Tomorrow we lay to rest a saint of the church. Although, technically I think she's been resting pretty well for almost 6 days now. Which is more than I can say for myself.
I have a way of doing the "sermon" portion of the Service of Witness to the Resurrection. In short, I take the "witness" and "resurrection" words seriously. I don't do eulogies. I don't mind when families do them in the midst of the service, but that's just not what I do. I don't tell entire life stories, complete with dates and places. I do tell a story or two about how I encounter the Holy in the life of the person we are there to remember. Because, frankly, if there isn't a story or two about how I encountered the Holy in the life of the recently departed, or if I am unable to notice and then later recall that story, then I have failed miserably at my job and should probably just go be a barista like I keep threatening to.
When I spend time with the family of the dearly departed, I ask them for stories of their own to help me understand where they are in their grief and to help them sort out what "flavor" of service will help them to mourn with dignity and depth. Most families want upbeat services, full of celebration. But for at least one service I have done, we needed to take some time to express together in front of God and everybody what a sh*tty, sh*tty thing it was that she was gone.
But most of the time? I already know what story I'm going to share at the service by the time I hear someone has died. Often before. Way before.
Someone (who really never developed communication "filters") once suggested to me that I should try to find a ministry somewhere where I do nothing but funerals.
I know.
But I think she was trying, in her own clumsy way, to pay me a compliment. I think she was trying to tell me that I pay attention, that I find the Holy--sometimes in some pretty cussed people--and that I remember what it looks and feels like and can tell it later.
That is gold. That is a privilege. I can't believe I actually get to do this. Sometimes these moments of getting to look God in the face without flinching make all the rest of the caca parts of this job worth it.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Here: Take My Monkey
So far this weekend, I have worked 20 hours. I have at least 6 more to go today. I know a lot of people do that, but I usually don't, which means it is making me cranky and unbelievably tired.
So tired, in fact that a few things are falling through the cracks. This morning, apparently, I announced the date and time of the Grande Dame's visitation and memorial service without mentioning the tiny detail that she had died. WTF? Who does that?
I guess that getting up at 4:00 and pacing for an hour, then doing a massive re-write of the sermon (making it far more "preachy" and far less "feel-goody") was like buckshot to my brain.
In light of my visit with the family of the dearly departed (coming up here in an hour and 20) and confirmation class right after that, I was wise enough to cancel the Adult Ed that was going to happen right after church. But now instead of napping like any sane person would, I am blogging, then planning confirmation class (which frankly, I am so over).
And now that I've got that off my chest/back/heart, it is back to confirmation for me!
So tired, in fact that a few things are falling through the cracks. This morning, apparently, I announced the date and time of the Grande Dame's visitation and memorial service without mentioning the tiny detail that she had died. WTF? Who does that?
I guess that getting up at 4:00 and pacing for an hour, then doing a massive re-write of the sermon (making it far more "preachy" and far less "feel-goody") was like buckshot to my brain.
In light of my visit with the family of the dearly departed (coming up here in an hour and 20) and confirmation class right after that, I was wise enough to cancel the Adult Ed that was going to happen right after church. But now instead of napping like any sane person would, I am blogging, then planning confirmation class (which frankly, I am so over).
And now that I've got that off my chest/back/heart, it is back to confirmation for me!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Today's List--With Updates!
Strip beds and wash sheetsTake WG's forgotten English homework to Pretentious High SchoolPack away winter clothes (yeah, I know we are supposed to get a blizzard tomorrow. sigh.)Haul winter clothes down stairsClean out the fridgeClean out the junk drawerBuy/bake (haven't decided which yet) Blue Eye's birthday cakeGoodwill runTake extra un-opened bag of dog food to the shelter- Celebrate BE's 47th birthday when he gets home--he has to work late tonight.
- Collapse.
Filed the pile of papers that had taken over my desk in the home office!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Through the Veil
The Grande Dame of St Stoic passed through the veil today, after a relatively brief but intense battle with cancer that we all knew she would probably not win, not medically anyway. I guess God had the last word on it, having beat death and all some 2000 years ago, but to those of us who watched her these last eight weeks, it looks like defeat up close.
This all just comes too close on the heel of other losses in my life, but heck, I don't get to choose.
I did notice something, though. I am really good at shifting into funeral mode. I did it in a way last Saturday after we lost Tanner, making calls and figuring out next steps and taking notes.
The popular funeral director and I know each other pretty well by now. He's assisted at all but three of my funerals. He knows how I like to negotiate the Order of the Eastern Star service, can predict how I like the flowers dealt with; if he needs more tables for picture displays, he knows where to get them himself, and we'll fall into easy conversation in the "coach" on the way to the cemetary. There won't be any of that awkwardness when he hands me the envelope containing the honorarium.
It's all very civilized and dignified.
My very first Ash Wednesday at St Stoic, before I had had a chance to lay any of the saints there to rest, I talked about a scene from the HBO series "Six Feet Under" in which the main protagonist recalls travelling to Europe(Italy, I think) and seeing some mourners weeping and keening in grief. He contrasts that with western mortuary, which has just become his new profession after taking over his late father's business.
We keep our grief nice and polite around St Stoic, the way we imagine they did in the Old Country ( a country not very much like the one portrayed in the flashback in Six Feet Under). We don't deny the harsh reality of death so much as we round off its sharp edges sometimes.
I say "we" and count myself a co-conspiritor in this because these are the only funerals I've done.
But I wonder if the dearly departed might wish there were more loud crying and impassioned wailing next week. She did like things rather dramatic.
We'll sing this next Wednesday:
Amen.
This all just comes too close on the heel of other losses in my life, but heck, I don't get to choose.
I did notice something, though. I am really good at shifting into funeral mode. I did it in a way last Saturday after we lost Tanner, making calls and figuring out next steps and taking notes.
The popular funeral director and I know each other pretty well by now. He's assisted at all but three of my funerals. He knows how I like to negotiate the Order of the Eastern Star service, can predict how I like the flowers dealt with; if he needs more tables for picture displays, he knows where to get them himself, and we'll fall into easy conversation in the "coach" on the way to the cemetary. There won't be any of that awkwardness when he hands me the envelope containing the honorarium.
