Thursday, December 30, 2010

Where We Are At

 
I turned 38 on Tuesday. 38 years old. It makes my head spin. My morning began in the most beautiful way, for after sleeping in I stumbled out of bed to be greeted by my husband carrying a tray (you know we have a million hanging around the house) filled with cheesy scrambled eggs, sausage, bagel, and of course hot, hot, strong coffee. The little ones were in tow, singing a boisterous "Happy Birthday," cards in hand. For nearly forty minutes, I curled up in bed, eating, drinking, and staring out the window at the white snow blanketing the trees and ground, our bedroom fan twirling on high to block out any noise, like whining or fighting, which never happens in this house. Though my sweet husband called this "the poor man's birthday gift," I cannot think of anything more perfect, more desirable, than the gift he gave.

I was a surprise baby. My mother (and she will hate that I am publicly putting this out there) was 43 when I made my entrance; my father 46. As I spoke to my father last Tuesday evening, he related that he had trouble sleeping the night before and lay awake thinking about that moment 38 years earlier when in the wee hours of December 28, 1972, I was born. He communicated this via the phone because while my crew, my mother, and my sister and her family in from New Jersey, were crowded into my dining room opening Christmas and birthday presents and eating cake, he was lying in a hospital bed nearly an hour away alone. It was my first birthday he was physically absent from.

Suffice it to say, my family has been treading in uncharted territory over the last month. A week before Thanksgiving, my father was told that the pain he had been experiencing in his lower abdomen was the result of a rather large, "rare" tumor cemented to his bladder. In early December, my father, mother, and I endured a grueling, eight-hour day in Iowa City at the University Hospital to determine what should be done about this nemesis, finally arranging for surgery in early January. And then the Sunday before Christmas as our family was returning from my father-in-law's, my father, weakened by loss of blood, fell and was hospitalized. In a week and a half's time, he has been in two hospitals, here close to his home and then again in Iowa City. Yesterday Jared, my nephew Joey, and my brother-in-law John retrieved my dad from Iowa City and brought him to a rehabilitation center closer to my parents' home where he will be staying until his surgery and probably for some time thereafter. 

A more profound, reflective person might be able to articulate his or her feelings about what 38 years on this earth means. As for me, I have three sleeping children, a six-year-old whom I can hear laughing outside with his friend across the street, a chicken boiling on the stove, and frosting to make and smother on a chocolate cake for a gathering this evening with one of my oldest friends and her mother. What I will say is that I, to steal from the title of C.S. Lewis' autobiography, over the course of these 38 years have been continuously surprised by joy- the unexpected joys of people, living and dead, placed in my life, as well as paths and opportunities bestowed upon me, and I am deeply grateful for God's grace in my life. My life has not turned out how I expected as a young angst ridden twenty something. Even my sorrows, which have been few, have not left me bitter and resentful but rather have further enriched me with God's love. I am presently optimistically happy and anticipate what God has for me and my family in the future. And I, to quote from one of my favorite Whitman poems, "lament not," for "I am content."

A blessed and peaceful New Year to you all. Know how deeply I love you and how much each of you mean to me. And please, if you think of it, remember my father, Ray, and my family in your prayers.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The God We Hardly Knew


Sketch by Fritz Eichenberg

"...looked at with the eyes of a visitor, our place must look dingy indeed, filled as it always is with men and women, some children too, all of whom bear the unmistakable mark of misery and destitution. Aren't we deceiving ourselves, I am sure many of them think, in the work we are doing? What are we accomplishing for them anyway, or for the world or for the common good? 'Are these people being rehabilitated?' is the question we get almost daily...The mystery of the poor is this: That they are Jesus, and what you do for them you do for Him. It is the only way we have of knowing and believing in our love. The mystery of poverty is that by sharing in it, making ourselves poor in giving to others, we increase our knowledge of and belief in love." Dorothy Day

The God We Hardly Knew
 Archbishop Oscar Romero
No one can celebrate
a genuine Christmas
without being truly poor.
The self-sufficient, the proud,
those who, because they have
everything, look down on others,
those who have no need
even of God- for them there
will be no Christmas.
Only the poor, the hungry,
those who need someone
to come on their behalf,
will have that someone.
That someone is God.
Emmanuel. God-with-us.
Without poverty of spirit
there can be no abundance of God.

Archbishop Romero was shot on March 24, 1980, while celebrating Mass at a small chapel located in a hospital called "La Divina Providencia", one day after a sermon where he had called on Salvadoran soldiers, as Christians, to obey God's higher order and to stop carrying out the government's repression and violations of basic human rights. According to an audio-recording of the Mass, he was shot while elevating the chalice at the end of the Eucharistic rite. When he was shot, his blood spilled over the altar along with the contents of the chalice.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Cheese!

