In the garden

I've always been intrigued with the story of Eden. I've brooded over it and written about it many times, trying to tease out some other interpretation besides crime and punishment.

Adam, God's first human creation, was pretty much coddled by God—fed, protected, cherished, given special benefits. He received a mate because he was lonely, and, he didn't have much to do to earn his keep. He was spoiled. rotten.

It's not rocket science to predict that the only stated rule would be disobeyed. One of the hardest jobs for a parent is to enforce the standards and inflict consequences. Without that structure the child grows up undisciplined, unruly, and unprepared for life outside the home. The consequence in Adam's case was life outside the home. Only there, without all the props and privileges of the garden, would he learn how life really works.

I think we've taken that story and twisted it inside out. We've assumed that obedience and perfection are the points here, when it may be that listening to the advice of one with more knowledge and experience is the point.

Eating fruit that gave useless knowledge (of good and evil) did not kill Adam, but it certainly messed with his mind. He noticed he was naked and felt shame. He noticed he had disobeyed and felt shame and fear. He reacted to both in ways that were easily detected, and when challenged, he blamed his wife. She in turn blamed the snake. Neither had ever experienced guilt before, yet both knew instinctively the worst way to assuage it... blame someone else.

A new life outside... totally new experiences, opportunities to learn for themselves, to work and earn their own living, to trust each other, rely on each other, support each other, rather than blame each other... those were the consequences.

habits and facts meme

MikeF, at The Mercy Blog, has tagged me for a meme. (I know, my New Year's resolution was no more memes, but I've also fallen off the water wagon, so what the heck...) If tagged, and you accept, these are the rules:

1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Pretty straightforward, ha! Well, after the last couple of posts I should be able to confess just about anything, so here goes:

1. My favorite number is five. I find great comfort in doing things in fives: I'll wash five dishes, then put five things away in the kitchen, then dry five dishes, etc. I count as I go. I've tried other combinations of numbers but nothing beats five. Even though this meme calls for eight facts, I may only do five...

2. I've had as many jobs/careers as some celebrities have marriages... elf at Santa's Village, Navy photographer, proofreader, bookkeeper, audio visual producer, 3-D animation artist, college instructor, massage therapist, motorcycle safety instructor, print designer, art director for a national publication, and now... nun. Some jobs were full time, some part time, but all were exciting, even the proofreading. (Oh, I did not mention wife, mother, grandmother, singer/songwriter and poet, none of which I got paid for, nor wished to be)

3. I play stupid video games when I'm stressed: Big Kahuna Reef, Pyramids, Mah Jong solitaire. I usually get bored and quit before the end of the game. Even though these games are mindless, I feel soooo smart if I win, which is almost never.

4. I'd like to publish something... someday... just once... a novel, poetry, cartoons... anything. And I want my picture on the back flap, one that looks like me now, not ten years ago.

5. I say what I think and then re-think what I said. It often involves removing my feet from my mouth and apologies and groveling.

6. My favorite place on earth is a beach. I love the sound of surf, the smell of salt air and Coppertone, picking up shells, getting a suntan, walking the callouses off my feet. I've had my best conversations with God at the beach.

7. Look! I'm at seven already... I did not quit at five. (That must mean I don't yet qualify for the obsessive-compulsive diagnosis?) Okay... fact 7: I used to have the most amazing memory. Aging has removed that attribute from my asset category. Oddly enough I am not too upset, because I still remember to talk (ad nauseam) about what a great memory I used to have. I can still recite all the counties in Maine in alphabetical order and the unabridged opening to the Superman (TV) cartoon... "in the endless reaches of the universe, there once existed a planet known as Krypton..."

8. All the foods on my Absolutely NOT list, (either due to high cholesterol, high blood pressure or medication for same) are the foods I like best: bacon, anchovies, shellfish, grapefruit, pasta, butter, cheese... is that not a crime?

okay... eight people to tag to do the same thing:
1. my daughter-in-law (because I love her and she'll probably do it)
2. Zanne (because I love her and she may do it)
3. cat (because I love her and she likes memes)
4. Kim (because I love her and she'll probably do it.)
5. Natty (because she'll think of something outrageous, if she does it. Oh, and because I love her.)