It's all very civilized and dignified.
My very first Ash Wednesday at St Stoic, before I had had a chance to lay any of the saints there to rest, I talked about a scene from the HBO series "Six Feet Under" in which the main protagonist recalls travelling to Europe(Italy, I think) and seeing some mourners weeping and keening in grief. He contrasts that with western mortuary, which has just become his new profession after taking over his late father's business.
We keep our grief nice and polite around St Stoic, the way we imagine they did in the Old Country ( a country not very much like the one portrayed in the flashback in Six Feet Under). We don't deny the harsh reality of death so much as we round off its sharp edges sometimes.
I say "we" and count myself a co-conspiritor in this because these are the only funerals I've done.
But I wonder if the dearly departed might wish there were more loud crying and impassioned wailing next week. She did like things rather dramatic.
We'll sing this next Wednesday:
Save us from weak resignation
To the evils we deplore;
Let the gift of thy salvation
Be our glory evermore.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
Serving Thee whom we adore,
Serving Thee whom we adore.
To the evils we deplore;
Let the gift of thy salvation
Be our glory evermore.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage,
Serving Thee whom we adore,
Serving Thee whom we adore.
Amen.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Hmmm...
I just listened to a presentation by a lovely young woman (a relative of a member of St Stoic) who recently spent two years in a former Soviet republic as a Famous-Group-Inspired-Into-Being-by- JFK Volunteer (rhymes with "Cease Pore").
I am struck with how closely her experience of coming into a foreign culture and working to make appropriate adaptations and changes in order to help the indigenous peoples--not to obliterate their culture, but to increase certain proficiencies in languages to improve the youngest generation's educational opportunities so that they had some chance in a fast-moving world--mirrors my own work. I am especially struck by the resistance she encountered. In the very back of the room, I found myself nodding in agreement a lot.
At the end of her 27 months, (the length of time that volunteers sign up for) she left. It was then up to the next volunteer or to the villagers to either continue or not continue the work she had begun. She seemed pretty at peace with it. Maybe that's where the name comes from.
I am struck with how closely her experience of coming into a foreign culture and working to make appropriate adaptations and changes in order to help the indigenous peoples--not to obliterate their culture, but to increase certain proficiencies in languages to improve the youngest generation's educational opportunities so that they had some chance in a fast-moving world--mirrors my own work. I am especially struck by the resistance she encountered. In the very back of the room, I found myself nodding in agreement a lot.
At the end of her 27 months, (the length of time that volunteers sign up for) she left. It was then up to the next volunteer or to the villagers to either continue or not continue the work she had begun. She seemed pretty at peace with it. Maybe that's where the name comes from.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Because I need to blog about something else...
Scene from yesterday's RevGal meet up. That's me and Singing Owl. (I'm the darker-haired one.) No, my sweater is not one of those mesh 80's jobs, despite how this photo looks. I was completely covered. Singing Owl is a doll, who drove 2 hours one way to visit me.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Petless
- No warm bundle sits at my feet when I am on my laptop.
- No eager face greets me at the door when I come home.
- No need for the lead in the back yard.
- No gentle clack-clack of paws on the wood floors.
- No tennis balls to trip on.
- No eager pup under the table at mealtimes, hoping for a scrap to fall.
- No need for fluffy-blankey when I watch tv.
- No cheerful jingle of dog tags.
- No grateful prancing when I ask "Want to go outside, pup?"
- No barking when the UPS guy comes to the door.
- No need for plastic bags.
- No more looking for the leash.
- No need to make sure doors are closed.
- No answer when I ask "Pup, are you there?" (It's a reflex.)
- No more getting up early to slice off a piece of string cheese in which to hide pills.
- No one will follow me downstairs at 3:30 AM just to sit with me.
- No one to brush.
- No need for special dog shampoo
- No one to tell my secret worries to.
Sparkle collar was a gift from Tanner's cat cousins, Whistle and Fish. He wore it every day.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Way We Were
Nostalgia can kill a church.
That's not an original thought, by the way. I just needed to say it out loud.
Last night I was in a group conversation in which there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth over how some people just aren't around anymore, or are part of the church in ways now that aren't the same as how they used to be deeply connected to it. There was some bitterness, too, at how "some people" had changed.
The group that had gathered was not really one that is charged with the keeping of things "the way we used to be", but I could see and validate the true sadness and frustration of the people seated around the table. I let them wallow for a short while.
Then curiosity got the better of me, and I wondered this out loud:
"I wonder...even though it is very common (and natural) for us to want things to stay the same, and for the people we love to always be around...I wonder if that is what Jesus came to do?"
It got quiet for a minute, then somebody decided to get to the real task at hand: revising my job description.
That's not an original thought, by the way. I just needed to say it out loud.
Last night I was in a group conversation in which there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth over how some people just aren't around anymore, or are part of the church in ways now that aren't the same as how they used to be deeply connected to it. There was some bitterness, too, at how "some people" had changed.
The group that had gathered was not really one that is charged with the keeping of things "the way we used to be", but I could see and validate the true sadness and frustration of the people seated around the table. I let them wallow for a short while.
Then curiosity got the better of me, and I wondered this out loud:
"I wonder...even though it is very common (and natural) for us to want things to stay the same, and for the people we love to always be around...I wonder if that is what Jesus came to do?"
It got quiet for a minute, then somebody decided to get to the real task at hand: revising my job description.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Beans
I was interviewed yesterday.
No. Not what you're thinking. And if it WAS what you are thinking, I probably would not be blogging it.
And no. I was not interviewed by the media, either. Why would you even think that?
I was sitting in my office, absentmindedly eating lunch while casually perusing an adult ed lesson plan when I heard voices out in the hallway. My clergy pals had left the building already, I had seen an elder drop something off for the Office Admin and leave, and the Rat Man had finished for the day, so I had no idea who it could be.
