A day in life of...

Kempton Baldridge, rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Waterloo, Belgium.

When Kempton first approached me about reporting on a day in the life of a clergyman, I was eager to give it a whirl. Then he mentioned that often his days start around 4 a.m. because the predawn hours are distraction-free, a time he devotes to writing, scripture, and tasks that require his undivided attention.

Oh, that sounded good for HIM, but I confessed that the only thing I do at 4 a.m. is roll over and pull the blankets up closer to my chin. I never extricate myself from bed at that hour unless there’s a crisis requiring ambulances and fire trucks.

Kempton, being a considerate guy, decided to share a day with me that didn’t start that early. He offered to let me accompany him on his rounds on Ash Wednesday, a day that started at 7 a.m. for him and included dropping his daughter Grace off at school. He promised to swing by my house in Tervuren and pick me up between 9 and 9:15 a.m.

The road approaching my village is closed as is the road going through it. My home is conveniently located in a neighborhood sandwiched between these two dead ends.

It’s easy to get to my house—if you have a helicopter. If you’re driving and follow the omlegging signs, you’ll end up miles from where you intended to go, sitting on some country road bordered by freshly plowed fields and rolling green hills with no signs for navigation.

Seeing as it was the first day of Lent, God decided to test and build Kempton’s character by letting him wander in the wilderness surrounding Tervuren for forty minutes while attempting to reach the Promised Land of my neighborhood.

He didn’t arrive until just before 10 a.m., and I can’t be sure, but it seemed he had a few more gray hairs. Still, he managed to smile before whipping out his cell phone to call Mambwe Kamanga, a former parishioner who he was supposed to meet in Waterloo at 10 a.m. for a visit. Of course he couldn’t get through to tell him he was delayed.

“Ah,” Kempton said, “No good deed goes unpunished.”

We headed back to Waterloo, and Kempton reflected on how his former life as a military chaplain was different from life as an Episcopal priest.

“Back then I had no office, no steeple, and no choir but I always had lots of administrative support. Now I have a church, a choir, an office, and no administrative support,” he explained. He told me he spent lots of time doing things like ordering printer toner and making and collating copies. I wondered if we’d be doing that during our day together, but Kempton said no, “The first thing we need to do is make ashes for the midday service.”

“What? We don’t order them online from ashes.com? " I asked with a twinkle in my eye.

Kempton explained that, no, priests don’t buy the ashes for Ash Wednesday, they’re made by burning dried palms leftover from a previous year's Palm Sunday celebration.

And so this is how I found myself (along with Mambwe) watching Kempton unleash his inner pyromaniac. After loading a stock pot from the church kitchen with palms and offering a prayer, he pointed a lighter into the pan and tried to get the palms to burn. As they smoldered, a sweet smoke that smelled remarkably like the blue haze that hangs in the coffeehouses of Amsterdam filled the air. Suddenly the church felt like a set for a Cheech and Chong movie.

Hmmm. Maybe we should take this operation outside. Mambwe, Kempton and I moved outdoors into the parking lot, and Kempton continued to tease the palms with the lighter until flames billowed out of the stock pot and threatened to singe his tweed jacket and his eyebrows.

Mambwe and I wondered what the cars traveling the traffic circle bordering the parking lot thought of our operation.

“Those Episcopalians sure have some weird rituals! What’s with the parking lot flambé?”

Bringing the pot [ahem] inside, Kempton demonstrated the dirty work of ministry as he attempted to crush the charred palm remains into fine soot. Ah yes, now I know why priests always wear black! It’s to hide the nasty charcoal stains!

I warned Kempton not to touch the pristine white of his clerical collar and smudge it. “It’s made of plastic actually,” he said.

PLASTIC? The image of my priest cleaning his collar with Windex at the end of each day left me feeling vaguely disillusioned. Wow, the day was already full of surprises, not the least of which was that the church now smelled like weed and Kempton was not a Man of the Cloth but Father Vinyl.

As Kempton worked to pulverize the blackened palm stems and I joked about donating a mortar and pestle to All Saints, Mambwe filled Kempton in on his siblings, mother Irene, and life in Zambia. Mambwe, newly graduated from university with a public relations degree, is job hunting in Belgium. When Kempton invited him to be a counselor on an upcoming mission trip to Romania, he eagerly accepted and began filling out the paperwork.

