What's Up, Jesus?

Some days...

2012-01-18T21:52:00.000-05:00

Just saw this on facebook, and it is AWESOME.

Some days, you are riding high, feeling pretty good and cool and like a serious professional adult rockin' the socks off your life.

And some days, you leave a rambling five minute long message on a church visitors answering machine because you don't actually know the church phone number. And then you use the word "disapparate" instead of disappear while talking to an 80 year old man. You will note that disapparate is not actually a word, but rather a magical type of teleportation as described in the fictional series Harry Potter.

And your realize that you are still at least 40% complete 6th grade geek. And that that is okay. Because sometimes geeks grow up to be awesome and hot (see above).

Woulda, Shoulda, Couldn't....Yay!

2012-01-16T20:51:00.001-05:00

I am a should-er. Meaning that most of the time I am driven at least as much by what I feel I should do as by what I want to do. Which means that I constantly walk around carrying a crushing load of guilt about things I should be doing. At any time, I could have an entire list of "shoulds" rattling around in my head which might go something like this:

I should do more cultural things like go to plays....
I should get a doctoral degree...
I should call that person who I'm not that into, but who I still feel obligated to call...
I should watch all the movies nominated for the Academy Award for Best Picture for the last 5 years*....
I should do more cultural things like go to art museums....
I should learn all the names of the Presidents of the United States**...
I should learn to knit...
I should try that new (fill in basically ANYTHING here: restaurant, bar, mini-golf course)...
I should get all my college girlfriends together for an all-girls weekend....
I should start my own small business...
I should start a small business to name other people's small business***.....
I should do more cultural things like go to the symphony....
I should get involved in local politics....
I should bake my own dog biscuits....
It goes on and on and on......

Does all this mean that I do these things instead of just feel guilty about NOT doing them? Sometimes.**** But not enough to make it worth feeling guilty all the time.

But luckily, I have just recently gained insight into a potent combination of circumstances that I am hopeful will cure Should Syndrome entirely: Moving to somewhere where nothing is happening while drastically decreasing my disposable income! Having just moved from "the Hub" to a much smaller city where I know very few people and having just gone from three household incomes to one, I have noticed a marked decrease in my Shoulda Syndrome. Probably because there are way fewer things that I should do! Fewer restaurants to try, fewer people to see, fewer cultural activities to feel bad about missing....and no money to enjoy them anyway! It's amazing!

For any of your should-ers out there, you might consider trying it out. In fact, I am seriously thinking of moving to a town with 8 people and quitting work entirely in order to watch the grass grow and feel totally at peace. In fact, maybe I should market this idea......

* Despite the fact that I know from experience that I always hate critically acclaimed movies of any kind. I'm more of an Ace-Ventura-Harry-Potter-Hot-Tub-Time-Machine kinda girl, even though I hate to admit it.
**I have been working on this forever, but can't seem to ever get past Pierce.
*** Seriously. I am AWESOME at naming businesses. Just ask my friend EDJ. He will tell you how awesome I am. If you have an idea for a business, send it along.
**** See previous posts on making jam, cheese, tonic, etc.

Start Me Up

2012-01-10T21:39:00.000-05:00

This is a really hilarious cartoon, from a very strange website about how to date: http://blog.okcupid.com/index.php/the-best-questions-for-first-dates/

So as it turns out, "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones* is a hugely inappropriate song, something I never thought about until just now when I tried to look it up online while in the church office without first turning the volume down on my laptop. There are days when I live in fear that someone will discover that I am, in fact, the worst pastor in the world.

Anyway, what I actually wanted to say is that it turns out starting up at a new congregation is kind of like starting to date someone new. Actually, let me be more clear: starting up at a new congregation is exactly like starting to date someone new.

Anyone who has ever been in even a quasi-long term relationship can surely remember those first few weeks and months of togetherness with their beloved. Can you remember it? Back before you knew anything of your lover's frustrating habits or idiosyncratic ticks or odd family traditions? Back before you had ever argued about the same thing 3,000 times or constantly "forgotten" to do the thing the other asked you to do 78,000 times? Remember that? When it was just the two of you and a world of possibility (and maybe even making out)? They were the days in which you got butterflies in your stomach by simply seeing the person, spent forever picking out outfits to wear on your dates**, laughed at all of each other's jokes, and secretly daydreamed about what you might name your children while simultaneously living in fear that it won't work out and also constantly feeling slightly awkward. Only much later is it possible to look back on these days and laugh at all you didn't know about each other and all the wildly unique and frustrating personality quirks you tried desperately to hide from each other, even though they may have come to be the things you love the most about one another. And you can feel thankful for how far you have come (if not a little annoyed that your partner probably doesn't dress up all that much for you any more, but usually just wears pajamas around all the time, except when going to dinner on your birthday. Sorry, Mr. L).

Arriving at a new church as the minister is, in a very strange way, a lot like that. As I go about these first weeks of a new pastorate, I am noticing something very similar happening. I am on my best behavior. I suddenly wear suits on Sunday. I spend loads more time on my sermon. I am charming and engaging and never impatient and will talk ad nauseum to anyone who stops by for no reason. I say, "Me too!" and "Oh, really?" and "That is so interesting" way too much. I am nervous before each Sunday starts about how I'll do. I have yet to do any of the things that would demonstrate my weaknesses, such as snap at people or swear or complain or wear jeans to work or write a crappy sermon because I just wanted to spend Saturday lounging around in my sweatpants watching "The Tudors." In short, I want them to like me. And now doing this for the second time, I realize that the converse is also true. They want me to like them too. Everyone seems so positive and functional. There seems to be very little of the high drama that usually characterizes the management of a human institution. Everyone has stopped by to "help out."And everything seems just perfect. But I know better. I know that things are not perfect, they never could be. There will be conflicts and frustrations and people who drive me BONKERS*** and who I want to scream about later to Mr. L. But by then, it will be too late. I will be their pastor. And they will be the people I pastor. And we will have kinda fallen in love in a non-creepy way and even the things they do that drive me nuts will make me care for them and blog about them and remember them forever.

I think I'll still wait to sing them "Start Me Up," though........

* The album cover is also quite weird and is a furry foot in a stiletto. Just wanted you to know.
**I recently reconnected with an old college roommate who I happened to live with for the few months around the time I started dating Mr. L. While catching up back and forth on Facebook, I told her I was married and described Mr. L. She said, "Oh yeah, that guy. I remember when you went on your first date with him and five minutes beforehand you were tearing clothes out of drawers and throwing them around and screaming because you couldn't figure out what to wear. Glad it worked out." Go figure.
*** Strange and somewhat not helpful lesson I've learned from pastoring: It's never the people you're worried about who end up giving you hell. It's always completely different people who come out of the woodwork to ruin your life. The people who you immediately notice and worry about usually turn out to be mostly innocuous. I'm trying to think of some great metaphor to describe this that includes laser tag, but it's the end of the day and my metaphor-producing brain sector is worn out already.

Newness

2012-01-02T16:08:00.005-05:00

You may notice the hip new layout of WUJ, a bit of flair for the new year. You may also notice some new cool elements, such as the sidebar to the right with recipes I've been trying lately....check 'em out!

Goodbye MOs

2012-01-02T15:51:00.000-05:00

Have you ever noticed how many ways of saying goodbye there are? I hadn't thought much about it until I had occasion to say goodbye to nearly everyone I have known in the last five years. Other than being another exercise in letting other people down, it was a fascinating window into the status of my relationships with various folks. Here are some top favorites:

The gut-wrenching-really-really-sad-I'm-leaving-this-friendship-has-changed-my-life goodbye which often involves the exchanging of super precious and touching gifts* and tears.
But there's also the so-glad-to-have-the-opportunity-to-exit-this-friendship-because-actually-I'm-not-that-into-you-but-not-so-much-so-that-I-would-have-broken-up-with-you-because-that-would-be-awkward goodbye which you can reserve for folks who you are not that sad about leaving which usually is awkward in that it feels as though it should be emotional but isn't.
And then there is the sorry-we-never-actually-fulfilled-the-potential-of-having-a-relationship goodbye which can be saved for neighbors and other people who you never got to know, but who seemed okay.
There is also the I-am-so-so-so-happy-I'm-leaving-this-relationship/work situation/commitment/whatever-but-I-will-try-to-mask-my-joy-so-it-won't-be-so-awkward-for-you goodbye reserved for jobs you hated or "extra-curriculars" that had taken over your life with no exit strategy except moving across the country.
Sometimes you can be surprised by the oops-I-miscalculated-how-good-of-friends-we-were-and-didn't-prepare-the-appropriate-goodbye-strategy goodbye which is usually accompanied by surprising proclamations of how you completely changed someone's life whose name you had trouble even remembering.
And then there is the sorry-I'm-ruining-your-life-by-leaving goodbye which is a small part of every single goodbye you say when leaving a church.

I employed all these (and combinations of them) as I took my leave from the East last month. And maybe even some others I didn't think of here. But if I missed you, then I offer to you a so-sorry-we-didn't-get-a-chance-to-say-goodbye-and-now-I-am-offering-an-expost-facto-electronic-goodbye-which-is-a-bit-awkward goodbye!

*My amazingly talented friend actually crocheted for us two guardian angels for our trip cross country, based on her intimate knowledge of my obsession with YouTube stuff like this. Here they are just waiting to cross the nation:

How cool is THAT? I love having talented friends! Love you DRJ!

2012

2012-01-02T15:28:00.001-05:00

Hey! Happy New Year readers! Hopefully you are holed up somewhere eating fattening snacks, watching football and enjoying this New-Years-Day-On-A-Sunday-Means-Monday-Is-Also-A-Holiday phenomenon. I, for one, definitely plan to watch my Alma mater in the Rose Bowl later today, despite the fact that one of my Christmas gifts this year was a cold that has made me feel as though I am being run over by a Mack truck each morning about 7.

I just cringed when I logged in and realized that it's been an entire month since I posted here. But in my own defense I have been a little busy. Doing what, you ask? Well, I've been busy turning my entire life upside down and shaking it like a snow globe. Oh and celebrating the birth of Jesus and all that jazz. Here is a not-so-brief summary of my activities this last month:

-Said goodbye to everyone I know in Boston which involved intermittent weeping and gnashing of teeth.
-Ate at all my favorite Boston restaurants "one last time" or maybe five "last times" in the case of the Indian restaurant across the street which I now worry with go bankrupt without our bi-weekly take-out order.
-Finished teaching my classes just four days before departing, including administering and grading 48 final exams, reading 45 final essays and responding to a multitude of fairly pathetic last-minute excuse making by students who didn't do anything the entire term but are surprised to know they aren't doing well.
-Wrapped up the loose ends from my work at the church including trying to do planning for next year, finishing all the administrative projects that have been "on my list" for the last two years, continuing to lead the celebration of Advent with a modicum of intention and presence and oh, saying good bye to all the people I have completely fallen in love with there and will miss tremendously. More weeping and gnashing of teeth.
-Packed everything we own into a P.O.D. while deflecting waves of angst about whether 1) all of our things would be tossled around said P.O.D. and broken and crushed or 2) this was actually a huge scam and they were actually going to auction off said P.O.D. on storage wars and we would never see our stuff again.
-Slept on an Aerobed in our empty and cold apartment for three days with our increasingly anxious dog. (WOOF=Where'sallOfOurFreakin'stuff?)
-Preached in worship on my last Sunday in MA. Received many gracious and touching gifts (and then selfishly worried where we would put them given that our P.O.D. had already left.) Immediately went out for cocktails with my co-worker and his partner.
-Loaded up way more stuff than we had planned for into our car including anxious dog and departed at 6 a.m. the next morning with only one false start (to return and search for my travel mug lid which I thought fell out of the car) and minimal weeping (okay not so minimal).
-Drove to Oregon. (Damn, those great plains states are so great....as in, why is Nebraska so damn big? And Wyoming? Whose ever even heard of Wyoming?)
-Moved in with the in-laws on December 22.
-Led Christmas Eve service at the new church on December 24 with all the usual first-day awkwardness of not knowing how anything works (where is the microphone? who gives the announcements?) with an added sprinkle of new-visitor awkwardness,which just basically means it was really awkward.
-In a twist of calendrial irony, led worship again on December 25, Christmas this year having landed on a Sunday. It was slightly less awkward this time.
-Opened some cool presents which Mr. L and I bought for each other on December 23.
-Got Mack truck cold. And a new bank account, new license plates, new drivers' licenses, a realtor and a mortgage broker.
-Planned a funeral.
-Conducted both worship and funeral on New Years Day while continuing to suffer from Mack Truck cold and waves of awkwardness.

So, you can see why I am laying low today, hoping Mr. L will make his delicious football watching cheesy-bread-bowl-of-diabetes-and-heart-failure. And why I am hoping to have a more balanced 2012, in which I can have a bit of breathing room for blogging!

Goodbye (In Song)

2011-12-02T11:39:00.001-05:00

Clearly I have reached the procrastination stage of freaking out, because instead of working on ALL THE STUFF that I really absolutely need to get done right now in order to end my work at two jobs, put all my stuff in a POD and drive across the nation in time to start on Christmas Eve, I am blogging and surfing the web. This is what usually procedes periods of great productivity tinged with hysteria for me, so I am embracing it. By searching for list of great good-bye songs online.

My favorites so far?
Hello Goodbye by the Beatles (What the hell is this song actually about? Not sure, but it is awesome.)
I've Had the Time of My Life from the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack (An eternal truth: Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Another eternal truth: why is this still the best movie ever?)
I'm Coming Home P.Ditty with Skylar Gray (Love the ridiculous nature of this video, and the message that PDitty is trying to return to his ghetto roots despite having been a millionaire now for the better part of two decades.)
Leaving on a Jet Plane (or NOT, see previous post) by Peter Paul and Mary
Friends by Michael W. Smith (A tribute to my sappy, quasi-evangelical youth group days and anyone whose eighth-grade graduation slide show had this as the background music. Also, this particular video is a fairly amazing slide-show of cheesy images that will make you tear up or laugh hysterically depending on what mood you're in.)
Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight (Yes!)

Any favorites to add that I should look up on you tube and play on repeat while I pack boxes and weep? Send em on over!

Travel

2011-12-02T10:45:00.001-05:00

I actually don't really understand this cartoon, but I love it. Thanks orthocuban.com!

So, we'll actually be driving to Oregon when we leave in a few weeks. Turns out shipping an 85 pound dog across the country in winter is a bit of a thing.

But I am happy about this fact for a single reason: it will mean no airline travel during the holidays. This will be good for me, because I've decided that air travel is just not what it used to be. And not only because you are stuck like a veal in seats that get smaller every year with no food or movies and not even tiny bars of soap to steal that say American Airlines on them. And not only because now that they are charging to check bags everyone brings on three pieces of luggage large enough to fit the entire cast of CATS inside.* But mostly because air travel these days brings back bad memories of middle-school gym class.

What, you might ask, does a seventh-grade class full of sweaty and awkward pre-teens trying to learn basketball have to do with domestic air travel? Well, quite frankly, the fear of getting picked last. I don't know if I'm overly sensitive to this given my not-very-athletic childhood**, but has anyone noticed the increasingly ridiculous boarding procedure plaguing domestic air travel recently?

At least in my memory, boarding announcements used to go like this:
The gate agent announced: "First Class Passengers are welcome to board at this time along with any passengers needing additional assistance or those traveling with small children." Then we would wait several minutes while men in suits with briefcases annoyingly and unhelpfully brushed past families juggling multiple car seats and several small children. We peons traveling in coach without children would patiently stand by or make a final bathroom run. Then we would hear, "Passengers seated in rows 27 and higher are welcome to board." And everyone would line up and slowly make their way down the gangway. And finally "Passengers seated in rows 6 and higher are welcome to board." And the rest of us would get on and everyone would feel okay and we would take off.

But now this process has morphed into a ridiculous pageant of elitism that leaves me brimming with fury and Mr. L sad that he ever agreed to go anywhere with me in the first place. It starts like this:
"Welcome, ladies and gentleman, we are ready to begin boarding flight #12345 to Whereversville." at which point everyone in the waiting area whether they are on the flight or not jumps up and crams toward the boarding gate like a mob at a Black Sabbath concert (yours truly included. "What if they don't have room for my bag?" I think, judgmentally eyeing a carry-on burdened family of five a few paces ahead of me.) Now that we are all standing there, you might think it was time to actually board the flight. But no, no, mon cher. "First I'd like to invite our Delta Super-Platinum Elite First-Class Gold Star Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Approximately two men in suits go forward. And then we all wait for several more minutes, I assume while those two men are seated, hang up their suit jackets, and have a Manhattan prepared for them and the Wall Street Journal laid out. "Now I'd like to welcome our 2011 MVP Gold-Status Top Tier Frequent Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Maybe one more person boards and then we wait for five minutes. This is the point at which my middle-school induced status anxiety mixes with my self-righteous tendency toward egalitarianism, which together make for a potent tincture of indignation. "Oh," I seethe to Mr. L who is trying to ignore me having already anticipated this outburst, "they get to board via the RED carpet, because they are ELITE flyers with SUPER special talents. What is this? The Roman Empire?" "Please just chill out. All seats depart and arrive at the same time," says Mr. L. Though factual and sensible, this is not at all helpful. "Thank you. It is now time to welcome our 2011 Silver Class Honored Members to board via the red carpet." And my fury increases. And it goes on like this for what feels like forever until every possible combination of precious metals, status labels, and membership categories has been combined in order to welcome, in total, about 8 people. And one of the children of the family of four with all the luggage trips and starts crying and I briefly feel badly for judging them. But only for a moment until I hear the nail in the coffin of my good traveling spirits: "Passengers in Boarding Group 2 are welcome to board via the BLUE carpet on the left side of the boarding area." And that is it. It is just TOO much. Because now having my anxiety raised for the last 30 minutes while we welcomed business people like monarchs of old, I have to spend the next 30 minutes FREAKING OUT about which boarding group I am in (usually something like 5, but is that in the middle or at the end? How do we know?) and if I'll have a place to put my bag. And so I cram forward annoyingly like everyone else and at the last minute am forced to confront my mediocrity when I board via a completely different stupid little lane with blue carpet. And, when finally aboard, I have to shove past the Delta-Super-Platinum guy in first class who is already on his second free drink and is looking at me as though he is slightly annoyed that I am there at all and have accidentally brushed his arm with my bag which probably they will end up checking anyway because there is not room. And my good traveling juju is lost forever. And not even Sky Mall Magazine can save me.

So, hopefully, you can see why I'll be glad to be packing it up in the Accord this holiday season with the dog, some books on tape, and free snacks galore. We'll be having our own super-elite, top-tier, diamond members party up in there.

*PLEASE STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUS WITH THE BAGS, EVERYONE. Now let me get my prejudice-against-folks-with-kids on for a second and don't get pissed because this is just common sense: your five-year-old SHOULD NOT carry on his bag and a personal item. That's just ridiculous. Several months ago, I was on a plane sitting the row behind a family of six. ALL of their children, aged about 3 to 9 had huge rolling suitcases and backpacks so big compared to their frame that they could have hiked the Andes with them. And it probably took the family 25 minutes to exit the row. Why is this? Because three years olds aren't that coordinated. AND THEY ALSO CAN'T GET THEIR OWN DAMN LUGGAGE OUT OF THE OVERHEAD BIN BECAUSE THEY ARE ONLY A FOOT TALL. I understand it is frustrating and expensive to travel with a family and I feel for you man. That seems tough. And I understand that the airlines are bleeding you dry. But let's work together to fight for justice and find a better solution than treating your toddler like a sherpa and making me worried I'll miss my connection.

**I seriously think that there should be more psychological support for those of us who had to endure middle-school gym class. I have talked with SO many friends who were seriously traumatized by these barbaric scenarios such as picking people for teams, etc. Most of them have just barely recovered. Isn't there a better way to educate young people about the value of physical activity without subjecting them to the very expression of social hierarchy that as awkward adolescents they spend all their time fearing? Get on it America.

Westward Expansion

2011-12-02T10:08:00.001-05:00

My sister gave me this bumper sticker a few years ago, which I put in a drawer and forgot to put on our car. I got it out the other day and realized that the back reads, "Follow your heart. It will lead you home." Turns out its true!

So, as it turns out, my last several sentimental posts about Boston and our adventures in NE do, in fact, have a common purpose which is not to eternally and sap-tasitcally memorialize my life here: it is to help me say goodbye to it. Because we are headed home.

A few months ago, the painful reality that my little church was not going to be able to pay me much longer came into specific relief. And so I started searching around for something else. I was not imagining that I would be able to find an opening in the particular part of the world most appealing to me (Oregon), but, as it were, that is exactly what I found. And it worked out. And we're going.

And thus the reason I've been so delinquent in posting these past few weeks is not because nothing erratic or hilarious has happened (believe me, it has), but because I haven't had time to write about it amidst goodbye saying, box packing, farewell letter writing, condo renting, wall spackling, furniture taking-aparting and generally freaking out. Because, surprisingly, it turns out that even doing the thing you really want to do can be scary as S**T.

We've always said that we were moving back to Oregon. And we've always dreamed about the days when we would get to live amongst the mountains and neo-hippies again and have a garden to grow tomatoes and actually see our families and friends at regular intervals and have organic, fair-trade, fresh-roasted coffee delivered to our door via bike messenger. But it so happens that when your dreams become reality, things are more complex than your imagination would have made it seem.

This is the right thing for us, and we are so grateful for this opportunity. But it is more complicated than I ever thought it would be to say goodbye. Because this place is now a part of who I am. And I will miss it. I will miss my friends and my colleagues. I will miss my home and my neighborhood. I will miss the Indian food restaurant across the street and its constant provision of take-out. I will miss the snow (not that much, but maybe a little). I will miss my work and all the people there and how it and they have frustrated and fulfilled me in ways that I could not have imagined. I will miss not having a toaster. I will miss Shabbat dinner. I will really miss my book club.

Looking back, I realize that in many ways, this the place where I became an adult. It is the place where I prepared for and entered my career. It is the place where I feel I fully and truly lived into my role as a partner to Mr. L (we've now lived here 5/7 of the time we've been married, which is a lot proportionally.) It is the place where we created our own unique family traditions and made friends who had only known us together. It was the place where we did things on our own and found out that we're fairly capable people.

So in saying goodbye to this place, I feel I'm saying goodbye to all that. But I am already starting to realize that there are great things ahead, too, and other stages of life that will be just as transformative and fulfilling and frustrating and exciting.

We just bought and shipped my nephew his first ever bike, a birthday gift.* And we'll get to see him ride it soon. And we'll get to be there for many milestones after that. And there is something giddily happy about that for me. Also, I hear the coffee is great out there.

*Brother-in-law: If you are reading this, we are SORRY that you will be the one who has to assemble the bike, which I am afraid may have come in 24,000 pieces. Clearly we did not fully think through the awesomest-long-distance-aunt-and-uncle-in-the-world plan enough to realize it came with a mandatory burdening-parents-who-are-already-busy-doing-other-stuff-with-putting-bikes-together-at-midnight addendum. We will buy you a bottle of gin as soon as we arrive to make up for this oversight.

Clutter Free Living

2011-10-30T09:08:00.001-04:00

I don't know that I've shared before in this forum one other fact about my urban life that surprises most people outside of the Boston area: that the place in which Mr. L and I currently live is, in total, 450 square feet. No, that is not a typo, that is the actual square footage of our condo give or take about 8 feet (we've never been able to tell if that bathroom is part of the calculation). I just wanted to throw this out there in case any of you ever find yourself in a very TINY living situation for a very LONG time (a submarine, prison, Manhattan, for instance) so you will know where to turn for help.

Over the years, Mr. L and I have worked hard to cultivate a lifestyle that we have labeled, "Clutter Free Living." Let me be clear, this is not some values-based idealism ("Oh, we just decided to free ourselves from the constraints of our stuff!" or "You know, we can feel fulfilled by other means and don't feel the need to accumulate material possessions.") No. That's not it at all. It's just that there is literally NO room for clutter, unless we decide to get rid of our dog or, say, all our clothes. In fact, I'm always keeping in the back of my mind a list of material possessions that I will accrue the minute there is more space to be had to put them (1. Couch, 2. Toaster, 3. Cat, etc. etc.) But for now, clutter-free we are and clutter-free we will be.

In case you are interested, some of the policies associated with this lifestyle are the following:
1) Throw away (or recycle more likely, if you care about the earth) ANYTHING that you will not read, or use, or look at again until the next time you move or clean our your closet. This includes old birthday cards or other cards (unless they are filled with lengthy, meaningful and UNIQUE proclamations of love or friendship that you think will be meaningful to read in the future), owners manuals (you must learn to admit early-on that you will never read these or consult them ever again), other benign documentation (this is the paper your new credit-card came glued to in the mail, receipts of any kind and notices of marriages, baby's births, etc.), pet toys your pet has lost interest in and chargers for devices you no longer own.CAST THEM OUT.
2) Throw away (or recycle if possible) anything that is BROKEN. This sounds silly, right? Who would keep things that are broken? You would. And so would I. Because it always starts off so innocently: "I'll get around to fixing that." or "Maybe it can still be useful somehow." No. You won't. And it won't. You'll simply banish said broken item to a distant closet to be consumed in dust and your guilt until you move five years from now and throw it away. Why not do it now?* This includes old computers, sporting equipment, and ceramic products that have not been glued back together within six weeks of being broken. Seriously.
3) BANISH all trinkets. The ceramic alligator you got in the Everglades? The really cute little cardboard box you got at your friend's wedding that was full of candy? The bandana they gave you at that road race that you'll never wear but that you fondly remember? OUT LIKE TROUT. A very limited number of trinkets (think 2-3) may be displayed on book cases or other flat surfaces. But any trinkets that need to be stored away need to be thrown away.**
4) Buy one, set one free. Whenever you buy something, get rid of something else. This way, you will always maintain approximately the same amount of stuff, instead of creeping toward a cluttered life with every nook and cranny full to the brim. (Note: this does not apply to handbags or kitchen gadgets...at least not in our house.)
5) Review your wardrobe every season in search of: items you didn't wear at all this year (why do you think you'll wear them next year if you didn't find cause to this year?), stained items (if it hasn't come out by now, I hate to break it to you, but it ain't comin' out), ripped items (if you didn't sew it up yet, you probably don't care that much), and items that no longer fit you (though some small spectrum of fat to skinny fit items is appropriate for seasonal changes in physical make-up, extreme storage of clothing reminiscent of another body is not a great way to live without clutter....and regret).
6) Limit nostalgia. Nostalgia for stuff usually only comes when you keep it. So unless an item has some great personal meaning to you (it was your grandmother's broken falafel maker, which she bequeathed to you, we just CAN'T give it away), snap a photo if you must and say sayonara. Once it's gone, you'll forget it anyway and move on.

In addition to these helpful guidelines, here are a few indicators you are falling off the bandwagon:
1) You are storing things in the trunk of your car large enough that you must remove them in order to put other things in there. (Guilty.)
2) You are attempting to justify to your partner purchasing some huge item for which there is no room. (Guilty).
3) You are considering moving to a bigger place in order to get a toaster. (Guilty. That's just a really expensive toaster.)

*I should be clear that I AM for fixing things, if they can be fixed. Someday I'll tell you about the wild goose chase I had to go on to get my lamp fixed, one that involved 14 phone calls and a visit to the fairly sketchy apartment of a man named Brian. But seriously if you don't have a real, concrete plan and timeline to fix something (one that includes either hand tools or the cell phone number of a skilled handy-man), axe it. (NOTE: SB and WEB3, if you are reading this, should you ever decide to live in a tiny place, you will be EXEMPT from this category, mostly because you had that broken jukebox in your LIVING ROOM for like 20 years and then fixed it which makes you awesome and probably able to actually fix anything in the world.)
**One helpful thing to do to make this easier is to shift your souvenir buying habits. Instead of trinkets, collect something else on your adventures: Christmas ornaments, place mats, something that will help you remember but also be useful.

Urban Excursion

2011-10-30T08:13:00.003-04:00

There are many times (given the incredible human capacity for adjusting one's sense of normal) that I forget that I live in the city. It's not that I'm in denial, it's just that I kind just think of this as my home and forget about other homes I've had that do not have so much concrete, and so little parking and so many other people.

