Living-Deliberately.com

I’ve had The Secret on the brain this week; that wretched title that desires to answer the question, “so what’s your secret”, asked of those who are able live purposely and deliberately with fruit to show for it. Anyone has to overcome skepticism over the shiny packaging of this “not new” idea but if they do, they’ll find inspriation and encouragement aplenty.

Titles have been running through my head; I picked up last Sunday’s NYTimes and read it through this afternoon. I think that’s the most “news” I’ve had my hands on in years, having too many tantrums over the tendancy of local papers to act as if there weren’t a bigger picture. I am not going to see the Oscars tonight and am still watching last year’s award winners. Life is not worse because of it ;-).

Speaking of..we watched Monster the other night, specifically for Charlize Theron’s award winning performance. Did the writing win too? It should have, if not. The story was well told. No, I do NOT recommend this movie to the majority of you readers though. We made it through because we were scrutinizing the work; there was plenty offensive stuff to wade through in order to do so. David made us watch 3 episodes of 30 Rock online afterward so we could efficively lighten up!

And speaking of…gotta say again how much we LOVE being able to catch 30 Rock, Survivor, and Ugly Betty on line, any ole time we feel like it. Wish The Office, House, and award shows were available as well, but life is not worse because they’re not.

Wait. I already said that. Sorry.
So our new dog Piper is working out marvelously. Very calm and obedient. A little stubborn on the potty stuff; he’s trained but will usually only go for me. And then when he holds it because he’s out with someone besides me, he later has an accident even though, “I took him out MOM!” Other than that, he plays, he cuddles, he gives kisses. Only the cat is waiting to love him.

Today was Orthodox Sunday. I don’t understand all that it’s about; it included a procession with the icons around the church. It felt very ageless. I’m growing weary of the communion fast that is part of the time a catachumen goes through but the end is in sight. We have godparents selected for four; three have been asked, and one name saint decided. The date for our chrismation is penciled in; with much joy (and a little impatience) we wait with anticipation.

The shed is converted to a barn; posts are set in the ground for a new fence. New chickens, already-laying hens, should be here shortly. We are undecided on goats for this spring or later in the year. The kids’ bedroom has been shifted to allow for the new half to be remodeled; the plastic barrier goes up tomorrow.

Saturday a friend from Jacksonville was here for a visit; “here” being more northerly than Jax and we met for a day in Knoxville sans our children. Four glorious hours in The Tomato Head, tucked away in a corner with wifi and photo management/scrapbook software, another two hours shopping in sweet little boutiques full of breakable items that we were free to wander amid, touch when we wanted to, imagine (or not) a use for them, and a final platter of fried mushrooms with a side of chocolate mousse doused in Kaluha rounded out the day. Much laughter, sharing of proverbial notes on motherhood, marriage, and aging and more fun in a length of time than I’ve had in eons. There is a season for going everywhere with baby spit on one’s shoulder; it was nice for a day to glimpse the other side.

Rowan goes tomorrow for a genetics counsel. The speech eval revealed the delay; they are shuffling who should handle it. I feel unmotivated to push hard. The doctor recommended I prepare myself to medicate him within the year for ADHD; I feel so many things about that I can’t find words. He has learned to say “church” and “Rowie” and “ah-kee”, which means “coffee”. He said his first “sentence” this week: “Mah-MEE! Ow-WEE!” We do much more listening these days than decision making.

Warm, spring wind blew in today. Heavy clouds and the first thunder abound. I’m so ready for it I could dance.

It was somewhere after a long day of schooling the kids, done with a sort of “movie hangover” headache from a: staying up too late to watch all of Walk the Line and b: not taking the time to purge the FOUR movie reviews swimming in my brain today into some kind of written form. Still after the afternoon tidy, thus repairing the kitchen from said long day of schooling the kids, and after a somewhat reassuring phone call from a friend, I was sweeping, knowing I was headed next to marinate the meat for dinner.

I’ve started praying the “Jesus Prayer” while doing my more mundane chores…stuff like washing dishes, sorting laundry, and sweeping. It goes, “O Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner.” It’s an easy line to remember, a way to “pray without ceasing”, and has a nice rhythm to it. I’ve been contemplating how I can view my life, the way I spend my days, almost as it’s own monastic order….to live deliberately, in service and contemplation without viewing that as somehow incompatible with a joyous, sometimes boisterous and busy life as a wife and mother. It would seem to me, that if God gave me one and is calling me to another, that there is some way for them to harmonize. Praying through work is one way to do that.