Before I knew it, with the next-to-last bite of my turkey on whole wheat still being chewed, the Office Admin escorts two people into my office. Lets call them "June"and "The Beav". They walk right over to my couch and make themselves comfortable, meanwhile I am hastily rearranging my lunch remnants. (I have a very luxuriously inviting couch. I'll bet if you wandered into my office, you'd be drawn to it, too. People are always telling me, "What a great couch!")
June and Beav are looking around the office, as if they are trying to get the lay of it. I swallow, slide my chair over and offer my hand, "I'm Cheesehead. What can I do for you?"
Many people who wander in from the parking lot unnanounced are looking for help of some kind, usually cash, which I never give, offering instead referrals to, and help contacting, people who can offer more sustained and systemic assistance. I'll give a few gallons of gas or a grocery card in a pinch. I was secretly kicking myself for not replenishing my gas-card supply as June and Beav sat familiarizing themselves with my office.
"We're looking for a church. We had a church, but...we're looking for a new one. I'm checking out churches in the area, taking a look at the buildings and meeting the pastors. I don't want to drag my husband around to too many churches, so I'm narrowing the list to one or two before I bring him anywhere."
She then tells me a little bit about her spouse's history with the church, and when I ask her about her journey, she is strangely vague. Meanwhile Beav is fidgeting like crazy. I guess him to be about 7 or 8 years old. I wonder if he really needs the bathroom, so I turn my attention to him and ask if there's anything I can do for him.
"Are we gonna spill the beans, mom?" he asks, looking at his mother and not me.
Okay. Now they have my full attention!
June asks Beav to please be quiet and asks for a tour of the sanctuary. I am not unaccustomed to this request. Many people just drive by, see my car in the parking lot, and ask to see the sanctuary. I oblige them and we stand in the sanctuary, admiring the midday light streaming in through the stained glass. Jue begins asking about the architecture, the pews, the lights. She then asks for the proper names for things: the pulpit, the font, the table, the chancel. Beav is fascinated by the pew envelopes for visitors, the worship bags for children, the clipboards by the bulletin board. He runs up to the balcony, asking questions about the rose window. He runs back down and begins stacking pew Bibles into random piles. It is as though he is terribly famliiar with the place. And yet his mother seems as if she has not spent a lot of time inside churches.
She begins asking about the similarities between our denomination and another one with whom we are in full communion. She wants to know who are the decision makers in the church. I give her a very brief polity and theology lesson.
Suddenly, she is finished checking out the sanctuary, and she begins walking back to my office. I follow her, after asking the Beav if he didn't want to come along. For a very brief, scary moment, I imagine that she has come here to drop off her son and leave without him.
But that did not happen.
Instead, Beav eventually followed us, and as we got settled back in the office, asked, "When are we going to talk about grandma?"
I look him in the eye and ask, "Is there something you would like to tell me about your grandma?"
Beav looks at his mother. She looks back. She speaks: "We're here because my son wants to be baptized."
I ask Beav, "Is that right? Tell me about why you want to be baptized."
"I don't know. I just do."
That sounds about right to me for a seven-year-old, so I don't press him any further. I ask June, "Do you wish for your son to be baptized?"
"Only in the right church. It has to be the right church. I have to check it out thoroughly first."
I reiterate what I have said several times already, that she and her family are welcome to come back when "the church" is here, since neither the building nor I am "the church", but the worshipping community is. I talk a little about the meaning of baptism in our tradition, and the connectional nature of the church. I encourage them to come several times before making any important decisions.
But it is clear that the interview is over.
They thank me for my time, shake my hand, and rise to leave. I walk them to the door, and as I am closing it behind them I hear Beav say "Aren't you proud of me, Mom? I didn't spill the beans."
I still don't know what the beans are. But I'm going to be wondering about them for days. I'm guessing at least one of them is named "grandma".
No. Not what you're thinking. And if it WAS what you are thinking, I probably would not be blogging it.
And no. I was not interviewed by the media, either. Why would you even think that?
I was sitting in my office, absentmindedly eating lunch while casually perusing an adult ed lesson plan when I heard voices out in the hallway. My clergy pals had left the building already, I had seen an elder drop something off for the Office Admin and leave, and the Rat Man had finished for the day, so I had no idea who it could be.
Before I knew it, with the next-to-last bite of my turkey on whole wheat still being chewed, the Office Admin escorts two people into my office. Lets call them "June"and "The Beav". They walk right over to my couch and make themselves comfortable, meanwhile I am hastily rearranging my lunch remnants. (I have a very luxuriously inviting couch. I'll bet if you wandered into my office, you'd be drawn to it, too. People are always telling me, "What a great couch!")
June and Beav are looking around the office, as if they are trying to get the lay of it. I swallow, slide my chair over and offer my hand, "I'm Cheesehead. What can I do for you?"
Many people who wander in from the parking lot unnanounced are looking for help of some kind, usually cash, which I never give, offering instead referrals to, and help contacting, people who can offer more sustained and systemic assistance. I'll give a few gallons of gas or a grocery card in a pinch. I was secretly kicking myself for not replenishing my gas-card supply as June and Beav sat familiarizing themselves with my office.
"We're looking for a church. We had a church, but...we're looking for a new one. I'm checking out churches in the area, taking a look at the buildings and meeting the pastors. I don't want to drag my husband around to too many churches, so I'm narrowing the list to one or two before I bring him anywhere."
She then tells me a little bit about her spouse's history with the church, and when I ask her about her journey, she is strangely vague. Meanwhile Beav is fidgeting like crazy. I guess him to be about 7 or 8 years old. I wonder if he really needs the bathroom, so I turn my attention to him and ask if there's anything I can do for him.
"Are we gonna spill the beans, mom?" he asks, looking at his mother and not me.
Okay. Now they have my full attention!
