Happy Birthday Helen

The call came very early yesterday morning. Helen was gone.

She had lived a very long life for an individual with Down Syndrome. In 1980 the life expectancy for someone with this disability was 25 years. In 2002 it had risen to 49. We felt very privileged to attend Helen's 60th birthday party this summer.

Helen loved her birthday. . . but I'll come back to that in a minute.

Helen was Ali's favorite client. She had been on Ali's caseload at the Center for many years and nearly every day Ali came home with a "Half-Pint" story. 

The physical characteristics of a person with Down Syndrome are very particular – round faces with almond shaped eyes, round bodies on very short and sturdy legs, a tongue that often sticks out. These individuals often have smiles that can light up a room. 

Ali tells me that many individuals with Down Syndrome have certain personality characteristics as well. They can be quite stubborn – sitting down, Indian-style and refusing to move when things aren't quite going according to plan. She also says that people with Down Syndrome are generally very happy-go-lucky and often have a very good sense of humor.

Helen had a little of all these characteristics. Several years ago, when she was in better health and working at the Industries every day she would get off the bus and run into the Program Manager's in the morning shouting, "Look! Look!" all the while holding open her lunch box. She wanted everyone to see what she had for lunch. Every day. And every day it was the same thing – a sandwich, a Little Debbie snack cake and a little plastic bottle of fruit punch. You know the kind. . .it has a little foil cap on the top.

Day in. Day out. Same lunch. If I had a pb&j sandwich every day for years I might want to hurt whoever it was that was packing my lunch.

Day in. Day out. Half-Pint doing her wobbly little dance, shouting, "Look! Look! Me so happy! Me so happy!" And every day Ali would smile and tell Helen that she was happy too, but then she would secretly wonder why "normal" people weren't nearly as happy as Half Pint. After all, we could have whatever we wanted for lunch.

Helen had her stubborn side. There were many times that at the end of the Industries work day the following page would come over the Center's intercom system, "Ali Wilkins please come to the back restrooms." She would go back there to find Half-Pint locked in a bathroom stall, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Ali, being the smallest employee, would have to shimmy under the stall enclosures to unlock the door and talk Half-Pint into getting on the bus to go home.

As she got older, Helen got a bit more stubborn and perhaps a bit more cranky – as we all do. As her health began to fail she endured more trips to the doctor and she didn't exactly find these trips pleasant. Not having the capacity to self-regulate her behaviors she expressed her discontent in a variety of vocal ways. From the back of the van Ali would hear, "Fat Hog!"and  "Bitch!" lobbed her way as Helen let everyone know what she thought of another trip to the doctor.

Everyone got called a "Fat Hog!" It was so common and amusing that it almost became an endearment. The staff at the Emergency Room knew it was Helen coming.

Helen loved to sing and she loved a good party. Christmas carols were some of her favorites. She didn't have a good grasp of the calendar or the particular season but who cares? Every day was a good day to sing Jingle Bells! She had a distinct way of singing Silent Night – with a low, gritty voice and not a lot of tune. 

But, by far, her favorite celebration and her song of choice was Happy Birthday. In Helen's mind, every day should have been her birthday. On those days that she was in the back of the van, on her way to yet another doctor visit, Ali would hear Helen singing, "Happy birthday to me. . .happy birthday to me. . ." occasionally interspersed with a loud, "Fat hog!"

Helen wasn't really 60. A more realistic count, if you go by all the times she wanted to celebrate her birthday, falls somewhere closer to 20,075. That woman did love her some birthdays. With pie, not cake. And lots and lots of balloons.

As her family and caregivers surrounded her in the hospital on Sunday night it became clear that Half-Pint was close to death. She had out-lived all kinds of expectations and her body was just plain old tired. They sat with her through that last night, laughing and telling stories. They even sang her Happy Birthday one more time. Then she was gone.

Last night Ali and I talked about whether or not, in heaven, Half-Pint would have Down Syndrome. Theologians often talk about heaven being a place of wholeness. Did Down Syndrome make Helen less than whole? I'm not sure it did.

It's Ali's theory that people with mental retardation and developmental disabilities are sometimes more whole that you and me. What their brains are "lacking" is the ability to judge. The capability to hold a grudge. The constant desire for more and more – newer and better. The places that their brains excel are in happiness, contentment and love. 

Don't believe me? Try eating a pb&j sandwich every day for a couple of years and not complaining. Then get back to me.

In writing this I realize that the stories that I tell here are only a few in what must be hundreds of "Helen stories." She touched many lives. She made many people laugh and appreciate life. All I have here are a few stories that make me think that God has such a diverse and rich creation vision. These are Ali's memories. There must be so many more.

