St. Nicholas Day

There have been times, while standing in church, that a glance over at my dear four-year-old son has revealed less than appropriate behavior. Admittedly, to the untrained eye, this little one has the appearance of exemplary conduct: He is standing, feet crossed just a bit, swaying back and forth, but still standing, his thumb and index finger crunched ever so slightly with a tiny space between. One might imagine he is preparing to cross himself. But to the well-trained eye, the posture of these fingers is anything but holy or innocent. To the individual well-versed in all things Star Wars, he or she recognizes that in the mind of this child, he has transformed from four-year-old boy attempting to make it through liturgy to the villanous dark knight, Darth Vader. Indeed, as we pray for the Lord's mercy, Lord Vader's Force-filled gesture unmercifully punishes one whose lack of faith in the ancient tradition of the Force is "disturbing."

Tonight, however, there is no pretend choking, no mention of the vast array of weapons that he has usually mentally accumulated for play time after church. Rather, Thomas, standing in his gray socks. is praying. His squeaky, childish voice, boldy rises above the adults, "Rejoice, O Father Raphael, adornment of the Holy Church...consolation of the oppressed, father to orphans, friend of the poor, peacemaker and good shepherd..." On this Friday evening, while university students party outside, a small group from our church community have gathered to pay homage to another saint likewise characterized for his vast generosity to those in need. Candles flicker around the holy icon of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra and Lycia (the historical ascetic figure our culture has banalized into a gluttonous, jolly-old elf), providing some light in the dimly lit chapel. Incense from Father Ignatius' censer rises as prayers to God. The choir chants hymns to the saint:

"A river of healings abundantly pouring and a plentiful fountain of wonders hath Christ shown thee to be, O Nicholas: for those bitterly oprressed by illness, and those tormented by the cruel misfortunes of life truly find healing for every affliction, thy warm protection. Therefore we cry out to thee: pray to Christ God to grant remission of sins to those who with love festively celebrate thy holy memory."

As the vesperal liturgy concludes, the children (and a couple college students) grow antsy. Pairs of shoes line up outside the chapel. Throughout the service the children have eagerly awaited a visitation by St. Nicholas, anticipating a gift of candies in their shoes. And our holy Father does not disappoint. Cries of delight emit from the younger children as chocolates are unwrapped; knowing smiles are displayed upon the faces of the older children.

Upon our arrival home, a bit of chocolate still smeared around his mouth, Thomas and I carefully place our shoes by the door before going to bed, hoping that St. Nicholas will sojourn to our home, bearing gifts. And again, the saint does not disappoint. As Russell and Elliot, more enamored with tearing the wrapping paper than the actual gifts, open books, Thomas unveils a toy Millenium Falcon. "How did St. Nicholas know this was exactly what I wanted?" Thomas questions. Later that day, as has become part our family tradition, we loaded into our van despite the bone chilling cold and journeyed to Mumma's Christmas Tree Farm. Though the cold necessitated that I remain in the van with Russell and Elliot, Jared and Thomas grabbed a saw and cut down a nearly flawless Scotch pine. (It was Thomas' duty to yell "Timber!" when he began to see the tree fall.) Together we drove home, Thomas lost in the midst of pine branches, fingers sticky with candy cane bestowed upon him by one of the Mumma family; Elliot pointing to the tree which threatened him from the rear; and Russell, well Russell, he was doing what he does best, snapping his fingers and doing what we have termed "The Hustle Bustle."

A blessed St. Nicholas Day!

Pie Crust Fail

I stood at the kitchen counter. The sun had set hours ago and the children were in bed. I glanced over at the bowl of peeled and sliced Jonathan apples doused with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. A recipe lay to my left, as did flour, vegetable shortening, salt, a glass baking dish, rolling pin, and kelp (oh wait, not kelp, that was for a vegan pumpkin pie created by my dear friend Molly a few years ago, not mine). The stage was set. There was no turning back. I had resolved to overcome my inordinate fear of making a pie. As you may recall from a previous post, I had all but sworn off any attempts of ever making a pie crust after a disastrous endeavor several years earlier. But that was before my days of breadmaking and extreme baking. If I could roll out pizza dough every Friday evening, I reasoned, surely I could tackle this feat. Besides, I had acquired from Jared's grandmother a crust recipe guarannteed not to fail. It seemed simple enough - no cold water with an ice cube immersed to dip my fingers, no chilling of dough - just mix and roll. Valiantly I faced my adversary, rolled up my sleeves, and launched my quest for victory.

