Sort of a nothing day. And I'm feeling like I belong right squarely in the middle of this "nothingness." Sitting on the couch, nursing a full-blown head/chest cold, aimlessly surfing the net, looking at two baskets of unfolded laundry, and pausing occasionally to referee a disturbance of the brotherly sort, I am feeling very unChristmaslike.
I've been reading Advent materials, seasonal blog entries, even trying the Christmas Carol CDs, but not much is moving me towards "that Christmas feeling." Maybe some snow would help? But for some reason even if we got snow right this minute, it would seem like so much of an afterthought. Hm. I even bought a more-than-usual supply of goods to bake sugar cookies and gingerbread men, but the very much unbaked supplies are still in the cupboard--in part because we still have so many leftover sweets from school, that it seems only right to eat those first. In part, because, well, it seems like a lot of work to mix, roll, cut, and decorate all of those not-at-all helpful-to-my-health treats.
It seems that we have been shopping, wrapping, and decorating for quite some weeks, but those weeks have felt like October outside. Ah, well, maybe some years are just this way? Or maybe it is the cold medicine.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Done
One of my mother's favorite words/phrases, as in, "Well, I got that done." We in the Finch Family like to "get things done," "checked-off our list," "project accomplished." Tonight, however, I'm an entirely different kind of "done." It is the day before final exams begin and I'm exhausted-- mentally, physically, even a bit spiritually tired. It has been a really great teaching semester--although I would guess that my family would argue that it hasn't been the best mommy semester ever.
I am deeply convicted that I am a better mom because I teach--God called me to this vocation, and I think it important that my kids see me fulfill that gift. I also am deeply thankful everyday that I have the kind of career that places me squarely in the middle of my kid's lives everyday--we have the same schedules, I know their teachers, I understand how their school district "works"--and even one day, we'll all land at the same building together and it will be totally uncool that their mom could be their teacher--or at the very least, their friends' teacher. But. Does all of that make-up for the hours I spend every evening grading and reading and planning--when I could be playing with them? Or, if I am playing with them, my mind is not always in the present . . . I'm ruminating over a new idea for a lesson, or running through how to handle situations within my department, or, or, or. On a good day, or for that matter, almost every day, I know in a very clear, "the-spirit-is-moving-kind-of-way" that this is the life for us. But on December 15th, when I've just poured myself into 5 months of other kids' lives, I am grateful that in three days I will have a few weeks with my boys to become "undone."
I am deeply convicted that I am a better mom because I teach--God called me to this vocation, and I think it important that my kids see me fulfill that gift. I also am deeply thankful everyday that I have the kind of career that places me squarely in the middle of my kid's lives everyday--we have the same schedules, I know their teachers, I understand how their school district "works"--and even one day, we'll all land at the same building together and it will be totally uncool that their mom could be their teacher--or at the very least, their friends' teacher. But. Does all of that make-up for the hours I spend every evening grading and reading and planning--when I could be playing with them? Or, if I am playing with them, my mind is not always in the present . . . I'm ruminating over a new idea for a lesson, or running through how to handle situations within my department, or, or, or. On a good day, or for that matter, almost every day, I know in a very clear, "the-spirit-is-moving-kind-of-way" that this is the life for us. But on December 15th, when I've just poured myself into 5 months of other kids' lives, I am grateful that in three days I will have a few weeks with my boys to become "undone."
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The Roman Missal, Third Edition
Sigh. Harumph. Ergh. Argh. Oh dear. Those are the exact emotions I felt during the progress of Mass this morning. Now, I know that it is the human condition to resist change, and that I'm certainly not exempt from any kind of human condition, but I went from a little dismayed listening to myself and the rest of the congregation stumble over "consubstantial" during the Nicene Creed, to unsettled with the new word, "chalice" in place of "cup" during the Eucharistic Prayer, and then irritated with the word "many" replacing "all" in regards to exactly who Jesus came to save, outright saddened and angry that we no longer elicit God to "protect us from all anxiety" at the end of the most perfect prayer.I had loved the beautiful, thoughtful placement of that plea following our acknowledgement of all that IS through Him. And then, just when I was into a full-on feeling really sorry for myself that my Mass had been so hijacked,we told Jesus that He could make us worthy to "Enter Under Our Roofs." I giggled. Seriously? I mean, were there no linguists working on this new translation that had any sense of the beauty of language? The word "roof" serves only to make me think of 2X4's and men working with power tools.
To be fair, I like the new response, "And with your Spirit." And I love me some King James words like "Behold" and "O"--so I'm good with all of that. But, I'm not sure why we need to say that Jesus "suffered death" instead of "died" during the Nicene Creed, and let's suffice it to say that I was thrilled when Fr. elected to not choose the Penintential Rite option that would have had us all beating our chests and admitting to commiting sin through our most "grievous faults" times three. I might have been looking for the ushers to pass out hairshirts at that point.
