the 'captivating' second chapter

Title: "What Eve Alone Can Tell"

To be short and sweet, this chapter has two big points: 1) Eve was the crowning glory of creation -- she was the missing piece after man was created, and the piece that made everything complete; and 2) Beauty is the essence of a woman, which is an important reflection that beauty is the essence of God.

Immediate reactions to those two points: 1) You can't really dispute it, and in a way it's nice to think about. On the other hand, if woman had been created first, man would be the crowning glory. You could argue it was just the luck of the draw. 2) The Eldredges come close to arguing that beauty is the single most important aspect of God, and that's a big claim to be making. That's a whole book -- or whole volume -- in itself. But at base, I agree that yes, a woman's beauty can be a reflection of God's beauty. And a man's strength can be a reflection of God's strength.

There's another caution in just reading this book. It builds up why women are so wonderful and how they reflect God, but since it isn't about men, you could leave it with a subconscious attitude that women are more important than men, or some such notion.

I will spare you all a yard-long post and stick to what I wrote in the margins. After all, if you felt it enough to write it next to the author's words, you might as well say it out loud.

What would you expect the Queen of a kingdom and the Beauty of the realm to feel when she wakes to find herself a laundress in a foreign land? A woman's struggle with her sense of worth points to something glorious she was designed to be. The great emptiness we feel points to the great place we were created for.

Something in me is not reacting well to this. 1) Someone has to do the laundry. 2) Does Genesis say that Eve was beautiful? It really doesn't give all that much detail about the personalities of either human. 3) When we're doing mundane chores like the laundry, is it because something inside us knows we're supposed to be workless-beings up in heaven? The mundane reminds me of something I read this summer...that's another story.

Most women define themselves in terms of their relationships.

Mmm, largely yes. Is it fair to say women are generally thinking about people, whereas men may think of ideas (at least more than women)? Just throwing that out there.

Ooh, this was a big theology thing that caught my eye.

God wants to be loved. He wants to be a priority to someone. How could we have missed this? From cover to cover, from beginning to end, the cry of God's heart is, "Why won't you choose me?" It is amazing to me how humble, how vulnerable God is on this point. ... We seem him as strong and powerful, but not as needing us, vulnerable to us, yearning to be desired.

No, no we don't. I have problems with picturing God as vulnerable and certainly with him needing us. But I could be wrong.

(They quote from "Wild at Heart" a lot. It seems cheap to me to quote yourself very much.)

Well, I said I'd keep it shorter. I think there have been a few good points, but it still seems redundant -- like other Christian lit, it might make a more effective essay. But there's not much mass-market appeal for that. There's still the feeling that they're dramatizing a bit and suiting examples to fit their needs.

Let me tell you about one of my favorite people: Claire Kincaid.

Claire was an assistant district attorney for New York County from 1993 to 1996. She worked first with EADA Ben Stone, and later with EADA Jack McCoy.

She's slender and no-nonsense, and may or may not have been killed by a drunk driver in 1996 -- I prefer to think not. Her successors in the DA's office include Jamie, Abbie, Serena, and Alex. Everyone was glad to see Serena go, and she, along with Jamie, have been voted some of the least liked ADAs. Abbie was okay and Alex has promise, but Claire has not been matched. One of Dick Wolf's biggest regrets is Claire's death.

Some speculate that Claire is not dead, and that she was hidden away by federal authorities into witness protection following her work in an anti-mob case (I think the one about the tainted Russian baby food). Sixty-page Word documents and dozens of web pages are devoted to elaborating upon Claire's possible demise and her relationship with Jack.

Claire and I were recently re-united. We were initially separated when A&E stopped airing her, and later when my VCR croaked. Now Claire must be rationed out -- only one episode per day.

christmas

1) One skill I did not inherit from my mother is exquisite gift wrapping. You can look under the tree and know which ones she wrapped by sight -- and which she didn't. It doesn't help that she was a professional wrapper in a department store. I can put the paper on decently, but I just don't have that finesse with ribbon. I should, after years of decorating special order chocolate boxes.

2) The church my family goes to does a Christmas Eve service that has become pretty institutional among those frequenting the congregation. It's so popular that they've moved to two services in the last few years -- neither of which is actually in the evening, but that's okay. Actually, our service started at 3 p.m.

The pastor is someone I deeply respect, at the very least as a rhetorician, almost in a Garrison-Keilloresque style. He has a quieter sermon style that is very attractive (and very un-Baptist) and is, frankly, I think the reason at least half the people attend that church. It also helps that he is the father of a friend, one of those kind of friends who is the sunshine of your life, one of those people it's heartbreaking to see unhappy. It reminds you how cruel the world is.

Anyhow, the pastor brought up an anecdote he heard about a daycare in Cabrini-Green, a dangerous neighborhood in downtown Chicago, and one of the most dangerous in the U.S. (It especially resonated with me because I was in Cabrini-Green just about this time last year and saw these people and their homes.) A mission group of sometime was visiting the daycare, and they brought presents. One of the little boys said he didn't believe in Santa or didn't like Santa, because Santa hadn't brought him any presents the year before. One of the men from the group gave the boy a present and explained that the reason for Christmas is the birthday of Jesus, who was born long ago in one of the worst places in Bethlehem, and instead of a cradle he slept in a trough and lived in a barn because the world cared so little about him. And we know from that story that there is no place so terrible that God is not there.

Of course he was far more eloquent, but it was very powerful.

3) Christmas in Minnesota is picturesque not only for the snow but for the natural and abundant pines and spruces growing. We have five just in our yard. And directly across from our front yard is a young pine grove -- well, middle-aged. I remember before they were planted, but now they're almost full-grown and you can't see anything but a line of pines.

captivating, chapter 1

So, I said I would be objective. And I didn't try as hard as I could have for this first chapter.

One of my difficulties in reading popular Christian lit as a whole is the quality of the writing in itself. The entire genre has a tendency to be highly redundant. And, in the first chapter, I found one glaring typo and another that would be more negotiable.

And one last note on that before getting to the content: The quality of the writing is a serious concern of mine. Are we in danger of the dumbing-down of Evangelical America? (Well, probably not.) Bob Briner would not approve (read his "Roaring Lambs" -- though lambs do not roar, and the book itself is very debatable, and not incredibly well-written in itself) of the genre in the sense that it is not the highest-quality writing. Of course, not everything can be the highest-quality. But even I, knowing next to nothing, would make a few broad, simple editing suggestions that could make the whole first chapter stronger.

ANYWAY, the topic of (John and) Stasi Eldredge's book is the heart of a woman. (They) she says she will not be writing about what women should do or shouldn't do but, well, that's where it gets tricky. She writes "an invitation to become the woman you truly are." Is anyone else skeptical? That's a tall order. And vague. If you already are that woman...

If it's not a book about what women are failling to do, is it about what men are failing to do? The only thing left would be what society is failing to do, and I'm sick of books about that, regardless of their truth.

In the intro chapter, she gives the impression that women are victims of...well, femininity, society, something. Personally, I don't want to be a victim. I want someone to tell me what's wrong with me and how to fix it now.

And, it sounds like she might be bashing the "Proverbs 31" woman.

But, to add some positives (objectivity), some of the things she writes resonate with me. She says all women have three desires: "to be romanced; to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure; and to unveil beauty." I'm still not so sure about the great adventure, but the irreplaceable role is a yes. Women "desire to be captivating in the depths of who you are." Yes. The compliment I will never forget was that I was "mesmerizing," regardless of whether it was true.

Far and wide, yes, those are three things that women want. But... so what? What do we do with that? Especially if we also feel these are three things we should not want? And selfishness and vanity come into the picture? And practicality?

And, John pipes in at the end of the chapter to recap the three things men want. I wish it wasn't three things at the cores of each gender. It makes me feel Christian-marketed, i.e. the three-point sermon. Like there might have been more or less things, but they really needed three to form a nice argument.

I guess I should shut up now -- it's only been one chapter.

I'm going to do it -- I'm going to read "Captivating" (by John Eldredge). I am going to do it with an open mind. And I will report back to you semi-daily with my progress/impressions.

lies parents tell

(Did I already write this?)

When Meg and I were little, we would watch "The Sound of Music" on tape at our grandma's house after supper. After 90 minutes (after the wedding) my mom would come up and turn it off and say, "Okay, the movie's over, it's time for bed." And we went -- I was 10 or 12 before I found out there's more to the movie after the wedding.

Another lie: When we were little, my mom told us our aunt's name was Betty Lyn. (Our relatives live relatively far away.) So we called her Betty Lyn. Sometimes people would talk about someone named Debi, and we'd just brush it off -- they talked about lots of people we'd never heard of. I was 10 or 12 before I found out my aunt's name wasn't Betty Lyn -- Betty Lyn is the real name of Thelma Lou (Barney's girlfriend) on the Andy Griffith Show. But I've never gotten used to calling her Debi, so I don't.

