Laura's Front Porch

Something interesting has occurred for me this first week of Lent that has never before. In attempting to follow the Orthodox tradition of slowing down in Lent to focus more on God and what He means in my life I've given up a few things. The first and most obvious one is the fast. We've gone vegan for lent and I've had to re-learn how to cook. Our first experience with "Boca Burgers" was definitely interesting! After his first bite, Jim said, "You know, I think I'd rather just not eat meat than have some replacement. I think that's the point." In other words, "they're gross...just stick with the veggies!"

I think, however, that another of the Lenten traditions has had a bit more of an effect on me. In reading, Schmemman's Great Lent, I discovered that another of it's prescriptions is to give up or at least curtail entertainment in order to focus more on the spiritual. This was a little more difficult for me. Not because I didn't want to give up on entertainment, but because I didn't have that much in the way of entertainment to give up in the first place. We don't have cable so I never watch T.V. Movies are not something we see regularly because of a lack of cash flow so that wasn't really an option either.

I ended up deciding to give up my participation on an internet message board that is based around a popular band. This was a bit difficult for me, because I enjoyed the interaction found on that message board and felt I had some relationships, tenuous in a sense because I had never met those I interacted with there, but relationships just the same. I have asked for prayer of the other participants during times of distress, just as I have here, and received many assurances of the prayers offered of my friends there. However, I felt continued participation there would be somewhat of a distraction to my Lenten goal of focusing on my faith.

Giving up that participation has allowed me to spend more time reading the Psalter every day. I try to read 5 Psalms every day with the commentary provided included in, The Psalter and the Holy Fathers in addition to reading, The Orthodox Way, but Kallistos Ware. I also decided to tackle Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamozov, which I know is a novel, but by all accounts has much to say about man's spirituality. Obviously, my mind is now focusing more on ideas within the spiritual realm. I do miss the limited interaction I had with my friends on the internet board, but am finding that the focus on the more spiritual is definitely a blessing.

It's kind of like your nose. You know you have nose, but you just don't think about it's being there. Until it begins to run, or sneeze, or itch. Once it starts giving you trouble, you know you have a nose and think about it often, until it goes back to it's normal state or medicate yourself to the point that you don't care if you even have a nose. Once I began to focus more on my spiritual side, slow down and allow God to creep into all the cracks of my soul...of which there are many, I noticed the itch that needed scratching. It was a big itch and had been covered over with many layers of stuff, none of it bad necessarily, but most definitely distracting...static.

Last night, I attended our Parish's "Little Compline with Akathist" service. It is an absolutely beautiful service of hymns/prayers offered in honor of the Blessed Mother. I'm sure that description is lacking in some Orthodox fashion but it's the best I can do right now. I'm finding more of an appreciation for the Theotokos the more I learn about her. I was moved to tears as I read and recited some of the prayers. I think much of my affinity for her is because she was a mother...she probably experienced slobber on her shoulder. It's a bit scandalous to think of God slobbering, but if He came into the world for a time as a baby, it's highly likely that He did indeed slobber.

I can't share all I felt about that service without filling up much space here with my spiritual ramblings. I will say this, the experience last night was deeper and richer for me. As I've focused more on my spritual person this week by turning down the static, I've come to know the areas that I covered over with earthly balms in an attempt to forget about or at least not notice them so much. This first week of Lent and the corresponding services have showed me how deep my sin goes...and just how much work I have to do. I focused more on and found more meaning in the Akathist service last night than I usually do, likely because I've been focusing more on God. It's most certainly an itch that needed scratching, although not by my hands.

The actual Emergency Room...not the television show. I stopped watching the show quite a while ago when it turned into a soap opera. I figured I could watch General Hospital and not have to stay up past my bedtime!

I had to take David to the E.R. today. Just after lunch, I was beginning preparations for iced-tea brewing, (I do bags honey, none of that powdered stuff here) when I heard a loud bang followed by tortured screams from David. I ran to the scene of the incident, some 5 feet from me, and found my wee one with a goatee of blood. Yup..it weren't pretty.

I actually thought he may have knocked a tooth out of his mouth as when I picked him up there was a little white "thing" on the floor. Luckily, it was just a piece of one of those of those conversation valentine's hearts. Yup..I'm an evil mom who gives her kids candy. My reasoning is as thus...I'm gonna eat it, why deprive them.

David's bottom lip was pretty well chewed up, but I didn't think it needed stitches. Jim, on the other hand thought it would be a good idea to have it checked out. So...off we went to the overcrowded E.R. This one is particularly crowded being a Catholic hospital who readily accepts charity cases. We arrived at around 1:00 PM and were seen by the doctor sometime after 6:00 PM. I nearly left three times before being seen. The first time I was standing at the Peds Triage Station waiting for the nurse to notice me so I could sign something absolving the hospital of all guilt before I left. At that instant David's name was called and I figured, "oh what the hell...might as well get seen now." Once we were back in a room, I nearly left twice but was convinced by a nurse to stay.

It wasn't their fault. E.R.'s are overcrowded with people who use them as primary care physicians and there were also several ambo cases that arrived while we were waiting. Such is life. At least David and I got to bond a bit. While we were waiting to see the doctor, I reclined in the bed with David on my lap. He eventually succumbed to the land of hopping sheep and I pondered just what the E.R. had ushered into, and out of my life since I'd married my Jim.

Two short weeks after we were married I found myself sitting in the same E.R. with Jim as he experienced his first attack of kidney stones. That was one long day...not without it's humorous moments. We were sent home to birth the stone on our own, straining ever urinary event. The stone was passed, and Jim in a narcotically altered state phoned his parents and said, "I peed out the stone." I think he was more stoney than the stone in that instant...

A few years later we went to a different E.R. for Jim's second kidney stone attack. Unbeknownst to me at that time, although I had my suspicions, I was pregnant. Surgery was required for the removal of this stone...it was a whopper. This particular hospital was "Jewish". I always felt so comforted in seeing the Orthodox Jews with their Yamulkes and Mezzuah kissing. As a Christian, I always reasoned that we somehow worshipped the same God...we just believe ours was born on earth...

Several weeks later, a Thursday, I took the pregnancy test and confirmed my suspicion. The next day, Good Friday, I went to work, spotted, then gushed, then took myself back to the same E.R., I had recently spent so much time in. I remember the look on the nurses face as she asked me how many pads I'd been through...I couldn't answer. She handed me a tissue and I began the wait to confirm the death of my first baby. Eventually, my gyn returned my cell phone call and I went to see him instead of waiting. I cried, yelled and pleaded with God, silently in that tacky polyester chair in the E.R. waiting room.

A few months later I was preggo again and Jim was on a business trip. I was around 7 or maybe even 8 weeks along. I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom...spotting again. I took myself back to that same E.R...the one at the Jewish hospital. The triage nurse was an adorable young African American man. God bless him...45 minutes after I arrived he ushered me back to be seen by a doc.

"I put you in front of some others because I know you're worried since you've already had one miscarriage." I remember that man in my prayers to this day.

Four hours later I was ushered into the bowels of the hospital's imaging center. It was pretty quiet at 4 AM. The sonographer looked at the screen, looked at my face and said, "Don't tell anyone I said this to you. There's a heartbeat." She later said she'd had four miscarriages herself. If anyone knew she'd told me the results of the sono she could lose her job or some nonsense. There's another stranger I remember in my prayers.

A few months later, I was ushered through the E.R. in the Catholic hospital, wheelchair groaning under the weight of my big, old pregnant, lamaze breathing, self. Ana was born 11 hours later...

15 months after Ana's first in-utero visit to the E.R., I returned to deliver David, this time by induction. I was in a much better frame of mind sitting in that wheel chair. I wasn't it pain.

The Orthodox have this idea that matter matters, that mere "stuff" can become holy. The E.R. room became like a temple for me as I experienced all those flashbacks...tragic, trying and even sometimes endeared rememberances of how God reached down and touched my life in the midst of pain and joy. I'm sure many conversions, and life altering moments have occurred to most of humanity at some time or another in the waiting rooms, triage stations and stretcher beds of the E.R. I thought about that last night as I lay with my son, waiting. Church really isn't just a building. Moments of reflection of life and God can occur in the most unlikely of places, if our hearts are just open to listen to the whispers...

David didn't need stitches by the way...just some antibiotics to prevent an infection. He looks like the champion in a boxing match. I hope I can teach David how to win all his important battles as the choice between making it holy and keeping it mundane meets him at every battle he faces in his life...

author's note: I wasn't originally going to publish this piece; however, my husband upon reading it remarked that there was no reason why I shouldn't...I'm not into confrontation which is what I was afraid this might bring. But, perhaps it's time I faced a little confrontation...eh?