I'm quitting at five. It's my favorite number.

burning bridges... continued

You may wonder why, if I couldn't bear a phone conversation with my ex-husband, how I thought I could handle a face-to-face? Another part of my baggage I think... I don't like the telephone. I was not allowed to use the phone much as a kid, so I don't enjoy using it as an adult. Unless I'm conducting business, I get antsy after two minutes. I have to go to the bathroom or I will say I have to go to the bathroom. Either way, I need to hang up.

To say that my ex-husband has been a huge piece of the puzzle in my discernment to the religious life is an understatement. He was the wild card in nearly every hand I've been dealt over the past four years... coming to a final decision without taking him into account was impossible, is impossible. For awhile I tested the idea that this life was some kind of training ground... a place God had called me to learn whatever it was I needed to know to successfully live with him again.

I'd be in the kitchen, cooking something, and I'd find myself imagining cooking the same thing in his kitchen for him. It didn't occur to me that in this fantasy of being married to him again, he was never around. When that aha finally hit, I realized I couldn't go there. The idea of doing things for him was very strong, the idea of being with him was unimaginable. Face it, I'm denser than Iridium when it comes to relationships

The dream I posted several weeks ago (if you wish, you can read it here) was thoughtfully interpreted by a number of friends, but the one that rang most true was offered by a girlfriend of nearly two decades. She knew me when I was married, has known and supported me through divorce, boyfriends, the move to New York, job changes, more boyfriends... and this choice to become a sister. I was her boss once and she was mine. She knows me inside out like no other friend.

Her take on the dream went something like this: you're seeking a place where your generosity, talent and gifts will be accepted and appreciated. In the dream, you'd already done all the cleaning and cooking and organizing for the party but the soup was still frozen. (It was lentil soup, not important enough to be noticed.) The bowl was too small—because you have so much to offer, you need more than one person to receive; you need God Himself. Even though he tried, your ex-husband could not find a way to accept these gifts, and when you opened the big container, it was full of the baggage (charred dreams and dirt) from your marriage.

Hello. That was insightful as well as prophetic. I haven't had that much profundity smashing the sides of my brain since I quit talking to angels. (Another story... another post.)

to be continued...

burning bridges...

I didn't see my ex-husband on this last trip to Florida. You'd think: So? doesn't ex-husband imply past tense? Who cares? And yes, ex does imply past tense. But relationships are often more complicated than they appear. Ours has been fraught with a number of complicated inconsistencies, and the sum total of our own past tenses did not add up to the thirteen-year-marriage we barely survived, nor the friendship we have since tried to maintain.

When we met, we both expressed the thought that we had known each other before... in another lifetime. I believed it... lock, stock and barrel, and actually, nothing there has changed. It's just one of many reasons I stayed married for so long after common sense said: BIG mistake. There were other reasons: my inability to set boundaries contributed heavily to the mess we were making. I avoided conflict in a number of ways: giving into or avoiding confrontation on his views of politics, art, religion, clutter, spending money... his jealousy of my kids and the time I spent with them was countered by spending more time with him and less with them. It wasn't enough. Eventually I just spent more time at work, where I (the real, the free, the unique I) was appreciated. I was a coward.

I was also afraid of burning bridges. Somewhere in my past it had been stamped into my consciousness "Do NOT burn your bridges."

We had planned to get together at some point, but not much was working out. To be honest, I didn't much care. He had arrived in Hendersonville (unexpectedly) my first night at Kanuga and that had creeped me out. It felt like stalking, and I had no internal resources for handling stalking. The more I thought about it, the more I freaked, so I didn't think about it... until he pressed for a time to see me again.

I emailed him. Email is a cowardly way to carry on a relationship, even one that doesn't exactly exist. It's not pleasant to know that about myself again but there it is.

In the email I told him his surprise appearance at Kanuga had felt like stalking, and that subsequent remarks about my son had ticked me off. I was angry with him, that part was clear, but the rest was a mess. He emailed back, angry now, himself. Wished me a happy life (I could read the gritted teeth between the lines) and... of course I caved. I agreed to see him, but he insisted on a phone conversation. I couldn't bear a phone conversation, so we never did get together.