So I was sweeping orange cracker crumbs off the green floor, cat food bits and bits of lace from Celia’s crafts, when the words, “count it all joy” interrupted my prayer line. Did someone say it? Was it an answer to the prayer? I don’t know. Maybe? I went and looked up the rest of the words,

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have it’s perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.” James 1: 2-4

Ah. And so you know? I don’t think there is a scripture verse that I can call to mind that describes better how I want to be. Someone who sees a purpose in trial, a joy rather than a nagging complaining. The idea that I could become “perfect”, so content and complete that I lack nothing.

It makes those cheese cracker crumbs look a little different. Less trivial. And certainly the hard day of school too. If this is my work, if “how I spend my days is how I spend my life”, then sweeping crumbs and teaching little ones to read, cleaning clothes and marinating meat becomes, dare I say it, my kingdom work? If finding time to pray is my trial, then it can be my trial that helps produce patience, which has it’s own goal in helping me become complete. The hope of that brings me joy, which brings me back to the beginning of the verse, “count it all joy“.

Imagine it….the humble tasks that make up our day, that we are tempted to groan and grumble and complain about, can actually be part of a beautiful work in our souls. I don’t know what else to say but, “may it be so!”. What a way to transcend the mundane!

My head was kind of foggy as I pulled myself downstairs today to start breakfast. I was having a hard time remembering what David and I had talked about the night before. When I dropped a fork, it startled me and I jumped easily. Praying was scattered; I couldn’t stay focused even on a singular sentence. And while going through different blogs this morning, I commented on one, and as I reread it after posting, I wondered if it even made any sense.

I got my little crew into the car and squinted into the sunshine. My list of things to get done on grocery/scouting day was even longer than usual but I felt heavy and not in a hurry. The van took the curves and hills and we headed towards town.

Wheaton piped up from the backseat, “Mom!! I forgot my old-gah!”

“Well you’ll be okay without it, won’t you?”

“Noooooo….I need it.” Usually we are so pressed for time that I’d make my six year old tough it out without his blanket. But in that second, as my eye watched him in the rear view mirror and my foot hit the brake to slow down and turn around, I realized it….if I could have had it, I’d be curled up somewhere with a blanket too. I’ve been hurting and too much in “action” mode to let it in.

In a crisis, I’m your girl. I’ll quickly make order of the chaos. Get the practical stuff going. Act first and ask questions later. And then when things are quiet, when the others who freaked out initially are composed and ready to act themselves, into the background I go….to process.

Which means I have a bit of a delayed reaction to some things. It catches even me off guard sometimes. I certainly didn’t see this one coming. But it all made sense at once…the grogginess, the 3-day migraine, the constant feeling of vulnerability. When I get into a “place” like this, I often sort of crave a quiet monastery-like room, some “infirmary of the soul” to hide for a few days, to sleep it off, to think it off; some room with sparse, natural furniture and food brought to the door, and few words. Very few words.

My little boy got his blanket and we headed back into our day. I was surprised, but not really by much, when once we were in town I turned the car toward the church. I noticed this week that I feel safe there; a realization that should have alerted me sooner to the fact that I was feeling a bit threatened in other areas of life. I expected it to be empty and it just about was. But there was someone there who mercifully prayed aloud for me when my words couldn’t have come. Who listened and offered a few kind words; stark contrast to the hateful ones still resonating in my head, ringing in my ears. I had a few moments of healing and then life clamored back in.

But that was okay. There was a laugh and the day went on. In the ocean we swim under the waves. I’m going to swim under for a time now too, let the depths muffle the noise above, and feel myself held by waters healing my wounds.

Good stuff on Fr. Stephen’s blog today. Read it all here, and here’s a few quotes:

”

My contention was (and is) that the popular preaching of American Protestantism, had winnowed the gospel down to a few graphic images, easily preached and repeated. Those images were a caricature of the substitutionary atonement and a simplified version of Christian initiation (”accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior”) that came to be the stock of popular American evangelical preaching. Just think, American campuses were inundated with the “four” spiritual laws. Imagine trying to convey the Orthodox faith in four anything.

