Episcopalian

I should have gotten back into the bed and tried getting up again. Maybe then I would have gotten up on the "right" side! Okay, having said that I can move on to the subject of my ill- tempered morning.

First, let me say that I am an Episcopalian and have been for over forty years. As I've told anyone who'd listen, I started going to the Episcopal church while I was the President of my Methodist Youth Fellowship. The simple reason had not a thing to do with beliefs or doctrine, but everything to do with guys. The ones at the Episcopal church were better looking than the Methodist ones that I had grown up with. Hey, I was only 15 and the Episcopal church was two doors a way from our house! Add "lazy" to my sins because I could walk to the Episcopal Youth Community meetings. Now add the fact that my husband is an Episcopalian and really good-looking and you get my point. No, he was not at the EYC meetings two doors away; he came into my life a bit later.

I will assume that the reader doesn't know how we Episcopalians work in order to state my case. So, back to this morning; First off, we at St. Paul's are making an attempt to be more "earth-friendly". We've had classes to educate us on saving the mother planet and are working hard to reuse and recycle. We are also into preserving our own heritage and the structures where we worship. So, taking all of that into account you can imagine my consternation when I saw that in the bulletin this morning the Prayers of the People was printed along with the usual service notes and notices of upcoming events. What is that about I asked the man seated next to me (a former Baptist minister, I might add)? He told me that the extra printing was to be more "welcoming" to our visitors. What? We have a gazzillion dollars invested in books named, The Book of Common Prayer, and they are right there in front of each one of us beside the Hymnal! The bulletin even has pages listed for each of the books, Hymnal on the left of the page and BCP on the right. Must we assume that all our visitors are morons and can't read the bulletin? A simple line stating that fact could be inserted at the top of the page and we'd save a lot of paper and ink.

Next, the sermon was insightful but too long. Do priests go to speech classes? Having made a point and delivered a perfect and to the point closing statement our beautiful, well-spoken young priest continued for another five minutes or so. My kids think that I am an adult with Attention Deficit Disorder, so this part of my post may have more to do with that than our priest's sermon. My brain should never be left to its own devices! It tends to wander and get lost.

Communion followed and my frustration mounted. Who are these people? When offered the chalice, they waited for me to tip it for them. Not that I mind doing so, but really are they all fallen-away Catholics? It's like feeding baby birds!

Being an Episcopalian in the truest sense of the word means adopting the practices and the traditions to the fullest extent. We offer classes to educate and explain the beliefs. Again, a simple explanation of the way to receive the bread and wine is all that is needed. For those of you still with me on this; allow me to explain. With palms open and up cross your right hand over your left, making a cross (funny how that works). If you happen to be left-handed, reverse that. Now, when the chalice is extended to you, grip the bottom of it and gently tip it to your mouth. Sip a bit of wine and say a soft or silent "Amen" and you are finished. If in doubt, ask one of us and we can help. We are very "welcoming".

Another nit I'd like to pick is the habit of referring to areas of the nave as the lectern side or the whatever side. The areas are clear to most of us and should be to our visitors. Try this exercise; Pretend that you are God looking out at your flock. Behind you is the high altar with the cross prominently displayed. Now, lovingly reach out to the flock. The  flock, seated in the nave, looks to God (you, pretending) and they see to their left your hand. This, my friends, is the right-hand-of-God side, or the Gospel side of the church. On the left hand of God is the Epistle side. The sermon this morning was delivered from the Epistle side of the church. Doesn't that sound better and more "churchy"?

I apologize to anyone reading this for sounding off about what is probably considered trivial stuff. I will defend myself by saying that I take my religion seriously and love adhering to the traditions and customs. I/we are a welcoming group. The plaque above the doors says it perfectly, "A place of worship for _all_people". Maybe being a Baptist or Methodist is a little easier. There aren't books to juggle nor kneelers to dodge  in those places. Did I mention confirmation? That is a subject for another time and place.
However, being a Christian as well as an Episcopalian takes some work.

I am willing to juggle and dodge, secure in the knowledge that all over the world others of our brothers and sisters are doing the same thing and saying the same words so beautifully written in The Book of Common Prayer. To our visitors, that is the small red book right in front of you! You are welcome!

Good- Bye to Belle

Dogs are as much a part of my life as are my children. Loosing a pet is sometimes compared to the loss of a child. Having known several people who've experienced a child's death; I can say that I cannot really agree, but the grief for both is long-lasting. That is the part that I can agree with.