June asks Beav to please be quiet and asks for a tour of the sanctuary. I am not unaccustomed to this request. Many people just drive by, see my car in the parking lot, and ask to see the sanctuary. I oblige them and we stand in the sanctuary, admiring the midday light streaming in through the stained glass. Jue begins asking about the architecture, the pews, the lights. She then asks for the proper names for things: the pulpit, the font, the table, the chancel. Beav is fascinated by the pew envelopes for visitors, the worship bags for children, the clipboards by the bulletin board. He runs up to the balcony, asking questions about the rose window. He runs back down and begins stacking pew Bibles into random piles. It is as though he is terribly famliiar with the place. And yet his mother seems as if she has not spent a lot of time inside churches.
She begins asking about the similarities between our denomination and another one with whom we are in full communion. She wants to know who are the decision makers in the church. I give her a very brief polity and theology lesson.
Suddenly, she is finished checking out the sanctuary, and she begins walking back to my office. I follow her, after asking the Beav if he didn't want to come along. For a very brief, scary moment, I imagine that she has come here to drop off her son and leave without him.
But that did not happen.
Instead, Beav eventually followed us, and as we got settled back in the office, asked, "When are we going to talk about grandma?"
I look him in the eye and ask, "Is there something you would like to tell me about your grandma?"
Beav looks at his mother. She looks back. She speaks: "We're here because my son wants to be baptized."
I ask Beav, "Is that right? Tell me about why you want to be baptized."
"I don't know. I just do."
That sounds about right to me for a seven-year-old, so I don't press him any further. I ask June, "Do you wish for your son to be baptized?"
"Only in the right church. It has to be the right church. I have to check it out thoroughly first."
I reiterate what I have said several times already, that she and her family are welcome to come back when "the church" is here, since neither the building nor I am "the church", but the worshipping community is. I talk a little about the meaning of baptism in our tradition, and the connectional nature of the church. I encourage them to come several times before making any important decisions.
But it is clear that the interview is over.
They thank me for my time, shake my hand, and rise to leave. I walk them to the door, and as I am closing it behind them I hear Beav say "Aren't you proud of me, Mom? I didn't spill the beans."
I still don't know what the beans are. But I'm going to be wondering about them for days. I'm guessing at least one of them is named "grandma".
Friday, March 13, 2009
Blog Dots, Some FAIL
- I got tired of writing about my big mouth as it relates to my congregation. I sure do like the hair-pats and "atta-girl"s, but I am not crazy about the situation there. Can't we all (meaning all of us at St S) just do ministry together instead?
- Yesterday we left the doggie home by himself for too many hours. FAIL.
- He did what he needed to do, but he did it all on the rug by the back door, which is washable, for which he got "Good boy!" and a cookie.
- I have a "to file" pile on my desk downstairs at the home office which is (literally) 14 inches high. FAIL.
- Tonight is opening night of WonderGirl's final high school play. I knew this weekend was eventually coming, but I tried to push the thought from my mind. FAIL.
- In 1981, my senior year, I played the female lead in my high school play. The play was "1984". In 2009, her senior year, WG will play the second female lead in her high school play. The play? "1984". I know.
- WG wrote a song (for guitar) in which the hook line is "I love drama club, but now it's over, I can have a life!"
- Did I mention that she has only been playing for about a month, and already has really impressive calluses? She plays about 2 hours a day.
- She also has written a song about Cylons, "I Wanna Be Your Six." I have no idea what that means. FAIL.
- I really, really need a pedicure. Last night my feet were snagging on the sheets. Yuck.
- We recently became a family that tries to live in both worlds. Yes. Spouse bought a Mac Mini. Or is it Mini Mac? Either way. We are working our way up to being able to use the Mac products in anticipation of buying WG a lappie for college. Plus, he really likes gadgets. I have yet to try it. I feel stupid enough on most days without the added layer of new technology.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Still running her mouth...
At a recent meeting of the congregational poohbahs, I brought up a request to use our building. The request was made by a local businessperson to use our fellow ship hall (aka creepy church basement) for a seminar for a couple of hours.
I had had some phone conversation with the requester, and had quoted him what our current building use policy says in terms of fees. The fee for the room he wanted to use was $50. Yeah, maybe that's cheap, but that is the policy as it stands.
So when I said my standard "I'll entertain a motion..." somebody moved to charge him $100 instead. During the discussion portion of that motion somebody asked if "we" (meaning me) would have to set up chairs for this event, then somebody else offered that they had never heard of this person and was I really, really sure his business was where his letterhead said it was, 'cause they live in Stoic and had never actually met this guy. (I didn't point out that they probably haven't met him because they have no use for his particular service.) Someone else wanted to know how we would predict ahead of time what kind of "characters" he would be bringing into the building.
I reiterated the motion, then somebody wanted to amend it to add an extra $50 for "chair set up." I offered that I would set up the chairs myself as a "service to the community" (had to give it some lame name). But it had already been amended, which put the total fee at $150. I reiterated that our current policy does not allow us to just change the fee willy-nilly, and stated my intent to argue against and vote against that motion if someobody didn't amend it back to what was reasonble and in the "spirit and letter of the building use policy."
"Too bad, Cheesehead. You don't get to vote!"
"Um...yeah. I do. I don't vote very often, but I do have a vote."
"You're not a member of this church!"
"But I am a member of this board."
"How is that possible?"
I turn to my parliamentarian, who just silently shrugs his shoulders. He has no Book with him. Thanks for the back-up, pal.
I sigh and trudge up to my office to get my Book. I turn to the first 2 sentences of the "Board" section. I read them aloud.
~~Cue crickets~~
The motion is quickly ammended and passes.
Once again, Cheesehead is not born yesterday.
I had had some phone conversation with the requester, and had quoted him what our current building use policy says in terms of fees. The fee for the room he wanted to use was $50. Yeah, maybe that's cheap, but that is the policy as it stands.
So when I said my standard "I'll entertain a motion..." somebody moved to charge him $100 instead. During the discussion portion of that motion somebody asked if "we" (meaning me) would have to set up chairs for this event, then somebody else offered that they had never heard of this person and was I really, really sure his business was where his letterhead said it was, 'cause they live in Stoic and had never actually met this guy. (I didn't point out that they probably haven't met him because they have no use for his particular service.) Someone else wanted to know how we would predict ahead of time what kind of "characters" he would be bringing into the building.
