82/365 The Mouse Graveyard

I climb up on the ladder to put the candlestands away in the cabinet, up high above the closets in the servers sacristy. I partially lose my balance and a couple of brass flowerpots tumble around in the cabinet.

A dead mouse appears, mummified. Probably fell in one of the flowerpots and couldn't scramble out. In 1982.

I leave him. I don't have gloves and, like I said, he's dead. Really dead. When Miguel and Jack come over to help us, I point out the "very very dead mouse."

Miguel then points out that dead is one of those terms that cannot have a modifier.

But the mouse was quite dead.

83/365 Servers Sacristy

I think the room makes you crazy. I cleaned that place out when I inherited the job from Dolores. Set things up how I thought it would work best--we used to have to trip over crap to get to what we needed. But it isn't my room. I'm not the only one there. I would put candle boxes away but would find them back out. I'd put them away again and find them in disarray the next week. Then I found a note from Wilma telling me to leave things alone. Block letters. I think she meant it. But I still would try to tidy--Hildegard too. Things just pile up. Don't know where to put it? Stick it in the servers sacristy and we'll work it out later. It just seems to happen that way. Post-Christmas, we're all so tired. Post-Easter, we're all so tired. Then busy.

So we met Tuesday--Hildegard, Jack, Miguel, and me--to clean the place out. I sorted through skeezy fabric while Jack took things out to the dumpster. Vacuuming, discarding, sorting. We took the doors off one of the closets--they didn't work anyway--and tossed a bunch of stuff we were saving, you know, just in case.

Leo played with toys on the carpet for a while, but grew tired of being alone. I sorted fabric while he stood next to me, holding on. I wonder sometimes how my children will view this stage of our lives. The stage when I spent so much time at church. Growing up, we were never more than churchgoers, except when I was in 8th grade. We were a little more involved then. (We were often involved in parish schools, but not in churches as much). I never entertained myself in a pew while my mother ironed altar cloths or discussed plans for flowers at Easter. I wonder if it will instill in them a desire to do the same. Or if this is something that just winds up skipping generations.

However it works out, they're stuck for now. At lunchtime, we broke up for the day and the place looked, well, usable. Not like a sad abandoned storage closet.

Collective parish memory is one thing. Collective parish saved junk is another. It does continue to improve as time goes by.

84/365 Old vs New

The old parish...let one person, Dolores, make the decisions about how the church would look on any given Sunday, mostly because she wouldn't let anyone else have any say. This made them complacent, occasionally mystified by her behavior, but hell, it was easier.

The new parish...has a committee that argues. Sometimes. Other times, depending on Lynn's mood, mostly, it goes well. People feel like they can have input. I encourage it because I don't want to become Dolores, but also because I try to be humble enough to know it isn't all about me.

The old parish...thought for some reason that puke green unhemmed raggy fabric covering dumpster-dived school desks were appropriate for tables in the sanctuary.

The new parish...mocks this. Not everything is perfect, but it isn't sloppy.

The old parish...because of Dolores and her moods, did not engage in any cooperative efforts about art and environment. If you dared to volunteer to water plants, you would find them freshly watered when you arrived to do your job.

The new parish...has a pastor who apologized for buying beautiful plants while I laughed at the idea that it could possibly offend me that someone took the initiative (someone with a clue, that is) to make the place nice.

The old parish...hid beautiful things in storage closets and dragged out poorly made vestments every week.

The new parish...took the beautiful things out to show and threw the bad stuff away.

The old parish...did things the same way every time even if it didn't work right.

The new parish...reevaluates, keeps notes from past years, and thinks about what to change.

The old parish...had this fatalism that they didn't deserve things to be nice.

The new parish...knows better.

85/365 Banner thoughts

They will be white, right? Easter is white. But the ones I saw that I liked had lots of color. Lynn didn't like the green in the last one. I guess there was a lot of green. I saw it as dawn. Reminded me of the Art Museum short film with the woman who broke glass with a flower stem. This shattering of natural things, this crash, this change. But that's ok because it looks nice in my guest room.

Six banners in a row, 10 inches wide each. How long? Did I bother to measure the red ones? Dang it. I guess I'll go up there next week. I would have loved to have started from those white banners from last year. I brought them home. I wonder if that will work.

Pippolotti. That was her name. The woman who made the movie at the Art Museum.

Water and fire. Fire from water. The water, round like the earth. Fire, wild, above, unpredictable. How much red? How much yellow and white? The water--blue? I think I'll start with whatever batiks I have and think about it.

Panic hasn't set in yet. It will soon. Triduum, though. It's designed to make you crazy.

86/365 Palm Preparation

The palms didn't get moldy this year. Fr. Miguel found these awesome little plants, little palm-like plants...and then told Hildegard he hoped it was ok that he picked them up. They are perfect.

Palms on the front doors, stuck into the red ribbons in the grapevine wreaths. The red banners hanging down from the choir loft--I love the new curtain rods--but one of them was crazy crooked. Frustrating. I know why--I did a rolled hem on one side of it but a flat hem on the other with invisible thread. The rolled hem. I should have undone it and started over. Next year.

The nice thing about a liturgical year is that you can continue forward toward perfection.