Last week, Belle, our little terrier mix started having intestinal problems. We dutifully took all the steps that one would when dealing with a sick dog. I didn't, however, call the vet. Deep in my heart I knew that she was dying and I hoped to keep her comfortable and at home until the end came. I prayed that she would go to sleep and not wake up. My prayers were answered, but not the way that I had hoped.

For several days we gave her Pepto-Bismol because I had read an article online about using it on dogs. She improved enough to eat and drink as usual, but the problems came back. We bought a nutritional supplement which she hated, but we kept dosing her hoping it would help. It didn't.

Yesterday morning she woke up and as I picked her up, she squealed and stiffened. I think that she had a small stroke, but afterward she rallied a bit. I knew that it was time for help so I called the vet. All day I watched and waited, wanting to savor every minute that we had with her. Belle slept curled up beside me while I checked my e-mail and read the newspaper. Unlike our human counterparts, she never complained about her ailments.

At the appointed time, we wrapped her in an a towel and made the short trip to the vet's office. On the way there, Gene said that he thought that maybe she had a virus or a bug of some sort. Hope, as is said, springs eternal. I just held her while silent tears rolled down my face. Pulling myself together I carried her into the waiting room. Now, anyone who has ever known her, would have marveled at Belle! She was never a lap dog nor was she a snuggler. That is until yesterday. She let me hold her close to my heart while we waited. Our time finally arrived and we took her into the examining room. Dear Dr. Jenni told us what we both knew; It was time to let her go. So, yes, my prayers were answered. Belle slept in our arms until her little dog heart stopped beating.

I've heard it said that one's hearing is the last sense to go. Remembering that, I told Belle how much we loved her and what a great friend to us she'd been for her 16 years of life. I don't know if she understood any of those words, but I said them anyway.

We will miss her, of that I'm sure. We already do. Her dish is banished from my sight as is her bed (rarely used since she slept at my feet in our bed). I looked for her when I took a shower because she always waited for me on the bath mat. There is a hole in my heart where once lived a fuzzy little terrier. Good-bye my sweet baby, Belle. We will love and miss you forever.

Surprises!

Some members of our family love surprises. In fact most of us do. I think that the tradition started a long time ago with my parents. Those two people loved to spring surprise parties and surprise, somewhat extravagant gifts, on each other and their children. One of my special memories was the Christmas that Daddy bought Mother a new car. He was about the to "bust" with excitement when he told me how we were going to pull off the surprise. The plan involved a fairly complicated hiding of the new wheels in a garage that belonged to the church two doors away from our house. Daddy hid the car, a sporty yellow Chevy, in the garage a few days before Christmas and gave my sister and me the ribbon to decorate it. Janet and I sneaked over there and pulled the ribbon around it and attached a big red bow on the roof. On Christmas morning, Daddy snuck out of the house in the dark and drove the car into the driveway beyond the front porch and past the dining room windows so that Mom couldn't see it. As was our custom, Daddy would always go into the living room to "check and see if Santa had come" while we slept. Daddy would always say, "No, he hasn't come yet, so go back to bed." We knew he was joking! We'd storm into the room and exclaim over all the loot and then we'd settle down to open presents. Mom would always be the last to open hers. That Christmas, Janet and I could hardly contain our excitement as she opened the usual stuff; clothes, new pjs and so on. The last gift was handed to her by Daddy and as she opened a box of silky panties a set of keys on a shiny new keyring fell out. Mom held them up and asked Daddy what they were for. Daddy just laughed his deep chuckle and told her that maybe she ought to check outside for what Santa had left for her. Mom did and was beside herself with excitement. In our pjs, we took the new car for a spin around the block! Daddy was grinning from ear to ear because no one enjoyed surprising his loved ones more than my Daddy.

The tradition continued well into our adulthood. Once, a month after our move to North Carolina, over six hundred miles away from home, my parents decided to surprise us with a weekend visit. Gene was working late and I had had an especially trying day. The move and getting everyone settled into our new home far away from our friends and family, had left me very lonely and unsettled. After getting the three children fed, bathed and into their pajamas, I told them that they could watch a little TV before bedtime. They were happily watching TV in the den, so I told the oldest child to keep the two younger ones quiet just long enough for me to take a quick shower. A promise of buttered popcorn sealed that deal and on my way to the shower, I casually reminded him to not open the door for anyone, except of course Mimi and Papaw! ESP? You guessed it! When I got out of the shower, there they were on our front porch. Happy Birthday to me, for a few days later it really was my birthday. Surprise!

