Friday Night Ho-Hums

There's an old song that goes... "Another Saturday night and I aint got nobody... I got some money 'cause I just got paid... Oh how I wish I had someone to talk to... I'm in an awful way."

That's how I felt last night, except it was Friday, and even though I just got paid, I don't have any money, 'cause it goes right back out to pay the bills.

As for wanting someone to talk to: I've made some new friends here, but none that I feel close enough with to talk over the things running through my head last night.

There was something on 20/20 last night about gender- their bold position was that (get ready for it) men and women are different. To which I say: no duh. (Dumb statements merit unsophisticated responses, in my book).

However, the program did have some interesting info about the differences between the brains and hormones of men and women. (For example- when women spend time together, talking, laughing, etc, chemicals/hormones are released in the brain that give a sense of pleasure or euphoria. In short- there's a biological reason why girl time makes us feel good).

But what really struck me was how much women's bodies, brains, & hormones are built for motherhood. The scientist on the show linked everything about women as a gender to the purpose of continuing the species.

Now, this being t.v., I take everything with a thousand grains of salt. But this rings true for me. And I tread these waters carefully- there are women very close to me who also don't have children, and I don't want to make it sound like those who aren't mothers aren't doing what women are "supposed to."

But that is the issue for me- ever since childhood, I've always assumed I would be a mom one day. Not only that- I've always wanted that. I remember watching my mom a lot: how did she do things? was my question. As an adult, I'm still fascinated by mothers.

At seminary. there was a women's group which was made up of almost exclusively mothers. The single women and the student wives without kids stayed away, many of them complaining that the women talked about motherhood all the time, and nothing else. But I never minded- I enjoyed the talk. I felt like it was a water-bowl of information to be lapped up.

But lately I've been wondering- what if I'm never a mom? What if this thing that I've always assumed and wanted to happen simply doesn't?

The possibility is there. Some days, it seems like the almost 28 years without boys being interested in me at all (at least that I can discern, and with one exception) is a big sign from God saying, "motherhood is not for you." At which point my heart wags a finger at Him, saying "That's pretty mean- giving me these dreams, letting me feel called to motherhood, and making this body that's custom-made for the job, and then telling me to put them aside." Big mean God. Humph.

But what I really wonder is- how do I make peace with that possibility? At what point do I put aside that hope I've carried so long, and how? I've met several women who never married (and aren't nuns)- some who seem quite happy, and some who are clearly bitter. How do I become one of the former?

I wish I could be strong enough right now to say, "Whether I have kids or not, it's okay." I wish I could deal with these questions right now- I don't want to wait until menopause makes it obvious whether or not I'll be having kids.

Protestant Sing-a-long

A whirlwind trip back home for the funeral of a dear family friend- I organized the music and directed the choir, so I was in 'task-completion' mode for most of the service. It wasn't until everything was done, and we were standing at the graveside that I could shut down. We buried her at the cemetary outside of town; it was a beautiful day- sunny but not too warm. It felt so good to be back at home, standing out in the middle of the open fields, with the wind blowing my hair about my face.

The departed is one of the small handful of people who have been in "my church" since childhood- the early days of the EOC, to the start of what is now St Nicholas Orthodox Church. The Boyds (and their children), Barb D., the Smiths- they are the ones who stuck with us. Others from that EOC church have since become Orthodox, but in other places.

In the car returning from the cemetary to the church for the mercy meal, we started trading our favorite Protestant hymns, inspired by the two hymns the family had asked to sing at the graveside (Great is Thy Faithfulness and It is Well with My Soul)- all of listing the ones we'd want at our own burials.

I continued the sing-a-long as I drove back to Minneapolis, listening to a CD of favorite hymns, and then popping in a CD of early american sacred music. And one song, which wasn't actually part of my young repetoire, stood out: Angel Band. It's been recorded a lot by bluegrass musicians like Emmylou Harris, but my favorite is by Anonymous 4. I wish I could put it up here for you to listen, but I don't know how... so here are the lyrics:

My latest sun is sinking fast,
My race is nearly run;
My strongest trials now are past,
My triumph is begun.