My further contention has been that what was once true of Upstate New York is now descriptive of an entire culture. America is the Burnt Over District. Most Americans, if they have heard a version of the gospel, have heard a very truncated, often caricatured version.”

and:

“When I first read Vladimir Lossky’s Mystical Theology of the Orthodox Church (when I was in college), I wept. I do not recommend it to others as the book to start with in exploring Orthodoxy. But I wept because it was the first time I had ever heard the good news that actually sounded like good news. I wept because I was discovering that everything I had always hoped was true was not only true but was actually the Orthodox faith. What I heard in Lossky was my first account of union with God as taught in the Fathers. It wasn’t the mystery of it, but the simple goodness of the teaching that God became what we are that we might become what He is. The imagery of union with Christ was largely new to me (having been raised in Southern one-sidedness).”

Yesterday was the most serene day I’ve had in a long time and as far as I can tell, it wasn’t that way for any grandiose or unusual reason. Just another day in a new year during an unseasonably warm week in winter.

I woke early and ready, feet into slippers, porridge and sausage cooking, coffee brewing.  Time for chores before children were active, a safe egg from the chickens. Rhythm and flow. Breakfast and through the morning there was time alone with each child, learning, thinking, exploring. One of my darlings made the mental connection and read, really read, for the first time! Another of my darlings left the liquid substances he’d been drawn to all week, alone and in their containers.

Dad was home for lunch: thick wedges of wheat bread dipped in olive oil and herbs, and a variety of  roasted veggies, with slices of cheese on the side. Baby napped, momma cleaned, rhythm and flow. The storm clouds outside started to roll away. A friend dropped in to take a picture with Celia; we made preparations to leave for church for our first vigil service.

The place on the drive into town that I call “my beautiful” was breathtaking. The clear air made wavy rows of mountains visible for miles and they were all bathed in various patches of amethyst- toned sunshine as the sun set behind us. The hills below peeked bright green here and there between tan and washed barren trees.  I would have stopped the car but I was first in a long line and those drivers, nearly without a doubt, did not plan on stopping in the middle of the road to take in the view!

We picked up Daddy and some dinner. Somewhere on the road I took inventory of the day and marveled at how calm and happy I felt. I was amazed, but quietly. We went to church, dim and candle lit and found ourselves nearly swooning under the magnitude of the realization of what it must have been like for John, to put out his hands, baptize his maker, and to stand witness to the manifestation of the trinity. Have we never really contemplated this so much before? The repetitiousness led to deeper understanding, more vivid realization, and then they sang, “We magnify Thee! We magnify Thee! O Christ the Giver of Life, Who for our sake this day was baptized in  the flesh by John in the waters of the Jordan.”

We went home and had a long night’s sleep, followed by playful children all over our bed n the morning, anxious for pancakes and sausage. I made a short trip to the store and on the drive back, saw some kind of hawk or eagle (not good with bird ID but it was large and light and had a sort of high cry) flying parallel to my van, alongside me, not far from the driver’s window. I felt light when I saw it and….not alone.

And that is a miracle to me! You see, we were excommunicated this week. There is much, much more to it of course, and I can’t talk about it, but that is crux of it. And I feel no anger, no bitterness, not even consumption with it. I am, honestly, hurt and disappointed, but it is quite amazing to go through something like this an feel absolutely no ill will toward a single participant! My home is clean, we are expecting guests for dinner, we experienced wonderful worship and adoration and awe an eve ago, and I thankful for all of it. Calm and hopeful for the future is what I feel, and strangely free.

b. Concerned with wholes rather than analysis or separation into parts

holistic.

Whole.

Entire.

Complete.

Whole soul.

Whole person.

Whole life.

Whole family.

Whole being.

Whole self.

Whole heart.

Whole mind.

Whole lifestyle.

Whole of time.

Whole. Complete. Healing.

What Orthodoxy is to me.

When someone hits another person, they leave a mark. The bible says that, “whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” Sometimes people hit another to make them shut up and sometimes they hit them so as to bait a response. And it seems to me that verse in Matthew is quite miraculous a response to bait and a humbling one when used to allow the bully to hush one’s voice.

Either way, the striking is a sin on the part of the striker. In the case of the bully, I wonder when there is a time to stand up and not allow them to continue the attack.

Interesting thing about bullies. Put them together with thieves, murderers, and other abusers: they most often do their deed in the dark. Behind the scenes. In private. In ways that would put the bringing of it into the light squarely on the shoulders of the one persecuted.

