Just Another Mundane Moment

I locked my keys in my car today, and, of course, I don't have a spare. (Getting a spare made has been on the mental to-do list for about two years now.) I was at church and we had all just said our final "Thanks be to God" when I realized that I had left my keys in my purse, which was tucked safely under the seat of my car. Thanks be to God. We had to call a locksmith and stand outside in the breezy cold to wait for him and then shell out 60 bucks for the ordeal. Normally in such a scenario I would cry, panic, and have a melt down, but today I actually thought it was kind of funny. I just thought, "Hey, my first time calling a locksmith."

If only I could handle every setback in life so graciously. I seem to think that life is supposed to be very smooth and uneventful, and that things like car trouble and broken bones shouldn't happen to me. I'm always so shocked when they do, and so distraught. But I'm learning that setbacks and hard times are just part of living, part of being a human being. Usually they pass and we don't think too much about them later on, but in the moment the smallest difficulty can seem so overwhelming. Really though, as I look back at all the catastrophes of my short life I see that God was always working things out for me, helping me, making a useful lesson or at least a funny story out of all those events. Often, difficulties in my life seem to be opportunities to see goodness and mercy in others: The time my car broke down in the middle of nowhere and a family picked me up and took me to their house, where I played with their kids and talked to their cows and ate dinner with them until my family could come to my rescue. The time I couldn't raise enough money for a mission trip and someone wrote me a thousand dollar check. There have been tears that led to friendships, confessed sins that led to trust and solidarity, miscommunication that led to understanding. Life's greatest disappointments have generally formed my character, made me more compassionate, doused my pride with the cold water of reality, shaped my spirituality, and led me deeper inside myself, helping me to find my true self.

So perhaps "Thanks be to God" isn't just empty sarcasm, but a wry prayer for grace to trust that God is good and that every moment of our lives matters--even the mundane one, the irksome one, the painful one. If Christ is in us, then every circumstance is an opportunity for Christ to teach us, or at least to embrace us, to share with us, to remain with us, to love us.

Is it Spring Yet?

I have wanted very much for autumn to stay, but, alas, winter is swiftly approaching. The glorious fall colors are fading fast and the bare shivery tree limbs are taking their place. And it's getting dark at 4.30pm, which is almost unbearable to me. If I had one wish right now it would be to skip winter. I mean, just skip right over it into springtime. Glorious spring.

Then again, I didn't even really know what spring was until I had my first real winter in Oxford. I spent almost 4 months trudging several miles a day through rain, snow, and cold, so when spring showed up I really knew it was there. One day I was walking through the park on my way to the library when I suddenly noticed yellow...flowers! It was like an epiphany: "Oh, so this is spring. I see." It was so life-giving to watch the trees begin to blossom, the flowers to bloom, the heavy coats to disappear. Ah, spring. It was like that scene from The Chronicles of Narnia in which Aslan brings the winter-cursed Narnia back to life: like God's breath had melted all the snow and brought flowers straight up from the earth in a whole palette of brilliant colors. Magnificent. I certainly left England on a happy note.

So Winter. Here it comes. Cold, dark, windshield-iced winter. But after winter has its frosty stay, the earth will wake up again, the flowers will put on their tutus and prance in the sunshine, the world will be bright and beautiful and eager once more.

And so will my little Floridian heart.

Reflections on Confirmation

John and I were confirmed yesterday. We're officially Episcopalian. It's funny--even just four years ago I wouldn't have imagined myself in a denominational church, much less the Episcopal Church. But we change, life changes us, and so it is. I have certainly found a home there, a stabilizing connection. I find it hard to believe how whole I feel these days.

The confirmation ceremony was not quite as daunting as I'd imagined; I had been a bit nervous about the bishop and his hat. Even though I appreciate high church and have no problem with the ceremonial garments, that hat just gets to me. But I saw a kind and smiling face underneath the hat, which I think I've decided I like after all, if only for its amusing qualities.

