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[pmcguffin]

Wednesday rituals...

Wednesdays were busy days for me, a newly married high school senior.  Wednesdays were a rush between after-school Thespian Club meetings and church. It was the general rule that if the church doors were open for the gathering of the brethren, we would be among the assemblage.  Being busy was no reason to miss the mid-week service, and by late afternoon, I was so frazzled I could barely think, so…  To keep dinner quick and easy, I turned to the convenience of “Tuna Helper.”

Every single Wednesday evening meant a plateful of that time-and-budget-saver-in-a-box, prepared as quickly as I could manage.  We hurriedly ate in time to wash off the day's grime, grabbed our Bibles, and propelled ourselves out of the apartment without a minute to spare. Yes, indeed, I mindlessly performed this Wednesday night ritual until the evening my li’l hubby asked if I could jazz the “Tuna Helper” up with something, you know, for a change, “…like…maybe…put peas in it or…whatever?”  Sure.  I could do that.  Peas, why not?  The next Wednesday was “Tuna Helper” with peas.  He said he liked it, so we ate it with peas every single Wednesday thereafter until he asked, “Uhm, I know I said I liked the peas, but do we have to have it like this forever now?” 

Seriously?  Why didn’t I make Wednesday “sandwich night” with a stash of hoagie rolls and a rotating selection of bologna, tuna, peanut butter, etc. available?  Seriously, because some seasoned church lady advised me that a GOOD wife COOKS for her husband…geezelueeze.

[pmcguffin]

The women in the kitchen…

The Wednesday night Bible study was moved to Thursday nights, and we boarded the “home-groups” train that was trending in those days.  Everyone was grouped according to which Elder’s house was proximal to us.  Logistics, naturally -the Elders were engineers.

I was impatient for that first meeting.  This Catholic girl gets a little unnerved by those Sunday services where the preacher reads a Bible verse, then fiercely expounds on it, sometimes with an intensity that yanks him out of his jacket in his frenzy over all that hellfire and damnation. Nope, all that fired-up hollering from the pulpit never edified my spirit.  I longed for a calm, contemplative study where exchanging ideas and perspectives would enrich our spirits and foster closer friendships among this earnest little band of Bible scholars.

Thursday came.  I stepped into a spacious living room, settled on a large floor pillow, and rested against an ottoman.  The atmosphere was casual and subdued; it felt pretty good.  After the initial prayer, we opened our Bibles to the chapter of focus in the study, and before I knew it, I was happily engaged in a lively discussion.  One deacon leaned my way as he spoke, inviting me into a dialogue. He was erudite and eloquent, with a keen intellect and a wonderful sense of humor -I genuinely liked him.  Never condescending, he offered his perspectives while validating mine as we looked to the practical applications of the scriptures at hand, and I appreciated his wisdom.  It was good, to feel connected and valid. The moment was short-lived.

Once the meeting was over, the women retreated to make coffee. The men remained. I stayed until I noticed a raised brow with a directional glance toward the kitchen. Oh. I got it. I stood and slipped through the door to find the Women in the Kitchen caught up in animated chatter about diaper rash ointment and -I kid you not- whether it is worth the effort to wash and reuse plastic sandwich baggies. It was made clear that my input was irrelevant when I was told that until I have a baby, I "can’t possibly understand..." anything apparently.  I understood this:  the Women in the Kitchen were not my tribe.

Easing back into the living room, I sidled onto the sofa armrest.  The men were discussing the current socio-political climate, the Church’s place in the world at large, practical ways we could best minister to our community, and whether to address our need for more space by expanding or moving... the big picture. 

Creative ideas, some lofty goals, and a good measure of healthy debate were happening in that living room full of men, with me precariously perched on an armrest -the only woman not in the kitchen.  They didn’t miss a beat.  No one noticed.  None of the men moved to make room for me on that sofa.  Not one.  Yet, there I sat like a glaring neon sign blinking in the face of their purposeful disregard.  Refusing to take the hint, I remained, invisible, silently swallowing swells of rage as those men planned our future and decided our places within it without any input from us -the Women in the Kitchen, and me.