This morning I went outside and discovered that in the dark of the night, a raccoon had plundered my chicken coop and robbed us of our eggs. The birds were safe, probably because the varmint could probably only reach an arm in and the birds were able to crawl to safety. Surely “turn the other cheek” doesn’t apply here…though I could put out a plate of food I suppose and hope the Raccoon would leave my egg supply alone.

We recently received something that held within the expected and the unexpected. Expected were the consequences of a recent change in our lives. Expected was the disagreement on the part of the authors. Unexpected was the personal attack and slander that accompanied it. We are left hurting and wondering what response, if any, is best.

In the internet world, this would be considered a “private slam”. No witnesses. No accountabilty. No way to answer the inaccuracies without continuing an unpalatable conversation. The burden of bringing it into the light is on our shoulders. Matthew has a few verses about that as well.

We are pondering letting it go. Yet it seems wrong somehow to allow the writers to go on assuming they hold the truth, people in positions of power, likely continuing the slander among others whose opinion of me I care about. It defies my sense of personal justice. I ponder the verse in Matthew, which most assuredly counters any form of “personal justice”. I think about what we teach our children, “even if no one is around, God sees what you are doing.” I think of  christians  gone before, who absolutely withstood much more grievous attacks, both in public and in private. I think of my Champion, the Theotokos…how odd it is to my protestant ears to consider the mother of God, a defender. But if I’m surrounded with the heavenly host, with the church Triumphant, then others see the sins committed in the dark as well.

I wonder at the stature of men who can not say what they think in the light, directly to us. I wonder at shepherds who only govern, and neither tend nor speak. I wonder at heartbreak and how to best react, with wholeness and serenity.

Today I’ll mend the chicken wire fence. I will pray. I will stay in the light.

 

It’s been a couple of months since we last attended our beloved church in Knoxville. Moving out here to the country made regular attendance difficult, then our hearts were challenged and led through ancient doors, and the result is that we’ve regularly been visiting an Orthodox church in Oak Ridge. We loved everyone and just about everything about our church so it is odd and unsettling to find ourselves no longer a part when there was no negative catalyst making the change happen. No scandal, no offense, no argument. Just a move and then an internal journey and now a new location both in our bodies and hearts.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that Sunday sometime this past fall, when it was to be our last Sunday at our Presbyterian church, it was also our last Sunday for quite some time to partake of the communion elements. Both the Presbyterians and the Orthodox “fence” the table; the Presbyterians would issue a welcome to those “baptized and part of a bible believing church”, and the Orthodox, fence it as those who have joined with the Orthodox Church. Those not part of this parrish may partake, if they are Orthodox, but those who are not Orthodox may not. As the priest sings, “the holy things are for the holy”.

And I am hungry.

While Presbyterians, we took communion every week, a rarity within protestant churches. More than that, we took it as a baptized family, our children as well, “from that wonderful cup”. Good bread and real wine while the congregation sung Psalms and whole family groups went up and the pastor blessed each one made it the fulfilling climax of each Lord’s Day worship. We understood it to be a sacrament that bestowed grace upon us and it sustained us.

I first became aware that I’d likely be facing a season without the elements when our pastor called to talk to us about the Lutheran church we considered out here. There were some differences in how the two denominations viewed what actually happens during communion…..big words like “con”substantiation, and “trans”substantiation, words that describe just how Jesus is part of the sacrament, if it’s really his body and blood and so on. The summation was that we likely could visit there but not commune.

Through visiting, we found the Lutheran church here was a wrong fit for us for a multitude of reasons though, and none of them had anything to do with communion. The fragments of division waited on every corner and left us wondering how there could be so many versions of “the” way. Right about that time we read “At the Corner of East and Now” by Frederica Mathewes-Green and life started to really change.

We wanted to listen in quiet. To hear, to explore, and not to argue any more, weary of having to always have “the rightest answer”. Touching the ancient, imitating the earliest followers of Christ spoke to us of a faith that wasn’t lonely, but rather crowded….crowded with saints and angels and fellow journeymen. It penetrated beyond our “lifestyle” into our essence, our souls, and engaged our every sense in the call to “come and follow me”.

When one is ready to cease mere inquiring about Orthodoxy, one becomes a catechumen. The word is Greek for “learner”. Being a catechumen is for an indeterminate time, based individually, but at the end the learner, if already baptized, becomes chrismated, not unlike the wedding after the engagement.