After the ashes cooled, we put them in a small white container that we discovered after searching the entire kitchen for something suitable. I had a good laugh imagining Tupperware offering an Ashes-to-Go container. They have specialized containers for every other use, why not Ash Wednesday? They could design a container with a special lid that allowed priests to sprinkle OR smudge the ashes. Hey, they could expand the liturgical line with Tupperware collars, and Communion Carryalls featuring their patented leak proof seal. But I digress…

With the kitchen counter cleaned and the stock pot scrubbed, Kempton, Mambwe and I wandered into the church. We decided that having Christmas greenery hanging on the walls on the first day of Lent was tacky as well as liturgically incorrect. We took the wreaths down and followed Kempton into the sacristy to retrieve vessels and linens for the upcoming services.

Kempton explained that one of the challenges of having our own church was that there are now an abundance of volunteer positions to fill. For example, because we have multiple services each week, the Altar Guild needs to expand its membership.  I remember my days as an Altar Guild chick in Oklahoma. I was only 21 and the older Altar Guild ladies provided training that was a bit like hazing. They were always putting me in my place.

Kempton made quick work of setting up the altar and then took Mambwe and me on the deluxe tour of the new church facilities that we bought from the Swedish Lutherans when they moved. In Kempton’s unpainted office (a work in progress) there are sketches of a steeple planned to crown All Saints one day. Like the church facility itself, the steeple is a both a beacon and a dream.

We explore the building from the basement Sunday School, youth group, and storage spaces up to the top floor apartments, which are flooded with sunlight and contain a few choice antiques. Everywhere we go, the potential of the facilities shines. A boarding school. A hospitality center for the USO. Meeting rooms. Offices. A youth center. The list of possible uses goes on and on.

Soon it’s noon and parishioners are entering into the church for the first Ash Wednesday service. There are about a dozen of us who turn to page 264 of the Book of Common Prayer and officially begin Lent.

Earlier Kempton had informed me that he put together two sermons (a short one and a long one) from bits and pieces he’d written or saved earlier. For the noon service, he goes with a short sermon so people can return to work on time. He preaches from the Ash Wednesday Collect and encourages those gathered to “Give up hate and take on love,” this Lent.

“Speak in love, listen in love, forgive in love, pray into and out of love.”

Communion is given from reserve sacrament, and after the service, Kempton quickly removes his vestments, signs eleven copies of a budget to go to the commune, tells others who wish to speak to him about church business that he has to be on his way, and then speeds out the door with his hands full to head to the U.S. Army Garrison in Brussels for a service.

As we drive, Kempton explains that his goal when there are time constraints on a service is to give people a quick takeaway message and stick to essentials.

“When I was in the Navy, I used to do a ‘combat communion’ service which took 17 minutes from start to finish,” he said.

We arrive at the garrison with ten minutes to spare. In true military fashion, Kempton is offered support from the Army staff. A sergeant tells him she has ashes if he needs them and helps him set up a makeshift altar. The garrison chaplain greets him and offers assistance as well. At 1:15, the service begins. Once again there are about a dozen people in attendance.

The sermon is embroidered with a few extra anecdotes (including one about a Biship blessing a septic tank) but the message remains the same as his earlier version: “Make love your hallmark. Everything you do in love reveals God and is done in concert with His will.”

At 2 p.m., the service is over, and once again Kempton is gathering up his things and ready to move on. Before he leaves the garrison, he pauses to check his mail and collect a package. That’s when he sees David, a worker in the post office who greets him warmly and expresses regret at having missed the service because he was in a meeting.

Kempton offers to pray with him and impose ashes right then and there, and David accepts the offer. Kneeling on the floor of the post office with his head bowed, David enters the season of Lent in an unexpected way in an unexpected place.

And this is what Kempton loves most about his work—moving easily between the military, expat, and native community, finding acceptance in all those places, and sharing God’s love and ministry in a church, in a chapel, in the gym, the barbershop, and yes, even in the post office.

I need to be delivered back to my home to meet my children when they come off the school bus and Kempton needs to get to Leuven for a 5 p.m. service at St. Martha and Mary’s Church. From there he’ll scoot back to Waterloo to watch Grace play in a basketball game that starts at 6:30 p.m. and then it’s back to All Saints to conduct his final service of the day at 8 p.m.

As I bid him goodbye after what feels like a full day of activity, it occurs to me I’ve shared less than half of his day. As I climb the steps to my home, I say a little prayer of thanksgiving—not just because it’s been a privilege to witness his dedication and share moments of humor and grace but also because I’m so, so glad our day didn’t start at 4 a.m.