(to be continued...)

home again, home again... jiggety jig

My wake-up hour for the flight home yesterday was four am, an ungodly hour when bedtime was way past midnight. Our last movie together was Night at the Museum, which the kids insisted I had to see, because it was filmed in New York. Five of us were snuggled on the couch, the four children and me, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn, when the littlest, who was in his big sister's arms, decided he needed popcorn too, and began his eager crawl over arms and laps toward his goal. Nobody stopped him until he was in the bowl, and then only reluctantly. We were all convulsed with laughter as he proceeded to toss popcorn into the air, as well as stuff it into his own little mouth. He is a giggly baby, and his joy is infectious. I realized it was the first time I had relaxed enough to have fun with my grandchildren, rather than watching them have fun with each other. We made a mess, and their mom will be cleaning popcorn out of couch crevasses for months. She didn't seem to mind.

The trip home was relatively easy. Fatigue can either intensify or blur the inconveniences of life, and for me everything was blurred, a blessing. I lay down for a short nap after lunch and woke up at midnight. I looked at the clock (stupidly) and rolled over and went back to sleep. I was tired.

My house-full of sisters was tired as well... not enough hands to make the work light, they had declared today a rest day even before I arrived home. I accepted this blessing too, and am taking the day at a quiet pace.

I am catching up: on my email, on my backyard garden project, on reacquainting myself with the sisters I have missed, but have been out of mind for two weeks. This is my home now, these are my people, and I am glad to be here.

family time... continued

"We call it family time instead of rest and retreat because everyone knows that family time is not necessarily restful."

I understand that comment now, although I didn't when I first heard it. Now I am a few years older, and like my aging mother before me, any disruption in my routine must be handled thoughtfully, with consideration. It used to annoy me when she couldn't get her act together to be spontaneous, when every little exuberant outburst from my two noisy boys would cause her to frown or to shudder, or worse... to correct them and me. She had forgotten what little children are like, just as I have.

She disapproved of the way I allowed them to "run wild", of their lack of table manners, of their grabbing each other's toys. She wanted to take them to a nice restaurant, but not until they could put their napkins in their laps without being told.

I remember all these things as I observe my grandchildren interacting with each other, as I watch my son and daughter-in-law patiently explain (once again) to the three-year-old that no... he may not change his shirt for the fourth time this morning. He wails at the top of his lungs in frustration. I shudder.... and frown. I have forgotten what little children are like.

family time

We have two kinds of vacation at our convent: "rest and retreat" and "family time". I rise early at my son's house. It is the only quiet time here.

When I visit I am never prepared for the decibel levels: loud, louder and loud with explosions. They rise and fall like dictatorships. I am also never prepared for the passionate affection of this beautiful family. I am in awe of my daughter-in-law's equanimity, my son's generosity... but I am already exhausted. How do I explain that to either myself or to them?

We watch TV a lot here. I never (get to) watch TV in the convent, so it is always a novelty for a day or two. Mostly movies, because there is really nothing much on TV... although I did watch several episodes of Top Chef yesterday.

My son and I bond over movies. He has already seen them all and I have seen none, so he chooses. Yesterday we watched The Guardian, and parts of Oceans Eleven, Ultraviolet, Sahara... something else... it's a blur. The kids built a tent out of blankets in the office area (where I am now) and it's still there. I've carefully removed one of the walls to sit at the computer. They also filled the baby pool and splashed around for awhile. Their energy is limitless. (Well not quite... they are still asleep.)

The baby is beautiful. He's still at the age where he's happy with anyone holding him so I am enjoying the unconditional love that only a one-year-old can bestow. Each child is delightful, each in his/her own particular way.

I am inadequate at expressing my enjoyment of their spontaneous antics and outbursts, mostly because of the accompanying shrill screams and loud crashes... I cannot decipher them, everything moves too quickly for me. Are they hurt? Angry? Just screaming for the sheer joy of making noise? I can hear them upstairs now... the Kracken has awoken...

Back to Earth...

It's always strange for me to post from someone else's computer. Like using someone else's bathroom, nothing is exactly where it is in my own space. But flexibility and innovation and making do with what you have are all admirable qualities I (sometimes possess and) always long for. So here I am once again, at someone else's keyboard.

The three of us who were at Kanuga left early yesterday to get "home", back to the waiting obligations of job, family and the funeral. Because of Adelaide's incoming grandchildren I've been relocated to another house, until I shift gears once again to meet my son and his family for the rest of the week. That will be later today, when we can hook up after the reception.

I did not travel in habit this trip. I had not expected to need it for a vacation in the mountains and later (maybe) at the beach. I packed capri pants and tee shirts, one linen dress for dinner out, (when we will celebrate Mother's Day and everyone else's birthdays,) but no habit. I had not planned for a funeral.