• I woke up cozy in my bed thinking about the expression "too much of a good thing." Goodness knows why. Is it a biblical principle?
• When God sent the coming king as the most vulnerable of humans (a baby), he knew there was great risk of the child being killed or harmed, as it had to be almost fully entrusted to other humans for a decade or more. Jesus' life makes me think more about predestination. God wouldn't have sent Jesus then and there and that way if he didn't know he'd make it through life to be crucified. So, God either knew that others' lives wouldn't harm Jesus, or else he kept his "angels" or protection around Jesus.
• I'm reading the Chronicles of Narnia. (However, I don't plan to see the movie, probably because it is marketed to mainstream Christians, and because I am too skeptical I'd be disappointed anyway.) It reiterates this idea coming up more and more that God is everything we don't expect. At Christmas, who would expect the King of Kings to come as a completely helpless baby lodged in a barn and a food trough, with unwed parents? (Well, except that the prophesies said as much.) Why be the opposite of what we expect? On the one hand, it seems cruel, like God is making it more difficult for us to find him. And on the other, it sets him completely apart from the world. Or, the world has gone the opposite way from him.

and God said, "Let there be lefse"

And there was.

First, Great-aunt Verna's recipe was mixed up, chilled, rolled, and sliced into small cakes.



Then, the rolling canvas had to have flour rubbed into it. "More flour!" says Mom.


Next, each cake is rolled out paper thin. It takes some muscle to do.


One of the trickiest things is handling the paper-thin lefse. You left them with a special stick, keeping it parallel to the table and going through the middle. Pray it doesn't stick to the canvas! Add more flour to the canvas before you roll out the next cake.


A rolled-out lefse is placed on a special grill. Once it's baked through the center on one side, you slip the stick under the center again and turn it over. Be careful nothing sticks to the grill, either, or all the others after it will stick, too.

When you can see it's browned on the bottom,

you let it cool. If it stuck to the grill, put some flour on that spot, and wipe it off.

But be careful if someone tries to feed you this.

It might look pretty, but julekage is hazardous to your health.

(The weather guy is freaking out because the current temperature is in the double digits above zero.)

What if one of your loved ones passed away,
and they left behind their entire wardrobe.
What do you do with it?
There's no reason to keep it
and it would feel strange to wear it
but wrong to just throw it away.
Do you donate it?
Any way about it, it's jarring they've left these things behind: a toothbrush, a hairbrush, maybe a car, a jug of milk, a bed, glasses, shoes.

This "This week in history" from the Onion should be viewed for two reasons:

1) The crazy column layout on the top half -- I wish I could get away with something like that.
2) The morbid (but, resultingly, funny) story about Stalin's five-year death plan.

Immaculate Conception

Today is the observance in the Catholic church of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary. It's easy for us Protestants (and why don't we protest such a label?) to misunderstand just what's being celebrated. Until recently I'd thought they were simply recognizing that Jesus was conceived by the Holy Sprit. But it's really something else entirely. I don't claim to understand it, but it's more to the degree that Mary herself was conceived without original sin.

From today's liturgy:

Our Saviour permitted himself to be born of the Virgin Mary. Now, as we celebrate his coming, let us pray to him saying:
- May your mother intercede for us, O Lord.

You are the Sun of justice, and the immaculate Virgin is the dawn that heralded your rising: grant that we may always walk in the daylight of your coming.

You are the saviour of the world, and by your redeeming power you kept your mother free from original sin: make us too free of the stain of sin.

You are the redeemer of mankind, and you made the immaculate Virgin Mary into your dwelling-place and the treasury of the Holy Spirit: make us too into temples of your Spirit.

You are the King of kings, and you raised up your mother, body and soul, into heaven:
|keep our minds always on the things that are above.

Thoughts?

I love HEL

One of the "funnest" classes ever was the History of the English Language, aka Linguistics. Every day a couple of people had to do "word stories," or etymologies. I'm not sure why I find them so fascinating.

One HELish site is www.word-detective.com. Here's what he says about the phrase "skin of my teeth."

"Dear Word Detective: I know that the origin of "By the skin of my teeth" is (supposedly) in the Book of Job, where the poor guy indicates that he has survived by the skin of his teeth. I tend to think of this phrase loosely meaning a "narrow escape," but I'm not really sure what that means as a literal translation. One version I heard was that the skin of your teeth are your gums and that poor Job had come so close to death that he had even lost all of his teeth. Can you shed any light on this? -- William Lewis, via the Internet."

I generally try to avoid answering questions about metaphors having to do with teeth, but since I'm trying to confront and overcome my most stubborn phobias this week (I've just returned from lunch with a lawyer, and I have an appointment to watch a Meryl Streep movie this afternoon), I'll give this one a shot.

The source of the phrase "by the skin of one's teeth" is indeed the Book of Job, although the precise phrase Job used was "My bone cleaveth to my skin, and to my flesh, and I am escaped with the skin of my teeth" (not "by"). Just what the "skin" of one's teeth might be is a bit unclear, but it probably refers to the thin porcelain exterior of the tooth, not the gums. Job evidently kept his teeth, but just barely. It is also possible that he was saying that the margin of his escape was as narrow as the "skin" of a tooth is shallow -- the equivalent of a "hair's breadth." In any case, Job clearly meant that he'd had a very hard time of it, and the phrase has been used ever since to mean a very narrow or arduous escape.

in case you were wondering...

• There is a stage of coldness after snot-freezing cold. It is hair-freezing cold. In such a stage, your (dry) eyebrows and eyelashes and any exposed hair are so covered with frost that they appear to be covered with snow. But don't worry -- it has to get even colder than this (this being 12-15 below) for that to happen.

• It occured to me yesterday that Dec. 5 was a significant day, but it took a minute to remember why. And in the end it was rather trivial. It was one month before my good friend's 23rd birthday. And as logic would have it, that means today is one month from my 23rd birthday (and the 12th day of Christmas, Epiphany), as she is 24 hours and 20 minutes older than me. (Try planning a birthday party as a kid when your three best friends' birthdays are all within ten days of yours, and you all want to invite the same people, and none of you can go before New Years', and half of your parties will probably be snowed out, anyway.) 23 is a strange number...prime, and I'm not so sure I'd like to own it. It seems an awkward age. It is not 18-22, and it is not 25-33. It's just...23. Like you got too big for 22 and they kicked you out, but you're too shrimpy for 25.

• What kinds of things freeze at 12 below zero? Power steering fluid.

• When it's 12 below zero, steam appears to be coming out of the storm sewer because it's warmer underground.

diary of a church hopper, pt. 15 or 16 or 17

The moment you've all been waiting for: my visit to St. George's. (Episcopal)

The trip started with a couple of bad omens:
1) Couldn't find the church (looking for the wrong street)
2) Couldn't get into the church (the whole push/pull dilemma)

And then I was late as ususal.
But only good things followed.

The congregation was very small - much smaller than I expected. When I finally got in, the first person I saw was Kugler. He saw a person (me) walk in and looked around immediately, in the middle of a hymn, to make sure I could find a hymnal and prayer book and knew which page we were on. So, friendliness, right away. The woman next to me in the pew smiled. (I always think she's Joan Anderson but she's Margo Vanderhill.)

Settled in, I looked around at the building. The church is old, a registered building, but it wasn't as "beautiful" as St. Thomas's. It did look extremely friendly, though. I could picture myself becoming familiar with the nooks and crannies and bizarre architectural intricacies of a church, like when I was little. There were old iron heating registers in the floor, and they made me feel very much at home. (We lived in an old Victorian house when I was little, and we'd fight over who got to stand on top of it, or dry our mittens and scarves on it. And we had a porch swing, but that's beside the point.)

The pastor was a woman. That was new to me, and, looking back, in a really good way. As with all things I am highly skeptical of pastors. This may sound bad, but because I wasn't expecting her to be perfect, I liked her more. I think her role is different than my master and commander picture of pastoral care. But, St. George's isn't your typical congregation.

For it seemed at least 1/3 of the parishioners were NW professors/staff. And most of the rest were their families, or their students. Indeed, it seemed highly logical to transport the whole building to Orange City, where it would be more convenient for almost everyone. On the other hand, the travel to worship, setting aside everyday life, makes it more appealing. And, if it was in OC, more people would know about it, and there would probably be a need for stronger leadership, and then there would be dissension and crowds and maybe less community...anyway.

Back to the parishioners -- because it must be given at least one criticism, I would point out that all the parishioners have IQs of at least...something really high. Not that that's a bad thing, but it could maybe possibly someday somehow be an obstacle to those less gifted. And, because everyone does live in OC, I wonder if the church has much of a life except Sundays, or even beyond the service.

But, away from the required criticisms, St. George's was one of the "best" services I have been to in...I don't even know how long. We may be talking decades. It had a huge advantage, though, in that it 1) was not contemporary, 2) was comprised of only people I deeply respected and admired prior to the service; and 3) I wanted to like it.

Other random things I enjoyed:
1) The discussion of the sermon and/or theology in general immediately following the sermon, right in the middle of the service.
2) Communion wine. Seriously -- the burn of the blood of Christ down your throat for a minute after you've drank helps you to remember.
3) Everyone clearly wanted to be there, with maybe the exception of a sixth grade boy. But you could hardly blame him.
4) The pastor commenting to Prof. Anderson while she's breaking up the body of Christ.
5) The statuette of St. George slaying a dragon.
6) People looking me in the eye while they said "peace be with you."
7) Big, big hugs (from friends) instead of handshakes.
8) Seeing and saying the text of the service. Seeing the words especially is a big thing for me.
9) The overall old country church feel.
10) Some people had their own prayer books.
11) Kneeling and holding out my hands to receive the body. I felt like a British beggar child begging the pastor to let me have some of the body. But in a good way.