I know I'm near the holy ranks
Of friends and kindred dear,
I brush the dew on Jordan's banks,
The crossing must be near.

I've almost gained my heav'nly home,
My spirit loudly sings;
The holy ones, behold, they come!
I hear the noise of wings.

O bear my longing heart to Him,
Who bled and died for me;
Whose blood now cleanses from all sin,
And gives me victory.

Refrain
O come, angel band,
Come and around me stand:
O bear me away on your snowy wings
To my eternal home;
O bear me away on your snowy wings
To my eternal home.

Sick...

I sick... bad cold. Sweated, sniffled, and cough-dropped my way through Vespers, Liturgy, and 2 baptisms over the weekend. Oh, and lost my tuning fork. (Someone loaned me one).

And of course, there was nothing but football on television on Sunday, when my eyes were watering too much to read.

However, at six o'clock, one of my favorite shows came on: America's Funniest Home Videos. Yes- I am not ashamed to admit it: I love that show. It is exactly what one wants on a Sunday afternoon (especially when one is congested): no plot lines to follow, no airbrushed, scantily-clad celebs. Just people/pets doing funny things on camera.

The host may be corny, the videos may mostly of people falling off of things, but I still like it.

Anyway... that's the most I can manage today.

Seen & Heard (& Read & Thought)

From the last few days

Seen: New carpet in my new office! (Am getting to move from dungeon-like cubby hole in basement to a new space.)

Heard: "You look so nice today- it must because you're wearing makeup." Post-liturgical quasi-compliment.

Seen: at a Twins game... a player on the opposing team named Milton Bradley. Jokes about board games abounded.

Heard: "AARGH!" Thump! Thump! Thump! "MROWWWW!" Sound of me stubbing toe in a fantastically painful fashion, hopping three times , and then hopping for 4th time onto the tail of my poor cat. Toe is swollen, bruised, and still painful today. Hope it's not broken.

Heard: "Hey, you fat b*#^*!" Something shouted at me while walking the other day, from oaf in a car. If anyone still needs an explanation why I shun from exercising in public, email me and we'll talk.

Thought: "Sheesh!" when finding out liturgical schedule for Nativity Feast, Forefeast, and Postfeast. I'm thinking vacation after Theophany.

and finally Read: in current book The Good Husband by Gail Godwin (published in 1994 by Ballantine books), on p. 426:

All those years I secretly felt superior because I never made a fool of myself in love. That's because I was never in love, but I had to fall in love before I could understand I'd never been in love before. And now I'm no different from Amanda Fritchie, only she was fifteen at the time and I'll be thirty-five my next birthday.

Surely you'd expect, though, if you'd been cool and controlled enough as an adolescent to sit on the sidelines of the jerky, mortifying dance of young love, that when you came up against middle-aged love, it would be conducted by your emotions in patient, dignified middle-aged fashion.

But it didn't work that way. Apparently you had to go through the beginner's mess at whatever age you began. You didn't earn any interest or exemptions just because you'd managed not to lose your heart till you were almost thirty-five. If I'd waited to learn to read until I was almost thirty-five, thought Alice, dejected by her own analogy, I would have had to start where every first grader starts: sounding out the letters with my mouth, despairing yet aching toward the glimpsed embrace of total meaning.

BTW: I enjoy this author's books. Check out Evensong- it's quite lovely.

Poem

I step out onto the ice,
testing with each step,
tentative.

Right now, I'm sticking to the shore,
even though where I need to be
is out there, in the middle of the lake.

It occurs to me:
only when the winter is at its deepest,
when things are the most desperate,
could I have confidence in the ice.

So I must let my life's winter come.
Must let things get to their coldest, harshest, hungriest point.
Only then, when nothing else matters,
will I be able to rush out headlong to where you are.

Begging

I came across this article some time ago, and it's been nagging at me. It's a bit of advice on how to handle yourself when someone on the street hits you up for money.