John and I attended a month-long Inquirers' Course prior to being received. Throughout the whole class I thought that Father Rick was referring to all of us who were to be confirmed as "contrabands" and secretly wondered what the meaning of this strange term might be. I didn't realize until yesterday morning when I looked at the order of service that Rick had actually been saying "confirmands." I'm glad I didn't ask why I was illegal.

So I've been thinking about the process of confirmation, what it means to be received into a body of people. I think I've always thought of church in social terms, as a family, which it is; but it is also, somehow, mystically Christ's own body. Every time we celebrate Holy Eucharist we are reminded of this: that Christ is present with us in our own bodies, and in those we share communion with. We who are many are one because we all share one bread, one cup.

I don't know why, but these words of Mary Oliver come to me now:

Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds, and the
black oak I especially adore, and the
wings of birds. But you are present
too in the body, listening to the body,
teaching it to live, instead of all
that touching, with disembodied joy.

My reception into the Episcopal Church was an event and a commitment, but more than that it is a reminder to me of my life that is hidden with Christ, where God is; of my true self; of Christ dwelling in me, loving me, teaching me, and helping me to live a life that is truly reconciled to God and aligned with the core message of the gospel.

Because they were 2 for a dollar/ I steal sandwich ideas from overpriced shops so I don't have to spend money there anymore

Have you ever SEEN the inside of a pomegranate?

Weird. And fabulous. I'm quite smitten actually.

Also, need a new sandwich idea? Bored with your carnivorous ways? Try this:

7 grain or flaxseed bread (or any fancy stuff)
Mango chutney
Gouda cheese
Avocado
Alfalfa sprouts
lettuce (if you've got room left)

And this is why vegetarians should run the country.

:)

All Saints' Day

Yesterday was All Saints' Day, which we celebrated today at St. David's. I wish everyone would celebrate this lovely feast day instead of Halloween, which gives me the heebie-jeebies. I enjoyed the lectionary readings, the new altar linen, and the sermon that included a shout-out to that fabulous Julian of Norwich. (I love the Episcopal Church.) Plus, we bought some Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead), which was quite tasty. I also learned that my patron saint is St. Vincent of Saragossa, a Spanish deacon and martyr who was tortured to death on account of his fearless, fiery manner when he spoke on behalf of his bishop who had a speech impediment. They had been dragged to prison during a time of persecution; the bishop was exiled and Vincent was sentenced to death. I thought that this was quite appropriate for my patron saint. According to Catholic lore, his body was thrown to the vultures, but a raven guarded it; next, they had it thrown into the ocean, but it washed up on shore and was properly buried by a pious widow.

The Episcopal church doesn't believe in praying to saints, but they do like to honor and remember them, which I think is a good thing for the church to be doing. After all, isn't the Universal church inclusive of those who sleep, who live, and who are not yet born? It is comforting for me to think of my life linked with so many others--"we who are many are one body because we all share one bread, one cup." So many lives connected throughout time and eternity, all children of God, members of Christ's body, and members of one another. It makes me glad to be a Christian. It also compels me to make my life worthwhile, to use the gifts God has given me, to live out the gospel that has become so dear to me.

youth, innocence, and naïveté

Spending my teenage years surrounded by a warm church family that really believed in young people and valued their contributions to the church, society, and the world, I never thought less of myself for being young and idealistic, for being trusting and perhaps a bit too naive. In youth group we were taught that we could make a difference in others' lives, that we could "change the world." We were all about it, too: mission trips, outreaches, rallies. The older people in the faith always invited us to be a part of the "grown up" life of the church. I remember being asked to speak at ladies' meetings, preach at events, lead important groups. I felt very affirmed in my youthfulness; I believed that it was a beautiful and worthwhile time in my life.

Then I went to a Christian college where it was pretty much the same. I was rarely doubted or made to feel inferior, never condescended to because of my idealism or innocence. I just thought that innocence--voluntary innocence, I mean, the innocence that you choose even though you know how ugly the world can be--would be respected and appreciated.