There is a time in the Divine Liturgy where the catechumens come forward and are prayed for by the congregation and blessed by the priest.

“Let us, the faithful, pray for the catechumens that the Lord will have mercy on them.”

and the church sings, “Lord have mercy.” The priest sings again, “That he will teach them the word of truth,”. The church sings, “Lord have mercy,” and again, “That he will reveal to them the Gospel of Righteousness.”

“Lord have mercy…..”

And it goes on. At the end, the catechumens “depart”, though not physically any more as they once did. They just stand in the back as the rest of the church prepares to take communion.

It’s a beautiful time, one that gets caught in my throat at the profound wonder, moving me to cry each week. The church and choir repeat over and over, “now lay aside all earthy cares” and a feeling descends that we are not alone in the room, but quite surrounded by others. The Nicene Creed is sung, there are many more prayers, a hymn to the Theotokos, the Lord’s Prayer and then…

“Let us attend! Holy things are for the holy!”

I take a step back, my head bowed. The line is forming to go up for communion, each with their arms crossed over their chests but for the parents holding babies. The choir sings, “Take the body of Christ, taste the fount of immortality.”

The bread and wine are mixed together and served on a spoon. Each is fed and then they kiss the chalice the holds the elements. From there they go over to a small table that holds blessed bread….the original loaf was divided, and while some went to become “the lamb” for communion, some other was set aside, blessed and for all. They take a piece of bread, and some take pieces plural, and a few walk over to our corner.

It’s at this point that I feel a wash of relief come over me. I’ve watched the little babies with a mix of envy and gratitude….it is beautiful to see the agelessness that surely mirrors heaven, but I also watch them with a pang of realizing that they can do what I can not right now, they taste what I am closed off from. It is so simple for them, which is just as it should be, but I do long for the day that I will line up as well. The communicants approach us, giving each of a bite of blessed bread in fellowship. I accept the blessing that it is, eagerly caring for every crumb. It is what is available to me now but it’s not the body and I miss the grace.

And yet, I’m also afraid. There is a time at the end of the liturgy when they all line up again, this time catechumens and communicants alike and kiss the cross and the priest’s hand that holds it. They’ve kissed icons and bowed as the scriptures were brought in, as the incense was shaken their way in blessing. I find I stand there feeling very unworthy and often afraid to move.

In fact, never in my christian life have I ever come so face to face with my own wretchedness, my smallness, my hesitation to receive and really open myself to the fullness of what surely a life that follows Christ must hold. It occurred to me today that this may just be a common response, as they pray before communion, “And make me worthy to partake without condemnation of Thy most pure Mysteries….”

After the Divine Liturgy this morning we gathered together in front of the iconostasis (icon stand/wall that divides the altar from the sanctuary) and were blessed by Father Stephen, made catechumens, learners of the Orthodox church. Even that had it’s own liturgy, no doubt passed down through the ages for use when others in time made a similar journey. I don’t know how long we will rest in this stage, how long before we taste the fullness. I feel an infant again, with much to learn before a vast ocean to draw from. I do hope and pray for the courage, the feeling of worthiness, enough to approach and kiss, to bow and venerate, and one day, be fed.

That was the answer to prayer I got last week. Feeling overwhelmed with how to do too many things, I got this as a solution. Mind bending a bit ‘eh? Definitely counter culture.

But I didn’t argue. I thought about what to do. Stop multi-tasking and get more into the moment. Go to bed earlier so I can rise earlier, preferrably pre-children. Schedule times for my writing, my painting (my job), and anything else needing undivided attention.

A wise friend counseled me to take better care of myself, something in the analytical process I’d kind of been blind to. But she’s absolutely right. No date in a year. No times away to scrapbook or shop or think. Time to change that.

This morning when I rose at Oh-dark hundred hours, two boys got up with me. That, was kind of not the point…. but I got on my boots and hat and coat and scarf and gloves (eye, eye it’s cold!) and went out to do the morning chores that kept getting pushed frustratingly back until lunch time or beyond. It was beautiful in the pre-dawn. Stars shining, moon bright, the chimney smoke rising against the bare trees…I fed and watered chickens, got them fresh straw, and stacked wood. We had breakfast earlier, David got out the door on time instead of pressing lateness. Things were much more relaxed.

