In Advent we wait. We wait for the Feast of Christmas, a 3-4 Sunday festival known reminiscently, musically as "The Twelve Days of Christmas. The feast ends on Epiphany or in some customs Three Kings Day.
We Americans are used to waiting. Not liking it, but doing it with varying degrees of grace. We wait in traffic, in checkout lines, for appointments, for test results, for email replies, for letters of acceptance or employment, for gifts to arrive, for babies to arrive, for cookies to come out of the oven. Some who want to wait with us in all those lines for all those things wait now in immigration detention centers.
I think I'll reflect on waiting today. More later.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Mexico
Every year for 4 years, we have gone to Mexico for Christmas. But this year we stay home.
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Holiday Hunger
Food and holidays go hand-in-hand in my memory. Either Daddy was sending me to the kitchen to help Mama, or Mama was sending me back to the Living Room (or more likely "Outside") to get out from under her feet. The kitchen became a sacred hub of activity. Unfortunately in my family, this was Women's sacred space. Men's sacred space seemed to be parked in the living room in front of the t.v. or working somewhere other than the kitchen. This caused problems for me. It rankled.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Seeds
Anger self-sows freely. It falls between cracks, on sand or loam, in cold or warmth, and grows.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Snow vs. Rain
It's Seattle. The Rain won.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Listening
Do we know when our children are listening to us?
Sometimes I wish I had different words for my daughter to hear and other times I wish she'd listen to the ones I've spoken. But only the one with the ears in question knows what she's heard unless she gives an outward sign of hearing.
Last Sunday our little church ordained (or celebrated the ordination of) its first deacon in, maybe, forever. I don't know him personally. But he shared a nice homily. Being "Christ the King" Sunday, the gospel reading retold the story of Christ addressing the 2 criminals on the crosses beside his. My daughter drew pictures on a piece of paper during most of the homily, other than the moment when she pulled all the coats on top of her, or asked me what a word was on the envelope. She was interested momentarily in who the new guy was and in why the priest wasn't wearing green during Ordinary Time. (I'd say she's a precocious 5 year old, but our Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program teaches the children so much.) I assumed, as others probably did of their children, that she had not heard a word of the homily ("sermon" for my more Protestant family members). Then, at the end of mass, she showed me the picture she'd been working on so diligently and explained it to me. It showed a cross with one man standing on either side and a smiling spirit-man leaving the cross and going up into the sky. She told me it was Jesus rising from the dead and the men beside the cross were the ones he'd been speaking to.
They do listen.
Sometimes I wish I had different words for my daughter to hear and other times I wish she'd listen to the ones I've spoken. But only the one with the ears in question knows what she's heard unless she gives an outward sign of hearing.
Last Sunday our little church ordained (or celebrated the ordination of) its first deacon in, maybe, forever. I don't know him personally. But he shared a nice homily. Being "Christ the King" Sunday, the gospel reading retold the story of Christ addressing the 2 criminals on the crosses beside his. My daughter drew pictures on a piece of paper during most of the homily, other than the moment when she pulled all the coats on top of her, or asked me what a word was on the envelope. She was interested momentarily in who the new guy was and in why the priest wasn't wearing green during Ordinary Time. (I'd say she's a precocious 5 year old, but our Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program teaches the children so much.) I assumed, as others probably did of their children, that she had not heard a word of the homily ("sermon" for my more Protestant family members). Then, at the end of mass, she showed me the picture she'd been working on so diligently and explained it to me. It showed a cross with one man standing on either side and a smiling spirit-man leaving the cross and going up into the sky. She told me it was Jesus rising from the dead and the men beside the cross were the ones he'd been speaking to.
They do listen.
When Words Fail
Sometimes silence is best. I tried to blog yesterday, but it felt forced, so I chose to be silent.
There are times my daughter asks me questions and instead of keeping it simple and then being quiet, I expound as if afraid someone else will fill the void if I stop. Sometimes she picks at me to get a response, and instead of ignoring the jibes and showing her how to be present to someone in quiet, I bite and the decibels climb.
Sometimes when it is too quiet, I become aware of the size of space. In this place sometimes I feel fear. Sometimes curiously observant. And sometimes I try to fill the space, even if only with a gasp.
There are times my daughter asks me questions and instead of keeping it simple and then being quiet, I expound as if afraid someone else will fill the void if I stop. Sometimes she picks at me to get a response, and instead of ignoring the jibes and showing her how to be present to someone in quiet, I bite and the decibels climb.
Sometimes when it is too quiet, I become aware of the size of space. In this place sometimes I feel fear. Sometimes curiously observant. And sometimes I try to fill the space, even if only with a gasp.
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