...they just don't understand each other. The cat looks at a tree and thinks, "climbing toy," or maybe even "lunch" if a bird is nesting in it's branches. A dog looks at a tree thinks, "sticks," and perhaps a day with his master spent retrieving them.

So, were we to enter the world of Dr. Doolittle for a moment and the dog and cat were able to speak to one another about trees, what would they say. I doubt they would be able to communicate much about the tree since it means something different to each one of them and each one has had that set of beliefs for a long time. The debate would likely end in a woofing and meowing match of epic proportions. The cat will call the dog, "poop breath" and the dog will call the cat, "mouse entrail lover." Much scratching and snapping will ensue and neither will have any better idea what the other is thinking than when the discussion started..

Cats and dogs view more than just trees differently. Were we able to actually see a "cat's" and "dog's eye view," I imagine we'd see two very different worlds.

I think that unfortunately, this is what's happening as many in the country begin to debate the issue of same sex marriage. On the one hand, we have the Christian Right, who view marriage as a sacrament entered into by a man and a woman. A wedding and thus marriage is also the symbol of Christ uniting with His church. The union of man and wife in in marriage within the Christian church is considered holy and is supposed to be an unbreakable bond (I know it is often broken).

I can't honestly say what the word "marriage" means for proponents of same sex marriage (SSM). I've heard the term "civil right" and along those lines that those who want SSM believe they should be entitled to the same rights and privileges of those who are in more "traditional" unions. My gut tells me it's more than just a "civil right," or about insurance, etc, etc, etc. But honestly, I don't know and don't feel it fair of me to comment or suppose what pro-SSMer's think.

I do believe that the those on opposite sides of the issue view the world through very different glasses. And much like cats and dogs, when they start talking about their views, they begin to fight. Name calling and ridiculous, snide comments as to intelligence are made on both sides. It's sad really.

Unlike cats and dogs, we do actually have the ability as humans to shut up and listen, to not every second be thinking of the counter-points to our opponent's argument. We may never be able to 100% understand exactly where another is standing...but we can get a pretty good idea. Listening and attempting to understand doesn't at all mean that you must acquiesce and agree.

I feel ashamed when I see pictures of Christians carrying signs which say things such as, "God hates fags," or, "Gays eat shit." I don't believe this is a Christ-like attitude. It's a hateful one...and not one I'd share. Yet I also don't enjoy hearing that Christians are, "ignorant," and "weak."

I don't know for sure what the "right" answer here is or if there even is one. It certainly is a slippery slope and the older I get, the issues that once seemed as bright as day or as dark as night seem to fade together into the purple of dusk. I just wish we could try and understand each other.

Sometime around the middle of last week I got a little sore throat, which I ignored...it then turned into a big sore throat, followed by a cough and intermittent voice breaks. I cough at night instead of sleeping, despite the codeine laced cough syrup, and an elephant has decided to hibernate on my chest. I do have bronchitis and am on antibiotics and should feel better soon.

Despite how icky I was feeling, I decided to go to the Canon of St. Andrew last night. I thought it would last an hour or so and I would have some time to recharge from the craziness of last week when Jim was sick. Two and one half hours later, I emerged from church, exhausted, but still glad I'd attended the service. There's just something altogether grounding about being in a quiet church surrounded by candlelight and hearing the psalms chanted and continually asking for mercy. So it was a long service...but a good one.

I came home expecting to chug some cough syrup and go to sleep, but instead spent about an hour comforting Ana...who now says she has an elephant, albeit a smaller one than mine, hibernating on her chest. She settled down and I pretended to sleep in the recliner. She wakened several times in the night and needed further comforting and assurances that Mommy had scared away all monsters with her horrifying breath.

So yeah...I'm running on fumes. Since Lent has begun, we're eating lots of beans. So, luckily for me, the fumes abound! I really can't wait for spring to come. Or at least a day warm enough that I can open the windows and air out the house and send all the leftover germs (and fumes) scurrying for cover. It's been a rough winter around here....

Speaking of Lent, I looked up Food Co-ops for the state of MD, thinking we could join one and get better deals on the health food types of items we need to supplement our Lenten menu...and found MD is woefully lacking in co-ops. I'd have to travel quite a distance to reach one. So then I thought maybe our church could start one since it would be a great service for the community...except there's no room in the church. So...oh well...I'll just probably be paying outrageous prices at whatever local health food store I can find.

So...there you have it. The latest but not so greatest news. Sorry if this entry seemed to sputter a bit...

"Understand that you have within yourself, upon a small scale, a second universe: within you there is a sun, there is a moon, and there are also stars."

~Origen, Homilies on Leviticus

I really like that quote. It seems appropriate for "Sunday of Forgiveness," for if we are all able to appreciate the unique nature of our fellow humans and the reflection of Christ found therein, it is much easier to seek to forgive and to be forgiven, at least in my crazy mind. Perhaps, if we keep this idea in our mind in our dealings with each other, there will be much less reason to seek forgiveness from our fellow humans.

I'm a day late in asking for forgiveness of anyone I may have offended since this inception of this blog and all it's numerous and sometimes humorous changes. I have some sort of upper respiratory "thing" going on again and I didn't spend much time on the computer yesterday. I tried to type up some notes last night, and ended up deleting them all.

I think I'll just keep it simple and say, "If I have offended you or sinned against you in any way, please forgive me."

Lord have mercy on me, a sinner,

Laura

Part 1

I had a real ending to this monstrosity. I chucked it along with another whole section which simply seemed to belabor the point! The writing of this piece was probably more for me than anyone else.

I think the best way I can sum this whole journey into Orthodoxy is this. Before I found the Orthodox Church, I felt as if I was on top of the ocean, skimming the surface on a raft or maybe even some sort of motor boat. The wind was in my hair, occasionally a fish might surface, the gulls would fly around and beg for food. It was grand, the sun was warm and the air smelled salty. Eventually, though, I tired of the surface, the sameness of the waves and gulls and the wind in my hair. It was a somewhat superficial experience of the ocean.

The ocean itself called to me...called me to go deeper, to explore all the caverns, reefs, seaweed forests and wild-life contained therein. Certainly at times it will be scary as I enter the dark territory of the unknown, but there are hands to guide me and a surety that I am to enter the water if I ever really want to understand ocean. Floating on top just isn't enough, I have to take the plunge.

We've been catechumens now for nearly two months. As my experience in the life of The Church grows, my understanding of it's depth lengthens and widens. I have fond memories of those days when I merely skimmed the surface. But I am ever so glad that I was pushed over the edge.

Blessings...

Part 1

Soon after our introduction with Fr. Gregory, we decided to visit a service. Fr. urged us to visit several parishes, but having fervently prayed for a church which would be close in proximity and having our prayer seemingly answered, we felt we were home. We asked Jim's parents to watch Ana and David for us so that we could attend our first service without having to worry about the kids. We were greeted and initially assisted by the bell ringer. I remember essentially just standing in awe of the whole service as I had never experienced church in this way before. An excerpt from my journal, sums up the experience:

When I was a little girl, I used to enjoy one church service every year above all the others. It was the candlelight service we held on Christmas Eve. There was just something so incredible about that service and if I close my eyes and try to squeeze myself back into that little girl's body and mind I can almost remember those feelings. First, there was this special man, Jesus, and he was there! We were celebrating his birthday and for some reason, all the people in the church were very happy. Jesus was there...and everything was good.

The air itself seemed to glisten with holiness. The whole family was there...mothers, fathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles...babies squirmed and little children wiggled as their parents shushed and rearranged and explained..."Jesus is here. It's time to be holy." That's not what they said, but that was what they meant. "Jesus is here...Jesus is here." The big stained glass window depicting Jesus seemed to come alive that night more than any other. He was there.

There was always a lot of singing at that service. All the traditional Christmas Hymns, "O Come All Ye Faithful," "Away in a Manger," "O Holy Night." All the hymns talked about Jesus...because...He was there! You could feel him in the air, smell him in the pine scented wreaths, see Him in the faithful's eyes as they greeted each other, "Merry Christmas," hear Him in the music. It almost seemed you could touch Him...Jesus was there.

The most stirring section of the service was its conclusion with the singing of, "Silent Night." The lights were extinguished and each person in attendance who could be trusted to hold a candle was given one to light. They flickered and shimmied as we passed the light from person to person. Once all candles were lit, we began to sing, "Silent Night, Holy Night, All is Calm, All is bright..." I swear to you, the angels were there with us in that sanctuary adding their voices to the chorus. It was Holy, the smell of the candle wax and the light reflected on the faces of the congregants. It was like no other church service. We all knew it. Jesus was there. He was there. We ended the service by singing, "Joy to the World" and carrying the candles out of the church, still lit. "Joy to the World! Light of the world." He's here.