But every now and then, I am reminded of my reality by some hilarious occurrence that could only happen in an urban environment. And thus when I walked into our laundry room/bike storage area the other day and saw this, I laughed aloud:

Now, to someone who has never been in our laundry room before, this might look like an unremarkable scene (other than to note that we are approaching a bike storage crisis). But if you look closely in the bottom left, you will notice what I noticed which is this:

Yes. A tiny pink tricycle locked WITH ITS OWN TINY CABLE LOCK to the bike rack. I don't know why I found this so precious, but I did. Perhaps it was because I envisioned all the other tiny pink tricycles that litter the yards and expansive front porches of families that do not live in the city, that can get left out all night and picked back up whenever the spirit moves. But here is this little one's trike locked up with a cable, amidst a million other salt-encrusted, Kryptonite secured commuter bikes: all of which made me feel compelled to give a shout out to the gritty urban parent that rigged this up so their daughter or son might have the same opportunities for trike riding that those suburbanites have.

God bless the city.

FHH

2011-10-30T07:55:00.002-04:00

My sister very often reminds me that when I first moved to Boston, I spent about the first 18 months lovingly referring to it as "This Frozen Hell Hole." For the most part, I have left that agony behind with some key wardrobe additions and the adjustment that comes with doing anything for a while.

But it snowed here last night. On October 28.

I'm just saying, was I that far off?!??!

Nostaligia's Here Early This Year

2011-10-28T22:08:00.001-04:00

I thought I was too young for nostalgia to have kicked in yet. And then I made my second cousin cry.

It wasn't intentional really. He's only 4.

We were all on vacation together (my cousins that is) and his father asked if I might help out by turning on the TV for the little ones. Hoping to get some gold stars in the cool and collected older-relative-without-kids category, I obliged.

"I want cartoons," Mr. 4 year old demanded.

"No problem." I said and flipped on the set. It was on MSNBC so I pressed the channel up button. That wasn't cartoons either. I thought it was no problem. But it was a BIG problem.

"I want carTOOOONS," he screamed.

"Just a second" and I pressed the channel up button again. And didn't find cartoons there either.

"I WANT TO WATCH CARTOONS," he shrieked bordering on hysteria. And that's when it all went to hell. He continued to disintegrate further and further each time I clicked the button desperately searching for cartoons, as though the actual fact of me pressing the button was existentially tazing him or something. And then he started to cry. "But I wanted the CARTOONS."

Thankfully, this is when his father stepped in.

"Oh, sorry about that. He doesn't understand broadcast television. He only understands things that stream instantly. He thinks you're torturing him by refusing to put on the show he wants."

Oh my Lord, I thought. This was truly the child of another generation, a child who would grow up without many of the formative experiences of my youth. And that was when I fell down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.

He (clearly) will never understand waiting for his favorite TV show to come on. He will simply watch them on Netflix.

He will likely never watch a video tape of something recorded off TV, in which the editing out of commercials meant the first 3 seconds after every break were missing. Instead, he'll log onto Hulu and find it in its entirety.

And he probably will never have to wait up all of Friday night to hear if he favorite song would come on the radio, finger poised over the record button of his tape player the entire time. Instead, he will download things on ITunes.

Actually, come to think of it, he probably will grow up without knowing what a tape is: without the whir of the player, without the loud click of it reaching the end, without the agony of having just spent 8 minutes rewinding the wrong side.

He will probably never spend most of his life singing the entirely wrong lyrics to his favorite songs ("Secret Asian Man" for instance) only to be corrected by a lucky friend who bought the album and can consult the lyrics in the front booklet. He will simply look all these things up on the internet.

Will he ever, I wonder, learn to look things up in an encyclopedia? Hauling the big volume emblazed with the correct letter off the shelf in order to answer some dinner table quarrel? Likely not. Even my father, who is not far from twenty times his age has a Droid for these types of things.

In many ways, he will have a totally different life. Which makes me wonder, is it always like this? What are the things that our parents said of us, 'I can't believe they'll grow up without..." I can think of some, but I wonder if others are lost to us. Lost to the tides of change where changing channels is as foreign as an 8-track.

What a world we live in.

Bean Town

2011-10-28T21:47:00.000-04:00

I never know what to say when people ask me if I love living in Boston. There are things I love about it, sure, and other things I despise about it. But it will always have a special place in my heart. The only salient metaphor that I can find is (probably no surprise to many of you) cooking. If I were, for instance, to write a recipe for the city of Boston, it would go something like this:

Boston

Take One established coastal landscape with a relatively extreme climate.*

Add rugged indigenous peoples. Let sit one thousand years.

Incorporate a good number of self-righteous British Puritans. Stir until sour. Add cranberries, turkeys, fur, and maple syrup. Remove any visible witches.

Let a thick crust of patriotism develop over all.

Set over heat and allow to boil until revolutionary influences begin to thicken. Take off heat. Strain out any British influences with a tea strainer.**

Freeze.

In a separate bowl, place several major educational institutions and allow to rise.

Slowly pour educational mixture into frozen Puritan mixture, and whip until it holds a sense of cultural superiority. Sprinkle with sea salt.

Fold in abolitionist tendencies.

Freeze again.

Add several waves of immigrants. Mix after each addition.

Let mixture ferment in a hot and humid location until you notice that the patriotic strains have lain dormant for long enough to transform into a fanatic sports obsession at least strong enough to support 4 professional sports franchises. Layer with ridiculous product endorsements. Add two tablespoons Dunkin' Donuts coffee.

Simmer with river water for several decades. Slowly pour in 1.5 million aggressive drivers. Make sure not to add any street signs.

Sprinkle with 180,000 college students.

Serve frozen.

*To make completely from scratch, use the "Planet" recipe on page 96,000,000.
** Use one if by land, two by sea.

It Just Has to Stop

2011-10-13T15:45:00.003-04:00

Okay. That's it. It's time for a little coming-to-Jesus meeting. Not an actual come-over-to-Jesus-camp meeting but a hey-heads-up-folks-this-is-getting-ridiculous meeting. And it goes like this. Non-religios: You MUST must must must must MUST stop being so awkward about me being a minister.

When I became a minister, I was fully aware that talking about my work could be sort of a buzz kill for a lot of folks. And it is. Trust me, I get this. It's not like saying you're a doctor ("Cool! Want to see this rash on my ankle?!") or a teacher ("You are a saint to put up with all those kids!") or any of the numerous vague jobs people have that no one really understands but feels comfortable letting slide by without asking too many questions. But having to say your a minister is just different....in a put down your beer quietly and stop using the f-word from this point forward kind of way. (Ironic, as I have a deep love of both these things.)

For my part, I have attempted to alleviate this by devising numerous strategic responses to the inevitable hard-swallowing, neck-torquing intensity of the moment when the cocktail party conversation turns to me and asks what I do for a living and I have to oblige. Sometimes, I say "I work at a church," which allows a small percentage of people to imagine me as a church secretary or preschool teacher and proceed without another thought. Sometimes I say "I'm a teacher," which is also true but a little bit of a cop-out. I've contemplated many other tongue-in-cheek responses such as "I'm in sales" or "I run a non-profit" or "I do institutional strategy." But truthfully, I've never really had the guts to pull one of them off because I fear the follow-up questions. Actually, my most successful strategy when greeting people I don't yet know is to say, "This is going to be a bit of a buzz kill, but I'm actually a Presbyterian minister." Kill 'em with comedy, I always say. It's awkward. But it's my life. And I knew it would be.

The part of all this that I wasn't prepared to deal with is that while many people will eventually integrate this idea and move on with whatever fun program of drunkenness and debauchery they were on before, there are other people that absolutely CANNOT move beyond this in a reasonable, mature way. Which leads to massive amounts of awkwardness all around.

Case in point: We (as in, Mr. L and I) have a number of sets of friends who, though seemingly interested in me as a person and delighted my general hilarity*, ABSOLUTELY refuse to EVER acknowledge that I am a minister. In fact, they avoid the topic like the plague. They won't ask me about it, won't talk about it, won't EVER let on that they even know (except that I know they do). All this is fairly amazing given that in adult conversation, one has to go pretty far out of the way to avoid asking someone else about their work life, likely the activity that takes up 70% of their waking hours. It is especially awkward when we find ourselves doing the rounds of "Oh, how's your work?" and "Are you still liking your job?" and "How did that interview go?" and when it gets to me, suddenly it morphs into "Oh, but what have you baked these days?"** Or "Anything interesting around the condo building lately?" Some people will go so far--and this is not an exaggeration, but you're going to think it is--as to NOT RESPOND at all if I mention something about my work. I'll say, "Oh, the other day at the church....blah, blah, blah....something hilarious...blah, blah,blah," and they'll simply stare back at me blankly as if I hadn't even said anything at all and then change the topic.***

What's really strikes me as bizarre about all this is that I have been surrounded by people who aren't religious all my life. And somehow many of those people, my closest friends from adolescence and college, especially, have always found ways to ask about my faith and my work and show their interest even if they didn't fully understand it. But now I find myself surrounded by this bizarre subset of folks who act as though me saying I'm a minister is akin to me saying I torture puppies for a living or that I'm a professional Dungeons and Dragons instructor.

I can't tell if this comes from some deep-seated**** fear that somewhere hidden inside me is a crazy fundamentalist Christian just waiting to pop out and tell everyone they are going to hell or perhaps it is simply a complete lack of religious awareness leading to a "File Not Found" pop up in their brains that makes them go totally blank.***** But I tell you what: I can't take too much more of it. This can't be that difficult. I meet people all the time who tell me crazy stuff about themselves that I don't understand at all (like that they are conservative-Tea-Party-Republicans who think we should eliminate all immigration in this country or that they believe in unicorns), and I don't go all black-belt-ninja-of-awkwardness-silent-treatment on their ass. I simply smile and nod and ask some general questions about it as it clearly is important to them and also I'm not a jerk.

What general questions, you say? How about starting it off easy with such as: "So, how are things at the church?" (You can usually continue with: "Oh, it's going bankrupt? I'm so sorry to hear that.") Or you could try something more direct such as: "You know, I have no idea what the heck you do all day." or "It's so strange that you work at a church. I feel like I can't use the f-word around you." At which point I will have the opportunity to tell you a bit about my life, which may be highly entertaining to you, will likely make liberal use of expletives and will definitely help us all feel edified in the end.

I'm not asking you to come to Jesus camp. I'm just asking you not to throw a strip of awkward nails under the bus I'm riding there. Capiche?

*Okay, okay. That's a little self-aggrandizing, I know. But this is a blog about my life, so it sort of fits.
** Some really awesome shit, by the way.
***For those of you concerned about my tendencies toward exaggeration, don't fret. I can verify that this is ACTUALLY HAPPENING because Mr. L also notices and will periodically say, "It's strange that we didn't talk about your work that whole (fill in time period: night, weekend, LIFE, etc.), huh?"
**** Okay, I just typed deep-seeded (which is probably what I've been saying my whole life) and my spell checker caught it. This is like the time I told Mr. L that we had to go see a Notar Republic. How did I make it this far without being exposed as a complete idiot? Yet another mystery to probe in the blog-o-sphere.
***** If the former is what's happening, you're just going to have to get over your religious ignorance and fear. When someone tells me they are a banker, I am not irrationally fearful that they are going to steal all the money in my IRA and invest it in the sub-prime mortgage market. That would be silly.

Home Is Where the Mart Is

2011-09-23T18:55:00.002-04:00

I don't know why exactly, but I've been thinking a lot recently about the idea of "home." Perhaps it's because I spent a good part of last month in a place I think of as "home" only to get on a plane and fly east for six hours in order to go "home". Or maybe because it's been a rainy and cool fall in New England that has already filled me with the sense of wanting to spend more time "at home." It might have to do with the fact that a while ago we read a book in my book club called "Home" which I LOVED and everyone else hated.* Perhaps it's because only rarely do I spend a day without interacting with folks we've labeled "home"-less but who nonetheless have places they stay and identify themselves as being residents in our city and I've been forced to wonder what exactly it is they are lacking that puts them in this category. **

Perhaps I missed the day of kindergarten on which they explained all this, but I've realized that I actually don't know exactly what homes means. At least not entirely. But I feel that I should, as home seems an incredibly important concept in our society, what with homework and homing pigeons and TJMaxx HomeGoods and home games and home plate and nursing homes and home schooling and the home office and being home free and the general consensus that things are better if they are homemade. This might seem incredibly naive, but how am I supposed to know where my home is?

I wonder, is my home simply the place I live? In that case, if I've moved about 15 times in my life, does that mean that I've had 15 different, successive homes? Or is there something more enduring about home, a sense that some places we live are more "home" than others? Many of the "homeless" people I know return to the same place every night to sleep be they friends' houses or shelters or favorite (and seemingly proprietary) spots to sleep outdoors. Are those their homes?

Or is home the place where my family is? If so, what family? Is it where Mr. L and I are together? Or the place where our families of origin live? If it's both (or either really), then is one who lives far from one's family destined to a life of feeling "not at home"? If someone has no family, do we really say that that person has no home? Not likely.

Perhaps home is the place where I feel I belong or feel I would return to if I had a choice (is home, as the old adage goes, where your heart is?) Is it the place I identify myself as being "from" or that I generally identify the most with? Maybe, except that if these are true, then I don't know that I currently live "at home" as there are many days when I dream of being other places that would fulfill these things for me. Is it where we feel safe? Likely not, as my friends who teach in inner city schools will tell you, they send kinds "home" to places that aren't safe all the time.

Or maybe it is some combination of all of these things. Maybe it is where I live, and where Mr. L is and where I feel safe and where I belong and where my family is. Which means that sometimes it's many places and sometimes only one and maybe even nowhere at al. But this is all very abstract, you see.

For more concrete identification purposes, I've been cooking up a new adage: Home is where the mart is. Shopping mart, that is. You see, somehow, in a crazy way, I associate home not only with the place I live but also with how I feel when I'm there. It's the place I feel comfortable, stable, familiar, the place where I can drive to without thinking about where I'm going. Home is the place that I am when I feel comfortable at the supermarket, where I know just what aisle has the lemon soda that I love and which one has my favorite cans of black beans. Maybe that's how I know where my home is. Where is it for you?

*A regular occurrence.
**This very conundrum has led some service providers and homeless advocates to refer to their situation as "unhoused" meaning they lack permanent housing.

I'm BAAAAAACK!

2011-08-30T16:53:00.000-04:00

So I could try to convince you that the reason that I haven't posted in a month was because I was on vacation, but really that was just a small part of the laziness and disinterest-in-being-inside that has characterized my entire summer. But as I am back, desperately trying to shake off that sense of wanting to do nothing, and simultaneously trying not to FREAK OUT that there is so much to do, I thought saying hello y'all would be a great and balanced act of denial to fill out my day today.

Also, I want to give a shout out to the dozens of people that I visited while on my vacation who informed me that they are ACTUALLY READING this, which on one level makes me FILLED WITH JOY and on another, shamed enough to want to get my act together and post something worth you clicking over. So welcome, clandestine readers who include some old, old friends, the parents of those old, old friends and some former ministers. I will now write with much more purpose knowing you are part of my audience.

But for now, let me share with you something that has taken on great meaning for me recently. And made me seriously consider changing my career from ministry to "amazingly-inane-and-yet-somehow-addictively-awesome jingle composer":

Important Things to Consider When Writing a Guidebook

2011-08-01T13:20:00.000-04:00

I should start by admiting that I've kind of always wanted to be a guidebook writer, as they get paid to go on vacation all the time and then come back write about it, which sounds like basically the opposite of any other vocation in which one works most of the time and goes on vacation sometimes. Sweet deal, right? But I digress. The true point of this post is to express some thoughts I have about how these incredibly lucky professionals do a more effective job and save us from getting killed.

For example, perhaps they might see fit to mention that the bike route which they suggested we take is completely devoid of any street signs and thus impossible to traverse without a GPS which I don't have. Had they mentioned this I might have considered taking another route rather than biking aimlessly through the hills, wondering what street I was on. Though this detour gave me the opportunity to note some new developments in above-ground pool technology of the suburbanites all around me, also made me tired and cranky and thirsty. Also, it might have been prudent to note that the fairly major intersection that the book labeled "Clapp's Corner" is actually marked by the town with a giant sign reading "Itchy's Corner." Though my mind is as dirty as the next gal's, I thought for sure that the intuitive connection could not have been so clearly made by the leadership of a stuffy New England township. But I was wrong, and hence, more aimless biking through the suburbs.

Or another example: maybe it might make sense (tell me if I'm going overboard here), if the backpacking guidebook would have mentioned that the trail we chose a few weeks ago was not actually a trail at all, but rather a dry riverbed full of granite boulders over which one had to climb, hand over foot, for several miles.* Though our dog (who you might imagine is built much like a mountain goat) enjoyed this challenge immensely, we bipedal folks weighed down and unbalanced by huge packs thought it not so novel. It also seems as though at least a sidebar or inset box could have been dedicated to the fact that this particular hike, if attempted in the summer, is so infested with mosquitoes that one cannot stop forward momentum for even a second lest one is eaten alive. As you might imagine, the necessity of constant forward motion, up a pile of boulders likely to appear in some dinosaur movies, while carrying all one's provisions on one's back, when it is 90 degrees outside, can cause some of us less rugged travelers a good deal of concern.

Lastly, when describing somewhere in a tropical vacation destination as an opportunity for "nightlife" you may wish to qualify that by dropping in that it happens to be a huge and almost scary meat market for locals....I will likely choose a different dining/entertainment option.

But I know I can't hold you to any of this. What can we expect from folks who are paid to go on vacation? Also, do you have any openings?

*Did I end up doing this for SEVERAL HOURS with a huge backpack on my back? Yes I did. Was I happy about it? No I was not. Was the trail SO difficult that after going for four hours and only making half the progress we expected to make we actually TURNED AROUND AND GAVE UP AND WENT HOME? Yes, yes it was. And did the guidebook fail to mention that the trail we were on was paralleled by another, well groomed, slightly sloping and easy trail that we could have taken? NO IT DID NOT. Was I annoyed that it did find it important enough to mention the different types of trees along the trail, as if I could care about them at all while sweating so heavily that drops of perspiration were falling into my eyes blinding me with salt and fury? Yes I was.

I Try to Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week

2011-08-01T12:28:00.001-04:00

....but it's especially important this week. Because this week it actually is Shark Week. So let's get together and put it all out there this week, following the advice of wise souls such as Tracy Jordan and your friend LIOLI.

What's that? Do I have a shark hat? Yes. Yes I do.

Matrimonial Boom can be a Ministerial Bust

2011-07-12T12:23:00.000-04:00

Mr. L and I managed to accomplish a huge feat this week: Actually discussing and planning one third of our summer vacation plans after only 13 weeks of saying, "we need to plan our vacation" and then not doing it and watching more Modern Family (which is one of the best shows ever, by the way) plus a few episodes of Glee. But I am telling you this because in looking over my summer schedule to prepare for this conversation, I had a shocking realization: This is the first summer in about a decade that I will not participate in or preside over a single wedding. WOAH.

Since reaching the age of 22, weddings have been a big part of my life as friend after friend has taken the plunge into matrimony, and Mr. L and I have come along for the ride, sometimes donning brightly colored dresses (me mostly) or tuxedos (him mostly), or sometimes just being part of the revelrous crowd. We love weddings and think it important to bear witness to these important events in our friends' lives (apart from which Mr. L LOVES wedding cake.) But since becoming a minister things have become much more serious for me. It is quite cool to have someone you know as the officiant at your wedding (I know this as we had several people who knew us as officiants in our wedding and it was cool). And so having become a minister exactly at the age in which many of my contemporaries were getting married has meant that I have gotten swept up in the martial tide in an unexpected way.

Now, I, like many of my colleagues preparing for ministry, believed that officiating at weddings was going to be one of the most treasured privileges of my clerical status. I had imagined myself presiding wisely and authoritatively over crowds of well-wishers and young happy lovers, sprinkling it all with a dose of humor and theological profundity, while finding the whole thing incredibly fulfilling and gaining the respect of colleagues and friends far and wide. But it's turned out differently than that.

Because weddings are actually REALLY hard work. Ask any pastor, and he or she will likely tell you that they would MUCH rather preside over a funeral than a wedding.* Why, you ask? In short, because no one's been thinking about exactly what they want their funeral to be like since they were 7 years old.

Quite obviously, there are so many expectations surrounding a wedding. So many layers of emotion and anxiety and anticipation. And while you might have high ideals that as a minister you will be a grounding spiritual force in this swirl of fantasy and logistical madness, that is only seldom the case. Many times, you end up being simply one more check box of an expectation fulfilled. BUT, now here comes the really difficult part: the expectations of you can be high and vague at the same time. Though some people have constructed impressively detailed plans about what each piece of their wedding will look like (some before they even met their partner!), the ceremony and minister are not always a part of that fantasizing. They know it should be amazing and meaningful and unique and life-changing, but most have no idea what that will actually entail (especially if they are not plugged into a religious tradition already). And now you are in the super high-stakes game of trying to craft a meaningful ritual around your psychic predictions of the whims of a bride and groom with much more important things to do like choose the flower arrangements and create the DJ's playlist. This becomes even more uncomfortable in this instances in which you are asked to set aside your own carefully molded and deeply held beliefs in favor of something "more neutral." ("Not too much of that Jesus talk that I know you're into, if you wouldn't mind.") So you are left alone with the huge task of finding a way to say meaningful things and guide this couple into the world of marriage in a mature and wise way whether they're asking you to or not, often without the guidance and traditions of your own faith.** This takes thought and TIME, more than one might realize.

Additionally, being the officiant means you end up in this strange in-between place. You are not "in" the wedding, as in "in" the bridal party, and you don't get to experience the intimacy of those "in" moments. No matter the proximity of your friendship with the betrothed, you likely aren't invited to dressing room to see the holy moment of donning the gown or to the pre-wedding manicures or for a mimosa before the ceremony (though you might be the one who needs it the most!). No one cares if you are in any of the photographs or if you know the schedule of the day. You are like a free-agent milling the grounds waiting for your contracted part to being. Yet at exactly the same time you are very much more "in" than anyone. You are the one there in the moment; it is you that is saying their vows alongside them, you who is ushering their marriage into the world, like some sort of matrimonial midwife. An incredibly intimate affair indeed.***

And all this adds up to quite a bit of tension and anxiety for Madame Minister. Now let me be clear: And am I happy to be asked to officiate at weddings? YES, OF COURSE.. There are few greater honors. And it is sacred and a privilege? YES, CERTAINLY. And have I had fulfilling experiences? WITHOUT A DOUBT.
Some of my most favorite moments?
-Offering two of my dearest friends their first communion as a married couple as part of what I consider to be the Most Presbyterian Wedding Ceremony Ever Conceived (love you T & B!). It was so meaningful to be a part of something that represented my own tradition so thoroughly and the couple so authentically.

-Officiating at a tiny wedding ceremony atop a Portland, OR landmark....outside....in December..... in the snow and sleet....and seeing them be filled with happiness! I wouldn't have missed it. (K&N....hope to see you this summer!)
-Hearing a year later from friends and neighbors that they still remember my wedding sermon...and try to enact my advice! What a privilege to have spoken a word to you all that was helpful in your relationship, though you didn't need it, as you are an amazing couple. (K&S: If you are reading this, let's get drinks again soon!)
-Helping to co-officiate at my father-in-law's wedding to P (who we are so happy to have in our lives!).... It was such an honor to be invited into that special family event!
-My first ever wedding at the Grand Canyon, by far the most striking locale and two of my favorite people who also happen to be my cousins! Thanks for taking a chance on a novice officiant!
There have been more, though I don't have room to share them all here.

But I also feel compelled to share the challenges of this office. I should note that all my minister friends actually told me NOT to post these thoughts. Brides and grooms across the nation will be racked with self-reproach and fury if you critique your experience as their minister-in-that-moment, they warned. And I agree....sharing the frustrations of ministry with those to whom you are minister is tricky business (I still don't know how pastors get away with writing books about their congregants without totally betraying the pastoral relationship.....though I hope they tell me sometime, as I have some great stories!). But I do long for more awareness of what is being asked and what is being offered in the invitation to become an officiant. If folks don't know what it's like to be a minister, it's because we haven't told them. So I'm telling. And sharing my advice for how to help be a great couple to an officiant.

So here is the Love-it-or-leav-itt Guide to Interacting with Your Officiant in three simple steps:

1) Be professional. Maybe she is your cousin, or your best high school friend, or a buddy from the gym, but if she is also a minister, you must realize that she is a professional, and that you are asking her to support you in her capacity as a professional. Yes, this will blur the lines of your relationship a little bit. Yes, it my be uncomfortable. But becoming a minister takes years of preparation, significant education and, actually, a CALL FROM GOD. It is serious. And you should treat it that way.**** This means responding to her as a professional when you interact about officiating details. It also means allowing her to maintain her own professional integrity, whatever that means to her. And lastly, as this is a professional task, it is appropriate to offer to compensate her.***** You didn't ask the caterer to do this work "just for fun," and you shouldn't do the same with your minister either. Most likely she'll say, "No, way!" But offering, directly and concretely, is essential. It is a clear way to say, "We recognize you are a professional. We appreciate your expertise. We know this is work for you."****** If you have limited funds, find another way to say these things (I am excitedly awaiting a custom-made communion set offered as a gift to me by a couple in whose wedding I recently participated....perfect!). Just be sure to do something. If you don't, you risk making her feel as if you don't appreciate her professional expertise. (Exceptions to this rule MAY include: 1) Family. It's still nice to offer, but likely not as necessary. 2) The Minister of the church of which you are a member. This is their job and one of the "perks" of being involved in a church community!)

2) Be Clear. Communicate clearly your desires and wishes. Perhaps even think ahead of time about what you want the ceremony to be like, what message you'd like it to convey, and what elements you'd like to include. I officiated for a couple once who came to our first meeting prepared with three themes they wanted to weave into their ceremony, along with readings and song choices that were meaningful to their families and an self-apapted version of a pastoral prayer I had sent to them. (M&T....you are the best!). They had no idea how immensely helpful this was in helping me to think through how to craft something that was be meaningful to them. I wish everyone did the same.

3) Be thankful. Being a minister means doing a lot of thankless work, work which most of us ministers feel called and privileged to do. But that doesn't mean we don't like getting thanked every now and again, especially if we have gone out of our way (for instance, by taking off one of our limited vacation Sundays in order to fly all over the world and marry you). It helps to be thanked. Sincerely. Officially. Really. Maybe you could send a note (not the same one you sent to thank me for the $30 blender I got you, but actually a whole different note). And please don't say "Everyone really loved the ceremony." (We hear that all the time in the hand shaking line at the back of church....and it is a central truth that people will lie through their teeth in that line. ) Instead try, "It was so meaningful to me, personally, because....." We will cherish these words. We will put them in a file and read them when we are down and out, and they will be like manna for us in the wilderness of a trying job. As will the memories of couples who we have had the privilege to join together.

I hope whoever is reading this will not take offense at anything I've said here. What I do hope is that you will convey this information to your friends and loved ones who are on the verge of tying the knot, helping out a few of my many colleagues along the way and making the world of ministry and marriage a happier place for all!

And now, by the power invested in me by the world wide web, I declare this rant over!

*This is a verifiable fact...if you're not a minister you won't believe me, and likely if you ask a minister, they may lie to you about this, but it is TRUE.
**This is tough, right? Because you want to be open and affirming and create something that authentically reflects the people getting married, while at the same time you don't want to throw all your integrity about your own beliefs and commitments out the window. I have some friends who will refuse to perform any wedding that is not Christian....I don't know that I'm quite there, but it is a little bit deflating to be told not to use any theological language after spending years preparing to become a theological authority in the world.
***Strangely, in the instances in which I've officiated at the weddings of more distant friends, I've found there can be some awkwardness after the intimacy of being in the midst of someone's wedding covenant, from which the friendship may or may not recover. It's like making out with someone for the first time and then meeting them for coffee later....it's a challenge to return to a more shallow level of intimacy.
**** Please, please, please, please PLEASE do not get me started on getting ordained online to perform weddings. While I completely understand the impetus behind this and know many people who have chosen to do this for various reasons, it can feel like a bit of a slap in the face to have others accept a privilege for which I spent years preparing with the click of a button. I like Massachusetts' model of allowing a civilian to become a Justice of the Peace for a day in order to perform a wedding ceremony. This seems to make more sense and more importantly doesn't piss me off.
***** People will hate me for saying this, but really I am just being real. Your photographer friends, your cake-making friends, your flower decorating friends, they are all thinking this and just not saying it. So offer. Most likely they'll say no and you'll be off the hook. But they appreciate you saying it.
****** While I am on this crazy bandwagon, might I point out that covering transportation costs is not the same as compensation? Mr. L's employer, for instance, offers him a discount on his subway pass, but it would be considered INSANE if they did not also offer him a salary. Getting to the job is not impetus enough to do it. I might be going over the edge here, but it seems to me it should be the same for ministers.