Next month is my husband's birthday. For months I've been contemplating what I could give him that would really please him. Racking my brain for the perfect gift became an obsession. I finally decided on something that I hope he will love. He doesn't have a hobby or at least one that he spends time doing because between coaching baseball, working and raising four kids with me, there never seemed to be enough time nor money to devote to a hobby. His family _is_ his hobby. Time spent with us is what he loves best, so I'm giving him time. With my trusty laptop I've booked time for us. We can't take the whole gang along for this time, but maybe next year we will.

My parents are both gone from me, but their tradition of surprising each other lives on. They taught me a lot about spending "date" time without kids and enjoying each other, so for his birthday this year, I've planned a weekend in New Orleans followed by a cruise. I hope he likes it. I have been daydreaming for weeks about strolling hand and hand with him through the French Quarter, as we did many years ago before we had children. He loves to "people watch", so I'm sure we'll do a lot of that during that week too. We don't have to be anywhere in order to spend time together, but a trip together is a reminder of the time before the race began. Time is the most important gift I can give him. Our daughter jokes that he gets out of sorts when he doesn't get enough "Linda time", so I hope that this gift will give him what he wants most! I'm crossing my fingers and hoping !

Happy Birthday, Honey. I love you more today than I did over forty years ago when I first saw you on that hot summer night. You out-shone all the stars then and you still do. Even with all the craziness, I'd do it all over again. May you have many more birthdays and always with me!
 XOXOXOXO always,
L

9/11 Reflections

Has it really been ten years? Ask anyone who was alive then and they can probably tell you where they were and what they were doing when the towers fell. You don't even have to say; What towers?  We all know. I am really no different and my personal story is not earth-shattering nor especially enlightening.

We were having work done on the plaster ceilings upstairs. Several days before the 9/11 attacks, one of the workmen reported that our ancient dryer in the upstairs laundry room was was heating up all by itself. The next day, the repairman pronounced  it dead. So on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was getting dressed in our bedroom after seeing our baby boy, then high school freshman, off to school. I remember watching Katie and Matt talking on the "Today Show" and then the first announcement and news break that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. They switched to the coverage and then a few minutes later, another plane and the news kept getting worse. You know the rest of that story. Well, I was in shock of course, but I continued getting dressed and drove to Sears. Inside the store no one was doing anything but watching the floor model TVs . I stood with the idle salesmen and cried while I made a dryer selection. Back at home the workmen had stopped pulling down the old plaster ceilings and together we watched in horror as the morning became mid-day and the nightmare continued. I found a a small American flag, a leftover from the 4th of July parade, and stuck it in a flowerpot on the porch.

Those who know me well know that Tuesdays are a day apart from the rest of the week. Tuesdays are reserved for a lunchtime ritual known as lunch with the "Bazaar Babes". There are 11 of us now, but then there were 12. We had planned to be at a restaurant, but decided instead to gather at our friend, Ann Griffen's, house. Ann, a victim of MS, had a large TV on which we continued to stare at the events unfolding.

Back at home, I passed by the little flag and swallowed the lump in my throat. The freshman was at home by then and had questions about the day. I didn't feel comfortable answering them, but tried instead to assure him that he would be safe no matter what. Isn't that what mothers do? He had a soccer game that night and the schools had decided to go ahead with it despite the events of that day. He went upstairs to his bathroom to shave and dress for the game. I was sitting at the computer looking at the pictures of the towers falling of people jumping to their deaths and of firefighters trying desperately to save people and loosing not only that battle, but of dying themselves. Suddenly this man-child ran out of the bathroom and said, "Mom, I need a candle, quick!". Stunned, I asked why. He said that he'd heard at school that someone had posted a request on the internet for everyone to hold a lit candle high at an appointed hour in respect for the lost lives of the day. So with a bit of shaving cream clinging to his chin and without a shirt on his still hairless chest, this sweet man-child of ours stood on the steps of the sidewalk in front of our house and held a lighted candle in one hand and the little flag in the other hand. Behind the cover of the front door I wept as only a mother can. Proud, questioning, frightened, and struck dumb, I hugged him to my chest and stifled the urge to scream. The next day, I picked out the color for the front door and by 5 o'clock that day our door sported two coats of a color named "American Beauty". It just seemed right as did the new large American Flag hanging from the porch .

9/11 changed us all. We are more fearful now. We experience more delays when we travel now. We no longer trust the way we did before 9/11. We have evolved in many ways and not all of them are bad. We, as a nation, I like to believe, are more patriotic. Our hopes are are realistic and grounded. Call me a "Pollyanna", but seeing a skinny, man-child holding a little candle and an American flag proudly on the steps of a humble, but proud home will do that to you.
God Bless America and all our sons and daughters!

