Enough to Make it Stick

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?

Sometimes

Sometimes, I really wonder how I've gotten this far in life. Mostly this is because sometimes I have complete mental lapses that transport me to an alternate universe in which really stupid things seems sensible.

For instance, this morning I woke up and sleepily opened the freezer to find only two (both problematic) coffee options: Ecuadorian Coffee Beans and Jack Daniels Flavored Coffee (from one of those liquor-flavored coffee holiday gift packs that always seem like a better idea when you receive them than when you're going to make coffee at 9 a.m. in the morning). Now you might ask why Ecuadorian Coffee Beans (hand carried from Ecuador nonetheless) fall under the category of problematic options. Well, it's because we don't own a coffee grinder. Aside: There are many challenges to living in an extremely small space, one of which is, obviously, that you don't have room for lots of stuff. So, we've decided to forgo owning a coffee grinder (and a microwave and toaster, which leads to less rubbery leftovers but a lot of burnt toast.). Anyhow, no coffee grinder for us. So what to do... (Imagine a psychedelic swooshing sound as I am transported into alternate stupid universe.)

Clearly, my alternate-universe mind told me, I should just find another way to grind the beans. I mean, Jack Daniels coffee in the morning? That's just too much. So I set about searching our kitchen for another method of coffee grinding. I thought food processor, but didn't feel like cleaning the whole thing afterward. Blender? No, not strong enough of a blade. And then I came upon the pot of gold at the end of my bimbo-rainbow: the mortar and pestal. Though I was rationally aware that we had bought this device to grind small quantities of spices, I figured, hey, why not? Without another thought, I pulled it out, poured in about a half cup of coffee and began to grind away. It was one of those instance where using primitive tools really makes you appreciate societal progress. Mortar-and-pestaling, it turns out, is hard work. But, I thought, it's working.

Now I should make clear that my life partner was, of course, not home when I chose to do this, for he usually serves as the voice of reason when this strange twilight-zone loss of intelligence moments occurs. He would have said, "Why don't you just go across the street and get some coffee if you really want some that badly?" or "That's not going to work. Why don't you just try the J.D. kind? It's not like it really has liquor in it." But alas, he was at work making money because, you know, he has a "job". Whilst I was at home, making coffee, because I have a "vocation."

After probably ten minutes of grinding when I was nearing the risk of forearm cramping, I stopped to assess. Unfortunately, the mushy substance in the mortar didn't resemble anything close to ground coffee. There were still huge chunks of the bean shells and the rest was somewhere between find powder and medium sized gravel. Now, because I can be both ridiculous and self-aware at the same time, I heard myself saying, "You know, this is probably better. I mean, the bleeding heart liberals are always talking about how our food is over-processed. But this, this is perfect. You know, we should have our coffee au natural. I think the chunks of beans will help give it depth." (If you think, I'm exaggerating, think again. This is a word-for-word account of my thought process.)

So I dumped the coffee carcasses into the french press, added some boiling water, let it set a few minutes and then filled up my mug. Yummm, I thought. My resourcefulness is so satisfying, I mused, and will certainly add to the wonderfulness of this experience.

To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most terrible cups of coffee I've ever had. Somehow (maybe because of the bean shells?) it was simultaneously watery but bitter with sandy chunks. Next time, I'll try to remind myself to take the Jack Daniels and once I'm caffeinated enough try to devise some sort of early warning system to stop me from culinary (and all other) undertakings while I'm in this state.

They're just not pants.

If you know me well, then you've heard me say it a million times. But I think it's important to get this important public service message out there to the broader online community, so here goes:

Leggings are not pants.

I'm sorry if this seems like a shock to you, but it's the truth. They're not pants. They're just not. They may seem like pants in that they maybe shaped like pants, but they are in fact, something completely different. So please stop treating them like pants and wearing them by themselves. You're exposing all sorts of things to the world that God intended for you to keep private. Such as your butt cheeks. Aside from which it is a fashion faux-pas. That's it. They're not pants. No questions. The End. Goodbye.

Chinese Chow-Down

The Chinese place down the street from which we regularly get take-out gave us four fortune cookies with our order the other evening. Is this a bad omen that we are eating too much to confront our winter blues?

The Consumation of Compromise

I was just reminded by a recently married friend how much of adjustment it can be to get married (or make a long term commitment to someone else) and realize that everything in your entire life has now become a collaborative endeavor. Suddenly every single detail of your life goes from simple decision to two-party discussion; from what time you wake up to what time you go to bed, what you eat for dinner to where you open a savings account, what kind of peanut butter you buy to what TV program you watch. And that takes some energy to adjust to. This is not to say that there is anything bad about this transition, in fact there are many instances in which having two heads (or hearts or bank accounts or senses of humor) to apply to any of life's curveballs can be life-giving. But I do think that it is important to acknowledge, within a culture that treats pairing off as the ideal lifestyle, that this type of lifestyle is a compromise, one that takes energy, and may not be for everyone. Especially those who are particularly committed to a particular brand of peanut butter.

Litmus Test: Trial by Priest

You know how sometimes it's difficult to know what you really think about something? For instance, sometimes I'll tell my Beloved what our options are for dinner, but once he picks one of them I realize that that wasn't what I wanted. (If you're wondering whether or not this is annoying to my partner-in-crime, the answer is a resounding YES!). Or if someone asks you if killing is wrong, you say "yes," but then they follow it up with "but what if you could save 5 million other lives by killing someone" and you have to rethink your position.

Well, I think I've developed a new ethical litmus test for moral questions. Ask yourself the following question: Would it seem strange to you if a priest did it while wearing a collar?