A World Made of Butter

2011-07-12T11:57:00.001-04:00

In our household, we have decided that this summer will be dedicated to the pursuit of healthier bodies. After a long winter in which we built up (slowly but surely) an extra layer of insulation mostly via Saag Paneer and Peshwari Naan from across the street, we have committed to taking charge of our health: nutritionally, cardio-vascularly, muscular-ly.

Jason has worked hard to get us ready for this: getting us really into biking and fresh summer salads and hiking. And so I thought what I would do to contribute to this endeavor was to register for a French Pastry class. I know....I am always so helpful, you don't even have to say it.

Actually, the wheels for this were already in motion, as my friends K and J and I had already been conspiring to take a baking class for sometime. So french pastries it was. What better way to emerge into a healthy, nutritional lifestyle than learning to cram as much butter as humanly possible into some flour, filling it with chocolate and then eating it? None, I say, none.

The class we chose at the local Culinary Arts school was advertised as a "Morning Pastry" class and billed as a way to "learn the techniques" used to make breakfast treats with croissant, puff pastry, and brioche dough.
Thankfully, it was also an unadvertised opportunity to work alongside some totally wacky characters, which delighted me as I knew it was going to be a blog worthy experience from the get-go.

Class began when "Chef" called us to order by taking attendance and then casually informing us that one could not make a quality croissant in less than two days. Since our class was two four hour sessions a week apart, we wondered what on earth we were doing there, but this did not seem to phase him. Chef was French of course, mostly very disorganized and unclear, and fortunately, incredibly talented at making pastries and jokes. For most of the four hours he wandered around showering us with puns about France, throwing flour everywhere while drinking wine from a paper cup that magically continued to be filled out of nowhere and periodically slamming down a rolling pin on the aluminum table for effect. Perfect.

Also present:
-The "know-it-all" couple, sadly placed at the cooking station directly across from me, who clearly gain a sense of self worth from taking courses such as this one and then pretending to know everything and spewing their half-formed knowledge around the room in the form of thinly-veiled criticism of others' work. ("Excuse me, but I think you're dough is a little too dry." or "You're going to need to roll that thinner.") If you imagine that this particular type of input is especially irritating to me, you are correct, but in the name of culinary compatriotism, I withheld the many witty and stinging retorts which I composed in my mind during our many hours of rolling.
-A VERY pregnant woman and her mother....pretty much nothing more to say here than "You are a genius and that's exactly what I would do if I were as pregnant as you."
-A somewhat awkward young man, maybe in high school, there with his mother, who was quite endearing and funny, though not completely adept at the detailed process of pastry making.....ultimately his turnovers ended up looking like some sort of CSI crime scene, with raspberry oozing out of odd places all over the place, but it was fun to get to know him.
-One of the more hilarious women I've met recently who I desperately want to be friends with forever and who continued to make jokes the entire time in step with Chef.
-And my friends and I.

And there gathered, for two weeks on Monday nights, we made pastries. But how do you make pastries, you ask? Like this:
1) Mix a bunch of ingredients (such as flour, salt, sugar, milk, eggs and water) in a stand mixer.*
2) Let that dough rise for one hour.
3) Punch it down. Hard. I said HARD, damn it. Punch it until your knuckles hurt from smashing them accidentally on the edge of the bowl if don't have the "techinique" quite down yet. This is easier if you are an especially passionate* person already.
4) Refrigerate this abused dough overnight or, in this case, for one hour.
5) In the meantime, take several POUNDS of butter (no joke) and bash them together as hard as you can with a rolling pin until they form an 8X8 square slab about a half inch thick.
6) Roll out the dough into a square about twice as big as the butter slab. Fold the dough around the butter and roll it. And roll it. And roll it. And roll it some more until it is a very long rectangle the thickness and consistency of which is a secret they must only reveal to you in the advanced pastry program. In our case, we rolled until chef said "ENOUGH."
7) Once finished, fold this slab in a very special pattern the purpose of which was not explained in the introductory level class and put a dot in the top with your finger (This is called a "turn").
8) Refrigerate it for another hour and then take it out.
9) And then roll it again and again and again and again until your arms hurt, all the while throwing flour on the table and dough and the floor and yourself until every inch of you is covered with flour including the insides of your shoes for week. When finished, fold it in the special pattern again and put two dots in the top.
10) Repeat steps 8 and 9 four times or until it is either midnight or you can't feel your triceps.
11) Roll the dough out a final time. Cut it into triangles. Fill with delicious things like almond paste, chocolate, cinnamon, nuts, whatever.
12) Bake.
13) Eat.
14) Die of happiness.
15) Return to life.
16) Bring home three boxes of pastries to husband who will eat them for breakfast and dinner for two weeks because they are SO good it's impossible to stop eating them and feeling amazing.

I'm completely serious about this last part. These were LITERALLY the best pastries I have EVER had. They were like a little puffy piece of heaven covered in satisfaction and glazed with joy. On the spot I vowed that I would never waste my time or calories on a mediocre pastry again in my life (a promise I quickly broke the next time I found myself hungry and at Starbucks, but the sentiment was legitimate.) It is amazing what a few pounds of butter can do, isn't it?

So here's to pastries, chef, and health plans out the window. Vive la France!

*Apparently, in the culinary world, a "recipe" serves a different purpose than it does in the actual world. A progressional "recipe" is just a list of ingredients in insane proportions with absolutely no directions at all. Here is what we were handed when we got to class as a "recipe" for croissants:
5 oz yeast
5 cups water
6 lb flour
3 oz salt
10 oz sugar
14 oz milk
2 eggs
4 lbs butter
1/2 tablet vitamin C
WHAT?!??!
*Read: Angry.

Fun Facts about Puerto Rico

2011-07-12T11:13:00.000-04:00

1. Puerto has the only tropical rainforest in the US National Forest system, which is home to 50 species of orchids, the formerly endangered and also quite elusive Puerto Rican Parrot, and no mammals other than bats.
3. Gas is sold there in litres rather than gallons.
4. U.S. Dollars are called pesos.
5. Traditionally, everyone on the plane applauds upon touch down in Puerto Rico.
6. It is hot and tropical and fairly amazing.
7. And I love Mr. L.
8. And I'm 30.

The Big 3-0

2011-07-07T06:15:00.000-04:00

Exactly ten years ago today I was in Barcelona, in an archery bar*, celebrating as I entered my 20s. At that time, when I imagined what I would be doing at 30, I felt filled to the brim with potential. I was sure that in one decade I would be the following:
1) Newly married (I wanted to get married at 28...how exactly I chose this number now eludes me.)
2) Finished with Law School at a prestigious institution.
3) Enjoying my career as a successful lawyer in public service (a career which in my mind somehow also made me well-off...hmmm.)
4) The newest up-and-coming political star likely to be the President of the United States or at the very least Governor of Oregon. (This is not a joke....I really thought this.)
5) Beautiful, fit, tan, and all that jazz.

Now, standing on that threshold (or I guess already having crossed it as it is 6am here), I find I have done very few of those things and that my life has taken a completely different direction. I was not who I thought I would be. And I realize this morning that that is okay. So it is on my list of things to do today to say goodbye of some of those goals and to embrace new ones.

I think my 20s was about "emergence," as I emerged in my adulthood, into my marriage, into my career. I realize that I could spend today asking if I had "emerged' enough...if I had accomplished enough or become enough or been enough, asking myself if I had hit the mark of what I wanted my life to be. But that's not what I'm going to do. Because now I'm 30. And 30-year-old me is focused on cultivating balance rather than calculating achievement....balance spiritually, professionally, and emotionally as well as balance in my expectations. I hope to reach 40 again aware that, sometimes, not fulfilling your expectations can be the best possible thing.

And so I'm off! (No, I actually really am. Our flight leaves in a few hours for the surprise tropical birthday vacation planned by my amazing husband who I married too early. At least this might help me work on part 5c!)

Here's to you 30!

*Yes....this is absolutely a bar where you shoot arrows in the bar while drinking (at the time) Rum and Cokes. Best idea ever.

A List of Things I Wish They Had Taught Me in Seminary

2011-06-16T11:54:00.000-04:00

An episcopal priest who works in the same building as me has often joked that we should start a Post-Seminry Degree Program (for-profit, of course) called, "Everything You Wished You'd Learned in Seminary." What better opportunity than my sort-of belated but also almost two year anniversary for a little glimpse into that endeavor?

Courses to Include:
Stewardship 1: How to get people to give you money.
Stewardship 2: How to get foundations to give you money.
Stewardship 3: How to get the government to give you money.
Building Management 101: Plumbing, Electrical, Heat
Building Management 102: Roofing, Flooring, Interior/Exterior
Combatting Sinfulness and Gluttony: How Not to Get Sued
Real Skillz Workshop: How to do a funeral.
Real Skillz Workshop 2: How not to hate everyone at a wedding rehearsal.
Nonviolent Communication: How to avoid attending meetings I don't want to attend.
P90X for Congregations: How to Make Your Church Grow!
Institutional Strategy 1: How to affirm people while dismissing their ridiculous ideas.
Delegating 101: How to assure you'll never have to give a children's sermon again.
Forgiveness Practicum: Why did my seminary teach me about Irenaus and not about any of this other stuff?
Fire Gel, Flying Doves, and Paper Cranes: Liturgical Toys to Keep Your Worship Interesting!
Djembe Playing for Beginners

I could go on and on.........

Two Down.....

2011-06-16T11:37:00.000-04:00

One of my favorites: Laying on of hands during my ordination service in 2009.

About two weeks ago, I celebrated the second anniversary of my ordination to the ministry. About two weeks from now, I will observe the second anniversary of my first day on the job as a minister.* So, it seems a sensible interval to stop and ask myself what on earth I have been doing.

My Pastoral Record book tells me that I have given about 70 sermons, made approximately 238 pastoral visits, and presided over communion about 50 times. I have organized 3 funerals, participated in 2 baptisms and officiated at 8 weddings. I have helped welcome 7 new members and ordained 7 officers. I have moderated a dozen session meetings, led bible study about 63 times, created 2 annual budgets and sent approximately 3,000 emails.

I have orchestrated two stewardship drives and one capital campaign. I helped to facilitate one sanctuary renovation, including the coordination of 2 committees, 3 carpenters, 5 painters, 6 carpet installers and 29 community conversations about what color the walls should be. I have helped dispose of 50 pews and paid for the 80 chairs that would replace them twice: once to the company that stole our deposit money and went out of business and once to the company who actually delivered chairs to us. This also means that I have made 749 calls to Church Chair Industries, 3 calls to Jerry Boyd at the Floyd County Sheriff's department in Rome Georgia and 2 to the Clerk of the United States Bankruptcy Court of North Georgia.

I have consumed upwards of 193 cups of coffee and ordered about 28 pizzas. I watched out my window as 6 tomato plants have grown and flourished and witnessed just as many pepper plants whither in the sun when our volunteer watering brigade failed to materialize. I saw 96 Easter eggs hid, almost all of which have been found.

I walked down the main street in our town with a live donkey twice. I responded to the church getting sued, the basement being flooded with sewage and trees falling on the roof. I burned 900 tea-light candles, sung 548 rounds of Taize songs and washed 9 pairs of feet.

In each of these distinct moments it was easy to forget that I was living out the promises I made on my ordination day. As I slogged through sewage and received summons from the Sheriff and screamed at Church Chair employees and wasted away in meetings that went late into the night, I didn't always feel as though I was being guided by our scriptures and confessions, or furthering the peace, unity and purity of the church or working for the reconciliation of the world. It was easy to forget what I was doing and the larger purpose behind it. But luckily, there were many instances in which God and others helped me to remember. Such as every time someone said thank you unexpectedly, or told me they were praying for me unsolicited, or called me "Pastor" and reminded me of who I was supposed to be.

If I had to name a theme that encompasses these two years, it would be, without a doubt, humility. I set out on that ordination day a sense of inflated potential. And while I have fulfilled some of that, I have also realized how much I am unable to do alone. Because despite all the things I've done, the one thing I have not done is save the church. I think I have learned that I can't do that. We are still small, still struggling and still relatively insignificant except for in our little corner of the world. And God has taught me to feel humble about this. And taught me that salvation is God's department. While mine is to mop and pray and not to forget the grape juice.

Though I spend an exorbitant amount of time wondering what is ahead (for me, for the church, for ministry), I have come to the conclusion that I hope the next two years involves less time obesssing about these things. I've recently been reading "An Altar in the World," by one of my favorites (certainly one of the greats!), Barbara Brown Taylor. This morning, serendipitously, I finished her chapter on vocation entitled, "The Practice of Living with Purpose." In it she discusses the challenges of living with a purpose and working with a purpose. In a section in which she discusses the significant implications of the Christian belief incarnation, she writes of the wisdom of sometimes doing and not just thinking. So let me sign off with some of her words:

Jesus clearly thought this was the best plan....With all kinds of opportunities to tell people what to think, he told them what to do instead. Wash feet. Give your stuff away. Share your food. Favor reprobates. Pray for those who are out to get you. Be the first to say, "I'm sorry."

*Which means, church types, if you are reading this, which I don't think you are: you are supposed to be getting me a gift made from cotton, I believe.

Two Wheeled Ticket to Happiness

2011-06-13T13:22:00.000-04:00

My new best friend.

"What's the you say? You were outside biking and not blogging? But, L, I thought you HATED biking, as in despise, detest, loathe, abhor. I thought you NEVER wanted to get on a bike EVER again?!??"

And to that I say, "Yes. And I was wrong. Just as I have been wrong about so many things: about how the fashions of the 80s were flattering on me, about how to make a vodka-watermelon, about how deep-fried ice-cream wasn't really fried, about how burning tiki torch fuel indoors would create carbon monoxide. But now I'm going to make it right."

But first, the back story: As a child (you'll be surprised to know), I did a lot of biking. It was my parents' transportation method of choice to get us around the city in which I grew up, and so I biked to school and church and the park...first in a bike seat on my parents' bikes* and then on my own. But upon moving to the top of a mountain in Oregon in fifth grade, biking was excised from my life for the simple reason that one would have to be in Marathonn shape to bike anywhere from my home or back to it. So I gave up on it for the better part of a decade. And anyone who says "It's just like riding a bike" in reference to the ease of reclaiming a sport that one has neglected for the better part of one's life can shove it where the sun don't shine. My several attempts to re-enter the cycling world several years ago ended in disaster, thwarted mostly by my bad attitude and being really, REALLY out of shape. And then I moved to Boston where biking is an extreme sport the side effect of which can be death, given that not only it is the least bike friendly city on the planet (it just installed it's first ever bike lane....which runs for one mile) BUT it is also home to all of the world's worst, most aggressive drivers.

But last month, serendipity (or providence?) intervened. First, some good friends from Oregon (SB and WEB3) told me that they had just gotten super into cycling. These are people who I really like and who like many of the things that I like (jukeboxes, beer, my husband)....and now BIKING. But I hate biking, I thought, and dismissed it. Until the very next week, when a woman who recently began attending our congregation happened to mention to me that she was super into biking, had biked 160 miles last year and had never found another exercise that she loved so much. Strange, I though, so many bikers in my life right now. And THEN, our ex-neighbor stopped by the other night and mentioned that she was excited for biking season to begin, because "isn't that cheese shop you can bike to in Concord so amazing?" Wait a minute, BIKING AND CHEESE? Worlds colliding. And that was it. I couldn't resist the pull of the universe.

And I got a bike.

And I went for a ride.

And it was pretty darn awesome.

Mostly because it was so much better than running, which I have always found to be a torturous experiment in pain and self-hatred.** But BIKING is awesome. Because you are covering so much ground, so fast that it never gets boring, and you are whizzing past all the panting, sweaty, red-faced joggers and thinking "SO LONG SUCKAS!" which is a great feeling.

In fact, the first ride I went 8 miles. And the second ride, I went 11. And the third, 18. And the fourth, 21. And the fifth 38 (although that almost ended in tragedy, but more on that to come). And I never even found that cheese shop. I'll update you more as I go, but for now, thanks to SB, WEB3, church lady, SM and the universe for a new-found passion.*** In the words of that woman who was in the Montgomery Bus Boycott, though slightly adapted of course, "My butt is sore, but my soul is at rest!"

*There was a photograph of me in the Village Voice as a toddler completely asleep in my bike seat, with my mom, riding down 5th Avenue. Little did I know then, this would only be the beginning of my fame and fortune....
**Runners: Please stop being that person who says, "Oh, you'll just get so addicted to running once you get into it. I started running and now I can't go a day without it" No, I won't. I've been running. And all I want to do when I go running is to stop running. And never do it again. All I can think of, in fact, while running, is how awful it is and how I want to stop. RIGHT NOW. Addiction my A*%.
***Does anyone worry that I am a serial hobbyist? Do you think there are therapy groups that can help you become a hobby monogamist?

MIA

2011-06-13T12:47:00.000-04:00

Where have I been lately? Well, I've been in a wonderful and far-away place called "Outside." For those of you from more moderate climates, there exists something here in New England called "Winter." For those unfamiliar, this is basically a six-month long period in which it is so cold outside that you consider being infused with bear hormones so that hybernation becomes possible, but, as an alternative, you are tempted to eat nothing but cheese, drink nothing but alcohol, and do nothing but watch sad movies and blog. Here is a metaphor for what winter feels like:

Unfortunately, long after the snow is gone, winter continues. Skies are clear, but temperatures continue in the 30s and 40s for about two months, though after a single day at 52, sundresses and sandals abound among the inappropriately optimistic. Fortunately, just about the moment when all hope is lost comes the beloved gift we call "Spring." Spring in New England is beautiful: sunny, warm, low-humidity, flowers, graduations, fro-yo. Perfect. Unfortunately, it only lasts for about 3 days. And of course, these aren't three days in a row, but rather three days scattered here and there, admist dips into 40s and spikes into the 90s that make you feel as though you're on some sort of meterological roller coaster. Despite all this, I was able to take advantage of those three days: biking, hiking, walking the dog....which is why I've been MIA. Yay!


Here is a pic of The Beloved and I canoeing up the Concord River to the Concord Battlefield a few springs ago....One if by land, two if by....Canoe!

Luckily for you, summer will arrive in a few days. It will be 99 outside with about a billion percent humidity for the next two months. So I'll be driven back indoors and into the blogosphere. (Also, I just found out that my friend DRJ's dad who is awesome reads this blog, so I had to get back on track!)

E-tech-itte

2011-04-29T14:06:00.001-04:00


Courtesy of Mark Copier \| The Grand Rapids Press. Found here. Is this not just a completely awesome photo?

Could someone please, please, please start a blog about technology etiquette? You could call it e-tech-itte. I would do it, but obviously I need to remain loyal to my HUGE and burdensome following here at What's Up Jesus?

But I would appreciate it if someone could take this one on, as something clearly MUST be done. Because technology misuse is ruining my life and I need a resource from this century to refer folks to who are blatantly rude without knowing it. (Sorry, Post family, I think your time has passed.)

For instance, I think we might mutually discern that it is not appropriate to text incessantly during a one-on-one conversation with someone. It makes me feel as if you aren't interested in talking to me (which in a way, you clearly aren't), so maybe we should just end the conversation. Also, texting and checking email on your phone during meetings also seems egregious except in the most urgent circumstances. Who are you? Barak Obama? No one is that important. (p.s. Lady next to me in the meeting last night, in case it was unclear, it was SUPER AWKWARD when you were obviously checking your email on your phone and then someone asked you a question related to the topic we were currently discussing and you just blabbered around and then practically yelled, "I just don't know what you're talking about." and then flipped around in your binder as if you'd just lost the page instead of been ignoring the rest of us and playing with your phone. Also, I can see that you're reading your email because I'm sitting right here and I have eyes.)

Also, we may want to make clear to the masses that if I send you an email and in it ask a question, it is clearly not just a rhetorical device. I would actually like for you to respond. Not just if you feel like it or if the answer is yes or if it's Wednesday today, but always. Even if it's just to say, "Got this. On it." (I think this is mostly a problem with younger folks, which is a strange irony in that everywhere I turn, young people are on their smart phones yet younger folks email me back WAY less frequently than their older peers. What are they doing on there if not actually responding to forms of communication?)

Additionally, let's agree that when emailing in a professional setting (at least the first email in the string), we could use the common format of greeting, message, closing, signature....and maybe even throw in punctuation and correct grammar just for fun. When emailing me to ask if I or my congregation will support your cause, post your materials, or use your product or if you are contacting me as a student to ask for an extension, extra support or my mercy, let's agree that poor grammar and text lingo is just not going to cut it. For the record, U, for instance, is a letter of the alphabet, while "You" is a pronoun used to address another party. R is another letter while "are" is a form of the verb "to be." Typically, the first word in a sentence is capitalized and special marks called commas and periods are used to break up ideas into more manageable chunks. I know, it sounds overwhelming but you will catch on.

These are just a few of my ideas, so step right up future blogger, grasp your destiny and make the world a better place.

For fun, see this page of possibly THE most ridiculous list of text acronyms ever. Can we all agree that no one in the history of the universe has used AWGTHTGTTA and meant "Are we going to have to go through this again?"

Also, did you know there are texting championships? Yeah. Dear God......

Just a quick note to say....

2011-04-29T13:12:00.000-04:00

...who are all the commenters? I mean the THOUSANDS of people who comment on random stuff like news stories about court trials and youtube videos of cats and music videos? Seriously. Who are they? Where are they? And were do they get the time to comment on all this stuff? I watched a music video online the other day and there were something like 700 comments, about everything from previous videos by the same artist ("I liked that way betta yo!) to how one commenter's father had just passed away. What is going on?

Glad they've obviously never found THIS blog. PHEEEw.

The Veil

2011-04-29T13:08:00.000-04:00

Harry Potter is just SUCH a good series. And has nothing to do with this post really.

Okay this is a serious one guys, that I've been thinking of for a while. (No, it's not about hijab, though that is a fascinating topic.) But you know that scene in Harry Potter: The Order of the Phoenix at the end when Sirius Black is killed by Bellatrix Lestrange ("Avada Kedavra!") and he falls through that strange, transparent curtain in the department of mysteries and disappears? And you wonder if he's really gone or maybe not but what is that curtain and what's behind it? (In case you're wondering, yes, typing this out is making me feel as though it's more ridiculous than I was thinking it was before I started writing this.) ANYWAY, do you know the scene? Well I feel like that scene is being replicated in my life. Only the Department of Mysteries is my social group and the magical, transparent curtain is parenthood. (Avada "I'm Pregnant!")

Now before you parental types stop reading and de-friend me from Facebook, please know that I'm being serious. As I grow older and more and more of my close friends have started to have children, I've been thinking a lot about what that transition means, especially for those of us still on this side of the great divide. And it is a strange thing. Even though I have many friends who manage to balance child rearing with adult friendships, I recognize that there is something that's irrevocably changed when you have kids, not just for you but for those you're in relationship with as well. While most of me is overcome with joy for my friends striking out on the path of parenting and legitimately hopeful for the future of their family life, there is part of me that feels differently. Perhaps it's part sadness at losing what was once an easy bond to sustain, now made more difficult by the introduction of drastic changes in the lifestyle and priorities of those around me. Perhaps it is part feeling left out, wondering what's on the other side of the veil. Perhaps it's part worrying that in resisting the pull of having children, I'm missing something profoundly valuable and that by the time I realize my desire for it, it will be too late.

The God's honest truth, though, is that I'm not sure I want to have children. It might be that I'm just not ready yet, but it's also a serious area of discernment, something I want to take seriously knowing that not choosing is a form of choosing. I am clear that childbearing isn't one of the deepest desires of my heart right now. And as with all things, it's hard to know if and when it will be. One thing I do know is that I feel hesitant to give up the control (financial, spiritual, social, what have you) that I feel I have just (finally!) established over my own life. But it's painful to realize that this careful discernment might leave me unable to connect in important ways with some of my most precious friends.*

And so I wait. And I think. And I realize how much my world is changing as more evenings out end early, as more discussions at dinner are about baby swings and bottle nipples, and as the things I care about and engage with seem slightly out of joint in comparison with many of those around me.

The irony of this is that I am feeling all this as someone who (as far as I am aware having never tested it) has a choice about children. I know many friends who, struggling with fertility challenges or sexual orientation or what have you, don't feel as though they have a choice at all and who are in great pain about how to fulfill their longing to have children. I cannot imagine the agony of navigating this stage of life with awareness of one's reproductive limitations looming overhead each time a new ultrasound photo pops up on Facebook.** And I want for those voices to be part of my world too, not just in whispered private conversations, but in a public way that is valued and acknowledged as much as we value and acknowledge announcements by those who can and do have children.

If you're wondering why I'm writing this (especially on a blog mostly reserved for cynical musings about things as trivial as Self-Check Out Stands and Dress-Me Jesus'***), it's because of this: I don't know that I have a single role model of a couple who has chosen not to have children AND publicly discussed this choice. And I could use some. Where are you? Why did you choose not to have children? What does that feel like over a lifetime? How do I talk to my friends about my decision without sounding as though I am judging theirs? How do I continue to play an informed and meaningful role in the life of children not my own?

My friend Ghandi told me to be the change I want to see. So here I am. Because I think our culture could use some voices of all genders and generations and sexual orientations and life setting talking about what childbearing means and what not having children means at every different stage of life.

Despite my general feelings about Elizabeth Gilbert****, I did enjoy many parts of her most recent book, "Committed" which is loosely about the history of marriage. She claims that there are (and have always been) a consistent percentage of women (across history and geography) who don't have children. So I know you're out there. And I want to hear what you think! I hope more voices, on both sides of the veil, will be heard. I think we'll all be better for it, and so will our children (And of course I mean that in a "It takes a village" kind of way. But I'll let you know.)

* Though there is one resource for which I am profoundly grateful in this area. And that is my friend LKF, who, as I've previously mentioned, blogs here about the intersection of vocation and motherhood. Her honest reflections are a great gift to me and an open window in the challenges of deciding TO have children, and I am profoundly grateful for her generosity in sharing them.
** Please don't post your ultrasound on Facebook. I feel awkward about seeing the inside of your uterus, especially when we're not that close of friends. I'll just take your word for it, okay?.
***What on EARTH is the plural of Jesus?
**** Look, I know a lot of people out there really loved Eat, Pray, Love, which is fine. But seriously, E.G. I just canNOT bring myself to feel bad for you that you got divorced and then got PAID to travel around the world and find yourself afterward.

Cosmic Crazyness

2011-04-29T12:32:00.000-04:00

This is my life. But seriously, we don't play nearly enough pinball.

I've come to the conclusion that there must be some cosmic system of chaos regulation that causes there to be a direct relationship between the amount of crazy that you put into the world and the amount that gets doled out to you. I think this because I've noticed that there are people* who aren't very crazy at all, who live life in a relatively balanced fashion (work, home, favorite TV shows, normal conversations held at normal volume levels, etc.) and that these same folks just don't seem to fall victim to a huge amount of inexplicably wild stuff that I observe happening in my own life. Then there are folks like me who, as pinballs of nutty energy, ping off of the sides of our life and those around us and, as a result of that continual outpouring of chaos, experience some really crazy stuff.

For instance, here are three vignettes from my life that I feel could only happen to me.

1) About three weeks ago, Mr. L and I did not sleep a wink between about 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. Why is this? Do we have a newborn to attend to? No. Was there some urban disruption happening outside the window? No. Were we lying awake contemplating the uncertainty of our future? No. What happened, in fact, was that our dog got gas. But not just any gas, loud, audible gas.** And every 15-20 minutes for about 4 hours, she would fart, LOUDLY, which would startle her awake, causing her to scramble to get up (small room + huge dog + slippery wood floors makes this a significant event) and bullet out of the room. After about 3 minutes, she would come back, slam herself down on the floor, sigh loudly and fall back asleep. Until 15 minutes later when this would all happen again. For several HOURS. Exhausted the next day at work, I didn't feel at liberty to say, "Excuse me for yawning, but my dog got gas." Because that just sounds too nuts.