Tiki camp

He smells just like sunshine, or at least what I think sunshine must smell like. We moved through our week of "Tiki camp" at the speed of light. He wanted me to cook with him, but changed his mind. We travelled to Mississippi and he rode, yes really, two horses. On one he even managed to ride bare-back! His Tiki was amazed as she watched with a lump in her throat. We swam; he ate catfish for the first time; we "muggled". We picked up his baby sister so that she could make brownies with us. She cracked eggs and "I stir" the batter. The museum held us in its grasp with the Fed Ex plane which he "flew" for me. He climbed the climby thing so high that I feared he might freeze there in the upper region and I'd have to get help to reach him. He swam down so deep at Patty's pool that he touched the drain. He stopped my heart many times during our week of "camp". Whether my heart stopped from fear for his safety or just the love I have for him, I don't know, but stop it did.

Leaving him, his sister and his mommy and daddy is about the hardest thing I do. We all cry and then I drive away. Two hundred miles later, I still cry, but know that Tiki camp can happen again, just not soon enough for Tiki.

Best Friends

Ok, the term "best friend" is a misnomer. Maybe the more important phrase should be "lifetime friend". Best friends shift with life. One minute the friend knows everything about you and ditto you to her, and then bam; life changes and you have to look her number up to tell her something important.

Lifetime friends are more rare and precious. They know where the bones are buried, who supplied the shovels and who put the dirt on the casket. I am very lucky to have a few of the lifetime kind in my friend arsenal. I really believe if I asked one of them to take out someone they might do it. That statement was a stretch, but I like to imagine it anyway.

Like tonight for instance; I called up a LTF and told her that Bauchmann would never be elected because she was on national TV today wishing Elvis a happy birthday! Today, by the way, is August 16th, 2011. Anyone with a brain knows that Elvis died on August 16, 1977! The LTF on the line understood right away the lunacy of the remark from Bauchmann, because 34 years ago it was with her that I travelled to Graceland and climbed the wall to see just who (besides us) had come to Memphis to honor The King. The event is etched into my brain along with the night we pushed my mother's car out of the driveway in order to sneak out for a joy ride in a much gentler Memphis of the late '60s. Life with a friend like that is bliss, sisters.

Some people only have memories of friends. The here and now ordinariness of their everyday lives are not worthy enough for sharing. They re-visit their glory days, drink a little wine and go home until the next gathering. I think that is sad. Days with friends should be ordinary as well as extraordinary.

I love that I can see or call my LTF and pick-up right where we left off the last time we talked or saw each other. One LTF has known me and almost everything about me since we were six years old. We don't let pettiness nor miles separate us. That is a LTF.

Is there a message anywhere in this? No, not really. I was just feeling especially low after being back in my growing-up home last week. This time we didn't climb any walls nor push a car out for a sneaky joy ride. What we did was enjoy each other's ordinariness. Oh, there was a, "Who's bossier battle?" which was not resolved by the time I left, but that can wait for another time. With any luck at all we can wage the battle for many more years.

Saving time

I just read an article in a magazine about organizing one's life. Each month at least one of the three or four magazines I read regularly has an article dedicated to time saving. Why is that? Is there a bank, which is unknown to me, where time is stored for the future? Does one deposit seconds, minutes and hours or maybe days into an account? Will those deposits draw interest? Sign me up!

Aging has many benefits. Not the least of which is more time on your hands. The kicker is that you have fewer ways to spend it! There are no more soccer games, baseball games, carpools, bake sales, PTA, piano lessons, nor troop feedings. You can actually eat a meal in peace. Going to a grandchild's soccer game is a walk in the park since you are not the one who had to make sure the uniform was clean and the shin guards were in the bag. Now you can buy the bake sale items instead of baking them! Hooray? Not so much.

The same is true of money. Believe it or not, even though you have a little more there are fewer things that you need or want! What a bummer! Years ago I dreamed of being able to go to the grocery store, say, and buy whatever struck my fancy. Well my fancy has failed me because half the stuff I can now afford, there is no one to eat it! The grand-darlings are reaping the benefits of the aforesaid fancy, however. Ice Cream for breakfast anyone?

All young mothers should treat themselves and their families more often. Don't try to shave too much time off the everyday stuff. Instead revel in the glow of ordinary days because the sad truth is that there really is no time bank. This I know for sure!