As I contemplated all the people who loved Helen gathered around her bed in the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital very early Monday morning, softly singing Happy Birthday I was struck by the beauty of that picture. I believe it was her birthday. When she quietly slipped out of her broken and tired body and into the gates of eternity with God it truly was a new birth. From broken back into whole. From tired back into bubbly. From pain back into joy.

I can almost see the pearly gates swinging open and Half-Pint doing her wobbly dance headed right on through. I can see her running with her lunchbox, looking for God. And I can just hear God's enormous laughter. . .the first time Helen calls out, "Fat Hog!"

Happy Birthday Helen.

Slow Sunday Afternoon

I sat out on the front porch late yesterday afternoon, soaking up the last of the sunshine. You never know in northwest Ohio when the sun is going to make it's final showing before chilly rain starts to fall. It seems like only weeks before that rain turns to snow and we won't feel the sun for many long months.

These are the mums decorating our front steps.

Every fall I start to crave warm things to drink. When I was a kid my mom used to make us a drink mix called Russian Tea. It was basically Tang – I'm old enough to associate that with astronauts and breakfast! – instant lemonade, unsweetened tea and spices that you mixed into hot water for a flavored tea drink.

This weekend I had a more grown up hot beverage on my mind – Chai.

I love a cup of something warm in the afternoons at work. Traditional chai is brewed, strained and then added to warm milk. I don't have the capacity to do all that at work, so I came up with a recipe that only needs hot water.

1 C. nonfat powdered milk

1 C. non-dairy powdered creamer

1 C. french vanilla flavored powdered creamer

2 C. white sugar

1 1/2 C. instant, unsweetened tea

2 t. ground ginger

2 t. ground cinnamon

1 t. ground cloves

1 t. ground cardamom

1 t. ground nutmeg

1 t. ground allspice

1/4 t. white pepper

Place all ingredients in a blender or food processor. Pulse or blend until it's a fine powder. Mix 3 tablespoons into a mug of hot water.

Fall flowers. Sunshine. Warm drink. I'm ready.

It's Not All About You

This isn't a political blog and I'm not overly politically inclined. I have strong opinions and I vote based on my beliefs. I'm extremely concerned about the crisis happening in our country with the financial markets. I think strong actions need to be taken with haste, but also with care.

However, the posturing that John McCain is engaging in is very troubling.

He is not the President. He is just one in a number of other people who have been charged with the task of finding a solution to our current problems.

The debate tonight needs to go on. The American people have a right to hear his plans for our future. The fact that he's "suspending his campaign" is troubling as well. You don't get to just quit if you're the President of the United States. You must be able to multi-task.

John – it's not all about you.

A Good Read

“Faith, I tell them, is a mystery, elusive to many, and never easy to explain.”

– from The 19th Wife, by David Ebershoff

The last time I got caught up in a 600-page book must have been the last Harry Potter. I devoured that one. This one grabbed my attention just as completely and didn’t let go until I finished it.

The 19th Wife is historical fiction intertwined with a modern murder mystery. The result is a really engrossing, suspenseful novel.

The year is 1875 and Ann Eliza Young has recently separated from her powerful husband, Brigham Young, prophet and leader of the Mormon Church. She had been his 19th wife. Outcast, she divorces him and embarks on a crusade to end polygamy in the United States, before disappearing without a trace.

From this story, the reader begins to gain understanding about how a woman became a “plural wife” and the devastation that it brings – not only to women and children, but to men trying to live decent lives.

After Ann Eliza’s story begins, Ebershoff weaves in a second narrative – a murder involving a polygamist family in modern day Utah. Jordan Scott, a young man who was thrown out of his fundamentalist Mormon sect years earlier, must reenter that world in order to discover the truth behind his father’s death. His mother, also a 19th wife, is accused of the murder.

The book gets a little bogged down in places, but I learned so much about Mormon history and historical events that it was worth the occasional slog through detail. The modern story also held my attention completely and I looked forward to the changing of chapters – keeping up with each story equally.

The book also contains one of the most beautiful descriptions of what it feels like to be an outsider finding acceptance inside a church that I’ve ever read. In the modern part of the story Jordan Scott is gay. That’s why he was kicked out of the Mormon sect he was born into. He meets another ex-Mormon man who takes him to a church that welcomes them unconditionally.

Ebershoff writes, “The church looked like a bingo hall or senior citizen center. Some queen had stenciled a garland of grapes around the walls. The whole thing depressed me.”

A description of the congregation follows – mostly losers and misfits that make Jordan very uncomfortable. There were prayers for a dog who had surgery, a praise for a new job, and time to thank God for blessings.