Palms are in their basket. The plants are arranged. I won't see any of it in action. I'll be at my in-laws' again. This whole Lent has been spent as a correspondence course. But I'm here next week.

87/365 Fiona's Phone Call

I get home from my in-laws' house this evening and hit the play button on the answering machine. House tour. I was stupid to say ok to being a house captain. I don't even know the people. So what if I'm good at something? Easy Like Sunday Morning keeps playing in my head and I try to let it go.

The next message, though, is from Fiona:

"Bridgett! I just wanted to call to tell you the church looked absolutely perfect for Palm Sunday today. The plants on the altars were just right. It really looked like Palm Sunday."

Ah.

88/365 Banner thoughts

Sewing for church has made me a better seamstress in a similar way that deciding that church was important made me a more focused person. Working on the Easter banner set, I am reminded of my printmaking teacher, Rina, who was always urging us to "go large." Of course, she was also handing us power tools and acidic compounds: "If you a power tool junkie like me..." is her most famous quote in my head. But she didn't like work with frames. She didn't like work that ended before the edge of the paper. Wasn't a fan of borders or finished looking sides. She liked torn edges to the paper and the design too large for the canvas.

That's these banners in a nutshell. Coconut shell. The longest two are 11 x 144. The next two are 11 x 120, and the ones on the outside are 11 x 96. Not all of that is visible to those on the ground--the curtain rod hanging mechanisms are on the inside of the choir loft, so part of the banner has to stretch from there to where it will actually hang down. The visible part of the longest banner is probably a little less than 10 feet instead of the full 12. But these are still, all added up, the biggest project I've ever worked on.

I lucked out and found a canvas. The Easter banners from a couple of years ago were the right length. I cut off the bottoms (they came to a point) and lay everything out on my floor. The project is too big to fit in my living room, even extending into the dining room. The length isn't the problem, but there's no way they all can lie next to each other at the same time. I am working in sets of the 4 center banners, and then on each side, dividing the 6 into two groups of 3. Everything gets pinned down and evaluated and rejected and cut again and reassembled.

It's a far cry from the first Advent ambo frontal I made. My only worry is that the way I want to sew for church now, the way that feels right in a meditative way, isn't going to mesh with our architecture or tastes of those who make decisions about things like ambo frontals and banners. And while last year's Easter banner fits nicely in a corner of the guest room/sewing room, these? These don't have another place. Here's hoping they like it.

89/365 Holy Thursday Set Up

Everyone else got there at 7:00. I breezed in at 7:30--Mike had just arrived home from Indianapolis and we'd put a quick dinner on the table first. Most everything was done, frankly. The altar of repose was set up in the Utah Vestibule. The place was clean. The red was down from Palm Sunday.

And my head was so fuzzy from whatever--a long weekend, single parenting, too much wine, whatever--that I was nearly useless. So it was good that we were almost finished.

I polished brass and wished I had a thought in my head.

I watched as other people busied themselves washing up the bowls and pitchers for the mandatum (the foot washing) and thought about how much better I am on paper than in person.

I took wreaths off the doors and disassembled the Palm Sunday adornments, to ready them for Easter (red and palms off, to be replaced later with....something...) and found myself yearning for ordinary time.

It hasn't been a good week.

90/365 It's not about me

If one more person--especially Lynn--cracked a stale joke about stripping the altar, I was going to have to do something. I guess write about it here. But that's not the point.

I spent this evening again at church, this time practicing for Triduum. I had a vague sense that I wasn't living up to expectations. This has happened to me a lot over the years. I'm not the student Mr. Sweeney wants me to be. I don't have the magnanimous heart Fr. Bell is looking for. I'm not the obedient RA that Housing wants me to be. I fail to meet Taylor's expectations of friendship. Or Lillian's. Hilda gives me that tight-lipped disappointed smile when I tell the board I'm resigning. "Not living up to potential" is the phrase most likely to be seen on any review of my behavior or work.

I have a nagging sense this is also becoming true at church. And while I was happy to say goodbye to being a dormitory police officer or the unappreciated role as secretary of my neighborhood board, I don't want it to be true at church.

Part of it is having a 3rd child. When I got back involved at church, Maeve was already 2 and sleeping through the night. Leo, as happy as he is, is not like getting a 3rd cat. It takes time and energy to have another person living in the house. Part of it is having older children--back then, Sophia didn't go to Irish dance twice a week. She was barely going to kindergarten. Mike travels now--a lot. I'm not good at single parenting. Life is different now that it is different. Duh.

But I think part of it, the largest part, is that I have again failed to understand and live up to expectations. And the most frustrating part is that (besides the Leo Factor) I didn't know I was failing. But tonight gave me this vague sense that, yeah, I am. I can't even put my finger on it. No one said anything to me about it. Nothing was implied. It was just this feeling in the air. This sense of...heaviness. I can't describe it well.

Or maybe, now that I've written this down, I can take Astrid's advice. She and I often find ourselves in moments when it seems like we've done something wrong. Something is screwed up and it's our fault. And it's taken each of us some time and reflection to realize that most of the time, if we're bewildered by someone else's reaction to us or behavior, it's not about us. Who knows? Maybe it was just Holy Week. Maybe it's not about me.