And then I joined the real world. I have never in my life felt so young. When my new co-workers found out my age, they actually laughed. They make sure I know that I am a cute little girl. I get to hear about their breakups and divorces, their failed dreams, their bitter disregard for any possibility of kindness. And I feel how young I am, how trusting and sincere. And how little value the world sees in those qualities.

I'm not an oblivious little angel--I mean, I'm a little theologically and politically liberal; people don't apologize when they swear in front of me anymore (for which I'm very grateful); I'm not blind to how horrible life can be--but I do still think of myself as very innocent, and I don't see anything wrong with it. I don't trust the government; I'm scared to leave my apartment at night; I give all strange men the "I'm a bitch--don't even look at me" vibe whenever necessary. But I still trust people; I still believe that there are things like goodness and mercy, hospitality, community, honesty, integrity.

I was crushed this week when I had a traumatic dentist visit. I unthinkingly expected the dentist to do her job and to treat me like a human being; she did neither. I wasn't really as horrified by the gigantic hole she left in my tooth as by her uncaring and thoughtless conduct towards me. I complained about it to someone I work with and was told, "You're young. You're naive." And she's right. I was horrified by this experience because I deeply believe that people in the medical profession should care about their patients more than their pay checks.

Mostly though, I realize this difference between myself and others when it comes to love. I married a kind, thoughtful, gentle man who adores me. I believe in love; I believe in marriage forever; I believe that it is possible to share your life with one person as long as you live. I've also only been married for 6 months. I don't share these opinions at work because I know what I'll hear: "You're young. You're naive. Just give it a few years."

So often, the young ones are the wise ones. The ones who know how to live. If being a woman of the world means being bitter and burned-out, you can forget it. I'll take childlike innocence any day. I wrote an essay about my summer camp kids for a writing class last semester, which I think sums this whole discussion up nicely. Here's a little piece of it:

They teach me to live a freer, closer, kinder life—closer to the small things, more aware of the vast expanse of being; they show me how to care about rocks and leaves and spider webs; to be curious; to be struck with awe at the world. They remind me of the great wonder that is a human soul, remind me with their fragile, tremulous personalities that life is precious, beautiful, and a gift, even when it’s difficult. I no longer look back at my own childhood with nostalgia, mourning the loss of my innocence; in these children I’ve found a second innocence, a holy wonder I can only call grace. I find myself talking to flowers and stars, greeting the moon each night, finding joy in ladybugs and lizards and tales of dragons, in the feel of sunshine on my skin, the touch of another person’s hand, the sight of water pooled in droplets on the grass and trees after rain… My summer camp kids have helped me to see and to love these things, and to live as they do—simply, sweetly, with eyes like a little child’s.

There is a writer who talks about the second innocence--Annie Dillard? I can't remember. It's a chosen innocence, not even one you're born with. It's a choice to keep yourself unsullied; to live outside of the greed and the selfishness and the bitterness that make up most adults' lives. It doesn't mean you don't see the world's pain, its destructive sin, the possibility that it will chew you up and spit you out. You see that, but you choose to live inside of a greater truth. You choose grace, mercy, kindness, a life in the spirit. You choose to hope, to trust, and to love.

Perhaps innocence is wisdom after all.

Tuesday Blues

There are some things in life that are so utterly lonesome.

Tonight, driving home after working a little late, I found myself (as usual) in an endlessly long line of traffic, watching the light go green to yellow to red five times before my car made it to the intersection. The sun was going down and the sky was pale yellow; everyone's headlights were glaring. Everyone looked bored out of their minds and irritable, in their plush cars and SUVs. Everyone was inching along, cutting each other off, honking--but mostly just sitting and waiting and wanting to get home. It seemed like there were a thousand of us, even just at that one intersection, but it still felt so lonely, so empty, so cold.

Another Tuesday in Nashville.