February 9, 2008

In the twilight

OK, I'll admit it. I’m feeling depressed, down, emotionally and physically flattened, uninspired. No, not a full blown “dark night of the soul,” more of a dusky twilight in my brain.

I have a lot on my mind—issues related to my home life, my future, and my past. There’s so much I’m trying to make sense of on a lot of levels. Soul gardening isn’t easy. It’s often exhausting. I have to remind myself to be patient, to wait for clarity, to be in the moment and tend the life I have now.

Sunday, I didn’t want to go to church. Every fiber of my being was longing to stay in my bathrobe and curl up on the couch—but I went to church anyway, yawning all the way and praying the meds I took wouldn’t send me into a complete stupor and make me fall asleep mid-service.

Father Mark made getting off the sofa worth the effort. A new priest at our Episcopal church, I’ve only heard him preach a few times but he always impresses me. His sermons don’t circle a topic endlessly but go right to the heart of it. He dissects the truth with finesse and lays out his points elegantly.

On Sunday he was preaching on the righteous Pharisee and the sinful tax collector. He deconstructed two theological approaches to conversion and grace, one put forth by John Calvin and the other by Thomas Aquinas. He described how the Calvinist position made it easy to fall into and justify a dangerous sense of self-righteousness that could undermine the Gospel's inclusive message. St. Thomas's teaching that we are "converted" gradually as God's grace works to perfect, not replace, our given nature emphasizes the process of growing into faith and holiness over time. Seeing as I consider myself very much a work in process, Mark's words and St. Thomas' wisdom struck a chord in my weary heart, and I carried them out of church with me, feeling encouraged, feeling that the sermon was meant just for me.

Often when I feel emotionally unsettled (as I do now), I have the urge to declutter the house, as if by shedding my material load I can lighten the mental burdens I’m carrying. Over the past few weeks I’ve been sorting through boxes, cupboards, drawers, and storage areas, amassing stacks of things in the basement to get rid of.

E dropped off an entire trunk load of clothes at a church last month. We donated boxes and boxes of books to a fundraising sale. Di’s granddaughter, Sahara, received some toys and books on tape, but still the piles in the basement continued to grow, making me feel smothered.

On Sunday, the sun was shining and there was a soccer game at the community center down the street generating lots of traffic in the neighborhood. I decided to put things out on the sidewalk in a massive give away pile and see if we’d get any takers. I didn’t want to hassle with a garage sale or hauling things to consignment shops;I just wanted to be free of the weight of this stuff.

Christmas wreaths, Easter baskets, folding chairs, tons of Tupperware, Pampered Chef kitchen gadgets, mixing bowls, vegetable steamers, sippy cups, travel mugs, glasses, pitchers, tote bags, leather purses, serving platters, decorative art, tapered candles, cast iron cookware, a bicycle, dolls and stuffed animals—I toted them all out the garage door and set them up on display on the stone wall in front of my house.

The items had been out for all of five minutes when two Gypsies showed up in a van and started loading it all up—the same two who had come by last winter. The timing was almost mystical. I was astonished. I hadn't seen them since last December.

In no time, everything but three Easter baskets had been loaded into their van and driven off, probably to be sold this week at a flea market somewhere. The “transaction,” such as it was, was oddly satisfying.

Once again I had a vision of life as a wheel, of people cycling in and out of my path in some sort of cosmic rhythm, a sense of being in the right place at the right time, of God quietly providing what I need and helping me let go of what I don’t.  Often the best way to find grace is to step aside and let it find you.

October 29, 2007

Lessons learned

Recently ten-year-old E-Grrrl was given a writing assignment at school, asked to write about something precious to her. She tackled the assignment on two fronts--writing about her favorite stuffed animal and her beloved pets. Here's what she turned in, exactly as she wrote it:

The Story of Piggy

I got Piggy our first Christmas here. I asked Santa for a stuffed animal, but I did not expect a pig! I was not too interested in her at first, but during Christmas break, she became my favorite stuffed animal.

On our first day back to school, I started crying. “I don’t wanna go without Piggy!” I cryed, holding her tight. “Okay,” my mom agreed. “She can come.” And she did.

A month before our second Christmas, Pete joined the family. He was a fun, cute, wild black ball of fur. Our other cat, Amy, did not take a liking to Pete, who tried many times to be her friend.

At Christmas, Pete was always running and out of the tree. Once he even tried to climb it! The best presents Pete got that Christmas were a home and wrapping paper!