I reiterated the motion, then somebody wanted to amend it to add an extra $50 for "chair set up." I offered that I would set up the chairs myself as a "service to the community" (had to give it some lame name). But it had already been amended, which put the total fee at $150. I reiterated that our current policy does not allow us to just change the fee willy-nilly, and stated my intent to argue against and vote against that motion if someobody didn't amend it back to what was reasonble and in the "spirit and letter of the building use policy."
"Too bad, Cheesehead. You don't get to vote!"
"Um...yeah. I do. I don't vote very often, but I do have a vote."
"You're not a member of this church!"
"But I am a member of this board."
"How is that possible?"
I turn to my parliamentarian, who just silently shrugs his shoulders. He has no Book with him. Thanks for the back-up, pal.
I sigh and trudge up to my office to get my Book. I turn to the first 2 sentences of the "Board" section. I read them aloud.
~~Cue crickets~~
The motion is quickly ammended and passes.
Once again, Cheesehead is not born yesterday.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
There she goes again, running her mouth...
First, because I don't want it to get buried in the comments of the post below, thank you to all who have expressed support of my mom and my family in light of her recent diagnosis. It was hard to write the post about "Secrets" on the heel of that, but that second post had been building up for some time.
I do know the difference between secrets and confidentiality, as several of you pointed out. I am charged with keeping confidential and private what many people bring to me wrapped up as secrets, and I take that calling very seriously. Family secrets are a horse of a different color, of course.
Now, to the latest conundrum. The congregation of St Stoic really knows how to throw a great party. We throw a couple of doozies during the warmer months of the year, and we make lots of money in the fund-raising portion of those parties. The profit margin of these events has begun to really bother me. I'm not naive; I realize that I am the biggest line-item on the church budget. So maybe I should just shut my full mouth, especially so close to payday.
But, here's the thing: why do we ask the community to do what we the congregation are unable or unwilling to do--namely, meet the mission budget of the church through our tithes and offerings? (That's "mission" in the macro sense of the word.) We ask them to do it, one take-out meal at a time. And they do. It has been patiently (as if to a child) explained to me that we cannot meet the budget without the fundraisers. If I told you where my church is located, you would understand how hard to believe that concept is.
We were discussing, in a leadership meeting lately, the idea of adding another fundraiser to an already overloaded warm-weather schedule. Somebody had an idea of another food-related item that we could sell at a community event. I came up with the most outrageous idea I could think of, opened my big fat mouth, and let 'er fly:
"Hey, what if instead of a fundraiser, we give away the ___________?"
An elder asked , "What do you mean give away? Do you mean sell at cost? Give up the profit?"
"Um, no...I mean provide for free. Give it away. As a gift to the community for supporting us all these (100+) years."
"That would really p*ss off the boy scouts." said another really confused elder. "They will be selling_____. "
"Okay, let's not compete with the boy scouts. Let's have our own event, at which we give away _____."
"What's in it for us?" chimed in exasperated elder #3.
"Nothing, except the joy of giving back. Think of it: St Famous has their ______festival, Our Lady of Perpetuity sells______, and we can be the church who gave away __________."
A table of elders sat, shaking their heads. Pastor Cheese has finally jumped the shark in their eyes. She does not get it at all.
Not my fault, I say. It was not an original idea. To see where I stole it, just see Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Gospels according to-.
I do know the difference between secrets and confidentiality, as several of you pointed out. I am charged with keeping confidential and private what many people bring to me wrapped up as secrets, and I take that calling very seriously. Family secrets are a horse of a different color, of course.
Now, to the latest conundrum. The congregation of St Stoic really knows how to throw a great party. We throw a couple of doozies during the warmer months of the year, and we make lots of money in the fund-raising portion of those parties. The profit margin of these events has begun to really bother me. I'm not naive; I realize that I am the biggest line-item on the church budget. So maybe I should just shut my full mouth, especially so close to payday.
But, here's the thing: why do we ask the community to do what we the congregation are unable or unwilling to do--namely, meet the mission budget of the church through our tithes and offerings? (That's "mission" in the macro sense of the word.) We ask them to do it, one take-out meal at a time. And they do. It has been patiently (as if to a child) explained to me that we cannot meet the budget without the fundraisers. If I told you where my church is located, you would understand how hard to believe that concept is.
We were discussing, in a leadership meeting lately, the idea of adding another fundraiser to an already overloaded warm-weather schedule. Somebody had an idea of another food-related item that we could sell at a community event. I came up with the most outrageous idea I could think of, opened my big fat mouth, and let 'er fly:
"Hey, what if instead of a fundraiser, we give away the ___________?"
An elder asked , "What do you mean give away? Do you mean sell at cost? Give up the profit?"
"Um, no...I mean provide for free. Give it away. As a gift to the community for supporting us all these (100+) years."
"That would really p*ss off the boy scouts." said another really confused elder. "They will be selling_____. "
"Okay, let's not compete with the boy scouts. Let's have our own event, at which we give away _____."
"What's in it for us?" chimed in exasperated elder #3.
"Nothing, except the joy of giving back. Think of it: St Famous has their ______festival, Our Lady of Perpetuity sells______, and we can be the church who gave away __________."
A table of elders sat, shaking their heads. Pastor Cheese has finally jumped the shark in their eyes. She does not get it at all.
Not my fault, I say. It was not an original idea. To see where I stole it, just see Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Gospels according to-.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Secrets
Everybody's got them. If somebody claims to have no secrets whatsoever, to be a completely open book, to live a life without a dark rock that can be lifted to reveal a little ugliness kept more or less safe from view, well, that person is lying. Maybe their secret is that they are a really good liar--good enough to fool themselves, even.
In some families, secrets are the primary currency of relationship: "I'll keep your secrets and you'll keep mine and we'll have his bond that nobody can break." The problem with that set up is that secrets, when used as currency, can be stolen, bartered, or sold to the highest bidder.