My sisters back home had to gather all the pieces and ship them to me FedEx. I opened the box last night to sort everything out, iron the wrinkles, and discovered one piece was missing... the one thing I had not mentioned in my email to explain where everything was in my cell. Oops.

It's not a noticeable article of attire like the cross or the scapular... it's a piece of plastic that slides into the little white cap to which the veil attaches, and it holds the top of the cap in a stiff arc at the top of my head. Without it the whole thing flops and looks stupid. This morning we got out some cardboard and I went to work. I've inserted that stiff plastic thing enough times that I knew by memory the approximate shape and size I should cut out, but the plastic bends and snaps back easily and cardboard folds and creases. Oops. After a couple of failed attempts I got it to slide in without too much crumpling. It ain't perfect, but if nobody pats me on the head, it will do.

"Make do with what you have or do without" my grandmother used to say. So in an hour we will celebrate the life of a particular grandmother, not mine, but one who was herself the epitome of frugality and making do. I hope she likes my hat.

moving right along...

The conference is interesting, inspiring, the scenery lovely and the weather perfect. The food is delicious and there's lots of it. But each day I realize I am just tired. Taking on additional spiritual and intellectual information is not easy and I'm cutting out on lots of things, losing interest in some of the ones I chose initially to do.

Last night I attended a session on "being still." It was one of those situations where Murphy's Law was running rampant and the facilitator, although outwardly calm, was juggling his presentation internally. Ceiling fans with only one setting—high—kept blowing out the candle. Originally twenty people had signed up, and the perfect circle of chairs kept expanding in uneven lumps as more and more gate-crashers arrived (me among them) on the spur of the moment. The sound system kept picking up intermittent drumming from another building and the controls had to be located and shut down. A cel phone rang. We were in the middle of a deep meditation when he had to bring us back to the room for an announcement... "is so and so in the group?" an emergency message, as the Kanuga staff tried to locate the individual.

Metaphors for life, we call these instances. A specific session on being still is bombarded with outward distractions... some of them annoying, some necessary... but not now. So it is in life. At the breakfast table this morning we were congratulating the facilitator on his equanimity when a woman mentioned that this was what had happened to Jesus. He'd take hmself off to a quiet place to pray, only to be followed, stopped on the way, interrupted. His ministry was in those interruptions. Another important concept to ponder when I am not so tired...

getting grounded... not.

Stone ground grits and eggs... sausage biscuits... bacon, all you can eat. Have I died and gone to heaven? Even the coffee here is excellent. I am finding that the word "vacation" for me always seems to equate to "food." Oh well. Simple pleasures. Our Eucharist this morning was from the service used on Iona. Beautiful. The Celts definitely know how to worship.

in the garden

I'm in Hendersonville, North Carolina... at Kanuga, an Episcopal Conference Center. I drove up with two dear friends from Jacksonville yesterday morning for a week of "Gardens and Grace". It's beautiful here, so far the weather has been delightful... slept with the window open under a lazy ceiling fan last night... awoke to birdsong early this morning.

It was an uneventful flight to Jacksonville, although I cut it pretty close at the airport. I say uneventful... that's in the general sense: no flight delays, not long waits in security lines, no lost baggage.

However, this trip has had nothing but unexpected events.

I heard music on the plane. I actually looked around to see if someone had a CD player going somewhere, but no, it was "in my head." Tintinnitus is a new development attached to my aging process. Some days I keep hearing our doorbell ring when it's not ringing, but I've never heard music before. It was amazing... a bit like electronic music in its vibratory nature, but a distinct series of four harmonic chords that repeated themselves three times and then the progression changed to a new line with five chords. Then it started over again. I tried to hum along with what I was hearing and when I did, a profound sense of peace tinged with some vague awareness suffused my body. Cool! Very cool! And then I saw them. (Music from twilight zone: doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo)

What I "saw" outside the window were little speckles of light darting about in random patterns... like fireflies only teensy weensy, much smaller, much faster. Cosmic little beings that I shouldn't have been aware of, yet was. Okee dokee, now not only do I hear things that are not there, but I see them. Nice going, Claire Joy. Maybe they were figments of my imagination, just like the music, but they were pretty wonderful. They looked... happy.