Piggy got ribbons that Christmas. She looked adorable all decked up in holiday cheer!

Shortly after Christmas, mid-January, my cat Amy was diagnosed with cancer. When I found out, all I did was cry and hug Piggy. She had cancer around her lungs, and the cancer was bleeding making her lungs shrink. She could not breathe.

The worst night of my life was when Amy died. We had taken her to an animal clinic to see if we could do anything. It was horrible!

Half way home my cat started crying, which made us cry harder. The vet said that the best thing to do would be to put her to sleep a.k.a. kill her. I cryed so hard. I thought I would die. I said goodbye a million times. Then my dad took her to the vet. I cried myself to sleep that night, hugging Piggy the whole time. In the morning, I found out that my cat had died before the shot. I barely said anything the following week. Amy lived to be 14. I still miss her a lot. As you can see, Piggy has been through a lot and I love her.

When I read her composition, I realized how much Amy's death back in January was still on her mind, so I opened up a conversation with her about it, telling her that I still missed Amy a lot too, the way she slept on my bed and how she loved to be held and handled, something our younger more energetic cat is not so fond of.

E-Grrrl responded that she wished Amy hadn't died, that horrible things like that didn't happen.

I paused trying to collect my thoughts before saying, "It is sad that terrible things happen, but good things can come from our bad experiences."

She was incredulous. "How can anything good happen from something so bad?"

I said, "I think you learned some valuable lessons from Amy's death, things that maybe you couldn't have learned any other way."

"Like what?" she said.

"You tell me. What did you learn from Amy's death?"

She jumped on the most obvious point first, "Well I learned that pets die. They don't live forever."

"True. What else?"

"Well because they don't live forever, you need to appreciate them while you have them. One day they may be gone."

"That's true too. It's important to appreciate the things and people we love, but there's another lesson you learned from losing Amy. A big one," I added.

I gave her time to think and she still was drawing a blank.

I said, "Before you lost Amy,you didn't know how hard it was to lose a pet or experience a death. You didn't know what it felt like, how much it hurt, how sad you'd feel about it even many months later, how it could be, as you said, the worst thing that had ever happened to you," I told her.

"Because you went through that experience, you now know what it's like for someone else to suffer that kind of loss. When a friend or classmate loses a pet, you can talk to them about it, or hug them, or just be with them when they feel sad.  That's called being compassionate.

"The hard experiences in our life provide an opportunity for us to learn to be compassionate, and if we all act more compassionately toward one another, the world would be a better place. Some people just let their bad experiences make them angry or bitter or sad, and it's OK to feel that way for a time, but it's important to look for ways to turn the bad things in our life into something good. It makes them easier to bear and it helps us be better people," I concluded.

I could see the gears turning in E-Grrrl's head. "That makes sense. Rachel lost her cat a few weeks before Amy died and she was my best friend in helping me after Amy died. She understood how I felt."

Bingo.

E-Grrrl and I both learned a lesson, and Piggy came along for the ride.

October 9, 2007

Peace, Love, and Nausea

Javacurls and I were all revved up for the Free Hugs event in Brussels. We talked on the phone the day before, planning how to get into the city and agreeing to use our art supplies to paint our signs.

Friday afternoon, I happily painted a big sheet of yellow poster board with blue-green letters: Free Hugs!

In the morning, I was thrilled to see the beautiful weather the day delivered. I dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, a black v-neck shirt, and my silver concho earrings from my Oklahoma days. Unafraid of looking too American, I was ready to spread the love. On went the denim jacket, and I waited eagerly for Javacurls to arrive. I was psyched!

E dropped us off at the Metro station and Javacurls and I were glad to get seats on the slightly crowded train. Laughing and chitchatting at first, some of the animation began to drop out of our conversation. Javacurls had this look on her face as she surveyed the masses filling the train and the beggars making their rounds with paper cups.

“V—do you realize what we’re doing? We may have to hug everybody on this train.”

Surrounded by strangers, many of them stony and indifferent, we were no longer feeling the love but the enormity of the commitment to the task ahead. Hmmmm. What the hell were we thinking? Were we really going to stand in the center of the city and hug anyone who approached us?

Javacurls forehead had a little crease in it as she pondered whether we were going to be lambs thrown to lions. The day before we had talked about the boldness of stepping out of our comfort zone, and the possibility we might be hugging someone we felt really uncomfortable touching. Javacurls had said, “Every one deserves to be shown respect.”

