber, let him get on his fins and his snorkel and just get about it.

WOODWORK at the Peace Abbey / Bells of Norwich (Live)

2008-05-07T17:01:00.008-05:00

And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Thanks to John-Julian, OJN, over at the Mad Priest's Blog for the reference to this group. Saint Julian and her cat have always been special to me. One of the reason's I love Saint Augustine's Church in Metairie, Louisiana, so much is because of the beautiful icon of Dame Julian that adorns their nave. (See below.)

A Duck in the American Justice System

2008-04-18T13:07:00.013-05:00

A Prayer for Courts of Justice:
(BCP p.821)

Almighty God, who sittest in the throne judging right: We humbly beseech thee to bless the courts of justice and the magistrates in all this land; and give unto them the spirit of wisdom and understanding, that they may discern the truth, and impartially administer the law in the fear of thee alone; through him who shall come to be our Judge, thy Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen

Yesterday, oral arguments were heard before the Court of Civil Appeals in our case that is still pending some three years after the original R.I.F. (Reduction in Force) that was carried out by the state department for which I worked. (Department X, et al v. The BooCat, et al). No matter what happens, for better or worse, I am about to become part of precedent case law in our state since I am the litigant of record. I hope it is for the better.

Our department lacked funds and had to lay off workers, but instead of laying off from the bottom up, they decided they could save the most money by laying off senior, tenured employees, and they did so without notice or a hearing. They contend we were not covered by the Fair Labor Dismissal Act. Thus far, however, an Administrative Law Judge in the Attorney General’s Office and a Circuit Court Judge, have said that they were wrong and we were covered. Not taking two opinions as a final answer, the other side appealed and that has taken us, slowly, slowly, slowly up one more rung in the justice system’s ladder.

The Court was convened in an auditorium in Birmingham, Alabama, on the campus of Samford University, before the faculty and students of the Cumberland School of Law. Having sat through the entire proceeding, I must say I feel somewhat better about the quality of the justice system in our state. I felt that the justices were well prepared. They all seemed to be very familiar with the briefs in this case. They asked well thought out and probing questions. At one point when the opposing counsel tried to say that we were not state employees but independent contractors, one judge asked how was it then that we all got state benefits such as state retirement and insurance since it was illegal for independent contractors to get those benefits. The judge then said, “Can we say that if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, it is more than likely a duck?” I was seized with an almost uncontrollable urge to go, “Quack, quack, quack!” (Who would have even suspected that the BooCat could quack?) That of course would have gotten me ejected from the courtroom with a contempt citation. The BooCat didn’t even let a small meow escape her very pleased self.

Even if we win this action, we will have merely won the right to a hearing under the Fair Labor Dismissal Act. We will then be fighting that process up through a system of appeals and we may be back again at the Court of Civil Appeals arguing over the merits of the individual cases instead some arcane point of law.

I was fifty-eight when this started back in 2005. I am now sixty-one. I once predicted that I would probably get my back pay and my Social Security check the same week. That might be too true to be funny. I do thank God every day for every penny I spent of A.E.A. (Alabama Education Association) dues. When others were complaining about the expense and saying they had better things to do with that money, I continued to pay. It was the best money I ever spent. I could have never have afforded the legal expenses in this case.

Since we are a far flung lot made up out of career centers located from one end of this state to the other and not all of us have been present at all of the same proceedings, many of the members of this action have not met, even though we may have come into contact with each other over the years at state training conferences and meetings. I met one of the other plaintiffs yesterday after the adjournment and he related to me the circumstances of how he and others in his center were notified that they no longer were going to be employed.

At the end of the workday on the last day of the program year, they were all called into the conference room and lined up around the perimeter of the room. The Career Center Coordinator went around the room pointing to people saying, “You have a job; you have a job; you don’t; you do; you don’t; etc.” One woman who was at a satellite facility had her status announced to all present even though she was not officially told she did not have a job for three days. I cannot even imagine such insensitivity. In my humble opinion, the Coordinator who did that should be fired or, at the very least, should be demoted. It is obvious that she has risen above her capacity to perform. As rough as things were at our center, they were at least handled with more tact than that.

He related that he plummeted into an immediate and profound depression. When they left the parking lot that afternoon and a train was blocking the highway, he told me it took all the will he could muster to keep from floor-boarding his car and smashing headlong into the side of the train, ending his life. That would have assured his wife of all of his retirement and insurance benefits while they were still in force. Hearing that, I began to realize the state was very lucky that some of their employees didn’t actually do something that awful. Lord, have mercy.

I let our lawyer know that a stalwart band of Episcopalians was praying for him and for the plaintiffs in this action. He let me know that a sizeable group of Southern Baptists were doing the same. I told him that I would gratefully accept the prayers of all denominations and all faiths. Whatever happens now is in the hands of the good men and women of the Appellate Court and the hands of God, the Almighty.

Flower Guild Duty

2008-04-07T21:33:00.018-05:00

This was my weekend for Flower Guild. I was quite "flower challenged" when I began this pursuit and still can't hold a candle to most of the Flower Guild members, but God has been benevolent this spring. (She usually is.) Our churchyard has been blooming with all kinds of plants for the past month. The dogwoods have been especially showy this year. With flowers this fantastic, the arranger doesn't have to be very good.

The photograph shows the flowers on the retable behind the altar. Behind the flowers, your can glimpse the pipes of our magnificent Holtkamp tracker organ. It sounds just as fantastic as you would imagine. The University Music Department actually incorporates our instrument into its music program. We are also very blessed to have Michael Williams as Organist/Choirmaster. He is one of the most talented individuals any of us has ever met. His range and his abilities on the organ never cease to surprise and amaze us.

This is the back of the Chapel with the Baptismal Font and our Columbarium. A place for our entry into and our final exit from Canterbury. The hanging is a needlepoint design by Kay Jones (may she rest in peace). Kay was a war bride from Great Britain who worked with needle and thread the way some artists work with paint and brushes. She did everything freehand--no paterns. The stylized Canterbury crosses on the hanging and in the Columbarium window are taken from our window at the front of the Chapel. For many years it was our only stained glass. We are slowly adding other windows through gifts and memorials. The organ pipes now make it difficult to see the original window.

The flowers are dogwoods and our native azaleas. The native azalea in the Chapel garden is blooming profusely. It has been a wonder to behold.

Our little chapel is so plain and simple, but its beauty, somehow, is in that very simplicity. In times of my worst inner turmoil, I can quietly sit in the chapel at Canterbury and peace settles over me. It is one of the thin places on this earth where God's presence is easily felt in some inexplicable way.

Oh, dear. I’ve been Tagged!

2008-03-14T20:24:00.005-05:00

BlackStar, a handsome fellow of the four-legged variety, and a member of the infamous Duck Noodle Gang of Sidney, found at Caliban’s Dream, has tagged me. As he stated to me and the others he tagged:

These are the rules of the game we’re playing: better listen closely ‘cause you could be next.

1. You have to post the rules before you give your answers.
2. You must list one fact about yourself beginning with each letter of your middle name. (If you don't have a middle name, use your maiden name or your mother's maiden name).
3. At the end of your blog post, you need to tag one person (or blogger of another species) for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged.)

Let’s go!

My middle name is Maia. My mother, who named me, was a student of Latin and Greek. I am named for the oldest and brightest of the Pleiades, the seven sister stars. They are the daughters of Atlas. Maia is the mother of Hermes (or Mercury in Roman myth) the messenger of the gods, Zeus being his father. She and her sisters are currently being pursued around the heavens by Orion, the Hunter, who is cursed to eternally hunt them, but to never catch them. (Maia, does seem to get around--first Zeus then Orion, then from one end of the heavens to the other!)

M
I am myopic. (After my first visit to the ophthalmologist, I brought home a note to my father from his friend, Dr. Clements, that read, “Dear Bob, Miss Maia is myopic.” I am also madcap, as in a loose cannon on the deck, if you happen to believe the person who thinks I am a “dangerous woman,” and a maiden, for sure, since I have never married. So, of this writing, I am a madcap, myopic maiden.

A
I am quite affable and though I can be analytical, after gathering all the facts of a thing, I ultimately go where my heart leads me. In the end I turn out to be accepting and accommodating.

I
I tend to be imaginative but impractical. I am insightful when assisting others with their situations, but often clueless about my own. Currently I am a bit impoverished by U.S. standards, but realize that I would be considered rich most places on this earth. Since the Court of Civil Appeals is now set to hear oral arguments in our action in the middle of April, maybe back pay will soon be coming. Even if we lose, I am more than thankful to God for what I do have. Finally, I have an impish streak. “The Devil made me do it!” sometimes applies to me, but never in a hurtful way.

A
A again, didn’t we do A already? Well, I am astigmatic, both eyes, to go along with my myopia. I am a bit ambidextrous—some things I do with the right hand, some with the left, some can go either way. I am an amateur. I mean this in the best possible definition of the word. Many things I do are self-taught. I become interested, read extensively on the subject, and then attempt to do whatever the thing may be. Finally, to go along with that last bit, I am an avid reader.

Well now I have to tag four people: BrianC, Ellie,Raspberry Rabbit, and Janis
That should do it and it only took all day. Who says I have A.D.D.?

Good-bye to the Man in the Mu

2008-03-03T22:01:00.016-06:00

The Mu-man, late in life, with his prized possession, an organic catnip bone, imported for his pleasure from Oregon by his friend Lee.

There are few creatures on this earth who will love us unconditionally, and usually those who do have four feet. One of the best of those was a seventeen year old feral cat whose Christian name was Shamu the Magnificent, but was widely know hither and yon as the Mu-Man. He had defied all expert opinion and at the age of six months had decided all on his own to become tame, to come in out of the miserable Southern heat and to share his sweet nature with me and others in my circle of family and friends—and a sweeter, more loving and generous companion I could not have asked for in the past sixteen and one-half years.

In the action he took that day, he had more courage than many humans I know. He had the courage to take the leap of faith, to take a chance on love and acceptance, knowing from his rough and tumble life on the street that it was more than possible that all he would get would be a swift kick in the backside. He took the chance anyway. That I love him should go without saying, but as much as I loved him, he returned that love a thousand, thousand fold.

When he arrived, he was just the low man on the totem-pole in a house full of brother and sister cats and dogs. He gave most of the cats a wide berth, but Truffle the Bad, my father’s teacup poodle (a snarly little yapper) was his best pal. After Truffle’s death, the Mu-man seemed to know that my dad needed lots of TLC, and he would spend many hours each day in Dad’s lap taking up the slack left by Truffle. Every night, however, the Mu-man would be curled up on the foot of my bed. For the entire sixteen and one-half years, he began almost every night at the foot of my bed and began the following morning nuzzling my face to wake me up for breakfast. Since he had his own cat door and could come and go at will, what he did in between, during my sleeping hours, was anybody’s guess.