On the drive home, I was confronted with my behavior.  Why couldn’t I sit quietly like the other wives, refrain from joining the discussion, and stay with the Women in the Kitchen where, I suppose, I belonged?  I wanted to scream, “Why aren’t the Women in the Kitchen invited to stay and encouraged to participate in the discussion?”  Instead, I tightened my jaw and muttered, “They weren’t talking about anything interesting, and since I’m not a mother, no one cares what I have to say.”  He asked me to try.  I bit my lip.

He doesn’t get it:  no one wants me, but the exclusion by the men is more than oppressive; it is insulting.  The Women in the Kitchen are their wives, the mothers of their children, and the ones who keep life going forward against all that would interfere.  They are the anchors in their homes, the very hearts of their families. It will be the Women in the Kitchen, without voices, bearing the burden of the men’s decisions.  Although the Women in the Kitchen are not seated at the table for discussion, they will be expected to strategize sacrifices from their household budgets to finance the men’s plans (imagine washing and reusing disposable sandwich baggies --do the men even know their wives do that?)  The Women in the Kitchen will be “holding down the fort” while the men devote their evenings away from their families to manage new and ongoing projects and church business.  After preparing breakfast to ignite the morning and ushering everyone to the day’s destinations, the Women in the Kitchen will be parenting solo until they get the children into bed.  Finally, once the men have returned home, these devoted wives (veiling their own weariness) shall cheerfully serve their husbands a carefully reheated dinner. 

Imagine.  Though they are the ones who create the very propulsion that provides the momentum to move the work forward, The Women in the Kitchen have no voices.

None, because the Women in the Kitchen are not invited to that table... except to serve it.      

[pmcguffin]

Tales from the night shift...

While routinely dimming the lights at 9pm, I tell the nurses, “I'm setting the mood, the only things missing are some candles and lingerie." 

When computer issues are beyond our in-house techs, I call "corporate" whereby I am immediately put on hold. I sit veiled in darkness except for the glow of my computer screen, and that awful music begins...low...slow...undulating with a rhythm that sounds like old porn music with the same loop replaying again, and again, until I reach my wits' end and half-expect Marilyn Chambers to come sashaying from behind a green door. 

I am jolted back to reality the moment "Jeremy" gets on the line with his sensuous Barry White voice, deep, sexy, and as I listen...in the dark...I swear I can hear the clinking of ice and whiskey in a fine crystal glass and the slow exhale of smoke from a Turkish cigarette.

[pmcguffin]

Life lessons from the neighborhood hub (things Mrs. Milam taught us)

• The greatest commandment is not a suggestion. Christianity is more than talk and a sermon on Sunday. Matthew 22:37-39 mentions loving God and loving your neighbor. Mrs. Milam showed us how to live that commandment.

• I had spent my childhood on military bases and the only gardening we ever did was to hide a tomato plant or two behind the zinnias in our quarter’s designated flower beds. At the Milam house, I learned to shuck corn, shell peas, and that real green beans had “strings” in ‘em (who knew?)

• Try new things. I saw Mrs. Milam pop a raw okra in her mouth once! A…raw…okra! The stuff of nightmares, I tell ya! I have since tried it…and lived.

• Elvis.

• Participation is mandatory. Ice cream always tastes better when we make it ourselves and everyone takes a turn cranking or sitting on the churn.

• Every child should feel loved, nurtured, encouraged.

• One can feast (and I do mean FEAST) without meat on the table, especially when the tomatoes are fresh, ripe, and juicy.

• Even company is included in the household labors. There is plenty of work to go around and the rewards are awesome.

• Elvis.

• Icing a cake is an art. One does not plop a glob of frosting between cake layers and then schmear the stuff around the sides. I still heat a spatula in hot water to smooth things nicely.

• Mrs. Milam taught me how to make roses out of icing, set them aside to dry, and put them on the cake…just…so.