One of the side benefits of Beth's time with her parents yesterday was my chance to substitute teach with Thomas. I must say I was grinning ear to ear as he was singing his even number and odd number counting songs and reciting his Dostoevsky. I made him do his reciting "in front of the class" following my introduction: "Mr. St. Nicholas (an icon on the table), Mr. Coke Zero (my current drink of choice), thank you for coming. Today Thomas Johnson will be reciting a passage by Fyodor Dostoevsky."

He is currently memorizing the Luke 2 Christmas passage. The part we added yesterday was the moment when the angel finishes speaking to the shepherds and an entire army of heavenly soldiers appears with him. I told Thomas that if I had been one of the shepherds, I would have pooped my pants. He laughed pretty hard. (I also heard when I got home tonight that he couldn't wait to share that little factoid with his mother today...)

Thomas' drawing has also gotten quite wonderful. This was not school work, but done in his free time. I immediately not only recognized the characters in this picture, but also the episode. Do you?



Wallace & Gromit is a family favorite and a regular for Friday Family Fun Night. If you're not familiar with Wallace & Gromit, or this particular episode, it's worth taking three minutes to check it out on YouTube. (Honestly, it's worth watching even if you've seen it before.)

Cracking Contraptions - Shopper 13
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SuHUS-9laBI

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Psalm 145

I am utterly exhausted; physically, emotionally, and spiritually spent after being surrounded by the walls of the mammoth University of Iowa hospital with my parents for over eight hours. I am restless, feeling a bit empty and estranged from my familiar surroundings, more than a wee bit crabby, and void of anything really worthy to say.  And so I defer to the words of the psalmist, whose poetry was even more poignant to me on this day; a day in which hope seemed threatened.

Psalm 145 (146)*
Selected Verses

Praise the Lord, O my soul.
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praises to my God while I have being.
Put not your trust in princes, in sons of men,
In whom there is no salvation.
When his breath departs,
He returns to his earth;
On that very day his plans perish.
Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
Whose hope is in the Lord his God, who made heaven and earth,
The sea and all that is in them;
Who keeps his faith forever;
Who executes justice for the oppressed;
Who gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;
The Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
The Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the sojourners,
He upholds the widow and the fatherless;
But the way of the wicked He will bring to ruin.
The Lord will reign forever,
Thy God, O Zion, to all generations. 

Poetry Wednesday 

*The Orthodox numbering and organizing of the psalms is based on the numbering in the Greek Septuagint rather than the  Hebrew Masoretic text. Thus the difference in numbering above which your typical Bible translation will have marked as 146. 





Monday, December 13, 2010

This Little Light of Mine

Some day, I suspect, my husband and I will awake on a December 13th to our Lucy bride donned in a white dress, red sash, and seven lighted candles on her head, carrying a tray of cross shaped buns and hot, steaming coffee, brothers in tow singing "Santa Lucia." But on this St. Lucia's Day, we were content with delivering Pepparkakar, a traditional Swedish ginger cookie, to my parents and neighbors that have lived by them for all my thirty-eight years; dressing Little Lu in one of her brother's baptismal gowns and a red $2.00 Goodwill scarf; and processing around the house singing to one of our favorite saints. To my precious daughter, a beautiful first namesday to you. May God grant you many years and may you grow to emulate the kindness and courage of the one whose name you bear.

With what wreaths of praise shall we crown Lucia, the namesake of light? What diadem of honor befits the brow of her who willingly gave up her life for her heavenly Bridegroom, bringing Him as dowry, as though they were priceless rubies, the drops of her precious blood, shed by the sword for His sake?

Come, you who love the martyrs, and let us fashion wreaths of praise, glorifying her who in her pure virginity, her blameless life and spotless death glorified above all the Holy Trinity, the one true God, and put to shame the mindlessness of the pagans! For having been faithful to Christ unto the end, she has truly entered into the joy of her Lord, and abides forever in the eternal bliss of His mansions on high.
-Verses from the Aposticha for the Feast of St. Lucia









PS Thomas insisted he wear his serving vestment, carry a cross (an Ethiopian one at that), and design a paper Gospel for Russell to carry. And a happy namesday to our dear friend Carrie!