I've written here before about the tradition of keeping secrets in my family of origin. I've spoken honestly to my mother more than once about my own unwillingness to pass this tradition down to whatever family will follow me. I have declined to play the game, I've ended phone conversations or at least diverted them when the "I have a secret, and I can't tell it to you or your sister will kill me..." starts. Years ago, when my mother would say that I might snap back with "Wow, mom, I'm surprised you aren't dead by now, then!" hoping to joke her into changing the subject. But we all know that isn't funny any more.
The other day I was on the phone with my mom after she had seen the surgeon to finalize her upcoming pituitary operation. She always puts my dad on the phone for a few minutes right before we end the conversation. I heard him ask her "Does she know about J's wedding?" (J is my nephew, who recently announced his engagement on his spacehook page.) I heard my mother say in the background, "I don't know. You better not tell her. L will kill me." (L is my sister.) When my dad finally got on the phone, he did not mention my nephew at all, so I guess that keeping the "secret" is important to him, too.
The really tragic part of this is that my mother and I have discussed my nephew's wedding a couple of times, but I think the stress of her medical situation made her forget which things are secret and which are out in the open. And that's a real burden of carrying so many secrets--it's hard to keep good inventory.
I recently had to ask someone to keep a secret for me. There is a specific set of reasons why I had to tell the secret, why the secret must be kept--for now--and why there is a secret in the first place, and they are very good and proper reasons that are constructive and not destructive. But still, the whole thing makes me jumpy. Like I'm gonna get "caught". Like I am my mother's daughter, and not in the good way.
In some families, secrets are the primary currency of relationship: "I'll keep your secrets and you'll keep mine and we'll have his bond that nobody can break." The problem with that set up is that secrets, when used as currency, can be stolen, bartered, or sold to the highest bidder.
I've written here before about the tradition of keeping secrets in my family of origin. I've spoken honestly to my mother more than once about my own unwillingness to pass this tradition down to whatever family will follow me. I have declined to play the game, I've ended phone conversations or at least diverted them when the "I have a secret, and I can't tell it to you or your sister will kill me..." starts. Years ago, when my mother would say that I might snap back with "Wow, mom, I'm surprised you aren't dead by now, then!" hoping to joke her into changing the subject. But we all know that isn't funny any more.
The other day I was on the phone with my mom after she had seen the surgeon to finalize her upcoming pituitary operation. She always puts my dad on the phone for a few minutes right before we end the conversation. I heard him ask her "Does she know about J's wedding?" (J is my nephew, who recently announced his engagement on his spacehook page.) I heard my mother say in the background, "I don't know. You better not tell her. L will kill me." (L is my sister.) When my dad finally got on the phone, he did not mention my nephew at all, so I guess that keeping the "secret" is important to him, too.
The really tragic part of this is that my mother and I have discussed my nephew's wedding a couple of times, but I think the stress of her medical situation made her forget which things are secret and which are out in the open. And that's a real burden of carrying so many secrets--it's hard to keep good inventory.
I recently had to ask someone to keep a secret for me. There is a specific set of reasons why I had to tell the secret, why the secret must be kept--for now--and why there is a secret in the first place, and they are very good and proper reasons that are constructive and not destructive. But still, the whole thing makes me jumpy. Like I'm gonna get "caught". Like I am my mother's daughter, and not in the good way.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
A Diagnosis at Last
My mother began exhibiting symptoms years ago. A petite woman, who weighed 95 pounds on her wedding day, she wore a size 5 shoe. He feet were so tiny, in fact, that she used to buy store's "sample shoes" to find shoes small enough to fit her.
But several years ago, her feet started to grow, and spread. After her 60th birthday. Even when, due to a digestive disorder, her weight plummeted dangerously low and she was tube- fed through a port for over two years. Still her feet grew.
Something else was happening, too. Despite weighing only about 85 pounds, her hands were growing as well. She could no longer wear her wedding rings, though she weighed less than when they were placed on her finger by my father over 50 years ago. She tried taking diuretics, thinking she was retaining water. These caused cardiac complications and she was ordered not to take them any more. They didn't work, anyway. Soon my 5'0", 85-pound mother's hands were larger and thicker than my 6'2", 250-pound father's.
About the same time she developed sleep apnea, which is almost unheard of in a dangerously small woman. She tried a CPAP machine, but the mask never fit properly and she had to give it up.
But the strangest symptom of all is that her tongue became enormous, and the flesh on it developed a cross-hatch pattern. It got so I could barely understand her speech on the phone. Since I lived 2500 miles away, the phone was the only way we could communicate, which became frustrating, for both of us.
Finally I moved back to the Midwest, and she and my father came to our new home the weekend of my ordination. When I saw her coming down the corridor at the airport, I did not recognize her. The bones of her face seemed distorted, and her tiny mouth could not contain her tongue. Her forehead protruded and her nose seemed far too large for her face. I felt like the worst daughter in the world, for not remembering what her own mother looked like.
The symptoms continued, and my mother kept pointing them out to doctors. None of the doctors had an answer. None of them. And my mother sees a butt load of doctors. She sees an average of eight doctors a month. That's two specialists every week, on average.
Finally, her thyroid had grown to an alarming size, making it extremely difficult to breathe, eat, or talk. She had surgery to remove it, and it was the size and shape of a small football. A surgical endocrinologist diagnosed and removed her thyroid.
About a month ago, the small hometown GP, during a routine twice-a-month checkup, (I told you; she sees lots of doctors!) asked my mother to bring in a photo of herself as a young woman. She brought in the photo of herself at my brother's wedding, 32 years ago. There is absolutely no resemblance between the woman who was 41 at that wedding, and my mother today, who will have 2 grandchildren marry this year, except eye color and hairline. None. No physical resemblance.
The GP finally--finally-- knew almost immediately, and sent her for an MRI of her head.