So, now there are these problems. And I anticipated them. I think that's why it took me so long to visit.
1) I liked the service a lot. Anything else will pale in comparison, esp. going back to P&W and PowerPoint.
2) The church is there and I am here. (However, when you get down to it, it's not that much farther than the RCA megachurch because it's so irritatingly tricky to get there.)
3) Going there regularly strikes me as cheating, like sneaking back into chapel after you've graduated. It is an extension of NW, really, and if I'm going to it because of NW, then in a sense I do not belong there now. Try to make sense of that one.
4) Going there regularly would not aid my problem of not knowing anyone here.
5) Repeat 1-4.

So, survey says: You all were right. St. George's is a great place!

story of my life

If I had become a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter and died at a ripe old age, I know how my biography would begin.

One afternoon when I was four, I learned how to draw question marks. I found it life-changing as a skill -- there were such possibilities for writing when you could communicate a question. (Maybe this would be good if I were a famous copy editor, too.)

I cut up a sheet of paper into tiny pieces, took out my markers, and put the new skill to good use. When all was said and done, the scraps were covered with question marks. Logically, my young mind thought, there are people out there who need questions. And I can sell them to them.

So, the story goes, I went out to the street and asked passersby if they wanted to buy a question. (We lived on a somewhat busy road then, on the side with the sidewalk.) And then I chased a professor on a bicycle up the street, advertising my wares. And he chuckled and gave me a quarter.

I've also thought of a way to start that next pesky cover letter when I apply for copy editing positions:

Before going in to my college roommate's flute recital, I couldn't help but sneak in a pen into my pocket to proofread the program.

"Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta.

"There was only one lion," said the Voice.

"What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and --"

"There was only one: but he was swift of foot."

"How do you know?"

"I was the lion." And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a mat sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."

lutefisk!

"Aslan as a man!" said Mr. Beaver sternly. "Certainly not. I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-beyond-the-Sea. Don't you know who is the King of the Beasts? Aslan is a lion -- THE Lion, the great Lion."

"Ooh, said Susan. "I'd thought he was a man. Is he -- quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."

"That you will, dearie, and no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver; "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly."

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

thanksgiving: my sister and my baby cousin

maybe in December

In the back of my mind for...oh, two years has been the necessity to research the Liturgy of the Hours. "What is the Liturgy of the Hours?" you may be asking.

The Liturgy of the Hours is the daily prayer of the (Catholic) Church which is prayed at certain significant times of the day. It includes the Invitatory and a number of "hours". Invitatory ~ This is the opening prayer of the Office and is prayed at the beginning of the day before the first hour of the Office.

Morning Prayer (Lauds) ~ This hour is prayed at sunrise or in the early morning. It is one of the two most important (hinge) hours of the Office and, if possible, should be prayed in common.

Daytime Prayer (Terce, Sext, None) ~ In the post-Vatican II reform of the office, it is suggested that one of these hours, that which is most convenient for the individual, be prayed. The daytime hours are
~Midmorning
~Midday~
Midafternoon

Evening Prayer (Vespers) ~ This hour is prayed at sunset, i.e. late afternoon or early evening. It is the second of the hinge hours and, like Morning Prayer, should be prayed in common if possible.

Night Prayer (Compline) ~ This is the "bedtime" hour of the Church's daily prayer and is ordinarily prayed just before retiring.

Office of Readings (Matins, Vigils) ~ This is the only hour which does not have a designated time. In the reforms of the Second Vatican Council it was determined that, because of the varied schedules of people today it would be better to leave to the the group or individual praying, the ability to establish the time for the praying of this meditative hour of reflection on Scripture and the writings of the great spiritual authors.

I'm thinking about trying to keep up with this for the month of December. Another option would be the Book of Common Prayer, what I understand is the Anglican version of such. Visit universalis.com for some text of the LOH.

she's having a b...lizzard

That's right, it's 4:30 on a Monday afternoon and I'm sitting here cheerfully in dress socks, slippers, and pajama pants, watching the snow rush up and down and sideways. It isn't legally a blizzard because not enough snow will actually land in the end. My coworker and I concluded this afternoon when we could no longer see the building across the street that it was time to go home. My dysfunctional windshield wipers made life even more complicated on icy hills.

But now I am content to curl up with a book and a blanket and let the world blow away.

(And pray it doesn't take my hard drive with it -- the darn thing's dying again. It got a replacement this weekend, which died before I could even get out of the house.)

men and women

I. With families there are the men and the women.

Women say in irritated voices "Dinner's in five minutes and I don't want any lollygagging" but not loud enough to be heared by the men, on another floor of the house. Then the women complain the men are late, that they're always late.

They call the men lazy when they won't take a minute out of the middle of their game to go downstairs and get a diaper.

They make cracks about the men being bad parents when they take away the pacifier in the middle of the day, after the mother made the rule pluggies were only for bedtime and then handed it over -- unbeknownst to the father -- at 1 p.m.

The men watch football while the women mash the potatoes and the men talk computers while the women load the dishwasher and the men go out shopping while the women change the diapers.

The men say "What are you making me for breakfast?" and the women smile and ask what they'd like to have.

The women nag and I pray that I will never be thought of as a nagging wife. Because the books say the men just want to be respected, and the women just want to be loved.

II. Someone somewhere thought there needed to be another version of "Pride and Prejudice." And regardless of whether they agreed all the women had to go see it, simply because it existed. Even if they despise scrawny, selfish Keira Knightley and believe they will marry Colin-Firth-Mr.-Darcy in another live. Even if the A&E version is already clearly the closest to perfection that humankind is capable of filming, barring the exhumation and directorship of Jane Austen herself.

And the women leave the men at home -- because there's nothing more irritating than having a man smirking while you're crying at a chickflick -- and crowd into the theaters. They don't know each other but they have a silent covenant to maintain silence and stillness in general. They whisper to their friends that Keira Knightley is so scrawny and she has no chest but what they wouldn't do for that collarbone. Jane was adequately beautiful and Judi Dench was the obvious choice for Lady Catherine. And even if they did slash a six hour story into two hours, they still almost cried when Mr. Darcy burst into the room dripping wet dissheveled simply because he did it and because he loved her so passionately and "persued" her. They're overjoyed and jealous.

Mr. Darcy would never be late for dinner. But Elizabeth would never nag him if he was.

public service announcements

It's long past time to make my Christmas list. In fact, it may already be overdue and overlooked by the shopper. Half the time she already knows what she'll get, anyway. And she knows me well enough to know what I'll like. But "the list" means more so e-mailing her the ISBN numbers of any books I may request. Specific DVDs, CDs, etc., etc.

This topic (Christmas and gifts) brings me to two important points:

1) If you are ever a teacher, parent, relative, or friend of a small child with a Christmastime birthday, it is important to not overlook those birthdays, even with all the celebrating hullabaloo going on already. These poor children are often overlooked and do not receive equal recognition with their peers, i.e.: having their birthdays announced weeks afterward at school, having to have birthday parties weeks later because no one is around to celebrate, getting smaller birthday presents or no presents/cards because of the seasonal busysness/broke-ness.

Never mail a child Christmas and birthday gifts in the same package. At least be kind enough to send them in separate packages if they must go out the same day, but even consider sending them separate days. Never wrap said gifts in Christmas wrap. Do not let the child become one of many who must see their birthday gifts sitting under the Christmas tree days after all the others are gone, lonely and pathetic, almost as an afterthought.

All children's birthdays deserve equal treatment. Given an option, all of the Christmastime babies would opt to be born in June or July. Even summer birthdays get better treatment, because they get half-birthdays during the school year in addition to a celebration on their real birthday in the summer. Christmas birthdays don't have the luxury of half-birthdays. They only get one shot, and but it's often halfhearted. When you're all grown up, remember: be kind to all children.

2) Stop and reconsider when you take out "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" the first time with your children. Is telling them about Santa such a good idea? My biggest personal qualm about the whole Santa issue: what do you say if your kids ask next, "Does this mean Jesus isn't real, either?" Don't you want the credit for buying the gifts? Tell them about the real Santa. Tell them the stories of the fake Santa, but why start off lying to your kids when they're that little?

diary of a church hopper, pt. 14

Yep, you guessed it -- didn't go to St. George's. And not Bedside Baptist -- the same old one. Went contemporary this week, more so because I needed the sleep for my mental and physical well-being and it wouldn't therefore work to go traditional.

Again, no one said hello. One man who greeted me at greeting time didn't even look at me while he shook my hand. Talk about cold.

There are, as usual, many complaints I could share with you. And again, it's time to just keep my mouth shut and settle somewhere. But...it just doesn't feel right still. One real concern is that this church is having money problems. That strikes me as a warning sign that there may be larger problems underlying.

It still just doesn't feel right. No, nothing will be perfect. Maybe more things will be wrong than right...but I still haven't had that irrational peace of knowing something is right. Like NW was right. Like certain friends were right. And that lack of peace is leading me to believe it's time to start branching out to congregations I've not yet visited.

so, miss ariel, what did you do this weekend?