Following my father’s death, it was I who was the recipient of Mu’s TLC. He would follow me from room to room and hop into my lap whenever I would sit. Sometimes he would stand in the middle of the hall outside of my father’s room and simply cry in the most mournful and plaintive manner imaginable. This was from a cat who rarely, if ever, even meowed. (The lack of crying seems to be typical of feral cats. Their mothers teach them silence to protect them from marauding toms who would think of them as nothing more than food on the hoof.) Mu’s other brief periods of cat-speak always came on the heels of having been boarded at “Cat Prison” while I was out of town for some reason or another. He seemed to quickly learn how to cry for food or attention while he was being boarded, but forgot it within a matter of days or weeks upon his return home.

As the other pets in the household aged and died, gradually it became just the Mu-man and me. I tried to introduce new friends to the household to keep him company, but he made it quite clear that, in his old age, he valued his solitary existence.

Over the past few years, he has had a syndrome common for old cats involving the liver, pancreas and bowel. His appetite remained good, he continued to take in plenty of water and had prodigious output even as his kidney profile worsened, but he was unable to sustain weight gain. He would take nosedives that looked as if he had arrived at death’s door, but a round of steroids and antibiotics would have him ripping and snorting as if he were a young tom.

This last week the Mu began preparing me for his parting. He began following me about the house and stretching-out on his side in the floor close by me. This stretching-out is unusual in cats, or it has been in any cats I have had. They tend to curl up. He was no longer cleaning himself, so I was using moist cat wipes and a soft brush to keep his coat groomed. He especially was having problems with his face since he no longer seemed to be able to keep cat food residue off of his nose. When I would put him in my lap and groom him—very gently since he was just skin and bones—he would purr quietly to thank me.

Over the week-end he ceased eating. He would no longer sleep on the foot of the bed. (I believe it hurt him when I turned over in my sleep.) He had no fever. He did nothing to indicate he was in distress. By yesterday evening he was taking only very little water.

This morning I got no wake-up call. He was stretched out in the floor by my bed, but didn’t have the energy to roust me out one last time. We went to Dr. Tim Hammond’s office. He actually looked grateful when I wrapped him in his blanket and placed him in his carrier. This was disturbing, because subterfuge must be used to get any cat into his carrier and the Mu-man is no exception.

Tim, who is the thurifer in our parish, is both a wonderful person and a compassionate and talented veterinarian. He has brought Mu back from the brink on many occasions of late when I thought it was all over. Today that was not possible. Mu had a mass in the cecum. The rest of the intestines had become entangled in the mass and the whole thing had ruptured. He had peritonitis. It was irreparable. Tim simply put him out during the surgery.

As part of the Lenten Season, our parish is having a daily Noon Eucharist Service. I was in attendance today. As we were asked to name aloud those for whom we offered our prayers, I prayed aloud for the Mu-man. At almost that exact moment Tim was helping bring his life to an end with as little pain and suffering as possible. It was an answered prayer.

Standing on the Promises

2008-02-17T18:54:00.006-06:00

Over at the Mad Priest's site tonight on the Midnight Jukebox, he had a collection of old gospel songs and hymns. One, "Standing on the Promises," being sung by a group called simply, Tennessee Mountaineers, triggered unexpected memories.

Hearing the hymn, I began remembering what it was like to be in a small, country church in the rural South, lending my own young, sure voice to others in a congregation singing "Standing On The Promises." It would have been at a time when I had not yet questioned faith. Later in the service a well-meaning but oftentimes not well educated preacher would rain down hellfire, brimstone and dire warnings on my inexperienced and impressionable ears.

That God was just beyond the church roof watching us all and everything that we were doing there was never in doubt. That I could count on every promise I read in the Authorized King James Version of the Bible, as interpreted by preachers, such as the one in my childhood memory, also was without question.

It was such a simple time, the lull before a storm, many storms as it happened. The Civil Rights Era had not yet dawned to make me question a church where I would save up my coins for the annual "Lottie Moon Christmas Offering" for foreign missions and get the message that it was okay to save black souls in Africa but not to sit by a black person on Sunday morning in our own church.

I had not yet questioned a God who would allow my beautiful mother to die young with cancer. It would be a while yet before I found, when I prayed with all I had within me for her healing and deliverance, that even if Jesus, in that same Authorized King James Version of the Bible, did promise that "whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son," it might not actually happen.

Sometimes when I think about that young girl raising her voice, singing praises to her God, I yearn for that simpler time of unquestioning faith. On the other hand, is faith that has never been put to the test faith at all?

I gave up on faith altogether for a time. I liked to think that when I returned it was a more mature faith with greater wisdom, gleaned from life's tough experiences. When it comes to faith, however, the very concept of having faith, can there be a more mature approach? In order to take the leap, do we not ultimately have to let that ten year old child within us reach out and grasp Christ's hand, lift up our voices with absolute abandon and sing, "Standing on the Promises?"

My Time of Day?

2008-02-14T15:47:00.002-06:00

Thanks or blame goes to Paul for this one.

My Tarot Card? Perhaps.

2008-02-09T05:26:00.000-06:00

Thanks to johnieb.

You are The Star

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised

The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

The Last Item on a Life List

2008-02-07T08:50:00.001-06:00

This morning my friend, B.J., came to the last item on her “Life List.” (See: The Life List, http://applenotfar.blogspot.com/2007/08/life-list.html) Over the past two weeks B.J.’s health began a rapid decline. She stopped eating and she began speaking Old English. (She was an English teacher with a Master’s Degree, and when the cancer reached her brain it triggered this quirk—stored knowledge from some past class.) She had become so weak that she willingly moved in with her nephew and his wife. This was not typical of the staunchly independent B.J. I got my last telephone call from her and she told me how wonderful her family is, what good care she was receiving and how comforting it was to her. She couldn’t talk for long. She said it tired her too much. This was also not typical for B.J. We had shared some marathon telephone calls at Cingular’s expense. Cingular-to-Cingular is free, even at prime calling times.

Her oncology team had begun radiation to knock out the brain metastasis and with it the language difficulty. She had been put on steroids to control brain swelling from the radiation. That, and the return of the liver mass, had caused her weakness. She began sleeping eighteen out of every twenty-four hours. When she asked when she could resume chemo, he doctors suggested that it might now be time to consider hospice. B.J., ever the fighter, thought she might want to give one more round of chemo a shot.

Yesterday morning, B.J. collapsed in the floor and couldn’t get up. She had to be taken by ambulance to the emergency room. When her sister, Mary Jane, told her the doctor said she would be admitted to the hospital and would not be coming home, she commented, “whoopee ki yay!” As Mary Jane said, “Isn’t that just B.J.?!!!”

She was put on morphine to be kept as comfortable as possible. Her nephew Jon was with her when she slipped away at 5:30 this morning. She leaves behind her sister, Mary Jane; nephews, Jonathan and Rick; niece, Emily; great nephew, Joshua; great nieces Jessica and Jackie; and more friends and students whose lives she touched than could possibly be numbered.

Mary Jane is positive that she was met on the other side by her beloved dogs. I don’t doubt it. If not, St. Peter will find out what it is like to come up against the determined spirit of our B.J.

B.J. was a beautiful woman and truly filled with God’s loving spirit. She has seen me through many rough patches in my life. No matter where I go in life or what I do, I will always wonder if I am experiencing some item done or left undone on B.J.’s “Life List.” Rest in peace and rise in glory B.J. Save us a seat.

Things That Go Lump in the Night—and Day

2008-01-31T06:46:00.000-06:00

The dreaded call came yesterday. The one all women hate to get. The radiology lab called and said they needed me to come in for an additional study of my right breast. Although the technician hadn’t noticed anything unusual when I went in for my annual mammogram Monday, after the Radiologist read it yesterday, he saw something that required a more careful examination—an ultrasound for sure and a CT scan perhaps.

“Could I come in Friday at 9:00 a.m.?”

“Could I teleport right through the phone this instant?” is what I felt like asking in return.

Logic tells me to keep a cool head. This will probably prove to be nothing, a calcification in a milk gland perhaps or some kind of fibrocystic anomaly. No one should exactly be planning my memorial service at this stage of the game. This is not my Aunt Frances’ day, and whatever it is was so small that the technician didn’t notice it at the time of the actual mammogram.

Why then is my head not cool? Why then did I get only fitful sleep? Why then are there tears in my eyes as I write this? I am a Type II Diabetic who has lost over 170 pounds (over half of my body weight) and ten sizes and has managed to keep it off for over one year, but I ate chocolate CANDY yesterday in one huge mother of all anxiety attacks. I woke up with a fasting blood sugar over 100 for the first time in 10 years! How self-destructive is that!

Well, buck-up, old girl! Don’t holler till you're hurt. I am going to get dressed, go to Morning Prayer, and know that whatever comes, I do not have to face this alone. God will see me through. She always does.

A Dangerous Woman

2008-01-19T13:45:00.001-06:00

My friend with the closed door recently resurfaced. (See Standing on the Porch http://applenotfar.blogspot.com/2007/08/standing-on-porch.html) He communicated with a mutual friend about me. He told her that he knew I was bipolar and that I was “a dangerous woman.” This provokes so much laughter in me every time I think about it that, even now, I am having trouble typing this post.

For one thing, it is simply not true. I am not bipolar. I would like to make it crystal clear, however, that I am not afraid of that word. It is simply a diagnosis like any other. It is merely a description of a disease the same as any other, such as tonsillitis, sleep apnea or hepatitis-c. If it were my diagnosis, I would not give a fig who knew it. It just does not happen to be my diagnosis.

My particular diagnosis is simple, atypical, episodic depression that is triggered by loss. Even my former shrink, who probably did as well as he could by me considering he was practicing assembly line psychiatry, thought my depression was not that unusual or abnormal considering the amount of loss I have experienced in life. Also, in his defense, he did not have all of the facts of my life. As it turned out, I now consider that a good thing. I later was finally able to let go of all the worrying details of my youth with my priest. Sharing with a priest has many advantages. The greatest being, they are not written down in some file where God-knows-who will have future access.

