It's All Right

Well, despite the fact that it continued to be bone-chilling cold, gray and gloomy in Davenport, Iowa, our family had a wonderful Tuesday, enjoyed each other's company, and actually smiled at one another, which unfortunately is not always the case. I am finally beginning to realize that waking up, getting dressed and downing my first cup of coffee before our little ones rise, positively effects the remainder of the day. And so today during the time normally scheduled for showering and dressing, Thomas, Russell, Elliot, and I were able to build Lego towers, which were soon destroyed, create Play-doh cookies on the "new" piece-of-junk coffee table I purchased for $5.38 at the Goodwill on Saturday (it only took a couple reminders for R and E not to eat the Play-doh), listen to records (yes, records–three Dr. Seuss stories to be specific), and launch a new edition to our schedule: read alouds. I decided our first endeavor would be Little House in the Big Woods. Thomas was quite enthralled with Pa (who isn't?), primarily because he carried a gun, trapped bears, and cut trees down with axes. He did admit, however, that he was not the least bit interested in receiving either a pumpkin, squash, or corn cob doll as a gift next Christmas. We enjoyed a peaceful family meal together (yes, that means Russell and Elliot did not throw much food) followed by "tea" and "ice cream" expertly prepared by Thomas.

Broken

Nearly two weeks have passed since Jared declared our evening meal to be "the best we have had in ten months." His praise was not for the quality of the food itself; we were merely eating black beans over brown rice. Rather, his compliment was due to the fact that Russell and Elliot had consumed a dinner independent of us, scooping and eating with a spoon. Moreover, and perhaps more crucial, was that our darling boys had refrained from launching one ounce of food onto our hardwood floors. This was a matter for much rejoicing since after any meal our floors typically mirror a mine field, through which no amount of nimbleness or agility can prevent the smashing of old, crusty food onto our feet. Naively, we believed that we had reached a critical impasse in our ongoing war with the twins over food throwing and that the tide had turned in our favor. 

It is nearly inconceivable to me that two, tiny, sweet boys, bordering on militant in their desire for order, can habitually wreak such chaos when it comes to mealtimes. Leave a cabinet or closet door slightly ajar, a bag of wipes unclosed, and watch out, intensifying cries of, "Mama!" combined with finger pointing toward the egregious error will result.  But last week, the glory of our victory quickly withered, and our nemesis returned with a vengeance. Mere food slinging became the hurling of bowls, plates, glasses. At the conclusion of breakfast on Wednesday morning, three bowls covered in oatmeal and raisins lay broken on our kitchen counter. Orange juice splattered and stained the floor and trickled down the refrigerator. It was not even noon, and I was nearly at the end of myself.

From an Orthodox perspective, the Church is not merely a place where people who agree doctrinally (at least on the "important" matters) gather each week to drink a cup of coffee, eat a doughnut, sing a few songs, listen to a sermon, and fellowship. More than any of this, the Church is to be regarded as a hospital, a place of healing for fallen, sick men and women. She is a shelter and refuge where the Physician of our souls and bodies dispenses His medicine. And in the Orthodox Church, this medicine is not just offered to the mind and spirit, but is also offered to our worn and weary bodies through hallowed materials from His creation. In His love and mercy, mere water, bread, wine, and oil are transformed and sanctified–as are those who partake of them in faith.

Admitting defeat and acknowledging there was nothing I could do to alleviate my despondency, I opened the door to my refrigerator on that Wednesday morning and pulled out a small plastic container filled with the holy water we had recently brought home from Church. I unscrewed the lid to the container and in my brokenness sipped the water and prayed, "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner."

Inauguration Day

O Lord, preserve those whom you have placed in civil authority over your people. In their peace may we also live peaceful lives, untroubled by the evils of this world. Grant them wisdom and love for the people; renew your Holy Spirit in them that they may learn your truth. Watch over our country and the Church which you have established in it, keeping us from all which would harm us. Help us by your grace, that in all purity we may ever glorify you, the uncircumscribed God in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto the ages of ages.

Amen.

In the Name of Love

It was a rarity–a Sunday afternoon nap. Curled up in our play-room recliner, I snuggled beneath an afghan we had received as a wedding gift and was lulled to sleep by the repetitive motion of clothes being tossed around in the dryer. When I awoke, I realized I still had some precious time before the children would rouse and so I dashed out the door into the lightly falling snow, jumped into the van, and headed for Menards in order to purchase paint. (Now that my kitchen ceiling painting is complete, why not repaint our front door?) Alone, my fingers quickly displaced The Little Mermaid soundtrack, which has come to typify our recent ventures, and reveled in listening to my once constant companion: NPR.  The program at the time was recounting various individuals who were journeying from all over the country to Washington, D.C. for the inauguration. Five minutes into the drive, I learned about a group of southern men who had participated and risked their lives in perilous Freedom Rides throughout the South nearly forty years earlier. Self-designated then and now as foot soldiers, these men vowed to make their pilgrimage to the capital in order to be present at this historic event. As I pulled into the parking lot of my destination, I heard an African-American man recount his arrest for his fight against segregation, as well as the arrests of his eighteen-year-old daughter, who had sat at a lunch counter for "Whites only," and his sons who had been sentenced to juvenile detention because they were too young for prison. Another African-American woman depicted how she had been hosed down by members of the police because of her conviction that all people, no matter the color of their skin, should be guaranteed equal rights.