And finally, if you are looking for an absolutely delightful book about St. Lucia, my family cannot say enough about Katherine Bolger Hyde's work. It even has the Saint Lucia song.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

St. Nicholas Days


For our family, preparing our home for Christmas begins in earnest on December 6th, St. Nicholas Day. Following our tradition, we baked some cookies for neighbors on the 5th. And for the first time, we made cut out gingerbread men. Russell (above) and Thomas taking decorating the cookies very seriously.



Elliot with his hot cocoa and miniature marshmallows more interested in devouring the icing. And yes, it is true, the Wonder Twins apparently have an issue with staying completely dressed throughout the day.


As I have mentioned before, Thomas, early on, declared that Lucia was his twin. But on this day, Russell decided to cast off Elliot and claim Lucia as his twin. Mrs. McGoodles playing one of her favorite games and Russell delighting in his little sister.


St. Nicholas Day morning. Finding the presents and gold coins left in the shoes. When I related that St. Nicholas had come, Russell looked out the window and questioned where his car was. That might have been my favorite moment of the day. Russell, especially loved the chocolate coins and we had to practically beg him to open his gift while realizing that he had five chocolates crushed in his hand. We also had a lovely evening with Zach and Tesi and family and Jake and Leslie (who are leaving next week for Ethiopia in order to meet their precious daughter who is only four months younger than LuLu bird) and family. In total there were 17 of us; 11 of which were children. Unfortunately, the pictures of the kids playing were blurry.








Thomas with his new Harry Potter Lego set.


Delivering the cookies.



Jared took Tuesday off and we went to our favorite Christmas tree farm, Mumma's, to purchase our tree. Russell and Elliot were out of the van for mere seconds before they stated, "we're freezing," and rejoined Lucia and me. Russell above.



And Elliot. I promise I bought matching hats and mittens on Saturday but Jared was in charge of getting the boys dressed and our communication skills are obviously lacking.


My men.


And finally on the 8th, Thomas and I decorated the tree. Thomas was very pleased to create a manger scene. Pretty sweet. And though you can't really see it, there are popcorn strings which Jared, Thomas, and I strung together hanging on the tree. Thomas has vowed to string more today.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Mary's Song

Ethiopian Theotokos

Mary's Song
by Luci Shaw

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest …
you who have had so far to come.)
Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.
His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world. Charmed by doves' voices,
the whisper of straw, he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed who overflowed all skies,
all years. Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught
that I might be free, blind in my womb
to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn. 
Poetry Wednesday


Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Russell's Namesday (Almost a Month Late)


The twins in a rare moment of wearing the same clothing. Russell and my traditional lenten chocolate namesday cake celebrating the life of his patron saint, St. Matthew the Evangelist.  Russell was very pleased about his special day and throughout the day, he reminded all of us that it was his and his day alone. Probably pretty significant for someone who is a twin.
May God grant you many years precious son!




Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Happiness

What Thomas drew after church last Sunday. Mary, Jesus, the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove (though strangely looking like a blue bird), and my personal favorite, the Cherubim/ Sun. And please, please do not miss the Cherubim's many eyes in the sun's rays. To me, this drawing is pure happiness.

And thank you to Elizabeth for introducing me to the poetry of Jane Kenyon.

Happiness
Jane Kenyon

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

Poetry Wednesday

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

-arise, my soul; and sing (part two)



Water for Christmas well in Gbeivonwea, Liberia

Watching this just made me teary. A blessed Thanksgiving to you all.

And thank you to Tesi and Leslie and our local Water for Christmas team for raising another $10,000 for wells in Liberia at the recent Wine to Water event. And to my egg lady and friend, Cathe, aka Miss Effie, who generously donated 100% of the proceeds earned in one day at her Summer Kitchen for this amazing charity. Inspiring. 

-arise, my soul; and sing

At the outset, I must admit that I stumbled across this poem by Mr. Cummings from Matthew Gallatin. It has stuck with me and I thought I would share it here. A blessed and peaceful holiday to you all. Truly we have so much to be grateful for. And may our thankfulness spill over and be manifested in tangible demonstrations of love for our brothers and sisters near and far away.


now does our world descend
e.e. cummings

now does our world descend
the path to nothingness
(cruel now cancels kind;
friends turn to enemies)
therefore lament, my dream
and don a doer's doom

create is now contrive;
imagined, merely know
(freedom: what makes a slave)
therefore, my life, lie down
and more by most endure
all that you never were

hide, poor, dishonoured mind
who thought yourself so wise;
and much could understand
concerning no and yes:
if they've become the same
it's time you unbecame

where climbing was and bright
is darkness and to fall
(now wrong's the only right
since brave are cowards all)
therefore despair, my heart 
and die into the dirt

but from this endless end
of briefer each our bliss-
where seeing eyes go blind
(where lips forget to kiss)
where everything's nothing
-arise, my soul; and sing

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Just Love

"Those who wish to see him must see him in the poor, the hungry, the hurt, the wordless creatures, the groaning and travailing beautiful world." from Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow

He Asked for Charity
St. Francis of Assisi

God came to my house and asked for charity.
And I fell on my knees and
cried,  “Beloved,

what may I
give?”