The shocking thing about all of this was the implication of my friend’s attitude about mental illness. This is an intelligent, educated man. Is his thinking on mental health really stuck back in the dark ages of demonic possession? I wonder. Perhaps, or perhaps if he can objectify someone, personhood is lost. Unlike a person, a label has no feelings and that burden is removed. It simply becomes another porch and another locked door. I continue to pray for my friend.

Meanwhile back at Casa BooCat: There have been many adjectives used to describe me throughout my life. I know of many and there are doubtless some that I don’t. As far as I know, however, this is the only time anyone has ever referred to me as a “dangerous woman.” After the initial shock of it, I have had the most fun thinking of myself in in those terms. The absolute ludicrousness of it, of course, is if he searched the whole world over he would be hard pressed to find a less innocuous creature than I.

There has been one great positive outcome of this silly situation. It has been very difficult to have the winter blues. In fact, there is almost no way at all to feel sad with a great big smirky grin on my face. Since I found out about this, whenever I catch as glimpse of myself reflected in a mirror or a shop window, I break out in a broad smile, laugh (not always completely silently), and try to think of myself in terms of all of the "dangerous women" of stage, screen and literature. A little chorus of "You go, girl, you dangerous, dangerous woman!” pops right into my head as I go happily on my way.

I Can Has Cheezeburger, Peese?

2008-01-04T21:11:00.000-06:00

moar funny pictures

Tom Smith Cat Macros

I is a kitty and I has good fun
I is entertaining everyone
Dint used to be an internet icon
Till my mom got a digital Nikon
Now she stalks me round the house
Interrupt when Ize chasin a mouse
Waitin for me to make a silly pose,
Stickin that camera up my nose
Goes to compooter, she starts playin
Makes up something I might be sayin
Upload the pic for all to see,
All her online friends go SQUEEEEE
Cat macros.

So I go cuddlin wit a stuffed bear
Gettin peanut butter all over my hair
Sprawled in a sunbeam, swattin at flies
Trapped in the laundry wit big sad eyes
Lickin at toesies, scratchin at fleas
"I can has cheezeburger, peese?"
Mom still doin her photo shoot,
Good thing my little furry butt is cute
Stickin my nose in an empty dish
Lookin for an invisible fish
I has no idea what you just said
So here's me with a pancake on my head
Cat macros.

Now I is songcat singin this bridge
From my stage on top o' da fridge
I is only two years of age
But I got my own MySpace page
Da silly pictures people wants
But only wit impact fonts
I keep dis up, but for how long?
Oh hi, I transpozed yur song

So I has lyric all my own
Can I has leftover to take home?
I is Emo Kitty, I has angst
I gots yur breakfast, k, thx
Invisible Walrus step on you
No, I has mighty feline fu
Yur full o' win - Yur full o' lose
Last Verse Kitty is not amused
I'm in yur Thai food, nibblin' ginger
I is stealth kitty, bein a ninja
I'm in yur spookhouse, bein a haunt
I'm in yur limburger -- DO NOT WANT!

Ringing in the New

2008-01-01T09:18:00.000-06:00

Last night I realized that I had crested the hill and was marching down the other side when I had absolutely no need at all to stay up and watch 2007 leave while 2008 came in the door. The only thing fizzy I could find in the house was a bottle of America's Original Pumpkin Ale my sister-in-law had sent home with me from this year's family holiday celebrations; so, I toasted the cat and turned in early. That turned out to be folly.

Cat owners know that when it thunders, cats find God's resident intermediary to seek protection from what ever the hell it is that is happening just beyond the safe confines of the house. Thunder and lightening? Fireworks? Cats make little, if any, distinctions. Both are big noises with flashes of light that set cat nerve endings on edge and require immediate reassurances.

As the midnight hour grew nearer and the celebrations intensified, the Mu-man finally became more insistent. He was a bit needy anyway. I had just picked him up from "cat prison" where he had been for five days while I attended the family gathering on the other side of the state. He braved the dreaded C-pap mask to nudge his nose as close to mine as possible. Well, that did it! I was awake. It was 11:45 CST.

There I was in the dark holding onto a cat who promptly went to sleep now that there was a human on guard to keep the noise devil at bay. My across-the-street neighbor's son, Bo, was shooting off his bottle rockets and Roman candles that lighted up my bedroom window. Even though we have had a record dry year, the past week as been sloppily, drizzly wet making it safe for all of the kids in the neighborhood to have their fun.

In the distance, I thought I could hear church bells. In my dreamy half-asleep state I was not sure if they were real or imagined. With the mixture of sounds, I thought about those who are less fortunate. Those booms and flashes might mean death from the sky in other places around the world. It might be my own country delivering those packages of death. What an awful thought. I prayed for peace.

The church bells remind me of the coming storm, already begun, in our own Anglican Communion. I wonder what it is that is so difficult about loving and accepting everyone as they are, as we want to be accepted. I wonder why we cannot leave all judgment where it belongs, in the hands of God. Why are these concepts so difficult? How can we call ourselves Christians with hearts full of judgment and hate? What will 2008 bring? How can we make it better? I prayed for the state of the Church in the world.

I prayed for all of the people I love, the ones here, the ones who are away, and those who have died. I prayed for my enemies and those who wish me harm. I prayed that if I had wronged anyone, he or she would find forgiveness for me in this new year.

Somewhere in the midst of all of that, I finally drifted back off to sleep. At six my little alarm clock got me up--no, I didn't set my alarm for New Year's day, but a cat is better than ten alarms. Whoever it was that said a hungry cat doesn't have a snooze button got it right.

Today, I will drive through the Diner pick-up and get an order of black-eyed peas, cornbread and turnip greens. Except for the turnip greens, that is a terrible meal for someone on a low carb diet to have. Getting one order to go at least helps with portion control. What can I say, I'm a Southerner and I am too superstitious to start the New Year without it. I hope it works and this coming year proves better than the last. Let's surprise ourselves and ring in the new!

The Name of the Tree Seems Right, at Least.

2007-12-21T20:27:00.000-06:00

I happened on this bit of nonsense at Kirstin's site, Barefoot and Laughing. So here it is and it rather surprised me considering the name of this blog.

You Are An Apple Tree

You are quiet and shy at times, but you have lots of charm and appeal.
You are quite attractive: your pleasant attitude, flirtatious smile, and adventurous spirit draw people in.
Sensitive and loyal in love, you want to love and be loved.
You are a faithful and tender partner - who is generous in sharing your many talents.
You love children, and you need an affectionate partner.

What's Your Celtic Horoscope?

Wishful Thinking

2007-12-19T09:52:00.000-06:00

Over at “Caminante, no hay camino,” (http://caminantesi.blogspot.com/) there was a post today about the problems associated with being a country priest in northern Vermont--specifically, having to deal, in the winter, with all of the snow and ice and the related havoc that kind of weather brings upon churches and rectories of, let us say, a certain historic era.

I was reminded that those of us in the South find it easy to sit here where we truly believe it is cold if the high for the day is 40F, and admire the picturesque beauty of snowfall in places such as Vermont. We live in a land where we think of snow as fluffy white beauty and a heavenly wonder. We pray with all of our hearts that God will bless us with a white Christmas.

Why we do this I do not know. Not a single one of us really knows how to drive in the stuff unless we are transplants from other geographical areas. Even the transplants, however, would be foolhardy to venture forth. You may know how to drive in it, but if 90 per cent of the populace does not and they all drive as if there is a demolition derby in progress, there is no way you will escape your fate. If even so much as one-half of an inch sticks to any road, all locomotion grinds to a halt. Stores are closed. Public facilities are closed including schools, courthouses, city halls, and you-name-it. All food disappears from grocery store shelves as we become hoarders. We truly believe that we will be cabin bound until the spring thaw and that if we don’t gather in sufficient provisions; someone will eventually find our emaciated corpses in our houses.

In our defense I would point out, we do not have snowplows, salt/chemical de-icing stockpiles and other coping mechanisms at our disposal as do our neighbor in less moderate climes. When they are only needed, on average, once per decade, they are looked on as a shameful waste as a line-item in governmental budgets. That would be somewhat akin to desert dwellers putting in a line-item for forest fires just on the off chance that they might actually one day grow a forest.

Since our snows can be counted on to melt away magically within four or five days tops from first flake to last shady patch on our lawns, we never have to deal with ice dams on the roof or shoveling off of a roof (What a concept!). We never have to worry about ducking past those gloriously gleaming icicles hanging from the eaves of the house and glimmering so photogenically in the sun that might actually let go and kill us (Who knew?) and myriad other problems unimagined by us as we gaze into snow globes or look at the beautiful photographs uploaded by someone willing to share his or her visual experiences with us at flckr or Webshots.

All of that said, I still today, as I stare at my snow globe and look at the photographs that Caminante has up on her blog (especially on December 16 and 17), am offering up my feverent prayer to God for a white Christmas.

What Classic Movie Am I?

2007-11-19T18:16:00.000-06:00

This is actually a heavy and very scary thought. It rather gave me quite a pause for thought when it came up. I don't know yet how I feel about this.

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

How I Spent My Fall Vacation

2007-11-15T11:46:00.001-06:00

The Williams Crew in front of our drywall handiwork with homeowners, Ted and Toni.

The latter part of last week, a group from St. Matthias Episcopal Church in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, traveled to Camp Coast Care in Long Beach, Mississippi, where Katrina relief is still in full swing. They let one lone interloper from another parish (me) tag along to assist with their efforts. We were split up to work on different on-going projects. On the project where several others and I were assigned, we were combined with individuals from the Episcopal Diocesan Retreat Center in Fredericksburg, Maryland; Christ Church Cathedral in Lexington, Kentucky; and members of the Corps of Cadets from the Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina. In the few days we were there, we completed the dry wall in the home owners’ kitchen/great room, installed new windows, and changed out some defective base plugs. At the end of the week we all felt some sense of accomplishment. I believe we would all have stayed another week or two if we could have done so. I would bet we will all be back. This is my second trip to Coast Care, and I have also worked within the Diocese of Louisiana in the New Orleans area.

It has been over a year since I was last at Coast Care and I was very encouraged by the progress we saw around us as we arrived. There are stores and shopping malls now open. There is even one outlet mall in operation off of Interstate-10. We arrived at night and there was no longer that awful black nothingness surrounding us as we hit the coast and made the final approach to Long Beach. Where there was absolute desolation before, there are signs of life and regeneration.

I was also very encouraged about the Episcopal Church. Surely there must have been Episcopalians of every stripe taking part in the work that was being done there. There must of have been very conservative church members working side by side with those of a more liberal bent. If so, it was never an issue. Everyone worked hard together, laughed heartily together, and had a genuine love of his or her neighbor in the best Christian fashion. The refrain of the Cursillo song: “And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” comes to mind. We were sure that the home owners, Ted and Toni, felt it and we, in return, felt loved by them. Isn’t that how it is supposed to be after all?