2) About two weeks ago, in an attempt to rid myself of a terrible cold I had had for six weeks, I went to the doctor. Everything went fine and I was sent home with some crazy antibiotics and told I might feel better in 2 to 4 weeks. (Awesome. I should note those two weeks included Holy Week and Easter). On the way home, I thought I might treat myself to a bagel and coffee at the shop right next to the doctor's office so I didn't have to make lunch at home and could go directly back to bed and spend more quality time feeling like I was dying. So I get in line, order my bagel, and get to the front counter where I am reminded by an annoying little sign that this particular coffee shop has a $10 minimum on credit cards. Damn. Do I have any cash? Of course not. This is the 21st Century. But it is too late to bow out as I've already ordered the bagel. So I proceed to have the following conversation:
College-Age Disinterested Register Girl: "$5.01"
Me: "I'm so sorry....I only have a card."
CADRG: "We have a $10 minimum."
Me: "Oh. Okay. We'll then I'll add a cranberry juice."
CADRG: "That's $6.28." Blank Stare.
Me (bordering on getting annoyed): "Ooooookay. Well then how about I get a bag of chips."
CADRG: "That's only $8.05." Looks at her nails.
Me (now beginning to unravel as other customers line up behind me and demonstrate their annoyance at having to wait, my nose starts running and my head feels like it is being crushed by giant fist.): "What are you going to make me buy everything in the damn store? Haha." (I was surprised this was what I said, when what I had intended to say was "I'll have an almond croissant." I added the Haha apparently to make it seem I was joking, when I was clearly NOT.)
CADRG: "I'm sorry. It's our policy."
Me (I feel the waters of annoyance being let loose, but I try to stick to the Almond Croissant Strategy): "Well, it's a bad policy. And it's actually against Mastercard policy.*** You're not supposed to have a minimum."
CADRG: "It's our policy. No exceptions. It's just that they charge us a lot to use the cards."****
Me: "Great."
CADRG: "Is there something else?"
Me: "Yes, um......just give me an almond croissant. Is THAT enough?"
CADRG: "Yes, that's $10.28"
Me: "Thank God."
Now, you're thinking, "That's not that bad. This could happen to anyone." Yes. It could. But that's not it. Having paid my $10.28 disgruntled-ly, I heard the College-Age Disinterested Barista called out that my latte was ready. I picked it up and tried to make it over to the counter so I could get a lid, at which point, burdened by the dozens of items I was trying to carry (wallet, bag of prescriptions, juice, chips, bagel), I DROPPED multiple things INCLUDING the latte, which exploded all over the floor next to the bagel which, in falling, slipped out of its wrapper and landed cream-cheese side down on the nasty welcome mat. So much for my my attempt to make a quick exit after my outburst at CADRG. Now I am faced with the moral dilemma, do I stay to help clean it up or just leave? Spirit broken, I grab a few napkins and start to pathetically mop up the latte, at which point CADB says, "MAAM...I'll come get it with the mop." "I'm sorry," I say. Now you think, it's really over. But NO. Because I am now gripped by the Universe-Crazy-Balancing Mechanism. On top of which this is a JUSTICE issue. A combination which causes me to YELL OUT to the Register Girl as I am crouching on the floor mopping up hot milk with two crappy napkins: "What? Are you going to make me spend another $10 to get another latte?" and then run out of the store. ***** It has been said that one should not cry over spilled milk, but I did cry over this (mostly I was just feeling so TERRIBLE) as I enjoyed my lunch of cranberry juice and potato chips.******You should know that I am laughing out loud as I am writing this, almost too hard to even type. But seriously, who AM I?

3) Last week, I was in TJMaxx looking for new jeans and a new pair of black slacks, both of which had worn out on me simultaneously during Holy Week. In the dressing room, I pull on a pair of jeans only to feel a SEARING pain on the outside of my left thigh. I take the pants back off again and realize that the security tag preventing me from stealing said jeans was missing its back, making it effectively a 1.5 inch long nail which had ripped a 10 inch long slit in the flesh of my thigh. And there I am, dripping blood in the dressing room of TJMaxx with no pants and absolutely no idea what to do. I rationally assessed that I didn't want to put my own pants back on, lest they end up drenched in blood and I be forced to again risk my life as a discount retailer to replace THEM. But I definitely should be wearing pants. So I just stood there, pantless and bleeding thinking: "Why is this my life?"

All that to say, does anyone else feel gripped by this cosmic force of hysteria? Or is it just me?

*I live with one of these people.
** My friend who knows a LOT about dogs tells me dogs shouldn't get audible gas...but should or shouldn't, this was LEGIT.
***Only people with non-crazy spouses who work at banks say things like this. But it is in fact true. And immediately upon recounting this story to Mr. L, he logged on to Mastercard.com and reported them. 'Cause that's how he rolls.
**** Later, I realized that I wanted to say, "Well, that's the cost of doing business." Genius.
***** This ACTUALLY happened, though I myself can barely believe it.
****** Once I got back to the car, I realized that CADRG never even GAVE me the croissant. But I felt re-entry was too humiliating.

Announcing My Candidacy

2011-04-21T22:12:00.000-04:00

Warning: I'm about to get political on you for a minute. Because I'm officially announcing my candidacy for public office (Eat it, Trump!). Though the exact nature of said office and how I will run for it still remains up in the air, I've officially decided on my campaign slogan:

Taxes: They Pay for Shit.

That's right. And that's it. And I'm going to be SO popular.

But seriously, let's get real America. Taxes pay for shit. I know no one wants to pay them, but no one wants to take out the trash or do the dishes or clean the toilet. But we suck it up, because otherwise the whole place becomes a stinking mess.

I get the feeling that most of the folks out there want to have health care for the elderly (especially when THEY are elderly) and funding for the military and firefighters who show up on time and a justice system that doesn't solve things by coming to shoot you in the middle of the night. And SOME people even want to have a government that supports the arts and cares for a woman's reproductive health and helps children at risk get a head start before they're in school. But NO ONE WANTS TO PAY MORE TAXES.

Which is just silly. And impossible. So thus my campaign.

The reality recently came to light that 47% of Americans paid no income tax this year. Now, this is a nuanced issue and not as easy as making those 47% just pay taxes. (Read a very good piece here on why this is so complicated.) But the simple fact is that you can't keep spending money on the things you want without the income to support it. And those of us that can afford it (yes that means you top 5%, but it means me too!) need to pony up. Not because we want to, but because we should.

To inspire you, here are some words from one of my role-model political regimes: The Bartlett White House. (If only they were real!).

Bumper stickers and lawn signs will be available soon......

Holy Hell

2011-04-21T22:08:00.002-04:00

Several people have mentioned to me that my last few posts seem to have been written by my alter-ego: The Reverend Debbie Downer. True enough. One can't be hilarious AND upbeat all the time, you know?

I think part of the problem is that this is one of the most difficult times of the year to be a pastor. Not only because of all the work that's associated with these days (palm to be distributed, donkeys to be shepherded*, feet to wash, black cloth to locate, vigil candles to gather, most-important-sermon-of-the-year to write!) but also because of what's sometimes missing: a true opportunity to experience the spiritual fruits of the season.

I find it to be a great irony that pastors (usually persons naturally predisposed to spiritual experience and interest) tend to have very limited opportunities to actually practice the faith that got them into this in the first place. Because it's hard to feel as though you're fully present (spiritually) when you're on the clock (literally).

This is not to say that pastors are never spiritually present and attuned while in worship. We are (for the most part!). When we pray, we're really praying. And when we sing, we're singing! But it is certainly not the same as sitting in the pew. Because worship is very much about being present. And ,as a pastor, I feel part of me is usually elsewhere when leading in worship. Part of me is there, but another part is thinking about the next song (Did I remember to give the music to the music director?) or trying to catch the eye of the liturgist (You're up, kid!) or taking stock of attendance (Wow! 32 if I count myself!** Where's so-and-so? Who's what new face?) or realizing I forgot to plan a children's sermon again (Guess what kids? God loves all of you!) or motioning to my co-worker (we forgot the grape juice!) or any of the other myriad of directorial movements that makes a service work.***

Luckily, amidst all this chaos with little opportunity for intentional reflection, my spirits were lifted this week by the words of my friend in cyberspace (and every now and then in real life too!) who keeps a wonderful blog on the intersection of spirituality and motherhood. She is a wise soul and regularly a source of inspiration to me. Her reflections on the difficulty of observing a meaningful holy week while parenting a small child helped me to remember that God can be in the little things too, just as God is in the big spiritual epiphanies.

So I'm taking a hint from her and doing a few little things: I'll try to observe a vegan diet with no alcohol this holy week in order to focus a bit more on spiritual nourishment. And I'll try to give up watching TV for the most part this week and spend those extra moments in prayer or sharing thoughts with friends here. And I think I might try (no promises!) to observe a silent fast from our service on Good Friday until our Saturday vigil. Either way, I'll hope that God can bring some revelation into my life somehow though all this while I'm busy thinking about other things.

So happy Holy Week, everyone.

Now did that donkey get off to......

*No, I'm not being metaphorical about the donkey. We have an actual donkey on Palm Sunday. No, I'm not kidding. It's a LEGIT donkey. And we march with out down Main St. Take that mega-churches!

**If I can be honest, just because it's holy week, I almost always count myself. :)

**Perhaps this is different in a rather large church....but in a small church, I sometimes feel like a one-woman band!

BREAKING NEWS: Following the Gospel a Detriment to Church Growth

2011-04-08T18:30:00.000-04:00

Somewheresville, MA: A new study by the Love-it-or-leav-it Charitable Trust has uncovered a shocking reality in the modern church: Following Jesus' exact instructions in the gospel may not the best strategy for church growth.

"I'm just so shocked," says The Reverend LIOLI, director of the study entitled, The Church I Serve. "But what we're finding is that doing the things Jesus said to do--feeding the poor, housing the homeless, visiting the sick and imprisoned, clothing the naked--aren't necessarily directly related to the success of the church."

Though these findings are only preliminary, the strong correlation between sick, imprisoned, homeless and naked individuals and having low to no income was found to be one source of the problem. "It seems that people without homes or food or clothing can't give much money to the church for staffing and building costs," says the Rev. L.

The study has yet to offer suggestions for how these particular challenges might be overcome.

Pastors are People Too

2011-04-08T18:10:00.001-04:00

I might be creeped out if people in my church actually had this bumper sticker. But I like the sentiment!

I know it can be difficult to tell with the collar and robes and stoles and holiness and all, but actually, as it turns out, pastors are also just people. And we need to get treated like it. We need to be shown respect and compassion and TACT. Because when we don't, it hurts.* The only difference is we won't tell YOU about it, except in indirect and kind language the nuance of which you may completely miss unless you are also trained as a pastor. (This is something we call "discipling." In the Christian church, it means gently trying to get you to stop being an ass.) But the truth is we will tell our therapists and spiritual directors and spouses, which will end up either costing money we don't have or making our home life like a demilitarized zone. I know this is difficult to integrate. But it's the truth. And the sooner you embrace it the better. For all of us.

To help you along, I've developed a little list of stuff that I think will help guide you in the right direction. These are just examples from my own life. There could be many more. Let's just call this "THE BEGINNING."

Do NOT visit my church, say you would love to meet for coffee (which will initiate in me the unconscious process of being excited that someone is actually interested in joining our church), and then ask me if I can help you to find a "good church" to go to, one with "quality preaching" and "vibrant worship." I know you see me as a spiritual resource and appreciate you coming to me for help. But as you might imagine if you have that special disorder we call "empathy," I will extrapolate from this that you thought our church "sucked" and that my preaching and worship leadership was "low quality" and "boring." This hurts. Remember that I don't come to your work and tell you I'd like you to help me find a (fill in the blank: banker, barista, photographer, landscape architect, whatever you are) who has real talent.
Do NOT talk about my weight. Ever. Unless you are telling me I'm worth the equivalent of it in gold. Additionally, do NOT tell me I look tired. I am tired. This job is difficult and makes me crazy. People call me in the middle of the night. Contrary to popular opinion, you telling me I look like shit doing it doesn't make it any easier.
Do NOT write me a lengthy email on Sunday evening telling me you didn't feel at all moved by the service I spent hours and hours and hours planning. No amount of positive feedback will be able to make up for this transgression in my mind and now I will be stressed that I am terrible at my job. If you want to help plan worship, join the worship committee to give constructive input. Or better yet, spend three years and thousands of dollars in seminary to become a pastor of your own damn church.
Do NOT talk about how great it would be if the pastor of the church could take a huge pay-cut to help balance the budget. Though changes in staffing patterns may be inevitable in many small churches, don't talk about it as some obvious act of martyrdom that I should willingly undertake. I'm not Ghandi, you know.
Please limit the amount of time you spend talking to me about how wonderful your previous minister was. Please stop telling VISITORS that you used to have another minister before me who was fabulous. Because this is not a good strategy for growth. Plus, I'm beginning to think you'd prefer to have your previous minister instead of me, which makes it difficult to come to work. If it helps, I will make a commitment to not talk to you all the time about my previous church, and how great it was and how they actually had money and office supplies and stuff.
Do NOT ask me things such as, "Why do you need to go on vacation?" and "Don't you feel bad going on fancy trips when the people you work with are poor?" Yes. Of course I feel bad. In fact, it consumes me. And this is exactly why I need to go on vacation, an act which I will now enjoy less given the heavy burden of guilt you've so generously given me.
When I meet you socially, at a party or wherever, and tell you I'm a minister, do NOT take is as license to talk all about how you hate religion and think it is evil and hypocritical etc. etc. etc. It's not that I can't handle this type of critique...I can and in fact myself am critical of some aspects of the religious institution. It's just that I also think religion is important and valuable (OBVIOUSLY, YOU JERKS) and like to show some respect for the topic and discuss it with people who care.
Do NOT call me and leave a voicemail that simply says, "Please call me as soon as possible." without leaving a reason. This is a phrase which will lead me to believe you've just been in a horrible accident, when what you actually want to know is when the next book club meeting is. Just say that in the message and save me from experiencing a stress-induced aneurism.
Do recognize that I am not perfect...try not to act shocked when this comes to light.
Lastly, and not least-ly, DO say thank you sometimes. Yes, this is my job and yes, I do it joyfully, but it's also nice to hear some positive feedback sometimes.

* One of the MOST awesome things I've heard in a while was a Flight Attendant on a recent Alaska Airlines flight who said over the loudspeaker: "It's just about time to turn off your electronic devices. So we're going to come through the cabin to check. And please, if we ask you to turn off your phone, don't give us dirty looks. Because that's just hurtful."

Liberalism: A Full Time Job

2011-04-08T15:24:00.001-04:00

Sorry I haven't been writing. But I've been too busy being liberal to do too much of everything else.

At first, I thought liberalism was going to be so liberating (these words have the same route, even, as you can see). But now, like any other subtle but attractive cult, it is taking over my life. And I just don't have time for anything else. Because being liberal is a full time job.

A few weeks ago, I went to the store in order to buy a bar of soap*. I went to Whole Foods, of course, as that is where I usually shop, it being the closest and "best"** grocery store in the liberal town in which I live. So I went to the soap aisle and there tried to apply the liberal lessons imparted to me by such helpful friends as Michael Moore, Al Gore, Moveon.org and Jesus. Lesson such as:

A liberal person must help the environment.
Oil is bad.
Chemicals are even worse.
Packaging, which is likely plastic and made from oil, is THE WORST.

So, I surveyed the soap options and noticed (thankfully!) that here in liberal world, there were plenty of products that satisfy my parameters. They were labeled with feel-good words and phrases such as "All Natural," "Biodegradable," "Not tested on animals," "No Parabens***," "No artificial color or preservatives," and "Earth Friendly"****. All of them were packaged in some sort of biodegradable, bamboo paper product which could be reused as a rain shield, greeting card, baby diaper or origami paper.***** Now, having read a number of key pieces of liberal propaganda by radicals such as Barbara Kingsolver and Joel Salatin, I knew the following things must also be true:

Liberals support LOCAL businesses, NOT big corporations.

So I checked the labels of all the soaps and found one that had been milled just south of us in Connecticut. Unfortunately, the size of the soap operation was not discussed on the label. (I briefly considered that buying this particular bar in a Whole Foods, technically a corporation based in Austin, TX, might not be "local" enough, but dismissed this as I had already been in the soap aisle for about 10 minutes.) Now, on down the checklist. I think I remember that Cesar Chavez said something about:

Liberals support businesses that advocate for fair labor practices.

Hmmm....tricky. I check the bars, but none of the packaging discussed such things as the hourly wage of workers engaged in producing said soap. I decided I'd have to investigate this online when I got home. (Though I doubted there are migrant farm workers engaged in the production of "South of France, Hand Milled Lavendar Body Soap." But you never can tell, right?)

All of this felt very good until I found the one I wanted and noted that it cost $7.******

With a sense of horror, I realized that my liberal values were about to contradict each other. Because I also have other lessons imparted to me by liberal notables such as the Apostle Paul, Thomas Merton, and the Buddha, who have said CRAZY liberal things such as:

One must be a good steward of one's resources.
One should use one's resources to help the poor and marginalized, not to glorify oneself.
Buying a bar of soap for $7 is ridiculous.*******

What's a good liberal to do? Pollute the world with noxious chemicals that will end up turning the ocean yellow and cranking up the heat on the globe to sauna level? Contribute yet another package to the island of plastic now floating somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic? Or should I use my money to help those who need it most? What if I recognize that the ones who need support are also likely the ones who will be the most screwed by climate change? I felt my liberal mind spinning.

After spending probably 5 minutes considering my options, I did what any rational person trying to express her values in the modern world would do: I left. And just didn't get any soap. And I waited for Mr.LIOLI to buy soap for himself and then chided him about not "fulfilling our values" when he came home with a 2-pack of Dove soap that cost $1.50. (No seriously, this is what I did.)

Now multiply the time it took me to come to this conclusion by the number of activities in my day (Should I get the organic carrots or the conventionally yet locally grown carrots? Do I get the recycled thank you note cards, even if they are also the Target-brand ones that will save trees but perpetuate a corporate empire? Do I get the French Roast selection at the coffee shop or the Ethiopian blend? Which is closer, France or Ethiopia? Am I oppressing people in Ethiopia by buying their coffee? Or helping them?) , and you can understand why I haven't had time to write.

I could go on and on and on.....but I just realized we're out of spray cleaner, so I need to log off.......

*This is a completely true story that can be corroborated by Mr. LIOLI who appreciated by attempt to express my values but was also annoyed that there was no soap.
**I have a love-hate relationships with Whole Foods, though it is where I shop regularly. (It is the closest store to my home.) I also feel so GOOD shopping there, like I'm saving the world with each $6 grapefruit. But the hypocrisy of it sometimes get to me, especially when Mr. L points out that it too is a giant corporation trying to get my money, one which if it was called something else that began with W and ended with ALMART I would go to rallys to protest. Plus. they don't things like Diet Coke and Quaker Instant Oatmeal. And their recycled Aluminum Foil isn't worth the powder to blow it up. Uh-oh. War metaphor. So not liberal...
***I have no idea what "Parabens" actually are, though I once looked it up on Wikipedia and decided that someone made it up. I pretend it means either "Chemicals Made from Baby Bunny Fur" or "Republican Campaign Donations" and feel good that my soap company endorses neither of these things. Liberals, as you may know, love to eliminate things from their lives that they didn't even know were bad for them or would never have cared about.
**** A phrase I am 100% sure has no basis at all other than that the people who make said soap are also liberal.
*****This is not true.
******This IS true.
******* Okay, so I made this up. But it is extrapolated from the others.

Thanks to ThePeoplesCube.com for the image.

Potions

2011-03-03T19:59:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed how SERIOUS this blog has been getting lately? I know. I must be in winter mode where I brood about the troubles of the world while drinking hot beverages in my dark apartment. But there are some light-hearted things happening around our house including POTION MAKING.

I may not have mentioned before on this blog my penchant for gin. (What?!?! A pastor who loves gin?!??! Yes. And give me a break. It's not like I'm Methodist or anything...though I do know some nice Methodists who ALSO love gin.) Anyway, the truth is I love it. I love gin. Sooooo much. Of all varieties. And I especially love it when it's mixed with tonic. (At this moment I'd like to give a shout-out to my brother-in-law who first introduced me to this heavenly combination while on a family vacation. My life would never have been the same without this loving act of gin-vangelism. Also, I would have still been able to fit into my skinny jeans, but that's a story for another time. So thanks, Bro!). Now, back to the matter at hand.

Though you may not have known about my gin obsession, you certainly may have already deduced my tendency to get obsessed with things. And so it may not surprise you that when I found out several months ago that one could make one's own tonic, I was on a quest to do so. And so it began.

And it went something like this:

Step One: Procure illicit substances from abroad.
So it turns out the main ingredient of tonic is quinine. In case you don't know what this is, I'll save you the trouble of searching Wikipedia and share with you what I've learned. Quinine is a chemical found in the bark of the Cinchona tree, a tree indigenous to South America where its medicinal qualities had been well known for some time. In the 16th century, when malaria was a rising problem in Europe, a Jesuit missionary and apothecary in South America became aware of quinine and suggested it as a potential treatment. It worked and the demand for it in Europe skyrocketed (It's tough business colonizing the entire global south leaving behind centuries of unrest and paternalism....there are tons of mosquitos down there!) The problem was (no it wasn't colonialism), it was that quinine had an extremely bitter taste (If you ask me, a small price to pay for not dying from malaria, but what do I know?). And so adding water, sugar and a bit of lime and some gin (you can always use a little gin!) to the concoction became the custom and the Gin and Tonic was born. (Yay!) Quinine is still used today to treat malaria, though other better treatments have since been developed. Unfortunately, the FDA thinks this is the only thing you should use it for.* All this is a long way of saying: you can't buy quinine in the United States. Unless you have malaria and a prescription. So you have to search online and pay some sketchy website in Canada to send it to you. Which I had no qualms about doing, of course, unless the person reading this is from the FDA in which case, I'm so sorry, I had no idea.

After several weeks, my package arrived choc full of quinine! And I was ready to get started!

Step Two: Make a Syrup with a Lot of CRAZY Ingredients
The next step in making your own tonic is to brew up a special tonic syrup. It helps if you have a partner in crime (Mr. LIOLI), several hours, some wine and a good sense of humor. We decided to make a half batch each of two different recipes, which can be found here and here. (We ended up liking the second much better).

The main ingredients are quinine powder, sugar (or agave if you are super hipster), lemongrass, citric acid and citrus zest.

You mix these together, add heat and boil away until all is well distilled.

Then you strain it. Many, many, many times. And then you strain it some more. We did this in several stages. Once through a regular metal strainer, several times through cheesecloth (which of course we had on hand already....such a small world!) and lastly through several coffee filters. We weren't really sure when it was strained enough so we just gave us when we got bored and tired.

What we produced was thick brownish red potion about the consistency of maple syrup.

Step Three: Make some carbonated water. Mix with syrup and gin. Enjoy!

The idea is that you will mix the syrup you just made with carbonated water (from the SodaStream machine I'm sure you already have) add gin and enjoy. We hit a bit of a snag here as when we did this for the first time, we managed to produce a beverage that somehow simultaneously tasted WAY too sweet and WAY too bitter at the same time and kind of made us want to die. Rather than melt into a puddle of emotional goo, which was my first response, Mr. LIOLI suggested that we postpone judgment until after we had a massive Tonic-concocting-taste-testing event in which we tried to carefully replicate the exact taste of Schweppes tonic water. We were able to several nights later and enjoyed our first homemade G&T. Yum! So good. So homemade. Cheers!

Step Four: Get a second job.
As it turns out, we didn't quite get the economies of scale down the first time around. I estimate that the entire endeavor cost about $61 which in retrospect was not a huge savings over bottles of tonic that cost $1. But I will not give up hope. Next time, I think I'll buy more quinine in bulk and make it WORTH it. (This may remind you of the time I tried to make all my own jam and faced a similar economies of scale challenge. I'm working through it.)

Now, if you think it hasn't escaped my attention that it is actually possible to distill one's own gin, you've got another think coming and a need to keep your eye out for a future post about my secret plans for a foray into distillation!

*Other interesting things about quinine??? It glows in the dark under a black light. It is sometimes used to cut cocaine and other street drugs. It can cure restless leg syndrome (or you could just put a bar of soap under your sheet. Seriously) You could have read all this on Wikipedia....but isn't it more fun to read it here?

Tribute

2011-03-01T14:51:00.000-05:00

The world and the church have suffered a great loss today. Peter J. Gomes, Minister of the Memorial Church at Harvard University and Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard Divinity School died last night. He was a truly unique individual and, in my estimation, one of the greatest prophetic voices of this generation.

Anyone who has known Professor Gomes is aware that calling him “a character” would have been an intolerable understatement. He was larger than life. His diminutive size was more than made up for by a big personality, a brilliant mind, a biting wit and a booming voice that was somehow a graceful symphony of southern drawl, British English and one of the Muppets. He was a world renowned teacher and writer, and was often acknowledged as one of the best preachers of our time. He was a tireless voice of reason for stemming the tide of religious fundamentalism and biblical literalism that threatened to undermine the true Christian gospel. As an out gay man, he was a constant advocate against bigotry and oppression. But most importantly, he was also my preaching professor.

Professor Gomes' preaching class was notorious for being both exclusive and intimidating. Only eight students a year were offered the opportunity to subject themselves to the formative guidance of Gomes' unique method of instruction, a process which involved preaching a number of sermons extemporaneously (without notes) and then allowing them to be heavily critiqued by one's classmates and professor. This was not the class one would apply to be in if one were concerned with building up one's self esteem in a direct way. But year after year, students showed up in droves for the unique privilege of trying out.

Naïve as I was, I tried out the first term of my first year in seminary (thinking if I was rejected, I'd still have a few more shots!). However, by some strange quirk of the selection process, I became one of those guinea pigs. I joined 7 of my colleagues on this journey: the eloquent and philosophical son of Puerto Rican Baptist preacher, a Jesuit priest, two candidates for ministry in the United Church of Christ, one of whom also happened to be a devout practitioner of Zen Buddhism, a African American Baptist, one methodist, another Presbyterian and me. Over the course of our term, we met each week for three hours in the basement conference room of the church, taking turns presenting our exegesis of the passages we had been assigned and, eventually and with much trepidation, offering our sermons on them from the hugely elevated pulpit in the chapel upstairs (about which Gomes loved to declare allowed one to be “15 feet above contradiction.”).

The stakes of each of these meetings were high (the adrenaline of the extemporaneous exercise, as it turns out, can make it very difficult to recall the exact details of one's carefully crafted sermon!) and the criticism was real. Critiques offered by Professor Gomes were rarely effusive but instead direct and critical almost always offered with great, maniacal joy on his part. In the course of our term, he likened various students' sermons to cars flying off cliffs and exploding, a peacock that couldn't fly, and (one which sent him into fits of hysterical laughter) a Star Wars ship jetting through a meteor belt with no idea what it would hit next. At various points, he told students he disliked their voice (mine!), that their illustrations bored him to tears and that they were fundamentally just not that interesting. He didn't feel badly about this, he told us, because, in his words, “this is the last time in your life someone will offer you honest feedback on your sermons.” He thought it would help us. And in a strange way, it did.

I don't know that I would say Professor Gomes taught me how to preach exactly (I rarely use the extemporaneous method he used, though it is nice to know I could in a pinch!), but he was most certainly a teacher to me. Though he wouldn't have even known who I was after that term ended (and there was some question as to whether or not he knew me during it, as he periodically called me Jennifer.), he had a profound effect on my theological education and my vocation as a pastor. Because what I took away from that class was a respect for the office of preaching that I will carry with me forever. In his criticisms, suggestions, jibes and jokes, what I believe he taught me was how the job of preaching was to be taken seriously. If he thought our sermon was a theological “salad” (as opposed to the theological “meat and potatoes” he was expecting), there was always an underlying sense that he was saying so because he wanted us to know that as preachers more was expected of us. This was the WORD, and it was to be treated with dignity, especially by us as its stewards.

It was a grueling 15 weeks, but we all made it through, most of us better for it, I believe. We celebrated the end of our term as guests at a four course dinner at Gomes' home. It was, to this day, the most pretentious experience I've ever had, and I mean that in a good way. No expense was spared as we sipped sherry, enjoyed terraines, drank too much good wine, and toasted (and roasted) each other and our Professor.

Some might have looked in on this as a demonstration of arrogance. But I don't see it (or him) that way.