This morning I attended my first ever Orthodox Christian Church Service. We were greeted by several members of the church who helped us ascertain what to "do." Jim originally wanted to follow along in a service book, but, like I, eventually decided to just "go with the flow." Everyone was there, the whole family. I saw what I believed to be some grandparents, mothers, fathers, children, infants...there was some shushing and rearranging. Everyone stood...because Jesus was there. You could smell Him in the incense, hear him the music, see him in the faithful's eyes. He was there. There were flickering candles and windows to heaven. The whole family really was there and the angels were rejoicing. It wasn't Christmas Eve, but, He was there. In all my years of attending church, I've never felt Him quite so much.

The people were real and so was Jesus. He was there. And it was good.

Needless to say, we were stunned, we were spooked, we were hooked. After the service we went downstairs for "coffee hour" which at Holy Cross meant a pot-luck lunch. We were able to talk with several other parishioners as well as an Orthodox couple we had met via the internet. We weren't able to stay long, having to pick up Ana and David from Jim's parents, but I remember feeling so welcomed and at home.

conclusion

Part 1 can be found: here


Jim and I continued to discuss our church feelings, and set a date to discontinue attendance at our then current church. We were both a little uneasy, yet relieved with the idea of having no church home for a while. I don't remember thinking much about our decision to discontinue church attendance accept for relief at not having to go and put on the "church face." During this time of non-church attendance, which only lasted about a month or so, Jim began a short email exchange with the Orthodox deacon we had met on the aforementioned web forum. Jim continued to push this man for answers and eventually the deacon sent Jim an email with the Amazon listing for a book called, Becoming Orthodox: A Journey to the Ancient Christian Faith by Fr. Peter Gillquist.

The bull was being taken by the horns so to speak and Jim ordered the book and several others. We began reading it aloud chapter by chapter in the evenings after the kids had gone to bed and it was an eye opening experience for both of us. The book essentially revealed to us that the church Christ started existed today, and it was to be found in Holy Orthodoxy. Initially, Jim took issue with some Orthodox beliefs. I particularly remember him questioning the Marian Dogmas. Jim would say it was because right after he was born, some well meaning Baptist person began whispering in his ear, "She's just a woman." It took Jim a while to be able to accept the idea of venerating Mary and that she was the most blessed of all women. I on the other hand, accepted the truths about the Theotokos fairly easily. Perhaps it was because the Blessed Mother is a woman and a mother, as I am.

The biggest area of concern I had was with the idea of icons, and of venerating them, of standing in front of them and praying. Part of me understood the idea of them being windows to heaven and that the saints are in heaven pulling for us here on earth. It was still a strange idea and part of me felt it was idol worship to an extent. However, I have lately come to understand that in venerating the icons we are simply showing respect due for men and women who have fought the race well. It's really not all that different from kissing your grandma when you think of it.

Jim and I finished reading, Becoming Orthodox, A Journey to the Ancient Christian Faith and then decided we should "do something about it." We asked our deacon friend if he knew of any Othodox churches in our area and Holy Cross Antiochian Orthodox Church was suggested. Jim emailed the priest, Fr. Gregory Matthewes-Green and we made an appointment to meet with him in the evening. Holy Cross is housed in a small stone church about 2 miles from our home, a seven minute drive. The church had been viewed countless times in our marriage as we passed by it traveling to Jim's parent's house and I had often felt drawn there. We both couldn't help but recall when we had first started praying over the summer for a church that would be just around the corner...and here it was!

What I also found very comforting in a strange sort of way was that I had grown up attending a little stone church myself, in Danville, VA. That church was bigger than this one, but the architecture was somewhat similar. Upon meeting Fr. Gregory and taking a tour of the church, we discovered it had originally been a Methodist church. There was even a big stained glass window depicting Jesus as a shepherd similar to one I had talked to in church as a child. Goosebumps abounded...I was spooked....

Part 5

to Real Live Preacher's most recent post.

"Come on darling. It's time to put our coats on and go home."

"No," Ana replied, "I want to go back in Church."

"Sweetie, I'm tired."

My first "Great Compline" service had worn me out and I was ready to pack it in.

"We need to go check on Daddy. He's sick, remember."

Ana was insistent, "No! I wanna stay here."

"Do you want to sleep here," I queried.

"Yes!"

"Oh honey," I searched for words. "I know how much you love church. You know how when you come home from Church, Mommy always grabs you and smells your hair because you smell like church...like the candles and incense we burn."

"uhhh," her voice rises in inflection.

"Jesus says we are the church. We sort of carry church around with us even when we're not inside Church. Kind of like how you still smell like Church after you've come home. You don't have be in Church, to be the church. In some sort of, way, we never really leave." The expression on Ana's face told me my existentialism was too much for her two year old mind to comprehend. "It doesn't always make sense to Mommy either. But some day, you'll understand better." I silently mused, "are we even supposed to understand it fully?"

Somehow, my less than desirable explanation convinced her to don her coat, grab my hand, and step with me out of Church, into the cold and dark evening. I looked up the glinting starry host, gazed down at my daughter and in her eyes saw the heavens. I smiled. Her eyes remained serious.

"We go home to check on Daddy?"

"Yes love, we're going home."

We walked on...

Author's note. This is an amalgam of several different scenes that happened with Ana and I. I pulled them all together for the sake of brevity...

Part 1 can be found: here

Jim and I continued attending church through the summer with the understanding that change had to happen. We discussed quitting church altogether for a while so as to be undistracted in our search. I wanted to give up on formal church and start a home Bible study. At that time, I felt this was the authentic church model; a personal faith easily shared with the community; ministering to our invited neighbors, our children actively participating in the faith and not sequestered in a room with other children playing while their parents worshipped, a true family affair.

The "home church" idea was exciting to me. Jim, however, had fond memories of growing up within the church and wanted the same experience for our children. Home Bible study might do for a time for him, but Jim wanted to be under a church structure. Further, he felt that walking away from some sort of authority would be spiritually dangerous and that we could end up believing our own truths about God and Christ instead of the ones set forth by Christ Himself thereby putting our very salvation in jeopardy. Undaunted, I had read that home church associations existed with ministers at the helm guarding against such things. I turned to the internet to research them, found none within our area and secretly despaired.

I continued my participation on the internet forum where the original "Spooky Church" reflection had been posted. There were several members of the Holy Orthodox Church who participated on the message board, all being wonderful, generous people whom I felt myself drawn to, although I didn't understand their faith as all I knew of Orthodoxy was "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." However, so much of what their worship appeared to be from the words I read on the internet forum seemed to be what I was looking for when I wrote "Spooky Church." God, for these people, was not your blue jeaned former hippie uncle handing out candy and patronizing advice. He was the very center of their being and they longed to know more about Him; indeed, Christ was their life.

I mentioned my feelings to Jim one evening during our now "daily de-briefing" time. I remember him looking at me as if I had two heads. Orthodoxy to him had something to do with Catholocism. Being raised a Baptist, Catholocism was the devil's church! I didn't feel so and continued listening to these Orthodox friends. I gently mentioned the idea of exploring Orthodoxy a few more times to Jim and he also began to pay more attention to the Orthodox on the web forum.

I was attracted not only to the supreme place God seemed to hold in the lives of the Orthodox, but also to the mysticism the religion still contained after so many centuries. God was as much a mystery to them as he was real, which seems antithetical, but, I loved this idea. Somehow, the need of the Christian West to have all the answers relegated God to a science project in my eyes. For me, God was becoming more than just a project. I wanted him to permeate my being and my life. Holy Orthodoxy seemed to validate this view.

Part 4

Part one can be found: here

This "Spooky Church" reflection was submitted to an online magazine for publication. A deacon of the Holy Orthodox Church from Buffalo, New York, whom I had "met" on an online web forum sent me an email asking if he could reprint the article for a discussion group he had started. Little did I know what role this man would soon play in steering my life in a direction I'd never considered. I enthusiastically said, "yes." I visited the forum myself, but found I didn't understand much of what was discussed. Some of the topics discussed were non-church related and dealt with the politics of the day, and with those I could interact. However, the topics dealing with church, I just couldn't understand. I had grown up in the United Methodist Church, abandoned it for the Post-Modern movement and was standing on the cusp of giving up on church altogether. Holy Orthodoxy seemed another world to me and one where I didn't belong.