Or if it is, maybe it will be clear later.

91/365 To Do

Holy Thursday, 2010

*Finish banners, at least get everything sewn down--tomorrow finish edges and sleeves

*Make something for the potluck. S-Z is vegetables this time. Asparagus?

*Schnucks for egg dyeing materials

*Get lesson 1 done in dylexia book 4

*8:40? I have a note that says set up for Holy Thursday but is that done?

*Make a plan for Saturday's decorating: font, stones, PLANTS (when to buy? Friday? Today? TODAY) Crap. Flowers, banners, who is coming?

*Find lemon cake recipe

*Mail package to Erin

*Try not to fail

92/365 To done

All over but the banners. Still have those to finish. I'm about 2/3 the way done with the pinning--the water part at the bottom is ready for sewing, and the left side as I face it. The thing is, I can't see the whole banner set laid out at the same time. I can only get a partial view. There is nowhere in my house large enough to lay out something that is 12 feet long and 7 feet wide. The attic, maybe, but that would involve a large amount of house cleaning, which would probably make me break my Lenten promises to not yell at my children.

So I'm reminded of the reading I want at my funeral, which is usually read at weddings (but not at mine). The Corinthians one. You know it. Love is patient, love is kind, and so forth. But the part I want is later--Now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then we will see face to face. Now I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known. I can't know what this will look like until I hang it over the choir loft.

And I'm over myself. I pulled a spectacular April Fool's joke on many people and while that might not be really in the spirit of anything Lenten, it was fun, after a long string of life not being very light for me. I don't know. But that, plus simply backing off and reflecting on what I do at church, and more importantly, why, put things into a better perspective for me.

Last night's Holy Thursday service was good. We're getting better and better at stripping the altar. I need to convince Sal that he really, really should stay in the sacristy and not wander off mid-ritual, but it isn't easy to convince him of things when he has his heart set on something.

After going home and frantically working on banners, I paused and went to night prayer. God's work, my work. It may have been more productive to stay at home for the 20 minutes and pin pin pin but I would have regretted missing prayer. I got there a few minutes early and sat next to Sal...and listened to him breathe and swallow for an eternity. I thought about community and why we, as humans, choose to join them. What is it about being with other people--especially other people who irritate us--that gives us so much life? It isn't just sharing in a task like a work committee or political campaign. Church communities have people like Sal and people like Wilma and people like Dolores.

I drove home down Grand thinking these things, missing the monastery, and knowing there was no possible way I was going to get any more work done on the banners that night. Quilting is a liquid--it fills the container given. They would be done by Saturday whether I worked on them or not. And they wouldn't be done until then, whether I worked on them or not.

93/365 My morning, my triduum

Friday night, Good Friday, I got to bed at 2:30. But they were done. Hidden in those stitches are scenes from the DVD I was playing while I worked, which always happens to me (my Christmas banner is Law & Order Season 5, for instance). I look at quilts or knitting later and remember the music or movie or TV that was on in the background. I should probably plan better and watch/listen to meditative things. But I don't--I keep part of my brain amused and offline while I work with other parts. This banner was done with Sports Night on in the background--an Aaron Sorkin show about people who make a nightly sports show on a cable network. It doesn't sound like something I would like, but two out of three episodes find me in tears even though I've seen them a half dozen times already.

So I crawled into bed at 2:30 and slept like a rock until my alarm went off at 8. I help prepare meals for the homebound three times a year--Thanksgiving morning, Christmas Eve, and Holy Saturday. The events officially begin at 8, and run until the folks who are delivering the meals show up about 11. Then there's clean up afterward. On Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, I get out of there at noon. But Holy Saturday is the day to decorate for Easter so I split my time between meals and the church.

I took Sophia with me because she wanted to help. We counted containers and cupcakes. I chatted with friends and people I know only through this ministry. I like doing this because I'm not in charge. I ladle sweet potatoes into foil containers and enjoy the banter. I commiserate with Sr. Vanda when she rolls her eyes at a participant who will not stop talking. "All the time, she always has something to say. And look at me, it's Holy Saturday and I'm saying that." But nothing is mean-spirited.

Sal the janitor pops in and out to have his conversations with us. He talks to Astrid about being a server. He talks to me about church decorating. Sal is developmentally disabled and lives across from church with his family--I think he's probably about 60, and our church is his life. My relationship with him has changed over time--my part of it has, I mean. He comes to every church decorating moment and fusses around ("hedgehogging" is a term I might use, looking busy without really being busy). This day, Sr. Hildegard has him doing dirty work with candles and candlestands. Soot and wax and who knows how many years of neglect. "I bet he regrets ever saying he'd come up to help," she says to me. But after the vigil mass, downstairs, all he can talk about is how dirty the candles are and how nice everything looks now. "We done good!"

Fiona arrives midway through the morning to deliver flowers for church--she works for the florist we order from. She has me come with her with a rectory key to drop off flowers for Fr. Miguel. "He got you flowers, too," she tells me, and I think she means the several dozen flowering plants for church. Then she hands me a vase with my name on it. Sometimes. I show the card to Astrid, who sighs and says, "I guess we can keep him!"