When I arrived in Jacksonville, my friend picked me up from the airport,and we headed for the beach, just long enough to have a quick lunch and for me to dunk my toes into the ocean for a moment. She understands my need for this ritual. I am saying hi to my mother, whose ashes were scattered in that very same ocean fifteen years ago. Any ocean will do, since they are all connected, but this one is where she went in, so to speak, so it is special. Memorial Day weekend is also when I found her after her final stroke, so the weekend itself is laden with memory. Next we stopped by the nursing home to see my friend's mother-in-law.

I've known Adelaide for several years. She's been in a nursing home for much of that time, and I always like to take time to visit if I can. Last year was the first year she didn't know me. Over the past year she's lost more and more of her faculties, and when I saw her Saturday afternoon I knew it was for the last time. The call came at 5:30 Sunday morning.

Would we cancel the trip to Kanuga? No, we would keep to our plans, but with some delay. The family, me and the parish priest gathered at 9:00 for prayers for the dead. A small chime had been brought and was struck gently at the conclusion of our prayers.

As we stood there in silence, I fidgeted... the note had vibrated something loose inside me and a song of praise and entreaty came to my lips: "Open the gates O God! Your daughter is returning. Come out to meet her, O Christ! Your sister has come home! Open your arms O saints and angels! One of your flock has been restored." I wanted to sing it... shout it... wail it to heaven. But of course, being a well-behaved nun (on vacation) I couldn't do any of that. So I took the little hammer and struck the chime three more times repeating the prayer in my head as I did.

Then we got on the road. I'm here. But I'm not quite grounded. I keep thinking of the music on the plane, the little quark-like fireflies, the song to heaven that shook loose in me when the chime sounded. I can't put it together, even though I understand intuitively it is all connected. Maybe in the garden I will be able to make some sense of it all.

Interesting quiz

Thanks to Jules I stumbled onto this interesting quiz. I actually met Jerry Uelsmann (I think when he taught at UF, Gainesville) And I do like much of his work, although I'm told he made his students do a lot of the compositing for him. And oddly enough, I do a whole lot of compositing in my artwork. I just use photoshop... much easier.

Which famous photographer are you? Jerry Uelsmann: Known for multiple imagery and surrealism "I think of my photographs as being obviously symbolic, but not symbolically obvious.”

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

more along those same lines...

As I've mentioned before, I've been re-thinking the concept of friendship as it relates to the virtual community I have grown into over the past couple of years of blogging. Re-thinking and re-understanding have mostly been causes for excitement and joy in my life. Some folks find those activities stressful. I don't, don't ask me why.

I also realize that my Life is in transition again. I generally experience this after the fact, rarely as I go through the process, so to realize it mid-stream is quite wonderful. But transition in and of itself is not a gentle thing. My own community of sisters is experiencing its own transitional trauma as fewer of us are capable of handling the day-in-day-out responsibilities of running a convent. There are fewer of us to cook, clean, answer the door, and attend to the various jobs that were once spread over several sisters. With weariness comes irritation and shorter tempers. We do our best to curb the tendency to take it out on each other, but at some point something has to give. We have already moved up Compline to right after supper clean-up, so sisters can retire earlier. That's been helpful for all of us, not just the elderly. What else could we do to streamline our life? I personally feel we need to re-think the Office Book... make it easier to follow. If page two came after page one, maybe more of us could keep track of what day it is and what hymn we're supposed to sing. But revising fifty years of lovely tradition is no easy task, and since nobody has the time nor the energy to tackle it, we muddle through.

I digress. I am still thinking about the Feast of the Ascension, my irreverence for that holiest of days, (in that all I could muster was a sense of resentment and abandonment). I'd pass it off as pre-Memorial Day blues... anniversary of the weekend I found my mother in a coma from which she never recovered... but I figure it's more than that. And... it's not the kind of thing you open a conversation with..."Hey, I really don't care much for Christ's ascending. What do you think?"

Yet a bloggy friend posted a beautiful vision here and through her expression I could approach the event in a new way. What are friends for? Exactly.

Another friend recently posted about cleaning house and giving things up. He said "I think this is about giving up those things of the world that you have attachment to, but really have no purpose whatsoever except to waste your time and kill your soul." You can read the whole post here. How many things am I clinging to that waste my time and kill my soul?

I guess my point is simply this: the Holy Spirit (as much as I like to give that bird bad press) is alive and well on the blogosphere. The Word I need to hear is being posted every day and I'm reading those words and re-thinking, re-understanding. I'm in transition again... Hallelujah. I think.

searching for meaning

Dream: I am at a huge party, a housewarming. At one point it seems to be for the community because a woman kneels down and asks to receive communion. I explain that we are just having a dinner party, not a Eucharist.