• I learned the confidence to sew anything. At a time when she made everything her girls wore, even lingerie, I would sit and watch her lay out her fabric and we’d chat a bit. She shared her expertise and she introduced me to “Cora’s Nylon Shop.” That little hole in the wall was stuffed to the rafters with everything nylon. I loved it, and I mourn its closing to this day.

• Flooding basements can be taken in stride, as long as there is a toilet downstairs.

• The Lord comes first. Elvis is important.

• There is joy in being at the center of “the village,” you know, the one it takes to raise a child. I learned that all children belong to all of us, and we should watch out for them.

• Everyone should be welcomed, invited to share the work, and always included at the table.

• Laughter is powerful.

• Love is an active verb.

• There are rules for Elvis movies:

1. Everyone be quiet.

2. Assume the house mode of “every man for himself.”

3. No one is to bother Mom unless one is bleeding or on fire (and that means copious amounts of blood and the flames are close enough to lick the TV set.)

• Be happy with what you have.

Work hard for what you want.

Be thankful to God for everything.

[pmcguffin]

Playing with matches...

It was an era when neighbors were friendly, most fathers went to work while their wives stayed at home to raise the children, and everyone on the block kept an eye on the kids.  We lived “on post” in side-by-side cookie-cutter military housing we called “quarters,” with small, interconnected yards and a speed limit so low that a good runner could almost keep pace with the traffic.  There were no fences to separate us, gardening was limited to the designated flower beds, and every blade of grass stood exactly the same.  In spite of the protocols that defined our structured environment, those days felt free and easy and safe.  We used to call it a “normal childhood.”  Normal certainly looks different now.

Mrs. Shepard came over every weekday morning to have coffee with Mama.  It was Summer, and we kids were usually shooed out the back door where we played kickball and tag until we were spent, refreshing ourselves with water from the garden hose.  Mama would come to the window when we got too loud or too quiet, or to call us in for lunch.  This day was different.  No one was outside that day, and my brother had gone over to the Shepard’s quarters to play with Timmy and his little sister.  As for me, I stayed home with Mama and my books.

Except for the chatter from the women in the kitchen, the day was peaceful…until it wasn’t.  Little Maryann came running in the back door, arms flailing, screeching, “Fire!! They started a fire on the curtains!!!”  We hurried next door to see what was burning, and sure enough, the curtains were afire.  Our mothers frantically beat the flames into submission, then…they called our dads.  The boys didn’t know how it happened…they only lit a couple of matches…wanted to see if the dog was afraid of fire (she was) …never got close to the window…   Suddenly, the prickle of fear was in the air as we heard that dreaded phrase, “Just wait until your father gets home!”  

Home they came, and after settling the boys’ punishments, they surveyed the damage:  the wall could be painted and the curtains replaced, but that scorched carpet would be a challenge.  

We were living in “quarters” for crying out loud, and the last thing they wanted was to have to report the damage and deal with the fallout.  There was always the anticipation of transfer, and the best way to “clear quarters” was to keep things tidy at all times, so this would be handled quickly and discreetly.  The first stop was the supply hut for Army-standard paint and a new set of Army-issue drapes.  The next stop was the fabric store for yarn in all the colors in the carpet pattern and some curved upholstery/carpet needles. Tools in hand, they were ready to get started.

Now, I don’t remember the painting or the new drapes, but I will never forget the sight of our dads on their knees and elbows in the corner of that living room. With their butts in the air and their tongues stuck out, they struggled to weave the different colored fibers into the carpet, determined to match the pattern and completely hide the damage.  It was time-consuming, painstaking work, with a great deal of cussing throughout the process until, finally, we were all invited to inspect the completed project.  The yarn matched so closely, and there was an artistry in the perfect application of stitches and loops…no one could tell where the carpet was repaired, and there were no signs that the boys had ever torched the place.  

Pleased with themselves, our dads had honed some skills and were enjoying a measure of satisfaction in their accomplishment, our moms kept a closer eye on things, banning all unsupervised paying at the neighbor’s quarters for a while, and the boys?  Oh, yeah, the boys learned a couple of valuable lessons:  only play with matches outdoors, and don’t sweat the accidents because our dads can fix anything. 