On Friday night, I spent a couple of hours photographing small children and learned Mah Jong. And stayed up really late reading.

Saturday, I slept in (meaning 'till like 9), played some more Mah Jong, took a shower, ran to the grocery store (bought an orange -- stay tuned for the Sunkist Orange reports) and the bank, and then settled down to some more Angela's Ashes. I just love his writing. He has a new book out, I see. Started mixing up some raspberry truffle brownies, Phil! Started cleaning the car while the brownies baked. Yes, that's right -- me, cleaning my car. Even the disgusting cupholders. Even vacuuming. Even soap (on the outside). It looks extremely presentable and like something I'd be proud to return if I am sent back in a different car after Thanksgiving. Anyway, finished the brownies, played some more Mah Jong, straightened my hair (yes, gentlemen, hair nowadays must be straightened or scrunched in order to be "presentable" unless you're lucky enough to have naturally stick-straight or curly but not frizzy hair), had supper, and headed for OC. Bought gas for under $2. Got to OC, picked up my theater ticket, and went to dink around on the piano for awhile. Given a couple of weeks, "O Sacred Head Now Wounded" might be simple enough I could actually play it reasonably well. Went back over to the theater, found I had missed the first 15 minutes...saw the play. Met Susan and Amy and Nicky, and Carl. (It was one of the best plays I'd seen in a while. Since I learn best through written words, sometimes I get lost in plays or movies. But this one had developed characters and lovely actresses, not to mention a plot I was predestined to be fond of.) Hung out in West for a bit. Not that long, but incidentally the second-longest amount of time I'd spent in West, behind the second-largest Mafia game in my experience. Got home and journaled a while.

Today (Sunday), I really slept really late (9:50) and went to church. Got home and was thinking about lunch when I noticed a few messages on my phone -- all from Muffin Mix. Met her and her family for lunch. Stopped at (store X) and got a few Christmas presents under control. Was going to stop at work and get some photos under control...only to remember when I got there that my photo card was at home. Two co-workers showed up while I was there. Now there is yet more baking to do, and I should be working but I just want two days together without it entirely. Should pay bills, should write letters, should finish cleaning this dump. Should burn CDs. Should chip away at audioblogging. Should freaking get a vocabulary so I can be an editor.

Oh! That's the other thing I did Saturday -- burning CDs. I'm trying to burn my iTunes songs to CDs I can play in my stereo, which seems to be impossible. None of my CD players will read them. After awhile I tried burning them as MP3s, then using Nero to re-burn the MP3s as a regular CD...still no success.

We want to be wanted.
And he was not only not wanted, he was unwanted.

He was despised and rejected--a man of sorrows, acquainted with bitterest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way when he went by. He was despised, and we did not care. Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down. And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God for his own sins! But he was wounded and crushed for our sins. He was beaten that we might have peace. He was whipped, and we were healed. (Isaiah 53, NLT)

I don't think Jesus Who is Our Lord would have liked the weather in Limerick because it's always raining and the Shannon keeps the whole city damp. My father says the Shannon is a killer river because it killed my two brothers. When you look at pictures of Jesus He's always wandering around ancient Israel in a sheet. It never rains there and you never hear of anyone coughing or getting consumption or anything like that and no one has a job there because all they do is stand around and eat manna and shake their fists and go to crucifixions.

Anytime Jesus got hungry all He had to do was walk up the road to a fig tree or and orange tree and have His fill. If He wanted a pint He could wave His hand over a big glass and there was the pint. Or He could visit Mary Magdalene and her sister, Martha, and they'd give Him His dinner no questions asked and He'd get his feet washed and dried with Mary Magdalene's hair while Martha washed the dishes, which I don't think is fair. Why should she have to wash the dishes while her sister sits out there chatting away with Our Lord? It's a good thing Jesus decided to be born Jewish in that warm place because if he was born in Limerick he'd catch the consumption and be dead in a month and there wouldn't be any Catholic Church and there wouldn't be any Communion or Confirmation and we wouldn't have to learn the catechism and write compositions about Him. The End.

--Frank McCourt, Angela's Ashes

Newspapers subscribe to graphics services for their ad design departments to get pictures of things like turkeys and diplomas and small children. While looking for a child, I found this, and was seriously disturbed.

There was a delay the day of the baptism when the chosen godfather, John McErlaine, got drunk at the speakeasy and forgot his responsibilities. Philomena told her husband, Tommy, he'd have to be godfather. Child's soul is in danger, she said. Tommy put his head down and grumbled. All right. I'll be godfather but I'm not goin' to be responsible if he grows up like his father causin' trouble and goin' through life with the odd manner for if he does he can go to John McErlaine at the speakeasy. The priest said, True for you, Tom, decent man that you are, fine man that never set foot inside a speakeasy. Malachy, fresh from the speakeasy himself, felt insulted and wanted to argue with the priest, one sacrilege on top of another. Take off that collar and we'll see who's the man. He had to be held back by the great-breasted ones and their husbands grim. Angela, new mother, agitated, forgot she was holding the child and let him slip into the baptismal font, a total immersion of the Protestant type. The altar boy assisting the priest plucked the infant from the font and restored him to Angela, who sobbed and clutched him, dripping, to her bosom. The priest laughed, said he had never seen the likes, that the child was a regular little Baptist now and hardly needed a priest. This maddened Malachy again and he wanted to jumpt at the priest for calling the child some class of a Protestant. The priest said, Quiet, man, you're in God's house, and when Malachy said, God's house, my arse, he was thrown out on Court Street because you can't say arse in God's house.

(Frank McCourt, Angela's Ashes)

disregard

If you previously viewed a post entitled "disclaimer," please disregard it. Someone crazy got hold of my password and posted it.

diary of a church hopper, pt. 13

The best-laid plans...

I even told ND this week I'd be going back to the Baptist church for reasons X, Y, and Z. That didn't end up working out -- must have turned my alarm off again in my sleep. Tried to make it with the five minutes' time I had, but it was a no-go. I also told K I would think about St. George's next week, so we'll see how good I am about sticking to that.

So, it was RCA megachurch again. The pastor said one or two things I disagreed with, but two remarkable things happened.
1) The couple in front of me introduced themselves and asked me a few questions about myself during and after the service.
2) I had to cover something for work very near the ending time for the service, so I almost snuck out a side door a few minutes early. But I didn't. And on my way into the crowd I almost (physically) ran into my next door neighbor from Apartment B! I keep forgetting she goes to school here. I really don't know her well, and we were both in a hurry to be places, but we exchanged phone numbers. If she (and two other NW girls I don't know) regularly went to this church, that would be a swaying factor for me, because I was about ready to set down roots with the Baptists.

The King of love my Shepherd is,
Whose goodness faileth never
I nothing lack if I am His
And He is mine forever.

randomosity, v. 2

• Like virtually all Americans, I believe abortion is wrong. Where Americans are divided is on the issue of whether they should be able to tell another person what's "wrong" based on their own morals. It occured to me on the drive home yesterday that I believe theft is also wrong, but I am willing to impose that belief on others if need be. Then, it occured to me that making theft a crime is partly for my own personal safety, whereas making abortion a crime doesn't keep me safe. But, yet it does keep others safe -- people who cannot yet speak out. So, the Republicans won that mental debate. (But, again, a pro-life democrat would through American politics all out of whack.)
• Are twenty-somethings somewhat useless to the evangelical church today? They don't have children, can't really lead Bible studies (except for other twenty-somethings), don't have money, don't have the experience to be deacons and deaconesses and elders. And, chances are they won't be around when they're thirty-somethings.
• Conversation is an art which I have not studied well.
• This morning an agile senior-citizen couple was walking ahead of me on the recreational trail, holding hands and bundled in sweatshirts and jackets and bifocals and John Deere caps. The few leaves left on the trees began showering over them, and I wanted my camera so badly. It occured to me that they were going to die (maybe not for decades yet), but this was surely a golden moment.
• The American female's love-hate, self-destructive relationship with the chick flick deserves further reflection.
• Found out a girl I know (unmarried) had a baby. If asked to choose from all the people I knew and guess who might be in this position someday, she would be in the last three percent I would ever suspect. I heard it and my heart just sank for her, to know what a blow it could mean for her very promising future. She was the Bible study leader type, the one to counsel people in her position. It will mean a huge challenge to her, yet she's the kind of managing person who could juggle raising a steady child and do her job better than required of her. Still, the thought comes: it could just as easily have happened to anyone else on the planet.
• It if wasn't clear from last night's ranting, I went up to O.C. last night. Had dinner and a drink with a friend, (learned the difference between chick drinks and not chick drinks)
• then went to a concert for a band I used to be part of. Watching such a concert is fun, for seeing 3/4 of an ensemble that I used to play with. Then, it's difficult to see that unfamiliar 1/4 who are the "replacements." The part of me that will always love freshmen simply for their freshmenness wanted to meet them all. The terribly irritating part of me was bitter. It's also fun to watch them from the audience -- see all the eyes constantly checking in with one man, to know his reaction to their action, to synchronize their own actions with his -- for he is always right, even if he is wrong. Or, it's fun to watch the players who have tuned out, who have stopped watching their music, but are shaken awake by hearing that passage right before their entrance. It's also fun to know privately how thankful all the players are at that exact moment that this man is leading them, as opposed to absolutely any other member of the music faculty.
• It's funny to note the reactions when people recognize you. That girl from Steggy who you always thought looked so nice but hesitated to give you the time of day gives you a kind of shocked little "what are you doing here?" smile. That makes you want to walk back out the door. Others actually scream, they're so excited.
• It's also funny to watch who is excited and who says "hi" and walks on. Those I actually had conversations almost exclusively included those I established relationships with when they were freshmen: one tutee, two clarinets, one Urban Plunger, one chickadee, and a bassoonist I still can't recall how I ever got to know, and a roommate's sister. Then there was a clarinetist from the catharsis group, but she's my age.