What was so special about Gomes was that he brought to his offices of teaching and preaching the pomp and circumstance which he believed it necessitated.. He taught us, in a very small way, to do the same by honoring us with his instruction and his hospitality.

One of the last times I heard Professor Gomes' preach was on the radio as I was on the way home from my own church where I was by that time a pastor. It was the occasion of the 25^th anniversary of his ordination. His sermon was about his gratitude for God's grace in the face of all the ways he had failed to live up to the vows he took at his ordination. Even he world famous advocate and preacher of the gospel, carried a humility about God's grace to the end. He did it with integrity and incredible theological depth to the end. Hearing his voice on the radio that day made me cry. As did the news today of his passing.

So, here's to you, Professor. I know you are now at peace with the One whose Word you taught us to proclaim. God bless you for all that you were and all you leave behind.

Your student,

Here is a somewhat awkward photo of our class at the dinner described above. It certainly doesn't do justice to Professor Gomes or the event, but it is a good memory for me, so I thought I'd share:

Responsibility, What's Your Policy?

2011-03-01T14:49:00.000-05:00

I started writing this post two weeks ago (when this was actually a current event!) and then got overwhelmed with other life stuff that is less fun but more imminent than blogging. But I figured it was still relevant, so why not post?

Image courtesy of Agence France Presse/Getty Images via the Wall Street Journal. Available here.

I was very moved by coverage of the recent events in Egypt, moreso than other world events have effected me recently. I think it was something about witnessing the passion with which the citizens of Egpyt, especially the young citizens, demonstrated with such integrity their values and ideals. What I observed in them, though the words and images I was able to access, was the tangible sense of responsibility they felt for the future and well-being of their nation. What brought it all home for me were actually not images from the protests themselves, but images of the days after, in which thousands of Egyptians, young and old, men and women, Chritians and Mulsim, many of who had turned out en force to call for the end of the regime, made their way back to Tahrir Square bearing not arms or signs, but brooms and trash bags. That the protestors returned to the site of their victory to clean it up indicates something very subtle, yet very important about the nature of that community: a serious sense of corporate responsibility, a palpable demonstration of ownership. Almost to say, "Yes, of course, it matters who is in power, and to care for your country is to dedicate oneself to that process. But that dedication would be meaningless if we did not also care enough to be good stewards of what we are fighting for."

I often worry that my generation of Americans doesn't feel that way about anything. I look at the movements of my parents' generation: the Women's Rights movement, the Civil Rights movement, the Anti-Vietnam protests, etc. and I see something that I find inspiring but that (in all honesty) I cannot really identify with. Of course I feel strongly about many things and am dedicated to them, but not in that same public, self-sacrificial, passionate way. Current studies of trends in this generation suggest that we are more committed to local, organic movements. We're more likely to commit small, local acts of volunteerism related to things we care about and to which we are personally connected. It's not that we're doing less, some will say, it's that we're doing it differently. But I still worry something might be missing.

And so I want to thank our Egyptian brothers and sisters for really motivating me to think about this and to considering taking more responsibility for my own community and our political process. I hope we here in the states can live up to your great example of what it means to pursue democracy.

I Love You, Tim McGraw, but Seriously......

2011-02-18T12:51:00.000-05:00

So I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading about dying recently.* (Don't worry, nothing is wrong, it's just that I've been realizing what a relevant topic this is to my work as a minister, and though I did do a chaplaincy internship in which I attended to many dying people, I thought some more in-depth thinking about this topic couldn't hurt.) So I picked up On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, one of the classic treatises on the spiritual and emotional condition of the terminally ill. She talks about the various stages of grief and shares interviews with patients she encountered who were actively dying. What an eyeopener it is. Through this and my many experiences with death both personal and professional, I've come to a conclusion which millions of people have probably come to before me but that seemed profound enough to share here: Dying, in reality, isn't anything like it is in country music. And it would be great it we could stop pretending it is.

There are just SO many songs out there (in pop music too, I shouldn't limit my criticism to the country world but it is the easiest to make fun of, so watch out Kris Allen, you're not off the hook) about living like you're going to die. There is always talk of the influx of courage and compassion, of doing everything you've ever wanted to do (skydiving, bullriding, trips to Europe, and so on and so on) of offering forgiveness and love previously denied, and basically wrapping all the loose ends of your life up in a nice beautiful bow. Perhaps the most gregious offernder in this category is the beloved Tim McGraw. I hate to have to say it, as he is one of my favorites, but his song "Live Like You Were Dying" (above), which I LOVE to sing in the car, is, I've concluded now, totally irresponsible. Because dying is not like that. It's actually, mostly, scary as S**T for everyone involved. And there is no skydiving.

From what I know, approaching death in many (most?) cases, involves pain and suffering, anger and despair, denial and frustration and terrible inconveniences like chemo and dialysis and hospitalization and weakness and incontinence and fatigue.....none of which lend themselves to activities like bullriding. In fact, dying is hard and messy work, sometimes done over the long term, sometimes suddenly, but rarely with the reckless abandon the music world seems to associate with this inevitable human condition. Sure, we're all dying. And we should be appreciative of the time we have, and not live in fear or take our lives for granted. But maybe we should be a little more careful about how we characterize death, in sentitivity to those facing it. Sorry, Tim. (But you do look very good in that video, I will say.)

*Periodically, in the course of my busy work week, I'll think of an idea for a blog post, but do not have time to sit down and work on it that minute. So I write it on a scrap of paper or on my "list" of items to attend to when time is available. I thought nothing of it, then, when last week I wrote "DYING" in capital letters on my to do list which I left next to the computer as a reminder. In his classicly mellow fashion, Mr. L, several days later while we were making dinner, said out of the blue, "So, I saw you were planning on dying." and then continued to stir the risotto. Gotta love that guy.

Happiness

2011-02-18T12:09:00.003-05:00

So, as you may have read in the news, New England (and pretty much everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere) has been inundated with snow for the last two months. Which hasn't made me want to blog. In fact, it hasn't made me want to do anything, other that stay in bed and eat brownies, that is. But we are at long last emerging from the snowpocalypse. And so here I am.

In my emerging from the pit of despair that is called "winter" around here, I've been keeping my eye out for really happy and awesome things. Mr.L sent me a link to these images which really fit the bill. It's a ski tournament of Polish Catholic priests. In a word: awesome. Don't they just look so happy? And who says priests shouldn't get to have a little fun after all that being over worked and under paid ( or, more literally, not paid at all)? You can see all of the pics here, but for now, here's one to help you keep hope alive.

Image from Pawel Ulatowski / AFP - Getty Images and MSNBC.

Too Cool for Rules

2011-01-21T13:29:00.001-05:00

See me coming? You can purchase one of these signs, which I'll ingnore, here.

There are particularly ironies in life that are sometimes difficult to escape, no matter how we may try, and one of them for me is that despite the fact that I'm a minister and am supposed to be all holy and stuff, it is actually my spouse, Mr. LIOLI, who usually wins the "generally being a good person" award in our household most of the time. This is because Mr. LIOLI is a really good person, he doesn't just play one on TV (and by that I mean, "On Sundays."). He is compassionate and generous, rarely judgmental or resentful, does not gossip or swear, and has a work ethic that outlasts me on my most productive and focused of days. On top of all this (and the thing which usually gets to me) is that he follows the rules.

I never thought of myself as someone who doesn't follow the rules until I got married to someone who does and who regularly calls me on my rule-breaking tendencies, by saying, in an exasperated tone, "Why don't you think any of the rules apply to you?"

But that's just it, isn't it? I really don't. When I see a sign, for instance, that says, "All dogs must be on a leash at all times." My thought process goes something (or exactly) like this: Well, they're obviously not talking about people like me and my dog. They're talking about those other irresponsible dog owners, whose dogs might, say, charge at other dogs or people or run out into the street or whatever. (Insert sound of dog leash unclicking and giant dog charging another dog in the immediate vicinity and then running out into the street, something which happens on a very regular basis but never phases me.) Or maybe I might find another equally irrational excuse such as: Well, that obviously doesn't apply "fill in excuse category here" (at night or in the winter or when it rains or if there are no other dogs in sight).

Having been forced to think about this, I realize that this stuff happens to me all the time (think the seatbelt light on the plane, no trespassing signs, school requirements, entrance fees, no left turn signs, I could go on). However, it only seems ridiculous when I am forced to articulate my disregard for the rules to Mr. LIOLI whose inclination is to put the dog on the leash, pay the fee, stay out of forbidden areas, buckle his seatbelt when told to do so by a crew member and go around the block for Christ's sake.

All this is not to say Mr. LIOLI never breaks the rules or that I never follow them, but is simply an opportunity for self-reflection. Where did I get this subversive tendency? Is it indicative of some deeper sense of entitlement that I should investigate? Are they really talking about "people like me"? Do you think any of the rules apply to you?

Improve-isational

2011-01-21T13:03:00.000-05:00

But seriously though, about the nutrition thing, I have actually figured out why I can never eat healthily. It's because I'm an improver. That is what I do, I improve things. So whenever I eat anything really healthy (read: Tasteless.) all I can think of is how to make it better. It's who I am, and you wouldn't want to change that would you?

Take plain yogurt for instance, a favorite of health nuts everywhere. And it is good, isn't it? We even make our own. But do you know what makes it even BETTER? Topping. I've just recently honed in on the perfect blend of walnuts, hazelnuts, sunflower seeds, raisins, craisins, and flax seeds (for my health, you know) which when consumed in nearly direct proportion to the yogurt makes it unbelievably delicious.

Or how about eggs? High protein, relatively low fat, a standard snack. Good right? Yes. Especially when you mix them with other stuff such as cheese and cream and delicious roasted vegetables and form them into quiches and souffles. Delicious!

Or peanut butter? A little on the fatty side, but still okay right. No....better than okay, WONDERFUL, especially if you mix it with Nutella and Bananas and some form of probably-not-whole-wheat-bread. A revelation!

I could go on and on, but what I'm actually saying is that I don't feel that leaving the world without improvement is a very fair or just thing to do. So I'm sorry I can't help you with that. But I did just pull a delicious Mushroom-Gruyere quiche out of the oven if you're in the neighborhood......

Doctor, Doctor

2011-01-21T12:52:00.000-05:00

Dear Doctor,

It was nice to meet with you briefly last month for my annual check-up in which you didn't actually check me for anything at all, not even hitting my knee with that little hammer, but rather only talked with me about my health generally, which I was glad we didn't do over the phone because that wouldn't have felt very official and wouldn't have involved me walking 20 minutes in the rain to your office and reading a 2005 People magazine in your waiting room. Nonetheless, it was nice to talk with you a bit about my health, except for that whole part when you asked if there was anything about my health that had been bothering me, and when I responded "Yes" with a few questions I had, you charged me for a COMPLETELY SEPARATE visit and billed my insurance company $900. I also wanted to thank your financial department for their sensitivity when I called to explain the situation and my disbelief about being charged twice for one and the same 30 minute visit with particular gratitude to the customer "service" agent who repeated "There are different codes." 74 times until I thought I was going to have an aneurysm, but realized I couldn't afford it. It was really generous of them to waive the $25 co-pay I would have had to pay for the second visit, which was actually the same visit.

It will be exciting to receive the two dozen "Explanation of Benefits" mailings I will now receive from my insurance company while you guys fight to the death over whether they'll play your "actual rate" of $900 (which no one pays except those schmucks with no health insurance) or the" adjusted rate", which is about 75% less but still twice my monthly salary.

I also felt very appreciative of your suggestion that I see a Nutritionist, as I think I would very much benefit from hearing someone in a white coat remind me that if I eat less and work out more I can lose weight. Unfortunately, I'm unable to follow through with your suggestion, as my insurance doesn't cover Nutritionists and the practitioner your office recommended charges "between $150 and $300" for the first visit (depending on what, I don't know. Pounds you weigh? Vocation? Obsession with cheese?).

Between you and me, I'm so glad that the Republicans have decided to do away with this health care reform nonsense. Obviously, the system is working fine.

Anyhow, I'm looking forward to seeing you again next year, and I hope you're able to buy yourself something special for yourself with my $900.

All the best,

Love-it-or-leav-itt

Terrible, terrible, terrible:

2011-01-07T13:16:00.002-05:00

While searching for my own blog online (because I could not figure out how to add a link to a particular post on my own blog from within blogspot...I know, I suck), I found this, which is pretty much the most awful and heretical thing I have ever seen, but which I am now kind of obsessed with not in a good way: Jesus Dress Up.

Ambition (to the tune of "Tradition")

2011-01-07T13:14:00.000-05:00

Does anyone else feel as though your level of ambition has been steadily declining since about age 19? I certainly do. If you had asked me exactly ten years ago about what I would do with my life it probably would have gone something like this:
"I'll probably go to law school (and do very well of course) and then work for a non-profit helping the poor before running for public office and then becoming the youngest president ever (take that JFK) and solving war, hunger and poverty at home and abroad, after which I might get ordained as a minister and run a huge, awesome and progressive church that does lots of good justice work. In my spare time, I would start a few NGOs to help people who needed it while simultaneously being an adjunct professor of religion and politics and building my dream home and having a family full of equally accomplished and hilarious individuals."*

I should note, given previous confessions on the topic, that this is not an exaggeration. (I was 19 years old, which explains some of it, but it is pretty ridiculous huh?)

Well, it's been a decade and I've managed to do exactly one of these things which is become a minister (well, two maybe, as Mr. LIOLI is accomplished and fairly hilarious.). Here I am working at this tiny little church that, though it is a lifeline to the 40 folks in it, isn't doing anything majorly groundbreaking or newsworthy. And I go to work every day and don't think about saving the world, but instead I think that I hope the copy toner lasts long enough to make 30 bulletins so I can lead those people in worship. A I think that I hope I have some good supportive conversations afterward. And I think that whoops, I forgot to remind people that we have a budget committee meeting later. And I think that I hope the church doesn't run out of money and have to let me go soon. And sometimes I wonder, what happened? When did I lose all my vision?** It's not that I feel unsatisfied with my life (I don't) or that I believe it's too late to pursue these things if I really wanted to (It isn't), it's just that my life in many ways is so different than what I thought it would be and the things I want and am willing to pursue are so different. I wonder if this is normal. Or if it means that we should put all the 20 year olds in charge of the world before they lose the idealism that makes them tick. For now, I think I'll set my sights high for this weekend in a sermon on baptism and making some fresh ricotta.

*I was thinking of making the subject of this post the embarrassing anecdote that many of my friends love about me coming out of the bathroom one morning while getting ready to go to church and saying to JDogg, while crying, "I thought I would be one of the greats." He simply looked at me over the top of his Consumer Reports Magazine and said, with all the compassion and understanding that make him a perfect partner for me, "Yeah," which somehow made me feel better. But sharing that on the world wide web would just be too silly, right?
**A colleague once explained to me that there were visionary leaders and then people like me, who followed visionary leaders and maintained the status quo by making copies and stuff. True story. Don't worry. I'm totally over that now and not at all compelled to complain about this on the internet.

Post-Christmas Procrastination

2011-01-07T12:44:00.000-05:00

Having just come back from a week of vacation in tropical paradise (from which I seriously considered never returning), I'm doing the only rational thing one can do at this point: completely procrastinating getting back into the swing of things. Though I did experience a very brief surge of "re-charged-ness" immediately upon my return, I think that must have just been the jetlag (which I've yet to shake off and instead am staying up until midnight every night watching TV and doing other useless projects and dragging myself out of bed around 10.) All this means that I've spent more than my usual alloted time surfing the web this week and now have finally come around to blogging as a last resort back-door to productivity. (Were I to be asked for an accounting of my time this week, I would label this part "sermon preparation.") But you'll be happy to know that my web surfing has not been completely fruitless. In fact is has included both an exhaustive search of cheap tropical vacation packages (it's never too soon to continue to rejuvenate, right?!) and also catching up on a variety of holiday you-tube videos that I missed while, you know, preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ and then laying on a beach for a week to recover.

One thing I did find that was worth sharing was the following video which my dad actually sent to me. It's a flashmob* of a choir singing the hallelujah chorus in a mall food court. It has all the typical flashmob elements (surprise, confused bystanders, a guy holding up a "WET FLOOR" sign in triumph while singing and wearing a slightly suspect fake janitor's uniform), but I found this one particularly powerful given the content. Now I recognize that music is a strange and powerful thing, in that it allows messages to be expressed that might not be received in normal speech. In other words, I think we will usually tolerate song lyrics that include ideas and feelings which we could not (or would not) tolerate were they simply spoken. This can be bad (in that it allows me to have fun while belting out somewhat misogynistic gansta rap lyrics in the car driving to church) or good (in that it allows a truly powerful message to be heard as more benign than it is). Think for a moment (and when you are watching this, if you do) about the actual lyrics** of the Hallelujah chorus (repetitions here eliminated for the sake of brevity and clarity):

Hallelujah! For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah!

The kingdom of this world is become

the kingdom of our Lord, and of His Christ.

And He shall reign for ever and ever,

King of kings, and Lord of lords, and He shall reign forever and ever. Hallelujah!

Now I'm not sure about you, but this is pretty powerful stuff. In the middle of a mall during the holiday season in which the gospel of over-consumption is being preached at every turn making you feel as though if you don't go home with an IPad you will have failed at life, here are 50 people belting out "The Kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ". Intense, right?

Now I'm not meaning to imply that any of these folks are doing this as a religious demonstration, but still, I find it sort of subversive. Can you imagine, for instance, if they had just walked into the mall and started shouting "The Lord God Omnipotent Reigneth"? Do you think for a second that they wouldn't have been thrown out immediately by a few mall cops on Segways? Saying this stuff a few thousand years ago (or even a few hundred) would have gotten you killed (Jesus, for instance). But here it is, thanks to Handel, stopping people in their tracks in the mall, Arby's BBQ sauce running down their chins, listening for a moment to the gospel. Crazy, right? See what you think:

*Have I ever mentioned here my complete obsession with flash mobs? I preached a sermon about flash mobs about a month ago. Not sure how it was received, but for my part I thought it was awesome!
**Are you aware that almost all the lyrics from Handel's messiah are direct quotations from scripture? Mostly from the Hebrew Prophets, but some (such as those in the Hallelujah Chorus) from the New Testament (in this case the Revelation to John.)

Amazing E Resource

2010-12-24T15:02:00.000-05:00

I do hope that all of you out there know about someecards.com, the absolutely most hilarious ecard website in the universe. Here are a few of my favorites from them this Christmas:

Jesus: The Christmas Rubix Cube

2010-12-24T14:50:00.000-05:00

So I have to say that this is the least Christmas-y Christmas season I have probably ever experienced. By coincidence of a busy season at both my jobs and some mid-December traveling, here I find myself on Christmas Eve day not having done anything Christmas-y. I've not made or eaten a single Christmas cookie. I've not consumed a drop of eggnog. I've not been to a single cocktail party or donned a Christmas sweater even once. I haven't decorated a tree or seen a dressed up Santa Claus. I've not been to an office Christmas party (JDogg's work is too cheap for that sort of thing and my work only has 2 employees, not quite enough for an all out drunken, fattening, gossip-fest) and I've not even taken a driving tour of the trashy Somerville Christmas lights display. In actuality, the only holiday things I have done are not been able to find a parking space at the mall and watch "Love Actually" several times per week which I do during most seasons. See what I'm saying? Least Christmas-y Christmas ever! Now I'm not saying any of this in a forlorn way. I'm don't feel sad or forsaken over any of this....more like just surprised as in, "how the hell did I make it this far in the season without doing any of this stuff?"

Funny thing, though: I feel like it's going to be a good Christmas. For the first time in a long time, I feel as though I'm actually going to be able to celebrate the day in the spirit for which it was intended; as though I'm actually going to be able to reflect a bit about what was going on in a manger in Bethlehem 2000 years ago and what the hell it has to do with me.

My initial thoughts are these, for those of you who care: Christmas is not a one-shot spiritual vaccine against despair. I've often, in the past, had hopes that Christmas would really rev up my spiritual life all in one day, like a existential Red Bull or something. Angels! Harps! Babies! Cattle Lowing! Virgins! Hallelujah! How could I be anything but full of spiritual fulfillment and joy? But actually, I've decided Christmas is more like a Rubix cube in your stocking. We've got all these problems in the world and in our own situations and God's answer to all this (at least Christians see it this way) is a little baby in some hay. And we might ask, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? How will this help me? Well, my job now is to figure that out. And this is where that journey begins, on Christmas. Like the starting gun of a marathon, it doesn't signal that the race is run, only that it's begun. And now I have the next whole year to figure out what that strange baby (and what he grew up to do and say) offers me in terms of hope and a future, and in that way find joy, in the long term, in the depth, not in the mall parking lot. Though it would be nice if I could get a little divine help there too.

So Merry Christmas to all you readers. I hope that however you celebrate, you find God's peace in this season!

:) LIOLI

Black Out

2010-11-26T12:05:00.000-05:00

Okay. That's it folks. Black Friday has gotten WAY too out of control. You must be stopped. While I can sort-of understand the thrill of getting some gizmo for 1/3 the price at 5 a.m. cause it's fun, I was just alerted to the fact that Walmart was open all night last night with the express purpose that people can prowl the store ALL NIGHT before getting in on the 5 a.m. sale action. While I commend this effort to make sure people don't get trampled at the 5 a.m. opening time, I think this is just a little silly. And I have to implore you: Stop. Stop America. Stop being so ridiculous.

Sorry Your Life Sucks

2010-11-26T11:57:00.001-05:00

So here's something that's been on my mind lately: What on earth do you say when greeting street people? In my current position, I interact almost daily with people in various stages of homelessness. But I never quite know how to begin my conversations with them. My educated, middle-class social instinct would be to lead with: "Great to meet you. Do you live in (fill in town I happen to be in at that moment)?" But that won't work, right, because that's the WHOLE DAMN POINT that they don't live ANYWHERE. My typical back-up question for social conversation is, "And what do you do for a living?" which also mostly won't work for obvious reasons. So I usually result to, "How are you doing?" which I sometimes I later regret, because the answer, whether they say it like this or not is, "How the F&*% do you think I'm doing? I'm F(*$ing homeless!"

No need to insert commentary here on a society that assess our value on where we live and what we do as a job, as I'm sure you could all compose this in your own heads, and I do know that asking how people are is in fact showing them kindness, which is helpful in some grand scheme of things. But what I'm talking about is how to get to know people, in a meaningful way, without using any conventional modes of conversation or making inappropriate assumptions (So, you must be staying at the shelter?) or making people uncomfortable (Please tell me your life story including all the tragic details so that I can get to know you.).

Yet another one of the many conundrums of my particular ministerial setting that I have yet to answer.....

Update: Mozarella Madness

2010-11-24T21:07:00.000-05:00

So we made mozzarella. And here's the CRAZY part: It actually worked!

As previously noted, we geared up for this by making some other, less labor intensive dairy products, like yogurt and cream cheese. But this weekend we decided we were finally ready.

So we went out and got some milk, which sounds easy, but is a significant part of the process as it's necessary to get milk that is not-ultra pasteurized. But we found some nice local, organic, non-ultra-pasteurized milk and brought it home. And then we heated it. To a very exact temperature.

And then we added the "magic" powder. And then we put the lid on and waited. And, incredibly, everything got really thick and the curd separated from the whey. And we cut the curd like this:

And then we heated it up again, until this WACKINESS started to happen:

And it eventually all stuck together like this:

And we could stretch it out, which you're supposed to do. Something about the proteins.

But it's actually really hot, so sometimes you drop it.

And then we got smart and used a spoon.

And after tons of streching and reheating and more stretching and more reheating, it looks like this:

Which you immediately slice up, put on pizza (with dough made from whey!) and enjoy:

Impressive, right? Apparently not if you're a dog;

Maple Shacks and Magic (Or: We made CHEESE!)

2010-11-24T17:55:00.033-05:00

I've not been keeping up on my blogging lately, mostly because I've been dedicating a significant amount of time lately to wallowing in self-pity, which has left me little time for composing my thoughts and publishing them in the blog-o-sphere. Aside from the overwhelming nature of both my jobs, we've experienced a number of losses in our families lately, which, having all come in rapid succession, has made it difficult for me to focus on anything in a productive manner. You should know that usually I'm quite an efficient person. But sometimes, when things get just enough off kilter, I can't quite channel my productive energies in the right direction and I end up doing completely random tasks which, though being carried out very effectively, are mostly irrelevant and not at all helpful to the general trajectory of my life. For instance, when I was in school and had significant deadlines approaching, I would frequently decide that at that exact moment what really needed to be done was (Fill in ridiculous and time-consuming task here. Good examples are cleaning out the dishwasher drain catch, washing and ironing the curtains, adding tags to photos in my digital albums, alphabetizing books on the bookshelf, etc.). And so I would go off to pursue curtain cleaning or whatever with the vigor and focus that I should be saving for reading and writing papers.

And so one might see it as either a fortuitous turn of events or a simple psychological coping mechanism that just at the moment when everything seems to be completely out of control in my life, I decided to learn how to make cheese.

Well, that might be exaggerating a bit. I actually signed up for cheese-making class last spring when, inspired by a scene in Animal Vegetable Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, a fellow bookclubber and I vowed to pursue the art of cheesemaking with our respective (and quasi-reluctant) spouses. Apparently we weren't the only ones who had this fabulous idea, however, as the class was booked out for about 6 months. But we signed up anyway, and I had almost forgotten about it by the time it rolled around, and the timing was just perfect for me to launch a new quasi-ridiculous obsession.

The class is offered by Ricki the Cheese Queen who has been running a cheese-making supply company out of her home in central Massachusetts for about the last 30 years. We should have been alerted to the weirdness of this program when after signing up online, our receipt arrived in the mail along with a fairly wacky and low-budget DVD about cheesemaking and a note reminding us to not wear deodorant on the day of the class due to the Cheese Queen's allergies. Nevertheless, we powered ahead, agreeing to meet at the class early that Saturday morning. (Our friends were smart enough to make a weekend out of it in a cute bed and breakfast near the site, which is about 2 hours from Boston. But we, perennial procrastinators that we are, didn't think of booking anywhere until the last minute, and wouldn't you know it, couldn't find anywhere that could accommodate us and our 90 pound dog. Go figure.)

When the day dawned, we packed up the pooch in the back seat and headed west to Ashfield, MA right in the foothills of the Berkshires. The class was to meet in the Cheese Queen's home and the google directions we followed to get there took us past all the quintessential elements of New England scenery.....fall foliage, white church spires in tucked-away valleys, and shacks selling all variety of maple products. When we arrived in the town, it appeared about 3 blocks long, made up of mostly classically white farm homes and several white country churches. Then, emerging from the morning fog, appeared our destination, which, in stark opposition to the subtle cape-codders on all sides of it, looked like this:

Like some other-worldly house of whimsy, the Cheese Queen's palace was one of the most ecclectic residences I have laid eyes on. A mish-mash of bright colors, with antique yard furniture almost melting into the lawn, the porch was decorated with a variety of global art and approximately 58 jack-o-laterns. Upon entering, it became clear the outside was just the beginning.

We were escorted inside by Jamie, teaching assistant and some relation to the Cheese queen though the exact nature of their togetherness was unclear. What we thought would be a small gathering of uniquely motivated cheese connoisseurs (we were expecting 8-10 folks like us), turned out to be a group of 42, crammed around plastic folding tables in such proximity as to allow us to discern the weirdness of many of those around us with relatively ease. Here's our classroom during one of the breaks:

We came to find out later that among us were several chefs, a physicist, a "motivational speaker," several home-schoolers and a Presbyterian minister (aka yours truly!). After a few minutes of sitting and reveling in the complete randomness of this event, we were silenced for the entrance of the Cheese Queen. Middle-aged with a huge mop of frizzy hair and wearing what can only be described as a full-body, tie-dyed jumper, she floated into the room and began what was to be the next six hours of learning the techniques of cheese making. Part demonstration, part practicum, part running commentary on the politics of the dairy-industry, it was quite whirlwind, but, ultimately, a fairly awesome and completely unique experience.

During the class, we learned the techniques for making queso blanco, fromage blanc, creme freche, cream cheese, yogurt, ricotta, mozzarella and cheddar. There was separating of curds and whey, cutting of curd, straining into cheese cloth, pressing in a cheese mold, all the procedures you've heard about and always wondered what they meant. Here's our friend A cooking up some Farmhouse Cheddar in the cheese press:

A beautiful and, of course, cheese-rich lunch was served in the kitchen and living areas and the afternoon was dedicated to mozzarella making. We left around 5 p.m. overflowing with cheesemaking wisdom (and supplies!). I for one felt quite satisfied: who else learns how to make cheese in a wacky, whimsical retreat in the Berkshires? Well, if you don't, then I'll let you in on the secret: the basic process for making all cheese is: Step 1: Heat some milk to a specified temperature. Step 2: Add "magic powder": (usually certain enzymes or live cultures). Step 3: Let sit for a longer time than you would imagine milk should sit out. Step 4: Enjoy!