Then Ebershoff writes, 

“I hated feeling this way. The combo of love and God was supposed to make me puke. So why were my eyes getting all misty? It happened to me that morning in the ‘Vegas, LGBT-friendly, ex-Mormon church, two miles off the Strip,’ (try saying that two times real fast). I got to sit through a sermon holding Tom’s hand. Big fucking deal I know, but where in the world do you get to do that? Not in many places that call themselves houses of the Lord.”

All I can say to that is amen.

“The one who comes to me, I will certainly not cast out.” John 6:37

If you like a good book that teaches you something while it entertains, read this one.

Hungry

Every once in awhile my phone rings and when I answer it there is someone on the line who hesitantly asks if I can help them. Most of the time they want to know if I will talk to them about whether or not they are on their way to hell for being gay.

At first, I told whoever was on the line that I wasn't the pastor of Open Door anymore. They would express some surprise and then ask if I would talk to them anyway. I always did. If they didn't care that I wasn't a pastor anymore, I didn't either.

It rang again on Saturday morning while I was upstairs painting the craft room. The person on the other end said that they already knew that I wasn't at Open Door any longer but they needed help and didn't have anyone they felt comfortable calling. She had heard somewhere that we used to have a Bible study that dealt with the biblical "clobber passages." She asked if I would help her understand what the Bible did and did not say about homosexuality. I told her that I would email her the curriculum materials if she wanted them. She did.

Before hanging up she said, "There are a lot of us who still need God and don't have any use for religious hypocrisy. What can we do to help each other?"

Interesting question.

I've been feeling a hunger myself – a desire for a study of faith and practice that provides challenge and growth. And lately, there have been a number of people who have crossed my path who seem to want the same thing.

"There are a lot of us who still need God and don't have any use for religious hypocrisy. What can we do to help each other?"

I'm not out to start another church. Let me be clear about this – I'm not interested in starting a church. But I am interested in diving back into the Bible and study happens best in community where we can wrestle with Scripture and with each other. 

I found this curriculum that looks challenging, interesting and well-written. It has some great scholars writing for it – Walter Wink, Marcus Borg and Parker Palmer among others. I downloaded a free sample and the author described this as a "Bible study for subversives." Most of us who stand outside the institution would fit that bill!

I'm going to begin this study for myself. If anyone wants to join me drop me a note at (piketanya at yahoo dot com). I need to satisfy the hunger.

On The Cusp

Monday morning lived up to it's reputation today. I knew as soon as the alarm went off that something wasn't right. I heard Sammy's tags jingle as he ambled up the stairs. In my sleep-addled brain I wondered, "Isn't he supposed to be in his crate?" Yes. . .and then my next thought, "With the door locked?"

When he stuck his cold nose over the side of the bed and into my face I knew there was going to be a problem.

I was faced with my very first choice of the day.

Who gets to pee first. . .me or him?

Turned out to be a ridiculous question – as I sat peeing and looking at him, he stood in the hallway peeing and looking at me.

You gotta love a Monday morning.

After I got things cleaned up I went downstairs and made my coffee. I was on the cusp of being cranky. My right sock was damp from stepping in the wrong spot on the carpet. As I waited for the coffee to finish brewing I made my second decision of the day.

I let it go.

I took off my damp sock. I poured myself a cup of coffee, took a deep breath and decided, that in the grand scheme of things, a little pee just doesn't matter.

That may not sound like much but it felt like a victory to me. I can choose to have the ability to set the tone for my day – so I did!

We face a lot of "on the cusp" moments in life.

cusp: a point between two different states or situations – 

when a person is poised between the two

Sometimes we got a choice. Sometimes we don't. But maybe the key to a little bit more happiness and contentment in life is learning to recognize all those tiny moments in which we get to have a say.

Fall Fence Line

"A tangerine and russet cascade

Of kaleidoscopic leaves

Creates a tapestry of autumn magic

Upon the emerald carpet of fading summer."

- Judith A. Lindberg, Shades of Autumn

Mrs. Dukin Goes to Cooking School

"We have heard that until a woman gets married, she doesn't even know how to boil water. Therefore, this first recipe is

FOR BRIDES ONLY: HOW TO BOIL WATER
Carefully place 2 cups of water in a pot, next place cover on pot and put on stove. Then stand by and watch until you see little bubbles in the water. Then remove."

That, oh so helpful "recipe" comes from my latest cookbook acquisition.


In doing some research I think this book comes from the early 1950's and it appears that the only place it was published was Florida. (With a title like "Welcome Stranger" I'm thoroughly shocked that this endeavor wasn't more successful!) Apparently it was modeled on the Welcome Wagon concept. When a new bride and groom moved into the neighborhood they were presented with this little book.

This particular copy went to Mrs. Clarence Dukin, 411 SW 9th Avenue, West Palm Beach, Florida.