When your wheels turn on to the road and you tell yourself, "Don't worry, we'll be home soon now," though you're driving away from your bed, you know you're in for an interesting evening.

Doesn't it make sense that home is where you find yourself wrapped in the firmest hugs, where you're fond of the strangers, where you remember your best parts?

"I feel it in me," someone said. I feel it in me to be that person again, to give hugs and spy at people through my clarinet bell and make freshmen smile. I feel it in me to be someone of worth again, someone I want to like, instead of this useless lump occupying rental property and wasting clean oxygen.

Come, Lord Jesus, and show us life.

Eighty percent of women know their attackers, says the reporter. I believe it.
And a natural reaction to assault or attempted assault in the area is fear.

Keep a cell phone on your person at all times, they say.
But, if someone was really intent upon attacking you, wouldn't they prevent you from the freedom to make a call?

Another day, another failed attempt at anorexia.
(Well, not anorexia, you know-- simply efforts to eat as little as possible.)

As often happens on Wednesday, many of my food staples have run out. I did not particularly feel like shopping, but had little choice as I'll have company this evening. On a whim, I visited a different grocery store than usual.

This one is small, haphazard in its organization, but friendly. They take your groceries right out of your cart and bag them and bring them out to your car. That was nice. The downside: they have one of those ATM card readers that show a picture anatomically impossible to copy.

Anyway, I'm at the store, and (mistake #1) I'm extremely hungry from not having eaten much. Everything in the place looks like an extraordinary bargain and as something I'd be proud to have in my home. Someone mentioned Fritos earlier in the day, and I could not get them out of my mind. Fritos go in the cart.

Also in the cart are a number of things inedible in and of themselves: corn syrup, sweetened condensed milk, evaporated milk, flour... so that in short, $19 later, the only "foodstuffs" I've come away with are a jar of baby dills, bread, milk, OJ, and one cup of ramen.

Mistake #2: Not having bagboy place bags in trunk. Fritos migrate into the front seat and are mysteriously opened up and my hand somehow finds its way inside too many times.

Success #1: Not purchasing any chocolate. That is not to say the thought of Frito bars did not cross my mind, or that the Nestle chocolate chunks on sale did not get groped a bit.

ariel, the soundtrack

Today was one of those days that would be glossed over in musical interlude if my life was a movie. It's that scene about 2/3 to 3/4 through the film where the character is in some sort of transition, packing a box or trying to step out of their routine.

And the song that is playing, for better or worse: "Time of your life" by Green Day.

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.

Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.

So make the best of this test
and don't ask why.

It's not a question
but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs
and still frames in your mind.

Hang it on a shelf
In good health and good time.

Tattoos of memories
and dead skin on trial.

For what it's worth,
it was worth all the while.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

diary of a church hopper, pt. 12

It is entirely possible today was the first time I had communion since about May.

I attended the early (traditional) service of a Baptist church I had visited months ago, at which time I went to the contemporary service and the pastor spoke about Hell and New Orleans. They had about 20, 25 minutes of worship, etc. and then moved into the communion. Wow, this is short, I thought to myself. The "bread" actually more closely resembled off-white Orbitz gum made of wafery material. I wonder why they chose those.

The music was hymns with a baby grand, two flutes and an oboe, but they still used a worship team. I wonder how the congregation feels about that. Part of the reason I am pro-hymns is I am uncomfortable with worship "teams." Or, rather, uncomfortable with seeing them. Again, if they could be not on a stage and not all facing me and such, that might be a nice change.

It is another large, new church building with no art to speak of but the baskets of wax autumn leaves. They do have AWANA.

And the pastor seems pretty genuine. On the other hand, I think he's genuinely values-voter conservative, anti-activist judges, all-around Republican, the devil is a Democrat. (For the record, I am not affiliated one way or the other. I think both sides have something to offer, and feel quite strongly that if a Democrat would take a pro-life platform, you would see Christians taking a much closer look at all the other issues out there.)

It isn't so irritating to get to as the RCA, but I know less about it.

I think they're having money problems though. The pastor said something about how they may have to tell some of their missionaries they won't be able to keep up with their faith promises. That bothered me quite a bit. Shouldn't other things in the budget suffer before these "promises" they've made to missionaries actually in the field?

There was no one my age. There would be at the other service. So many people go to church alone, or in groups of two. Where's Asha when you need her?

Did I ever post this? It was probably taken over a month ago, but I thought it was cool. Guess where it was taken? Akron. (Ha.)

The Lord, before whom I have walked

Still chipping away here through Genesis. Generally, the more closely I read, the more confused I get! These are not the characters of Sunday School (including God).

• First and foremost, everyone sins -- a lot. Noah gets drunk and exposes himself to whoever's walking by -- who happens to be his son. Ham tells his brothers about it, and gets himself and all his descendents cursed. Noah apparently does not get punished.
• Abraham and Isaac turn into cowards when they go out travelling, and don't want to get killed for having beautiful wives. So they claim their wives are their sisters, and are causing others to sin (not to mention sinning against their own wives). And Abraham and Isaac get blessed by the nations they have sinned against, because they are chosen by God.
• Hagar gets completely taken advantage of (quite literally) and then her descendants get more or less cursed. Sarai, whose whole idea the hooking up was in the first place, gets the blessing.
• God chooses to place all his blessing on one offspring: Isaac. Abram and Sarai and Isaac did nothing particular to deserve this, other than having faith off and on.
• Sarah always gets the bad wrap for laughing about having a baby at 90 or 100 -- but Abraham laughed first (17:17).
• God seems to have a short fuse. He demolishes entire cities/worlds often. But, he puts up with a lot, too. But, he could be accused of inconsistency. But, consistency may be a lesser virtue when you have all the power and everything belongs to you anyway.
• This angel of the Lord shows up often to give messages. And he has a tendency to speak for God in the first person. Why have I heard so little about him?
• When Abraham's servant goes wife-hunting, his plan for finding the girl is (blank), and then he asks God to bless that plan. Right?
• I loved this line, though, from the servant quoting Abraham: "The Lord, before whom I have walked, will..." I can't find much in research talking about why we are walking before God, but one interpretation could be that God is protecting us, or telling us which steps to take, or that he sees all we do.
• Usually, I get a little upset with the Jacob and Esau story. I feel bad for Esau, since he made one bad choice and got himself and his descendants screwed. (They really all looked to the extreme future often.) But today, on 25:34, I read, "So Esau despised his birthright." It put me in my place a bit, with the remembrance that God has his reasons -- I don't necessarily have the whole story.

Veteran's Day is coming up. My boss has been after me for months to get a series going of veteran profiles, and so far it hasn't panned out. Part of that is because there is a small pool of veterans, and part of it is my timidity to bring up what could be a sensitive issue.

But for Veteran's Day itself, interviewing a veteran was going to be inevitable. My boss gave me a name and my editor gave me a phone number, and I actually called the gentleman right away. After being rebuked for speaking too softly, he agreed to come by my office for an interview. He'd never heard of the paper and seemed unsure he'd be able to find the building.

I thought he might be crotchety, might be reserved, might be modest. So I decided to remain positive and friendly, and prepared a good list of questions.

But he was fascinating. He talked for an hour and a half, and I was not bored. He was a photographer for the Flying Tigers, and was a commercial photographer and legal forensic photographer following the war. He's been back to China five times and speaks some Chinese. He doesn't have any family left, but every morning he runs his errands and has coffee with the guys and rotates restaurants for lunch. His wife, who passed away in 1981, took care of his food and he took care of the money. I wanted to hear his whole life story.

Get smarter now.

Try vocabulary hangman, or see a long vocab list with definitions.

Or, try some flashcards.

bereft of verbs

What's wrong with me?

You'd think a writing major should have it pretty easy when it comes to the verbal sections of the GRE. And you'd be right for thinking that. I just happen to be the black sheep of the group with no vocabularic ability whatsoever. Look at that -- vocabularic. I can't even spring for a real word.

This blog is now accepting tips for vocabulary building. Tips for injecting vocabulary steroids will be even more welcome.

I took some practice sections today out of a book. On the verbal sections, it was about as likely I'd get a question wrong as it was I'd get it right. At least on the math sections I was getting two for one. Apparently my brain has not yet evolved from pure mush into malleable graduate material.

Solution: bake more cookies. Stick with what you know.

There is a ghostly number of trick-or-treaters out here in the city. Children are simply crawling out of the woodwork. Some of these houses must see nearly 200 kids. I'm glad my front light doesn't work -- I only have ten candy bars, I think.

