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.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
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.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
It's all a gift
Read a daily meditation this morning from the Center for Action and Meditation that had as its central message a reminder that we do nothing to deserve grace, that everything, even the hairs on our heads are given to us, but coming to this understanding, and certainly being open to recieving this grace is one of the most difficult tasks set before Christians. Amen, I say to this. How much of our energy (okay, my energy) is spent trying to be worthy when, all along, I have already been? How appropriate the timing of this meditative gift during this week of thanks! A truly transformative way of viewing our abundance--not something given to us lightly, so therefore, not something that we should steward lightly either. But with this realization comes not the usual pressure, but instead a heart that feels grateful and untethered in its duty. A gift within a gift--I'm learning that it ALL is.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
It wasn't even a deep fried Turkey
BAM BAM BAM!!! Someone was slamming on our front door and then RINNNNGGGGing our doorbell at 12:20ish this afternoon. Husband, Parents-in-Law, Daughter and I all looked at each other and than ran for the door. I was thinking that the bang slamming was a little rude for our neighbor boy, and then OMG--it wasn't the neighbor boy, but a random good citizen out for a jog who saw what looked like our garage on fire. We threw open the doors and were met with the nastiest smell and solid wallls of dark grey smoke--the entire garage was filled with what looked like steel wool. . . . Husband ran into the abyss, and thank God, the only thing on fire was the grill and the 7 pounds of chicken wrapped in 2 pounds of bacon.
Husband had agreed to cook this grill delicacy (marinated in pinneapple juice, terriyaki, and soy) for a joint birthday celebration of the 20- year- old and 9- year- old. They agreed on the meal, harrassed Dad to grill it even though it was November, and once Grandpa arrived the men moved the grill to the garage out of the 30 mph wind--and I do not exaggerate. Dad/Husband is master griller, and kept religiously checking his chix--so we don't know what happened exactly, but for just a millisecond of time I had a flash of what being caught in a real fire might be like. I was able to shut the house doors, Husband grabbed the grill and all but threw it in the driveway, and the only thing lost was the meat. The grill is still TBD. Scary, and wierd, and surreal, and I might add, really stinky. The garage is working on a nice blend of oil, old boots, and now, charred farmyard.
What about dinner, one might ask? Well, the same men who initially moved the grill to the garage, and then wrestled the fiery beast out of the garage, took to Grandpa's truck, a.k.a. "meal rescuer" and drove to the Jewel in search of some more protein. So the birthday kids still had their brown sugar carrots (which were rescured from the dragon), parmesan red potatoes, peas, and Jewel Deli Fried Chicken. And now they have a story to tell as well. And we have a new grill to buy--or so Husband hopes.
Husband had agreed to cook this grill delicacy (marinated in pinneapple juice, terriyaki, and soy) for a joint birthday celebration of the 20- year- old and 9- year- old. They agreed on the meal, harrassed Dad to grill it even though it was November, and once Grandpa arrived the men moved the grill to the garage out of the 30 mph wind--and I do not exaggerate. Dad/Husband is master griller, and kept religiously checking his chix--so we don't know what happened exactly, but for just a millisecond of time I had a flash of what being caught in a real fire might be like. I was able to shut the house doors, Husband grabbed the grill and all but threw it in the driveway, and the only thing lost was the meat. The grill is still TBD. Scary, and wierd, and surreal, and I might add, really stinky. The garage is working on a nice blend of oil, old boots, and now, charred farmyard.
What about dinner, one might ask? Well, the same men who initially moved the grill to the garage, and then wrestled the fiery beast out of the garage, took to Grandpa's truck, a.k.a. "meal rescuer" and drove to the Jewel in search of some more protein. So the birthday kids still had their brown sugar carrots (which were rescured from the dragon), parmesan red potatoes, peas, and Jewel Deli Fried Chicken. And now they have a story to tell as well. And we have a new grill to buy--or so Husband hopes.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
She's 20
The little blond urchin, in love with all things Disney--okay, all things Disney Princess and Lion King--turns 20 today. So much fun watching her grow-up. It doesn't hurt that she is happily studying history at my alma mater, and is an active in my dear old sorority, but even if all of that weren't true (which happily it is!) I am so proud of the woman that she is becoming. I wish I could offer to her all of the things that I now know that I certainly didn't at the age of 20--but that is not to be, as I wouldn't want to rob her of her own beautiful growth even if she did want her stepmom's wisdom (not!). She has so much in front of her yet--right on the cusp of all that life has to offer, and it takes my breath away for her. Perhaps that is the gift of this age--everything is still possible, yet, when one is 20, one is blissfully unaware of this overwhelming that is waiting right around the corner. One lives in the moment when they are 20, and, I think, this is the way that it is meant to be. Regardless, it does indeed seem like yesterday that we were helping her tie her shoes, look behind the seat for stuffed Simba, watching the Little Mermaid over and over again, and painting her room purple.