Each right hand page contains recipes while each left side page is an advertisement for a local business in the Palm Beach area. There's McArthur Jersey Farm Dairy who delivers "multi vitamin milk supplies;" Boca Raton Nursery where "free estimates are cheerfully given with no obligation;" The Royal Patrician Beauty Salon that offered "glamour shampoos and scalp treatments;" and my personal favorite – "Your choice of Any one of Four Free Gifts! Compliments of KIRBY CENTER of Delray Beach! No obligation! All we ask is return is a few minutes of your time to preview a new and amazing product for the home!"

The oddest recipe in the book is for "Filipino Swiss Steak."
1 lb. round steak, cut thick
2 carrots, diced
2 pieces celery, diced
1 small can mushrooms
1 can tomato sauce
1 cup water
salt and pepper to taste
1 large onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, diced

Flour steak and fry in a kitchen spoon of fat until browned. Fry onions, carrots and celery in fat until tender and add 1 tablespoon flour and let cook for 2 minutes. Then add tomato sauce and water. Salt and pepper to taste. Let the meat cook in gravy for 2 hours. Serve with rice.

Am I missing something here or is the only reason this recipe could possibly be associated with the Philippines be that you serve it over rice???



Another interesting recipe which has many, many variations is something I've heard of but never seen in a cookbook before:

SLUM GULLION
4 slices bacon
1 can tomatoes
1 medium onion
1/4 lb. cheese (diced)
1/2 lb. beef (cut in small pieces)

Brown bacon and onions together, add tomatoes and meat and cook until meat is tender. Add cheese and cook until cheese is melted. Serve on bread or toast.

According to this website "Slum gullion" or "slumgullion" or just "slum", is a term from the California gold rush. It meant the mud left in the sluice when panning for gold, and the miners also used it to refer to a thin, watery stew or soup made from leftovers. The term first appeared in print in 1850. Every recipe for slumgullion that I found had different ingredients, which is logical since it was originally made from leftovers." (Go to his website to see more recipes with many variations.)

How bout some Slum Gullion this weekend? With a name like that, how could you resist?

Holding On

Since writing the last post about my boss reading this blog some thoughts have been swirling in my head. I'm not exactly sure how they will come out as written word but I need to give it a go.

I try especially hard to write with honesty. I attempt to be candid and forthright about my life. That is the purpose of this blog for me – a means of expressing myself. A conduit of thought and memory. A chronicle of my journey.

I have thought carefully about exposing myself, my life, my thoughts and my partner to people who would be unkind. I've asked myself why I do this. The answers are diverse – I want to develop my own voice and writing is the only way it will ever emerge. I do this because the world is so impersonal that it seems important to me to put humanness back out there in some form. I do this because writing forces me to pay attention to the world in ways I never have before.

Perhaps the most self-revealing reason I blog? I want to be heard.

Does any of that make me uncomfortable? Not really. I believe that if you don't like what you are reading here you don't have to read.

I'm thinking about these things because of Randy and Teresa. The people who write your paycheck don't usually know that many details of your life. And our lives are so, so different. Their church affiliation is Baptist. They are active in their church and strong in their faith. They are also Republicans. We probably disagree on more things than we can find to agree about.

But they read this. And I'm not sure why.

But the fact that they do speaks powerfully to me.

Earlier this summer Ali and I went on vacation in Wisconsin for my grandparent's funerals. It was a very large family reunion for a week and was great fun. My father was there. Not once – in six full days – did he speak to me. He preached the funerals and said things like, "Life is about relationships," and "We need to keep our hearts open to one another."

There were family members who tried to facilitate the "reconciliation of relationship" and the "keeping of open hearts" for us but there was no moving him. At the end of the week a cousin called to tell me that he had tried very hard but my father was unreceptive. When asked why he refused to acknowledge that I was even there all week my father's reply was, "If I talked to her it might signal that I condone her sexuality and life choices."

He's a Baptist preacher. He's a Republican. We disagree on more things than we can find to agree about. But he's my father. And we're all Christians – although I must admit, because of the lack of love and respect that happens in much of mainstream Christianity, the thread that tethers me to Christianity seems as thin as a breath so many days.

I love God and I'm unashamed to say that. I seek to model Jesus and I'm humble in my fumbling attempts. Of my successes and failures, I am also unashamed. But so much else said and done in the name of Jesus makes me edgy and unsettled.

Why do Randy and Teresa treat me with respect and kindness when their worldview is shaped from the same clay as my father's? I have no answer for that. The only thing I do know is that it's the rare Christian like Randy and Teresa that keep me hanging on.

Payday

Friday was payday.

I work in a satellite location about a half hour away from the rest of the employees so most of the time I work alone. I go to Findlay a couple of times a week to our main location to drop of jobs and pick up completed ones. Every other Friday I go there to pick up my paycheck.

When I got there Friday everyone had a check but me.