Then it seems to be a housewarming for my ex-husband and me. I am welcoming guests, who are looking around in disbelief... everything is spotless and all the clutter is gone. You can see the furniture and bare floors. There are lots of people milling around everywhere... out in the yard, on the porch, crowding into the kitchen. I see some new people, friends from my time in community and I ask them to stay. Supper will be ready soon, and there's plenty.

As I walk into the kitchen, one of my husband's ex-wives (he's had a few) is hacking away at a giant slab of salmon. She looks up and smiles. She is "tenderizing" it. I walk by without comment. If she wants to tenderize the salmon, I'm not going to interfere. Another woman is trying to help my husband with the lentil soup... but the bowl is too small for all the ingredients. Apparently I have prepared everything in advance and have put it in the freezer, but nobody has remembered to thaw it out. There are no large pots or bowls to serve it in. I am irritated that the soup is still frozen, irritated that there are no large bowls. Oh... I took all the large bowls when we divorced, I think. My fault.

I send my husband on a fool's errand... to find a large enough container for the gallons of frozen soup. What about a large roasting pan? Do you have one of those? He returns with a giant covered grill hot off the fire pit. Will this work? He sets it down on the table. I lift the lid and there are about twenty blackened cornished game hens inside... left over from some long ago barbecue. The pan is burned and full of dirt. I lose my temper, fly off the handle and yell at him. I wake up.

I look at the clock. 6:03. I've overslept (again). I was awake at 4:30 but the window was open and the room chilly, and my neck stiff and painful. Too lazy to get up and close the window I burrowed deeper into the covers... to dream. What? Why? In dreams concerning my ex-husband I am always angry with him for something. I try to analyze the dream as I wash and dress and brush my teeth. What does it mean, Lord?

Feast of the Ascension

I'm not sure I'm all that happy about the feast of the Ascension.

I know I'm supposed to be ecstatic, because Jesus has gone back to God, where he came from in the first place, and the Holy Spirit will come around at some point to offer whatever it was that Jesus had (although the disciples weren't that clear about when that was going to happen.) Maybe just the spectacular way that Jesus left was enough for them. They witnessed it. I didn't.

So I sit here and keep thinking... you're leaving again!?! Damn.

Maybe it's because the few brushes I've had with the Holy Spirit have not been all that pleasant. I spoke in tongues a couple of times and that was embarrassing and out of control. I spent several months compelled to write Christian folk songs every night... verse after verse after verse... so many verses nobody in their right mind would want to hear the whole song. Do you know how many words rhyme with tree? Too many.

And whenever I sense the Spirit moving through a place, I tear up. My nose turns red, I can't speak without coughing. Of course it's usually when I'm in a group of people and someone always wants to know what's wrong? I was at an ordination a couple of weeks ago and one of the ordinands was so moved she sobbed through the whole ceremony. Uh oh. I can see it coming now... and the thought terrifies me.

someone else to remind you

John 14:23-29

"I have said these things to you while I'm still with you..." John's Gospel sets these words in the middle of the last supper... a long string of "if you love me, do this... and this... and this."

Yet we are reading these words a few days before the Ascension. It makes sense. Jesus could easily be preparing his disciples for his absence once again. When he tried that before they didn't get it. Will they get it this time? Probably not.

Think of the emotional roller coaster his followers have been riding over the last month: a triumphal entry into the Holy City... hoards screaming "hosanna!" only to be replaced by hoards screaming "crucify him!" The actual crucifixion, (which most of them did not witness) followed by news of a resurrection. Too much too soon. Now what? He's leaving AGAIN?

When someone we love has to leave us, no matter what the reason, there is a sense of loss. Stay! Don't go! When someone leaves that we expect to come back, and they don't, there is a sense of guilt. If only I had known, I'd have said goodbye. I'd have told them I loved them.

Jesus is specific about that. Okay... if you love me, here's what you do: you treat each other with the dignity you'd use if it were me. You'll be willing servants to each other. And while I won't be here to remind you, I'll send someone else to remind you... and you'll remember. You'll remember what I said, what I did, and if you love me, you'll do the same.

The advocate, the comforter, the Holy Spirit can take a variety of forms. She isn't going to look like a bird every time she appears. Just as we sometimes see Christ in the eyes of another human being, we also can feel the spirit moving through us to do what Jesus commanded.