Here we are after surviving cheese madness:

Since we've returned we've made yogurt and cream cheese and have pans to make creme fraiche soon. Here's Mr. LIOLI cookin' up some cream cheese: Awesome.

Warning: Career Choice Can Be Fatal

2010-10-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

Bad news: I just found out that being a pastor may kill me. Not like existentially, but literally: A study was just released that found that pastors, on the whole, are much more likely than their non-clergy peers to experience obesity, hypertension and depression. The study links thes trends to the overall stress of the job as well as working too much. To which I say: Duh. Any job that asks you to go out to coffee 7 times a day and also demands that you be consistently emotionally balanced, available for emergencies at a moment's notice, spiritually grounded at all times and proficient in a variety of areas including preaching, teaching, plumbing, social work, crisis intervention, mediation, photo-copier repair, financial management, interior design, non-profit administration, singing, institutional change and food preparation, is bound to drive you nuts. And certainly into the cookie jar (or the wine rack) much too often.

Now I have said before, on this very blog, that pastoring is not difficult. And I stand by that. It's not difficult in the way that coal-mining is difficult. Or being an air traffic controller. Or a police officer. But it is challenging in a more constant way than some other jobs. Because you're a pastor all the time. When you're at work or not, when you're awake or asleep, when you're with your church members or your friends, you're a pastor. Now this certainly doesn't mean that you act like it all the time (thank goodness!), but it certainly an identity that follows you, a reality that can get really tiring. And, as Mr.L and I were recently discussing with another couple over dinner earlier this week, the work follows you as well. It's as if the tasks of the pastoral life ooze out like some Ghostbusters-2-esque blob into all areas of your life.

Now, many pastoral leaders these days like to talk a lot about "boundaries." "You should set boundaries," they say, "then you wouldn't have these problems." Set boundaries about how much you work and when and who can call and on what number and so on and so on and so on. But it's more difficult than it seems. Especially when you're in a small church or one without a lot of resourced folks with other support systems around them. For instance, it's Friday evening and you get a call that someone is in the hospital. Do you take the call? If you do, do you put your family dinner on hold and go? Or wait for the next day? What if they don't have any family or friends and they'll be alone until you come? Or let's say it's Saturday afternoon and you still haven't finished your sermon for Sunday. Do you take a break from your relaxation or house projects to finish it up? Or do you deliver the crappy half-crafted message you've got already? It's Thursday, your only day off, and you get an email from someone who is having a difficult time due to (insert emotional, financial, physical, familial or situational crisis here). Do you respond? Or wait? What if the church is flooding? Do you go? They are difficult decisions to make and ones challenged by our views of pastors and the extent of pastoral compassion. These are real things that are happening in real people's lives. And it can be difficult to draw boundaries around that.

On top of all this, how do you stop thinking about/worrying about/problem solving all the issues of a complex organization like a church when you walk out the door? I often find that even with no one calling me, I still spend huge portions of my days off stressed out about problems happening at the church. "What are we going to do about our fundraiser if it doesn't go well?..... I hope that person I talked to on Tuesday is going to be okay....... Did I remember to email the music director the song for this week?" And so on and so on and so on.

This is still something I'm working hard to work through. And I certainly don't know what the answer is. But I want to figure it out before I wake up in 20 years, obese, hypertense and depressed. I wish they had put a warning label on my diploma......

Sabbath Remix

2010-10-16T14:55:00.000-04:00

Just a quick note to say I'm back on the sabbath bandwagon (in case you were wondering) after a few weeks of sabbath slacking. I was doing well for a while, but lost track somewhere around week 5 and then ended up sliding down the slippery slope of "Well, just this one little work email. It's important and time sensitive." and "Of course I can meet on Friday if that's the only day you can meet." and "Well, it's not really work if I write a little of my sermon."

But I am trying to get back on track.

And I'm off to a good start. We spent a wonderful sabbath dinner last night with dear friends E&D, who, though I had not yet mentioned them in this blog, have been a huge inspiration to me in my own Sabbath practice. They've been gracious enough to host us on countless occasions in the past few years, inviting us in for the most extravagant and scrumptious Sabbath feasts one could imagine. (My person favorite remains the gourmet tortilla soup prepared after a trip they took to Mexico during which they took a cooking class! Delicious and incredibly authentic!) The company is always just as wonderful as the fare.

So we were privileged to host them last night for peppered pecans, fall salad, pumpkin soup (served in pumpkins! Move over Martha!) and baked apples with caramel sauce (for which I forgot to set the timer and they ended up exploding and ultimately looked like a soupy mess of apple shrapnel, but they still tasted okay. Okay, Martha, you're back on.)

All this reminds me that I've come to the conclusion that cooking and eating together is an essential Sabbath discipline. There is just something powerful about putting significant effort into making a meal and then enjoying it (slowly!) with others that results in incredible community building and unparalleled relaxation. I think even the most elegant meals out cannot compare to the nourishment one can get from cooking and eating together.

So, let me say a belated Shabbat Shalom to friends near and far!

I'm Sailing Away

2010-10-15T17:19:00.001-04:00

Did I mention that I'm taking sailing class? That's right. Sailing. Like on a boat. With sails and stuff. And no motor. Why am I doing this? You might ask. And the answer is simple: because sometimes when you are married that is what you do, you take sailing class.

When we moved to this area a few years ago, Mr. LIOLI discovered a passion for sailing. He had sailed a bit as a kid with his parents and his interest in it was rekindled when we moved so close to the water. For a few years he was a member of a non-profit community sailing operation on the river near where we live. But he had soon learned most of what he could there and it was time to move up. So he researched sailing schools on the harbor to find the best place to get experience with bigger boats and different types of cruising (such as sailing in the ocean, and at night, and in the ocean at night, etc.) Fortunately or unfortunately for me, I'm not yet sure, he found one. And we signed up.

If you're wondering how I got involved, so am I. It turns out these dreams of sailing were not simply one of Mr.LIOLI's many serial hobbies, but something he wants to do long term. Something, he tells me, that has the potential to turn into a lifestyle (READ: a black hole into which money and time can be poured without guilt.)

I found (and find) all this rather questionable, especially since I don't particularly like boats and get fairly seasick when aboard them, a fact that I unfortunately had discovered several years ago on our honeymoon aboard a cruise ship. (Yeah, I KNOW.) Anyway, somehow this line of suspicious logic was extended to include the fact that since Mr. LIOLI and I have loose plans to be together for the long term and he plans to get into sailing for a long term, it was important that I learn something about sailing as well. So here I find myself, in sailing class.

So far I've learned a few useful things, such as:
1. I have learned that sailing has it's own vocabulary. There are ropes (just like other ropes) but in sailing they are called sheets. And they have maps, but they're not called maps, they're called charts. And turning left is not called turning left, it's called "tacking." Turning right is called "jibing." The list goes on and on.
2. I have learned lots of stuff about the weather that I didn't think I would ever know. Such as what low and high pressure systems mean, something I have heard on the news 2 million times and not had a clue about. (e.g. The weatherman says, while pointing at a green screen with images of swirling red or blue arrows, "We have a high pressure system moving in tonight....." Ask me later and I can explain it to you. Also, did you know that high pressure systems always move clockwise while low pressure systems always move counter-clockwise? Go figure.)
3a. I have learned that sailing in the fall in New England is not much like the Caribbean sailing that I see in the movies. There is much less sunning, no lounging around, and no mai tais. Also there is no swimming, that is unless things have gone terribly wrong. And you're not wearing a bikini...you're wearing wool socks and foul weather gear.
3b. I have learned that the reason there is so much less recreating on the sailboat in real life than there is in the movies is because sailing is actually kind of difficult. You actually have to be thinking and paying attention most of the time in order to not run aground, or tip over, or die, basically. And, unfortunately, this is not just true for the skipper. But for EVERYONE ON THE BOAT, all of whom must be paying attention and participating in sailing.
4. Lastly, I have learned (and I hope Mr. LIOLI is not reading this as I don't want to admit it to him yet) that sailing is actually kind of fun. I mean I'm not committing to it in the long term, but it's definitely growing on me.

So if you don't see as many posts recently, it's probably because I'm out on the water practicing my taks and jibes and generally feeling nauseous but having a great time. You can come down and look for me. I might look something like this:

Introducing The Love-it-or-leav-itt Correspondence School of Life Skillz

2010-10-15T13:51:00.001-04:00

In my teaching job, we often talk about curriculum development, teaching objectives, benchmarks, etc. which are all just ways of saying, "What do we think it is important for students to learn?" But the answer to this question is always fairly nebulous and usually nothing the students end up internalizing longer than 5 minutes after the final is over. I wonder if we might ask instead, what do these students need to know? Like, for life?

Talking to my nephew this summer who is about to enter middle school, I had a flash of inspiration: let's only teach him things he absolutely needs to know! (You can think things like this when you are an aunt rather than a parent, because you have no overall responsibility for the development of the child other than periodically spoiling him or her and teaching swearwords when appropriate. It is for this reason I think it is a WAY better deal to be an aunt.) Anyhow, I mentioned to my sister and brother-in-law that I'd be happy to admit my nephew into the "Love-it-or-leav-itt" Correspondence School of Life Skillz. Though they politely declined, I kept thinking about it and came up with some of the required courses in said school:
Math for Restaurant Tipping
Slang 1: Building Social Capital
Humor 1: Jokes and Timing
Slang 2: Expletives (Pre-requisite: Slang 1)
Humor 2: Storytelling and Exaggeration
Chemistry 1: Cooking for Life: Pizza, Pasta, Tacos
Chemistry 2: Mixology (Students 21 and Over Only), BYOB
Etiquette
Physical Education: Swimming, Jogging, Biking and NOT Square Dancing
Driver's Education 1: Not Killing Others
Driver's Ed Accelerated: DE1: Not Killing Others Taught Concurrantly With: DE2: Not Being an Ass
Automechanics
Social Studies 1: How to Access Wikipedia
Constitutional Law & Good Citizenship: Why to Vote and How Not to Get Screwed by the Government
Bible 1: The Old Testament: Myth, Incest, Conquest, & Politics in Ancient Canaan
Bible 2: The New Testament: Greek Worldview, Blood Atonement Theology, Mysogony and Apocalypse

Anyway, I think I've got something here. Don't you? Who's in? Anyone have a neice or nephew we could use for a trial run?

1 Person Dis-"Likes" This

2010-10-15T10:12:00.001-04:00

I've been thinking recently that I'm too awkward for Facebook. I know what you're going to say: "No one is too awkward for Facebook." But I am, actually.
I should tell you that I joined facebook late in life, after no longer being able to tolerate consistently being the object of comments such as:
"Did you see the picture of you that so-and-so put on Facebook? It's so cute. Ohhhh...that's right. You're not on Facebook..." Awkward silence.
or
FB User: "You didn't come to my party on Saturday." Pout-y face.
Me: "I didn't know you were having a party on Saturday."
FB User: "Umm...but I invited you."
Me: "Really? I don't remember getting an invitation."
FB User: "Yeah, I invited everyone who I'm friends with on Facebook."
Me: "But I'm not on Facebook."
FB User: "Oh. (Silence.) Awkward."

Anyway, I eventually joined and I should admit I was able to make some good connections with folks from the past (though they never went beyond the initial "Oh my GOD, how are YOU? What are you DOING?" and then "How are YOU? What are YOU doing?"). And I do periocially enjoy e-spying on the lives of friends and family who don't live locally. (For instance, I just saw a picture posted of a friend of mine in front of the Taj Mahal, which I thought was a joke, until I visited her page and found out she is actually in India right now. Go figure!)

But recently I've realized that I'm just too awkward for it all. Mostly because I become paralyzed with indecision about how to resond to most people's posts. And then I end up feeling like an awkward lurker who never responds to anything, like some loner kid in the corner of the gym at the middle-school dance not talking to anyone (was I this kid? I can't really remember, but it's possible.). Anyway, maybe I'm just too old-fashioned, but I just have no idea what to say when someone posts news of some huge life-changing event on Facebook, such as engagement, marriage, pregnancy, career change, break-ups, moves, troubling family situations, etc. As most of us (or probably more than some given my professional training), I've spent most of my life practicing how to respond to people in the real world when they tell me things like this. And I just cannot translate that into a 5 word witty comment that effectively communicates the immense (fill in empathetic emotion here) that I feel about their news. Clicking "like" never feels like an appropriately proportional response.

It's even worse when it's a close friend, because my reaction is wrapped in all the other emotions of intense curiosity, vague resentment that I wasn't told in real life, and perhaps surprise. How do I response to that in 40 characters or fewer? If I don't respond, will I be left with facing the awkwardness at some future date when I see the person again? If so, should I pretend I didn't see the news on Facebook? Or do I say "yeah, I saw that on facebook" and proceed to look like an uncaring jerk for not "commenting"?

On the other hand if I don't know the person well, I end up feeling like an intruder. Why should I be privileged with this information when I play virtually no role in this person's life? Why should I wish you a "happy birthday" (or "happy engagment" or "oh my god you had a baby" or "sorry you lost your job") when I have no other connection to you whatsoever outside the web and may never see you again. Will your life really be enhanced by my somewhat shallow and trivial well-wishes?

I realize this post is getting awkwardly long, but let me say one more thing: I think it would be helpful if Facebook would add an "acknowledge" button, similar to the "like" button. That would give me a way to say "I see this information," but not "like" it which seems much too trivial. Then in the future, I could say, "yes, I saw that!" and then proceed to communicate my empathetic reation in a proporational and appropriate way.

You see, I was right, wasn't I? I am too awkward for this.....

A Note About Books

2010-09-17T13:45:00.002-04:00

My friend MJ doesn't believe that I actually read the books I put in my sidebar under "books I'm reading." That's okay, but I actually do read them just for honesty's sake. But it occured to me that I should make clear that I'm not recommending all the books on my list. I'm just telling you what I'm up to. So I don't want to take responsibility for you reading them and hating them because they were on here.

That said, I did recently finish: Home by Marilynne Robinson and The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss, both of which were, in a word, aMAZing.

Home (which I should disclose everyone in my book club HATED) was a retelling of the prodigal son story in the 1960s in a little town in Iowa. It's a quasi-sequel to Gilead, which I read in graduate school and didn't like nearly as much. Home is unique in that it seems to actually have no plot. By that I mean nothing actually happens in the entire book. But it is still a great story, about redemption and confession and salvation and grace and all those things and how they work, or don't. Anyway, I realized after our book group discussion that the book is deeply and unapologetically Christian, Reformed Christian at that, and so may not carry as much meaning for those not steeped in that tradition. But I still loved it. (MJ: You might like this too...check it out!)

The History of Love is a novel about various characters all somehow connected to the manuscript of a book with the same title, written by a young writer in Poland at the start of the holocaust for his love who leaves for America without him. It's fabulously written, creative and sophisticated. Though I was surprised and confused by the end, which made me want to go back and read the whole thing again! It is very similar to a book written by the author's husband, Jonathan Safran Foer, called Everything is Illuminated, which is also amazing. I'd love to be a fly on the wall at their dinner table one day.

And now I'm on to Committed, the most recent book by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love. Committed is an expose about marriage and also a chronicle of the author's journey toward a second marriage after her first failed one. I absolutely KNOW that I will find it annoying and petty as I did Eat, Pray, Love, so I'm not sure why I'm bothering other than that I bought it for book club and then didn't read it and now feel compelled to do so by our discussion. (Let me for a moment defend my hatred of the most popular 'chic-lit' book in America right now: I canNOT feel sorry for someone who has a rough time and then gets paid a huge advance to travel around the world carelessly and write about finding herself. Most of us have a rough time and then continue along with our regular lives and somehow deal without an all-expense paid round-the-world therapy venture. So just suck it up, okay.) Anyway, I'm onto Committed. But to balance it out, J-Dogg and I have decided to start reading The Brothers Karamazov together, which should be much more intellectual and take approximately five years to finish. I'll let you know how it goes.

For now, keep reading, mon chers!

p.s. Okay....let's be honest: Part of my despising Elizabeth Gilbert is that maybe a small part of me is jealous that they would never get Julia Roberts to play me in the memoir of my life. They'd probably get Jane Lynch and make her gain 40 pounds.

Eavesdropping

2010-09-17T13:32:00.000-04:00

We're convinced that our next door neighbors may have won the lottery recently, because after living here for 3 years and not doing a single shred of work on their house, they have, suddenly, in the last three weeks:
Had their house repainted
Installed Central Air Conditioning
Removed a dead tree from the edge of their property
Rebuilt the retaining wall that supported said tree
Rebuilt their back patio
Replaced the back stairs going into their basement
Had the driveway and front walk repaved
Torn down and prepared to replace the fence around their backyard
Dug a 4' deep hole where said yard used to be and begun to replace it with a nice slate patio and new landscaping.

The drawback to all of this is that there have been huge trucks and pieces of contruction equipment droaning away directly outside our window for weeks now (causing a parking crisis and a generally nerveracking atmosphere) But the upside is that I have (by benefit of our condo's proximity to the ground and this neighbor's property) been privy to most hilarious conversations of all time happening between the workmen just outside the window. Because I work quite a bit from home and because the weather has been quite pleasant recently, I've been sitting here with the window open and pieces of these conversations have wafted in periodically. Here are some choice snippets:

....I mean, do you like that new guy?
HELL no, man. I can't stand that guy. And he knows it to. He can see it in my eyes.....

(Later) ....But do you believe in heaven and hell and that sh#$? Or do you like think everyone's going to heaven no matter what though?
I don't know, man. But I think some'a those priests are going to hell man.
(Muffled response)....that new guy believes in this stuff, you know.
Yeah....I guess I can see him doing that. In that little booth and sh&*.

.....Yo, did you see that movie though? That romantic comedy sh@#? (I'm fairly sure they're talking about Eat, Pray, Love).

F#$& that man. Yeah, I did. It was the worst two hours of my life. I'd rather die than watch that sh&^ again. I'd rather get beat up for two hours than watch that sh*%.

(Singing) Rocketman, Rocketman, Rocketman.....(no radio is present.)
...NO, man. He's gonna come around here and be PISSED.
Right, man. Let's just not say anything.

....You're right, though. She is hot. Hot, hot, hot, hot, HOT. I wonder if she's like normal hot girls, you know?

And so on and so on. You know, they'll never know it but they've brought a little sunshine in my life these past few weeks. I'll be sad to see them go. Their trucks, though, not so much.

Sabbath Update

2010-09-17T13:13:00.000-04:00

I thought I'd log in to update you on the status of my new Sabbath practice. Today marks my fourth sabbath observance and I would say it is going...okay. So far, it stands as follows:

Pros:
*Actually having scheduled time off to look forward to rather than working 24/7 and being pissed about it.
*Being about to count on an evening each week set aside for a nice dinner and evening with the Beloved.
*Being able to take time to read for pleasure without feeling guilty that I'm slacking off all my other tasks.
*Blogging.
*Reading scripture for personal edification rather than teaching and preaching, something I haven't found time to do since I was about 15.
*Establishing a sabbath (and putting it on my calender) actually makes me feel as though I have an excuse to say no to stuff, which in turn allows me to manage my work load.
*The house gets cleaned every Thursday afternoon, pre-Sabbath, which means that I am less stressed about finding time to do it the rest of the week.
*It's nice to light candles and stuff.
*I do actually sense the slightest increase in my ability to live in the present and be aware of things. This may also be a change in diet that involves drinking less coffee, but who knows?

Cons:
*What do I actually do all day? Something I have not yet figured out. If I do normal stuff, I feel like I'm not being holy enough (which is a completely ridiculous thing to think, but it's what I think). If I do holy stuff, I feel like I'm being inauthentic and ridiculous. I'm not a nun, you know. (You might not know, but I'm not.)
*What do I NOT do? Something I have not yet figured out. I don't want to do work (including housework) but what about doing the dishes from the nice dinner we made? Or what about packing to go on a trip on Friday night or Saturday? I don't want it to be time to just "get stuff done" but what if that "stuff" is stuff I find really edifying, like reading the book club book or the latest issue of Christian century? Can I check my email? What if I promise to respond only to personal things? Is it still work if I see the other "work-related" emails in my inbox but don't respond? All important questions with no answers yet. Though I do find solace in the fact that serious Jews have been asking these questions and answering them for 4000 years and are still thinking about it.
*I do spend the last 12 hours of the 24 hour sabbath being anxious about all the stuff I have to do the minute the Sabbath is over. Which is precisely not what I'm supposed to be doing.
*I vacilate back and forth between feeling like I should have two Sabbath days (God needed one off, and we're mere humans! Don't we need twice as many!) and feeling as though I can't possibly actually take this time off there is so much to do!
*It is actually really hard to not feel needed or productive for 24 hours in a row. I think there's a word for this (humility? is it?), but whatever it's called I know I don't love the feeling.
*Once the fall gets underway in earnest, I think I'll have to cut down on each side to make room for other stuff that is "must" in life, which is paradoxical.

All that said, I think I am going to stick with it for a while and see how it goes. For now, Shabbat Shalom again!

FREAKOUT

2010-09-17T12:52:00.000-04:00

OhmygodohmygodohmygodohmyGOD, I am totally freaking out. Because the CRAZIEST thing just happened.

I was walking the dog (I case you're wondering, no, that wasn't the crazy thing. I've been trying to talk the dog more these days. But I digress.). And I walked passed a building about a block from here that has two ground floor units with semi-enclosed patios that face the street. I say semi-enclosed because there is about a 5 foot tall wall around them made from those bricks with holes in the middle, so you can sort of see in, sort of not. Anyway, as I was walking up to said patios, I noticed a man coming out of one of the apartments to sit in one of the patio chairs. I noticed him because he seemed to be talking loudly to someone inside the apartment. He said something that seemed a bit strange, which I thought was, "I want to see that butt." But I didn't think too much of it, as I thought he might be at best joking with someone or at worst sexually harassing his housemate.

But as I passed, I casually glanced into the apartment over the fence and realized that he was to talking to a MANNEQUIN. That's right a mannequin (which I just had to google to figure out how to spell). This mannequin happened to be propped up as though it was sitting at a desk facing out the window. And he was talking to it.

And I instantly had two thoughts. The first was, "What the F*&% is this guy doing talking to a mannequin?" and the second is "I'm going to die." The reason for the first seems obvious. The reason for the second is that I have watched WAY too many crime TV shows which depict weirdos who do things like talk to mannequins and then go out and rape and kill people.

But TV lunatic criminal sprees aside, am I being completely ludicrious or is this not REALLY WEIRD? Or am I just too sheltered to know that the latest trend is for people to sit around talking to mannequins?

Holy moly. I am never walking the dog again.

p.s. Mannequin man: I hope you're not reading this. And if you are, that you don't come and kill me.

Old News

2010-09-17T11:18:00.000-04:00

Bad news. I think I might be getting old. No seriously. Old.

The first evidence of this was that when I woke up this morning I noticed, right around my eyes, something I've never noticed before: wrinkles. Not big ones, but they are definitely there. Which seems impossible. Because I'm not old enough to have wrinkles. Except that apparently I am, because I have some. I immediately emailed a friend to see if SHE had wrinkles and if so what she was going to do about it. But I haven't heard back. So I've been occupying myself with images of me at 50 looking like this:

Which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, as this lady looks pretty awesome. But still. Am I old enough to have wrinkles?

And then I thought of OTHER subtle indications that I might be getting old. Like the fact that I was INCENSED that our upstairs neighbor was having a party and playing loud music a few weekends ago. How disrespectful, I said. How inSENsitive. We should go tell her to turn the music down and stop being such a jerk, I suggested. J-Dogg kindly pointed out that it was only 10 p.m. And that it was Saturday. And that I was getting old.

It's all starting to make sense. Coming home last Friday from a film premiere at the MFA (and, let's be honest, some drinks afterward at the Oak Room), Mr. LIOLI and I somehow got stuck in a swarm of local college students on their first Friday night out on the town. Because I am apprently now OLD and rarely go "out on the town" at the same time as 20-somethings, I had forgotten about how overwhelmingly ridiculous they are. A group of what seemed like 200 of them mobbed our T car, completely unaware of the conductor SCREAMING into the PA system that there was in fact no more room on the train, and immediately preceded to talk loudly to each other and play with their iPhones. While trying to subtly express my annoyance to Mr. L, I had a sudden flash of insight: I used to BE one of these people....totally self-absorbed, unaware of the world around me and having a great time. What's so different about me now, I wondered? Well I got old. And stopped being ridiculous (well, at least decreased in ridiculousness a bit). And grew wrinkles.

My father might suggest that I should be thankful for all the wisdom I have developed by being older. (He likes to say on every birthday that he's amazed that his level of wisdom just keeps increasing all the time. The wisdom....it's ASTONISHING, he says. ) But I don't know if I'm sold. I might consider sticking with naive and smooth-skinned. Or maybe try to purchase some wrinkle cream.

Movie Personalities

2010-09-12T17:14:00.002-04:00

I think there should be a new personality test based on the movie categories that Netflix suggests for you and what they say about you and your preferences.

For instance, I wonder what it says about me that Netflix recently recommended the following categories of movies for me:
Beat the System Dramas Based on Real Life
Critically Acclaimed Feel-Good Comedies
Gay and Lesbian Independent Dramas
Goofy Suspenseful Action Adventures
Indie Romances
Visually-striking Exciting Movies
Witty Opposites Attract Comedies
Critically Acclaimed Understated Dramas

So it seems like I might be a goofy, visually-striking yet understated witty lesbian seeking to feel good and beat the system. Is this true? The possibilities are endless...

Primary Pests

2010-09-12T16:14:00.002-04:00

We're about to elect a new state senator here in our district. We know this because there are helpful sandwich boards up all over town reminding everyone that the primary is next Tuesday. That and the approximately 2700 phone calls we've gotten about the election.

I can tell you without exaggeration that for the last few weeks we've gotten between 2 and 5 calls per day from the two democratic candidates' campaign offices asking us for whom we would be voting. Sometimes they are recorded calls from other political figures, sometimes calls from real live individuals at "The Committee to Elect So-and-So" and so on and so on.

All this is not only ANNOYING but reminds me of a fantasy I always have during this time of year. I should preface this by saying that I am familiar with our political system and therefore aware of the many reasons this would not work, but I love to think of it anyway.

What if, instead of making all these inane phone calls to ask me again and again who I was going to support, the well-educated, well-intentioned young people who I'm sure are on the other end of the phone were empowered to actually DO something? What if instead of bothering me during dinner they actually went out and spent those 4 hours SOLVING THE PROBLEMS these candidates claim to care about?

I LOVE to fantasize about a political campaign in which volunteers show up at the campaign headquarters only to be shipped off in vans to various part of the city to tutor children, fix up housing projects, provide transportation and companionship for the elderly, and upgrade green spaces in our city. Wouldn't that be the BEST? Wouldn't that make so much SENSE? Heck, give them t-shirts with the candidate's name on them if you'd got to do some PR. But do SOMETHING other than calling me all damn night.

It's sad that our political situation has become so ridiculous that mobilizing young people to create change means getting them to call people on the phone instead of participating in their neighborhoods and communities doing productive stuff.

In fact, I'm starting to get motivated to just go out and do some good stu......oh wait, I think the phone is ringing.....

Wilderness Survival

2010-09-07T21:31:00.007-04:00

Though I did plenty of camping as a child with my family, as I've grown to adulthood I haven't been much for outdoor activity. I now take a bit more after my father in not being too physically adventurous, though I had a good role model of outdoorsy-ness in my mother who spent the better part of her youth backpacking, back-country skiing, teaching my uncles to gut fish and doing all manner of other completely awesome superwoman-esque things. But not me, at least not recently. So you can imagine that when my husband announced about 6 months ago that he would like to get back into backpacking, I didn't jump at the opportunity. In fact, I put it off as long as possible. But that ended this weekend.