I have some time--the cooks are standing around drinking wine at 10 in the morning and I tell Sr. Vanda I'm heading up to iron some. I'll be back. I iron the banners, worried that the red isn't balanced enough ("But that's nature," Hildegard points out). I take them upstairs to unfurl (I like that word). Hildegard helps me straighten them out--for whatever infuriating reason, I cannot maintain a straight line over 12 feet of fabric. I pin here and there at the top, and get them to the point that they seem about right.

I go downstairs to look at them for the first time. Rina Yoon would be proud. They're so dang big. I sat up in the sanctuary surrounded by all the disparate parts that will become Easter at our church, staring up at the choir loft.

And everybody loved them. That is important to me, of course, but more than that, I think I finally got a handle on Easter. The fire, the water, the circle, the earth, change, transformation, surprise. Jack said he thought it was the best thing I'd done. I think I agree. Miguel said he knew what he saw in it...but didn't elaborate. After the vigil mass, Paul told me he was glad he had 50 days of Easter to ruminate on them. Bev couldn't stop telling me how astonishing they were. It was a good moment.

The vigil was long and dark and just right. The church was set, as Hildegard had told me, and we got out of the way so Christ could step in. It was Easter, after Triduum. In many ways.

94/365 Easter Morning

95/365 Green

"The green is for Lynn," I explain to Hildegard as we stand in the church for a moment admiring the banners.

"What?" she looks puzzled.

"I guess you didn't notice--the last Worship meeting? She said that the thing she didn't like about my Easter banner from last year was the green. Couldn't understand why I used green." I think about that banner, about why I used green. About dawn and life and the shattering of the natural progression from life to death. But then again, I've seen Lynn's banners and they're lame (la-may, I mean, the shiny fabric) and velour and too representative.

"Bridgett!" Hildegard giggles at me.

"Yeah, when I started pinning that down around the red, I thought, 'take that, Lynn.'"

"You know Bridgett, last year's Easter banner? I want you to will it to me, in the unlikely event that I would outlive you." She says this lightly but I know she means it. We've talked about last year's banner before.

"Ok," I agree.

"And if we still know each other," she makes a vague gesture with her hands, "when I die, I want you to come down to San Antonio with that banner and process all around with it. Place it up in front with," she pauses, considering, "the urn or whatever they have."

I can just imagine.

96/365 Latinization

Last week, I had a conversation with Maeve:

"When are we going to have candy at church again?" she asks.

"Probably at Easter," I tell her. Duh.

"But no, I mean at church, when are we going to have candy?"

"Like I said, at Easter. After mass, you know." But maybe not. She's young.

"No, in the sacritarium."

I think quickly.

"Cafeteria?" I suggest. "Downstairs? Like with coffee and donuts?"

"No," she repeats, now exasperated with me. "The sa-cri-tar-i-um."

"The sacristy?" I try again.

"No!" She says, all frustrated. "With the bowl, on the desk, in Father Miguel's house. In the front. In the sacratarium!"

"Do you mean," I say, laughing, "the secretary's office?"

"Yeah," she says with relief. "I mean the SEcretarium."

Which I guess would be one word for the office where the parish secretary sits.

97/365 Grapefruit

In the bulletin, Fr. Miguel has been writing up a summary of his time in Haiti after the earthquake as a chaplain at a hospital there. I read most of this in "real time" on Twitter, but I still reread it. And read it again when I found the bulletin in the car the other day and I was waiting for children to get out of school.

This account was about Ash Wednesday and the things I expected to see: the grim situation, the tent city around the hospital, the desperation. That's not what made me think twice. And at the end of it, there's a paragraph where he admits that this was the day when he got lonely. I also expected that (although maybe not to have other people admit it--but it wasn't what caught my eye). I know what it's like to turn around and want to share something that just happened with someone you know, whether something great or something awful, and there isn't anyone there you know. So I understood, but that's not what grabbed me.

In this account, he mentions a meal he had there. Peanut butter, bread, and "the best grapefruit I ever tasted."

The best grapefruit.

I've had some good grapefruit myself, down in Texas especially. So that made me stop and read it again. And I thought about my friend Tiffany via Sophia's school and how she adopted a 5 year old boy from Ethiopia. "He won't eat mangoes here," she said the other day. "They're not even close to the same thing as back home." It also reminded me of Sophia's godmother Rachel after her stint in Nicaragua. She talked about worm burden (how many parasites can live in your gut before you can't handle it anymore) but she also talked about produce.

So many times as Americans, and especially as Americans who have never left the country (which I have not, I admit, and I know that I probably should but I hesitate for many reasons, mostly involving a dread of flying these days combined with living in a nation with amazing natural wonders that I love to visit), I think we miss something about the rest of the world, especially the majority of the world that is very poor.

It is so easy for me to think of folks living essentially on rice and wheat paste from government surplus bags of grain. That's what we read about. And I know there are many places where this is the staple. But the idea that someone from here, where the grocery stores are jam-packed with out of season produce all year round, could go on a mission to the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, right after a devastating natural disaster, and eat the best grapefruit he'd ever tasted is just sort of awe-inspiring for me.