So I'm sitting here on the couch, eating celery...

I've only been trick-or-treating once in my life. My mom made me a Little Red Riding Hood outfit when I was three and told me we were going to the apartment downstairs -- I didn't want to go -- and they gave me a piece of candy. Then we went back upstairs and took the costume off.

We didn't participate for religious reasons thereafter. Why go along with something rooted in worshipping the devil, with no possible Christian message to come out of it? (Which is tough to understand as a kid when the pastor's children did get to go out.) It seems like there was even one year I didn't go to the class party at school. One year when I was about five, we lived on a busy street and got herds of visitors, even with the porchlight off. We tried to avoid it by going up to the mall for the night -- only to find it's a popular place to trick-or-treat. I didn't really feel like I was missing out. We still had candy -- just not pillowcases full.

The Halloween debate for Evangelicals is still not one I've made a decision on, personally. I do appreciate the candy discount. And I do appreciate the adorable toddlers who will fill the empty spaces on page 2 tomorrow.

GRE QoD:

The frightened mother _______ her young daughter for darting in front of the car.
A) implored
B) extorted
C) exhorted
D) admonished
E) abolished

Answer: d

randomosity

• Em and I rented this random version of "Pride and Prejudice" after browsing every single shelf. I was skeptical -- but it was hilarious. It's set in Utah and made by Mormons. One highlight: "(Collins:) I had a kind of... funny... encounter with a girl in this congregation, who will remain anonymous, but for the sake of the story, let's call her... Elizabeth B. No-no, E. Bennett." It's off the wall but they did a good job of making it modern and realistic. It never came out in theaters, and probably didn't deserve to...but it's still a fun twist. Any group creative enough to cast Jane Bennet as an Argentinian exchange student deserves a chance.
• When I grow up, I'm going here.
• New "Edge of Iowa" column: The GRE question of the day. We will only be having verbal questions because A) I have the math under control, and B) you try displaying those math charts on a blog.

(Directions: The following question provides a given word in capitalized letters followed by five word choices. Choose the best word which is most opposite in meaning to the given word.)

28: LUDICROUS:

A) mundane B) semaphore C) illogical D) reasonable E) fallacious

Answer: Ludicrous means illogical, senseless or absurd. Mundane means earthly; it does not relate to ludicrous. Semaphore is an apparatus for signaling. Illogical is a synonym for ludicrous. D - reasonable is the opposite of ludicrous and the right answer. Fallacious means logically unsound, it is a synonym

diary of a church hopper, pt. 11

It might be easier to meet people if I bring a friend to church, I thought. So I took along my friend who was spending the night to the RCA megachurch.

No such luck in meeting people.

Not that we were trying.

Part of me said, "Don't put a lot of effort in if you don't see yourself getting involved." So I tried envisioning it...the easiest thing to see was myself helping teach second graders, or convincing a four year old to sit down on his carpet square and watch the flannelgraph. Or aiding parents trying to escape from their children in the nursery.

But is that in this church?

Pros

• Lots of young people
• Lots of groups
• Need for volunteers
• Small groups

Cons

• An irritating trek across the city to get there
• The unfamiliar worship music
• My skepticism toward the pastor
• Lack of elderly
• Rumors of church problems

Question 1: What is most important in looking for a church? If I liked everything, everything except the pastor, would that be grounds to move on?

Question 2: Is my skepticism toward the pastor warranted? "Wearing a mask" is the best way to describe my thoughts about him. But, is that just my past experience with pastors showing through?

Question 3: Couldn't a worship team be placed so that one could not see them, so that they would not be a focus of attention, maybe even we wouldn't know who they were?

Question 4: If one chooses a church according to where they see God at work, what is the evidence of his presence? This winds back to how God speaks, I think.

I find myself singing this song pretty frequently. Possibly, this is because it plays at least once a day in my car, where I haven't changed the CD in several weeks.

It's a new Switchfoot song. I can't say I love the CD or even that I can pinpoint what this song's about. But it's the only semi-acoustic track, and the tone makes me think of October.

Daisy, give yourself away
Look up at the rain
The beautiful display
Of power and surrender
Giving us today
And she gives herself away

Rain, another rainy day
Comes up from the ocean
Give herself away
She comes down easy
On rich and dead the same
And she gives herself away

Let it go
Daisy, Let it go
Open up your fist
This fallen world
Doesn't hold your interest
It doesn't hold your soul
Daisy, let it go

Pain, give yourself a name
Call yourself contrition
Avarice of blame
Giving isn't easy
Neither is the rain
When she gives herself away

Daisy, why another day?
Why another sunrise
Who will take the blame
For all redemptive motion
And every rainy day
When he gives himself

diary of a church hopper, pt. 10

Church-hopping might make a good book, yes?

Church-hopping and a profile of my boss after he dies. Those are the two books on my list to write. That and a collection of vignettes based on kitchen memories.

Anyway...

Amanda and I met up not far from the big RCA church. Recently it's been on my mind that I simply need to make a choice -- that I cannot have everything I want in a church. I cannot have a traditional service and lots of families and and age variety and lots of groups and ministries. I cannot have those minisries and families without a contemporary service, which I am far too cynical of right now. Anyway, decided to trek down to the area early and try to speak with the RCA pastor briefly before lunch.

And I did.

This was the guy who looked like Jerry Van Dyke's son in the service. He looked less like him up close, but he was still sugary sweet and clean and shiny. Thought my cynical self, like someone wearing a mask. So I set that aside and was honest with him -- that I'd visited, wasn't sure it was for me, tried lots of things. Wanted to know where they were looking for help.

He pushed small groups, and said they were looking for help in the children's ministries. Children's ministries are something I have experience with and would probably be good for me to plug into, somewhere.

I asked if he had advice for church hoppers. He said he encouraged just sticking with someplace for six months or so. Six months! That's...a long time. But he's probably right.

Told Amanda about the situation. She advised that she'd heard the church recently had a big split on a big issue, may be unstable. (Does this sound familiar?)

So, time to make a choice. Sunnybrook feels more familiar, but the Baptist church is closer and I have met someone there who was nice. But Sunnybrook is more welcoming. But I liked the Episcopal liturgy. But I can't make up my mind.

Come, Lord Jesus, and show us life.

shallow opinions

1. Aussie really is a better shampoo than Thermasilk. Sure, Thermasilk makes my hair soft. But Aussie...Aussie makes it soft. And, Aussie sounds cooler.
2. Online journals are kind of a dumb idea. How vain is it to think anyone would care to read the random things going through our heads? EVERY DAY?
3. I hate it when people overreact or overuse extreme punctuation.
4. Pet peeve: people who love spelling and "grammer."
5. I avoid fruit cocktail because once in a blue moon there are those fruit pieces with brown pits or spots or something on them. And those irritate me like nails on a chalkboard.
6. I have lovely wrists.
7. What if we covered zits with brown and pretended they were freckles? Did "olden days" people have zits?
8. Who knew the kids on "Everybody Loves Raymond" were actually siblings?
9. This job still seems like a study abroad that will never end.
10. It's so nice to wear a sweatshirt to work.

P.S. -- Friends of JoAnn, she and I will have no more travel diaries. JoAnn has a new home.
P.P.S. -- Do you ever feel bad for not feeling bad enough regarding our indebtedness?

All said and done I stand alone
Amongst remains of a life I should not own
It takes all I am to believe
In the mercy that covers me
Did you really have to die for me?A
ll I am for all you are
Because what I need and what I believe are worlds apart

diary of a church hopper, pt. 9

Are we only on Part 9? It seems like Part 30 at least.

Today was a second visit to the British-looking Episcopal church. There wasn't anything particular I noticed on the second go-round -- just admired the proficient organist.

Listening to the sermon, I wasn't terribly impressed -- and then I got angry with myself. I shouldn't be analyzing how good the sermon is. I should be listening to it. The sermon is not there to impress me. I shouldn't be zoning out if I've heard the message before. It's easy to become too comfortable with some of these truths.

There was another potluck after the service. I darted out this time before someone could ask me to join. The reason I don't want to go is that I don't want to be a social burden on someone. If I went, I would either sit awkwardly by myself, or stick around to the one or two people I met the whole time. And they wouldn't be able to socialize comfortably with other parishioners. I don't want to do that to them.

I enjoy the service, but I'm worried about hooking in to the body. The congregation is almost completely baby boomers and up, and then 8 and under. There are no "families." And I'm not saying I couldn't hook in -- I throughly enjoy baby boomers and children; rather, there could be something out there that would be a better fit for me.

But that's me again talking, looking for what I want, what I need.

I'm sick of hopping. I want a church to be useful in, and I want an instinct it's the right place to be.

Is there a "right place"? Will any place do?

I'm almost ready to go over to Sunnybrook (RCA) and just stay there, regardless of my thoughts about the service, just because I could see it being easier to get "plugged in" and useful. At the very least there would be children's groups looking for help.

"Useful" is a key word. I have huge amounts of unused time on my hands; it's awfully hard to love my neighbor when I don't have any.

(Which brings up another issue -- of course I do have physical neighbors, but I've rarely seen any of them. I could go up and introduce myself, but then there are issues of safety. Jesus wouldn't worry about safety, part of me says. But Jesus was a man, and I am a single young woman, the other part replies. What is the role of safety in ministry?)