The truth is that I had grown to hate church as it looked like a masquerade ball to me, almost scripted. Paradoxically, one of the benchmarks of the Post-Modern Church Movement seems to be it's strive towards authenticity, yet, none of the church experiences I was having felt so. In my eyes, were one truly "authentic" one would not have to read a book to find out what it means to be "real." I had participated in a Bible study with some of the ladies in the church and felt somewhat better in getting to know them. However, I felt I dared not speak my feelings of discontent aloud to any of them as I was afraid of the typical answers of, "you're just experiencing a dry spell," or, "you need to become more involved." The very thought of hearing those words sent my stomach to roiling.

My husband, Jim, shared my sentiments about our church. He had been dissatisfied for a long period of time and had simply been attending church for me and the "break" it offered during the week of caring for our children. Interestingly enough, an amazing turn around occurred within our marriage during this same period. Summing up, we went from strangers passing in the night, to two people who were fighting for their marriage. The dam burst, the communication lines were open, and our true feelings about church, each other and God began to gush forth. We began praying together for change and direction of our spiritual lives. Prayer is such a dangerous thing when performed fervently because it effects change. Little did we know what a transformation God was about to bring in our lives.

Our prayers contained the need for a church within our community as we wanted to be more than spectators and desired that our daily life and our faith be intertwined. During this time I had by chance, met a woman in our neighborhood who was also a Christian and I felt at ease to share my discontent with her. She invited me to attend her church, which she said was charismatic, and also suggested several other area churches. Her church was a 45 minute drive from our home which didn't seem to meet our requirement of a community church; and the idea of a charismatic type of church was a bit of a turn off for me. I wasn't seeking more rock and roll and what I believed to be contrived emotion. I wanted the church as Christ meant it to be.

Part 3 can be found: here

I Wish Church Was Spooky (the good kind)

I walk into a hushed environment. Soft organ music glides into my ears with whispers of pages turning bringing to mind the rustle of angels’ wings. The musty smell accumulated by saints of old enters my nostrils causing me to breathe slowly and deeply. The air shimmers with soft light filtering through many colored windows. My eyes center on a cross, the focus of why I am present in this place. A chill begins in my soul and radiates outward as I am, well, a little spooked. Not in a scary way but an almost comforting sort of awe at a presence bigger than mine. There are others here, some older, some younger. We are all quiet, reflective, preparedly waiting for worship to begin.

The hour is chimed and we begin to sing, “O for a thousand tongues to sing.” We say the Apostle’s Creed and I am reminded of the community of saints spiraling backwards down to the beginning of time in the year of our Lord. Again, I am spooked, in that good way. I feel connected, centered, knowing that others have relied on this ancient faith to carry them through their storms and comforted that it will carry me through mine.

At some point, I rebelled against this old liturgy, thinking it stuffy and old fashioned. I didn’t think it was a genuine form of worship because of its scriptedness. I felt there was no life there for me. Moving on, I found the rock and roll church my generation has embraced. The casual clothes, people clapping and raising their hands, even dancing if the spirit so moves them. Rarely is it ever quiet except for a few moments here and there. When we are quiet it is disquieting. We’re here to make some noise after all. Weren’t we quiet for too long? Sort of like kids loosed on the playground after a long period of sitting still. We want reckless abandon, holy fun. We are tired of being made to sit still and think.

For a good long while, this satisfied me. I was happy with the rabble rousers. Here, I felt I was home with people who were as joyous as I was. Who wanted to recite meaningless words? I wanted to shout, sing and praise God with all my being. Who needed quietness? Why be reflective, haven’t I thought about all this enough already?

As I’ve gotten older and had children, I’ve begun to miss that quietness. The serious business of worship and getting still before God. Perhaps there is too much noise in the everyday life raising two little ones and not enough stillness. My soul feels weary at times and I long for the reminder of why I come to church. Because I believe...,”in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord...” I don’t ever remember not knowing those words and the ones that follow. What once seemed stuffy and contrived now seems comforting and welcoming. I miss hearing the organ announce the melody of the next hymn to be sung and the connection it offered with the community of saints who came before me. I used to feel joy in singing those old hymns. They remind me of my Grandmother. I wish I could hear her sing them one more time in her hoplessly tone deaf way. It is a dear memory.

By the same token, I’m not ready to turn my back on the rock and roll. There is certainly a freedom there that was lacking in my early church memories. I do, however, miss that good spooky church feeling. I felt connected with God in that holy spookiness as I entered the sanctuary. Going to church now almost feels the same as going to the mall. There is no stillness upon entering the worship area. Nothing brings to mind angels’ wings or the millions of people who have prepared to worship before me down through the ages. I don’t feel that chill radiating outward from the center of me. I’m sure there is a way to get some of that spookiness back into the rock and roll. There has to be. My soul wants for it. I know I can’t be alone in that wanting.

Nearly a year has passed since those words were written. In the space between that moment and now, more has transpired in my life and my faith journey than I ever imagined...

Part 2 can be found: here

I cut David's big blankie into fourths so as to have, "extras" on hand in case one is lost and so he doesn't continually trip on the big one. I knew the edges would fray if I left them raw, so I wanted to stitch them up. I at first dreaded this process as we don't have a sewing machine and I knew it would take a bit of time. However, as I actually began the process I was reminded of when I used to do counted cross stitch and how much I enjoyed this often mesmerizing activity.

I am a fidgeter by nature. It's very difficult for me to sit still for any period of time without having to do something with my hands. Last night as Jim and I were watching a movie together, I constantly twirled my hair, scratched my head, etc, etc, etc...just to have something to do with my ever restless hands. I suspect my long struggle with smoking has something to do with this as well as it gives me something to do with my hands. My high school note books were filled with doodles all over the place. I used bring colored pens so my doodles would be in technicolor. Going to classes by the time I entered grad school was torture.

I turned to stitching to help me. My MeMa had always encouraged handi-work in her grandkids. She herself was a master at the art of crochet. When I was little, she taught me how to crochet a simple chain stitch and in all honesty, I don't remember not knowing how. Often, MeMa would arrive for visits with some sort of stitching kit for me to work on. They were usually potholders with a design printed on them and all I needed to do was cover the lines with thread. I am sure they were ghastly creations, and I doubt any of them exist any more, but at the time I was very proud of them. MeMa herself apparently had trouble keeping her hands still in the evenings when her work for the day was completed. This was the time when her magic needle would appear and gorgeous creations began to spin below her needle.

I cross stitched ornaments for Christmas presents growing up, but had never managed to complete an entire "big" project. This task was tackled in graduate school. I found a design and chart I liked, picked up the Aida cloth and began work. All of my professors were consulted before each class as to my need to have something to do with my hands and why I was working on a cross stitch in class. "I just have to do something with my hands, I can't sit still and just listen." All of them acquiesced and I graduated with a 3.9 something GPA, so obviously the stitching didn't interfere with learning!

The journey of a completed cross stitch project (just plain "stitch" to my fellow southerners) begins with taping off the edges of the cloth to prevent fraying and then a single pull up through the Aida with needle and floss as close to the center of the cloth as possible. A knot is to be concealed as a secret so as to keep the lumps and bumps down to a bare minimum. In cross stitch, the thread is actually caught on the other side of the thread under the adjacent stitches. The underside of a completed stitch is to be as neat as the picture the world sees although mine often appeared a jumbled mass of colors and loose ends.

There was always something very satisfying about that initial pull of the needle and thread through the cloth as it was often very stiff having not been been handled save the taping of the edges. When drawn out reminds me of the sound of ocean waves lazily making their retreat. Pushing the thread back through the cloth to complete the stitch made the same sound. It could be hypnotizing.

Push...pull...push...pull...

Being the un-mathematical genius that I am, I often made mistakes in transferring the chart design onto actual aida cloth. Sometimes, if the mistake was caught early enough, I would resolutely pull out the offending stitches and begin again. Other times, I would discover a mistake made early in the project that would require pulling out hundreds of stitches in order to right. Never did I pull these out, I made my own adjustments and moved on. The finished project never showed the mistakes and indeed, made the project more, "mine."

I completed several projects in grad school and some of them decorate the walls of our house. One of the bigger projects I completed wasn't accomplished in graduate school, but in my very first apartment in Baltimore. It was a stitch my mother had requested, a sampler which is a cross stitch piece which has the alphabet marching across it's tiny grid of squares. This piece was to be given to my mother for Christmas, my first Christmas of independent living and I was poor! My first job didn't pay much as I was working for a somewhat prestigious children's hospital affiliated with Hopkins here in Baltimore. I took the job for the learning experience, not for the money!