Love, forgive, heal, feed, serve. It is God you serve, no matter who it is, no matter if they drive you crazy or annoy the hell out of you. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives."

In other words, this peace, this gift, makes no common sense by the world's standards. In the midst of your daily grind, you'll easily forget. But God is sending someone else to remind you...

Assorted Musings on Mother's Day

My friend mentioned she doesn't like Mother's Day. She may post about why that is, and I'll probably agree with whatever she says. Her words always encourage me to think about things differently. For the record, I like it. (Thinking differently... and Mothers Day. Both.)

I remember when my kids were in grade school they'd come home on Friday with hand-made cards—class project. The greetings were generally as creative as the teacher involved, sometimes humorous. Drawings were big, question and answer sessions... I like my mother to cook: (fill in the blank) My mother is prettiest when: (fill in the blank) I love my mother because: (fill in the blank) I saved those cards for years... my sentimentality for them long exceeded my sentimentality for the macaroni Christmas ornaments they brought home.

I don't know who invented Mother's Day. I could have looked it up, and given you the history, but you can google it yourself. I do that (google information for my blog) sometimes... so I'll appear more intelligent than I really am. And I actually am pretty smart about some things. I have excellent reading comprehension, decent grammar, good spelling (if not typing) skills. I'm creative and productive, have most always been able to earn a living. My learning curve is suffering with old age, but I guess that's to be expected.

"Street smart" I have never been. Naive would be a better term... or gullible, perhaps. As a child, I was sheltered from violence, gang wars, drive-by shootings. I was not sheltered from child molestation, but neither was I traumatized by it. It left its scar, but one that was barely visible. I wonder about the scars (visible and otherwise) left on my children... how my neglect, insecurity, inability to set boundaries, and bad choices have affected them in ways they are still dealing with.

That is all in my past, I cannot change any of it. What I can do now, is love them with all my heart, let them know it in as many ways possible, and wish them well. Oddly enough it appears I've been given a second chance at mothering to some of our elderly sisters, who grow more child-like every day. They spill, break dishes, go out alone without telling anyone, lose their place in the Daily Office... lose their glasses, or cane. They ask a thousand questions... tell me the same story again and again... yet I take it in stride without much annoyance. I have more patience, more compassion with them than I did with my own kids. (Maybe growing old does that too.)

When I was little, everyone wore a carnation on Mother's Day. There was a code: if your mother was alive, you wore red or pink. If she was dead, you wore white. I never wore a white carnation because somewhere along the way that ritual was phased out. But flowers for Mother's Day have never phased out. I read that Mother's day actually surpasses Valentine's Day in flower deliveries, and that's a HUGE flower holiday.

I got flowers from my older son this year. Irises. Beautiful purple irises. The card read To My Mommy I loved that. Mommy. I only know one other adult who still calls her mother Mommy. And I do love flowers, too. Some folks think they are a waste of money because the shelf-life is so short. Nah. Jesus didn't think it was a waste of money when Mary cracked the jar of nard over his head. The perfume was exquisite and he loved her for it. It said "you're worth it." For me it's the same with flowers. In spite of everything, I'm worth it to my children.

I am blessed with two sons and they take turns surprising me. When I was younger (and way more cynical), I'd say "It's good to have two. You have a better chance of being remembered by at least one of them." This year it was flowers.

Imaginary Friends

I had a phone message on my machine from one of my bloggy friends. We had been in contact through her blog, (and mine) and we had exchanged a few emails, but I had never heard her voice. It somehow changed the dynamic to hear her speak. She actually sounded much as I would have imagined, only better, if that makes any sense.

She was telling me about a kindness another blog reader had extended to her, apparently through me, and wanted to thank me. I hadn't really done anything, other than mention her blog in one of my blogs and give a link to her site. That's it. Yet a connection was made and through that connection at least two more people have enriched each other's lives.

Some of my sisters (and plenty of people I imagine... maybe not you since you're actually reading this post) can't understand how virtual friends can be worth anything. The tendency is to think of them as "imaginary friends" and therefore not worthy of the same affection or effort that's involved in being a real flesh and blood friend. I bought that story for awhile because I thought I agreed. Now I'm not so sure.

If Jesus were alive today, would he blog? Would he find his disciples in the Yellow Pages or google the Web?