This weekend I also realized a major goal! BREAD! See, about 9 years ago I attended a homeschooling convention and smelled fresh bread. The Breadbeckers came every year and filled the convention hall with intoxicating smells, drawing crowds to come buy their grain mills. I figured I’d better know how to bake a decent loaf before investing so I worked on that first.

Two years of bricks and I quit. I wanted to be that “grinds her own grain, bakes her own bread” kind of girl but she just wasn’t me. Six years later, while pregnant with Rowan and craving country music, I decided to give it another shot. There really is no rational explanation for what happened but I could do it!! With white bread at least, I could churn out a good loaf consistently that rose and tasted like home baked bliss. But wheat bread was still an enigma.

No grain mill, no bulk wheat, no savings to realize with bread until I had this mastered. When I buy bread, it’s nearly 10% of my grocery budget. My boys are growing like weeds and I knew that if I baked they’d snack on that rather than nasty cheese crackers. So I gave it yet another try. I even dared to try it with guests coming!

The result? I’ve found a fantastic recipe that fits my schedule. It’s mostly whole wheat, allows for pre-soaking ala Nourishing Traditions recommendation, doesn’t require all day in the kitchen, or make a huge mess. And it’s consistent every time. I could bake this every day and it fits within my day’s rhythm rather than defining it.

So I can put a grain mill on my list. And I can look ahead to the co-op’s Spring buy and get wheat in bulk. We’ll have a loaf on the table at dinner every day like we see in our favorite british movies. And when I pray, “Give us this day our daily bread”, I’ll know quite exactly what I mean.

I’m doing more, not less, deliberately.

Yesterday was the last of our “big days in Maryville”, namely, driving in for homeschool co-op for the day. Nestled within the day was a sweet visit to a friend and her newest baby, dinner, fun and comfortable with a friend who blesses me with her openness, hospitality, and care, and the annual christmas program, in which one child took part in a Latin prayer and another had a small speaking part in a little play.

It was a marathon of an extroverted day for this red-headed introvert and right after daughter dear’s lines, I took my Giant Baby to a darkened classroom for some quiet time. He, who has stubbornly refused every suggestion on my part that we need to give some hefty consideration to this idea of “weaning”, nursed happily in the hush, giving me thanks in his own little way for removing him from the lights and noise for a little respite before rejoining the fun, happy friends, and festivities of the reception below.

I patted his bottom and thanked the heavens yet again that day for the blessing of having, as of that time, no emergencies like last week, and a short phrase came to mind:

Be Where You Are.

I sat thinking about that….being content. Not bemoaning what I’m missing elsewhere or fretting about where I need to go next. Just Be.

This morning, after sleeping in as much as one can with a toddler who doesn’t value the concept, I sipped my coffee (thank you again C!) and caught up on yesterday’s emails and blogs. Father Stephen had this to say:

“But, in the simple words of Elder Sophrony, the Church thinks that the true nature of life is to live. It almost sounds silly to say such a thing, but it is our lack of living that is the greatest symptom of our fall from God. St. Irenaeus of Lyons said, “The Glory of God is a man fully alive.”

In the winter, I’ve found that I tend to create a kind of cocoon for myself. I pull back on outside activities, I make lists and plans of action that actually get accomplished, I listen more, I think more (maybe too much!). In the past weeks I’m aware that I crave this while we move towards it…it is really what the garden plans, the goat pen drawings, the curriculum choices are all about. A sort of “regrouping” of life that enables the rest of the year.

I’m going to Be Where I Am. I’m going to work on really living. Living Deliberately, because I don’t always do that, nor do I often do it well, gets it’s invigoration on the hearth and earth of where God’s planted us.

Today the Orthodox celebrate the child Mary being brought to the temple. As the temple of God, she was first brought to the earthly temple of God. Ironic twist with beauty if you ask me.

As I suspected I am coming to love the rhythm of the liturgical calendar, even as my toe barely skims the surface of the water.

“I don’t know that I have an argument between the East and the West. But I do between the integrity of word and action. If you mean it do it. If you don’t mean it - don’t do it.”

from Father Stephen’s blog today.

This morning while driving our hour and a half commute to Marville, I contemplated the question “am I united with Christ”, as put forth by Father Stephen’s recent blog post. It struck me with a beautiful way to continue what I considered yesterday about putting old hurts aside and being transpartent and welcoming to blessings we may shy from out of fear….what is intimacy with Christ if it’s not a radical invasion of my soul. Can I have true unity with Christ if I hold any part of myself back?