I didn't really panic. I went to find my boss. He didn't know anything. He called his wife. She just forgot me. No biggie really. They said they would drop it off later. That was fine with me.

When Randy and Teresa stopped by that evening Teresa apologized and handed me my check. Sammy was barking and jumping up so I took it and thanked her, not realizing there was an extra envelope included. After she left I opened it up and there was a gift card and a note that said, "Maybe this can help you with #10 on your list." Along with the gift card was a class schedule for the local bead shop!


Ali, who had taken Sammy out to the backyard, heard me laughing and wanted to know what was going on. When I explained that obviously my boss reads this blog her eyes got real wide and then she started to laugh right along with me!

I don't write a lot about work. I enjoy what I do and I don't take much of my identity from how I make money. (That's probably a good thing since a lot of my money comes from swabbing nasty toilets!) But, I do respect the people who hire me and trust me to do what they need to have done. I appreciate the confidence and respect that they give me and I try to never do things to erode that trust.

What I really want to say is thank you.

Teresa, I will use the gift card to cross off number ten. Maybe I'll even pick a class that meets during the day and cross off number 19 as well! (You're laughing. . .right?!?)

Late Summer Afternoon

"Summer afternoon - Summer afternoon... the two most beautiful words in the English language." – Henry James

Names

This is a very long and personal post. The week before Christmas, 2001 I was part of a United Methodist Mission Team that went to New York City to continue the response to the September 11 tragedy, just three months prior. What follows is a sermon that I preached the day after we returned home. I post it today because I don't want to forget.

Your name is a pretty personal thing.

In Biblical times a name wasn’t simply a word which identified a person or a place. A name expressed something of the very essence of that which was being named. So, to know the name of a person revealed something of the true nature or destiny of the individual. In the Old Testament we have Adam, which means “man.” The name Moses means “drawn out” because he was rescued from the river in a boat made of reeds.

The first story of naming that comes in the New Testament is the one we read today. It comes from Matthew, the first Gospel, right in chapter one. It is the story of Joseph who has a dream. Joseph is in some trouble. His fiancee is pregnant and he’s not the father. Joseph is worried. I’m sure he’s gotten all kinds of advice from his friends and family. He just doesn’t know what to do. No doubt he goes to bed worried one night. In this dream there are angels talking to him. They tell him to let it be. Go ahead and marry the girl and take care of the child. In this dream the angels even tell Joseph what to name the child – call him Jesus.

The Bible tells us that Joseph woke up and knew what to do. I imagine that he felt at peace. He married Mary and he named the child Jesus.

This passage in Matthew goes on to tell us that in naming this child Jesus, Joseph is giving us a vision of the character and essence of what this child would become. We also understand that Jesus is being claimed, even before he is born to be God made real in the world.

This name Jesus is a fulfillment of a prophecy in the Old Testament. Hundreds of years earlier the prophet Isaiah predicted that a virgin would be pregnant with a son and that the child's name would be Emmanuel, which means God is with us.

Emmanuel. God is with us. This is my name for Jesus. This is the vision of Jesus that I cling to and claim when things are stormy and I have more questions than I have answers. What name do you claim for Jesus?

The prophet Isaiah has many names for this son of Mary. He is called Wonderful Counselor, Might God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Emmanuel. Which of these speaks to you?

As many of you know, we just got home from New York City last night. We spent all of last week there as volunteers with the United Methodist Church’s Disaster Response in the wake of the September 11th tragedy. There were nine people on our team and we spread out over the city to do whatever was needed. Some worked in a food pantry. Some of us staffed Listening Centers in churches where people were free to come in and pray and talk about whatever they needed to talk about. Some of us passed out literature at Ground Zero and talked to firefighters, police officers and family members about how they are coping with the aftermath of the event.

I spent most of the week at a Reconciling Congregation on 13th Street in Manhattan called Metropolitan Duane United Methodist Church. In the moments following September 11 all the streets from 14th on down were closed. This church was part of the disaster zone. It was covered and choked by the thick clouds of dust and debris.

When you exited the subway near the church, even 3 months later, you could still smell the scent of destruction here.

As I was at Met-Duane this week, people wandered in with a variety of concerns. I spoke to a woman who’s husband had seen the second plane hit the tower from his desk in his office two blocks away. Her husband didn’t want to talk about it. For weeks he had physical manifestations of the stress in the form of a continuous case of the hiccups. His wife told me that she simply walks around the city every week or two and looks for a church in which she can pray. The stress builds up in her to the point she realizes that she has to let it out some way. She recognizes that prayer works. Then she is better for another week or two. On some level she claims Emmanuel – that God is with her.