[pmcguffin]

Patterns...

When I stopped calling every day, we stopped talking every day.

When I stopped calling every week, we stopped talking every week.

When I stopped calling every two weeks, we stopped talking every two weeks.

When I stopped calling every month, we stopped talking every month.

When I stopped calling...we stopped talking...

It was not until I stopped that I saw the pattern.  How sad it that? 

[pmcguffin]

Never again...

There is an old saying about "being at church every time the doors are open." That’s us.  Those doors are open, so here we are, though I am just not feeling it tonight (my chronic condition these days.)  We step inside, and an eerie sense of unease has the hair on my arms standing on end. I want to go home.    

Only the altar light is burning, shrouding the sanctuary in just enough darkness to set the scene and subdue the mood.  Dramatic.  I suppress an eye-roll.  We greet one another in whispers as though we were a conspiratorial cell of the French Resistance. Now, I don’t disparage the good that can come from the power of communal prayer -but these things?   It is hard to explain, but there is sometimes a layer beneath these orchestrated vespers that I find unsettling. Invasive.

“But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret... (Matthew 6:6)  

Shuffling my feet like a decrepit old drunk, I stumble across the threshold, and despite my efforts to slink beneath the shadows in the back row, I am piloted further down the aisle.  Chilled to the bone, I wish I had brought a sweater.  I stop walking, and without asking, I sit. I am tired.

I don’t want to be with people, not tonight.  I have a cold, which is my reward for helping in the nursery, of course, because Church is pretty much the only place I go (except to visit my parents, who aren’t sick.)  Since no one will keep their sick babies home and miss a Sunday service, I am now numbered among the afflicted. I can’t thank them enough.  My face feels on fire.  I should be comfortably nestled at home, on the sofa, in my jammies, chest slathered with Vicks Vapor Rub, clinging to my box of Kleenex, and peacefully sipping a steamy cup of tea -but no.  I could not make that happen, so I sit, quietly, hoping no one will notice.

Shivering, I reach for the sweater I forgot to bring.  I can’t shake the sense of impending doom that weighs heavily on my chest (or maybe it is the onset of pneumonia.)  Have I mentioned that I don’t want to be here?  My head weighs a ton.

The Elders begin to pray (not one woman among them, per, as I recall, Paul’s suggestions somewhere in I Corinthians.)  Offering their supplications, each voice rises and falls in turn...on and on...thanks to the two Pharisees who have long been saving their petitions for this performance.  It is a practiced cadence, this collective chorus of “Yes Lord, Amen,” the rhythm of which lulls me almost to sleep.  I shake myself awake.   

A chair is pulled to the altar with a declaration of the need for “healing in this place."  We are encouraged to come forward where the Elders shall pray by the “laying on of hands” (Hebrews 6:2) and the “anointment with oil” (James 5:14) and we shall by faith receive the "healing to come."  I slyly look around, trying to gauge...how many...  I sigh and dab my reddened nose with a wadded tissue.  Good Lord, I am so cold.

One by one, they come forward and the Elders pray for release, healing, and the casting out of whatever demon is causing their troubles. The pleas are fervent, unending... exhausting.  Anxiety continues to gnaw at my very bones.  This is excruciating.

Coaxed forward, I remain rigid. “You need this, you’re sick,” he whispers with a nudge.  I resist with a shake of my head, “It’s just a cold.”   He persists until I give in and slide into place.  The Elders anoint me, their voices rising as they press their hands onto my shoulders.  Oil drips down my nose and I reach for a tissue, but my arm is pinned.  One of them has pushed against me, leaning so damn close that I can feel his breathing against my neck.  He smells of coffee and mints, and his mouth moves against my ear as he hisses, “You neeeed…to confesss…your sssin.”  I cannot move.  Breath so hot, my skin feels scorched.  I fear my head will explode.  I shudder, smacked with the sudden realization of my growing dread.  A scream swells but it finds no voice.  I have lost my voice.  In here it has no place.

