9/365 CLOTW and Selfish Desires

CLOTW is my abbreviation for Children's Liturgy of the Word. We restarted this program at my parish after a small seasonal program had been disbanded. Sr. Hildegard gathered up a group of parents and other interested child-oriented catechists to take a few Sundays every semester and be in charge of presenting the Word of God to children, ages 4-10. This is done down in the basement of the church, with a rug where the children sit, a candle on a stand, and an ambo/lectern of sorts.

We were kind of a large crowd of catechists and helpers the first year but have dwindled down to a bare-bones operation. It essentially means I will miss at least 1 homily a month, sometimes more. Leading Children's Liturgy still "counts" for Sunday mass--I'm still participating in the liturgy--but I think I'm going to have to start attending the 7:30 a.m. mass if I'm going to not resent this service.

See, I really like our pastor. Really. And not just because he is personable and I served on his first parish council and trust him and all that--not just because he's a good person and a great priest and we're so fortunate he's at our parish and so forth. He could be all that and fall flat at the pulpit, but he's good at that too. I really like listening to good preaching, and he pulls it off more often than not. Almost always, actually, I go home ruminating on what's been said. I love words and people who use them well, whether written or spoken or sung (or in any combination). So it's hard to know that I'm going to walk out with a gaggle of children and head down to the dim basement to try to present the gospel to them in a way that is child-oriented and lovely...because I miss out on the adult version upstairs that I yearn for.

But I'm reminded of something I read by Fr. Dominic Garramone OSB (the Fr. Dominic from the PBS bread baking show--another one of my steps along the way in the summer of '06). He was complaining to his abbot that helping an elderly monk at the liturgy of the hours was seriously detracting from his own prayer life. The elderly man could barely see the pages, was always getting lost in the office books, kept forgetting Dominic's name--in other words, being a big pain in the rear. Dominic insisted that he could "hardly pray" while helping out this monk. The abbot pointed out to him that without his help, that monk could not pray at all. It is unlikely that the children I share the gospel with down in the basement of the church are going to go home and ruminate on my words. It is doubtful that the things I say will be of any great and wonderful importance. But if it allows them to more fully participate in the mass (and if it, frankly, lets their parents have a moment upstairs to more fully participate in the mass), then it is worthwhile. Even if I miss out on the good stuff once in a while.

So I'll suck it up and enjoy it. Because in the end, I always do.

45/365 Valentine's Day In Review

Today I ran Children's Liturgy and therefore missed what Mike called the "best homily I've heard in ages," brought to you by Fr. Lawrence while Miguel is in Haiti.

Wait. Yes--Miguel is in Haiti at a hospital working as a chaplain. His latest tweet (that would be "thing he posted on twitter") reads: I'm sleeping on a cot outside w a mosquito net. Brushed my teeth on the side of the "road". I am not a camper. I could have guessed that last line but frankly, I'm speechless when it comes to international mission trips of all sorts. It would be enough for me to say "I am not a missionary" in any statement I would make and that would be enough said. So I'm living vicariously through tweeted moments he sends into the ether and hoping he makes it back ok. I spent two years hoping that about Sophia's godparents when they were in Nicaragua.

But yes, Fr. Lawrence filled in. He's wordy, but I've been consistently pleased with what he's had to say. Today, Mike said, was no different.

"Best homily I've heard in ages" is not anything like what happened in Children's Liturgy. I prepared for the wrong year. How could I be so stupid? I realized sitting in the pew before mass began what I'd done and I quickly scanned the readings. So I went downstairs and faked it. I hate that. I hate not being prepared. But I read the readings and the gospel and did a tiny introduction to Lent. Then we reread Jesus' statements and put them into context as best we could. We went upstairs and the homily wasn't finished. Timed it bad on top of everything else. Jessica and I stood in back with the kids and showed them the statues and tried to explain why these were in our church. Then we released them. It was already almost a quarter to 11 and he was still talking.

I spent the rest of mass wrangling Maeve. She was impossible. My theory that sitting closer to the front would help is proving to be a failure. But I fear that if I give up and sit in the back, none of my children will have an inkling about what's going on. I could take her back to the new cry-room of sorts, in the Utah Vestibule, but it's become a baby ghetto. It's chock full of toddlers running amok and parents chatting. Not what I had hoped. It has separated the children, putting the gates up. I won't go back there anymore, alas, because it wouldn't be at all like being in church. Too bad--it was perfect with the rocking chairs and quiet lighting. The gates seemed like a good plan to me but now, well, I'll just say that it's not for me anymore.