Stepping into the DeBrouckere station, we stopped so Javacurls could get a sandwich. It was nearly two o’clock and she hadn’t eaten all day.

We weren’t quite sure which way to go until we spotted another person carrying a Free Hugs sign. We asked her in franglais if she knew where to go, and she wasn’t sure either. We found our way outside to the Place de la Monnaie and looked for other participants. Nothing.

Our newfound partner in hugs, pulled out her cell phone, dialed a number and placed a call. Twelve feet away, a man answered. Our organizer, Didier. Like our partner in hugs, he didn’t speak English, so I worked with my spastic French to tell him where I was from, how long I’d been living in Belgium and inquire how many people were coming. He didn’t know.

Slowly a girl with ruby red hair showed up with a dark haired friend with a nose ring and a big smile. Three young teenage boys galloped into our midst with signs, a woman in a wheelchair arrived, and bit by bit others showed up. Still, we remained a little shy with one another. Parked on a bench in the center of the square, none of us was eager to be the first one to hold our signs aloft and make a spectacle.

The night before I’d invited Cindy Lane to join us. She showed up and was VERY supportive. In her Texas drawl she said, “Have y’all been smoking crack or what? Are you out of your minds? I came down here early to hug you before you get covered with Cooties. There is no quantity of drugs or alcohol that would get me out here with a sign.” (Did I mention Cindy works for a global HUMAN RIGHTS organization?)

I nearly died laughing until we heard the sound of breaking glass behind us and Cindy said, “Are y’all gonna hug the guy that just tossed that beer bottle?”

Oh crap. Maybe I’m not such a big-hearted Grrrl after all. Javacurls looked nervous as she programmed Cindy’s phone number into her cell. We agreed we’d call her later and meet up for drinks.

Then the media began arriving and talking to Didier. Photographers, reporters, broadcast journalists began pointing their cameras our way and so we stepped out into the middle of the crowds with our signs held aloft.

Smile, smile, smile.

Some people avoided eye contact, others looked bemused, and a few came in for hugs. I tried to strike the right expression, friendly but not desperate. A trio of very young teens ran toward me and hugged me and then asked if they were going to be on television. I hugged Brits, Aussies, Belgians, Mexicans and Frenchmen.

An Italian couple made a beeline for me and took turns giving me fabulous hugs while declaring in French, “We’re Italians!” I wanted to tell them I was Italian-American, but I figured my good Roman nose spoke for me. That profile and my big brown eyes are my ticket into the Italian community.

Javacurls sidled up to me and told me she’d been groped. Oops. She looked a little sick.

A woman embraced her and spoke to her in French. Javacurls said, “I wish I knew what people were saying to me.”

So I translated, “It’s a pleasure,” “Are you happy?” "Have a nice day" and “Nice ass!” Java frowned, and I confessed to jerking her chain with the last translation.

Luckily I was hugged, kissed, photographed, but never groped. I did, however, spend a lot of time just standing there trying to catch someone’s eye and lure them in for a free hug without seeming like some psycho-stalker.

A local TV celebrity showed up with a microphone and camera crew and a Free Hugs sign. He attracted lots of attention.

A Dutch woman joined us, her blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as she worked the crowd. She spoke English and told us that people didn’t understand the signs, most of which were in English. Not surprisingly, the French-speaking natives all know the word “Free” but few recognized the word “Hugs.” Not long after she told me this, a middle-aged man leading his young son by the hand came up to me and gestured toward my sign, asking me in French, “What does that say?”

“Calin gratuit,” I replied, hugging myself to make the message clear. I smiled, expecting him to come in for a hug. Instead he looked at me and walked away.

Meanwhile, Javacurls had excused herself to the restroom at the Metro stop, saying she wasn’t feeling well. As time passed, my face began to ache from smiling and I worried about Java. Where was she?

When I spotted her back on the square, she confessed to feeling nauseous. She’d been excited and then nervous about the whole Free Hugs thing, and her empty stomach had started to churn on our way into Brussels. The sandwich she’d eaten hadn’t settled it, but made it feel worse.

She looked green.

“Let’s head home,” I said. But then seeing how ill she looked, I thought the last thing she needed was to get on the Metro.

“Let’s call Cindy and see if she can come get us. I’ll call E from her apartment and he can pick us up.”

Java called Cindy and I got directions to a meeting place at the Bourse. As we headed down the street, I was worried about Java, she seemed unsteady.

“Are you OK?”

“I feel REALLY nauseous.”