I don’t remember leaving. In the car, I sit in stunned silence, feeling strangely defiled.  Once home, I open the linen cabinet, grab a clean washcloth and unwrap a new bar of soap. I let the shower run hot before stepping into the steam, where, under the scalding spray, I furiously scrub every inch of my skin until the water runs cold and I emerge, purged.  Dripping and shivering, I wipe the misted mirror to reveal a reflection I no longer recognize.

I open my jar of Vicks and inhale slowly, deeply, inviting its stinging vapors to clear my head and reawaken my senses. Anger swells, and I make a promise to the face in the mirror:  Never again, for I will find my voice and reclaim my space--no matter how long it takes.

[pmcguffin]

Secrets...

‘Tis a deep melancholy, the isolation that is born from our secrets. 

Hushed whispers in the darkness are long buried by the passage of time, yet the remnants echo, softly, a solitary souvenir. 

Clandestine liaisons leave us lonely; there is no reminiscing over tea in the company of a confidant. 

In solitude, we will carry the burden of our hauntings, closely guard our memories, and savor the bittersweetness of our lingering emotions...for the rest of our days.

[pmcguffin]

“Walk this way...”

Life isn't quite the same without Mama's commentary.

Last night, while shopping, we found ourselves behind a woman with so much jiggle in her backside, we couldn’t tell where that butt was going to swing from one aisle to the next.  Prodigious it was, and as one who sports a big fat behind of my own, I was duly impressed.      

All of that booty power was wrapped in leggings stretched so far beyond their limits, the Lycra finally surrendered to a permanent state of relaxation.  Without an ounce of Spandex left to contain the shake, and with nary a hint of underwear, her ample butt looked pretty naked beneath that gossamer-thin jersey.  She wore a pretty little knit top that barely covered her midriff, and no.  The mom in me wanted to grab a tunic off the rack and take her to the mirror section for a brief lesson on proper coverage!

Anyway, that lady sashayed and quivered back and forth in the aisle, swaying hither and yon, with a good portion of her tights crammed into a butt crack so powerful, it ate a little more fabric with every step she took (how could she not feel that?)  Suddenly she stopped, and without warning backed into the face of a little kid behind her, and oh!  The eye-popping expression on that boy's face pushed us right over the edge. 

Tom and I stopped, paralyzed with suppressed laughter until she was out of range and we could give in to the hysteria.  We laughed ‘til we cried. Finally, Tom managed to gasp, "Man, if your mother was here, she would be losing her mind."  

[pmcguffin]

What you read is as important as what you write.

Margaret Atwood (via writingdotcoffee)

[pmcguffin]

A good pounder...

When I was a child, Daddy puttered, and wherever Daddy puttered, I was right there with him.  He had a little corner for making “doojigs” --those little lures with the feathered bottoms that were a sure thing for catching rainbow trout.  I spent hours watching him pour molten lead into little molds to which he had affixed the bright tails, and I waited impatiently for them to cool.  The refraction from the heated metal fascinated me, and I was captivated by his precise painting of the eyes and the way he wound thread around those necks with a little schmear of contact cement just…so. He was an artist, a genius, and I was convinced that my daddy could make anything.  

Meanwhile, Mama was busy taking care of us and our home, creatively stretching every dollar to meet our needs. My mother could make some truly impressive dinners with that limited budget, but those “economy cuts” of meat needed a little extra work.  She commented every time she grabbed her meat mallet that she wished she had a “good pounder” like the chef had at the Hotel Milano, for it had some weight to it. Daddy told her he’d fix her just what she needed.  He then took the lid off the mayonnaise jar, grabbed an old carving fork from the drawer, and slid behind his little doojig bench.  He poured hot lead into that mayonnaise lid, cut the tines off that fork and set the handle into the molten metal.  When it had cooled, he presented that crude mallet to her as though he had fashioned it from pure gold, “Here, Cicci.  Here’s a ‘good pounder’ for ya.”  Mama smiled the moment she felt the weight of that hardened lead in her hand, it was heavy. It was crude but serviceable, she loved it, and Daddy was proud he had pleased her.  Oh, we didn’t give much thought to lead poisoning in those days, and the meat was always covered for pounding, so we were safe enough, I’m sure.  Yes, I still cover the meat for pounding, and yes, I still use Mama’s “good pounder.”  