I decided to try and frame the stitch myself so as to cut down on cost. I distinctly remember sitting down at my white formica dining room table, the same one where I had grown up eating breakfast and dinner for quite a few years and struggling to get the stitch to look "good" in the frame. I can even remember how the light looked at that time. It was sort of a golden cloud hovering about me and my work as I attempted to stretch this stitch onto the "easy self stick mat." My stomach hurt. In the mathematical un-proclivity that had followed me throughout life, I hadn't left enough of a margin around the design to properly frame the stitch. There I was sitting at our old dining room table struggling to make the stitch fit into the frame and it didn't matter how many knots I'd concealed, how neat the underside of the work was, how carefully I'd taped off the edges to prevent fraying. It just wasn't going in. My 24 year old body seemed to shrink until it felt 5 years old. I was defeated.

I gave the sampler to my mom without a frame but with great apologies. Being my mother, she said not to worry about the lack of frame. Of course I thought, "she's my mom, she has to say that." On my next visit home, there was the stitch, hanging on the wall above my great grandmothers hand sewn fan quilt, in a beautiful gold frame with a gorgeous burgundy suede mat. Mom had taken the stitch to a professional, and they had made the whole thing even more beautiful than I had imagined it could be.

Sometimes you just have to give the miscounted stitches, the concealed knots, the jumbled mass of colors on the back side, the loose ends and the frayed edges over to the master to frame it all in and give the proper perspective. Otherwise, all the pushing and pulling could amount to naught...

Yesterday afternoon, I was nearly finished with my workout before David woke up. The light was still extinguished in is room and thus it was dark. David hung out in his crib, even though he was awake, gurgling to himself and drinking the juice I had brought for him. Soon, we heard Ana charging up the stairs to go potty. Earlier in the day, she had an accident and had refused to put her pants back on and was wearing only her underwear. She had accessorized this outfit with her fluffy snowman slippers and her legs appeared as sticks for marshmallows. I suppose her feet were cold.

Upon hearing Ana, David decided he wanted to get out of bed. I lifted him out of his crib, checked his diaper and placed him on the floor. Ana had exited the bathroom and was standing in the hallway just outside of David's doorway. Late afternoon light was streaming in from the window in her room which is adjacent to David's, bouncing off the hardwood floor, shimmering on her face and igniting the burnished gold curls which never cease to dance their way around her head. David spied his sister and said excitedly, "Ana, Ana, Ana," as he began to walk toward her.

Ana was already turning to head back down the steps to whatever adventure she had most recently concocted. I said, "I think David wants a hug, Ana."

"Oh," she replied. David stepped into the light of the hallway and neared his sister. She in turn moved toward him and put her arms around him in a giddy embrace. Then, Ana turned her head to the side of David's and placed a kiss there, right above his ear. Ana pulled away. David's smile intersected the sun beams surrounding him, cutting them in two with it's brightness.

"Ah-kuuu," said David.

"Youuuu welcome," replied Ana.

David turned his face back to Mommy. I opened my arms to receive David and he toddled in and paused for a moment as I stroked his still baby chubby cheek. His attention lighted on a toy in the room and he was off. The golden moment ended in real time, but lives on forever in my heart.

My husband is currently burning the candle at both ends and the middle. He recently discovered that a change in the way his company may pay commissions could take place which would leave us in a financial hole of epic proportions. Well, maybe not epic, but it would certainly create many problems. Luckily, a member of our parish offered Jim some part time work preparing marketing materials for his company, so he's been staying up late to work on that and earn some cash so we can be prepared. I can't begin to say how proud I am of Jim for working so hard to keep our little family afloat. A blessed woman I am. Please do remember Jim in your prayers as he is pretty worn out at this point and I don't know that there is an end in sight in near future. Also pray for me as I fight the "guilt" feelings of not working and helping us out. It would be nice if I could sell an article or two, but that will be a long time coming I imagine.

Jim still has an incredible sense of humor. I visited the doctor last week for my yearly check up. Upon finding out my weight and height, she let me know that I needed to lose 11 pounds in order to match up with the perfect height and weight according to the "charts." Who makes these silly charts anyway? He was pretty upset about it, and then remembering my doctor (who delivered my son) said something to the effect of, "Has she looked over her own shoulder lately and seen the size of her butt?" It made me laugh...which my bruised vanity needed at that moment. I've always struggled with my weight and actually was beginning to feel fairly OK about my physique since I've been doing a light weight workout for about a year now. I'm sure I have put on a few pounds as my daily walk to the park with the kids has fallen by the wayside due to the kids being sick and the infernal winter weather we have experienced. I feel certain that once my walks re-commence on a regular basis, whatever weight I have put on will come off again. I was in a size "10" pant at the end of the summer which seems pretty good to me, whether or not I need to lose 11 pounds!

My workout time yesterday afforded me the opportunity to reflect on the differences between my two children. I usually exercise in my son's room, usually right after he wakes up. At times, in order to be able to complete the workout before making dinner, I begin before he has risen from his afternoon nap. Often, if he is really tired he doesn't even wake up. Yesterday, however, he did wake up and asked to be lifted from his crib. When his sister was the same age as he, she was climbing out of the crib on her own and and thus we switched her over to a toddler bed! He stood for a few moments surveying his room and the toys scattered everywhere. Eventually, he toddled over to a big bin of toys and reached for (now some of you are going to find this weird...but kids play with anything) one of his dad's old contact cases that had somehow made it into his room.

I showed him how to unscrew the top and he was immediately fascinated. David played for 5 minutes with that silly contact case...all the while struggling to get the top on and off. When I tried to help him, he pushed me away and shook his head, "no." Ana would have screamed for me to do it for her... loudly! Later on in the evening as I was collapsed on the floor playing with kids, I observed David playing with legos (the oversize kind...they have a name which I forget). He happily sat for twenty minutes, again shunning any help putting together these little buildings. David never gave up when thwarted, but steadily continued at his work, trying out all possibilities. When he had finished one of his creations, which never looked like anything in particular, he held it up for all to see and said, "Ah HA!" He then would smash the thing and build something else. No conceivable plan in mind at all...David was content to see how things went.

Ana, on the other hand, loves to work puzzles. She completed a 12 piece jigsaw puzzle all by herself yesterday. I was making lunch, or doing something in the kitchen, right now I don't remember. Every three seconds, "Mommy help me" was her cry. I continually said, "Try it by yourself honey, you can do it." And she did, but now no one is allowed to touch the puzzle lest we mess it up. I had to carefully remove it before dinner last night!

Speaking of dinner, Ana through a tantrum of epic proportions last night. We've had quite a few of those lately! She wanted me to hold her while we ate. This is just something I refuse to do...I think I should be able to eat without wrestling with a kid in my lap. She sat at the table and screamed the entire time. David carried on a "conversation" with us, babbling about his dinner, etc. Ana screamed. Dinner was finished and Ana wanted me to pick her up out of her chair. I refused. Ana screamed. David played. After I finished my after dinner routine...I asked Ana if she wanted to go downstairs to pray with me. She nodded her head "yes." I held out my hand and she managed to climb out of her chair all by herself (which she can do anyway) and off we went. I held her in my lap and prayed, "Gladsome Light." Afterwards we kissed the icons, Ana giving each one a big smack with sound effects. David played and toddled around us.

David ambles through life, fairly independently already...although he loves to cuddle with Mama. Ana charges through with exacting standards for everyone in her path...and she likes to cuddle as well...probably even more that David. Ana is often afraid of missing out on something, David has a more "wait and see" approach. Jim often says that David is just like me...especially after he's walked into a wall. I often say that Ana is just like Jim. I'm sure that time and experience will add nuances to their personalities which make them each their own beautiful little person. It remains a true joy in my life to watch them grow!

...how someone got to my blog from

here (opens in new window)

any ideas?

I figured it out

I just love a mystery. It's from an old post from my other blog in which I mentioned John Cougar Mellencamp in the title...
"Stretching: Growing and learning. It 'hurts so good!' Aplogies to John Cougar Mellencamp"

(I don't think this is what they were looking for when whomever did the google search and linked my site!)

As you probably know, I am a very emotional person. I've mentioned that a bazillion times. It's hard for me sometimes to separate the emotion out of a situation and view it with objective eyes. This can be a tough, exhausting way to live. One of the aspects of modern Evangelical Protestantism I was keenly drawn to and them repulsed by, was it's dependancy on emotion to stir the faithful into a relationship with God. There is an underlying problem with this idea...what happens when the emotion is gone? What does one do when the feelings have evaporated? Despite the fact that I am a very emotional person, I had these moments...and at times they stretched for hours, days, weeks, dare I say, months. The most difficult time for me was when I spent that hour at church, the first half being an emotionally laden "Praise and Worship." I didn't often feel the emotion I was singing about. It wasn't there. What an exhausting experience. I felt as if I was a balloon someone had stepped on, forcing the air out until it's a flattened, lifeless mess on the ground.

