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.