I try very hard to eat locally and organically--the first is more important to me than the second, unless the first is unavailable and then I try for the second. And it costs a lot more to do this than it does to eat conventional produce and convenience foods and corn products. A lot more, frankly. I do it because food is better for you if it isn't heavily processed, and food tastes better if it is fresh and grown the right way. So it is unlikely that I will ever eat the best grapefruit Fr. Miguel has ever tasted. And I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here. But it got stuck in my head and there it remains. For whatever reason.

98/365 Still Life

99/365 Spiritual Needs

Right before Easter, Hildegard asked me if I had a spiritual director. I do, of sorts, in Sr. Jean Frances. We email back and forth regularly and she is so centered and peaceful and good. I love getting her emails because there is always something I can ruminate on, live on, for time to come. Which is good because I'm separated from the monastery for quite some time--the sisters have moved into the guest quarters while the main building is reconstructed, so there is no room for oblates. We could go stay at Conception and commute, but they strongly hinted that guests would be a burden. I can accept that, in fact, I'm glad they are honest about their own needs.

Because I should be too. This Lent was in many ways so good for me. But in other ways it got lost like a breeze in a whirlwind. I made it to Sunday mass at our parish twice before Triduum. I was here and there and everywhere and it sucked a lot of life out of me. This is good to see, in hindsight. It is, in the end, important for me to have a regular spiritual schedule. Another thing I learned this Lent.

Hildegard and I, though, were standing in the parking lot. "Have you considered going down to Pevely, even just for a night and staying the next day? What about down on Ripa?" I knew what Ripa meant--the SSND compound--but Pevely only meant a defunct Benedictine monastery to me. I mean in a Catholic sense. Pevely is also the location of one of the Girl Scout camps, but I figured that's not what Hildegard meant. I queried and she explained. Hermitages.

And I heard all those familiar nagging voices in my head. I have a baby who doesn't sleep through the night yet (yes, that's right, he's 15 months old). I have, oh, not a single weekend between now and the 5th of Never that I can easily claim for myself. I just can't trot off...but why could I just trot off to the monastery? Because they put out the weekend schedule for the year every January? They got on my calendar early?

Eh.

So she told me she'd be asking me later about it. I drove home and got things in order. Went back that evening for a Holy Thursday potluck and she handed me a one-free-night coupon to this place in Pevely. She found it by accident as she unloaded a basket to take to church for the collection that evening. There it was. Lo.

One time in Borders Books, before I was an oblate, I was searching through garbage Christian fluff, things like "The Idiot's Guide to Mary Magdalene" and crap centered around the idea that Jesus wants you to be rich--trying to find something worth my time. Maeve was wriggling in the stroller and I was about to walk away when Sophia said, "Look, Mama, a key." There on a low shelf was a key, an ordinary house key. Sitting in front of Joan Chittister's In Search of Belief. Look Mama indeed. A key.

I do not believe in coincidences. So I suppose I'm going to have to find my way to Pevely.

100/365 Maeve Trickery

"Do you want to go up to communion with me?" I whisper to Maeve as I stand up to get in line. She nods and takes my hand. As we get closer, she lets go and stands behind me. Fr. Miguel is the eucharistic minister and I hear him bless her as I walk away. I head back to our pew and Maeve is still right behind me. I sit down and take out the song book. Her little hand rests on mine.

"How does he know who gets to have the bread and who doesn't?" she asks, looking suspiciously up at Fr. Miguel.

I know what she's tried. Maybe I can just go ahead and have my first communion right now.

"Honey, Fr. Miguel knows us. He knows you. He knows you're too young."

Her eyes narrow at me. "Three years is too long to wait."

"I know," I agree. It's a long time from now.

101/365 Stewardship

"When's your meeting?" I ask Mike, looking at the clock as I get Leo ready for bed. It's 7:30.

"Ah, crap," he replies from the computer room. "Half hour ago."

"You should still go," I urge him. "It's only a half hour in."

"By the time I get there, they'll be done." He has that look I know I get when I've forgotten something on my calendar.

"Really?" I ask, the tone I use when Sophia or Maeve is trying to get away with something. Because no meeting at church is only a half hour long.

He gathers his things up and goes.

102/365 Vanda Phone Call

The answering machine light was on. I pushed play.

Bridgett? This is Sr. Vanda. Up at church? I'm sorry to bother you but I just stopped in at the church to pick something up for someone and Bridgett, the flowers are looking pretty sorry. I hate to say that but they really need some care. Sr. Hildegard said she was out until Saturday afternoon at least so I'm hoping you have time in your schedule to come up and tend to them sometime before the weekend. I know you have a busy schedule so I wanted to tell you that it really needed to be done. The flowers are in real need. And just so you know, when it comes time to discard some of those plants, I would certainly be interested. But Bridgett, you really need to come up and fix things....

I pushed stop. I don't know how much longer the message was, but I was done. I took a deep breath, wondering when it would be understood that "if you see a need, fill it" was my philosophy for plant care. I don't have ego wrapped up in plants the way I do in fabric. Seriously. I don't have any houseplants. They die. This is not my forte. But I'm happy to have it be my job. It just amused me, sort of, that Vanda's message took longer than filling a pitcher of water and hitting those plants in most need would have.