Unfortunately, it will be necessary for Camp Coast Care to operate for quite some time to come. The combined Lutheran and Episcopal Ministries is tackling the restoration of housing destroyed by Katrina for families and individuals who were not insured or whose insurance companies were not forthcoming and who cannot afford to restore their houses themselves. They are doing this one project at a time and are dependant on donations and volunteer labor for the effort.

If you can, I would urge you to make arrangements to go to Camp Coast Care (www.campcoastcare.com) and get your hands dirty and find all of the major muscle groups that you haven’t used in the past year or two. At the same time you would be helping your neighbor. You’ll be dog tired at the end of the day, but it will be the best tired feeling you will have experienced in a long time. If you are like me, you will also find yourself extremely thankful to God for the gift of soap, shampoo and hot water in a way that a day spent at a computer keyboard can never quite evoke.

If you cannot go and sweat on site, let your money work for you. Send a check to Camp Coast Care, 5061 Espy Ave., Long Beach, MS 39560. Camp Coast Care is operated by Lutheran Episcopal Services in Mississippi and is funded primarily through Episcopal Relief and Development; so, you could also contribute to the ERD Hurricane Relief Fund and request that it go for Katrina Aid. That would also get the money to the Gulf Coast area. Katrina may be old news to most of us who live away from the coast, but it is still an oozing wound that needs attention. So, by all means, do something. Your help is greatly needed.

"Let them be joyful on their beds"

2007-11-05T15:39:00.000-06:00

As the choir prepared for the singing for the Psalm for yesterday's service, uncontrollable laughter broke out when we reached the following verse:

Let the faithful rejoice in triumph;
let them be joyful on their beds.

Now, there is probably some killjoy who is probably going to give a perfectly good explanation of this verse letting us all know that it does not mean what it seems to mean if we take it at face value, as stated in the Revised Common Lectionary. In fact, I have already found it in the KJV and the NLT, both of which seem to make reference to the saints in glory or the faithful "singing aloud" as they lie in their beds. As for most of the members of our little choir, I believe we prefer our own thoughts on the subject.

Did God make us the sexual beings that we are? Should we not then be joyful on our beds? Perhaps all of the "bedroom police" that have sprung up about us in the Anglican Communion should read this little Psalm and learn to be "joyful on their beds." Perhaps they would be happier individuals with less time to worry about what everyone else was doing behind closed doors. Perhaps peace, harmony, inclusion and acceptance would once again return to us.

I Can Thank My Baptist Roots for Some Things

2007-10-27T20:47:00.000-05:00

I happened across this little quiz while following a link to another entirely different quiz. Mother would be proud. Sword drill left its mark and it would seem that mark is indelible. Who knew?

You know the Bible 100%!

Wow! You are awesome! You are a true Biblical scholar, not just a hearer but a personal reader! The books, the characters, the events, the verses - you know it all! You are fantastic!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Meditation on Genesis 9: 1-17

2007-10-22T15:04:00.000-05:00

I have begun my first year of EFM Studies working with a mentor through my parish. The first year is a study of the Old Testament. We have now made it through the story of Noah and the flood. The assignment for the First Year Group was to write a meditation on how we see the relevance of Genesis 9:1-17 in our present-day lives.

As I read this passage, it brought both joy and sadness. There was joy that God, in his divine providence, chose to redeem humankind and his complete creation. There was sadness that it was necessary. There was also sadness that all other living things in this world were afraid of humankind and continue, with good cause, to be afraid.

Here we stand, untold eons later, still reeking havoc with God’s creation, still doing harm to ourselves and each other. One wonders what God must think of us today. Since he has been silent since the flood, we can only speculate, but it is probably not to hard to imagine some of his feelings.

The image of the rainbow is a hopeful one. I know that we still have floods, famines, and one look at the Lower Ninth Ward will let anyone realize the destructive force of nature. I, however, can no longer believe in a God who would use these things to punish everyone for the evil doings of a few, especially those poor who seem to bear the disproportional brunt of such ecosystems gone awry and are least responsible. Instead, I see much of such disasters as a failure of humankind (governmental malfeasance, greed, corruption) than direct intervention of God.

I do believe that if we let God’s love into all our lives and all of our dealings with each other, the world’s problems would become better. If we would treat each other with God’s love, perhaps that would be the long-awaited coming of God’s kingdom on earth.

Uber Cool Nerd Queen, Who Knew?

2007-10-14T05:59:00.001-05:00

I'm a Real Lulu!

2007-10-09T16:51:00.000-05:00

HSUS MySpace Page | Take the Quiz!

Any Way the Wind Blows

2007-10-03T22:22:00.000-05:00

I find the recent turn of events in our wonderful church and in the greater Anglican Communion very disturbing indeed. As a failed Southern Baptist and failed agnostic (in that order), the thing that I found most beautiful, the most comforting about the Episcopal Church was its openness and inclusiveness. I gloried in the fact that a full spectrum of thought was not only tolerated but actually welcomed and embraced. I found no litmus test when I arrived. I was a baptized believer who became confirmed in the church. I faithfully attend services, take an active part in parish life—contributing what I can where I can, and I stand cheek by jowl every week with my brothers and sisters of every theological stripe with my hands outstretched being fed with the very body and blood of my Lord and Savior.

The Lord I serve is, in some respects, an easy Lord. He requires only that I believe and accept. Once that is accomplished, however, I find the initial choice leads to some more difficult choices down the line. Jesus sometimes asks of us difficult choices. He was not ever a part of the institutional status quo. He brought the world something new.

What we seemed to get in New Orleans was a bad case of, “Let’s don’t rock the boat, the S.S. Greater Anglican Communion.” Jesus’ entire ministry on earth consisted of nothing but boat rocking. He rocked every institutional, theological boat he could locate. He challenged every law and tradition: speaking with unaccompanied women, breaking the purity laws, picking and eating grain on the Sabbath, healing on the Sabbath, and on and on. This begs the question: “Do we follow where the Spirit leads, or do we do what is pragmatic for the institutional church?”

I still have many God issues, and of late, I have been very hurt by what is going on in this Episcopal Church that I love so much and in the Anglican Communion. I think back on my upbringing during the Civil Rights Era in the South and it would seem we always have to reinvent the wheel. Why is that? If we could all just see that everything there is--peace on earth, proper and just use of resources, true religious tolerance and full inclusion of all individuals across all color, ethnic, gender or sexual orientation lines comes down to just one simple thing, the idea of radical love, the love of our neighbor as ourselves, then we would not be bickering over the institutional church. Is that not the message that Christ taught us? Is that not what we, at least, give lip service to week in and week out as we attend mass?

Is it too much to ask that those in leadership positions should stand their moral ground and use some kind of moral compass to lead us where they know we should be going, instead of spitting on their index fingers and thrusting them aloft to see which way the wind is blowing? ++Rowan and ++Katharine are both scientists and have to know that our GLBT brothers and sisters are created by God, as they are, complete with their sexual orientations. They have to know that anything less that full inclusion is not only an affront to the GLBT community but an affront to God. Why don’t they just say it and let us all move forward to where the Spirit is leading. I believe what happened in Dar es Salaam and again in New Orleans will be as big a source of embarrassment to the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion as Martin Luther King's Letter from the Birmingham Jail became to the religious leaders of the State of Alabama, among them two bishops of our church.

What Kind of Wine Are You?

2007-09-24T13:37:00.001-05:00

You Are Chardonnay

Fresh, spirited, and classic - you have many facets to your personality.
You can be sweet and light. Or deep and complex.
You have a little bit of something to offer everyone... no wonder you're so popular.
Approachable and never smug, you are easy to get to know (and love!).

Deep down you are: Dependable and modest

Your partying style: Understated and polite

Your company is enjoyed best with: Cold or wild meat

What Kind of Wine Are You?

Thanks Grandmère Mimi, This was fun whether it is good science or not.

Victor Wooten--Simply Amazing

2007-09-17T17:50:00.001-05:00

While following a link from Raspberry Rabbit to the Topmost Apple, I came upon the most remarkable musician, Victor Wooten. He is playing Norwegian Wood on the bass guitar, not usually though of as a solo instrument. See for yourself and be amazed.

The Morality of Keeping Pets

2007-09-16T16:14:00.000-05:00

Over at the Mad Priest’s Blog, Of Course I Could Be Wrong, under the heading, MADPRIEST’S SATURDAY, “WHAT’S YOUR HERESY” (STAY AT HOME) MEME (http://revjph.blogspot.com/2007/09/madpriests-saturday-whats-your-heresy.html), I came upon a post by dmk which said: “Keeping pets and buying food for them whilst millions starve is a crime against humanity and morally wrong.” While thinking back on the animals that have graced our family with their presence over the years, I decided that what would have been morally wrong would have been for us to have ignored their hunger and suffering, to have turned our backs and not to have taken responsibility for them.

Almost to a one, the pets that have lived in this household have simply arrived on our doorstep, or have crossed our path elsewhere, emaciatedly thin, parasite ridden, and oftentimes injured. They have usually been tossed out or ill used by someone with no conscience. How could anyone with moral principles or even the slightest shred of decency turn his or her back or a blind eye to the suffering of these living, feeling, loving beings? Mine have included abandoned cats, an abused poodle with scar tissue up her spine where she had been repeatedly kicked, and a greyhound that had been tossed out beside a dumpster, the rest of her litter-mates dead in the road around her, because they were not good enough to succeed at racing. In the final wash, they have always given back much more than they have been given.

When I was in my late twenties, I rescued a feral kitten that was born under a building at the state mental hospital where I was employed. He was so hungry that when I opened up the tuna salad I had brought for lunch, he grabbed hold of the container and would not let go. I had to put cat, tuna salad and all down on the floor in one lump to feed him. He ate like there was no tomorrow. We put him in a box in which some office supplies had just been delivered and shredded some used green-bar paper into an envelope box for an emergency litter pan until I could get him to the vet’s office during my lunch hour. He was so dusty from the red dirt that was under the buildings that we thought he was going to be an apricot color, but when he was given a bath he turned out to be snow white. He had odd eyes—one golden, the other blue. I named him Samson. He was sweet through and through.

I had been mildly depressed for much of my life following my mother’s death, but since it was atypical, most people who knew me would have been surprised to find out that I had depression at all. During this period, my depression took a serious downturn and I became suicidal. This was also the period of time in my life when I felt alienated from God and didn’t feel connected to anyone or anything. I call it feeling as if I were “free-floating in the Universe.”