I am always deeply moved by stories like these–testimonies of ordinary men and women who refused to bow to the status quo but instead offered their individual lives for a cause greater than themselves. I would like to think that if I had been alive at the time I would have joined my African-American brothers and sisters in fighting to end a system of humiliation, oppression, and victimization. Likewise, I have often wondered how I would have responded if I had been living in Nazi controlled Europe and persons of Jewish descent had knocked on my door. Would I have offered them a place to hide in my home, or would I have turned them away, rationalizing that I could not jeopardize the lives of my husband, children, and parents. Honestly, I have doubts concerning my own courage and ability to transcend selfishness in order to sacrifice myself for love. 

In a speech delivered to President Clinton and members of Congress in April of 1999, Holocaust survivor and renowned author Elie Wiesel challenged his listeners to consider "The Perils of Indifference." His words are no less challenging today.

Indifference can be tempting–more than that, seductive. It is so much easier to look away from victims. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. It is, after all, awkward, troublesome, to be involved in another person's pain and despair. Yet for the person who is indifferent, his or her neighbours are of no consequence. And, therefore, their lives are meaningless. Their hidden or even visible anguish is of no interest. Indifference reduces the other to an abstraction. 

Martin Luther King Day. 19 January 2009

Simple Gifts

To be honest, this is the last possible thing I should be doing. At the outset of the day, I had high hopes of what I would accomplish. But a crying toddler who could not be consoled and would not sleep despite several attempts of rocking thwarted those plans and now, unfortunately, leftover dishes crusted with maple syrup from breakfast, baked beans from lunch, and baked potatoes from dinner demand my attention. And let's not even mention the two loads of clean laundry massed in a pile by the dryer, my half-painted kitchen ceiling, the avocados that need to be peeled and scooped into ice cube trays...

Not too long ago, Thomas would completely breakdown at the mere mention of my leaving the house without him. Lately, however, his cries have been replaced with polite suggestions that perhaps I could leave. The cause for this change of heart? My dear husband Jared's inability too not sneak episodes of Star Wars and Clone Wars cartoons during my absence. I try not to take Thomas' heartfelt requests personally. Undoubtedly, lightsaber wielding Jedi animations are far more interesting than me, though I am the one crawling into his bed in the wee hours of the morning. Last Saturday morning, remnants of the old Thomas (minus the crying) emerged, and bundling up to shop with mommy at our indoor Farmer's Market proved to be more appealing than any clone. As we drove home, Thomas began to create what is by far his best drawing to date. He named his friend "Jim" but told me that I could call him "Jimmy." He also related that Jimmy has dinosaurs in his ears.

I am not quite sure what it is about Jimmy that I love so much but I cannot get enough of him: he has become the wallpaper on our computer and the original piece of art leans against my bedside table lamp. I wonder if I can make grocery list pads with his image at the top, or if maybe he will appear on next year's Christmas card. Perhaps my affection for Jimmy is because there is something about this drawing by my four-year-old son which exudes his own purity, simplicity, and innocence. Whatever the cause, Jimmy just makes me happy and a little wistful all at the same time.

There is an old Shaker work song composed in the late nineteenth century that I learned as a child in my Lutheran church choir and which I have grown to cherish. Throughout this day with its bumps and unexpected circumstances, which resulted in my not accomplishing all that I had planned, I consciously made the effort to sing its words and found that by singing out loud I became calm, less annoyed, and able to realize that the laundry will eventually get folded, that a little more dust on the furniture never hurt anyone, and the blue tape surrounding my walls could serve as a conversation piece. After all, there are games of Ring Around the Rosie to play (Russell and Elliot's current favorite game; they take great delight in falling down), made up songs about gingerbread men, turkeys, and even poopy to heed, and, of course, bad guys to fight.

Simple Gifts

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

It will be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained, 

To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.

To turn, turn will be our delight,

'Til by turning, turning we come around right.

'Tis the gift to have friends and a true friend to be.

'Tis the gift to think of others not to only think of "me,"

And when we hear what others really think and really feel,

Then we'll all live together with a love  that is real.

A Blessed Theophany!