So I wrangle her in the pew and whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Like: If you can't sit still we will not go downstairs for a donut. Or, everyone can hear you when you speak out loud, you must whisper, you are 5 years old. I want to add stronger threats but she's got my number. She's just the kind of kid to yell things like "don't hit me again Mommy!" and that would be just perfect.

At the end of mass, we're standing in that lag time between the prayer after communion and dismissal, when announcements happen. Fr. Lawrence announces that he has 4 announcements and a blessing for Valentine's Day. And then a trumpet starts playing. Somewhere. It isn't the trumpet player standing next to Bev at the piano. I'm too far up front; I never see who did it. So Lawrence blesses us first, which is always awkward for me in a way that other blessings are not. I detest holidays that are simply self-congratulatory events, like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day and 4th of July. Yay, I have a good life--but not in a thanksgiving kind of way, you know? More like "yay I have a good life and you should praise me for it." But he blessed us and I never found out who the trumpeter was.

We walked out with Maeve throwing a silent tantrum because she didn't get to go down for a donut...just the start to a day of Maeve tantrums and fits and rages.

Maybe like that character in Flannery O'Connor, I need someone to bless me every damned day of my life.

54/365 Temptation is Tempting

We walked out of church Sunday with the neighbors, heading to get coffee and bagels down the way since there was no coffee and donuts downstairs. We feared it was some Lenten reason for nothing in the basement...but we'll see as the season goes on.

I put Leo in the car. He was fussy. I got into the driver's seat and Mike glanced back at him.

"Maybe he's upset by inch-deep Christology and a rehash of the gospel. 'Temptation is more tempting when you're tempted,' after all," he laughed, pretending this was a quote from the homily.

It might as well have been.

I know as a former teacher that the first year of teaching I should've paid those families to let me teach their kids instead of the other way around. You are a novice for a reason. You aren't always born to do what you do--sometimes you have to grow into it. And as opposed to, say, a novice anesthesiology student and her mentor arguing about why I had "too many bones" in my back while I was in labor waiting for an epidural, a novice homilist isn't frightening or potentially harmful. And homilies aren't every priest's cup of tea.

It's just...so unsatisfying. But next week is back to Miguel.

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.

122/365 Homily

Children's liturgy. The woman in charge is up there, waiting for kids to cluster around and then follow her downstairs. But her helper--whoever that was this week--isn't there. And there are too many kids to make this work. I get up. I need to go.

Hildegard catches my eye as we head out. "If Miguel does the homily I'll come get you," she promises. And this lightens my step. I go downstairs and set up the environment for Helen. She has a plan. I listen to readings. I note how our regular kids just aren't a problem anymore. Even the one family of foster children who were, well, difficult to handle even for the strongest teacher-esque personalities there (read: me), have settled down and know the routine.

Routine. That's part of Catholicism. The familiar allows for the moment of inspiration.

I sit in the back of crowd of kids, Maeve next to me. And Hildegard comes in and taps me on the shoulder. I don't pretend. I get up and go upstairs.

174/365 My Sunday

I take Leo to the back during the second reading. It's over for him already. I get one of the hearing-assistance devices and sit in the Utah Vestibule, wrestling with the 18 month old. I listen to the readings, hiding the little receiver from Leo because he wants to play with it, too. I listen to the Gospel--always a strange one, with the phrase, "let the dead bury the dead." I've been jarred by this before. I've tried to make sense out of, on one hand, giving everything up to follow Christ, but on the other, the idea of obligations, of the corporal works of mercy, of being a Christian.

Then Miguel starts his homily. It's about the Danish resistance during World War II, led by King Christian X. The Jews of Denmark were not rounded up and taken away to concentration camps. Neighbors helped neighbors get them out to safety in (was it Sweden? I can't remember now). There were other simple examples of resistance--they kept the Danish flag raised through the whole occupation, there were no yellow stars on the sleeves of Jews, there was no ghetto. The way Miguel told it, it wasn't an armed resistance, just a peaceful "no" and the follow through that mattered.

Jews were not well-liked folks even in the best of nations back then. Jews were scapegoats and outsiders. In Denmark most likely they were well assimilated and part of society, but they were still the 'other.' Nowadays, we look back at the German Final Solution and I, at least, find the whole notion ridiculous. Horrendous and terrifying, but ridiculous from the standpoint of today. Israeli politics aside, I don't think Jews are a big topic anymore. I don't blame the Jews for anything, really. And even at their most fearful and racist, I've never heard my dad's relatives have anything to say about the Jews. They're kind of a non-issue, really, at least in western society (I'm not talking about Iran, I'm talking about countries where Jews actually live). And I know that isn't entirely true, I took the class on The History of Antisemitism in college. But they don't seem to be the Big Hated Minority any more than any other minority anywhere.