Act One
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had successfully rolled out and transferred the bottom crust to the pie dish. Confidently, I gathered the remainder of the dough into my floured hands. Suddenly my previous apprehension seemed silly. With ease I had completed part of my task, and in a few minutes I would have a pie baking in the oven, and sufficient time to watch an episode of Mad Men before retiring to bed. With a gleam in my eye, I dared the dough to cross me.

Act Two
An hour later, I still stood at the kitchen counter, pieces of dough surrounded me. The gleam had transformed into tears. The no-fail pie crust had failed. I felt bamboozled, betrayed. Sensing my acute desperation, Jared, who was washing the steady stream of dishes my pie making was producing, offered words of encouragement and advice. "Add a litte more shortening," he suggested. But instead of alleviating the crust debacle, the shortening served only to excaberate the situation, and I was left with shiny fingers and white grease smeared onto the flaking dough. Moreoever, our tempermental kitchen drain chose this particular moment to become clogged and brown dish water stagnated in our sink. Finally, in order to redeem my thwarted efforts, Jared picked up the rolling pin, crushed the dough back into a ball, and began to roll while I lamented over our misadventures. Initially, Jared's labors appeared not in vain, but when an attempt was made to shift the dough from the counter to the dish, it collapsed into pieces. Reluctantly, and a bit ambivalently, I commenced the entire process again.

Act Three
An hour and a half later, numerous bowls, wooden mixing spoons, and measuring cups cluttered the kitchen counter. Flour disseminated throughout the room, resting primarily on my black shirt and pants. Thankfully, the dirty dishwater began to slowly vacate the sink, leaving behind a ring of unmentionable yuk. Despite the dissaray, I smiled in satisfaction. The smell of baking apples permeated the house as the fully crusted pie cooled on a wire rack on the dining room table. A bit excessive in his praise but having learned the wisdom of flattering his wife, Jared declared the pie to be "the most beautiful one ever," and it tasted pretty good too! Victory is indeed sweet.

A blessed Thanksgiving to you all.

Just a few comments on the pictures. When not busy wielding light sabers and destroying bad guys, Thomas often lapses into, I must admit, our least favorite character: Baby Thomas. Last week, Thomas handed me his tie and informed me that Baby Thomas was going to church. And yes, we loaded ourselves into the van (couch), participated in the Divine Liturgy and received the Eucharist. When not busy throwing food, books, toys, etc. everywhere (or in Russell's case, stealing Elliot's toys), Russell and Elliot are enjoying games of chase, reading books, wrestling with their older brother, and just being cute.

A Time to Dance

I remember clearly the first time I heard Tessie's name. Thomas and I were in our backyard playing baseball when my then neighbor and her two year-old son arrived home. It was a rare occasion for all of us to be outside at the same time. Our conflicting schedules usually prevented any neighborly play between the two boys. But on this particular day, neither of us were pressed for time nor hindered by responsibilites and while the two boys played, Kristin and I sat on the grass and talked. We spoke about pregnancy, infertility, and adoption. We were in the process of adopting and she and her husband were likewise hoping to expand their family. "You should meet my friend Tessie, " Kristin casually commented. "She and her husband are adopting a little boy from Ethiopia." And as a result of Kristin's generous invitation to join a recently formed book club, I did indeed meet Tessie, as well as four other intelligent, strong, gracious women.

It was last Wednesday afternoon when, as part of an effort to combat my excessive list of "must haves," and other poisonous thoughts that creep into my head, I was taking a few moments to thank God for all His provisions to me and my family. As I was reflecting upon the abundance of food, clothing, heat, and other basic necessities, as well as luxuries, that I and most Americans possess, it occurred to me, for the first time, to be grateful that I had access to clean water. It was just twenty minutes later that I opened an email from Tessie entitled, "Wanna Dance?" I was intrigued by the title and awed and humbled by its content. According to recent information, 1.1. billion people do not have access to clean water; 4,500 children and 42,000 adults die daily as a result. Illness due to lack of clean water is the leading cause of death for children under the age of five in underdeveloped countries. Experts estimate that it would take nearly $10 billion to provide everyone with clean water. While it is difficult to wrap one's mind around that number, Tessie urged us to consider that Americans spend a staggering $45 billion annually on Christmas gifts. Passionate about giving back to the African people, Tessie and some friends are attempting to spread the word of this global crisis (and attain contributions for a non-profit group called Charity: Water) by, well, dancing. (To find out more, visit Tessie's blog: dancingforwater.blogspot.com.) Our motley crew will eventually dance for water, too. (With a flare for the theatrical, Jared would like us to dance to Prokofiev like Woody Allen's dance with Death at the conclusion the film, Love and Death.)