Sigh. I admit that I haven't delved into all of the history of this new Missal--I've read the requiste columns in the bulletin, the booklets the boys have brought home from CCD, and a few articles in the Catholic Post--but the only thing I've really been able to garner about WHY this change has come, is because after Vatican II, the translation from Latin into the languages of the people was too rushed. So the big dogs in Rome have decided that we needed to revise the language of the Mass in order to get closer to the original Latin. Now, I adore Latin--love its intonation and formal, repetitive structure--Lent is even my favorite liturgical season because it is one of the few time of the year that we dust off the Kyrire, et al. BUT . . . without even knowing what I'm talking about in any official way, the creeping feeling in my skin at Mass this morning was enough to tell me that this move was definitely a conservative one--and one that seems to hold the people at an arm's length from the Mass.
Words are powerful--and they can serve to unite ("And with your Spirit") or alientate (i.e. "consubstantial"). Some of these changes are not what I think Jesus had in mind, with his disciples gathered closely around him in intimate quarters, raising common bread and a cup, asking for his friends to do this in memory of Him. Not what he had in mind at all.
To be fair, I like the new response, "And with your Spirit." And I love me some King James words like "Behold" and "O"--so I'm good with all of that. But, I'm not sure why we need to say that Jesus "suffered death" instead of "died" during the Nicene Creed, and let's suffice it to say that I was thrilled when Fr. elected to not choose the Penintential Rite option that would have had us all beating our chests and admitting to commiting sin through our most "grievous faults" times three. I might have been looking for the ushers to pass out hairshirts at that point.
Sigh. I admit that I haven't delved into all of the history of this new Missal--I've read the requiste columns in the bulletin, the booklets the boys have brought home from CCD, and a few articles in the Catholic Post--but the only thing I've really been able to garner about WHY this change has come, is because after Vatican II, the translation from Latin into the languages of the people was too rushed. So the big dogs in Rome have decided that we needed to revise the language of the Mass in order to get closer to the original Latin. Now, I adore Latin--love its intonation and formal, repetitive structure--Lent is even my favorite liturgical season because it is one of the few time of the year that we dust off the Kyrire, et al. BUT . . . without even knowing what I'm talking about in any official way, the creeping feeling in my skin at Mass this morning was enough to tell me that this move was definitely a conservative one--and one that seems to hold the people at an arm's length from the Mass.
Words are powerful--and they can serve to unite ("And with your Spirit") or alientate (i.e. "consubstantial"). Some of these changes are not what I think Jesus had in mind, with his disciples gathered closely around him in intimate quarters, raising common bread and a cup, asking for his friends to do this in memory of Him. Not what he had in mind at all.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Illusions Shattered
I recieved an email from the boys' principal yesterday. She sent it to let me know how grateful she was that 10-yr-old reported that there was a student with a knife on the playground. She offered that there had been some other students who had seen the knife, but hadn't said anything. I was surprised to get this email. Being a high school teacher, I'm certainly not naive to the happenings at schools, however, it just had not crossed my radar that this particular kind of happening would involve my children. This is not because I believe that they are special, or especially protected--I just hadn't really thought about it. And then I went to pick-up the boys . . .
They jumped in the truck, and 10-yr-old instantly began to tell me the rest of the story . . . "Mom, when I saw that he had it, I said, 'Give me the knife--you are going to hurt someone or yourself with it'" With my heart starting to pulse a bit faster, I asked for the rest of the story. 10-yr-old said, "Well, then he ran away from me and when he saw me tell the teaching assistant what was going on, he tried to drop the knife behind him hoping no one would see. But I did. When the TA went over to him, I kept all of the rest of the kids clear of the knife."
How exactly does a Mom respond to a story like this? I didn't know where to start--so proud of his bravery--so worried that in his attempt to do the right thing he could have so easily implicated himself in the "having a knife situation" had the student actually given it to him--so astounded that he took control (even telling the TA what to do)--so stunned that he didn't even consider that he could have gotten hurt in the whole thing.
I took a minute to gather my thoughts, compliment him on everything he did right, and then promptly fumbled all over myself trying to explain to him why he shouldn't have asked for the knife. In his world, it made perfect sense--he knew how to handle a sharp object, he was older, and he is very protective and responsible. Why wouldn't he try to fix the situation? Ugh. How awful that I had to try to explain that not only could taking the knife have been the thing that got him hurt, but also that had the student given it to him, the student could then have tried to turn the story inside out and gotten him in trouble. 10-yr-old sat next to me quiet. A little confused. And trying to process. I could barely contain my angst for him. The ripping away of the illusion that doing the right thing, the safe thing, is not at all simple, nor straightforward was as painful to watch as the idea that my dear boy could have been physically harmed, felt.