As I planned my death, I cleaned up my house, gave away all of my extra clothing, shampooed the carpet, waxed the hard surface floors, cleaned the house from top to bottom, threw away the clutter and wrote my good-bye letters to everyone. I had planned to get into a tub of very hot water and then open up the veins in my arms and legs with an X-acto knife. (The hot water would cause you to bleed-out faster.) The blood loss was supposed to make you anoxic and you would simply drift off into death. I reasoned that clean up would be simple for my family. They could pull the plug and scrub the tub with Clorox. I knew that since I lived alone, if I didn’t show up at work and didn’t call in, someone would come looking for me. I would be found. Just in case that took several days, I put out extra food for my pets so that they would be okay without me in the interim.

The evening I put my plan into action, I put on my gym clothes, drew the bath as hot as I could tolerate it and put a fresh blade into the X-acto and got into the tub. Before making the cuts, it is necessary to put yourself into a trance-like state. I blanked my mind and became very calm. I thought of how hopeless life seemed, how alone I felt and how that would soon be at an end and became almost euphoric. I had balled up my left fist and the veins on my left forearm were bulging. As I calmly put the tip of the blade to the bulging vein to start the first cut, Samson hopped up on the side of the tub and got right into my face with his face. He gave me such an inquisitive, worried look. He then reached out with his paw and began softly and gently stroking my face. That some other living being on earth cared for me in some way, at that very moment, saved my life. I will always believe that big old sweet boy was a messenger from God. That reaching out on his part broke the trance and I began crying. I stayed up the rest of the night and called my father the next morning. He lived two states away in Louisiana. I told him what had happened and that I would be heading his way later in the day.

Sadly, Samson was one of the first of my cats to get feline leukemia. That was in the days when relatively little was know about it—what it was, how it was spread, and there was certainly no vaccine yet developed. Many vets called it “white cat’s disease” because they seemed to have less resistance to it and got it at a much higher rate than did other cats. It was almost as if he came to do a job, did it and then left.

What if I had turned my back on the dirty little cat that was crying in the courtyard? What if I had not taken him in? What if I had felt it was immoral to put down his Meow-mix every day? I think I would have turned my back on one of God’s little purveyor’s of grace. I don’t think I would be writing this blog entry.

My current pet was also feral. He decided completely on his own to become tame long after the age when the experts say ferals are tamable. He was one of a litter born under a downtown office building where I was working. He is sixteen years old now and has health problems so I know I will lose him soon, but he, too, has been worth his Meow-mix in ways too numerous to mention. I could have turned my back on him, left him outside to fend for himself and he probably would be dead by now, killed in traffic, plagued by diseases born of malnutrition or parasites. Worse, he would have fathered how many others that would be in the same situation. That would have been the immorality in my estimation.

Not rescuing any animal that I have ever rescued would not have kept even one child in this world from starving. Helping one does not exclude the other. It has been my experience that the kind of people who help poor abused animals are also the ones who volunteer at the food pantry, go on Katrina/Rita missions, and contribute to the ERD Fund or Bread for the World. Morality generalizes; it does not specialize.

Simple Village Organist: A nice bit of poetry

2007-08-22T21:27:00.000-05:00

Simple Village Organist: A nice bit of poetry

What Kind of a Liberal Am I?

2007-08-18T14:05:00.000-05:00

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Social Justice Crusader, also known as a rights activist. You believe in equality, fairness, and preventing neo-Confederate conservative troglodytes from rolling back fifty years of civil rights gains.

Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com

And make us mindful of the needs of others

2007-08-15T22:27:00.000-05:00

Tuesdays in our parish are reserved for outreach. That's the designated day for our Deacon and Curate to hand out monetary aid from their Discretionary Accounts to individuals in our community who need assistance for utility bills, rent, or various other necessities of life for which meager funds cannot be made to stretch even one cent further. The rules for receiving these funds are rather strict. We learned early on that if they were no standards in place, some recipients would become regulars who would erroneously consider our little parish a bottomless pit of funds for their every need. Monetary gifts, therefore, are limited in the dollar amount and cannot be accessed over once per six months. There must be a bill in hand (the check goes to the creditor), a picture I.D. and the request for assistance will be considered only if the individual is referred by some agency (e.g., local social service agency, charity, health department).

We also have the “Deacon’s Deli.” This is a food pantry that is stocked in part by food brought in each week by our parishioners for that purpose or bought through the local Food Bank with donations to the Discretionary Accounts that have been designated for use in the Food Bank. There are no restrictions on receiving food. It can be received without referral or I.D. and with no time limitations. If a family or individual needs to come in weekly, we will serve them weekly, no questions asked. Many weeks we have emptied our Deli down to the wires of the shelves. One week, I gave the last person who showed up late, as I was closing the emptied room, the leftovers from Sunday’s Coffee Hour. He said his grandchildren would surely appreciate the chocolate cake, the M&M cookies, the Goldfish crackers and cheese cubes. His gratitude at the leavings of what most of us consider to be a little snack before our Sunday feasts made me go into the nave of the Chapel and cry after he left.

When the Deacon and Curate must be away for any reason, I cover the outreach. They sign the checks and leave them for me. I talk with those in need, make copies of the bills, IDs, fill out the forms and dispense the checks. This has been a gift from God during the past two years. Since being RIF-ed, being forced into early retirement and having almost half of my income disappear has sometimes made me feel deprived. Meeting those who are truly deprived, who have no jobs, whose spouses or significant others have left them high and dry with no support and a house full of kids to take care of, or a young mother with cancer who cannot work, who is uninsured and who knows she will soon be leaving her thirteen year old daughter alone in this world has made me realize that most of us, even when we think we don’t have much have so much more than most of the people in the world that it must make God sad to see just how ungrateful we are.

Many of us say the Grace at Meals from the Book of Common Prayer (p.835) by rote and without really thinking: “Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” Perhaps if we really thought about what we were saying when we prayed that prayer and became more aware of the needs of others, our few, pitiful needs would pale in comparison.

Father Jake Stops the World: The Gift of Hope#links

2007-08-15T14:41:00.000-05:00

Father Jake Stops the World: The Gift of Hope#links

I Am Chile!

2007-08-08T21:41:00.001-05:00

You're Chile!

You're really skinny, and kind of bumpy in frame, but you're not as
rough a person as you used to be. You like long, long, long walks on the beach and
avoiding having your rights violated, just like anybody else does. You're even
willing to stand up to those with more power and influence than you, trying to bring them
to justice. Fight the man!

Take the Country Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid

Justice for the Jena 6

2007-08-08T07:49:00.000-05:00

This post has been lifted directly from a site, "Justice for the Jena 6." Please follow the link below and add your voice to those demanding justice for these six young men, letting the D.A., the powers that be and the citizens of Jena that "white justice" is no longer an option in twenty-first century America.

The lives of six young black men are being ruined by Jim Crow justice in Jena, Louisiana.
The District Attorney has refused to protect the rights of Jena's Black population and has turned the police and courts into instruments of intimidation and oppression.
We can help turn things around by making it a political liability for the authorities of Jena to continue the racist status quo, and by forcing the Governor of Louisiana to intervene.
Go to http://www.colorofchange.org/jena/index.html and add your voice to those who are demanding justice.

For a more in depth discussion of this issue go to Grandmère Mimi’s site, Wounded Bird, http://thewoundedbird.blogspot.com/2007/08/justice-in-jena-louisiana.html

Did We Learn Anything from Jonathan Myrick Daniels?

2007-08-07T17:25:00.000-05:00

Event: Jonathan Daniels Pilgrimage.
Details: To Be Held in Hayneville, AL
Date: August 11, 2007

In Hayneville, Alabama, this Saturday, the Alabama and Central Gulf Coast Dioceses will hold the annual pilgrimage honoring Jonathan Myrick Daniels, martyr in the racial civil rights struggle. In the run up to the last General Convention when in a meeting in a church parish hall in a neighboring city to discuss proposed legislation, there were numerous proposed resolutions put forth for the church to ask forgiveness for the way we treated our black brothers and sisters during the struggle for those rights. Those proposals all basically said, “Please forgive use. We didn’t get it. We didn’t completely understand. We especially didn't realize how critical it was to move ahead in a timely fashion.”

At that same meeting, judging from a great deal of discussion about which Presiding Bishop candidate came down on which side of the +Gene issue, I became aware of just how non-inclusive many of the delegates, both clergy and laity, appeared to be when it came to GLBT issues. It seemed to be lost on most delegates who were there that in twenty to forty years, we were probably going to be in that same parish hall (or one just like it) discussing legislation for some upcoming General Convention, going over the fine points of resolutions asking forgiveness of our gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered brothers and sisters for the way they were treated by our church during their struggle for equal rights. This is a struggle that is also racking up its own martyrs at an alarming rate, for instance: Matthew Shepherd, or in our own state, Billy Jack Gaither. Would either, or someone else yet unknown, have a day of pilgrimage at some future time?

Why is it we never seem to learn? Why can’t knowledge generalize? Why it is that persons of color or women or who ever it is who finally gains equal rights cannot then see that the next group’s struggle is their struggle? Why is it that we have to reinvent the wheel every time?

Almighty God, when we meet in the Courthouse Square in Hayneville and march to the jail, when we process back by the store where Blessed Jonathan’s blood was spilled in your service to protect the life of young Ruby Sales, and when we enter the Courthouse where his killer was set free by an all-white jury and we (people of all races, creeds, colors and sexual orientations) become one in the body and blood of your precious son, Jesus Christ, through the celebration of the Eucharist, making sacred that once defiled space, make us realize that until we welcome all of our brothers and sisters into your church and into our hearts, fully loving them and fully accepting them as your creation, the struggle is not yet won. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Life List

2007-08-02T11:41:00.000-05:00

One of the most remarkable individuals any of us in our parish has ever known is B.J., a feisty, (now retired) high school English teacher. Small in stature, but in no other way, if there were some designation greater than “alpha” to bestow upon a person to describe a personality, it would have to be reserved exclusively for B.J. In the tough city school classrooms where she taught, she knew just how much love and discipline she had to dispense and in what proportions to be an effective teacher. B.J. was a very effective teacher. In fact, B.J. is very effective at everything she tackles.

There are many members of our parish who are active members today because of B.J. She attacked the startled newcomer at in the narthex with an outstretched hand, asked them if they would like to usher or do Coffee Hour next Sunday, how they might feel about Cursillo, or if either would like to sing in a choir. She rounded up cooks and drivers for our Meals-on-Wheels program and was active with A.I.D.S. outreach.