After a long day at co-op, which included a nice hug from a friend by the way ;-), I was reminded of a hymn we sing at Covenant Reformed Presbyterian. It was new to me last year and one of the favorites I’ll carry with me always.

It’s a long one, called St. Patrick’s Breastplate; here’s part of it:
I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same
The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this today to me forever
By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;
His baptism in Jordan river,
His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb,
His riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom
I bind unto myself today.

2. I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of cherubim;
The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour,
The service of the seraphim,
Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,
The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord
And purity of virgin souls.

3. I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the star lit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks.

4. I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, His shield to ward;
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.

5. Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours,
Against their fierce hostility
I bind to me these holy powers.

I’m cleaning out the last of the “box room” today, which will be filled with the last of our stuff in storage tomorrow, so that I can absorb it into the house over the next week, and paint and transform it into the “reading room” by November 23.

I stumbled over two things that I didn’t excect to find: old wedding proofs and a Shubert CD still unopened. I thought the wedding photos were stored in a bin somewhere else and since Schubert is one of my favorite composers, it was unusual to find a CD of his still encased in plastic.

The first piece on the disc is Ave Maria. I had this piece played at my wedding by my beautiful friend Jameson, on his beautiful instrument, the cello. This piece has lyrics but the CD only had the string composition on it and I sat in silence amid the boxes and baby clothes and soccer cleats and wedding photos listening to the profound swell of the music.

Other instruments can do it I supose but no instrument prays like the cello does. I think my old friend Jameson would agree and wherever he is, I hope he still prays. We had to have special permission in our baptist church to have this catholic piece played; my one regret of standing in the back under my veil is that I had to wait to hear the music on the video. But I’d heard him practice it and listened to it on tapes many times before. He played it wonderfully, a conversation between souls, and it’s one of my favorite wedding memories.
Today as I sat there I realized I was having a “full circle” moment. This isn’t just a pretty piece of music and I didn’t just admire the cello. I was praying to Mary long before I realized it.

Refreshing imagery on Father Stephen’s blog today along the lines of “do unto others”. The language of “emptying one’s self” as Christ emptied himself takes it to a new level though, and I think, attatches more signifigance. There is a difference between being nice to someone and pouring yourself out for them.

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Along the lines of the idea I shared yesterday…..if you have made a deliberate food change, lifestyle change, physical move, money decision, declaration of how to spend the holidays, counter-culture family choice….send me your testimony on it! I know lots of us are out there making these choices; Dave Ramsey calls it “living or spending *on purpose*”, and we all gain encouragement by hearing how others have done it. So let’s hear it! tia AT sixredheads dot com.

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Our oldest has an adventure tonight; it’s been billed as a “rite of passage” but I”m not so sure….he’s going COON HUNTING with his dad and a buddy from work. Now, if you ask me (they didn’t) there are plenty of dead coons all along highway 62 and we see them every week. I heartily admit I don’t understand the attraction of being able to chase a coon up a tree and then…..do what they do to it, but the guys are excited and Andrew probably is going to get lots of wood chopped, leaves raked, and other work done lest we even consider calling it off for bad behavior. He’s um, highly motivated, you could say. From the looks of my wood pile, I can’t say that’s all a bad thing.

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Advent is coming. This is a season we’ve tried to observe for several years now, with mixed success. Usually the mish-mash of church, cultural, and familial holiday obligations and celebrations, all building up for the BIG DAY, pick away at a quiet contemplation of the anticipation of His coming, and of a season (rather than a climatic day alone) celebrating the incarnation.

November 15 is the beginning of the Advent Fast on the liturgical calendar and as I made my meal plan for the next few weeks I kept it on the forefront of consideration. The advent fast, I’ve learned, is not as extensive as the lenten fast, and as beginners (with a household of growing children), we will not be participating quite as fully as some others.

I found the insertion of Thanksgiving within the midst of it, as well as the simple challenge of planning sans meat to be very thought provoking. We haven’t even started yet and I find I’m already giddy with anticipation of advent. I’m not sure “giddy” is the “right” thing to feel right now but I’m provoked with the deliberateness of such a choice and the hopeful affect it will have on how we approach the whole of our lives; it seems to purge the compartmentalization of life that I’ve so loathed for too long. Surely it’s become evident how something like fasting can propel the “self-emptying” of one and their approach to the sacred, not holding any aspect of their lives back in selfishness.