We slipped onto a construction site downtown so she could sit.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Well this is a good place to throw up. We’re off the sidewalk and out of sight from most people.”

Not surprisingly, she wasn’t buying into my “It’s OK if you throw up” line.

I told her I was going to go farther down the street to make sure we were heading in the right direction so she wouldn’t have to walk a step farther than necessary. It had been hard to hear Cindy on the cell, and I wasn’t sure I caught all her directions correctly.

I returned to Javacurls and told her I’d spotted a pharmacy down the street. Should we pop in and get something?

No, she didn’t want to do that.

We walked a bit farther before spotting Cindy coming toward us. We followed her back to her apartment, where Java sipped Sprite and chewed Pepto-Bismol tablets and Cindy and I tried to distract her with conversation.

E eventually made it into the city to rescue us and we headed home, covered with Cooties and proud of ourselves for stepping out and embracing our fears as well as the residents of the capital of Europe.

September 16, 2007

Knee high...

When we lived in Virginia, we had a priest named Debbie who delivered great sermons.

One Sunday the gospel reading was on the parable of the unfruitful fig tree (Luke 13:6-9). In the story, a property owner is disappointed that his fig tree hasn’t produced fruit for three years, and he commands his groundskeeper to cut it down. The gardener defends the fig tree, convincing the owner to give the tree one more year, promising him that he’ll dig around the roots and fertilize it. He tells the owner that if the tree doesn’t produce fruit the following year, then he can cut it down.

End of story.

Debbie preached a heartwarming sermon on second chances, on how Jesus wants us all to be our best selves, how He intercedes on our behalf, how He does all He can to support our growth. Her sermon was all sweetness and light, butterflies and flowers. I’m sure some women pulled Kleenex from their purses to dab their teary eyes.

I, however, had gotten an entirely different message from the gospel.

I let everyone else exit the church first and then I caught Deb at the church door:

“Deb, have you ever considered what’s REALLY going on in that parable? The fig tree is depressed and not up to par, and the gardener, who is supposed to be the good guy in the story, offers to help by digging around the roots and fertilizing. Think about it: he’s going to undermine the tree’s very foundation and cover the roots with MANURE. This is not a happy story, Deb.

The REAL lesson for us is to admit that while God sometimes shovels the sh*t into our lives, He has our best interests at heart. This is just the Bibical version of the saying ‘what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.’ The moral of the story: the next time you feel shaken and you’re up to your knees in sh*t, just keep telling yourself that God is on your side and if you suck it up, you’ll bear fruit.”

Deb laughed long and hard and I did too, but sometimes that story makes me want to cry.

(Check out this powerfully moving video from the the Man in Black.)

September 9, 2007

Sunday afternoon

A sermon on peace and justice. A call to action. A reminder to be the change you want to see in the world. Sometimes seeking justice and making peace involves controversy, dissent, and debate. Being a Christian isn’t all about being a pleasant, well mannered, conformist. Often seeking justice requires more fire than “nice.”

I like this sermon because I recognize the need to question authority, to dare to make a public stand, to be willing to say that even though a certain political leader prays and quotes the Bible and talks about God, his or her actions may not be just. While wars generate lots of press, other injustices unfold nearby, ignored by reporters seeking bigger, better, “sexier” stories in more photo-worthy locations.

Peacemaking, however, isn’t limited to the world arena or the local political agenda. Peacemaking is also played out on the stage at Chez V as we move to the end of a summer where we have been together 24/7, all day, every day. We’ve had ample time to enjoy one another and plenty of opportunities to jangle nerves. As the summer wears on and school looms on the horizon, there’s been plenty disturbing the peace at my house.

My son, in particular, is entering adolescence and assuming some of the surly attitude we associate with that. He’s too old for toys and at an age where he frequently declares the outings and activities he’s always enjoyed as being “boring.”

He doesn’t want to go out and he doesn’t want to stay home. Sometimes he can’t get comfortable in his own life—and other times he gets too comfortable. He’d rather lay on the couch and play the same video game over and over and over again than take a walk or a bike ride or a trip to the library.

Being with friends is everything and when friends aren’t available, he’s agitated and prone to keeping himself busy by being annoying. He dishes it out and his sister tosses it back in his face. Lately, the air at Chez V has been vibrating with discontent.

Meanwhile, She Who is Sensitive to Negative Energy finds the low level bickering intolerable. The turf battles and pointless arguments and complaining about “nothing to do” makes the pressure in her Crankometer rise until her mouth explodes with words that send the offensive parties upstairs, outdoors, or to separate rooms. Aaargh.