A woman, who’s name I don’t know, came in early one day to pray alone. I sat in the back pew and prayed for her. As she knelt at the altar rail at the front of the sanctuary she quietly began to sing. She sang old hyms and then a few Christmas carols. After a period of silence she softly sang, “America the Beautiful.” A few moments later she rose from her knees and returned to a pew in the front, but rather than sitting she stood tall for a long time. Silence filled the church sanctuary and I watched her, wondering what she was going to do. Then, in full voice, she filled the place with “Amazing Grace” as though she were claiming it not only for herself, but for the whole city of New York.

For that one moment, I felt the electricity of Jesus presence alive in that place. Emmanuel – God is with us. We both wept.

Noel came into the church one cold afternoon and asked to talk. He had moved to New York City 24 years earlier with his partner Tom. They came from Dublin, Ireland. Noel came in to talk and pray with me after learning that afternoon that Tom has just three weeks to live. He came in with tears and questions and fears. He left feeling some peace after we prayed. Noel may have named Jesus in much the same way as the prophet Isaiah did, Prince of Peace.

Three of us on the team spoke to a young man who was a struggling actor. It was very cold on Thursday afternoon and the wind was pretty bitter. He had only a vest on and ducked into the doors of the church to warm up. He wanted to talk, to reach out to people who would listen, but he was afraid. He longed for community and support in the city but didn’t know how to go about finding what he needed. He expressed a desire to find some kind of meaningful faith. I would say that if John were able to express it, Jesus to him would have been named Friend and Companion.

We spoke with a chaplain who serves two or three shifts of morgue duty at Ground Zero every week. He will be serving the midnight shift of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning this week. He plans to take communion to the construction workers and recovery workers at the site at midnight on Christmas Eve. When it was said that it must be a great sacrifice on his part to volunteer for this duty he had an interesting and thought provoking response. He said, “I can’t think of a better way to bring the presence of God in the flesh into the world this Christmas, can you?”

No, I don’t think I can. I also can’t go without telling you that this particular chaplains name is Justice.

What name would you claim for Jesus this year?

As you already know, each person we talked to this past week had a name and a story. All over the city there are still make-shift memorials to honor those that are still missing in the terrorist attacks. All around Ground Zero there are walls of pictures, flowers, candles and other memories that grieving family members have placed to honor their loved ones.

Saint Vincent’s Hospital on 14th Street was the hospital which we all saw on television on September 11. It was the hospital closest to Ground Zero where they were expected to bring survivors. Later they waited for bodies that never arrived. Along about a 50 foot stretch of the hospital sidewalk there are hundreds of posters and pictures of people. They were put up immediately following the disaster. Each poster has the picture of the missing person, the person’s name, and who to call if the person is found.

I found this site to be almost overwhelming. Many of the photos are from weddings, with either the bride or groom missing. Most are candid vacation shots taken at a time of joyful relaxation. One is a picture of a baby and a father. The caption reads, “Have you seen my Daddy?” and then lists the fathers name.

Every where you go, there are lists of names. Names that lead to stories. Names that lead to lives. Names that once took families to thoughts of joy, but now take them to thoughts of pain.

My prayer is that it will not be long before these names are spoken with joy once again.

On Monday we went to Ground Zero and walked around the whole perimeter of the site. Recovery workers, construction workers and police officers regard the place as holy ground. Besides the noise of the cranes and machinery, the place is remarkably quiet. I heard someone describe the site as a monstrous hole where pain and anger and terror rise up from the ground. That seemed quite real to me.

The week went by. I absorbed more of the atmosphere and attitude of the people of the city. Christmas began to loom larger and larger on the horizon. Yes, there is pain. There is certainly anger and there are more questions than there are answers. But these things will not win.

This is the fourth week of Advent, the season of hope. Jesus is about to burst onto the scene, bringing many names with him. Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace, Holy One.

Emmanuel, God is with us.

I learned this week that pain, anger and terror may rise up from the ground. They may rise from Ground Zero and they may haunt us in a variety of circumstances in Toledo, Ohio. But, as I listened to a womans voice rise above the din of the city noise and fill the cathedral ceiling of the church with the sounds of “Amazing Grace,” I remembered Emmaunel again. God truly is with us – two thousand years ago in a manger in Bethlehem and at this moment in each of our hearts who seek him.

For this is a season of hope.

Thrifting

Last weekend we went to the Tiffin Flea Market. Some weeks we don't see anything worth anything. Some weeks it's a score!

I'm a sucker for kitchen gadgets.


The thing in the front is a hard boiled egg slicer. In a pinch I've used a french fry cutter but this is just so much more elegant! Next to it is an old tin measuring cup. It's identical to the one my mother had in the kitchen when I learned to cook. Got a little misty about that purchase.