Not only was this exhausting, but frustrating. I would look around and see the others worshipping and think, "are they for real? Do they really feel this?" I didn't think so, at least not all of them, all the time. I've mentioned in the past so many times that I wanted to rip the masks off of the church people, times I wanted to come home and take a shower so as to wash the phoniness away. It hurt me. I knew there was pain under the mask, a true yearning for God as I felt it myself. Somehow, I didn't feel safe speaking these thoughts. I was afraid there was something wrong with me and my attitude toward God.

I have learned in my marriage...the hard way...that the emotion isn't the important part of the relationship. Emotions fade. That is obvious. The work is what's important. If I want to be in right relationship with my husband, if I want to truly love him, I have to do the work. The same would logically follow in my relationship with God. I am going to borrow someone else's words now to try and more fully express what I'm saying. She is a much better writer than I and also has more experience with Orthodoxy. Once again the book is At the Corner of East and Now by Frederica Mathewes-Green published in 1999 by Penguin Putnam. It is a long portion, but as I said, the author is a wonderful writer....

A popular informal hymn in evangelical circles is based on Psalm 42: "As the deer panteth for the water, so my soul longeth after thee; you alone are my heart's desire and I long to worship thee." The melody is lovely and haunting, somewhat like "Greensleeves." It speaks of yearning, even if the lyrics can't decided if they're addressing "you" or "thee."

Once my husband commented on this song, "Back when we were Protestants, we were always singing songs like this, about how we longed to worship. The truth was that we didn't know how to worship; we just glimpsed it from time to time. As best we could tell, it was about emotion."

I remembered that, that intense hunger for God and the frustrating sense that it would never be satisfied. Since we became Orthodox, I realized, that hunger has diminished. Not because our worship is particularly emotional; sometimes emotion appears, but when it doesn't, the dignity and authority of the ancient prayers are sufficient to bear you beyond yourself. In fact, when worship is emotion powered, it's like a fun-park ride, and you're being carried around as a treat. It's only when those emotions fade and you get down to the business of doing the work, following the way, saying the prayers even when you don't feel like it, that your stormy heart begins to budge. It's only the offerings done from deliberate will that bend the will and shape it to fit the will of God. Giddy emotions feel good, and all of us might need a bowl of ice cream from time to time, but the don't produce spiritual growth.

Orthodox worship doesn't engender that kind of emotion, I find. I'm less likely to face the twins I knew so well before: flushed sentimental weepiness, or vexed, restless yearning when that treat was absent, the yearning I believed the song was about. Instead the spiritual emotions I find prompted by walking the path Orthodoxy teaches are complex and hard to describe: the overwhelming, deliciously terrifying riptide of God's love; the rapturous joy of weeping over my sins; the sweet stinging desire to bring others to see the beautiful face of Jesus.

I don't have to "long to worship thee" anymore; I do worship him. The longing is satisified, not by emotional thrills but by something that just feels right, like a key in a lock, like "food is meant for the stomach and the stoach for food" (I Corinthians 6:13)

I was made for this.

Orthodoxy means "right teaching." It also means "right praise."(pp154 and 155)

It's not about me.

I don't really think I can add any more to that. At least not now...

Have a lovely day!

...I'm not going to be winning the title "Mother of the Year" any time soon. I was not in good form last night. Nope, not at all. We had a frustrating evening. Michael, my seven year old, has the most difficult time controlling his impulses. By the time 6:30 PM rolled around yesterday, one little finger had been slammed in a door, a toy was broken and kids had flown off of an ottoman they were told to stay off of when play became too boisterous. Michael complained about having, "nothing to do" and so I gave him some extra homework. Ok, so that might have earned me "Mother of the Year." That little move was brilliant in my mind.

By 8:00 it is very safe to say I was ready for my daughter to go to bed. I don't know what the cause was last night, but for some reason she refused to stay in bed. Ana didn't start refusing sleep until around 8:30, after I'd had a shower. Bedtime can be rough at times, but lately by 8:30 the worst of it is over. Unfortunately, last night was one of those where ain't nothing gonna go right. Ana wanted to come downstairs with the rest of the family, or, she wanted me to sit by her bed with her.

I tried waiting until she calmed down from hysterical crying fits and then kissing her and leaving the room. I tried singing to her. We re-did the bed time routine. Jim tried to calm her down and felt he was only making the situation worse. Sometime after 9:00 I tried once again to sneak down the stairs. Ana again got up wailing from her bed and I lost it. I didn't strike her but I yelled, loudly. It was bad, very bad. Jim some how managed to calm her down afterwards.

As soon as my feet hit the landing, I knew I'd failed my daughter. I felt absolutely awful and frankly, I still do. I feel bruised and I can only imagine what my daughter may have felt in that instant. Jim attempted to carry on the evening as usual with our devotion time and prayer time. I honestly didn't feel worthy of standing and praying last night. I wanted to crawl into a hole where no one could see me. Jim said, "everyone loses it sometimes, Laura." Sure they do and I've even said those words to others. There have been times when I've "lost it" like that before. I don't know why this time is different...but it was.

At any rate, I'll be apologizing to Ana this morning. I don't know what effect it will have on her. I don't know, I don't know...

Lord have mercy...

The following originally appeared in my "Journey to Orthodoxy" article, but in recent editing I removed it, feeling as though it were part of another story. I expounded upon it's content today and decided to post it as is, although perhaps someday it will appear somewhere else, transformed again.

One of the main tenets of Orthodox life is prayer...prayer in the morning, prayer in the evening and even midday prayer which I haven't managed to conquer yet!

Archpriest John Breck sums it up this way in the preface to, The Bible and the Holy Fathers:

Prayer is the essence of the Christian life. Repeatedly Jesus invites His disciples to "come aside" for a time, to enter the inner world of silence and converse with God "as with a friend".

To respond to this invitation as it is addressed to us, we need to preserve a proper balance between two forms of prayer, liturgical and personal. The one must inform the other. If they are not a reflection and extension of the worship of the gathered community, personal devotions all too easily deteriorate into self-centered appeals to an idol of our own making. For the liturgy not only praises God; it also reveals Him as He is. It teaches us about Him as it communicates to us His very life. On the other hand, communal worship that is not leavened by inner prayer of the heart, by a constant invocation and exaltation of the divine Name in the depths of our personal being, is not worship at all. It is lifeless ritualism, to be condemned as vain repetition.

Obviously, the work for an Orthodox Christian doesn't stop once the feet cross the threshold from Church to the outside world. It almost seems to me as if we are to become prayer, with each beat of our heart becoming an offering to God. I spoke of this new way of prayer in my journal and how it was changing me...making me:

When I first began my journey into Orthodoxy and started picking up on some of their "prayer" habits, I balked. "How can a scripted prayer come from my heart?" It didn't feel natural. It felt stiff and stilted and anyone who knows me well knows I have a bit of a "free spirit" that doesn't like to be hemmed in. I am also willing to give anything a try...and so I said the prayers. What I found was not that my prayer life became more scripted. The opposite is so. For me, it became bigger, bigger than me. A whole new world of freedom opened up.

Before I used such prayers I would wake up in the morning knowing I needed to pray but not knowing what to say. I would say the same things over and over essentially inventing my own "script." However, I always felt as if I may have "left something out." I felt awkward with God...as if my need to treat Him like Santa Claus was somehow undignified. I am now finding that reciting prayers that pretty much cover the bases free me from that awkwardness and guilt. I don't feel as if anything important is missing from my prayers. I also don't have to search for something to say. No longer am I afraid to approach God because of etiquette issues...I find myself continuing the conversation all day long. I start with those written prayers to get the ball rolling, to enter into God's presence, and then it is ever so much easier to talk to Him more extemporaneously, at least for me. The big stuff is out of the way. I never knew it would happen this way.

I also am finding a deep appreciation for the "Jesus prayer." When my son is covered in poop, my daughter is screaming for whatever she needs RIGHT NOW, the dog is barking, the sink is overflowing, I can't find my shoes and all my marbles are lost I can still manage to say, "Lord have mercy." It calms me down because I know He hears, and responds. Such a simple prayer, such vast rewards for God and for me!

My prayer life has changed. I struggle.

Yesterday morning, I attended the Sisterhood meeting for my parish at Holy Cross. The topic of today's seminar was time management. An exercise involving a pie graph was used to show us how much time we each spend in different areas in our life such as rest, leisure, work, romantic involvement, family time, spiritual pursuits, etc. I remarked that I felt our spiritual lives should be the outline of the circle enclosing every facet of our lives and thereby allowing God and the Holy Spirit to be all encompassing, rather than just a piece of our lives. Obviously, this is very difficult for one who has two young children.