We decided (relatively last minute, as we tend to do) that this was going to be the weekend. This meant that Saturday was dedicated to preparations. We made a final trip to R.E.I. for last minute supplies, though it was hard to imagine we needed anything as backpacking paraphenalia has been trickling into our house constantly for the last 6 months. (Mr. LIOLI shares with his father a certain tendency towards being a serial hobbiest and insisting that one must have all the proper gear for each said hobby. Where do we put all these accoutrements, you ask? An excellent question.) Anyway, we did still need a few things: food (freeze-dried in little pouches...weird, but cool!), hiking boots for me, Dr. Bonner's all-purpose soap, an extra water bottle, etc. Barely avoiding the post-game Red-Sox T-riders, we headed home to pack up.

We headed out directly after church the next morning and I must admit, I wan't the most pleasant travel companion. I wasn't excited at all and in fact was a bit nervous. Carrying everything I needed to survive on my back just didn't sound like that good of an idea. (Sidenote: I should be honest. When all was said and done my pack weighed in at only 20 lbs. My beloved's came in at just under 50. So I should rephrase that last sentence to read: "Carrying some of the stuff I needed to survive on my back and relying on Mr. LIOLI to carry the rest didn't sound like that good of an idea.") Anyway, I didn't think it was going to be any fun, and had visions (which I described to Mr. LIOLI in detail in the car the whole way there) of all the suffering and misery that would probably occur. What if my pack was too heavy? What if I got a blister? What if we got attacked by a bear? Or worse an axe-murdered (I've been watching too many Criminal Mind reruns, I can tell.)? Or what if we got lost? Mr. L had responses for everything unfortunately. He doesn't seem to have forgotten anything from his boyscouting days, though that was more than a decade ago.

Anyway, (and I can admit this because I am self-actualized and trained in self-reflection), as it turned out, I was wrong. It was totally awesome. The hike was amazing, through varied and beautiful terrain with plenty of ups and downs but not too much climbing. We saw redwood forests and birches and maples, meadows and beaver ponds and swamps and old rock walls, huge Indian caves and abandoned settler's dwellings. And it was actually really fun to be packing things in and out: like we were really surviving! (I should also admit that all the gadgets which I had mercilessly mocked for months--what the hell do you need THAT for--did really contribute in a huge way to the lightness of our packs the pleasantness of the journey.) Roxy the wonderdog had a great time and was a good travel companion. She even carried her own gear in a dog backpack (Thanks, Crandall!).

We camped the night at "Roaring Brook Tentsites" which should be renamed, "Stagnant Creek Tentsites" given the waterlevel at this time of summer (though we were able to filter our water there...just not take a dip!). But the tent sites were big and flat and we had plenty of privacy (only one other couple was staying there, about 100 yards away.) We set up camp, cooked our dinner over the propane stove, had hot chocolate for dessert and then went to bed as soon as the sun went down. Though we were awoken by some crazy animal noises in the middle of the night (sounds we're not used to living in the middle of a huge metropolis!), we did okay overall. We hiked out the next morning and headed back to MA for some showers and a long afternoon nap.

And that was it. Survival. Everything we needed on our backs. Pretty cool stuff if you ask me. I'm now totally up for round 2 this weekend. I'll let you know if I can convince Mr. L. (to whom I owe great thanks for again convincing me that new things can be fun!). Maybe I'll even call Mom to ask for some advice. :)

Shabbat Shalom!

2010-08-27T09:20:00.002-04:00

I'm worried that this may start to sound like a fundamentalist religious blog with all this talk about prayer and stuff recently, but I'm going to go out on a limb and tell you about a new thing I'm starting today: Sabbath.

I know, I know. Even my Judaism professor from seminary would tell me that Gentiles (non-Jews) are not required to observe The Sabbath in a biblical sense. But the more I read and interpret scripture and generally am alive, the more I sense that taking one day off in seven is fairly essential spiritually, personally and theologically. More and more I feel the need to be convinced (through direct experience) that the world going around does not depend on me accomplishing things in it.

Now what I'm not talking about is taking a day away from physically being at work in order to run errands, continue to respond to work emails and calls, and clean the house. I'm talking about a day away from work of most types, especially my professional work but also work from my life and relationships and home.

As you may know if you are also a minister, a pastor's work has the ability (and the tendancy) to ooze out into pretty much every other area of your life. Which leads to the fact that I feel pretty much "on call" 24 hours a day 7 days a week and do at least a little work for my job every single day that I am alive and have been for the last 422 days. But this isn't really going that well, so I'm making a change.

I'm going to try, just for this fall season, to take 24 hours of rest from work per week, usually the same day each week, and see what happens.

Today is my first day (actually I started last night) and I woke up with the most profound and hilarious awareness: what in the sam hell am I going to do today? I've decided I won't be checking email for work or responding to non-emergency phone calls. And I've sort of ruled out watchcing television all day or running errands. Which doesn't leave a lot of things on my list of normal activities.

This morning when Mr.LIOLI asked me the same question, I answered: I'll probably just read the bible or something. (I am SO pious!) But here it is, not even 9:30 a.m., and I've given up on that completely. I already "accidentally" logged into my email twice. (When I sat down at the computer it was the first thing I did, my fingers almost unconsciously typing my log-in, which is a scary testament to the force of habit.). And I've checked my phone several times to make sure it is working, even though I've agreed not to answer most calls. I've walked the dog and boiled some potatoes for the potato salad I'll make tonight when we have some friends over, but other than that, I'm free as a bird. And I have no idea what to do.

My friend LW has a blog about the Sabbath, which I love and I will read some of today for inspirtation. But other than that, who the heck knows?

Perhaps I'll have a mystical experience and go on to become a monastic theologian. Or maybe I'll come up with a soluntion for some complicted problems that have been lurking around, simply by ignoring them for a day. Or maybe I'll just be frustrated, check my email 12 more times, talk on the phone "by accident" and realize that this is a practice that takes practice. Heck, the Jews have been doing it for 4000 years and I bet some of them still sneak onto gmail once in a while on a Saturday.

So wish me luck, my reading friends!

Signing off for now,
LIOLI

Corruption Charges

2010-08-24T11:44:00.005-04:00

I've warned my sister and brother-in-law that I will in fact attempt to corrupt my nephew, just a bit at appropriate life intervals because I think it's part of my job as an aunt. You know, to give the kid a little social capital on the playground by sharing with him key concepts and words that will keep him a bit ahead of the pack.

I thought I'd document that my work is beginning in part, and it was EASY. Simply lead by example, play some video games and little man wants to jump right in and become a "gamer." Love it. :)

Truth

2010-08-24T11:21:00.002-04:00

I love that this is turning into kind of an online confessional booth. But I just logged on to ask: Why do we say stuff that's not true ALL THE TIME? It's like lying has become okay if it's with good intention. I've recently realized that I am TERRIBLE about this.

A few weeks ago, Mr. L was telling me a story and I needed to go into the bedroom to get something. So instead of "hold on," I said, "I'm still listening." and promptly walked out of the room and into the closet from where it would in fact be impossible for me to keep listening. I laugh about it now, but it is really indicative of something that in principle I believe to be wrong: lying. Why,for instance, didn't I just say "wait a second," instead of something that was blatantly untrue?

I usually do an experiment with my class when I teach about Buddhism where I ask them to note, mentally, every time they tell a lie in the course of one day. I usually do it too, just to play along. It's INCREDIBLE. Here are some choice examples that you may identify with:
"I'm sorry, I don't have any change to spare." (Yes, I DO in fact, I just don't want to give it to you.)
"No, I can't meet then. " (I can, I just would prefer to watch TV instead.)
"Let's hang out sometime." (And I'll just hope you never take me up on it!)
"I'm still working on that." (By which I mean I totally forgot I said I was going to do that until you just mentioned it.)
"Yes, Officer..." (And anything that follows.)
"I thought I emailed you about...." (And by thought I mean, I didn't.)
"I love that look on you..."
"That's so funny." (Especially if this statement is not accompanied by laughing.)
"That's okay, really."
The list goes on.

I liken this to the pre-recorded voice I am forced to listen to when I am on hold that tells me, "We appreciate your call." (Do you really?) and "Thank you for your patience." (You have no idea whether I'm being patient or not.) It's as if something about saying these things is important even if they're not true. As if there are things that need to be said that don't correspond to reality and we've all agreed that this is okay.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to go on a truth-blitz in which everyone told the honest-to-God truth for one day. Wouldn't that be so liberating? And terrifying? I'm not saying I'm going to do it soon, but maybe it's something we should put on the to-do list.

But for now, "I'm going to work on it."

Beach Day: Epic Fail

2010-08-24T10:57:00.004-04:00

Okay, it seems like I am on a bit of a "Down-with-Boston" streak, but really I do appreciate it as a city and our life here and the history and culture and blah blah blah. But let me tell you one more story before I leave the NE-Critique train behind:

A few weekends ago, our friends and we decided we wanted to go to the beach. It was supposed to be a beautiful weekend and we all had work off, so we were going to take advantage of it. We picked them up around 9:30, thinking we'd get a reasonable start. Now something you must know about Boston is that despite the fact that it is a coastal town, it doesn't really feel like living at the beach. It just feels like living in a huge metropolis that has some water somewhere near it that you hear of but never visit. And you have to drive a ways to get out of the city and to a legitimate beach with sand, etc.

So we headed north with dreams of a day at the ocean. Our friend RT (who should really have a side business as a travel agent given his adeptness at trip planning) had picked the perfect beach for us. Despite a few close calls at traffic circles and one lifted draw bridge, we made our way there easily. When we arrived, there was significant traffic backed up at the entrance, but we weren't worried, because we weren't in a hurry. This was beach day. It was when we got to the front that the trouble started. It turns out people weren't slowing down to get in the entrance and pay (Yes, that's right, you have to pay to go to the beach here, $25 a day per car.) But it wasn't that. The beach was full.

Having grown up in the West where population density was never an issue, I found the prospect of the beach being "full" preposterous. "It CAN'T be full," I moaned. "That's RIDICULOUS. Go back and check. Or just pull in. Maybe they won't notice."

"It's full," came Mr. LIOLI's quick reply in that tone I now associate with the implied question, "Why don't you think any of the rules apply to you?" (Topic for self-reflection: Why don't I?)

"But how can the BEACH be FULL?" Apparently, we learned, it can. Well actually it was that the parking lot was full. Which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that most MA coastal towns prohibit parking on the street from May to October, so no beach seekers can park, except in the beach parking lot, which is in fact full. For what reason, I have no idea. But apparently this is not an uncommon situation. Because the next one we tried was full too. And the next. And the next. At the fifth beach, we decided to give up. With defeated spirits we decided to stop by the salt marsh on our way out of town, "salt marsh" being a fancy term for "the sludgey mess that is left behind when the tide goes out in the summer." Something that looks approximately like this:

We found there an eclectic mix of folks who also apparently couldn't go to the beach, most of whom would fit squarely in a Jeff Foxworthy sketch. Anyway, we waded and laughed about our failure and Mr.LIOLI got bit by a black fly and we went to a clam shack and dairy queen on the way home. Thank God that these particular friends are the most flexible and adventurous ones we've got, because it certainly was an epic fail of a day.

But I'm still stuck on the fact that the beach can be full.

NE x NW: A Excercise in Comparative Travel

2010-08-14T15:39:00.006-04:00

Having traveling to Portland, OR recently, the differences between the northwest and the northeast crystallized in my mind in a way that they haven't before. Let me share some snapshots of my epiphany:

Air Travel: At Boston Logan airport (a notoriously terrible, dirty, ugly airport which is ALWAYS under construction through it never seems to get any more attractive or accessible) there is LITERALLY a person whose job it is to stand in the security line and SCREAM at the confused, fearful crowd like a belligerent, angry shepherd: LAPTOPS OUT, YOU'VE GOT TO GET YOUR LAPTOPS OUT, PEOPLE. GET THEM OUT. YOU CANNOT HAVE THEM IN YOUR BAG. BAGS ON THE BELT. SHOES OFF. GET THOSE SHOES OFF. C'MON PEOPLE. GET IT TOGETHER. TAKE THOSE LAPTOPS OUT. This mantra is on a continuous loop which mostly only functions to heighten the anxiety of everyone involved and give me a massive headache, as if the probability of stress and headache is not high enough given the travel culture, shoe removal policy and general severity of the TSA these days. BUT at the Portland International Airport, I almost laughed aloud when I observed the man who functionally had the same job there. But HE was calmly circulating through the crowd and speaking in a low, soothing voice: "Does anyone have any questions? Does everyone understand what will happen when you get to the front of the line? Does anyone need an extra ziplock bag?" Once at the front, the ticket checkers were courteous and helpful. Folks were helping to put others bags on the belt and everything was going down in a generally courteous and well-mannered way. I also noticed they actually had a station set up to explain the security procedures which included brochures in multiple languages, extra ziplock baggies, labels for your laptop and luggage tags.
Driving: I've often joked that I'll never be able to move away from Boston because I've become such an obscene driver since being here that I'd never survive elsewhere. In Boston, the name of the game is aggression, rule-breaking and each man for himself (What's the gender neutral way to say that? Each person for him or herself? Awkward.) ANYWAY, it is not uncommon here to see people blatantly ignore common traffic laws and regular courtesies such as not honking 2 nano-seconds after the light turns green. I have seen people honk at pedestrians crossing the street who had the right of way, elderly people taking to long at a crosswalk and, on several occasions, other cars stopped at a red light. (Actually, it seems the ONLY violation that will not be tolerated here in Boston is an illegal left turn. All others are assessed on a sliding scale from okay to slightly annoying.) But Portland is like a fairly land of driver respect. You might pull up to a stop sign at the same time as another car and, instead of playing chicken in a 'No, it's my turn" standoff, you'd see both cars (probably Priuses of different colors) wave each other along as if to say, "No, you go." To which the other responds: "No, you go." And the first, with a wave, "No, really, you go ahead." And you stay there until everyone smiles and laughs a bit and someone goes but with an apologetic wave at having gone first.
Bikes: They have bikes in Portland. Thousands of them. That people actually use to get places. And they periodically shut down the streets so the bikes can get around. And the buses have bike racks on the front. In Boston, if you are lucky enough to not have your bike stolen in the first five minutes you have it out, you have a 75% chance of getting killed by a Boston driver. (See above.)
Trash: While the ditches of Boston are filled with Styrofoam Dunkin' Donuts cups (Bostonians believe all of America "runs on Dunkin'"), I actually checked out a Portland parking strip on a Saturday morning to find a discarded beer bottle......of organic micro-brew. Enough said.
The pubs are already full in Portland by 4 p.m. on a weekday. This may be because of the 14% unemployment, but it is cool!
Oregon state law permits CRAZY things like taking your dog to the beach. Or going to the beach at all.
Parking rates in Portland were just raised: $1.25 an hour downtown. I am sad to admit that I have paid $40 a night in Boston for parking. Just in case you're not a math geek, that would be 32 hours of parking. But I was only there for 3.
It gets cool at night in Oregon, even in the summer. It NEVER gets cool in Boston in the summer. Actually, even when it is cool the humidity is still so high you somehow have the strange experience of being cool and sweating at the same time. Awesome! OR the universe might cool off but the cement building have a unique conductive property that allows them to store heat all day and release it all night to create a cementy-night-heat that cannot be replicated outside of the city.

So those are my reflections on comparative travel (which I believe should be a new field of employment....I'm available if anyone's hiring!). I think you know where my heart lies.

Traveling Buzz

2010-08-14T15:27:00.002-04:00

The MR. tells me my posts are way too long given that folks these days have a very short attention span. So here is something awesome and short:

I just saw a guy going through security at the airport whose 1 quart ziplock (intended for 3 oz. toiletries) was full of (you guessed it!), tiny bottles of Jack Daniels.

GENIUS.p.s. Conspiracy theory: Is this 3 oz. policy simply a project of the travel size toiletry lobby? I mean, it's genius. Travel size toiletries are 25X as expensive per ounce. Think about it.

Awkward

2010-08-13T17:38:00.004-04:00

For those of you who know me in person, you know that I have a strange affiliation with awkwardness. In fact, that may be an understatement. There are times in which I feel that I am the epicenter of awkwardness. Not only are awkward people drawn to me like a moth to flame and awkward happenings always come up when I am around, but I myself am subject to periodic awkward outbursts. (Mr. LIOLI has dozens of such stories...ask him about them sometime!). They are like out-of-body experiences in which my ability to relate normally to others is suspended and I become trapped in a frenzy of awkwardness.

A quick web search of awkward yields the following definitions:

causing inconvenience; (Me, a lot of the time)
lacking grace or skill in manner or movement or performance; (Remember when I fell down while walking and broke my elbow? I had no idea that was just my awkwardness!)
difficult to handle or manage especially because of shape; (Ah!)
not elegant or graceful in expression; (Finally! An answer for the lifelong question of why I completely suck at sports!)
hard to deal with; especially causing pain or embarrassment; (Mr. LIOLI: No need for your comments here, despite my previous invitation for feedback.)
socially uncomfortable; unsure and constrained in manner; (Yes, yes, yes!)

Sometimes, it's comforting to find your niche. But there's more!

Anyway, I'm writing because for the last four days, I've been at a conference for pastors in which I've realized that my vocation itself might be an expression of my issue. Because so many people here are SO AWKWARD. (Have you ever noticed how awkward the WORD awkward is to say and spell? I think there's a name for this, but I can't remember it.) Now truly, I think most pastors are good people, but a deeper look reveals that many of them, including myself, have an awkward edge that propels them forward in the world like the wonky wheel on a shopping cart. And for some reason, this slight mutation gives people a selective advantage in ministry.

For instance, this morning, when I sat down to breakfast with some other folks, the man to my left offered the man across from him some creamer for his coffee, to which the other man responded: "No thanks. I like my coffee like I like my presidents: strong and black." This was followed by a deafening silence and then a tentative change of subject. But I had an epiphany in that instant that this is exactly the problem. So much awkwardness. In fact, mild racist overtones aside, this is totally something I might say, finding it totally hysterical.

So, I'm putting the call out there for some sort of awkwardness test: like those ink blot butterflies but better to test for awkwardness. This could become a great tool for assessing new ministers and just generally being hilarious. So wake up, social scientists. The church needs you! And I do too!

p.s. An anti-awkward therapeutic technique would also be welcomed.

Comment, Damn it!

2010-08-13T17:30:00.003-04:00

Every time I visit friends and family at home, I am reminded that there are ACTUALLY people reading this blog periodically. HALLELUJAH!

Usually, I just go about believing that NO ONE is EVER reading this and I just puke out my thoughts into cyberspace in the relative anonymity of the blog no one reads. But people do read it. I found out. It's just that they never comment, other than a faithful few.

So I wanted to give a shout out to those of you secret behind-the-scenes readers and let you know: Don't be afraid! It's okay! I want to know what you think! Why are you secret readers?!?! Come out of the closet and comment damn it! :)

In fact, I'm going to go into my settings right now and make it easier for you to comment. You now have no excuse!

Confession

2010-08-09T00:36:00.003-04:00

We don't have confession booths in the Presbyterian Church, so I'll have to use this blog instead. Because I have something important I need to proclaim to the quasi-anonymous confessional booth that is the world-wide web :

I'm not that Jesus-y.

I know, I know. You'll all say, "Of course you are! You're a minister for Christ's sake." (By the way, this is not swearing, I am a minister, literally, for Christ's sake.)

But I'm really not that Jesus-y.

What I mean by that is (and here is the confession part) that Jesus is not the A Number One Top Thing on my mind all the time. If this is shocking to you, please stop reading now. In fact, if I were really honest, there are not that many moments in which Jesus IS the A Number One Top Thing on my mind. Were I to go through my day and somehow prioritize and record the list of things that were on my mind, there would be times in which one might have to search pretty far down that list to find Jesus, probably somewhere after: the phone ringing, that I forgot to respond to someone's email, how ugly the girl's skirt is in the bank, what time it is, what I'm going to eat for lunch, wondering if we remembered to feed the dog this morning, figuring out what I'm going to do with my life, realizing the light has turned green, reminding myself that I need to stop by the store on the way home, Jesus, I wonder what color we should paint the hallway, etc.

Now, my non-Jesus-y-ness is not something that I notice that often, much the way one might not take note breathing in and out all the time or what their face looks like all day. But sometimes, when all of the sudden I experience my level of Jesus-y-ness in comparison to someone else, I realize how much I fall short.

For instance, I was recently in the middle of a conversation with another minister in which we were discussing some innocuous non-church-related life happenings and I said something along the lines of "I guess sometimes you just need a different perspective." To which she responded, "Well, that's what Jesus did, isn't it? He took the lessons and teachings from the Torah and reinterpreted them so people could see them in a new light." (This is a verbatim conversation, I am not exaggerating.) I have to admit that in that moment I was dumbfounded. Because I hadn't been thinking about Jesus at all. I had been thinking about the ACTUAL thing we were talking about....not that thing as a functional metaphor for the miraculous and transformative power of Jesus in our lives. And I honestly did not know how to respond other than to say, "Yeah," sheepishly, as if I had had some opportunity to express my piety which I had utterly missed....much like those times when I start chowing down in the restaurant as soon as my food comes and then look up to see the other person looking at me curiously and then asking, condescendingly, "Should we pray?" which I usually end up doing with one french fry hanging out of my mouth.

Anyhow, all this got me thinking, am I ever thinking about Jesus that way? And if not, should I be? And who are the people that are thinking that way? How do they do it? Are they ever just talking about the thing we are talking about? Or are they always looking beyond it? How do I get there? I seriously think I could use some major help in this area. Because I'm worried someone's going to find out soon. And then there could be major trouble.

For now 20 hail marys and I'm off to bed.

p.s. Even though I'm a minister, I still find praying in restaurants before eating to be TOTALLY awkward. What is wrong with me? Was it Harvard Divinity School?

Too Long

2010-08-09T00:01:00.002-04:00

I've recently become aware of THE most wasteful and ridiculous development of recent history: the length of receipts. Has anyone noticed how freaking HUGE register receipts have gotten lately? Remember when they were just tiny slips about 2 inches wide and just a few inches long? Or when all they recorded was the cost of each item and then the total? Those days seem to be long gone.

I recently dashed into Star Market (the East Coast version of Albertsons for you Westcoasters) to buy exactly two items: a gallon of cheap lemonade and a box of fudgesicles. I went through the self-checkout lane to "save time"* and when I was finished, the receipt that printed for me was the most astounding artifact I have yet found of the super-sizing of all things American. The thing was approximately 5 inches wide, 7 feet long and had enough information on it that it must have included: my purchased items (including SKU, weight, regular price, sale price, price per ounce, price last year on this date, price I would have paid if I actually remembered my frequent shopper card, and a short narrative description of said item), the total (including what my total would have been had I saved with the shopper card), a customer service response survey, a message from the President of the company, my credit history, three coupons for things I didn't buy and the entire text of the New Testament. The ridiculousness only increased when I went home later and attempted to photocopy said receipt for record-keeping and reimbursement purposes. I had to fold the thing in thirds and press copy three different time to get it all!

When did this happen? And why did it become necessary? It's insane! I've concluded that by now there is probably an island of receipts floating somewhere off the coast of Malaysia the size of Manhattan. I know there is one at least the size of a generous size shoe box in my desk drawer.

* Tangent: WHY aren't ALL the self-checkout lanes open all the time? Isn't that the friggin POINT of self check-0ut? Why are half of them always closed so you still have to wait in line to check out your own damn groceries? ARGH.

I could hear every word...

2010-07-11T16:02:00.004-04:00

I once heard a saying that went something like this: Most people, if given the chance, will do the right thing most of the time.

I would like to share a new version of that teaching based on what I have learned in the reception line at the door of the church after the service. It is this: Most people, if given the chance, will say what they mean, somehow.

For those of you outside the church (or even those in it), you would be AMAZED at some of the things people will share as they shake your hand. Mostly, I very much appreciate them, as they are the comments that keep me humble, especially the ones about my preaching.

Now, I am not a great preacher. No, don't argue. I've been told so by very famous experts. But that is okay. I think I am decent (when I try) and I am at peace with that. When I was in seminary, I used to think I was great, but that was before I actually did it for a living. As it turns out, there is a difference between preaching once a month in your seminary gig (and having a month to prepare!) and preaching every week for the whole year. The later is like long distance running, a completely different activity than the 100 meter dash, one which requires patience and training.

But I digress. The real point is the things that people have said to me about my preaching, things that have informed how I see myself as a minister. Some of those who train ministers will tell you that you'll never hear honest feedback on preaching again after you leave seminary, but I've not found that to be true. Here are some of the highlights:

"I really liked your message today. It was so much more authentic than those other sermons you give about books and stuff."

"How many pages was your sermon today?"

"I can't really remember how our old pastor preached. I just remember that it was always really, you know, relevant."

Him: "Your sermon just wasn't very...funny." Me: "Well.....it was about death." Him: "Yeah...I guess. But you're so funny. It just wasn't that funny."

"I love your sermons, Pastor. They're so....short!"

Her: "I'd really like it if you preached more about the bible." Me: "I do preach about the bible." Her: "Oh. I guess I can't tell."

"I think you're going to be an amazing preacher in 5 to 10 years."

And one of my favorites: Her: "I could hear every word you said from the back pew." Me: "Yes, and what did you think about the content?" Her: Pause. "I could hear every word."

Jammin'

2010-07-11T15:46:00.005-04:00

Okay, friends. I thought I should update you about having made my first forray into the wild world of food preservation.

When I recently became obsessed with localvorism, I vowed that I would learn to can. "I'm going to can EVERYTHING," I told anyone who would listen. "I'll probably never go to the grocery store again," I self-righteously proclaimed.

I should note, for the sake of honesty, that upon hearing this my friend LW burst out laughing and screamed, "But why? They have CANS of stuff at the store."
"But this is BETTER," I said. "And FRESHER. And probably CHEAPER." I was right on the middle count, wrong on the others as it were. She was not the only one who was skeptical, however. My mother (helpfully) wondered where I was going to PUT the cans, given that our apartment is smaller than most average-sized SUVs. This is not to mention where I was going to put the canning equipment (which apparently includes a 200 gallon pot that, in retrospect, may not have fit on our 3/4 sized stove.)

So after waking up to reality and doing a bit of research, I decided that first I would try freezing. There are tons of recipes online for Freezer Jam, which you can make in smaller batches and store in the freezer until ready to use.

So I set out, bought some local raspberries and some type of crazy hippy pectin from the local co-op, went home and set about preserving.

Now, I must admit that this first attempt may not have been "worth it" in the traditional sense. Especially given the fact that it took several hours and my kitchen ended up looking like this:

However, ultimately, I did end up with a jam-like product that I had made myself, which was pretty thrilling (I was concerned that what I was actually making was frozen-fruit-mush, but it did set up overnight and turned very jam-ish.).

On the price front, however, I did not triumph. Total cost? $17. Which, as you might guess, is slightly more than even gourmet store-bought jam.

So the final count, as I see it, is as follows:
Me: 1
My friend LW: 1
Global Warming: 0

Can't wait until the next round!

I'm a PILOT!

2010-07-11T15:16:00.004-04:00

So, I'd like to officially nominate my husband for "Best Spouse on the Planet." (And no, I'm not biased.)

His nomination is based on many qualities and incidents (some of which have been reported here, some not), but mostly right now because for my birthday this year, he gave me the best gift ever.....WINGS!!

Well, actually, he gave me a day trip to Martha's Vineyard (which is paradise by the way, if you ever have the chance to visit). The most exciting and luxurious part of the day however was the fact that we flew there!
Typically, to get to Martha's Vineyard, one drives from Cambridge to Woods Hole, MA at the Southern base of Cape Cod (about a 2 hour drive with no traffic which is, well, never), after which one would park and make one's way to the ferry which would (in about an hour) take you to Martha's Vineyard. But, if you are REALLY cool, or your husband is SUPER amazing, you can FLY from Boston Logan in a tiny 10-seat Cesna across the coast to MV in just 37 minutes.
And, as if this special treatment weren't enough, I got to sit COPILOT on our way down. (This was not a part of the birthday plan, in fact, just a fluke of weight balance needs and the fact that we were at the front of the line.) It was INCREDIBLE! The dials were whirring and buzzing and the engines were LOUD as we bounced through the puffy clouds and watched the central coast of Massachusetts float by. The low altitude meant we could see EVERYTHING as we passed by: buildings we recognized and all the tiny inlets and moored boats as we approached the Cape.

We landed smoothly around 9:15 a.m. and spent the day touring around the island, eating crab cakes on the Marina, visiting light houses and swimming in the ocean. It was amazing.