And I considered this as I stepped outside with Leo, after the homily and he was completely wild. The gay pride parade was gearing up--floats were assembling, tan men in leather skirts were standing on the sidewalk in front of our church drinking gatorade and talking to tattooed women with tiny dogs dressed as astronauts. You know: weird with a capital W.

And I thought again about the story of Denmark and the Jews.

187/365 The Unfinished Samaritan

Today's gospel was the Good Samaritan. As Fr. Miguel put it, it is pervasive in the linguistic environment. Everyone knows this parable: a man falls among thieves...lies dying by the side of the road. The Levite walks by. The priest walks by. The Samaritan doesn't walk by.

But instead of the usual homily, perhaps all the homilies I've heard on this, actually, discussing Samaria and the unclean nature of blood and the idea of neighbor, Miguel pointed out something I never noticed. The story is left with "tune in next week" and there's never a next week. It's like the last episode of Soap. Is Jessica killed by the firing squad? We don't know. We never learned the ending.

Ok, maybe not quite like the last episode of Soap. But Jesus leaves us hanging. The Samaritan, who has to go about the rest of his life, whatever he was setting out to do, leaves the man with the innkeeper, providing for his care until he returns. He promises reimbursement if expenses get out of hand. And then he leaves.

One thing before I go on--he leaves. The Samaritan doesn't derail his whole life, his family's life, his household's care, in order to be the martyr here. He doesn't take this man's life over and make his daughter marry him and be In Charge. He gets him past the brink of dying, knows he has other things he still has to do, and promises to return. I think this is a good lesson for all of caretaker types. Do what needs to be done but don't put yourself in the position of primary caregiver and neglect your own needs or those people who depend on you already. Especially don't do that if there is someone else to share the burden (even for pay like the innkeeper).

Miguel didn't dwell on that, though. He brought this around to the idea that life is a journey and there are many things and people we encounter. And we don't know the ending. We can't. We don't know if the Samaritan comes back. We don't know if the innkeeper cheats him. We don't know if the man fallen among thieves in the first place is a good guy or not. Is he thankful? Does he repay the Samaritan? Does he sneak away in the middle of the night?

I think Jesus leaves it open like that because it doesn't matter. What happens down the line, while interesting in retrospect, perhaps (how I came to be here kind of questions), doesn't have any bearing on the present. We live now. We have to act now. We can't fully follow Christ if we're worried about unintended consequences.

250/365 Prodigal Son

Today's Gospel reading, in the park under the trees, our annual mass in the park, was the story of the Prodigal Son. Fr. Miguel's homily was in first person, the older son telling his side of the story. I love homilies like this, that tell a story from a different perspective and illuminate our own situations. Because I am the older son. Always and forever, the oldest child in a family of 4. Or the valedictorian who is passed up to say the speech at graduation because I don't have a magnanimous heart (yes, that's what the principal said to me). I don't think I've ever been in the position of the younger son (at least not that I can remember), and rarely am I the one waiting for someone to return and bring them back into the fold. I am always the older brother.

I sat there looking at my kids, wondering about the dynamics of family and how things will go as they get older. My siblings and I get along remarkably well. Bevin and I are closest, probably, with proximity helping that a bit. Colleen and Bevin, though, are closer to each other than to either me or Ian. Down in Texas, Ian is geographically separated and easily could have been the younger son. But nothing so dramatic as all that. Our lives, as Mike puts it, are emotionally entangled in a way that not everyone's sibling relationships become. I keep telling Maeve that one day, she'll appreciate Sophia and Leo, that as she gets older things will smooth out and it'll be good to have siblings.

I hope that's true.

279/365 Mission

Jan asked me what a mission meant for our parish. I was not on the mission planning team, so I am probably not the person to ask, but this is how I saw it:

4 nights of good preaching, each with a theme, brought to us by the Redemptorist mission team (the Redemptorists are an order of priests--I was baptized by them, actually, and my parents were married in Liguori, where they are based here in Missouri (I don't know how big that province might be)).

The themes for the nights are: bible, cross, candle, altar. The last night is a mass, the second-last night is reconciliation.

The overall idea is to reawaken us and replenish us spiritually, and to move us to action.

The priest who came to talk to us and spend the week is Fr. Jonah, and he is completely engaging as a preacher. Reminds me in some ways of Fr. Lucien back at the Benedictine abbey where I went to middle school. I like him. I couldn't go tonight, and I can't go tomorrow, but I'll be there Wednesday for the mass.