The pan in the back is cast iron and I got it for $4. It's a cornstick pan. Each of the little indentations looks like an ear of sweetcorn. You pour cornbread batter into the hot pan and it makes little fun shaped sticks. Ali fell in love with cornsticks when we went to Shakertown. And I do make the best cornbread in the world. . .if I do say so myself!

I also found this Boston Baked Bean Pot.


It's marked "made in England" on the bottom. I plan to try it out – with this recipe – this weekend when we have friends over for dinner!

The last thing I found was this cookbook.


It's another in this series. I love the little wooden covers and quirky illustrations. This book is all about Pennsylvania Dutch cooking, but interestingly, is full of German translations of words. The cooking is quite German as well. It's plain, homestyle and sometimes a little odd.


Maybe I should serve Pretzel Soup on Saturday too? Maybe not. . .

A Night From Hell

Last night about 8:50, I heard two men's voices floating up the stairs. I was up reading in bed and Ali was watching TV. The voices sounded at first like they were coming from the front porch. I heard Ali's laughter, so I wasn't too worried. It continued for a few minutes and the voices sounded closer. Sammy was barking a bit wildly so I thought I should go down and investigate. Since I was wearing my pajamas, I put on a sweatshirt and headed downstairs.

When I got to the landing I was horrified.

There was a man unpacking a Kirby vacuum cleaner in our living room.

I shot Ali a look that could kill and didn't smile at Mr. Salesman. He didn't bother introducing himself as he launched into his presentation.

"I'm not here to sell you anything tonight. I'm new at this gig and all I want to do is demonstrate this amazing machine. I just got married and I'm selling these so I can take my new wife on a honeymoon. She's never been on an airplane." Blah. Blah. Blah.

Every time he bent down to unpack another part of the machine I wildly mouthed things at Ali like, "What the hell were you thinking???" "Why did you unlock the door??" "I'm going to kill you later!!!!!" She was trying not to laugh and when he would straighten back up we would pretend to be interested in his presentation.

I think I was restrained and polite in my distain until about 9:40. I answered his questions and tried to play along as he continually vacuumed the same 5'x7' area rug over and over and over again. Every time he vacuumed it he would take out the little circle of paper to demonstrate the filth he pulled out of our carpet.

As I got more and more testy I pointed out to Mr. Salesman the the ONLY carpet in the entire house was the area rug he was standing on.

"That's OK!" he said excitedly, "Don't you know if you disassemble this machine it becomes a compressor that you can use to paint your house or blow the leaves out of your gutters? It can also be used as a snow blower for your driveway!"

Very nice. But we're still not buying a $2,355 compressor.

He just kept vacuuming. And laying out those little circles with no more dirt on them all over the living room floor.

Ali was more tolerant at this point than I was. He asked her if the County Music Awards were on TV. It took all her restraint not to say, "How in the hell would I know? You're standing in front of the TV with the vacuum cleaner running!"

After he laid out the sixteenth small circle I said, "It's 9:55. I get up at 5:00 in the morning so I'm going to have to ask you pack up now."

What he said next was the line of the night. He looked at Ali and asked, "Is she always like this?"

I thought I might come unglued.

Pouting, he took his Kirby into the front room to pack it up. Not real loudly we heard him say, "I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. I'm a Christian."

Huh?

The van that dropped him off on our front porch was nowhere to be seen. He took his Kirby to the curb and waited. We locked the front door and nearly choked from laughter.

How can you tell a vacuum salesman is lying? His lips are moving.

By Bread Alone?

Yesterday morning I tried making two things I love but have never cooked before – pita bread and hummus. I'm not a big fan of white bread and so most pita that I can find in the store doesn't really please me. Honestly, I had no idea how easy it was to bake. Here's the recipe I used.

In a large bread bowl, combine:
2 cups lukewarm water
2 1/2 teaspoons yeast

Stir in 3 cups white flour. Make sure flour is incorporated well. Let sit for at least 30 minutes, up to 2 hours.

Stir in 2 1/2 - 3 cups whole wheat flour. Knead for 8 to 10 minutes.

Put dough into clean, oiled bowl and cover with a linen towel. Let rise 1 1/2 - 2 hours or until double in bulk.

Punch down. Divide dough into 16 equal pieces. Roll each piece out to an 8" circle.

Preheat oven to 450 and put a pizza stone in middle of rack. Put two circles of dough on stone and bake 3-4 minutes, until puffy and light.

The "magic" pocket part of the pita bread just happens all by itself! You look in the over after about 2 minutes and it's like a little balloon – all without your help or interference!


Hummus is even easier! I used this recipe from an amazing Middle Eastern cooking blog that I found while I was hunting for authentic hummus recipes. If you love good cooking, great writing, photography and interesting food check out Desert Candy.

Here's my lunch yesterday!