Several weeks ago, I was watching part of a poker tournament on TV (Don't judge...as I've said, we really don't have that many channels.) And one of the players was a Catholic priest. Wearing a collar. Right there playing poker. On television. And I was completely stupefied. He just shouldn't be doing that! I thought. It's totally inappropriate! What does he think he's doing?
Mr. Love-it-or-leav-itt, always the realist, asked, "What's the problem? Do you think playing poker is morally wrong?"
"Well, of COURSE not," I said. "I just don't think a PRIEST should be doing it in his COLLAR on TELEVISION." (I always speak in all capital letters when I am defending myself against the usually rational always sensible stylings of THE HUSBAND.) But I had to ask myself, if I didn't think it was wrong, why couldn't a priest do it? Even believing clergy need to hold themselves to a higher moral standard in public would indicate that I thought the highest moral ideal was NOT to be playing poker on television. So I decided to apply this to a few other situations: Should a priest in a clerical collar smoke cigarettes? Probably not. Hmmmm.....I didn't think I had a problem with smoking. Should he have a cocktail? Weeeelllllll.....maybe not with the collar. (Woah! I thought. Who was this morally conservative person I was actually turning out to be?) Let's keep going. Should a priest in a collar bet on horse races? Definitely not. Go to a sketchy night club and grind the night away on some cute babes? No WAY! Don't get me wrong...some of this stuff is stupid or unhealthy, but I didn't think I thought it was morally wrong. But something must be wrong if I thought a priest couldn't do it. I tried applying it to situations I knew I already thought were okay: Gay priest in a collar? Fine. Priest in a polling place voting? No problem. Priest on a date? Seems fine to me.

Now I know there are a lot of things going on here: the distinction between the person and the role, the public versus the private life of clergy, but I still believe there's something interesting here, a type of priestly ethical test. There are certainly things in my own life as a pastor that I would not want my congregation to see me doing in my collar. But why not? Do I believe, deep down, that they are wrong? Or am I just making a healthy distinction between personality and profession? I'm not sure yet, but it's definitely something to think on. And a rather fun imagination game for commercial breaks during the poker tournament!

Parenting in a Winter Wonderland (A Theological Treatise)

The weather's been pretty harsh around here lately: freezing temperatures, rain, snow, wind...all typical for New England this time of year. I've adjusted to most of it now, but not to one particular aspect of North Eastern weather: Snow and Rain Mix. Snow and Rain Mix is something I had rarely experienced before moving here, and I've still not developed a successful defensive strategy for it. Now, mind you, I am not talking about sleet (at least I don't think I am...native New Englanders, feel free to weigh in at any time.) A simple google search of the definition for sleet returns a number of definitions: frozen rain, frozen precipitation, ice pellets, partially melted snow/partially frozen rain (which is it?) or, my personal favorite, "Partially frozen drizzle. Stings when it hits the skin." But what I'm talking about is full on rain AND snow both happening at exactly the same time. Though this may seem meteorologically impossible, I have seen it happen many times: go outside and it is BOTH pouring down rain and snowing heavily. The most difficult part about this particular situation is what to wear in this instance. Most rain gear is not designed for the low temperatures capable of producing snow, and most snow gear, while water resistant, is not meant to be worn in heavy rain.

But let's get to the heart of the matter, which was that the other day, it was raining and snowing, both heavily, at the exact moment that I decided I could not live another minute without having a bagel and cream cheese (this happens to me quite often if you were wondering), but which we did not have either of in the house. So I planned a quick dash to our local market, figuring that only driving a few blocks in the Rain and Snow couldn't be too bad. On the way, while stopped at a stop light, I saw the following sight:

A man, who appeared to be in his early thirties, pushing a stroller down the street. The man was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a puffy down jacket (both made for snow, not so good in the rain) and looking, frankly, like a drowned rat. His clothes were soaked, from the top of his hood down to his tennis shoes and the look on his face betrayed that he was not, at that particular instance, praising God for the beauty of creation. The child, however, due to the very handy invention of the plastic stroller cover, was bone-dry. That was the life, I thought, living large in your dry, plastic-covered pod, without a care in the world, getting pushed down the street by some sucker who didn't know better than to grow up. But apparently, the kid and I were not on the same wavelength. Because the kid, apparently, did not want, at that moment, to stay put in the dry, plastic stroller-pod and ponder the blessings of childhood, but instead wanted to try to remove the plastic covering and observe the world going by directly. His repeated attempts to pull up the edge of the plastic covering and throw it off caused his father to have to pause and push the cover back down every few feet, thus increasing the adult's wetness factor and delaying their arrival at whatever dry destination they were shooting for.

Oh man, I thought, I would be SO PISSED at that little whippersnapper. Out here in the Rainsnow for Christ's sake. Don't you realize what's best for you?? Do you want to come out here and push this damn stroller yourself?!??!?? (Maybe this reaction is why I'm not a parent.) On the other hand, I thought, maybe a parent would be happy to push his beloved child down the street in the pouring/blizzarding rain/snow. Maybe once you're a parent, something fundamentally changes about your sense of self-interest and self-preservation, a kind of twilight-zone brain shift, and all of the sudden you'd be overjoyed that you could sacrifice your own comfort and sanity in order to provide a dry ride for your offspring. But then I recovered from my flash of idealism and realized that most parents, realistically, are probably smack-dab in the middle: 50% annoyed as hell that the damn kid won't stay put and 50% head over heels in love with them even when they do.

And then I thought I hope this is what God thinks about us. That God notices all our little screw-ups, and is annoyed as hell that we insist on continually straying away from the protection of God's grace, but that God loves us all the same and so keeps pushing us down the street.

I pulled into the parking lot, dashed into get my bagel and returned home quick. And after enjoying an absolutely delicious bagel, I resolved to try not to annoy God for the rest of the day....at least not until lunch.