Come, Lord Jesus, and show us life.

blast from the past

Twenty-seven hours ago, I discovered the radio show.

Well, maybe "discover" is the wrong word. "Stumbled across" might be better. Like Columbus.

My co-worker and I were sitting around in the late morning typing, and it was quiet so turning on the radio seemed like a good idea. But sports didn't seem like the right choice, or pop, or news.

So I went into the iTunes radio, and looked for some big band music. For whatever reason I kept looking through the stations and found one that was old-time radio shows (AM 1710 Antioch). Later in the evening I tuned in again. It's so interesting. The commercials are more fun because they're so polite and...almost amateurish. Like something I would have written.

You do have to tune in on the half hour, pretty much, to get the beginning of a show. Programs tend to run in half hour chunks, though episodes may be 15 minutes, and many are serials, meaning they're always continued from a previous show. But they're pretty good about catching you up at the beginning of each episode. (Except with "Magic Island" -- I've listened to a couple of episodes and still don't understand what's going on exactly.)

I have now successfully listened to two consecutive episodes of "Speed Gibson of the International Secret Police." This afternoon I went to vintageradioshows.com and saw I could download 106 episodes!

They're great for if you're trying to get some work done. Today, for instance, I've been tuned in for a few hours while I'm doing some fall cleaning. Sometimes (especially with Speed Gordon) I get so immersed in the show I find I'm not working at all.

How could you help not liking programs such as "I Was A Communist for the FBI" or "Have Gun, Will Travel"? I want to hear some of the classics like "Superman" or "Sam Spade" or Charlie McCarthy and Edgar Bergen.

experiment

(Second recording goes first.)

A) This post from B.G. I found interesting.

B) It wasn't exactly that I've been drawn in to the hype of the new Narnia movies; in fact, I am quite skeptical about them. But it did occur to me that I haven't read "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" (note the decided lack of Oxford comma) in over a decade, and probably have never read the entire series.

So last weekend I picked up the first book. I had never read it before. It was one of those books you consume a couple dozen pages of before you realize you've even turned one. In those situations, I'm usually in a quandary: on the one hand, you want the fulfillment of having finished the book, and on the other hand, you don't ever want it to end.

But of course it did end and I don't have the next in the series. But that's good -- it will force me to go back to Dostoevsky. You are all my witnesses, whoever you are: I will finish it this time.

And, it's probably good for me not to add to this book collection. It seems like an awful lot of books, and I don't remember what happened in many of them. Some are textbooks filled with things I learned but do not know. It occurs to me sometimes that I should make it a goal to reread every book in the bookcase, to know everything within it.

A note more on "The Magician's Nephew": it was chock full of biblical allusions, causing this reader to rack her brains for parallels constantly. Most are imperfect, but perfect all the same.

D) Fun Web site, HEL grads: word-detective.com.

on weather

For part of the afternoon, I was riding along with a security officer in a local community. We simply spent an hour driving around, looking. It was impossible not to simply absorb the colors.

I could feel at home anywhere with these vibrant trees. Even here.

Drove through my favorite park on the way home, hadn't been there in a few weeks. The green is gone, and patches of yellow pop up here and there in the valley. Couldn't we have this variety all year long? No. Then it wouldn't be this special. We wouldn't be this grateful. Or, we'd simply be so in love with the outdoors the nation would lose efficiency and we'd all be paupers. But we could be paupers outdoors.

The weather man mentioned flurries Saturday night. Something in me wanted to sigh deeply with relief, and whisper "it's finally here." I cannot explain why having a cold nose gives me joy, or why a snow-covered world feels like the base, like normalcy has finally returned. Like I am finally on my own ground. Like I could possibly be in control again. On the other hand, the thought of being completely alone in winter is more frightening. The Donner Party comes to mind, and the winter depression of 2004.

But, sledding comes to mind. And snowmen. And the soft "trudge" sound of footsteps.

Come, Lord Jesus, and show us life.
We want to change the world,
but we don't know how.
We want to throw our arms around our brothers and sisters,
but we cannot reach them.
We want to break the bonds of self-centeredness,
but we are not strong.
Come, Lord Jesus, and show us how to live
before we die.

scary things to do

#1. Visit classmates.com. View the list of people you graduated from high school with; recognize names that have not floated to the forefront of your mind in at least four years. Find really no information regarding those people except that they've logged on to this site.

all-time 100 novels

Devi posted this link to the All-Time 100 Novels. I was surprised I've actually read 10 of them -- pure luck of curriculum. It's kind of depressing to look at the list. It's like a list of good intentions overlooked; a list you'll finish before you die if you're a good person.

the ever-fixed mark

that bends with the remover to remove... Nevermind. (Does anyone get it? ... Nevermind.)

Yes, my friends, I have finally gotten around to fixing the html in the blog links along the side here. It's funny how just one missing bit of punctuation makes all the difference. Let that be a lesson to all of us -- punctuation is important.

Tomorrow evening there should be a partial update on the weekend -- waiting to upload a picture. But, for now, a few bits:

• French people decorate the land alongside their freeways with modern art.
• My little sister turned 21. Family birthday week is officially over.
• I saw a beaver; and two dogs riding in a car with their heads out the window, ears flapping in the wind. It made me think of country bumpkins sticking their heads out of a limo sunroof in the big city.
• Candy corn has an unfortunate highly-addictive quality.
• Toby finally 'fessed up at the end of West Wing. I knew it wasn't C.J.
• There was a woman at Target who was nagging very loudly. I think she was at least a half dozen rows down but I heard everything she said. It was hard to tell if she was on a first date or something, because at one point she said "Remind me never to go anywhere with you again" and something else to the effect of this possibly never having happened before. Later on, I walked past the woman who owned the voice and saw she was with a teenaged daughter, not a man. My first thought: that girl is going to run away from home. And no one will blame her. Why was she dealt this cruel hand in life?
• Went Catholic again today -- long story why. Made a point of sitting next to the "cupboard" where they lock something up. I'm not sure if it's so much the chalice for the wine they lock up, but I think it's the extra wafers -- the extra body of Christ, because they can't just throw away the extras. And, everyone doesn't get the wafer and the cup. Why is this? It looks like everyone gets the wafer but most people don't take the cup.
• The Sloppy Joes' NBK Club has lost a member! Only two more to go.
• Consumed most of a drink without completely hating it. Then found out later my eyes appeared to be doing funny things. It was very disappointing to hear. I didn't feel affected at all, and didn't want to be. Didn't think I would be, on two-thirds of a glass of wine over two hours. Good thing it's a situation that virtually never comes up.

There are those moments when you are overwhelmed by the thought of "I am not enough" for A or B or C. For better or worse, the thought eventually passes and the unfounded sense of semi-adequacy returns.

Periods of self-loathing normally cause us to look at ourselves and then decide it's better not to look. Sometimes I think of this poem by Jess Babcock. I love it.

I hate my thighs
I hate my thighs and the way they jiggle
I hate my nose and my corny giggle
I hate that I'm turning into my mother, and
I hate that I hate this because
I love her.
I love the color of my hair and my eyes, but
I hate that I love them -- such vain foolish pride.
I love the dreams that run through my head, but
I hate that I kill them and cower instead.
I hate this about me,
I hate that about you, but mostly
I hate what my hatred can do.

I HATE ADVERTORIALS.

100th post -- more Dostoyevsky

Russian lit puts one in a precarious place: it's some of the longest stuff out there, and every inch is stuffed full of meaning. Thus, an hour's reading means you've only conquered 13 pages, and you probably missed a bunch, too. Is there much hope of getting to page 940 this time around?

Plus, Russians speak French. Older French. And not all the English translators bother to gloss over the translations. There are four years of French under my belt, but I killed a good 15 minutes today trying to find a translation for just one word.

After that 15 minutes, the translation: "I've seen the shadow of a coachman rubbing the shadow of a coach withthe shadow of a brush."

Now I need a translation of the translation.

But, as I said, every paragraph demands careful reflection -- much more reflection than I'm patient enough to give.

In the same way, if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labour question, iti s before all things the atheistic question, the question of a form taken by atheism to-day, the question of the tower of Babel built without God, not to moutn to Heaven from earth but to set up Heaven on earth. Alyosha would have found it strange and impossible to go on living as before. It is written: "Give all that thou hast to the poor and follow Me, if thou wouldst be perfect." / Alyosha said to himself: "I can't give two roubles instead of 'all,' and only go to mass instead of 'following Him.'"

I love Russian lit. I need a Russian lit reading group.

I love how Dostoyevsky builds his characters, even if his sentences tend to be yards long. (The Brothers Karamozov)

It is known for a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumour had it that Fyodor Pavolovitch did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient woman, possessed ofa remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband's hands. Immediately Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house, and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he used to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of Adelaida Ivanovna's having left him, going into details too disgraceful for a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed to gratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments.

ingredient: carrots

The kind people at the baby carrot factory have given us a gift: what you see is what you get with their product. No preservatives. No artificial colors. No extra riboflavin. Ingredient: carrots.

Where do baby carrots come from? Are they truly the youngest members of the carrot family, or are they simply adult carrots hacked into tiny, more stomachable pieces?