I went up to church and took care of things best I could. Confirmation is coming and we'll be redoing things. Just need to limp along a bit longer.

104/365 I'm going fishing

He stands there pompously proclaiming the gospel--he can even make Simon Peter sound like an effete snob: "I'm going fishing!" is said like one might tell a 4 year old that one is about to eat one's broccoli and one is very proud of this fact and thinks the 4 year old ought to do the same. A false excitement.

Not at all like the Sunday three years ago when Fr. Bill read this, visiting that Sunday (also a first communion Sunday, I remember). "I'm going fishing" was read with this tone of mixed regret, disgust, and a sort of hopeless helplessness. That Sunday (and I was not a big fan of Bill usually, especially when his homilies turned dark and dreary and filled with depressing poetry) I heard Simon Peter and understood. I could live and breathe in that moment of humanity. I've never read this passage the same way since.

But this time, the deacon stands there with his hands folded like how you'd teach a 2nd grader to go to communion, like a precious moments statue of a small child praying, and he's reading this gospel like he's telling a story to small children who just wouldn't understand. Not just "I'm going fishing" but all of it afterward when John points and says it's the Lord and Peter jumps into the water to get there. Peter, and I know I'm not original for saying this, is for me, the most human character in the gospel stories. He blurts. He says what's on his mind right then. He broods and lies and runs ahead to find the ending of the story. I love him. And so I found myself standing there remembering how this story goes instead of listening to it.

"Peter do you love me?" he says, syrupy. Christ is not some blond blue eyed soft around the edges greeting card. Look, oh look, Dick, look at Puff. Look at Puff. Puff is funny. Funny, funny Puff. THAT'S the tone. Finally. I remember children's primers and first grade attempts at inflection and that's what's going on at the ambo. Look, congregation, look at Peter. Funny, funny Peter.

I think about Peter, who would be drenched, standing on the shore eating bread and fish, with all these words in his head and nothing to say and then that question: Peter do you love me? In front of all the people he's supposed to lead, but why, why is he the leader? Stop asking me these questions. You know the answers.

The gospel of the Lord. We sing the Alleluia and I watch the deacon begin to withdraw from the ambo and Fr. Miguel meet him halfway at the altar. At least I won't have to go relieve Mike in back and take Leo and sit outside and ignore the homily. Funny, funny deacon. Sit, deacon, sit.

103/365 Children's Liturgy Moment

I wake up early enough on Sunday to check to be sure I'm not in charge of Children's Liturgy. I'm not. I've missed so many homilies the past two months. Please not today as well. But no, luck on my side, I get to sit at church and listen instead of do.

End of the opening prayer, Fr. Miguel invites children up to be dismissed for Children's Liturgy. There's Sr. Edith, standing up there with the lectionary. Lots and lots of kids come up. A huge number. They head back and I realize she's alone. I can't recall who her help was supposed to be, but she's not there. A mom is heading back with her 3 year old (maybe?)...there will be another adult. I catch Hildegard's eye. She shrugs, not knowing either.

The first reader is approaching the ambo. I should head back. I should go downstairs with Edith and all those kids. I should. But. I. Don't. Want. To. Mike is in the back with Leo and both my girls are downstairs and I have a moment. I can listen and be here.

I look back at Hildegard one more time and she kind of shoos me away with her hand. Don't go. I have permission. Or at least I have a similar opinion.

It strikes me as we stand for the gospel that this might be one of the Sundays the deacon is going to give the homily. In which case I should have taken one for the team and gone downstairs. I hold my breath. And it turns out just fine.

105/365 Are you sure?

"Are you sure you're supposed to place an order?" Fiona asks me on the phone as I'm placing an order. "Shouldn't we try to just limp along, rearrange things as best we can?"

"No, Sr. Hildegard told me to call and order for confirmation."

"Can we afford this?" she almost whispers. Fiona goes to church with me but she also works at a florist where we do all the ordering for Christmas and Easter (other plants I pick up at the wholesaler, but this is my connection for big orders).

"The archbishop is coming," I explain.

"Oh! Well, then!"

106/365 At my funeral...

At my funeral, no one will sing "On Eagles Wings". Under penalty of severe haunting.

At my funeral, no one will sing "Amazing Grace" either.

At my funeral, if at all possible, I want Psalm 139 instead of Psalm 23: Behind and before you encircle me and rest your hand upon me.

At my funeral, I want people to pause between readings and the psalm. Between the second reading and the Alleluia. Between the gospel and the homily. Between. I want some space between these things.

At my funeral, I want someone to read well. Slowly. Perhaps something from Isaiah 35 or I Corinthians 13 or something cozy from Proverbs or Wisdom. Maybe the Gospel of John. I'm fuzzy on these details--there are many good things I would choose. I just would like it done with a meditative presence.

At my funeral, I want a homilist who won't give pat answers or tell people to rejoice or talk about what a great person I was unless he really knew me.

At my funeral, if someone gives a eulogy, it should be simple and to the point. Thoughtful. Something to ruminate upon.