It was Sunday morning, November 16th, the day the Orthodox Church commemorates St. Matthew the Evangelist, and thus Russell's namesday (he was baptized Matthew). Things for the Johnson family were grim. Though we had actually managed to assemble into the van by 9:00 and were on schedule for arriving at church before liturgy began, tempers were inflamed. (Thomas concluded that a lot of people in the family, i.e. me and Jared, had woken up on the wrong side of the bed.) The hostile environment worsened when twenty minutes into the trip to Iowa City, Jared realized that he had inadvertenly left a box of pamphlets in the trunk of the car. It was necessary that the pamphlets be delieverd to church, so with no other viable option we exited and headed east on I-80 towards home. "Why bother going," I hissed (really, I hissed). But it was Russell's namesday and thanks to Jared driving a bit over the speed limit, we were really not any later than usual. (Editor's note: Does it balance the cosmic scale if the purpose for speeding is to get to church on time? Moreover, does the fact that I did not get a ticket infer God's blessing on my speeding?) During his homily, our priest typically relates the story of the saint the Church is commemorating that day. This Sunday was no exception. As I held sweet Russell and attempted to distract him with all sorts of jewlery, Fr. Ignatius told St. Matthew's story. Most of it I knew - how when Christ gave his offer to Matthew of becoming a disciple, Matthew instantly dropped everything and followed Him. But then, my ears perked up. Suddenly I was hearing a portion of the story I had never known. According to Church Tradition, after writing his gospel, St. Matthew traveled to (as Thomas would say, "you cannot imagine it") Ethiopia. In fact, St. Matthew is attributed to founding the Church in Ethiopia, and this is the land where he obtained the crown of martyrdom. And when the Ethiopian woman and her children, whom I had not seen in weeks entered the chapel, I fought back laughter and tears.

Lately I have been considering what we as a family can do to consume less and give more. Though it is a vice I vehemently detest and pray to eradicate from my being, greed all too often envelops my heart in subtle ways. And frankly, I am sick to death of feeding it by convincing myself that my wants are sincere needs. Last week we had received in the mail the most recent edition of the magazine our adoption agency, Holt International, publishes. Listed in the center were suggestions of "meaningful gifts that could transform children's lives." Overall, the amounts of money necessary to significantly affect a child's life are quite minimal. For example, a gift of $100 would provide a poor family in Cambodia, the Philipines, Thailand, or Vietnam with "a brood of chickens, a cow, piglets, a sewing machine and supplies, as well as agricultural equipment" so the family could commence a home-based enterprise which would stabilize the family financially and eliminate the risk of children losing their parents. This is less money than I drop for food per week. (If you want to donate, click here.)

The Church in her wisdom sanctions a fast prior to the celebration of the Son's incarnation into the world for our salvation. For forty days, Orthodox Christians all over the world prepare together, abstaining from certain foods and sinful practices until the feast to come. The days prior to the Christmas season are a time not only for reflection but also for self-denial- not solely as an end of itself, but in order to unite us with God. More than linked to this period of abstinence is the act of almsgiving. As we consume less, we are called to give generously to those in need. It is not optional, but an essential part of our salvation. Indeed, according to St. John Chrysostom, feeding the poor is to be considered a greater act than raising the dead.

The Gospel reading assigned for today by the Church lectionary is from Luke 14. While there are times when reading Christ's words, I am puzzled by their meaning, His teaching on how we are to treat others, and especially the poor, is straighforward and pertinent.

When you give a dinner or a supper, do not ask your friends, your brothers, your relatives nor rich neighbors, lest they also invite you back, and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you... He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Possibilities

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day." Admittedly, these are not my words, but those of the author, Charlotte Bronte, from her work Jane Eyre. But since this is one of my favorite pieces of literature and since I believe it to be an adept first line of a book, I decided to start this week's post with it. Yesterday morning, as I descended the stairs at 7:10 a.m. (to be precise), two little babies clutched tightly in each arm, praying I would not trip and fall down the stairs, the sun literally illuminated my living room. It was simply lovely and its warmth provided me with that extra burst of initiative that I desperately need on a Monday morning. But today, here in Iowa, the clouds replaced the sun. (Thomas and I could not decide if the sun was playing hide and seek or was merely refusing to get out of bed.) It appeared to be a chilly, damp, gloomy day. When I considered bundling up the boys and exiting the indoors for some exercise and air, I noticed that a light but steady rain had begun to fall (or the clouds had begun to cry, depending on your perspective). And although Thomas has informed me on more than one occasion of his deep love of rainy days over sunny ones, since one can jump in the puddles (of course), our desire to venture beyond 2708 Scott Street did not materialize.