Several years ago, during a Q&A session, a priest was asked about this very topic, and I've never forgotten his response. He said (I'm paraphrasing) that if we have money, we should give it. He issue isn't whether or not the asker is going to use it properly (for food, clothing, etc). That's their concern. It's their life, their business, their soul. We can only worry about our own salvation, and that means doing as Christ instructed.

Now, I know all the arguments about giving responsibly- give only to a shelter or other legitimate charity, offer to buy the beggar a meal, etc. And I don't claim to know the correct answer to this problem.

All I know is that when confronted with a homeless person asking me for money, it's more difficult to give- it's much easier to avoid their eyes, to keep my window rolled up, and then to write a check to a worthy charity.

Some years agao, while driving on an interstate, I stopped at a rest area, and parked next to a beat up old white car, barely noticing its occupants. I was sleepy and grubby, and just wanted to get home.

When I came back out, I saw a shifty-looking man leaning on the white car, eyeing me intently. He was tall and thin, his face pale and in need of a shave. I looked away as I drew closer, but he approached me. "Do you have any money?" he said.

"No," I lied, thinking of the dollar bill and change in my pocket,"I don't." He nodded in a resigned way, as if to say, "Naturally."

I got back in my car and drove off as quickly as I could. I was okay for a few minutes, but then details bubbled up in my mind- things I didn't even no I'd seen. The gauntness of his faith, the weariness in the way his shoulders stooped, the rust on the car. It had out of state plates- Oregon. And then, I remembered two small heads in the back seat, and a grown-up one in the front.

I was in trouble now. For five miles I drove, thinking of the kids and the fact I was wearing my cross in plain view. Another five, thinking of how little my dollar bill could do for them, another five, thinking again of the bleariness around the man's eyes and mouth. Then, I took the next exit, and began searching for an ATM.

I bargained with myself- if there's not an ATM on this street, then I'll just go on home. But of course I found one right away. I took out all the money I could, which was only $40. And then I got back in the car and headed back towards the rest area.

For most of the drive back I worried: What would I say to him? "Hey buddy, I lied- here's some cash!" I honestly hoped that the white car would be gone by the time I got there. Then I could say I had realized my mistake, done what I could, but not have to actually embarrass myself.

But then, I began to worry- what if they have gone? What if I will have made this whole 40 mile circuit for nothing? I began to pray out loud, "Please God, let them still be there."

I finally pulled into the rest area, relieved to see the white car. The man was sitting inside. I got out of my car, and walked over, tapped on the window. Now I could see clearly: a man, his wife holding a baby, and two small girls in the back seat.

The man recognized me, but was clearly surprised as he rolled down the window.
"I lied before," I blurted out. "I've got some money and I'd like you to have it," the words tumbled out as I offered my $41 through the window.

"Thank you," he stammered, taking the money. "You see, we're trying to get to Virginia- my brother has a job for me there, and the car's having trouble."

"I hope you make it," I said. I smiled at the woman, but she looked away, embarrassment written on her faces. The two girls in the back simply stared with round eyes, not moving.

I took a deep breath, and then said, "Can I pray for you?"

"Yes!" said the man. I asked his name: "Jim Bishop."

"Okay, Jim. Well, good luck." I turned and walked quickly back to my car, feel clumsy and embarrassed. I drove off from the rest stop for a second time, and then cried all the way home.

I don't know if that white car ever made it to Virginia. I've not been very robust in my prayers for Jim Bishop either. But from time to time, the memory surfaces, and I remember to pray for him and his family.

I think that priest was right. Because the giving isn't just about the money exchanged, it's about my ability to see other human beings. Most homeless people spend their days being ignored. Passersby don't speak to them, look them in the eye, and especially don't touch them. Can you imagine day after day of that?

I'm not trying to convince you to give money to panhandlers instead of giving to charity- I aspire to do both, actually. I just encourage you to at least look these people in the eye. Talk to them while you're sitting at the light. Ask to pet their dogs; shake their hands. You'll be fine.