In My End Is My Beginning

Over Vitebsk

Marc Chagall

from

East Coker (No. 2 of 'Four Quartets')

T.S. Eliot

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before and after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment

And not the lifetime of one man only

But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.

There is a time for the evening under starlight,

A time for the evening under lamplight

(The evening with the photograph album).

Love is most nearly itself

When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers

Here or there does not matter

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For a further union, a deeper communion

Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,

The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters

Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

Click here for more poetry. You won't regret it!

A Moment of Your Time

Last week as I plunged my fork into a deeply rich delicious piece of carrot cake at my monthly book club meeting, my friend Emily announced what I guess we all knew was inevitable: Her husband, a member of the Iowa National Guard, had received his official deployment orders. Within months, he would be leaving his wife, his two-year-old son, family, friends, and his country to serve once again in Afghanistan. Today my dear friend Molly through this post drew her readers' attention to this podcast. As I engaged in the mundane activities of a Monday afternoon, dusting the furniture, sweeping the dirt off the floors, thinking about dinner, I listened and wept at Fr. David Alexander's most recent account from the war front. If you have a moment or even if you don't, I encourage you to listen to this podcast. It is humbling. And please remember my friend Emily and her precious family during this time. Thank you.

A Joyful Mother

To my children on the fifth anniversary of my first child's homecoming:

When you are unable to conceive a child, each month is enveloped with death. Except there is no period of mourning set aside for you, no warm embraces or attempts of comforting words rendered to you. No one offers you flowers, cooks you a meal, or sends you a card to console you. There is no gravestone to substantiate the tangibleness of your hurt, for there is nothing to bury but your hope. It is doubtful that most will notice the numbness behind your eyes. There will only be a precious few who validate your loss. Mostly, like all those in pain, you suffer in silence; your grief bound up deep within.

For nearly five years, my husband and I traveled down the dark road of infertility. Did I expertly learn to contort my face to reveal an expression of happiness each time a friend, a family member, or an acquaintance announced that a new life was being created within them when I wanted to weep for my own barrenness? Did I break down in the middle of a department store when I inadvertently wandered into the maternity section? Did I politely smile and mumble my gratitude when good intentioned people absurdly diagnosed the cause of my brokenness and then proceeded to cruelly prescribe medicine in the form of advice? Did I cry in the confessional over my heartbreak and my spiritual father's wise urgings to truly experience joy in another's pregnancy? Did I feel betrayed by God and my own body? Did I lament like a woman scorned and lash out in fury? Did I allow my body to be cut open, to be poked and prodded? Did I offer my my veins every month to be pried open and my life blood drained out as I stared at a florescent light glutted with dead bugs, silently praying for mercy? Absolutely.

But in the midst of this anguish, did not joy also exist? Did I not have the honor and privilege of touching Christ each day in the bodies of beautiful individuals whom society also labeled as broken, impaired, handicapped? Did I not experience unadulterated happiness with Kristopher, Salman, Julissa, Leslie and the countless other students who could not talk or take care of themselves but who could communicate love? Did I have the opportunity to embrace suffering friends and co-workers who likewise could not conceive and look them in the eye and sincerely say, "I know your anger, your pain, your heartache and I mourn with you?" Did my greatest joy, my children whose very existence is the breath of the divine upon my ordinary life, rise out of my pain? Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. To you my children, Thomas Jung-hyun, Russell Matthew Jin-pyo, Elliot Andrew Jin-seo, and Lucia Ethiopia Kebedech, know that although you were not born from my body or nursed at my breasts, I am your mother, and I would choose the pain every single time to have you in my life. You are my heart. There is no me without you.

The Prophet

"On Joy and Sorrow"

Kahlil Gibran

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.

And he answered:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your

laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your 

being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very

cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your

spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into

your heart and you shall find it is only that

which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in

your heart, and you shall see that in truth

you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, "Joy is greater than

sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits

alone with you at your board, remember

that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales 

between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you

standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to

weigh his gold and his silver, needs must

your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Click here for more poetry.