B.J. earlier in her life had had Graves Disease and had taken the radioactive cocktail to destroy her thyroid. Later when she began to have problems with eyesight, she kept asking all of the doctors who saw her if it could be related to her earlier Graves Disease. They all dismissed that idea out of hand. By the time her eyes were bulging out of their sockets, her optic nerve was damaged beyond repair and she was legally blind, Callahan Eye Foundation in nearby Birmingham told her it was indeed due to her Graves. They said her eyesight could have been saved, but it was, by then, too late. She reluctantly retired from her classroom since she was no longer able to keep up with the demands of grading English papers or keeping class discipline.

While trying to adjust to her blindness (she had enough sight to walk around, but not drive; enough to read very large type with a magnifying glass), she found that her earlier breast cancer had recurred and with a vengeance. B.J. was given six months to a year to live. That was close to ten years ago. God help the cancer that thinks it is going to get B.J.

B.J. has what all of her friends refer to as her “Life List.” It is a list of things B.J. wants to do and places B.J. wants to go to and/or see before she dies. She has been going, doing, seeing and merrily checking them off the list, while adding others to the bottom, ever since she got the “death sentence.”

B.J. is not the kind of patient who suffers in silence while dutifully doing what some oncologist tells her. She went through her first set of oncologists here rather quickly until she found a group who would do it her way. Because she does not drive, arranging for transportation is paramount on her list of treatment issues. She wanted a standing appointment time. This simplified life for her drivers. The regional hospital told her that was impossible. She told them it was then impossible for her to be their patient. I don’t think they had ever had anyone in her situation tell them that. She found a treatment center that would treat her on her terms. She immediately improved.

B.J. smokes. She has tried all kinds of ways to quit—programs, aids, groups, and you name it. Finally, B.J. decided to forget it. When her last oncologist was on her case about it she looked him in the eye and said, “Look, this is one of the few pleasures I have left in life. If I quit what do you think I will get out of it, another two or three weeks?” He hasn’t mentioned it since.

At one point several years ago when the cancer had spread into her bones and liver and things looked particularly bad, B.J. cleaned out the house here, put it on the market, sold it, and move to Virginia to be close to her family. She felt it would be easier for them. We also feel that B.J. did it so that she could do it her way instead of leaving it to be messed up by others after she died. She is still going strong.

B.J. found a senior apartment complex in Virginia where there are stores, doctors, dentists, hair salons, physical fitness centers, even a chapel where Episcopal services are held. This takes care of her lack of transportation. They also provide transportation to and from her oncology appointments. She has changed oncologists there until she has found a group who will work with her, do it her way. They might as well, because that’s just the way it’s going to be!

B.J. enrolls friends and family members to travel with her on her Life List travels. Colleen, another parishioner, and I have been to New York with her. We stayed at Saint Hilda’s House with the Sisters of the Community of the Holy Spirit. Her list in NYC included the usual tourist things, Liberty and Ellis Islands, and as you would expect of an English teacher the New York Public Library and the Algonquin Hotel to see the Round Table. We also were at St. John the Divine for the Blessing of the Animals. She started working on getting us advanced tickets for that about six months before the date and I truly believe, like the woman who just bugged Jesus until he gave in and healed her, they sent her those tickets so that she would quit calling and go away.

B.J. has taken her great niece to Scotland and her great nephew to Peru. She has climbed to Machu Picchu. She did this with a stress fracture in one foot, cancer in one lung and by smoking when the guide would give the group breaks from the arduous climb. Her young, athletic great nephew was back at the hotel on oxygen. He had altitude sickness.

When her trip to Scotland interfered with her chemo schedule, she had her oncologist reschedule the chemo. She told him she was going to live what life she had left and not let her cancer dictate to her how she did it. His comment was, “You go, girl!” When she returned and finished that round of chemo, he told her he couldn’t say that her cancer was in remission, but that it had stabilized and didn’t seem to be progressing. Her sister says the cancer is “scared sh**less” of B.J.

B.J. has been all over Europe, to Australia, on an Alaskan cruise, and the only thing I know of that she has canceled was a trip to India. Her cancer had flared up and she had to go back on intensive chemo. We were worried when she didn’t go. We were afraid that perhaps it signaled the end. We shouldn't have worried. She called up after that round was over and said she finally had come across some chemo with a “good side effect.” She had lost weight! That’s B.J.

There are only about four states in the heartland of this country where she has not been. She called the other day and has found a senior bus tour that includes those states. It is scheduled for next summer. I now know that B.J. will make it through the end of next summer, because there are still some items on her Life List.

I, and many of her friends, have started to believe that B.J.’s Life List is just that. It is the thing that keeps her going. It is something to hope for, to dream about, to plan out. It keeps her mind active. She works on the routes. She finds the best prices, the best places to stay. She is not simply marking time on a calendar, waiting to die. It gives some purpose to her life. When I pray my Daily Office, I pray that my friend B.J. will always find items to add to her Life List.

Standing on the Porch

2007-08-01T10:58:00.000-05:00

During a recent tough moment in my life in a city some distance from my home, I felt sure I knew where I could find solace. I sought out a person I thought I knew very well. His car was parked in front of his house. It was obvious from the sounds coming from within that he was home. I needed to experience God’s healing grace through the sympathetic understanding of a good friend. I considered him to be such a friend. I stood on his porch. I knocked on his door. He did not come to the door. I knocked again. Again, no answer. I called on my cell phone. He did not pick-up. I left a voice message asking him to please come to the door. I called again and had him paged. When he answered his page and realized it was me, he hung up. I called one last time and left him a voice mail letting him know I knew he was home and telling him good bye. I left.

As I left, it was not lost on me that a dog in pain would have gotten immediate attention from this friend. I left his porch knowing what it is to feel less than a dog. I found myself wondering exactly when it was that this otherwise kind and wonderful man had been able to justify in his mind that his fellow humans were less worthy of care and respect as God’s creation than animals.

The experience has taught me a hard lesson—enemies can do things to hurt you, but it is your friends and those you love and care deeply about who have the ability to take chunks out of your heart and your very soul. I have never learned why he would have behaved in such a way, although in retrospect, with much thought, I have come to some conclusions on my own. All attempts since that day on my part to get him to communicate with me have proved fruitless.

After the initial sting, the pain the moment brought, I found out the most amazing truth about the human heart. It is a wellspring. No matter how many chunks come out of it, more heart bubbles up to fill in the holes. The heart has a remarkable capacity to heal itself if you let it. No matter how great the hurt, love and forgiveness still thrive. Love is infinite not finite. It is an economy of plenty not an economy of scarcity. “The more you give, the more you will have to give.” A Priest Associate once delivered those words to us in a sermon about “generosity of spirit,” quoting a millionaire friend of his. His friend was right. The only way you can lose love is to build a wall of fear around your heart and to be miserly with the dispensing of it, or to poison it with thoughts of hate and spite. This same priest once exhorted us to keep people, even enemies, off of our “platters of revenge” and on our “altars of prayer.”

Part of me understands only too well why his door is locked. I believe it is fear that keeps that door locked on his side. I recognize it, because I had that same kind of fear for nearly forty-five years. It is a fear of letting yourself feel anything whatsoever. It is born of the false belief that if you insulate yourself from all feelings, you can prevent yourself from ever again experiencing the crushing pain that betrayal, abandonment and loss bring. Finally, however, you are forced to wake up to the fact that self-imposed solitary confinement is one of the most brutally painful experiences any human being can ever bring down upon his or her life. It is itself a devastating loss, and worse yet, a preventable loss.

I choose to keep my friend on my altar of prayer. I pray for him at least two times every day when I say my Daily Office. Some days I pray for him more than that. I pray that God will heal his heart and take away his fear. I pray that he will one day be able to unlock his door, let friends in off of his porch, and end his self-imposed solitary confinement.

The Blinding Light of Conversion

2007-08-01T05:55:00.000-05:00

My brother, a theoretical mathematician, linguist, musician, in fact, a Renaissance man, was eight years my senior. But before he made it to that point, in our childhood, because our father was away in school during several of my pre-school years, he was very much a substitute father figure to me. He threw two paper routes (morning and evening), not for personal spending money, but to assist with household expenses, because every bit of our family resources was put into making sure the money was there to keep Dad’s medical school tuition paid on time each quarter. His G.I. bill had been exhausted getting him through pre-med.

His one extravagance when he collected his route each week was an ice cream bar and a Coke at the concession stand from the city pool at the top of the hill above our house (in the summer) or a Snickers and Coke from Odell Willingham’s Store next to the elementary school (in the winter). He always shared with me. We got there on the bicycle he won by designing a logo for a new radio station in our area. I would sit side saddle on the center brace, my arms around him, holding on tight. My little four year old self had perfect confidence that nothing at all could happen to me as long as my big brother was with me. I looked up to him as the purveyor of all wisdom and knowledge.

We attended the Baptist Church where our mother, an editor of chemical engineering research papers at her regular job, was the organist and treasurer. We were brought up in the faith. I had heard her and my father discuss the prospect of attaching themselves to the Baptist Mission Board after his graduation from medical school.

My father had been brought up in the Methodist Church. Because they had lived in proximity to my mother’s family, he had joined her church after they married. Since he had been Methodist, however, I had been the recipient of a little private Methodist infant baptism. Mother gave in that much, but as far as she was concerned that did not count. I would need to be “converted” after I reached the age of accountability and I would need to be plunged beneath the baptismal waters—all the way under—not just have aspersions cast on me by a Methodist minister.

By the time I was approaching ten years of age, I had not yet had my “blinding light of conversion” experience. I kept waiting for it to happen. I attended church faithfully—Sunday School on Sunday morning, Training Union on Sunday evening, Prayer Meeting on Wednesday. I truly believed, but no lights flashed. Nothing happened.

By this time, Dad was through school and in a medical practice, my brother was away at college finishing up his undergraduate degree and my mother’s cancer had been discovered and dealt with as well as could be, but not well enough. There would be no mission fields. That was now out of the questions. Still no lights were flashing no matter what I did to try to conjure them up.

While home between quarters, my big brother pulled me by my shirt sleeve toward the back steps and told me we were going to have a little talk. He sat me down and told me that Mother was terminally ill. I let him know that I was well aware of that. I lived with it every day and he was able to safely escape from it on a college campus. He said that the problem was this: Mom was worried that I had not yet been “saved.” She wanted me to be baptized before she died.