Upon arriving back at the airport an hour before our flight, the woman at the counter asked "Boston?" (It's not that big of an airport.) When we said "yes," she said, "Great, we've been waiting for you." and quickly escorted us through security and in a few minutes onto the runway. We were apparently the only passengers on the return flight and flew in private style back to Boston at sunset.

What a day! Needless to say at this moment I am seriously considering getting my pilot's license and also winning the lottery. But, until I can work on that stuff, let me just say, "Thanks, Mr.LIOLI..you're the BEST!"

Hallmark Hell

2010-06-15T09:34:00.002-04:00

Father's Day is coming up this Sunday, which means that I recently spent a significant amount of time in Target's card aisle searching for the perfect card.

Now, I happen to share many traits with my father, including a general ability to get worked up about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Those of you who know me personally can attest to this: I can get worked up about almost anything. My father would call it "allowing myself to get annoyed." I like to think of it as "Poignant and Passionate Observations about the State of Things."

So it was not a huge surprise that there in the card aisle I got worked into a lather about the state of the greeting card industry. Mostly I was annoyed that I could not find anything that I felt would appropriately express my affection. Most cards seemed to simply reinforce antiquated gender stereotypes, which is fine, except that none of them apply to my father.

Here is representative sample of what I did find:
Hey, Dad! You're fat and love golf. Happy Father's Day!
It's Father's Day. You deserve time to sit on your ass, watch TV and let mom cook and clean.
Dad, you didn't really parent me that much. But what'd'ya say we drink 25 beers together, watch sports and fart at will to celebrate? Happy Father's Day.
Dad, I love that you fix things with your manly tools. Happy Father's Day.
Dad, thanks for all the hard-earned money you spent to get me this far in life. Happy Father's Day.

Seemingly, the only alternative to these more "humorous" options are the overly sappy poetic expressions of an unbelievably perfect father-child relationship that doesn't actually exist anywhere. Something that goes like this:

Dad, when you used to bounce me on your knee as a child, I always felt warm and protected by your manly father-ness. I knew you would always provide for me as was your genetic duty. Thanks for all the fishing trips and bike-rides and ball tosses and afternoons in the workshop building toys and laughing together that made me the (wo/man) I am today. Happy Father's Day to the best man who exists IN THE UNIVERSE and probably all nearby galaxies. You change my life.

I mean, this is great and all, and I do love my dad and think he is the best ever, but I'm not sure this is what I want to say to him on Father's Day in large script on a pastel background with abstract but manly swirls of silver overlay. (BTW, Dad, did you ever really bounce me on your knee?)

(Note: This problem is not one that only happens on Father's Day, but really on all holidays. Last year, for instance, I had a devil of a time trying to find a Mother's Day card for my grandmother that didn't make reference to the many cookies she had baked for me as a child. My grandmother is quite an incredible woman and an important part of my life. Unfortunately, though, I don't think she ever baked me any cookies and is therefore left out of the greeting card industry's idea of good grandmotherhood.)

So, I've decided that once I have saved the church, started my pizza joint, bought and managed an organic farm and vineyard, and finished saving for retirement, I will use what's left of my days to start my own greeting card company which will only print on recycled paper and express more straightforward sentiments such as:

Dad, you're an absolutely great guy. I'm glad you're my father. I love you. Happy Father's Day.

But until that day comes, I'll give a shout-out to my own dad here in the blogosphere:
Dad, you're an absolutely great guy. I'm glad you're my father. I love you. Happy Father's Day.
Love, Me

p.s. Dad-In case you're worried, I did send you an actual card, which I hope arrives on time. :)

Makeover!

2010-06-14T14:04:00.000-04:00

What's Up, Jesus? has got a new look! What'd'ya'think?

I'm a Farmer!

2010-06-14T13:16:00.013-04:00

When I recently decided I was ready to become a farmer, Mr. LIOLI suggested I combine this commitment with a desire to spruce up our building for summer (Redirection: the sign of a true enabler!). So, after 28 years of DESPISING gardening of any kind (Sorry, Mom!), I finally did it. And guess what? It worked! (Oh, and those little tags that tell you things grow to a certain height, those things are for real. Lesson learned.)
Here are the outdoor pots when I planted them about 2 months ago:

And here they are today:
We've got daisies and snapdragons, pansies and a ton of other things I don't know the name of:

Amazing what a little sun and rain will do! And we're beautifying the neighborhood, too:

That Mel Gibson's Got Passion

2010-06-14T12:39:00.005-04:00

I recently realized that I don't really have a passion. Now don't get me wrong, I'm passionate about many things, but I just don't have a passion, something I feel completely and utterly dedicated to as a single issue. Like Bob Barker and neutering pets or Mel Gibson and Jesus (or being crazy depending on how you look at it.)

The way I arrived at this realization was that someone asked me what my passion was and I just stared goofily at them and had nothing to say. (Note: This is something that happens frequently in the ministry. People will ask you what your passion is. This usually confuses me as I thought being a minister was my passion but apparently not. I've often thought that I should develop some witty and sarcastic response such as "Saving the World" after which all other passions listed by those present will seem silly and trivial. Either that or I'll look idealistic and vague.) Anyhow, the long and the short of it is, I don't have a passion.

The tough thing is that many of the people around me have passions. For instance, my co-w0rker RM has a passion: ecology. He lives and breathes and preaches and thinks about and reads about and travels to conferences on the earth. It informs who he is and what he's doing, and it is one of the things I admire the most about him. (Though I often tease him about some of his more over-the-top ideas about how to save the environment....No, RM, we're still not going to use the wood from the old pew backs to build bookshelves and garden boxes.)

But I've realized that I'm just not that good at having passions. I am more of a passion polygamist. Or maybe we can call it serial monogamy. I like to have one thing at a time that I am worked up about and then move onto the next thing before long. At different points in my life, I have been fixated on:Water Polo
Civic Education and Political Participation among young people in the US
Kickboxing
Health Care Access in Latin America
Pi Beta Phi International Fraternity
Spanish Literature
Dave Matthews Band
The Oregon State Legislature
Evolutionary BiologyDog Agility Competition
Canning
Djembe Drumming
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Localvorism/Food Culture

Unfortunately for our small living space and limited storage capabilities, each one of these passions has come with a variety of "must-have" items that the Beloved has sometimes provided sometimes tolerated, such as about 500 books, a djembe drum, and the following "energy-saving" purchase from the Cambridge Antique mall that came during a bout of passion about eco-stewardship:

What is it, you ask? It's a hand-operated coffee-grinder from West Germany. So I can grind my own coffee without having to waste precious coal-powered electricity. It took searching about 25 antique shops to find it. Now you see.......this is the problem. This is the silliness that happens when I have a passion. (By the way, to LW and AH whose response to this was "You know you only buzz the coffee grinder for, like, 3 seconds, right?" I say: "I'm doing the best I can.")

Do you think I should leave the passion to Christ?

The Price Always Seems to be Right

2010-06-14T11:35:00.004-04:00

What is it with "The Price is Right"? I have ALWAYS loved this show and I think I will always love it. Even though I understand it is simply an extended paid advertisement for household goods that I don't care about, interrupted by more paid advertisements for Medicare Supplement coverage and Hoverround motorized chairs. (Which makes me wonder, am I THE only person under 70 years old watching this?)

I guess there is just something really awesome about people in homemade t-shirts playing ridiculous games like Plinko in order to get lots of free stuff they don't need and money.

The F-Word

2010-06-09T12:48:00.013-04:00

I've just been exposed to a strange and mystical world that I have never before been privy to: the life of the Feline (No, not that other f-word....sinners.). Anyhow, we are cat-sitting for a friend who has left the country for a month. And I can already say that I've learned more than I ever wanted to know about cats. I feel like a wildlife biologist most of the time watching this strange creature and wondering what the HELL it is thinking....or why humans ever bothered to try to domesticate them in the first place.

Now I've read all the email forwards about the differences between cats and dogs, but I never knew they were this true. Dogs, I know from 5 years of having a large dog as part of our family, are categorically 1) interested in what you are doing, 2) committed to doing what you want unless completely distracted, and 3) desirous of your affection at all times. (See left.) Cats on the other hand don't seem to give a rat's ass what I am doing or what I would like them to do and about my affection.

Also, I've learned that cats spend about 22.5 hours a day doing this:

Except for select periods (usually around 5 a.m., 3 p.m. and 10 p.m.) when they suddenly transform into huge fuzzy pinballs zipping around the house as though they are having some sort psychotic episode fueled by a video-game-esque turbo boost. During these periods, they may be prone to engage in any of the following d:
1) Attempting to climb pieces of furniture not designed to accommodate the weight or movement of a living creature.

2) Perching atop said furniture in order to swat at the dog's head and face.

3) Digging in the dog's food bowl.
4) Jumping into the sink and bathtub.
5) Bulletting in and out of a small vinyl tunnel apparently designed for this purpose. (See below.)

6) Meowing for no apparent reason.
AND 7) Knocking things off flat surfaces including, but not limited to, framed photos, keys, small trinkets, cosmetics and other items made from breakable material (Note: If you want to make sure your adrenline system is still working, try being woken up in the early hours of the morning by the sound of several cut glass decanters FULL of various liquors crashing to the floor and spilling everywhere. Then run out into the living room to find the cat sitting, unassumingly in the window as if nothing has happened....yes, I KNOW.)

All that said, I am glad to have had a glimpse into the life of my cat-owning friends. Perhaps now I understand them a bit better (Cat-lovers: Can you corroborate any of this?). Because they can be pretty damn cute. And it's been a good character building experience for the LIOLI hound.

But overall, I have to say that I think I'll be ready to head back to being a dog-only household when the month is over (to say nothing of the dog's readiness to go back to a single pet household!). At least until I give up drinking, framed photos, dogs, anxiety and a clean sink.

Basil Shout-Out

2010-06-09T12:29:00.005-04:00

About a year ago, our friend RT gave us a small basil start in a red plastic solo cup (the kind you used to drink cheap beer out of in college). We had high hopes for the future bushels of basil that would yield enough pesto to keep us in pasta and paninis until Jesus came back. But unfortunately, for the entirety of the year, it remained a stem about 2" long with only two small, pathetic looking leaves. In fact, it never grew beyond the rim of the cup in its long, sad life. We couldn't bring ourselves to harvest the two sad leaves lest we leave the plant no means by which to photo-synthesize itself into 2 new leaves (NOTE: I don't know anything about science.), so we left it be. But recently, in our whirlwind of local sustainable obsession, we replanted it into our "urban-window-herb-garden" (READ: A pot on the window sill.) and it took off! It's hibernation ended in kind of a ugly-duckling type transformation. You can see it here on the left, tall and spindly but sprouting leaves like crazy!

So we decided to carry out our first harvest. Though I suggested we observe an 8-day celebration in which we would sleep in an outdoor lean-to like on the Jewish harvest festival of Sukkot (See, a degree is theology IS relevant! Take that, world.), we decided we'd just take some kitchen sheers and go at it. And we did. Here is our first harvest: (Praise God for the abundance of blessings!)

We thought pesto an appropriate use of this radical abundance, so we started to make preparations. Unfortunately, we did have to supplement our crop with the teensiest-weensiest bunch of additional basil bought at the farmer's market and show here in the right:

But overall, I thought our home-grown stuff really made the difference. So shout out to RTT for helping us on our first steps to becoming urban farmers. We hope to have you over for pesto soon!

Local MADNESS

2010-06-09T11:41:00.008-04:00

Being the minister in our family, it is no surprise that I do not have much trouble believing in things. Whenever I hear a good idea or a clever ad or a captivating story, my tendency is, more often than not, to believe it. It's not because I'm gullible (though my beloved might disagree....actually he would say that I'm a "victim of advertising."), but just that I have an easy time having faith in things.

So it makes sense that when I recently read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, that I bought in, hook line and sinker. The book chronicles Kingsolver's attempt to spend one year eating almost exclusively things that were grown or raised within 100 miles of her home. It weaves together her tales of small-scale farming, chicken raising and bread baking with sobering commentary on what she would call the American "food culture." The main conclusion is that what most of us are eating isn't good for us or the earth and that a return to local, sustainably produced goods is a necessary step to save the earth and our waistlines. To me, it sounded like the gospel. And so it was that I boarded the localvore bandwagon and set off to save the world and a few pounds through local eating.

I decided that from now on I would only buy local, sustainably produced goods, no exceptions. I researched CSAs: regular farm, meat CSAs, fish CSAs and flower CSAs. I even researched GRAIN CSAs and dreamt about baking all of our own bread. I tried raw milk. I signed up for cheesemaking class. I looked online for canning manuals. I insisted that we plant a window herb garden. I proclaimed that I was ready to become a farmer.

Now, unfortunately for me and for Mr.LOILI, I had this literature-induced epiphany in the middle of March. In New England. And do you know, dear readers, what is grown locally in March in New England? Not a damn thing.Now I should admit that when I first tried to sell Mr. LOILI on this new lifestyle, his response was "What kind of local food are you going to eat in the winter in New England?" But instead of taking his suggestion into consideration, I received it as I usually do: with a childish expression of deep annoyance at his overly rational thinking and inability to drink the koolaide of my ultra-liberal, sometimes mercurial passions. "DON'T YOU THINK IT'S IMPORTANT THAT WE NOT RUIN THE ENTIRE WORLD?!??!??!" I bellowed, "DON'T YOU THINK WE SHOULDN'T WASTE GAS SHIPPING STUFF ALL OVER THE DAMN WORLD, KILLING THIRD WORLD ECONOMIES AND POLLUTING THE EARTH JUST SO WE CAN EAT WHATEVER WE WANT?!??!?" I then subjected him to listening to sections of the AVM book on tape, at which point, I think he went back to reading Consumer Reports magazine, hoping it would blow over.

But it did not. The next evening, when we had nothing for dinner in the house, I said, "Let's go to the store to get something." (Seeminly innocuous invitation.) "Okay," he says." "But" (now I've got him), "it is really, really, really, REALLY important to me that we only buy local ingredients." I said this with a specific tone that I sometimes use which means: If we don't do this, I will probably die, because you will be rejecting the one thing that is most important to me in the world. Or at least the one thing that is most important to me in the world today. I think Mr. LIOLI has learned how to identify this tone by now, because his response was a cautious: "Okay, but you should know, there might not be too much." Yeah right, I thought.

Well, needless to say, it was an exhausting 30 minutes. The Mr. had been right. NOTHING was local. In fact, when I asked the produce clerk if there was any local produce to be had he just stared at me blankly and then after a long pause, said, "From here?......It's winter....." and then continued stacking Brazilian peppers and Israeli tomatoes in the bin with a mystified intensity. Damn. We went home disappointed with a pizza crust from Connecticut, a $17/pound chunk of mozzarella from Vermont (is Vermont more than 100 miles away? Must google that) and the only can of pizza sauce in the store that wasn't made in Italy. Maybe we'd wait a few more months.

All this is to say that I am particularly excited this year that SUMMER IS HERE! This week we made our first trips to the farmers markets and my dream was realized. On the menu this week:
Spinach and Asparagus Quiche (w/ local fresh eggs and local, organic asparagus and spinach)
Local and Sustainably Produced Italian Hot Sausage with a side of sauteed Kale
BBQed Shrimp with Mint Pesto and Orzo SaladMozzarella and Basil Panini with Fresh, Homemade PestoLocal, Small-Batch Ice-Cream with Fresh, Local Strawberries

I owe a major debt of gratitude to Mr.LIOLI for putting up with this tomfoolery and put a shout-out to anyone who has any canning advice for me. It's going to be a great summer!

Here's a picture of our quiche (first one ever...Mr.LIOLI was responsible for the crust which was about 78% butter and PERFECTLY cooked...hey, didn't I say this was supposed to be healthy?):

And here's a pic of the mojitos we made with the truckload of fresh mint we bought (Hint: We've tried many recipes for mojitos and been sorely disappointed. But these were great. The trick: double the mint, lime and rum. Yumo! I LOVE localvorianism.)

And some fresh flowers from a local farmer. (I came home delighted and announced, "I also got these beautiful LOCAL dahlias," to which, the beloved responded, "That great. They're really beautiful, except that those are peonies.")

Why Bother

2010-04-16T15:22:00.004-04:00

Over drinks last night at a local bar that is way more trendy than I am, my good friend articulated a question that has pretty much been on my mind every minute that I've been a minister: Why bother to do what we are doing?

This friend of mine also works in the church and is moving toward ordination in our denomination (a ridiculously and excruciatingly thorough process of jumping through dozens of pre-prescribed hoops at specific intervals, though I can say this somehow does nothing to limit the number of wackos that become ordained ministers.) Anyhow, what he was getting at was this: is this all worth it? Is there any reason to stick with this church thing? Or is Christianity just some irrelevant throwback that has little to contribute to the lives of modern, progressive people? Will all this "religion stuff" eventually peter out, at which point the rest of the world will be relieved that they can forget about all the silliness?

Both the arrival of new-atheism and recent trends in church membership might tell you that the answer to the question of "why bother?" is "don't." As it seems, the church is dying. Most mainline American denominations have fewer members than they have ever had in American history, and, while there are many guesses as to why this is, the fact remains: fewer and fewer people are going to church.

As the pastor of a tiny church on the edge of complete collapse, I could have told you that. Actually, as an average American twenty-something, I could have told you that. A quick mental survey tells me that (excluding the people I met in Divinity School), I probably only have two friends who go to church regularly. And I can understand why. Even I am not immune from the temptation of forgoing the Sunday ritual. As I pass the joggers and walkers enjoying the sun along the Charles river on my way to church each week, I often wonder if perhaps it wouldn't be more fulfilling to be one of them, or to enjoy a late Sunday brunch, or read the paper.

But something keeps me coming back. Every time I feel compelled to give it all up to become a Barista and eat Sunday brunch, something happens that reminds me of why I haven't done it yet: something reminds me that church is a little bit great.

I say a little bit great, because I don't think it will ever be very great. People in the church are just as petty and angry and selfish and afraid as the rest of the people in the world. It is not always pretty. But it is beautiful. A little bit great.

It's a little bit great because every week I go to a place in which people are choosing to be together: not because it's hip, or because there is nothing better to do, and not even because they like each other all the time (they don't), but because it brings something out in them that is good. Every week I go to a place where people help each other, not because they have to, or because it will get them somewhere, but because they can and in that remember that they want to. Every week I go to a place where people take responsibility for themselves and one another: admitting that they're not perfect, and forgiving each other for not being perfect. It's a place where stories are told and emotions shared, a place in which we are reminded of what our best selves might be. In a way, we are like the joggers on the river, training for a race of compassion, building our tolerance for difference, and fine-tuning our humility and grace. We are not better. But we are trying. And I have to believe that it's worth it to try.

For now, for my money, for as long as it lasts, I think that's a great way to spend my Sunday. That's why.

2010-04-09T13:37:00.004-04:00

When I first arrived at my church as the pastor 9 months ago, the office I was to inhabit was completely empty except for four things: two phonebooks, a broken space heater, and a crown of thorns. When I began to worry about this unpleasant welcoming gift and its intended recipient, someone told me not to worry. "It's for Holy Week," they told me. I dismissed it. If having that same conversation today, I would respond: No Shit.

In case you were unaware (or are Unitarian or live on another continent), last week was "Holy Week," or the week of the Christian calendar leading up to Easter Sunday. Now if you're not a regular participant in a church, you might not be aware that Holy Week is full of various opportunities to observe the journey of Jesus from his entry into Jerusalem to his death on the cross. It begins on Palm Sunday and proceeds through Holy Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday (yes these are real things!) onto Maundy Thursday (I've already forgotten about what Maundy means....I have to look it up every year), Good Friday (a silly name if you ask me) and Holy Saturday. This pattern is meant to provide various entry points into the story of Jesus' ministry and his passion (read: suffering) and should, if done right, be a transformational and deeply spiritually enriching experience.

That is, unless you're a pastor. If you're a pastor, then you are on a different journey which could legitimately be renamed "Death Week" (Jesus' or my own, I'm not sure) or "Let's go to church every day Week" or "Work your pastor like an oxen Week." Now, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but not totally. In fact, I've realized that my spiritual expectations of this most sacred schedule should be adjusted from a following in Jesus' footsteps to participation in his enduring suffering. Just kidding....actually not really. In was a whirlwind of various and crazy tasks, and having survived it, I almost can't believe it actually happened.

To give you a sense of what I'm talking about, here are a number of the tasks which I found myself doing last week:

Sunday: Arrived at church 2 hours earlier than normal to prepare for worship and then bundle up with 7 layers of outerwear in order to lead the Palm Sunday parade down Main Street in the 20 degree weather. Negotiated with several disgruntled donkey handlers and befuddled police officers the delayed start time of the parade. Distributed 3 million palm branches to participants and baffled onlookers (though somehow we ended up with 5 millon palm branches left over, and a giant crucifix someone had anonymously donated for the occasion. Didn't have time to let them know we wouldn't be crucifying anyone until Friday.) Proceeded down Main Street accompanied by song and off-beat drumming. Rubbed hands together to rewarm them such that I might regain finger dexterity and be able to break off carrot pieces for children to feed to the donkey. Considered feeding children to the donkey. Decided against it. Had church.

Monday: Caught up on work for my other job. Responded to three thousand emails. Tried to feel generally holy. Gave up lenten discipline of avoiding cheese and justified it by telling myself that actually, I mean theologically, lent was over on Palm Sunday. Felt guilty. Ate more cheese to make up for it. Created Easter Bulletin.

Tuesday: Met with Co-Pastor to plan three Holy Week services, having fumbled our two other (reasonably earlier) attempts to meet for this purpose. Labeled it "Being Led by the Spirit," and not "Obscene Procrastination." Attended our church's yoga class. Tried to feel even more holy. Held a "holy week" bible study about Jesus' suffering and crucifixion. Ended up mostly discussing the politics of the Roman occupation of Israel. Got home at 10 p.m. Ate too much leftover Indian take-out including that spinach dish with Indian Cheese. Considered feeling guilty. Considered barfing. Did neither.

Wednesday: Presided over communion at a holy week service at my seminary. Had one dozen people tell me my clerical collar "actually looks legitimate." Was confused as to what this meant as it is legitimate. Thought fleetingly about writing my Easter sermon. Then stopped. Labeled it "I'm still being led by the Spirit." Went to hand drumming class convinced that a djembe beat underneath "Come Thou Font of Every Blessing" will save our church. Came home at 10. Ate more Indian Food. Drank two glasses of wine.

Thursday: Ran around most of the day gathering supplies for Maundy Thursday service including soup, towels, bubble bath, plastic spoons. Forgot the towels at home. Moved 1200 chairs around in the church. Cooked soup. Ripped bread apart after not being able to locate a knife as they have all been stolen from the church. Attended Maundy Thursday tenebrae service at neighboring church. Was reminded why I don't go to that church. Washed people's feet. With the bubble bath. Got my dry clean only pants soaking wet. Felt very holy. Went to sleep.

Friday: Awoke. Read the psalms to get in holy mode. Sat down to write my sermon. Felt led by the spirit to surf the internet instead, and eat lunch, and take a nap and profread the Easter bulletin. Pressed husband (who had been released early from work) into service of the Good Friday worship service. Drove to church. Set up, which mostly involved lighting 28,000 candles and thinking about justice. Was annoyed that it got dark during the Good Friday service such that no one could see the bulletin. Winged it. Thought about death. Sung "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" Went home. Discovered we were out of Indian take-out. Considered going back to school to become a dental assistant.

Saturday: Told self and husband "No seriously, I am going to write my sermon all day today. This is the most important day of the year....and it's going to be really holy." Immediately convinced self and husband that I would work on it later while we went on a quick shopping trip to Costco, Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, Petsmart, Home Depot, Verizon Wireless and Whole Foods. Wasn't quick. Returned home to dye eggs for the egg hunt. Boiled and cooled them before realizing they were brown. Damn it. Dyed them anyway, which produced a muted, poop-like marbled effect. Considered crying. Ate more cheese. Hoped the spirit would lead me to a great idea for my sermon. Didn't happen. Began to panic. Lamented the obscene procrastination and my own complicit denial. Recovered. Wrote my mediocre Plan B sermon idea up in time to leave for Holy Saturday Vigil. Helped locate matches for lighting the BBQ grill which would serve as our "bonfire" for the Christ light. Briefly considered how ghetto our church can be. Moved on. Proclaimed the resurrection. Put out lillies. Went home. Hoped Jesus would be resurrected.

Sunday: Arrived early. Hid eggs. Responded to tantrum of the child who didn't find the last egg. Had church. Delivered mediocre sermon. Husband confirmed its non-greatness. Considered crying. Decided against it. Helped host the church's ham lunch while considering the irony of eating pig to commemorate the death and resurrection of a devout Jew. Did dishes. Compelled husband into service doing most dishes. Wondered why it was my job to do dishes. Wondered why I got into this line of work. Remembered. Went home. Took a nap. Gathered for dinner with other ministers and their spouses. Party ended by 8. Went to bed.

And that, my friends, is holy-ness is a nut-shell! See you again next year!

The Return of the Prodigal Blogger

2010-04-09T13:10:00.005-04:00

So I haven't been blogging too much recently, mostly because I haven't had much time in between teaching class, saving the church, observing holy week and getting a few zzzs every now and then. But I have missed it and had great intentions to get back into it just on the off chance there are two or three of you out there who have not given up checking my site. I always experience these periodic zings of blogging inspiration when I'm no where near the computer, so none of them, recently, has translated into an actual post. There are also the times in which I mentally escape from the more frustrating aspects of my jobs by daydreaming about my future career as a professional blogger. This seems especially plausible when I hear stories from my friends about mommy blogs that make $40,000 a month in advertising and product trials (though I must stop and ask exactly who would advertise on this ecclectic blog with only about three regular readers, one of whom lives with me.) But obviously, the motivation hasn't been overwhelming as this hasn't lead to a concrete post either.

But anyhow, if you can regain faith in me, I promise to put proper effort into returning to the blogosphere starting today. Oh, and if you know any advertisers for fine foods, theological treatises or good humor, send them this way.

Oh Happy Day

2010-03-08T13:56:00.002-05:00

It's 58 degrees here today, which might not sound like a big deal to those of you who hail from warmer climates, but today is a divine blessing amidst the hell that is the journey through February and March in New England. You can tell that even this short lasting spurt of spring-like temperatures has planted the seed of hope in many around here: I saw someone this morning wearing a sundress and sandals.....a bit optimistic for temps in the 50s but I applaud her optimism. I even thought I spied some crocus buds while walking the dog this weekend. Hopefully, this means spring is springing!

Enough to Make it Stick

2010-02-05T11:15:00.002-05:00

I've been wondering recently why some things our parents teach us stay with us in dramatic ways while others fall by the wayside. (Note: Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, know this is by no means a critique of your instructional or parental abilities, only an assessment of my rate of absorption. I love you guys.)

My parents taught me a lot of things. They taught me to eat healthily (including to eat whole wheat bread, to limit soda drinking, and to reserve sugar cereal for special occasions). They taught me to be polite when I was someone's guest, not to use foul language and to always write thank you notes. And they taught me about a billion other things which are too numerous to list here, some of which I'm probably not even aware that they taught me.

Now, here I am, approaching 30 years old, and I can offer the following assessment of my life: I hate whole wheat bread. I do buy it and eat it because my husband (brainwashed into believing in its unique wholesomeness by his parents) demands that we have it. But I complain about it regularly, and know that if I lived on my own, it would be wonderbread and sourdough all the way. I do drink soda, a lot (diet now, I'm getting old you know), and I buy sugar cereal on non-celebratory occasions. I use foul language (although we've instituted an imaginary swear jar in our household to curb this socially-problematic habit. At this point I imaginarily owe $764, mostly due to my repeated failure to conquer Super Mario Bros Wii Level 8 Castle.)

But, I CANNOT receive ANYTHING of ANY value from ANYONE EVER without writing a thank you note. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about lists of people to whom I should write thank you notes. I worry about whether I should write thank you notes in response to gifts that were thank you gifts to me. I write notes to my immediate family and to close friends who, on some occasions, have asked me to please not write them so many thank you notes because it is weird and guilt-inducing. I write some people several notes in one week, and I write thank you notes for things that were other people's jobs to do. I cannot stop.

Which makes me wonder: Why is this the thing that stuck? Why was this aspect of my parents' teaching so influential while some other things clearly backfired in the overall scheme of forming a future person? What is the substance of things parented that makes it stick?