I miss those two souls every single day.  

[pmcguffin]

[pmcguffin]

Thoughts and prayers...

We were Roman Catholic, my family, with roots in the church that reached back to the beginning of time.  My Italian mother taught us the “Lord’s Prayer” and the “Ave Maria” in Italian, ending everything in the name of “il Padre, Figliuolo, e Spirito Santo.”  Though I was small, I understood every word.  We prayed for everyone:  for the old lady across the street and the sick boy in my kindergarten class, and for our family who were farthest away in the old country. Mama prayed with us every night before sleeping, a practice that, at the time, probably meant more to her than to us.  

My mother made sure we were at Mass every Sunday and all Holy Days of Obligation, and Catechism with the nuns was mandatory.  I remember the time before Vatican II, when, before entering the sanctuary, young and old women covered their heads with veils and lace chaplets.  The rituals were beautifully sung in Latin, and the altar was purified before High Mass with the swinging of a Thurible that spewed clouds of smoke so pungent, the entire world smelled like smoldering frankincense until late afternoon.  We were hungry, always waiting to eat until after the Holy Eucharist, and like “Murphy’s Law,” the greater our hunger, the longer the homily.  The Church, its ceremonies largely unchanged over centuries of practice, was a source of comfort and stability.  When the world was in chaos and life became overwhelming, the Sunday morning Mass was there, always the same, and it felt good to be immersed within that hour or two of serenity and…prayerfulness.  

In case you don’t know, Catholics pray a lot, and if one is not sure what to pray, a prayer for every occasion can be found in the prayerbook (it can be a helpful starting place, anyway.)  We don’t enter the sanctuary with a spirit of gathering for fellowship, no, we enter the sanctuary, sink to our knees, and begin to prepare our hearts…with prayer.  Fellowship comes after Mass with coffee and donuts in the parish hall because it is after Communion, and we are hungry.  I have spent plenty of time on my knees in Confessionals, at Communion rails, in pews and at altars both protestant and orthodox (I have since vacated the pew, but that’s a tale for another time.)  I have also bent my knees in privacy.  

I grew up with an attachment to my Rosary, for there was a grounding which came from the feeling of those beads in my hands that always kept my mind focused in the moment and in the prayer.  (Even now, merely holding those beads in my hands will center me.)  Yes, indeed, I have certainly prayed, and that prayer sometimes came with a fervor that should have awakened the dead. I still pray, although now it is more from a contemplative and quiet place, perhaps because I am aging.  Maybe my spirit is growing weary from what often feels like an exercise in futility.  Am I finally coming to terms with life, learning to understand that some things are inevitable, and accepting that praying against what God has already put into motion does not change the outcome?  I do believe in prayerful agreement, and I have seen the movement of God within the framework of those prayers.  I have also seen the deepest sorrows come from the ardent praying for that which was clearly, already, almost finished.  I don’t fully understand these things, yet…still…prayer comes to me.

I am beginning to tire these days from the constant declarations of “thoughts and prayers,” followed by the tossing of scripture as we turn our heads from dire situations.  How simple it is to offer a condolence of words, to devote the private moments in our prayer closets for the uplifting of those who are struggling, but is this always enough?  Many of us are offering prayers for those most heavily impacted by this pandemic, while refusing to wear a mask because it is uncomfortable. We continue to pray collectively in our churches for an end to this terrible plague!  We love our neighbors until we are asked to mask up, to protect them from this brutal virus we might contract and spread, and we resist getting vaccinated in an effort to keep ourselves out of ICU, to mitigate the increasing burden on our hospitals and ensure critical care would be available to the most vulnerable among us.  Nevertheless, it is all good as long as they have our thoughts and prayers, right?

The faithful march with a dramatic display of signs in our public spaces where they shout fervent prayers for the unborn...  Meanwhile thousands of abandoned children continue to pour into an alarmingly overwhelmed foster care system, hoping for adoption.  How many of the devoted who are of age and can afford to adopt...won’t?  Who wants the permanence of a lifelong responsibility, when one can squeeze in a couple of hours of sign-waving in that prayer circle in front of the clinic, and call it a day?