My mother has a condition called acromegaly, caused by a small tumor on her pituitary gland that has been growing for probably 20 years. Some famous people who had acromegaly are Andre the Giant, and Richard Keil, who played the character Jaws in the Bond movies. The difference between them and my mother is that their tumors began growing when they were children, which results in a condition called gigantism. But if you think about their faces, you can imagine what my mother's cranial-facial bone structure now looks like.
In two weeks, my mother is having surgery to remove the tumor from her pituitary gland. Her surgical endocrinologist, who specializes in disorders of the endocrine, gland, and hormone systems of the body will be doing the surgery, even though he was not smart enough to diagnose her, in my humble opinion. Lets hope he showed up on the "cut into old women who skulls have been distorted, and take out pituitary tumors" day of medical school, eh?
My mother's disfigurement is permanent and irreversible. It is hoped, however, that the removal of the tumor can stave off the other life-threatening complications that come with acromegaly.
I'm glad that my mom's GP caught her illness. At the same time I feel a helpless daughter's rage that none of her specialists took her symptoms seriously.
Bottom line: it sucks to be old, barely working class, sick, and rural in America. It can even kill you.
But several years ago, her feet started to grow, and spread. After her 60th birthday. Even when, due to a digestive disorder, her weight plummeted dangerously low and she was tube- fed through a port for over two years. Still her feet grew.
Something else was happening, too. Despite weighing only about 85 pounds, her hands were growing as well. She could no longer wear her wedding rings, though she weighed less than when they were placed on her finger by my father over 50 years ago. She tried taking diuretics, thinking she was retaining water. These caused cardiac complications and she was ordered not to take them any more. They didn't work, anyway. Soon my 5'0", 85-pound mother's hands were larger and thicker than my 6'2", 250-pound father's.
About the same time she developed sleep apnea, which is almost unheard of in a dangerously small woman. She tried a CPAP machine, but the mask never fit properly and she had to give it up.
But the strangest symptom of all is that her tongue became enormous, and the flesh on it developed a cross-hatch pattern. It got so I could barely understand her speech on the phone. Since I lived 2500 miles away, the phone was the only way we could communicate, which became frustrating, for both of us.
Finally I moved back to the Midwest, and she and my father came to our new home the weekend of my ordination. When I saw her coming down the corridor at the airport, I did not recognize her. The bones of her face seemed distorted, and her tiny mouth could not contain her tongue. Her forehead protruded and her nose seemed far too large for her face. I felt like the worst daughter in the world, for not remembering what her own mother looked like.
The symptoms continued, and my mother kept pointing them out to doctors. None of the doctors had an answer. None of them. And my mother sees a butt load of doctors. She sees an average of eight doctors a month. That's two specialists every week, on average.
Finally, her thyroid had grown to an alarming size, making it extremely difficult to breathe, eat, or talk. She had surgery to remove it, and it was the size and shape of a small football. A surgical endocrinologist diagnosed and removed her thyroid.
About a month ago, the small hometown GP, during a routine twice-a-month checkup, (I told you; she sees lots of doctors!) asked my mother to bring in a photo of herself as a young woman. She brought in the photo of herself at my brother's wedding, 32 years ago. There is absolutely no resemblance between the woman who was 41 at that wedding, and my mother today, who will have 2 grandchildren marry this year, except eye color and hairline. None. No physical resemblance.
The GP finally--finally-- knew almost immediately, and sent her for an MRI of her head.
My mother has a condition called acromegaly, caused by a small tumor on her pituitary gland that has been growing for probably 20 years. Some famous people who had acromegaly are Andre the Giant, and Richard Keil, who played the character Jaws in the Bond movies. The difference between them and my mother is that their tumors began growing when they were children, which results in a condition called gigantism. But if you think about their faces, you can imagine what my mother's cranial-facial bone structure now looks like.
In two weeks, my mother is having surgery to remove the tumor from her pituitary gland. Her surgical endocrinologist, who specializes in disorders of the endocrine, gland, and hormone systems of the body will be doing the surgery, even though he was not smart enough to diagnose her, in my humble opinion. Lets hope he showed up on the "cut into old women who skulls have been distorted, and take out pituitary tumors" day of medical school, eh?
My mother's disfigurement is permanent and irreversible. It is hoped, however, that the removal of the tumor can stave off the other life-threatening complications that come with acromegaly.
I'm glad that my mom's GP caught her illness. At the same time I feel a helpless daughter's rage that none of her specialists took her symptoms seriously.
Bottom line: it sucks to be old, barely working class, sick, and rural in America. It can even kill you.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Burnout VS Rustout
I've come to the conclusion that I would rather go out burning the candle at both ends than reaching, to no avail, for the oil can.
As you were...
As you were...
Monday, March 02, 2009
Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This
I woke up late and groggy, with a headache. I stumbled downstairs to get some coffee, then realized I was out of coffee, so I settled for some juice to try to up the blood sugar a little and get going. I can get coffee on the road, after all.
I went down stairs to the office to grab the folder to take to the tax lady, and noticed that some of the receipts were missing, so I had to go on a wild goose chase to find those.
Back upstairs I switched on my laptop to check my email, and there it was: the thing that really got my day off to a bad start. Recently I worked on a writing assignment that is kind of important. Not important in the way that War and Peace is important, but if this is successful, it could fling wide some doors that up until now have been double dead-bolted shut to me.
I sent my writing off to the person who had recommended me for this assignment, for feedback. After all, if I turn out to be a big zero, this person's reputation will take a hit as well. I opened the email this morning, and this is what I read:
Oh. This is not good. Not good at all. Scrap it. Start over. Did you think this was good???
(~~Deep breath.~~)
It is always quite a disappointment to find out that what you thought was a perfectly serviceable piece of writing--okay, nothing that anybody is going to call the Pulitzer committee about, but good enough--sucks a fair amount of big hairy moose butt. Quite a disappointment, indeed. Especially when you have put not just yours, but another person's rep on the line. And especially when you know that the person who gave you this really negative feedback loves and cares about you enough to be brutally honest. I can handle disappointing strangers, but not the people I love.