Kh. Frederica was in attendance and remarked on how she had handled her own prayer life as a mother with three young children. When Fr. was an Episcopal priest, his office was at a church some distance from the family dwelling and so she was alone for most of the day. Instead of having one focused prayer time a day, she divided up her prayer time into short segments throughout the day. These segments were scheduled in and lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 minutes at a time. Kh. didn't elaborate, but it seemed she would simply say an "Our Father," or other prayers in the morning, at noon, in the afternoon and before retiring. What she seemed to find is that her heart was turning to God more often during the day as she looked at the clock expectantly waiting for her next prayer time. In this manner, her prayer life began to infiltrate every aspect of her life. Some days, things might get hectic and she would miss a prayer time, but, she still felt her heart turning toward God even in the midst of missing some time with Him. Paradoxically, she still had the time with Him as her heart still turned towards His face. Kh. also has the habit of waking in the middle of the night for an extended prayer/devotion time since becoming pregnant with her daughter 27 years ago. I doubt you'll find me doing that!

At any rate this was an incredible idea for me. For some odd reason, I had the idea that I had to get up and pray as many prayers as possible first thing in the morning. I would often stand on my aching feet, which always for some reason hurt more in the morning that at any other time of day, and pray for at least 20 minutes, sometimes 30. I relied on this method to carry me through the day until my evening prayer time which I share with my husband. It doesn't even make sense when I've though of it. If we have our houses blessed yearly because we "fall away" wouldn't it make sense to have prayer throughout the day as I tend to "fall away" in my human nature as I go along?

Hearing Kh. mention her method sort of opened my eyes to a new idea, one where prayer might not seem so burdensome, as it often does at 6:00 in the morning. I started this morning with this new method and will continue. I actually was able to get out of bed at around 5:20 and expected that I would have solitary prayer time. My daughter had different ideas and asked me to come up and sing to her...she also asked me to pray for her. I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere!

I pray that God will become the circle that encloses my life and my heart and thereby breathing life into me and my family.

Lord have mercy....

On our most recent weekly library trip, I checked out the cinematic adaptation of Frances Hodgson Burnett's, The Secret Garden. I had viewed this movie while attending graduate school around 10 years ago at the cheap ($1.50) movie theater on a study break. Interesting way to spend a study break, I know. I believe I even went alone to this one! The Secret Garden had been one of my favorite books while growing up a long with, A Little Princess, and I remember thinking at that time, "I wonder if the movie will do it justice."

It had been a long time since I'd first seen the movie and an even longer time since I'd read the book for the last time, so I decided to give it a whirl again, only this time I wouldn't be alone while watching the movie as I'd have my own very precocious two year old to to view the movie alongside me. I didn't know how well it would work with her, as she is fairly fidgety when watching "for real" (not cartoon) movies. Unbelievably, she actually seemed to really enjoy it, or at least she enjoyed watching it with mommy beside her on the couch and was also allowed her to drink tea out of a real china cup. Her little hand made the delicate tea cup seem large and clumsy...life adds such a perspective to the superfluous matter in our lives.

Watching the movie again I recalled the times I'd spent reading the book as a pre-teen/teen-ager. I distinctly remember curling under the covers in my bedroom when we lived in Maine with the book...attempting to warm my southern bones against those cold northern winds. I loved these old fashioned stories of girls wearing dresses and pinafores, taking tea and learning how to be little women. It's something which, sadly, our world has forgotten. Little girls don't spend much time being innocent these days. Most Barbie-like dolls aimed at girls just a little older than my Ana look decidedly like they belong in a Kid Rock video. It's sad in more ways than I am capable of summing up in a blog entry that is supposed to be short and readable...so back to the movie!

As I watched the movie, I thought of all the things I'd like to teach my daughter. It's easy to look at the externals such as manners, and the "A, B, C's" and how to pray, and think they are a road map to life. How can I look her in the eye and teach her these things and think she'll have all she needs to make it in the world? The truth is, life and hurt happen and one seems often to coexist with the other. I wish I could tell her that I myself had never had to shut out anyone from a garden planted in my soul. I'd be lying if I did.

There are places within all of us that have been shut off from the light of day...abandoned dreams, relationships that we hope to forget, pieces of ourselves kept secret from the light offered by others eyes. At some point though, just like Mary in the movie, we have to go in search of the key to those secret gardens. For me, that key has been my faith. Unlocking the door is the beginning of the journey, pushing and shoving and then allowing the faintest bit of life to trickle in. Like Mary, who eventually let Dicken in on her secret, we have to allow others with more experience to show the way, the proper branches to prune, to see where the weeds have sprung up. We have to do the work, the hard and often painful work of making the garden what it once was. Even the deadest of gardens can be brought back to life with the right amount of work, watering and light. Indeed, they can become even more beautiful than the original.

And, again, like Mary, we can learn the joy of seeing others experience our gardens. The thrill and wonder at the possible reaction and what magic could occur therein. In sharing her once secret garden, Mary encouraged her cousin to walk and to run and to dream of a real relationship with his father.

I think the closing off of gardens in our soul is somewhat inevitable. There is a time and a season for everything, or so Solomon says. I believe him. There is also a time for sowing and planting and for some odd reason I saw this little movie as an extended metaphor of my life. I looked behind the story and saw me. Never in all my readings of the book or in viewing the movie all those years ago had I come to these conclusions. However, having a little head full of dirty blonde curls resting on my shoulder and ultimately depending upon me to teach her how to sow and reap, adds perspective to the once superfluous matter of my life.

O gladsome radiance of the holy glory of the Father immortal, heavenly, holy, blessed, Jesus Christ! Unlock the doors and shed your light on all the secret gardens hidden within our souls.

Lord have mercy...

I have just completed my daily 30 minute workout, which at times can take up to 90 minutes and honestly, some days it's so crazy around here it doesn't happen at all! Ana, my daughter was dancing to some really annoying preschool music coming out of one of her really annoying electronic toys. Why is it always the people that don't have kids that give these toys to MY children...hmm...

I thought to myself, "well...this could be a way to keep the workout down to the 45 minute neighborhood...dancing!" I ran down the stairs and said to my husband while perusing our 300 strong CD collection, "I need to find some music the kids can dance to that is clean!"

"Does that even exist?" He answered.

"I'm sure we've got something that will work," I replied.

Ana likes our new church music
CD...but you just can't boogie to Byzantine Chant. I settled on Gloria Estefan..."Conga" is clean and it's got a good beat and you can dance to it.

It worked...Ana and David both boogied while I worked out and a good time was had by all. My only concern was Ana's penchant for jumping up on David's changing table (I work out in David's room...every room in a small house is multi-purpose!) and dancing. I'm hoping it doesn't foretell of her jumping on bars and dancing.

(I made her get down from the changing table...I know it's not safe...but it was cute and she was wearing her ruby red Dorothy shoes bought by Grandmom this weekend!)

...but her love of Byzantine chant I think will likely preclude her desire to dance in high places...let's hope!

...and other news!

Yesterday, our priest, Father Gregory came to bless our house. This is something practiced in the Orthodox tradition as a way to sanctify all matter and return it into God's hands. I can remember Fr. telling us the first time he visited our home that it was an "outpost" of the Church, sort of like a little church in the community. The houses are blessed yearly between Theophany and Great Lent as we tend to "fall away" from the Lord and therefore the matter we share takes on that fallen nature in a sense. A yearly blessing refreshes and reminds us that we are to be holy. Holiness takes work though, it's definitely not something that comes naturally.

I have attended one other house blessing, that of a family in our parish whom had lost their home to fire and wanted their temporary apartment home to be blessed. That was a "full meal deal" type of blessing complete with an anointing of the four walls of the house with Holy Oil. We didn't have to do much to prepare for this house blessing other than have it clean and reasonably picked up so that when we all processed through the house no one would trip. I furiously cleaned on Monday leading up to the blessing and then yesterday evening noticed some cobwebs I'd missed in my youngest son's room...ooops!

Essentially, some prayers are said and then a hymn is sung as we all process through the house while Fr. sprinkles the walls and other items with Holy Water. I was to lead the way with a candle. It felt very strange to be in charge of leading everyone. I just sort of assume that I am to follow in most situations dealing with the Church. Here's the bad part...well...at least the funny part.

Ever seen Young Frankenstein?. Well, as I began leading the procession through the house with the candle, the picture of my mind was of "Igor" leading Dr. Frankenstein to his room and saying, "Walk this way." It took some amount of doing to get that picture out of my head and to focus on what we were doing. I imagine if I hadn't been holding Ana and the candle and had been able to hold the music for the hymn so as to sing it never would've happened!