Flagrant social injustice is everywhere, yet many of us still won’t involve ourselves in the legislative process, not even a little.  We can’t be bothered to sign a petition, donate five dollars to a cause, or make any effort to haul ourselves to the polls to cast a ballot on voting day.  No involvement, except to prelude our thoughts and prayers with some lofty social commentary, and when asked to lead the benediction at church on Sunday, some can make an impressive display of great concern in the passionate intercessions for our fellow man.  Let’s not forget, even the sanctimonious Pharisees offered prayer.

Now, I do appreciate those who are offering prayers on my behalf, putting positive thoughts in the ‘verse for me, sending happy vibes my way.  I’m sending all of that on your behalf, too.  I am not suggesting we abandon these practices, or that we detach ourselves from God.  We need to be connected, spiritually, empathetically, to the universe and to one another, but I think some of our thoughts and prayers would be more meaningful with hands and feet.  Perhaps we could offer practical help to someone who is struggling --do their laundry, watch their kids, pay their phone bill, or even buy a meal for the homeless.  It is true that we don’t always see the individual need, but someone probably does.  I think most of us are willing to help wherever we can, and though some may not be able to do as much as others, we are happy to do what we can.  We just need to ask, or be asked, or be shown what is lacking so we can step in to fill it.    

Mother Teresa once said that there were those for whom God could only be seen in a piece of bread.  She was right.  Hungry people cannot hear our prayers.  Let’s feed them.

Meanwhile, I’ll continue to keep you in my thoughts and prayers

[pmcguffin]

[pmcguffin]

Sensible shoes...

It was a sweltering day in June, and beneath the beams of an old mill, surrounded by brick walls and blown-glass window panes with sills dressed in roses, arriving guests mingled awhile before settling into perfectly aligned rows of sturdier-than-they-looked chairs.  The room was filled beyond capacity and the overflow assembled in the back, craning their necks to get a good look up that aisle.  A beautiful wedding it was, long but every moment lovely.  We watched,captivated, as a most handsome groom took in hand his most precious bride.  Taina was beautiful, radiating with joy that filled that room.

We estimated about three hundred guests were there that day to share in the celebration that joined Paul and Taina, and I doubt I’ve ever seen a better dressed assemblage of folks anywhere.  Why, it was a fashion parade of the finest and most perfectly accessorized suits and dresses, and the menfolks’ cufflinks dazzled with every gesture.  Perfectly coiffed and coordinated ladies moved around the room, hugging and chattering along the way...sweet, really, how genuine the affection that flowed among them.  

Ah, but those shoes!  The men sauntered in mirror-polished Brogued wing-tips and loafers so pointy I could feel their pain, while the ladies teetered atop glittery mile-high stilettos.  We watched a sea of women hobbling and wobbling throughout that venue, and Tom lurched to catch one young lady just as she regained her balance and rectified herself.  Navigating on six inch spikes, it was a wonder no one fell to the floor, but they managed with some wincing and wavering to get from one side to the other.  

There were two ladies, however, who stood without comparison to the rest, and I couldn’t help but notice them.  As perfectly coiffed and beautifully dressed as any, they traversed the rustic planks in that ancient floor without faltering or wincing in pain. These bright and lively young women moved gracefully, darting easily to and fro as they made their way around the crowd.  Claire and Annamaria were cheerfully mingling with their feet comfortably nestled in comfortable flats.  Sensible shoes...our sensible girls.  

[pmcguffin]

Out of balance...