But at my funeral, under no circumstances is anyone to use the moment as a platform to push his or her political views. Politics are verboten. Don't criticize the government in the homily, the eulogy, the worship aid, the bulletin board at the wake with my photos. Nope. Nada. Don't do it.

107/365 Worship Commission May 2010

I hate meetings.

No, I really do like meetings usually, at least ok enough to keep going. Worship, though, the tension drives me crazy and all attempts to be somewhat relaxed or normal are thwarted by this sense of irritation and doom all around me.

Ick.

I guess I'd better type up those minutes.

108/365 Fantasy Worship Commission

"Hi all," Fr. Miguel says as we come in a few at a time, talking to each other about Triduum and how lovely it was. I pull up a chair next to Sr. Hildegard and take out my favorite pen, one of those daytimer ballpoints my father is fond of.

We get the meeting started with a prayer from a book of reflections about peace and justice. Vanda and Lynn have poignant stories to add about their work with the homebound and with the Catholic Worker House. I ask Lynn after the prayer ends if she'll give me the number of the house because I've decided I want to join the movement. I've wanted to for a long time, but never felt comfortable with some of the other workers. Until this story and I realize I can put that aside, that I can fit in there just fine.

We begin to discuss Triduum in detail. Lynn mentions how much preparation the readers must have done, that they never got in the way of the words. We all agreed that perhaps next year we should try to invite more people to the washing of the feet, but overall, things seemed to go so well. Just lovely.

Bev compliments me on the banner I made and we chat a minute about its construction. We talk about flowers and Fiona's work and how we might keep everything alive, or replaced, through to Pentecost. Suggestions are made about plant care and Lynn volunteers to take care of plants once a week.

The Vigil is discussed at length. Easter Sunday mass is touched on for just a moment, long enough for me to realize that maybe next year I should try to make it up for that one as well. And then we move on to upcoming dates. Ideas are shared about how to make baptisms more integral to the community. We come up with new things for Pentecost environment. Lightheartedly we remember past years and the banners we used to use. No one misses them.

We all plan to attend the upcoming prayer service. We talk a minute about the plan and offer constructive ideas about how to make it consistent with previous prayer services without being redundant. We talk about gratitude and Earth Day and ecology and how to bring the ideas of just economy into prayer involving these themes.

At the end of the meeting, we choose a prayer for the month of May for the bulletin. We adjourn, looking forward to next month's meeting and all that we have planned.

The End.

110/365 Flowers Die

I laugh when I tell people I'm in charge of plants at church. This is not what I'm good at. I do it, and willingly during Christmas and Easter, but it is not my strong suit. I don't know which plants should be watered heavily, which ones rarely. Light requirements, temperature control--so many things are beyond me and not too feasible for someone with 3 kids and a church building with no natural light.

I do what I can. I water things. I think about Dolores and her plant hospital in the Utah Vestibule. I remember meetings about plants and fluorescent lights and listening to people argue about plant care.

In the end, flowers die. They died then with the special lights and the passive aggressive watering routine, and they die now. No plant I've found yet, save perhaps the mother-in-law's tongues Fiona got for us, lives happily in that church with my version of plant care (and child care, frankly): benign loving neglect.

They die, and they die, and they die. And I have a bit less than a whole month left to nurse them along. Early weaning is never recommended. Sigh.

109/365 Reality

I need to learn how to block emotions from other people. I need to not let it affect me sometimes. Often this is useful. Not at Worship Commission. The feeling in that room is oppressive. It isn't the room. I've been there for other things.

It's her.

Actually, I think it's a combination of her and him. I don't know if it's just because she's so bitter about the position of women in the church and resents the male priesthood, or if--no, I think that's probably it. The things she says, the flippant comments regarding the priesthood and how relatively inexperienced (and young) our pastor is, when he's not there, displays her true feelings quite plainly. I don't know what she thinks of Fr. Miguel personally but she seems to hate what he represents.

I say this because there have been Worship Commission meetings, a few, well, maybe one, where he wasn't present and she was and it was fine. Of course the whole thing centered around bashing our deacon for his choice of exclusive language, to the point of parody, but it was a decent meeting otherwise. Things got decided.

All I can figure is that she resents the idea that the pastor would be present at a Worship meeting. And I can see that in some ways. I mean, I can agree with her in some ways. Not about Miguel in particular, but I could see other pastors (I have a list) that would make any meeting worse. But those pastors probably don't have functioning worship commissions. Or they so deeply do not care that it doesn't matter.

It matters at our church. I want it to matter. I've decided to sort of put my eggs in this basket and give what I can via this ministry as consistently (stability) as possible. I do other things, but this is the one I go to even though it isn't fun. Not just fun. It doesn't have to be fun. What I mean is, I have decided that I'm here at this meeting for the long haul or at least for the near future and I want it to work.

My relationship with Lynn, while mostly on the surface, is complicated. I've eaten pie at her kitchen table. I currently own her loom, to be returned to her in 8 years from now when all her kids are grown and gone and she has room for it again. Sometimes I can talk with her and it's ok.

But other times her truer colors blaze on through and it's like getting smacked in the face.