Today in Bible study we discussed the lesson from Luke where Jesus sends his disciples out to heal and teach. Take no money or extra clothes, and if someone welcomes you, stay awhile... how would that go over today? Not very well I bet. No, our culture and our technology require different tactics to achieve the same results... healing broken hearts, inspiring indifferent minds, converting people's everyday lives.

I have flesh and blood friends that I don't see often. They are in my heart, on my mind. I say prayers for them when I know they need them. But I do not experience them in the flesh except maybe once a month, in some cases, once a year. I have bloggy friends I have never met and probably never will. Yet because we have shared ourselves and our ideas through our writing, they are in my heart, on my mind, and I say prayers for them when I know they need them.

What's the difference?

Happy Birthday Dear One!

My younger son was born on Mother's Day. At least that's the way I remember it. (It's my story and I'm sticking to it.) Today he celebrates his thirty-sixth birthday. The fact that he was my second and I had a good idea of what to expect, that technology had improved in the three years since my first childbirth... both contributed to a much easier delivery... a much easier transition to the caring of a new baby. A nurse informed me that "the angels had kissed him on the way out." I wasn't sure how she knew this, had witnessed this, or if it was a line she gave all new mothers... but it was a comfort at the time.

And he was an angelic baby. From the beginning he was strong and independent, with a knack for entertaining himself without much supervision. That his older brother sometimes bullied him and got him into trouble didn't seem to faze him much. He liked to draw when he was small and I had occasional visions of another artist in the family.

But in addition to his innate sensitivity, he was also a macho guy... whether out of desire or self-defense I don't know. He took to body building-activities: mowing lawns in the summer. He pumped iron in high school and was a male cheerleader, lifting the (somewhat hefty) girls into the air.

He served his time in the Navy, and was determined to become a police officer. The police academy wasn't accepting new recruits, so he attended the junior college's police course. Of course the force wasn't hiring the junior college graduates either, so he took a job in Corrections, working at the county jail. That was when I knew he still valued the human element of compassion so important in positions of authority and physical power.

He told me about a young, very scared woman who had been arrested for forging an $18 check at a 7/11. She was in a holding tank with a crowd of hookers who were razzing her and scaring her to death. All he did was pull her sheet from the bottom of the stack and process her through first, to get her out of the pen. He did his job, but with mercy more than justice.

Less than a year later he was finally sworn in as an officer. He made sergeant in record time and then lieutenant. We are talking one determined and focused guy. he has told me more than once he'll be sheriff one day, and I believe him.

I am so proud of him, of his beautiful family and his willingness to persevere. I'm not sure which genes he inherited from me, (probably not the perseverance) but I love him for who he is, and who he is becoming. Happy Birthday dear John!

Aging

Dream: I have missed my grandson's birthday (again) and I am trying to write a blog to apologize, to explain that my (once razor-sharp) memory keeps failing me. I begin the post with "I have too many grandchildren." ...as if that were a valid excuse for not remembering the youngest's first birthday. No, I cannot say that. It sounds judgmental, as if I were rebuking my son for having four children. As the dream continues I keep revising the text, trying not to whine, trying to sound appropriately contrite. I feel guilty, helpless, hopeless in this. I start again.

The truth is I'm having difficulty coping with the fact that I cannot remember things any more. I am having more difficulty with my irritation with others who forget key details. I now have no grounds for complaint (as if I ever did) but now the clarity is painful.

I begin again. I talk about the aging process, things my mother used to say when she was growing forgetful... when she no longer could do things on the spur of the moment or would become agitated when asked to change her plans. It took her two hours to get dressed in the morning. She needed to know ahead of time what to wear. I am not that bad, I say to myself. But I know secretly that it takes me longer to organize my day now too. I start again. "I have too many grandchildren." No, I can't say that. Now why can't I say that? I cannot remember. So I leave it for now, and hit "save as draft."

I wake up exhausted, slowly becoming aware I've dreamed the whole thing. I pray quietly in the early morning dimness. When was his birthday? I'm afraid to look at the little book where I keep all the dates... how late am I?

Later in the day I finally look at the book. I look at March, April... his name is not there. I look at May... hope springing up.. maybe I am not late? His name is not there. My son's name is there. I knew that. I have only two sons. I can remember two. June... there he is, June 24th! I am not late. Ah... but when June comes will I forget again? I sigh. And give thanks for my forgiving sons, my forgiving sisters, my forgiving God.