“Nature made a mistake which I have had corrected and I am your daughter.” ― Christine Jorgensen~ "Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography"

*****

When I was still very young, I overheard my parents talking about Christine Jorgensen, and I was instantly captivated.  Ms. Jorgensen was famous, not so much for being different as for addressing that difference by medically and surgically correcting what is without a doubt the most misunderstood anomaly -she was transgender.   This fascination with the misalignment between brain and body has never left me.   Curiosity…

While in junior high school, my favorite place to spend an evening was the public library.  I studied, did requisite research for school papers, and randomly perused the periodicals and bookshelves for anything interesting.  One evening I opened the “J” drawer in the card catalogue and located “Jorgensen, Christine.”  She had written her story!  I borrowed that book and devoured it, not wanting to know her story as much as wanting to understand it, to make sense of it, to learn the science of it.  Still, curious…

I am a person of faith, and though I am no longer a churchgoer, I remain a Christian. Vacating the pew did not distance me from the Lord, rather from people who seem to follow a Jesus who is far removed from the Jesus I have come to know.  You probably know some of them...

I have grown tired of the “God doesn’t make mistakes,” and “that’s slapping God in the face” responses to gender transition.  The God I worship is powerful enough to defend Himself without our assistance, especially when no one is blaming God.  However, if blame must be placed…

I believe that in the beginning, the Creator put into place certain natural mechanisms, rhythms, and laws of nature – much of which we take for granted.  Mother Earth functions accordingly as She rotates on an axis and orbits the sun, her gravity keeping close the moon which pulls on the fluids of our planet with its own gravitational force.  Life ebbs and flows with the seasons that bring the slumber of Wintertime, and the reawakening of Spring when the seeds that fell in Autumn germinate to flourish through Summer only to return to the annual cycle…

I do not believe God has a spot in the heavens from where He manually raises the sun each morning.  No, that rotation was established when Earth spun into the universe to circle the star that keeps our planet warm and habitable and this function is by design rather than a daily ritual of “waking the sun.”  It seems perfect, this solar dance which sustains life and makes possible its renewal, restoration, regeneration, and reproduction, but the cycles are shifting over time.  The processes of life are imperfect.   Mother Nature has her moments…

There is a notion that all was created in God’s perfection and remained perfect until the first sin disturbed the balance.  The resulting exile left us fearfully wandering, insecure, and distrustful, and because we left an increasingly toxic debris field in our wake, sickness came to our bodies and minds, then...death followed. The harmony of nature, now discordant and volatile, had become unpredictable.  Mother Nature would make mistakes which would be ours to own.  Survival from one generation to the next forced us to learn an Earth which was no longer precise.  The explosive demands of growing societies required advancements in agriculture, husbandry, medicine and would force the development of interconnected systems of observation, examination, and experimentation.  We are still in the process of learning.  Science…

I am fascinated by the science of the development from single cells to complex organisms. The raw materials, stem cells, become “daughter cells” which then become the cells of brains, hearts, bones, etc.  While the mechanics may differ between species, reproduction is an amazing process, albeit a sometimes imperfect one.  These natural sequences sometimes go awry and new life emerges that sometimes differs from the norm.  Although usually subtle, like small birthmarks or dimples, some irregularities are more significant -snakes with two heads, frogs with an extra leg, conjoined twins.  Some variations are evolutionary, a natural adaptation to our changing environment and part of the mechanisms which were created in the beginning; some are random events.  “Quirks of nature” we used to call them, or “flaws,” “mutations,” “defects,” and they often bring out the best or the worst in humanity.  Anomalies…

Why is it so hard to understand that anomalies of gender are not unlike other variants?  If “God made you that way” is the argument against gender-affirming surgery, couldn’t the same be used against other corrective procedures?  I hear no cries in defense of God when we seek to improve quality of life through medical and surgical intervention for cleft palates or heart abnormalities.  If God made conjoined twins, is it not “slapping God in the face” to surgically separate them?  Are we only offended when surgical correction involves *gasp* genitalia and the misalignment between the gender of the mind and body?  The truth is, biologically, males and females share the same ambiguous beginnings, and when the sequence of development is disturbed in utero, anything can go awry. 

Where lies the blame?  Mother Nature is deeply wounded by our collective negligence and the ongoing abuse from our greedy pursuits. She is growing increasingly unstable.  Remember Walt Kelly’s “Pogo?”  “I have met the enemy, and he is us.” 

[pmcguffin]