Are baby carrots an innovation of modern vegetable technology?

Do they really peel baby carrots? Or are they too young to have developed the hard shell of age?

Has the influx of carrot children in the produce market led to a depression in the number of carrot adults out there?

Is it just my imagination, or are the younglings sweeter than their elders? "Sugar and spice and everything nice -- that's what little boys are made of."

Baby carrots aren't babies at all, says USA Today. When I think of reliability, I don't think of USA Today. So,

Here we have the Chicago Sun-Times, which also explains the new "petite" carrot.

how i spent my weekend

This was my first weekend at home in almost three months. Here's the view from my backyard:

Just kidding. I wish.

The plan was to go into Minnesota during the peak of autumn and emerge with a card plumb full of fantastic digital pics. There were, however, setbacks.

a) It was not yet the peak of autumn.
b) There were transportation issues to getting to picture locales. (Friends of JoAnn, she suffered another major health trauma last week. The prognosis on her life is dim, says Dad. She remains yet again in Minnesota.)

Well, those were the two biggest ones. The other one was that time spent photographing was time away from hanging with the fam, which, of course, was the whole point for going in the first place.

The above photo was the only real triumph of the trip. If you look closely, you'll notice there are two bridges in a row. Or maybe there are three...I forget. In any case, the scene is from one of the arboretums at Carleton College in my hometown of Northfield, Minn. Both the colleges there (the other being St. Olaf College) have breathtaking campuses with architecture and landscaping and what not. I know St. Olaf's buildings better, but, strangely, I know Carleton's scenery better. It has more public access and is to my knowledge more extensive, as well.

The arb has, in my mind, several parts, but it's technically just the Cowling Arboretum (upper and lower) and the McKnight Prairie. I had been all of these places many times, but didn't appreciate them quite as much until yesterday. The lower arb, for instance, includes a rare oak savanna. There aren't enough oak trees around here. And I don't appreciate oak trees enough. And who doesn't like a good waterfall? Or islands? Or geese? Or footbridges?

One of the islands (small, not even half a ballfield) had this neat maze worked into it in stone. A family with small children was squealing about in it when I arrived.

Three cheers for the arb (and not um ya ya).

diary of a church hopper, pt. 8

The people are the evidence.

Today's worship experience was, again, not a true "hopping," in that the congregation is not an option for regular worship. I call five hours a bit out of bounds for a commute. Still, worshipping with people I knew brought a few things to mind.

1. The people around you are the evidence of God at work. The challenging with being in group you've never met is you don't have their history -- you wouldn't have known Jessica two-and-a-half kids earlier. You wouldn't remember back to the all the lousy boyfriends she had before she finally agreed to a date with her husband. You wouldn't remember how no one paid any attention to the man who became her husband until the new youth pastor invited him out golfing. You wouldn't know that a third of the people in the congregation thought this church championed abortion and were crazy heathen liberals unless you were the one who, in a way, started the migration over back five years ago.

It made a difference for me in worship to see this history, and to watch as I sang "He Leadeth Me" all the testimonies of that before me. In a hopping status, it will be a disadvantage. How can I have these stories of these congregations related to me?

2. Knowing the pastor makes a difference, too. Knowing the respect the congregation had for this man, and having a personal relationship with him (and his beautiful daughter) gave him ethos in his message. It is possible to meet the pastors at these churches I'm attending.

3. Going to church with people makes a difference, too. Just thinking back, in the service, to all the grace you needed to deal with your co-worshippers even in the past hour makes you feel weaker, and more in awe. It draws you out of your bubble and gives grace hands. To hear the voices around you singing P&W be the same ones that laughed through a movie or complained at supper makes a difference.

Conclusion: Awkward as it is, a successful "hop" will take more commitment, more bravery, more boldness.

thoughts about Genesis

* Why did God "rest" from all his work? Can an immortal being get tired?
* There are theories, but just from reading this beginning to Genesis, why did God create the earth?
* How did the serpent become evil? Did God create evil?
* Why put a tree in the garden the humans are not allowed to eat from? Isn't that temptation?

These are old questions, answered and unaswered. Important and trivial.

rise and shine

It's 2:45 a.m., and already I've accomplished so much today. I've spoken with two hospital employees, two concerned parents (one on three occassions), conducted Internet research, and made a trip to Walmart. And, I saw a possum.

I wake up, and the news is on TV. Good, I think -- it must be morning, time to get up and get ready to go home. But no, it's 1:30. These are the late night news reruns.

So I scratch my back and lay back down. Gosh, my back really itches. So does... wow, that's a lot of bumps. And my eyes feel...oh gosh, they're swelling. And my face is blotchy. And my lips...don't they look kind of big?

You can't blame me for flipping out a little when I could feel bumps in my lips with my tongue.
Plus, my only other experience with a mysterious rash was 15 years ago and resulted in a trip to the emergency room.

The first instinct, of course, is to call your mother. But mine was sleeping. So first I did some panicked turning to WebMD...and then I called her, in a calm voice to bring her heart rate down after she answered the phone. And since any symptom is scarier in the middle of the night, she wasn't willing to swear to her diagnosis, and wanted a medical opinion.

A call to the hospital said a simple antihistamine was the remedy -- a simple antihistamine I happened to be out of, meaning a 2 a.m. Walmart run with a swollen face on the coldest night of the season so far.

And Kirk Cameron's on TBN at 3 a.m. I liked Kirk Cameron. Now that he's on "Praise the Lord," I'm not sure how our relationship will turn out.

Now I'm supposed to take antihistamines every six hours for 12 hours after the hives go away. Only catch -- antihistamines + Ariel = sleep. And Ariel has a day full of being awake to do.

Sometimes you're going through old music, and you stop to listen to a song that you didn't pay enough attention to before. Yes, it is more darn Jars of Clay. A track from their 2-cd set "Furthermore," mostly live recordings and remixes, plus one or two never released before, such as "This Road."


All heavy laden, acquainted with sorrow
May Christ in our marrow carry us home
From alabaster come blessings of laughter,
A fragrance of passion, and joy from the truth

Grant the unbroken tears ever flowing
From hearts of contrition only for You
May sin never hold true that love never broke through
For God's mercy holds us and we are His own

This road that we travel, may it be the straight and narrow
God give us peace and grace from You all the day
Shelter with fire, our voices we raise still higher
God give us peace and grace from You all the day through

tea time

It's getting to be cocoa season, I was going to say. Tea season.

Then I realized it's always tea season.

You might think my mom was British, unless you knew your immigrant history. Then you'd think my mom was from a Nordic farm family. And you'd be right.

There were certain things we looked forward to when we went to Grandma's (not Grandpa's, not Grandma and Grandpa's) when we were little: 1) Her larger-than-life unisex (but known as male) baby doll, Spike; 2) walking in Grandma's pasture; 3) Grandma's dog, Hoover, whom we got excited to see but were too scared to pet; 4) Grandma's big morning breakfasts; 5) sleeping in Betty Lyn's bed; 6) various toys singular to Grandpa; and 7) coffee time.

Yes, I said coffee time. And yes, I alluded to a tea time in the introduction. Really, coffee time includes a tea option. But I'm sure you will humor me, as saying "it's always coffee season" just wouldn't have had the same effect.

It was common for farm families way back when to have coffee times at set times of the day, where coffee was accompanied by a snack of some sort. Grandma and Grandpa and their children and cousins and siblings have coffee time in their blood and it is still observed. It's not a "we will remember our heritage" kind of observance, but more so they don't know life without coffee time. It would be a painful effort to take it out of the day. And there's simply no reason to do so.

Coffee times at Grandma's are: 1) immediately following breakfast, without snack; 2) 10 a.m., with cake, cookies or other dessert available; 3) immediately following lunch, without snack; 4) 3 p.m., with the leftovers or possible new options from the 10 a.m. session; 4) immediately following supper, without snack; 5) usually around 7 p.m....I get fuzzy about the ones after supper. I was little enough that I'd get shooed off to bed, or was more concerned about when ice cream might be.

My mom has coffee time, too, usually all by herself. I don't know if this is a practice she always had and I just didn't notice it until a few years ago, or if it has recently become defined. For sure, her coffee times (some being coffee, and some tea -- sometimes a day will include both and some months she is really into one of them) include a 3 p.m. and a 9 p.m. As I haven't lived at home for years I'm, again, sketchier on the rules following meals and on the morning cup. There is usually one cup of something with morning devotions, though. Tea times are something you do not want to mess with in Mom's day. She's not obsessive, but if you've been out all afternoon at a movie or something, it's not unusual for her to say in the car at 6 p.m. "I haven't had my tea" and head to the sink to fill the kettle as soon as she steps in the door.

(Her recent purchase of a new, shiny tea kettle is a separate, controversial subject.)

3 p.m. survives in my immediate family as the natural time you consume a dessert on the weekends, should one be prepared.

But coffee and tea have not caught on so well for us. I have now come to a point in my life where I can drink both, but don't yet enjoy it. My goal is to become a proficient drinker, as you aren't really considered an adult in a way in Grandma and Grandpa's house until you've moved from coffee time Kool-aid to a hot, non-cocoa beverage. My father, by these standards, is not an adult; most of my (younger) cousins are.