He'll always be different
These were the wise words my mother offered me almost nine years ago after the birth of my youngest. He was born with Pierre Robin Syndrome, which brought with it much confusion, tears, questions, surgeries, multiple hospitals, teams of doctors . . . and, in short, a whole new way of looking at parenting, and, well, the world.
There is so much I could say, such an involved complicated story to share about almost-nine-year-old's journey from a beautiful, but very sick little man into the funny, charming, bright young boy by my side. Today we are celebrating one specific milestone in his journey--the end of speech therapy. He "graduated" from his IEP at school this week--which marks the end of a journey that started when he was only a few weeks old with dear Donna, the ever-patient therapist who visited our home weekly to help us get Ethan to eat. Being the stinker that he is, he fought us tooth-and-nail--he would have none of what we were offering. We (okay, at least I) was in despair, thinking that he might never eat by mouth . . . until one day Donna had a brainstorm that maybe it wasn't that he didn't want to eat by mouth, but rather that he didn't want to eat all of the liquids and paste-like things we were giving him. She offered him a graham cracker well before a typical child should get crackers, and he went for it! About a week or so later, Daddy was in the kitchen cooking chicken, and little man started pounding on his highchair, trying to signal that he was hungry. On a whim, Daddy ground-up some chicken and little man gobbled it up in a flash! We should have known back then that almost-nine-year-old just wanted to do this eating thing "his way."
From those first months of feeding, we moved into teaching little man sign language so that he could communicate even with his tracheostomy. From there, we moved to getting to hear his voice with the Passey-Muir valve, and then, finally, decannulation, which brought with it a break from therapy for a while. When preschool rolled around, it was time to help my now precociously verbose little comedian with his consonant blends, s's, r's, z's, and all other sounds that required him to move his mouth and tongue in ways that were never natural to him.
We should have known that his little stubborn nature would also be one of his best assests, as he dug his heels in, determined to be a rock star speech student. After some major orthodontia the past year which caused some further pronunciation setbacks, he has worked even harder, and improved leaps and bounds. His brother no longer has to "translate" for him when others can't quite understand, and he came home all a-grinnin' yesterday, and announced at supper that he is "done with speech--Mrs. Dunneback said I'm done for good!!"
We are so proud of our little monkey--nine years ago I could have never imagined that our little man would be the bright, kind, funny, and verbal dude that he is. Mom was right, he'll always be different, and so will we for getting to be his parents.
There is so much I could say, such an involved complicated story to share about almost-nine-year-old's journey from a beautiful, but very sick little man into the funny, charming, bright young boy by my side. Today we are celebrating one specific milestone in his journey--the end of speech therapy. He "graduated" from his IEP at school this week--which marks the end of a journey that started when he was only a few weeks old with dear Donna, the ever-patient therapist who visited our home weekly to help us get Ethan to eat. Being the stinker that he is, he fought us tooth-and-nail--he would have none of what we were offering. We (okay, at least I) was in despair, thinking that he might never eat by mouth . . . until one day Donna had a brainstorm that maybe it wasn't that he didn't want to eat by mouth, but rather that he didn't want to eat all of the liquids and paste-like things we were giving him. She offered him a graham cracker well before a typical child should get crackers, and he went for it! About a week or so later, Daddy was in the kitchen cooking chicken, and little man started pounding on his highchair, trying to signal that he was hungry. On a whim, Daddy ground-up some chicken and little man gobbled it up in a flash! We should have known back then that almost-nine-year-old just wanted to do this eating thing "his way."
From those first months of feeding, we moved into teaching little man sign language so that he could communicate even with his tracheostomy. From there, we moved to getting to hear his voice with the Passey-Muir valve, and then, finally, decannulation, which brought with it a break from therapy for a while. When preschool rolled around, it was time to help my now precociously verbose little comedian with his consonant blends, s's, r's, z's, and all other sounds that required him to move his mouth and tongue in ways that were never natural to him.
We should have known that his little stubborn nature would also be one of his best assests, as he dug his heels in, determined to be a rock star speech student. After some major orthodontia the past year which caused some further pronunciation setbacks, he has worked even harder, and improved leaps and bounds. His brother no longer has to "translate" for him when others can't quite understand, and he came home all a-grinnin' yesterday, and announced at supper that he is "done with speech--Mrs. Dunneback said I'm done for good!!"
We are so proud of our little monkey--nine years ago I could have never imagined that our little man would be the bright, kind, funny, and verbal dude that he is. Mom was right, he'll always be different, and so will we for getting to be his parents.
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