At the conclusion of the service, we were all blessed with Holy Water, even the dog, who tried to play with the water. Fr. said some concluding prayers and we all venerated the cross...even David gave it a little peck. It was very sweet. The house does "feel" different to me. There is a peace here that wasn't before that I can't exactly explain...but it is good.

And...we got our car back...woo-hoo...so we all tried to go to Vespers yesterday evening. Poor David just isn't ready for the quiet, peaceful, solemnity of a Vespers service. He kept pointing to the icons and saying "DEEZUS," as loud as his little lungs would allow. Jim finally took him downstairs and Ana mostly followed. She reentered the service several times to give me a status on the boys downstairs and finally stayed with me for the final prayers so that she could, "Kiss Mary and Jesus." It warmed my heart to see her signing the cross on her own and also singing, "Amen" in the appropriate places. Ana really loves Church...

As does Jim. Our house is going to be looking and smelling like Church soon. While I was in Vespers, he was browsing through the bookstore and bought some incense, charcoal and a hand censer. We came home and tried it all out. When asked, Ana replied that it indeed smelled like church. A slew of icons are on their way as well, bought with Christmas money. They're on the altar now awaiting their 40 days blessing. I'm not sure we have the wall space for what Jim wants to do around here...but I've learned to just let it happen. Our furniture has been rearranged 6 times since we moved here...I'm sure he'll figure out what to do with the icons.

My journey to Orthodoxy story is finished, although still a bit rough. Once I have it all smoothed out, I'll post a link. Jim wants to save it as a PDF and host it on our iDisk as it is extremely long. I'm also going to work on an abridged version for our church. If it's approved, it will go up on their website.

How's that for a nice long ramble?

Have a beautiful day....

A little over three years ago, I snuck in on a business trip with my husband to Washington D.C. Yes, D.C. is only a 45 minute train ride from Baltimore, but in my at that time 5 years of residing here, I had only visited D.C. once to see the 4th of July fireworks with an old friend of mine from my Mountain T.O.P. days. I hadn't visited any museums or seen any of the sites in our nation's capital. But on this trip I had a plan to visit one museum in particular, The Holocaust Museum.

I rose fairly early in the morning to arrive there, having read that the lines form quickly and I really wanted to see the exhibits. I had heard many say before that they didn't think they could take the sadness contained therein, the shock and horror at something so atrocious having occurred so recently in the annals of human history. However, there exists within me a deep desire to know and understand how others could've survived such tragedy and persevered.

I was around 12 weeks pregnant at the time, hormonal, and easily induced to tears. Having recently experienced the miscarriage of my first baby, I was also a frequent visitor of the bathroom to "make sure everything was OK." I say that only because I remember running to the restroom several times while visiting the museum...checking that the life within me was still viable and would someday bloom into the tiny, perfect, miracle of a babe nestling within my arms.

The Holocaust Museum is set up, I believe, with the intention of finding a way to drive the experience home to every kind of person with every kind of sentiment. There are pictures with written narration explaining the events leading up to the horrors of concentration camps. You can sit in a recreation of a Auschwitz bunk house and listen to the audio recorded experiences of survivors. There are also actual pieces of history, oven doors which baked unholy bread and church doors where the bullet holes and axe marks of the Nazis are visible. I don't think any one person comes away from the experience untouched.

For me, it was the shoes that got me. I walked across a bridge from one exhibit to the next and looked at mounds of shoes. Stopping to ponder them for a moment, my eye caught site of a tiny shoe with a buckle. My hand went to the infinitesimal bulge on my belly and I wept a mother's tears. What would I do had I to defrock my child and watch her carried away...not wanting to know what might happen to her...yet knowing what would. That tiny shoe once contained a tiny person, a miracle, hope wrapped in skin, and it never had a chance to bloom. I prayed I never had to face such a trial...a year later 9/11 happened and the reality became evident that I might have to do just that.

Last night I watched a movie many have already seen, Life is Beautiful. It is in Italian with subtitles so at times when the dialog is racing by, it's hard to catch the expressions of the actors in time with the words. Still, it is a deeply moving movie about WWII, unlike any other I've seen before. I have seen many of them, the king of them all is considered to be, Schindler's List, which is indeed a cinematic masterpiece combining excellent metaphorical imagery (who could forget the little girl in the red dress), with a well told story. But it is maudlin, and scripted so as to tug the heartstrings. You just knew you were going to cry when the movie began with the stirring music playing in the background. And cry everyone did who watched that movie.

Alas, my pocketbook doesn't allow me to see many movies in the theater and so I often see them when they are available for free check out at the library. Life is Beautiful was available on Thursday. I decided I needed to see what all the fuss had been about a few years ago at the academy awards. I get it now.

I actually had no idea the movie would have WWII as it's backdrop and indeed it takes a few scenes to understand if you are not in the know, as I wasn't. It sneaks up, with a few references to the superiority of the Aryan race and Nazi solders marching through the Italian town. It came to total fruition for me, when Guido, the main character of the story, finds his Uncle's horse vandalized with spray painted with the words, "Jewish Horse." I began to understand...Guido doesn't really look "Italian." Guido is an amazing character. He's the kind of person I always wanted to be, full of life, loud and obnoxious, and everyone loves him. Alas, God made me the reserved type who likes to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and escape the world when it gets to be too much.

Guido is one of those who takes life's excess and turns it into magic. A rainy day and non functional car turns into the perfect time to declare his love for his Principessa, Dora, the woman who fell into his arms from the sky (OK, it was the loft of a barn). That same vandalized horse became the means of his rescuing Dora from her fiance, a man she did not love and who was in bed with the Nazis. Soon after, the story jumps ahead and we see a family, Dora, Guido and Joseph, their son, barreling through the Italian town in which they live on a bike to take mommy to work.

Guido and Joseph continue to the bookstore they own and on the way, Joseph inquires as to why Jews aren't allowed in certain stores...Guido makes up the magic..."some people don't like Jews...other people don't like Kangaroos...what sign should we put on our store?" The next day is Joseph's birthday. Dora arrives from bringing her estranged mother to the party to find that her husband and son have been taken away. Dora then heads to the train station where they are to be transported and insists that she get on the train. The Nazi officer actually stops the train from pulling away so that Dora can board.

Guido turns this experience into a game for his son. They arrive at the camp and Joseph is told he needs 1,000 points to win the prize...a real tank. Guido keeps the magic, and his son alive, by playing this game with his son, each trial becoming an opportunity to earn points. It is only in hints that we see Guido's terror, a smile a little forced, his difficulty with the forced labor. However, Guido keeps his game face on so that Joseph stays alive hiding in their barracks. It's incredible, almost unbelievable for Guido does some really stupid things such as sneaking into the room housing the camp's PA system so that he can broadcast a love message for his Principessa letting her know that he and Joseph are still alive. I can't say how many times I said to myself, "he's so stupid...he's going to get caught."

He, does eventually, get caught. Trying to keep the magic alive until the end, Guido hides his son in a tiny cabinet housing some sort of pipes. The war is now over and as many prisoners as possible are being whisked away to be killed before the camp is overtaken by American forces. Joseph is admonished to stay still and wait until Guido returns or it is very quiet and no one is around. If he wins this contest, he gets the final 60 points to make 1,000. Guido tries to find Dora, to no avail. He is caught in a ridiculous costume impersonating a woman. I believed his man made magic would last. Until the end, Guido kept up the front with Joseph, his last site of his father is of him marching stiffly in his gray gypsy costume with a Nazi soldier...he looks at his son, and winks. The game is on...the magic is alive.

Joseph emerges from his hiding place when all is quiet and wanders around for a few moments. One can hardly imagine what happened in his mind at that point. Then, a distant rumble is heard as an American Tank rolls into the deserted camp, a look of shock and wonderment is on Joseph's face as he watches his prize come to fruition. The American soldier pulls Joseph into the tank to give him a ride and they pass the many refugees who escaped the final death toll by hiding. Joseph spies his mother and is let down out of the tank to go to her. This is how the movies ends...a mother's joy at finding her miracle still alive...and the son's voiceover in English saying, "This was my father's gift to me."

It get's you in the gut because the struggle is not overblown with maudlin sentimentality. It's a beautiful field of flowers and the mother's smile outshines the sun. Her baby's innocence and more importantly, his life preserved magically, by one who refused to accept the ugliness. Guido made it beautiful. It was worth the inner struggle his son never really saw.

It was hope wrapped in skin...

Lord have mercy on me, on you...