Ali had her pita stuffed with tuna salad since she's not a fan of hummus. We both snacked the rest of the day on plain, warm pita bread.

Was it Jesus who said that (wo)man can't live by bread alone? We might have to differ on this one!

Just For Fun

We took this at the fair last week.


Thinking it was a funny picture, we sent it, via text message to a friend.

R's response: "That's a fake. That's not really him."

Ali: "No. . .ya think??"

R: "I'm sure!!! That's not really him!"

Ali: "Are you really sure??"

R: "It can't be him!!!!!!!!!"

Ali: "Are you drunk?"

no response. . .

For the record – it's not really Barack. But it made us laugh!

Costly Grace

My devotional time yesterday was spent with a passage from Matthew that tells the parable of the mustard seed.

"The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches."
– Matthew 13:31-32

I understand this to mean that life with God – in the now, and in the hereafter – is supposed to be about growing. It's supposed to be about change. As I read and pondered this passage many times over the course of the day yesterday I felt like the passage was telling me that intimacy with God comes when we allow the smallest, most insignificant things in our lives to grow and blossom into shelter and respite for ourselves, and for others.

Over the last year and a half or so, the way I understand God has been changing. I've been wrestling with traditional human conceptions of God. More specifically, I've grappled with the ways that human beings mold and sculpt God into an icon with which they push human agendas. And it all makes me very uncomfortable.

Those plastic WWJD bracelets are a perfect example. Truth be told, they embarrass me. What do they really mean? To me, these bracelets symbolize cheap grace. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was the first to define cheap grace in his classic book "The Cost of Discipleship." His definition is as follows: "Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without discipline, communion without confession, absolution without personal confession. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate."

When we ask the question "What Would Jesus Do?" do we really even want the answer? Jesus hung out with the untouchables of society. He talked to women and prostitutes and other "moral failures." Jesus spent boundless amounts of time and energy on social justice for the poor and oppressed before eventually being crucified as a martyr.

Suddenly that bracelet isn't looking so attractive anymore. That's alright though. Every time we wear that bracelet and we fail it's all too easy to tell ourselves that it's OK – we're not Jesus anyway.

Cheap grace.

The flip side for Bonhoeffer was what he called "the pearl of great price." He writes, "It is costly because it cost God the life of His Son: 'you were bought with a price,' and what has cost God so much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon His Son too dear a price to pay for our llfe, but delivered Him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God."

That stupid bracelet never used to bother me. Now it does. For awhile now it has challenged me to think and wrestle with God. Isn't it enough to ask what Jesus might do?? I don't think it is enough anymore. That dang mustard seed is growing into a shrub.

Maybe a better question would be What Would Jesus Have Me Do?

That's a far costlier question. Instead of thinking of Jesus in the abstract it roots him firmly in the here and now – right in my day to day life. There is no out when I fail. It puts the responsibility of taking up the cross and following Jesus squarely on me.

WWJD grace is presumptuous. WWJHMD grace is humbling. It is also far more difficult and scary.

As Bonhoeffer said, "Costly grace is the Incarnation of God." WWJHMD is the incarnate alive in me.

Damn mustard seeds. . .

Crossing the Finish Line

Mexico, 1968

Out of the cold darkness he came. John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania entered at the far end of the stadium, pain hobbling his every step, his leg bloody and bandaged. The winner of the marathon had been declared over an hour earlier. Only a few spectators remained. But the lone runner pressed on.



As he crossed the finish line, the small crowd roared out its appreciation. Afterward, a reporter asked the runner why he had not retired from the race, since he had no chance of winning. He seemed confused by the question. Finally, he answered:

"My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race. They sent me to finish."

Findlay, Ohio – September 4, 2008

Although the Ravelympics ended with the Olympic Closing Ceremonies on August 28, 2008 – a mere six days ago – I limped to the finish on my Hemlock Ring blanket. I could be very dramatic and say that my knitting fingers were bloodied and battered, but the truth is, it's just been too freakin hot to sit around with a lap full of wool blanket!

Still, I pressed on through 95 degree days in September. My pride didn't just get me into this race. . .it forced me to finish!



These photos are before blocking. The finished size of this beast will be about 6 feet across!

Consider Yourself Warned

I've always harbored a vague insecurity that most of the world, and particularly most of the people who know me, are way smarter than I am. That fact was confirmed last night.

Just in case you ever wondered – laundry soap cannot be substituted for dishwashing detergent. . .




On the bright side. . .my kitchen floor is clean!

101 in 1001: #48

48. Clean out the garage.

This gives another layer of meaning to "Labor Day."

BEFORE:



AFTER:





See the cabinet in the first "after" photo? Scored it at a garage sale for a buck! The funny part must have been watching Ali and I drag it down the sidewalk towards home!