She pulls out ugly parental sayings like, “School is the cure for boredom,” “I can’t wait until August 27,” and “You can always clean the bathrooms if you’re out of things to do.” This is when she is not delivering the classic command: “Go read a book” and listening to the timeless teen response, “Books are boring.”

So on this Sunday, it was good to hear “Blessed are the peacemakers” and consider their role inside and outside our doors.

And I’d just like to add: Blessed are the margaritas, for they bring the Kingdom of Heaven a little closer to earth, at least until the tequila runs out. Y'all, some days I'm ready to swallow the worm at the bottom of the bottle.

August 19, 2007

What would I do if my child turned out to be gay?

When I asked readers for questions last week, Tera asked me how I would react if one of my children turned out to be gay. She also wanted to know whether I had personal relationships with gay people.

I was raised in a conservative Catholic home where sexuality, straight or otherwise, was Not Discussed. Two of my male pals from my high school years turned out to be gay. I had lost touch with them by the time they “came out,” but I was shocked that I had spent so much time with them as teens and never suspected they weren’t straight. Apparently other friends were clued in, and I was the last to know. I didn’t really see openly gay people on a regular basis until I went away to college.

I’m an Episcopalian, which makes me a member of one of the most liberal Christian denominations in America. Our church has been struggling to reconcile traditional teachings condemning homosexuality with a more contemporary understanding and perspective on its origins and its “place” in society and the church.

A few years ago, the American Episcopal Church consecrated as bishop an openly gay priest who was living with a partner. This set off a firestorm of controversy and heated debate across the church globally and voices were raised saying the American Episcopal church should no longer be part of the worldwide Anglican communion. Years later, the consecration of Gene Robinson as bishop of New Hampshire continues to be a major issue and a source of division in the church. I’ve listened to and participated in the debate, trying to understand where people are coming from in their thinking, questioning their motivations, and marveling over how threatened people on both sides of the issue feel.

As the U.S. debates whether gays should be able to be “married” or united in “civil unions,” I’m astonished how much gets dragged into an argument that to me is about granting all adults equal protection under the law. I don’t see gay unions as threatening traditional families or affecting them in any way. To me gay “marriage” is a way to ensure that gay couples can protect their property and benefits and have the same legal rights as straight couples. Period. If you don’t believe in gay marriage, then don’t marry a gay person. : -)

When I first began blogging, one of the very first readers I had and one of the first blogs I began reading was Come to Find Out, written by John, a gay male student at the University of Syracuse (who has since graduated and moved to New York City). John’s blog was sharp and funny and a great reminder of the ups and downs of college life. He has occasionally written poignantly about the experience of being gay in a straight world, facing family, and coming to terms with the Catholic Church.

Later Peter and I crossed paths in the blogosphere. Peter writes frequently about gay issues, politics, and lifestyle and has given me plenty to think about in the last six months or so. I met Peter personally in Antwerp in June, and we really clicked. We plan to see more of each other now that I’m back from my summer travels. Now I just have to wait for him to get back from holiday.

As for how I would feel if my one of my children was gay, I think I’d be accepting but concerned. As a parent, I’d feel helpless because my child would be facing circumstances I haven’t personally dealt with: prejudice, discrimination, a different way of life. It would be hard to guide them.

I wouldn’t want their sexual orientation to separate them from friends and family, and yet the reality I’ve witnessed from a distance is that quite often it does. Naturally, I wouldn’t want them to experience that sense of being cast out. I would hope that they would feel safe, secure, and loved enough to weather the rejection that might come their way.

As for the big picture, I think our sexual orientation is beyond our control, but the expression of our sexuality is always under our command. I would hope my children, regardless of their orientation, would see sex as something sacred, precious, intimate, and spiritual, something that affects their soul as well as their body.

August 14, 2007

Dreaming

When I woke this morning, I had fragments of a dream clinging to the cobwebs behind my eyes:

I was living in a medieval building constructed of ancient stone. At some points in my dream it looked like a castle or fortress. At other times it looked like a European cathedral.

I am coming down the stairs when the earth shifts subtly beneath the building, not with the dramatic shaking and quaking you see when earthquakes are represented in movies but more like the quiet slump of a mudslide.

The entire building begins to fall apart, walls tumbling in and out, the roof sliding off, slabs of stone collapsing. It was like a house riddled with termites that looks sturdy on the outside but then unexpectedly disintegrates and gives way.