He asked, “Do you believe in Jesus?” I answered in the affirmative. He asked, “How long have you believed?” “All my life!” was the answer. “Right,” he said. “How then are you going to have a blinding light of conversion like St. Paul?” he asked. “If you did a 180 degree turn, you would be heading in the wrong direction. Could you consider this an Epiphany of a sort?” he asked. “Have you seen the light right here on these steps this afternoon? Could you in all good conscience tell our pastor tomorrow that you realized this afternoon that you are a saved person, that Jesus died for your sins, and that you wish to be baptized?” “Sure,” I said, “I could say that and it would be the truth.” “Good,” he said, “do it then. Mother will be pleased.”

The next day before church, I discussed my sudden realization of the afternoon before with our pastor. During the invitation hymn, I came forward and made my “profession of faith.” My mother’s face smiled a sweet, relieved smile from behind the organ console, full of thanksgivings to God. My father was not there to see it, he had been called out of church to deliver a baby somewhere in the wilds of our county. In a very real sense, he and Mother were in their missionary field. My brother and I swapped the all-knowing looks we often swapped when we had secrets between us that we could never share with the rest of the family.

Later I would leave the Baptist Church. Even later still, I would find the Episcopal Church, a church I love. It is a church that heretofore has not required that I conform to some set of man-made rules, a uniform mental dress code. It is a church where I have been free to love all of my brothers and sisters in Christ, to be all-inclusive. Sometimes I think you have to be a refugee from a more stifling and rigid tradition to truly appreciate the beauty of our wonderful church. If my big brother were still alive, perhaps he would take us all out on the back steps and tell us to be very careful about changing the precious nature of this openness and freedom to think and explore without condemnation. Maybe he could deliver up to all of us another blinding light of conversion.

Deep and Wide

2007-07-31T11:51:00.000-05:00

Deep and wide,

There’s a fountain flowing

Deep and wide.

Deep and wide,

There’s a fountain flowing

Deep and wide.

The events of Friday, April 13, set in motion a crisis of faith that, at this stage in my life, I would not have believed to be possible. This crisis was brought about when a group, of which I am a part, won a suit that had been appealed to a Circuit Court. We had already won before an Administrative Law Judge in our state’s Attorney General’s Office. When the dust cleared, it turned out the losers, one of our state’s agencies, were going to appeal yet again. What we had won was two, maybe three more years of litigation—first to the Court of Civil Appeals and more than likely to the State Supreme Court. Isn’t the American justice system just grand!

I had been counting on the matter being settled, since, as I told our attorney, living on my retirement income without being eligible yet for my Social Security, is like going bankrupt in slow motion. I need my back pay. I need five more years of regular salary. At least I was able to draw my retirement. There were other members of this group who were not yet eligible for their retirement and, depending on the outcome, may never be, who are in a far worse situation. I remember thinking, what now God? Are you there? Do you really care?

The upcoming weekend was a busy one for me. It was what a friend of mine refers to as one of my typical “Church-lady Marathon” weekends. I had to return to the parish and do the altar flowers—my weekend for Flower Guild. Our parish book group was meeting with a famous author that evening in the Parish Hall. She was on a book tour and we had been reading her book.

This was to be followed by a trip to the Diocesan Camp to assist with a Cursillo event. I tried to be upbeat so I wouldn’t spoil it for all of the others in my Ultreya who were there, but I kept wishing to be anywhere other than where I was. The event was a success. The Cursillo staff gave us a standing ovation when we came back to clean up after their Pilgrims had been sent off to bed. I tried to feel it. Though outwardly joyous, I felt as cold and wet on the inside as the weather was on the other side of the lodge door.

Sunday morning, I got up at 5:00 a.m. for a jog. It is a three mile round trip (plus or minus) from the cabin where we were staying to the main road and back. I usually plug in my Pod and listen to “Cate’s Playlist” (2X through Vivaldi’s Gloria) when I run. The Playlist was named for a friend’s daughter. I used it for background music for prayers when I ran and prayed when she was in the hospital having a lump removed and examined to determine whether or not it was malignant. Even though I have never met her, I feel a great kinship with her. Her mother was not a survivor, nor was mine. We were approximately the same ages when our mother’s were lost to us. We both had waited for the other shoe to drop. Mine did in my mid thirties. Hers did in her late twenties. We have led parallel lives thirty-one years apart. I often run to Cate’s Playlist and pray when I run. It seems to have great mojo. Her lump was benign.

With Vivaldi in my ears, I set off. There was a very low ceiling. It was in the upper 30s and spitting a fine mist. The sun was trying to break through and at that hour I was alone with wild turkeys, a fox or two, Eastern cottontail rabbits, and various birds that my eyes are no longer good enough to identify in poor light. I tried very hard to pray as I ran. I felt the prayers were making it no further than the low scud that hung over the woods. I felt empty and numb.

I was surrounded for the rest of the weekend by Cursillo Pilgrims and Staff who had had mountain-top experiences. The higher they seemed, the lower I felt. I tried to register the right amount of joy. I didn’t want to dampen anyone’s experience. I had been on that Cursillo mountain top. I wished I could be up there with them. I kept trying to feel it. Maybe I was trying too hard.

A friend and I returned from camp with a Pilgrim from our parish. She was so full of the Spirit of God. She was still on the mountain. She would miss her Welcome Back Ultreya on Tuesday because of a business trip. I could relate. I had missed mine for the same reason following my Cursillo so many years earlier. I sat quietly in the back seat of the car listening to her relate her experiences. I realized I needed help, and soon.

Our parish priest was not only out of town; he was out of the country. He would not be back for two weeks. I called another priest, a friend in another state. Through my tears I begged him to tell me that God existed, that belief was not some elaborate hoax. I told him that even though I still was praying the Daily Office, I felt that my prayers were making it no further than the ceiling, if that far. He calmed me down. He assured me of God’s existence. He pointed out that every time a neutral third party heard our complaint, we came out on top. He encouraged me to discuss my dry patch with my Cursillo Reunion Group, my DOK sisters, and our Priest as soon as he returned. He encouraged me to keep up my Daily Office. He assured me the joy would return. He let me know that everyone, even priests (perhaps, especially priests) had dry patches and the thing to do is to just keep going until you come out the other side.

The days and weeks ticked by. There were Sundays when Mass was so painful that I sat in the choir loft and had trouble singing through my tears. I have no idea what the members of the church thought, but our parish is such a close knit family that everyone just gave me hugs, included me in all activities and made allowances. I am sure prayers were being said by many and they were starting to be felt.

Then, one evening, I came home from the Thursday evening Mass to find that during an afternoon thunderstorm, flashing, soffit, fascia and shingles had come down from the front of my house. I already needed a new roof. I had lost a window on the back of the house to the leaking roof and would probably have to replace part of a back wall. That was one of the reasons I was so desperate to get the suit settled. Now the front was falling apart as well. I could not even imagine how the neighbors felt looking on my wasted ruin of a house. My heart sank. God began to recede yet again. Well, like it or not, fear of heights or not, I would have to get up on the ladder and have a go at roof repair. It was my only hope.

Over the next few days I gathered supplies—flashing cement, roofing nails, a roofing hammer. I waited until a relatively cool early morning. I wanted to finish before the thermometer made it over 85 degrees. I got up the ladder, but couldn’t get a good angle on the fascia to get a nail in it. I needed an extra set of hands.

There is a Southern axiom that goes something like this: “If it needs to move and it doesn’t, spray it with WD-40. If it doesn’t need to move and it does, use duct tape.” I, therefore, planned to duct tape everything in place first, nail it and/or stick it up with flashing cement and then remove the tape. This operation was very awkwardly in progress when Tori, the young mother of four from next door called to me. She told me to get down off of the ladder before I killed myself, that a 60 year old woman had no business up a ladder trying to nail back fascia onto a rotten roof. She then disappeared and came back with her husband Jim.

He said they had been discussing my situation for several months and had decided they were going to put a roof on my house. I countered that I didn’t know if I could let them do that since I had no way of paying them back at the present and didn’t know if I ever would have the means to do so. Jim said that he had no pay back expectations. If I sold the house and if I wanted to pay them back, then I could, but I was not obligated to do so, as far as they were concerned. Jim and Tori felt that God had led them to do this. They had watched as I had lived frugally. They had observed as I had given of myself—going to Louisiana and Mississippi with the ERD to assist with Katrina clean-up and rebuilding, or by taking food to our church’s food program. Jim said it was just time for me to get something back. I pointed out that Tori didn’t work and they had four children. He said that their children were well provided for and that they had the money to do this; they were going to do it; and that was the end of it.

This was just the beginning of what has turned out to be one of the most grace filled periods of my life. God has materialized around every corner. I commented to a friend that now that I was getting a new roof that didn’t leak over the utility room, after the first of the month when some money hit my bank account, maybe I could afford to pay an electrician to do the wiring so that I could have a hot water heater. Finally, I could have some hot water. He was appalled to discover that I had been taking cold showers and boiling water to wash dishes for the last several years. Gas just became too expensive about the time of the Enron debacle. I could not longer afford the luxury of having electric, water and gas, so gas had to go. The electric company will give anyone a free hot water heater who will switch from gas to electric, but the wiring is up to the customer. Since I knew that no electrician would put wiring in under a drippy roof, I had never pursued it. Gus and Laurie insisted they would pay for the electrician and plumber. I would now have hot water.

Jobs began opening up in our parish. I was hired to assist the Sexton strip and wax the floors in the education wing. I painted the new Curate’s office. I covered the office for a week while the Parish Administrator went on vacation. I asked our Rector if I had become the parish charity case. He insisted I had not. These were positions that needed to be filled and I was handy and could do them. He said this was how grace worked. I had done many things for others in the past and now I was on the receiving end. He told me that being on the giving end of grace is easy, but being on the receiving end is sometimes difficult for an independent person to accept. He advised me to thank God and to accept the grace that was flowing my way.

I have discovered that one sure way to meet God, face to face, around every corner is to ask the questions, “Where are you God? Are you really there? Do you actually care about any of us, the insignificant little ants in your creation?” A great, booming, “I am here. Yes, I care!” will seemingly fill every tiny nook and cranny of your life. As I was pondering this, a little song I learned as a child floated up into my conscious mind: “Deep and wide, Deep and wide, There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide. Deep and wide, Deep and wide, There’s a fountain flowing deep and wide. God’s grace is indeed a bottomless fountain, deep and wide.