Happiness

It is intoxicating. The smell of the coming heat lingering in the early morning air. The warm breeze as it brushes aside the window sheers. The staunch determination of perennials as they push their way out of the ground. They are fierce and I love them for it. The tulips - red, yellow, orange, and purple. Their vibrance and beauty pierces me every time. They just scream joy. The lilacs, oh the lilacs. I cannot wait to bury my nose into them and drink in their scent. Grass. Green grass. Grass that is too long. Grass that tickles my feet. Dirt. Dark brown earth crammed deep under my fingernails, staining my flesh, my calloused hands. My children. Sharing the day with them. Experiencing with them for the first time one of my favorite places in the world: A cemetery. The Riverside Cemetery, rich with life. A sacred place, hallowed ground. Popcorn. Popcorn heavily salted and doused in Parmesan cheese sprinkled on a striped napkin. The Hundred Acre Wood. Reading how Pooh met Tigger and how pleased Pooh was that Tigger did not like honey. Poetry. The Mississippi River. Serene and calm today. She is always in my blood. My daughter in Ethiopia. Lucia. Her name means Light. She is coming home soon. So soon. Hope. Promise. Resurrection. Life. It is intoxicating.

Happiness
Carl Sandburg

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

Bath
Carl Sandburg

A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.

Click here for more poetry.

Exhausted With Joy

When the Wonder Twins were still sleeping at 10:30 am Tuesday morning, I made the decision to awaken them despite the fact that I have been reminded a million times to "never wake a sleeping baby."  And still, after my gentle prodding, Russell lay listlessly in his crib while Elliot burrowed down deep into the crevice of my arm as we silently rocked. By 11:30, all three of the boys were lying dormant on the kitchen floor cushioned by blankets as I cooked some blessed "flesh meat"/bacon and prepared their breakfast/lunch. Ah yes, Holy Week had been intense; the Paschal Feast had been a joyful one and none of the children had slept nor really manifested any signs of tiredness until they completely collapsed in their car seats at 4:30 am. To steal from Fr. Stephen Freeman we were (and are) exhausted with joy. 

This is the day of Resurrection!
Let us be illumined by the Feast!
Let us embrace each other!
Let us call brothers even those that hate us,
And forgive all by the Resurrection.
And so let us cry: 
Christ is risen from the dead
Trampling down death by death
And upon those in the tombs
Bestowing life! 

There were a couple firsts this year. After ten years of dyeing eggs, I finally, with the help of some non-toxic dye, was able to produce the perfect, red egg. These are for you Molly, my comrade in dyeing for countless years. Aren't they beautiful?

This was also my first year in making the traditional Russian Easter bread. After about four plus hours of prep time, the dough is finally baked in a coffee can. Russell, because he was the only one awake, had the privilege of helping put on the sprinkles. He was very proud and stole a few tastes of frosting. 

Oh sweet Thomas. Wanting to be just like his dad. Polishing his shoes for Pascha night.

The traditional Pascha hat and a glimpse of our Pascha basket. As a side note, there were six peanut butter eggs in that basket prior to the service and one by the time I went to bed at six in the morning. Totally disgusting I know, but who can resist?

Russell and Elliot were thrilled to be going with us. Over and over they stated, "Me. Pascha. Yay!"

Elliot wearing his favorite plaid jacket.
I would also be remiss if I did not add that Friday night as we were participating in the Lamentations, Elliot kept saying, "Jesus died. Clouds crying." (It was raining.) On Pascha evening when we experienced some thunderstorms, the boys and I decided that the clouds were clapping because they were now happy: Christ is Risen!

Perhaps my favorite moment of the evening: Thomas singing with the choir. He literally dashed from an adjacent room where he was laying down with some of his friends when he heard "The Angel Cried," and continued to sing beyond that. One proud momma here.

Also, there are two rows of icons depicting the Church's African saints, including St. Moses the Ethiopian, displayed on this wall. Love that.

Thomas with his best church friends Anna and Josiah

So, so tired.