It's not like a tent revival do I hear amen kind of thing. It is definitely Catholic thus far.

299/365 Deacon

We have a new transitional deacon--meaning he's transitioning to the priesthood, as opposed to a permanent deacon, who would be a man from the parish who is not moving towards the priesthood (often he is married, for instance). This is our third in a row, all Dominicans. They do things at the parish and have some homilies and basically, do their student teaching/internship kind of deal here at the parish.

Our current deacon, George, is exuberant. I haven't had a chance to sit down and really talk with him or find out what he's all about, but he makes me smile in a way that the previous two did not. As my mom said after mass a few weeks back when he said a homily that was good, but too long, "this one has potential." And I think he does. He has decent preaching skills (but has been too long winded, that is for sure). Today's homily was better paced than previously, and had one phrase that caught me, that conversion is not a private affair (the gospel was Zacchaeus, the tax collector who climbs the sycamore tree to get a better view of Jesus). That stayed with me, because it would be a lot easier if conversion was simply a private affair. Easier, but not complete or successful.

Anyway, it's just to say that George has potential, just as an average person in the pews kind of statement. He certainly doesn't come off as Totally Impressed With Himself Because He's Becoming a Dominican. Like the last two did. The smarmy elitist feel isn't there. So I'm hopeful.

361/365 My Name

They call me Dearbhla
They call me Asumpta
They call me Atracta
They call me Maeve
That's not my name, that's not my name
That's not my my my my my name
(Up and Over It "Chav Ballerina")

It's Maeve's favorite song. It's about being an Irish dancer and being anonymous in your wig and makeup and stiff dress and nobody knows who you are--so they call you a variety of Irish girl first names. Maeve loves it, of course, because it says "they call me Maeve/that's not my name." She thinks it's hilarious.

She was singing it as she got out of the car today to go to church. And then the homily was about names. About the importance of knowing someone's name. About how, once you know a person's name, it is the beginning of a relationship. That before that point, a person is whatever you assume she is--whatever ethnic group or minority culture or religion, but once you learn her name, that starts to fall away.

This is, of course, completely true and I have nothing to add. I think about the mom at my girls' school, Muslim, wearing her hijab, and how at first I didn't know how to be with her. Then I realized she was just like me, only not like me. And then it was fine. She likes the Onion and Red Dwarf and thinks kid music programs at school are ridiculous. Her husband is a Croatian, a convert (I believe) and she converted, too. Her first name is Jenny for goodness sake. So I guess I did have something to add.

My first name is Sarah. I keep it hidden because I was never called Sarah growing up. I even dropped it when I got married, but I picked it back up. Tradition or something. I was named for my great-aunt, who died this past year at 93. The name I go by is Bridgett, which is a variable spelling of a name with many spellings. My parents were going for an Irish-American theme there (I think about the rap group House of Pain all the time when I say these names): Bridgett, Ian, Bevin, and Colleen. Besides Bevin, I'm not sure if any of those names are even used in Ireland anymore (and I doubt Ian ever was). Bridgett, though, however you spell it, was. And in fact, one of my diaspora immigrant ancestors is a Bridget. Or Bridgit. Or Bridgett. She was illiterate: what did she know? And she married an Edward (Mike's first name as well), becoming the first Bridget Blake in my line. I wasn't technically named for her, since my parents didn't even know she existed, but I like to make that happen in my head anyway. She was born about 1838 and was here by 1855. She is a puzzle.

After that, my maiden name is Blake, a name I would have loved to have used for a child's first name but both my sisters have laid claim to it. If and when they ever have children. Blake is Irish, or maybe English, although Edward Blake was from Galway. He committed suicide in East St. Louis after gunning a man down in his bar. I yearn to know more.

I gave up Blake, although it's still part of my name, for Mike's name: Wissinger. There's not a day that goes by that I don't regret this move. I already have to spell my first name. Now I get to spell this one, too. Every time. And, with the way it's pronounced in Mike's family (WESS-singer with singer like the sewing machine), I have a choice: people can spell it or pronounce it. Legally mine, but not mine?

I mentioned this on some blog a few years back, but I have a set of initials that follow my name that are essentially meaningless except in the right context. Like my dad who could technically sign his name with RN at the end, but why would he, since he's been an accountant since the 80s? I am a Benedictine oblate, which means that if I ever decided to, say, write from that perspective for publication, I could sign my name Bridgett, OblSB. I do sign my church banners that way, but otherwise it simply doesn't matter to anyone else. But I like having it there as a reminder.

That's my name.