The rest of my day so far:
I went down stairs to the office to grab the folder to take to the tax lady, and noticed that some of the receipts were missing, so I had to go on a wild goose chase to find those.
Back upstairs I switched on my laptop to check my email, and there it was: the thing that really got my day off to a bad start. Recently I worked on a writing assignment that is kind of important. Not important in the way that War and Peace is important, but if this is successful, it could fling wide some doors that up until now have been double dead-bolted shut to me.
I sent my writing off to the person who had recommended me for this assignment, for feedback. After all, if I turn out to be a big zero, this person's reputation will take a hit as well. I opened the email this morning, and this is what I read:
Oh. This is not good. Not good at all. Scrap it. Start over. Did you think this was good???
(~~Deep breath.~~)
It is always quite a disappointment to find out that what you thought was a perfectly serviceable piece of writing--okay, nothing that anybody is going to call the Pulitzer committee about, but good enough--sucks a fair amount of big hairy moose butt. Quite a disappointment, indeed. Especially when you have put not just yours, but another person's rep on the line. And especially when you know that the person who gave you this really negative feedback loves and cares about you enough to be brutally honest. I can handle disappointing strangers, but not the people I love.
The rest of my day so far:
- Scraped up my car and busted the trim around the garage door backing out all wonkity.
- Spilled hot coffee on myself in the car, right after getting it in the drivethru.
- Drove into Big Mean City where they are having a Geographic-Feature-Effect blizzard, and (still thinking I was out in sunny dry roads suburbs) forgot how to drive in 8 inches of snow and slid through an intersection, narrowly missing a minivan, no doubt full of small, innocent children.
- Found out we owe even more to the Feds than last year, despite taking what we thought were corrective withholding measures.
- Took myself out to lunch in order to eat my misery, because, you know that always works.
- Successfully spilled pico de gallo on my white sweater.
- Burned my mouth on hot fish tacos.
- Stopped at Big Box Store for lightbulbs, cheetos, papertowels, dog treats, and dish soap,
- But got in the lane behind the woman who disputed the price of everything. in. her. cart. and even called over the manager to complain about being taxed on items that are clearly taxable.
- Forgot to buy coffee.
- I have a friend. Who loves me. And knows people in high places. And this friend will not let me make a fool of myself.
- I have a car that runs. And just got paid off in full a few weeks ago.
- I get to park my car in a garage, which I own.
- I do not have to shovel the foot of snow that my friends in the Big Mean City have to shovel today, even though I only live 25 miles away!
- Nobody got in a car crash today with me except my own garage.
- We are a two income family, and will be able to pay the government what we owe.
- I got to eat today. Foods I like.
- I own a washing machine and a dryer.
- I can shop at a store in my neighborhood, and can generally afford the things I need.
- I am not the kind of person who wants or needs to cause a fuss in a store.
- I can get coffee on the road tomorrow...
Sunday, March 01, 2009
In disguise
Last night I went to a party for a member of our congregation who turned 100 this week. This woman is awesome! She still lives in her own home, (although helpers come in throughout the day) and wears lipstick and earrings every day. In the right places, even.
The party brought out practically the whole village of Stoic and the surrounding area. And lots of people from our congregation. There seemed to be a consensus among St Stoic members: I didn't look like myself. A few people did not know who I was, in fact. Which is strange since they stare at me for 45 minutes once a week. And I do not live under my desk but function out in daylight as a member of the wider community.
But to many people I came to the party disguised as a "regular person."
One man (who is a member) was...let me just say... admiring my blouse (which was not low cut or tight or anything unseemly) until he looked up at the last second and saw my face. Then after about 2.5 seconds of squinting and serious pondering he turned beet red. Meanwhile I am deadpanning him straight in the eye, because really, preacher or no, he should not be staring at anyone's, um...blouse like that in public.
This conversation took place between me and a woman who has been a member of the congregation for many years, whose husband is the chair of the personnel committee, and she comes to church about every other week:
Me: Hey, S, what a great party, huh?
Her: Excuse me? I don't think we've met.
Me: It's, um...me. Cheesehead.
She thinks about this for a few seconds...
Her: Oh, Cheesehead! I didn't recognize you at all. What is so different about you?
Me: Gee, I don't know. I'm not wearing the black robe...
Her: I know! It's your hair! Your hair is long! Did you get extensions?
Me: No...it's my real hair. I'm wearing it straighter now.
Her: Well, whoever did those extensions did a really good job. You should keep those in, they help you look younger.
And scene!
So what did we learn kids? The preacher has b**bs and owns a hairbrush. Class dismissed.
The party brought out practically the whole village of Stoic and the surrounding area. And lots of people from our congregation. There seemed to be a consensus among St Stoic members: I didn't look like myself. A few people did not know who I was, in fact. Which is strange since they stare at me for 45 minutes once a week. And I do not live under my desk but function out in daylight as a member of the wider community.
But to many people I came to the party disguised as a "regular person."
One man (who is a member) was...let me just say... admiring my blouse (which was not low cut or tight or anything unseemly) until he looked up at the last second and saw my face. Then after about 2.5 seconds of squinting and serious pondering he turned beet red. Meanwhile I am deadpanning him straight in the eye, because really, preacher or no, he should not be staring at anyone's, um...blouse like that in public.
This conversation took place between me and a woman who has been a member of the congregation for many years, whose husband is the chair of the personnel committee, and she comes to church about every other week:
Me: Hey, S, what a great party, huh?
Her: Excuse me? I don't think we've met.
Me: It's, um...me. Cheesehead.
She thinks about this for a few seconds...
Her: Oh, Cheesehead! I didn't recognize you at all. What is so different about you?
Me: Gee, I don't know. I'm not wearing the black robe...
Her: I know! It's your hair! Your hair is long! Did you get extensions?
Me: No...it's my real hair. I'm wearing it straighter now.
Her: Well, whoever did those extensions did a really good job. You should keep those in, they help you look younger.
And scene!
So what did we learn kids? The preacher has b**bs and owns a hairbrush. Class dismissed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