Consequently, the question of what to do in between the hours of Russell and Elliot waking up from morning nap until lunch promptly entered my mind. Yesterday, the four of us cut open a pumpkin purchased on Saturday at the farmer's market, pulled out the insides, which Thomas reluctantly touched (but only for an instant before declaring they were "slimy like a snail") and baked the flesh. (I later pureed the pumpkin and cooked the seeds, which will be ground up tomorrow and placed ever so discreetly in the children's pumpkin flavored oatmeal. I am so tired of pureeing.) Likewise looming in my thoughts was the roast that needed to start slow cooking by noon if it was to be done by dinner. "Well, why not cook the dinner together?" I pondered. But did I actually have the patience? Already this morning, while I attempted to cook our normal Tuesday morning breakfast consisting of bacon and some variation of whole wheat pancakes, Thomas had volunteered his services so that we could eat together as a family before Jared darted out the door. Inwardly I groaned. Sizzling bacon plus a hot skillet plus one little boy cracking eggs plus two toddlers roaming the floor, one (Elliot) banging wooden spoons on the other's head (poor Hustle Bustle) equaled disaster in my mind. Nonetheless, and without incident, the two of us managed to serve breakfast relatively on time. But could our good fortune be repeated in one day? Well, why not. And so we assembled our ingredients: potatoes, carrots, onions, and chuck roast. With warnings over the well-being of my fingers (he cut his once while peeling an apple), Thomas peeled the carrots, and the three boys (with supervision of course) then took turns cutting both the potatoes and carrots (no one wanted the job of cutting the onions), and depositing them into the crock pot. (I absolutley refused when Thomas expressed his wish to cut the meat.) We counted each piece that we cut, sang songs, hummed the "Imperial March" from Star Wars and created a meal together. By the time we were finished, it was nearly 12:30, and I was still in my pajamas nursing along my second cup of coffee.

I am a homebody at heart. Don't get me wrong, I certainly enjoy getting out of the house. In fact, I relish any occasion in which I can leisurely pace the aisles of a thrift store or experience a meal or even a cup of coffee uninhibited by my precious little ones. Likewise, I have been known to frantically open windows throughout the house on even the hottest and coldest days because I feel a pressure descending on my chest and fear I am suffocating. But I don't like to rush nor do I care to hurry my children. There will be enough of that in their lives. Why commence so much activity when they are so young and vulnerable? And frankly when the four of us are not scrambling, there is an overall feeling of contentment. Anxiety is superseded with peace, and I am able to quiet my thoughts, listen, and even pray, "brushing off the impacts of cares and all thoughts" (St. Neilos of Sinai).

So today, I was able to truly listen to Thomas as he related his evening plans (apparently, he "had to work. A concert at 9:20 o'clock" and I would "have to stay home with the boys") as he simultaneously scribbled "concert stuff" on one of his father's business cards. I could cherish the image of my three sons wrestling each other while also listening to their laughter. I could appreciate my four year-old son's transformation from a boy into a ruthless, tauntaun-eating, Wampa monster. (If you do not not know what either a tauntaun or a Wampa monster is, you need to do some serious brushing up on your Star Wars knowledge.) Thomas and I could complete his laundry (Tuesday is his scheduled day) while singing the hymn to St. Raphael of Brooklyn, the patron saint of our church. I could accept the board books handed to me by Russell and Elliot and sit down and read with them. And we all could partake in and savor this gift of tranquiltiy bestowed on us by this ordinary day.

By the way, our dinner was delicious. And though Thomas declined carrots before they were even offered to him, all the children ate well, and there was no food throwing from R and E, a habit which is increasingly driving me mad. It only takes one time of squishing scrambled eggs between your toes to recognize the true detestablity of this nasty habit. For dessert, remember that pumpkin puree? Homemade pumpkin pie, sort of. The crust was store bought. Unfortunately, I am yet to overcome my fear of even attempting a pie crust ever since my highly intelligent, highly domestic, German friend declared, after viewing one of my efforts, that she "had never seen anything like my crust." But, to my credit, there was homemade cinnamon whipped cream.

Since I launched this post with a Bronte quote, I decided to conclude it with a poem by another Bronte, Emily, which we have been reading throughout the last several weeks. Typically we read a couple poems or sing a couple songs at the conclusion of breakfast while the boys munch on their Shaklee vitamins. This (the poems, not the vitamins) is part of the learning approach developed by Rudolf Steiner, known as Waldorf, to which I have become pretty attached. Though it might seem a bit odd, I cannot deny it's effectiveness - last week, without prompting, Thomas began to recite one of the poems. In fact, he even corrected me when I spoke an erroneous word.

"Autumn Poem"

Fall, leaves, fall;
Die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day.
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the Autumn tree
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.