The Boo Cat Returns

2007-07-11T11:41:00.001-05:00

The BooCat is a creation that grew out of my childhood and lay buried in the past. She only recently resurfaced. Her rediscovery has been one of great joy and celebration.

My father practiced medicine in a small Southern town in the days of $3.00 office visits and $3.50 house calls, and he did a booming business in house call over a three-county area. This was a time that predates Medicare and Medicaid. It was a time when physicians were expected to just do pro bono work for patients who could not afford to pay. It was a time when we sorted the samples the drug company detail men left him (yes, they were always men back then), and he would give them to his poor patients who would not have been able to buy medicines through the local pharmacy. It was a time when local doctors lived as simply as their patients. We lived in a little house, probably not over 1000 square feet, with 2-1/2 bedrooms (if you call the tiny pass-through where my brother slept between the kitchen and hall a bedroom), one tiny bath and a living room/dining room—a sort of post-WWII tract house that had a single carport.

Between our house and the Baptist Church where my mother was the organist and choir director, there was a Victorian house that backed up to the schoolyard and was owned by a widow who rented rooms to spinster school teachers. We had several of these dedicated older teachers left over from the era when women had to choose between teaching and marriage, because it was considered at one time “unseemly” for married women to teach. My fifth grade teacher was such a woman, as was our high school librarian, a chemistry teacher and a mathematics teacher. The old Victorian probably was not quite so large or grand as it looms in my memory, and it probably no longer exists. I am sure the school has taken over the whole block by now. In fact, that little town has been swallowed up by a large city that seemed an impossible distance way back then, but is now seen as an easy commuter distance and has become a bedroom community.

One Halloween, I am sure in order to teach me about the importance of giving, my mother brought out some little sacks with handles, some craft supplies, and had me make “Trick or Treat” sacks for all of the ladies in the Victorian house—the owner and the teachers. I made caramel apples and wrapped them in cellophane. I tied up candy in black tulle netting tied with orange ribbon. We included pencils and erasers, things that teachers could always use. (Mother had been a teacher once herself.) Finally, I made little Halloween cards. To sign them, we made a stamp out of an art gum eraser cut away in relief in the pattern of a cat’s paw. We stamped each card and wrote below the stamped paw print—“BooCat.”

On Halloween, after dark, the whole lot was loaded up in a big shopping bag and taken to the porch of the old Victorian. I rang the bell. It was one of those knobs in the center of the door that you twisted. I gave it several good turns and then ran and hid in the hedge and waited. The widow and one of the teachers came to the door expecting Trick-or-treaters. They saw the shopping bag and at first, they were quite suspicious of it. Perhaps they thought some mischievous boy had left them cow pies or some other not so glad tiding from one of the surrounding farms. Finally, they took it in.

Mother told me I must never tell about the BooCat, who the BooCat was, or where the goodies had come from. To do so would be to break the spell and it would not be special anymore. The fun, she emphasized, was in the planning, the doing, the giving. Since those lovely women must now all be gone, I am sure it no longer matters.

The BooCat made many more deposits on the porch of the big Victorian while we lived in the little town. I remember one Easter card that said, “Alleluia, He is risen. The Lord is risen, indeed. Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.” Now that I am an Episcopalian, I sometimes wonder if my Baptist mother had any inkling at all that she had selected a card that was right out of the Book of Common Prayer.

Due to Mother’s illness and my father’s inability to manage both her illness and his patient load, we moved away from the little town. He went into institutional practice where he could have regular hours and be home when she needed him to be there. The BooCat just drifted away and I gave her little thought until recently.

Until the past two years, I have been living behind the walls of what I refer to as my 340 pound “fat convent.” It was quite impressive. If you are a fat women in American society, you simply do not exist as a person. You are just a good old girl pal, but you are not to be taken seriously as an object of desire. You are safe from personal entanglements. When I finally realized what I had been doing to myself and why, after years of failed diets and exercise programs, suddenly I began being able to lose weight and keep it off. I have now lost over half of my body weight. I am smaller than I have been since I was—well, fourteen years old. That speaks volumes.

The BooCat reappeared on a hot autumn afternoon after I had been mowing my lawn. With the iPod still in my ears, hot and sweaty, I boogied into the foyer of the house, spun around and out of the corner of my eye caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. With 170 pounds gone, who I saw there was my mother. It knocked me for a loop. If I had actually been looking at myself in the mirror I would have missed it. It was the unexpected nature of it that let me see her. Oh, I will never be the beauty she was—she of the alabaster skin and the rich red hair that fell in heavy natural curls. My hair is “mouse,” straight and thin. But the shape of the face was there and there was something about the expression in the green eyes. I called my childhood friend (almost a sister, actually) who now lives in Chicago, since she was the only one of my friends who actually knew Mother. She said she had been telling me that my entire life, so what else was new.

That Halloween, the BooCat reappeared in our parish. She left goodies on the door knobs of our parish staff. She has been out and about on most major holidays since, but don’t ever tell them who the BooCat might be. Then the spell would be broken.

2007-07-10T20:21:00.000-05:00

An Apple Not Far from the Tree

This foray into the Blogosphere came about simply because of my love of the Episcopal Church. When all the dust began being kicked up surrounding +Gene, I wandered into the world of the Blog looking for information. Never one to suffer long in silence, I wanted to make comments. I soon discovered, however, I needed to have my own Blog just to play the game. I don’t know that I really expected to get down to it and actually write anything of my own.

Be that as it may, here I am writing something of my own. Is this how some of you other bloggers out there got started? Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, here goes.

My mother died when I was fourteen years old. I always denied that I was anything like her. She was Southern Baptist for one thing, a church organist, and sometimes choir director, so we were at church literally every time the doors were open—usually an hour or two in advance. Many of the churches we attended had preachers who yelled down hell fire and brimstone upon my tender little ears; although, at home Mother’s God was one of loving kindness. The objective of worship seemed to be “fire insurance.” She never seemed to have any trouble at all reconciling these diametrically opposed gods and cheerfully worshiped her maker with no fear and trepidation in her.

Mother, a stunningly beautiful woman both inside and out, died a protracted and painful death. She had colon cancer during an era when diagnostic tools were crude (x-ray and fluoroscope only—no CT scan or MRI ) and sigmoidoscopes didn’t flex since fiber optics were yet to be invented and light couldn’t travel around corners. By the time it was found, metastasis had done its worst and she had tumors up her spinal column. During the end game, she required morphine every three hours and she died while getting the pain sensors in her spinal column severed (a cordotomy) in an effort to control her pain since the morphine was losing its effectiveness and heroin, which might have been of therapeutic value was unavailable to law abiding citizens (typical of government-think).

The day she died, all of the church people who descended upon us told me it was “God’s will” that Mother had died. The Sunday after her funeral I quit going to church. I was angry with the God that willed my mother’s death with the blind rage that only a fourteen year old girl can muster. “Why,” I asked my grandmother, “should I worship a God who would do that to someone as beautiful as she, and who was so devout in her worship of him?” My grandmother let me know how disappointed my mother would have been of me. I heard my father tell her to leave me alone and let me grieve in my own way. I would not return to church for twenty years.

God was not the only object of my anger. Mother, herself, came in for her share. She seemed to go into the arms of her awaiting Jesus calmly, almost willingly. I saw that as rejection of me and the worst kind of betrayal. My father, the brilliant diagnostician, who in all fairness knew what she had, even when he was still in medical school but just couldn’t prove it let alone get any of the medical staff who saw her to admit it, didn’t escape me ire either. I saw medicine as a total failure. What good did his degree do any of us if she, who had worked to put him through school, could not be saved?

Twenty years later came my day of reckoning. I had my own cancer. I faced my own mortality. I was thirty-four, almost thirty-five, and not a sure bet to see thirty-six. My brother and father both arrived in my hospital room. I had seen those looks on their faces before—in my childhood—at my mother’s bedside. The one comment that everyone made was that I was taking it so well. I was so calm and collected; I must have ice water in my veins, etc. It was then that it hit me. Mother had not been calm. She had not gone willingly. She had been as full of inner turmoil as I now was. She had merely been trying to protect us, to keep us calm, to do damage control. “Oh, Mother, if you can hear me, pray for me,” was my first thought. Quite a thought from an “agnostic."

In the midst of this a friend sent an Episcopal priest. He knew a bit of my history and would not come until I okayed it. He did not pray over me. He did not mention God. He did not push or prod or suggest this was God’s punishment on me as did one man, a fundamentalist who came uninvited through my door. He visited a second time—post op.—still no sermons or prayers. He just talked with me about the situation and how I felt about it. By the third visit the final pathology was in and we knew that the entire tumor, though quite large, had been encapsulated; no chemo or radiation was required; and I had dodged the big-C bullet. It was then he asked how I would feel about a prayer of thanksgiving. I felt it was in order. It was then I asked him about his church.

I will always remember what he said. First he asked if I were a sinner. I assured him I was. He said that was a good thing, because everyone in the entire Episcopal Church was a sinner. If I happened to be without sin, I would not be in need of a church. Then he said the parish where he was the Chaplain/Rector had town and gown, young and old, white collar and blue collar, gay and straight, married and single, with and without children, and just about every ethnic group one could name. If that was my cup of tea, he was sure I would be welcomed aboard. The Sunday after I was released from the hospital, I entered the back of his church and I felt as if a great "amen" had sounded somewhere deep inside my soul. He is retired now, but I am still there twenty-five years later.

Like my mother, I am there every time the doors are open. Since I do volunteer work there and fill in for the Parish Administrator when she is out or cover the Deacon’s Outreach Services when he is out, I even have my own set of keys and open the doors myself on some occasions. I find that even though my father, my brother and my best friend used to tell my I was just like her and it would make me hopping mad to hear it, I am an apple not far from the tree. I am my mother’s child.

The first Sunday I went to the altar rail during the Eucharist, my mother was there with me. This is very difficult for me to explain to some of the non-believers in my family. Even though I could not see her, her presence was just as real as if she were standing beside me with her hands outstretched awaiting her bread and wine. Returning to the church has returned Mother to me and made me realize that He doesn’t want me to stand before him in fear, but with joy and thanksgiving.

Desert's Child: Flying Chickens

2007-05-19T18:09:00.000-05:00

My First Posting

I created this blog after wandering in and out of other blogs (Father Jake, the Mad Priest, Wounded Bird, etc) and finally wanting to be able to post my comments. Originally, my first post was going to be a short explanation of the title and not much else, and I am sure I will get to that later, but when I came upon the article below, I made the link. I just couldn't help myself. So, herein is my first posting.

Desert's Child: Flying Chickens