Kind Friend

It has been one of those days. A day in which the whirling dervishes have acted less than desirable. A day of head butts, biting, and hitting and not only to each other but to our tiny guests. Ugh. A day in I which I seriously considered what I would do if friends politely requested that I forgo bringing the children when I came to visit. A day in which the entire container of cinnamon lies like fresh, red mud in my sink; an indestructible coffee mug lies broken on the counter; cushions from the couch have been removed from their covers and ripped; holy bread stolen. A day in which the Splenda and the diaper wipes ran out.
And then this dear, sweet friend, aware of my feelings of semi-defeat, left a bottle of white wine and some French chocolate in our mailbox. Thank you Leslie. So, so kind. Things are looking up. Christ is Risen!

Everything But Your Love

"Empty Me Of Everything But Your Love"

Khwaja Abdullah Ansari 

(1006-1088)

Lord, send me staggering with the wine

Of Your love!

Ring my feet

With the chains of Your slavery!

Empty me of everything but Your love

And in it destroy and resurrect me!

Any hunger You awaken

Can only end in Feast!

Click here for more poetry.

The Paschal Homily of St. John Chrysostom

St. John Chrysostom is remembered by the Church as the "Golden Tongue." The core of the modern liturgy is attributed to him and his many writings and sermons hold a special place in the heart of Orthodox Christians. The following sermon is read in every Orthodox Church on Pascha night. Perhaps because it is the middle of the night; or perhaps because I'm incredibly hungry; or perhaps because I am certain the I am he who "has arrived even at the eleventh hour"–I always find the grace embodied in these words inexpressibly cathartic.

Al Maseeh Qam!

Christos Anesti!

Khristos Voskrese!

Kristos Tenestwal!

Kristo Gesso!

Christ is Risen!

If anyone is devout and a lover of God, let him enjoy this beautiful and radiant festival. If anyone is a wise servant, let him, rejoicing, enter into the joy of his Lord. If anyone has wearied himself in fasting, let him now receive his recompense. If anyone has labored from the first hour, let him today receive his just reward. If anyone has come at the third hour, with thanksgiving let him keep the feast. If anyone has arrived at the sixth hour, let him have no misgivings; for he shall suffer no loss. If anyone has delayed until the ninth hour, let him draw near without hesitation. If anyone has arrived even at the eleventh hour, let him not fear on account of his delay. For the Master is gracious and receives the last, even as the first; he gives rest to him that comes at the eleventh hour, just as to him who has labored from the first. He has mercy upon the last and cares for the first; to the one he gives, and to the other he is gracious. He both honors the work and praises the intention.

Enter all of you, therefore, into the joy of our Lord, and, whether first or last, receive your reward. 0 rich and poor, one with another, dance for joy! 0 you ascetics and you negligent, celebrate the day! You that have fasted and you that have disregarded the fast, rejoice today! The table is rich-laden; feast royally, all of you! The calf is fatted; let no one go forth hungry!

Let all partake of the feast of faith. Let all receive the riches of goodness.

Let no one lament his poverty, for the universal kingdom has been revealed. Let no one mourn his transgressions, for pardon has dawned from the grave. Let no one fear Death, for the Savior's death has set us free.

He that was taken by Death has annihilated it! He descended into Hades and took Hades captive! He embittered it when it tasted his flesh! And anticipating this Isaiah exclaimed, "Hades was embittered when it encountered thee in the lower regions." It was embittered, for it was abolished! It was embittered, for it was mocked! It was embittered, for it was purged! It was embittered, for it was despoiled! It was embittered, for it was bound in chains!

It took a body and, face to face, met God! It took earth and encountered heaven! It took what it saw but crumbled before what it had not seen!

"0 Death, where is thy sting? 0 Hades, where is thy victory?"

Christ is risen, and you are overthrown! Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen! Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is risen, and life reigns! Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in a tomb! For Christ, being raised from the dead, has become the First-fruits of them that slept.

To Him be glory and might unto ages of ages. Amen.