There was both a sense of alarm and a sense of inevitability related to the destruction. Part of me wanted to flee but I didn’t. Instead I stayed inside for a while, dodging falling debris and trying to maneuver around the damage, making plans even as the ceiling was falling.

Finally, I realized I had to leave, and when I glanced back at the building, it looked like the ruins of the Abbaye de Villers that I visited a month or so ago.

As I emerge from shock, reality starts to sink in. I’ve lost everything! I tell the family I’m staying with that night that I need to go back into the ruins and retrieve my children’s photo albums and my jewelry box. I’m convinced I know exactly where they are and that I’ll be able to reach them.

Interestingly, I’m not afraid to re-enter this structure that is falling apart. It’s as if I recognize the danger but don’t feel it will affect me. I’m ready to wade through the rubble when...

The alarm clock goes off and pulls me out of my dreamscape.

I carry bits and pieces of it with me all day, and continually revisit the dream in my mind.

In quiet moments, I push and prod at my life, my relationships, my faith.

I’m looking for cracks.

I’m searching for fault lines.

I'm wondering what makes stone crumble.

May 15, 2007

Part III: Breakthrough...

Watching the video of Cho Seung-Hui, feeling revulsion and fear become something else--

Sadness, deep sadness, not just for the victims whose smiling faces are splashed across every screen and page, but for the cruel, hardened face of the shooter sharing his dismal "letter to the world."

More and more I'm convinced he never have had a moment of peace or happiness, lived a life devoured by rage and hate and disillusionment.

Out of the fog of my tears,

I unexpectedly find

traces of compassion

for the one who made me cry.

April 19, 2007

Easter Sunday

I can’t remember the last time Easter was like this: warm, sunny, fragrant, green, and blooming. For once the weather cooperated and delivered the glory the day celebrates.

I woke to my kids coming into my bed, wishing me a happy Easter. At 11 and 9, they’re both big for their ages and yet their hearts are still so tender and eager. Holding my daughter close to me, I flashed back to the days when her diaper used to rustle as she climbed into bed with me, her thumb and forefinger tucked into her mouth, her other hand holding a blankie.

She and her brother bought Easter gifts for us. E-Grrrl gave me a bright red ceramic cup and a bottle of nail polish. Mr. A gave me a set of colored pencils to use on my art projects and a potted narcissus he bought at the flower shop.

There was candy before breakfast and an egg hunt outdoors. Unfortunately, my stomach tied itself into a knot and when it came time to leave for church, I had to stay behind. By mid-afternoon I was feeling better and ventured out into the sunshine for a long walk on my own. I wandered the dirt lanes and wandelings near my home—the acres and acres of forest surrounded by fields that will produce potatoes, wheat, rapeseed, and beets later in the season.

With my camera in hand, I took photo after photo of the wildflowers, inhaling the rich scent of the earth, grateful not to be slogging through mud on the footpaths.

Easter. Resurrection. Eternal life. All things made new.

I turned all those big ideas over in my head as I walked, schussing out what I believe, what I hope for.

When I lost my sister and parents, I found scant comfort from the idea of an afterlife. Did it exist? Did it not? Did it matter?

At the time all that mattered to me was that I was here and they were not. Whether I’d see them again or not was irrelevant to how life felt without them in it. Their life with me in this time and place was over. Period. End of story.

I don’t’ spend a lot of time thinking about heaven and hell. I don’t think of hell as a place at all but tend to agree with a priest who once told me he didn’t think hell existed, that the “wages of sin” were indeed death and that evil souls simply died.

And heaven--I don’t know. Is it a place? A presence? A state of consciousness? A state of being? Another dimension? Does it exist at all? I love C.S. Lewis’s vision of heaven as a “new heaven and a new earth” where all is familiar and yet better than anything experienced before. Walking through woods dotted with wildflowers and blooming trees, I want to believe in the possibility of a fresh and new creation. A world unexplored and yet not hostile, a place shared by many and exploited by none.

While I sometimes question what Jesus’ death means, I never doubt his resurrection. While I struggle to hang onto the idea of eternal life for myself and those I love, I have far less problem believing Jesus did indeed rise from the dead.

So today in the woods on Easter Sunday, I accept all the mysteries of faith and embrace the miracle of the children I gave birth to, the beauty of the forest in full bloom, and the potential of the brown fields rolling out to meet a green horizon and blue skies. Keats said it best: “Beauty is truth, truth is beauty.” It’s all you need to know.

April 8, 2007

© 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.