And I can't even pinpoint a specific instance at this last Worship meeting. I just know that I fled from the table the moment we adjourned. I was afraid she was going to ask me for a ride home and I was going to say yes. Turned out, as I stepped into the parking lot, she had brought her car. I laughed at myself and drove away as fast as was prudent.

I emailed Fr. Miguel back and forth later that night. I would like to think constructively--the bitching ended quickly and became sort of a general lamentation and desire for better.

But it would take a lot of work and probably something beyond my control to make it better.

Trudge, trudge, trudge.

111/365 Fakus Ficus

"At my aunt's funeral, I noticed at the church that every other flowering plant on the altar was fake," I tell them at Worship Commission.

"You could tell?" Fr. Miguel asks.

"I went up and looked closely. They just looked too good."

"Almost fake good," he nods.

"Exactly."

112/365 Fine Funeral, Fine Funeral

"How was the funeral?" people kept asking me.

"Oh it was fine. Nice. It was fine," I keep replying. I'm reminded of my father-in-law, quoting the man who used to run the spelling bee down in Cairo. A kid would spell a word and he'd say, "Very fine, very fine. But wrong." Jeff does the timing just right.

That's what the funeral was. Very fine. Very fine. But wrong.

It was lovely. It's a nice church, climate controlled. The funeral choir was spectacular for its genre--no reedy sopranos or heavy organ music. The soloist for Ave Maria was well-practiced. The congregation sang some.

But there were three things that tripped me up. The first is typical of all weddings and funerals where folks who usually don't step forward in church have starring roles: the readings were hurried and there were no pauses between things. Everything was in a rush. This always catches me off guard because our church is so good at silence. And silence seemed most appropriate at my aunt's funeral.

Bigger than that, the priest was in a rush. He knew the family well and obviously had affection for my aunt, but he was one of those young priests who is very impressed with his priesthood. His homily sounded like he ordered it on HomiliesRUs.com and then tweaked to add my aunt's name a couple times. I was about to write him off entirely but he ended with a poem that wasn't half bad. And who knows? Maybe he was in a rush because my mom's cousin told him to speed it along. He was just...the kind of guy who would seem rehearsed in casual conversation and overuse your name in a bad attempt to make you feel comfortable.

But the part that was really jarring, the part that made other things not even worth mentioning, was the eulogy. There were three eulogies. The first was from my aunt's grandson's wife. It was good. Touching. Short. The second was from my aunt's son-in-law, which was well written and from the heart. And her son-in-law is a socially awkward amway salesman so that's saying something. After them, though, her son got up. My mom's cousin, in his mid-sixties. At first he just filled in a life for us--her father dying when she was 19, precluding her college admission. Marriage, kids, family, interests.

And then he mentioned her active role in the pro-life movement. Which is true. She was steadfastly a part of Birthright and other support groups. She called her congressman and senator and the White House and prayed and all that. But then he took a dark turn and used the rest of his time in front of us railing against the current government and how angry my aunt was with the way things were headed "in this country."

Now, my aunt was 93 and an eternal optimist. I don't think I ever saw her angry about anything. Ever. She defended criminals and her crazy (actually crazy) brother and lied about uncomfortable things and over all was the most pollyanna person I've ever met. I can see her saying things like "Well, I hope they realize what they're doing wrong" but nothing stronger than that. Really. But to hear her son tell it, tea-party-esque hatred of the government was the central focus of her life.

Maybe it was. Maybe I let our relationship go more than I thought I did. Maybe she was more honest with other people. But even so. Come on. The eulogy is not the time for self-congratulatory angry upper-middle-class lamentations.

I went to the cemetery afterward and stood next to another elderly relative. "You're still a liberal, right?" I whispered.

"Oh, heavens yes," she exclaimed. And we both shook our heads and sighed.

Very fine. But wrong.

113/365 Chasuble

Torn seam fixed.
It needed cleaning. My sewing room? Sacristy? Something.
Done. Hope it works.

114/365 History of Baptism

Sophia's baptism is scheduled for September 16. I'm so not a part of the parish anymore. But there's something about me that made me dig in my heels and not conveniently disappear. Her godparents can't make it and my house is too much chaos to think about hosting a party. I let my parents do that and I send out little notes to lots of folks. Come and see.

There's a baptismal gown, almost see-through at this point, having seen many many babies baptized in Mike's family. There are no buttons. Instead, a tiny set of pins connected by a silver chain. Bows at the wrists. Later on when I put it on Leo I worry that it won't fit. It barely does. But Sophia fits in it fine.

But before we get her dressed, September 11, 2001 dawns and I'm on the phone with my brother watching CNN as the world trade center towers fall in on themselves. And I'm already post-partum and a mess. I've only fixed the thrush we had about two weeks before. I'm exhausted and she's not sleeping and my baby makes me sad and now this. Now this.

I call Fr. Bill to tell him maybe we shouldn't go ahead with the baptism, that maybe it wasn't the best thing. I'm not in my right mind and he's patient with me for the first time in 4 months.

"It is always a good time for a baptism."

And it is. Sophia cries and smells like chrism oil for a week and people pass her around at the party afterward and I've done it. I've had a baby and baptized her and we're all still here and it's ok.