9-yr-old sat in the backseat quiet, wondering what all of this meant for him. The boy with the knife was not a close friend, but in his class, and definitely a playground football friend. Now what? Was the certain look on his face. Am I somehow guilty by association? And, mixed-in those deep brown eyes was also some, Would I have known what to do? anxiety.
We relived the story with Dad at dinner, and he too reemphasized 10-yr-old's bravery and leadership, while trying to assauge 9-yr-old's nerves. We found ourselves groping for the right way to present reality, while desperately trying to hold onto their little elementary world for them. I think we all knew though, that things had shifted just a bit--and that no matter what words are spoken, anytime a 10-yr-old handles a scary situation like a man, a little bit of childhood is over. There was more than one illusion shattered yesterday.
They jumped in the truck, and 10-yr-old instantly began to tell me the rest of the story . . . "Mom, when I saw that he had it, I said, 'Give me the knife--you are going to hurt someone or yourself with it'" With my heart starting to pulse a bit faster, I asked for the rest of the story. 10-yr-old said, "Well, then he ran away from me and when he saw me tell the teaching assistant what was going on, he tried to drop the knife behind him hoping no one would see. But I did. When the TA went over to him, I kept all of the rest of the kids clear of the knife."
How exactly does a Mom respond to a story like this? I didn't know where to start--so proud of his bravery--so worried that in his attempt to do the right thing he could have so easily implicated himself in the "having a knife situation" had the student actually given it to him--so astounded that he took control (even telling the TA what to do)--so stunned that he didn't even consider that he could have gotten hurt in the whole thing.
I took a minute to gather my thoughts, compliment him on everything he did right, and then promptly fumbled all over myself trying to explain to him why he shouldn't have asked for the knife. In his world, it made perfect sense--he knew how to handle a sharp object, he was older, and he is very protective and responsible. Why wouldn't he try to fix the situation? Ugh. How awful that I had to try to explain that not only could taking the knife have been the thing that got him hurt, but also that had the student given it to him, the student could then have tried to turn the story inside out and gotten him in trouble. 10-yr-old sat next to me quiet. A little confused. And trying to process. I could barely contain my angst for him. The ripping away of the illusion that doing the right thing, the safe thing, is not at all simple, nor straightforward was as painful to watch as the idea that my dear boy could have been physically harmed, felt.
9-yr-old sat in the backseat quiet, wondering what all of this meant for him. The boy with the knife was not a close friend, but in his class, and definitely a playground football friend. Now what? Was the certain look on his face. Am I somehow guilty by association? And, mixed-in those deep brown eyes was also some, Would I have known what to do? anxiety.
We relived the story with Dad at dinner, and he too reemphasized 10-yr-old's bravery and leadership, while trying to assauge 9-yr-old's nerves. We found ourselves groping for the right way to present reality, while desperately trying to hold onto their little elementary world for them. I think we all knew though, that things had shifted just a bit--and that no matter what words are spoken, anytime a 10-yr-old handles a scary situation like a man, a little bit of childhood is over. There was more than one illusion shattered yesterday.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Letter to Santa
I came upstairs from the never-ending laundry chore this evening to find nine-year-old sitting by himself at the kitchen table writing a letter to Santa. I'm not sure how it happened exactly, but he was so sweetly in earnest that I stepped away, hovering in the next room in case he needed me. Sure enough, my proofreading skills were quickly demanded--because, it is important you know, to make certain that one spells all words in a letter to Santa correctly, lest one receive gum instead of a gun.
This letter writing was such a gift of the season for me, as ten-year-old and I had just shared a conversation a few days back about how one needs to pretend to believe in Santa if one still wants to receive gifts. Ten-year-old and I were both convinced that nine-year-old had also ceased to believe, but we decided to keep our doubts about his doubts to ourselves. So one can imagine how tickled I was to see little man's gangly legs wrapped around the legs of the dining room table, tongue stuck-out in concentration, writing to the dear Claus man on looseleaf paper with half-chewed pencil. So real, so true, so believing.
But what really moved me, was how ten-year-old sat quietly in the background, not jeering his little brother or even making the move to share a covert wink with me. He sat rather, and let his brother have his space and the ability to believe--just one last year.
This letter writing was such a gift of the season for me, as ten-year-old and I had just shared a conversation a few days back about how one needs to pretend to believe in Santa if one still wants to receive gifts. Ten-year-old and I were both convinced that nine-year-old had also ceased to believe, but we decided to keep our doubts about his doubts to ourselves. So one can imagine how tickled I was to see little man's gangly legs wrapped around the legs of the dining room table, tongue stuck-out in concentration, writing to the dear Claus man on looseleaf paper with half-chewed pencil. So real, so true, so believing.
But what really moved me, was how ten-year-old sat quietly in the background, not jeering his little brother or even making the move to share a covert wink with me. He sat rather, and let his brother have his space and the ability to believe--just one last year.
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