“Just love,” He said.
“Just love.”
  

I am going to take some liberties here and offer the section of Berry's work from which the above quote was taken. So it is a bit long but St. Francis' work is so short so dare to go the extra mile. I promise reading Berry is a million times better and more interesting than my own blather. Though the form is prose, the substance is, in my opinion, pure poetry. Watch out book club friends, this might be my next pick.

"For a while again I couldn't pray. I didn't dare to. In the most secret place of my soul I wanted to beg the Lord to reveal himself in power. I wanted to tell him that it was time for his coming. If there was anything at all to what he had promised, why didn't he come in glory with angels and lay his hands on the hurt children and awaken the dead solders and restore the burned villages and the blasted and poisoned land? Why didn't he cow our arrogance?...

But thinking such things was as dangerous as praying them. I knew who thought such thoughts before: 'Let Christ the king of Israel descend now from the cross, that we may see and believe.' Where in my own arrogance was I going to hide?
Where did I get my knack for being a fool? If I could advise God, why didn't I just advise him (like our great preachers and politicians) to be on our side and give us victory? I had to turn around and wade out of the mire myself.

Christ did not descend from the cross except into the grave. And why not otherwise? Wouldn't it have put fine comical expressions on the faces of the scribes and the chief priests and the soldiers if at that moment he had come down in power and glory? Why didn't he do it? Why hasn't he done it any one of a thousand good times between then and now?

I knew the answer. I knew it a long time before I could admit it, for all the suffering of the world is in it. He didn't, he hasn't, because from the moment he did, he would be the absolute tyrant of the world and we would be his slaves. Even those who hated him and hated one another and hated their own souls would have to believe in him then. From that moment the possibility that we might be bound to him and he to us, and to one another by love forever would be ended.

And so, I thought, he must forbear to reveal his power and glory by presenting himself as himself, and must be present only in the ordinary miracle of the existence of his creatures. Those who wish to see him must see him in the poor, the hungry, the hurt, the wordless creatures, the groaning and travailing beautiful world.

I would sometimes be horrified in every moment I was alone. I could see no escape. We are too tightly tangled together to be able to separate ourselves from one another either by good or by evil. We all are involved in all and any good, and in all and any evil. For any sin, we all suffer. That is why our suffering is endless. It is why God grieves and Christ's wounds still are bleeding."






Friday, November 12, 2010

The Man in Black

He had made his decision and could not be persuaded to even reconsider. "Batman?" I queried. "How about a pirate?" But my youngest son was steadfast. "Johnny Cash," he replied every time. So Jared searched the Salvation Army and returned home with a perfect outfit: black jeans, black t-shirt, and, if you can believe it, a tiny black leather jacket. And thanks to Doug and Kim, we ascertained one stuffed guitar. Perfect. People seemed confused when Elliot would respond to questions of what costume he would be wearing for Halloween. I mean, don't all three-year-olds listen to Johnny Cash (he does have a children's album)? Well, they should. And I swear to you, I had absolutely no sway in Elliot's decision. Never even mentioned Mr. Cash as a possibility. So to you Elliot Andrew Jin-seo, for one night, you were the most amazing Man in Black. And I am just thrilled to have this song on our post because sometimes, usually, it makes me cry. 


My radiant sister-in-law Sarah and my sweet niece Josephine Frances whom the boys and I met for the first time. 


So Thomas wanted to be Jack the Pumpkin King from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas. Dear Jared did the face painting. And I was dressed up as June Carter. Just kidding. You know I have no other color in my closet.


And Russell. He demanded to be his pediatrician Dr. Omar. Doesn't he look like he has an amazing bedside manner? Such a winning smile.


The Man in Black.




And Thomas looking more like The Joker than Jack.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Sugar and Spice and Everything

So you remember the Wonder Twins' proclivity towards dumping? I absolutely am dumbstruck after another cinnamon incident–I had forgotten AGAIN to move the spice from the counter and to higher ground. Really this must be at least my eighth container of cinnamon. But for $1.09, I was assured an hours worth of entertainment, as well as a fragrant kitchen. So if you can't beat them, well, you know the rest. Yes. We are absolutely nuts. Shh. Don't tell.





Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Festal Life


Because you know I love her. Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement while supporting the United Farm Workers in California, July 1973. Day was 75 at the time and was imprisoned for crossing a banned picket line.

"Our entire life is built on the patterns of the Easter chants: on one side- the tomb, death, descent into hell; on the other side- resurrection, life, joy. 'For Thou has descended into the tomb, O Thou who art immortal, yet Thou hast destroyed the power of hell.' Our lives task is to let the elements of heaven and resurrection triumph over the forces of hell and death." -The Diary of a Russian Priest, Aleksandr V. El'chaninov
Julia Esquivel
--From Threatened with Resurrection
Esquivel is a Guatemalan Catholic who has been living in exile since 1980 because of her protests against the government.

I am no longer afraid of death
I know well
Its dark and cold corridors
Leading to life. 
I am afraid rather of that life
Which does not come out of death,
Which cramps our hands
And slows our march. 
I am afraid of my fear
And even more of the fear of others,
Who do not know where they are going,
Who continue clinging
To what they think is life
Which we know to be death! 
I live each day to kill death;
I die each day to give birth to life,
And in this death of death,
I die a thousand times
And am reborn another thousand
Through that love
From my People
Which nourishes hope!
For Jared because he will always love Jurgen Moltmann. While this is somewhat lengthy, if you have a spare moment, this is pretty amazing stuff and if lived could, dare I say it?, change the world. 

"The Feast of Freedom"
from The Power of the Powerless

The Easter faith recognizes that the raising of the crucified Christ from the dead provides the great alternative to this world of death. This faith sees the raising of Christ as God's protest against death, and against the people who work for death; for the Easter faith recognizes God's passion for the life of the person who is threatened by death and with death. And faith participates in this process of love by getting up out of the apathy of misery and out of the cynicism of prosperity, and fighting against death's accomplices, here and now, in this life.

Weary Christians have often enough deleted this critical and liberating power from Easter. Their faith has then degenerated into the confidant belief in certain facts, and a poverty-stricken hope for the next world, as if death were nothing but a fate we meet with at the end of life. But death is an evil power now, in life's very midst. It is the economic death of the person we allow to starve; the political death of the people who are oppressed; the social death of the handicapped; the noisy death that strikes through napalm bombs and torture; and the soundless death of the apathetic soul.

The resurrection faith is not proved true by means of historical evidence, or only in the next world. It is proved here and now, through the courage for revolt, the protest against deadly powers, and the self-giving of men and women for the victory of life. It is impossible to talk convincingly about Christ's resurrection without participating in the movement of the Spirit "who descends on all flesh" to quicken it. This movement of the Spirit is the divine "liberation movement," for it is the process whereby the world is recreated.

So resurrection means rebirth out of impotence and indolence to the "living hope." And today "living hope" means a passion for life, and a lived protest against death.

Christ's resurrection is the beginning of God's rebellion. That rebellion is still going on in the Spirit of hope, and will be complete when, together with death, "every rule and every authority and power" is at last abolished (I Cor. 15:24).

The resurrection hope finds living expression in men and women when they protest against death and the slaves of death. But it lives from something different- from the superabundance of God's future. Its freedom lives in resistance against all outward and inward denials of life. But it does not live from this protest. It lives from joy in the coming victory of life. Protest and resistance are founded on this hope. Otherwise they degenerate into mere accusation and campaigns of revenge. But the greater hope has to take living from in this protest and resistance; otherwise it turns into religious seduction.

Easter is a feast, and it is as the feast of freedom that it is celebrated. For with Easter begins the laughter of the redeemed, the dance of the liberated and the creative play of fantasy. From time immemorial Easter hymns have celebrated the victory of life by laughing at death, mocking hell, and ridiculing the mighty ones who spread fear and terror around them.

Easter is the feast of freedom. It makes the life which it touches a festal life. "The risen Christ makes life a perpetual feast," said Athanasius. But can the whole of life really be a feast? Even life's dark side- death, guilt, senseless suffering? I think it can. Once we realize that the giver of this feast is the outcast, suffering, crucified Son of Man from Nazareth, then every "no" is absorbed into this profound "yes," and is swallowed up in its victory.

Easter is at one and the same time God's protest against death, and the feast of freedom from death. Anyone who fails to hold these two things together has failed to understand the resurrection of the Christ who was crucified. Resistance is the protest of those who hope, and hope is the feast of the people who resist.