Monica – Page 24 – The Monica Chronicles

April 2, 2013

Unpacking the Triduum

The Triduum is the holiest of celebrations in the Roman Catholic Church; a three-day liturgy consisting of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday. Observances are lengthy, solemn and packed full of traditional and spiritual meaning as the passion of Christ is remembered and celebrated.

For many years, as a part of our parish RCIA team (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) at St. Mark’s, the Triduum marked the completion of the journey of our Candidates and catechumens into full initiation and reception into the Catholic Church. The connection I had with these folks as they made their journey was one full of love and grace and even though they usually thanked me for my help and support, it was I who owed them more for sharing their stories with me and patiently listening to my story as well.

At our group meeting following the Easter Vigil, usually sometime the next week, we would “unpack” the Triduum, mentally taking slow steps through the three evenings of prayer, sharing impressions and thoughts that struck a chord in each of us. These meetings were full of tears, cheers and laughs, as memories of moments of awe, grace and even comedy (after all, we are human attempting to enter the divine) were recalled.

For the past two years my experience has been very different. Shepherd of the Hills is a tiny parish in comparison to St. Mark’s. Tasks that are handled by committees or deacons in a larger parish, are usually handled by one or two women here. Consequently, our liturgies are simpler and more relaxed than in a larger place.

I don’t remember too many details about last year, maybe because of the newness, or perhaps I was making comparisons in my head between what I had and what I thought I’d lost. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t until this year that I was able to begin to unpack what I experienced during the Triduum. I’d like to share two of with you.

The one thing most people will remember about Holy Thursday is the washing of the feet. In remembrance of Christ’s washing the Apostles’ feet at the Last Supper, Catholic communities offer a variety of ways to celebrate this rite ranging from the pastor washing the feet of parish leaders to the entire congregation coming forward to either have their feet washed or wash someone else’s feet. So, when I received an email looking for helpers at the Holy Thursday service, I assumed they were looking for water carriers, etc. When I arrived, I realized I’d volunteered to represent the parish by having my feet washed. So, when the time came, I was called forward with a handful of others. We sat in chairs facing the parish and Father Dan asked us to remove one shoe. Okay, so the ceremony had been reduced to five feet and my liturgical training bristled at the diminishing of the sign value. Then I glanced down at the bare feet on the floor in front of me and realized that of the women there, I was the only one with a painted toe nails. Instead of feeling like a paragon of good grooming, I was humbled. Next, I saw Fr. Dan bend slowly to his knees and begin to walk on them down the line, washing feet. He is not a young man and his joints pain him. As he gently washed my foot and then moved on, I noticed that the hems on his trousers were frayed. Remembering how I fussed about chosing the right outfit to wear, I was humbled again.

My second memorable experience happened at the vigil Mass on Holy Saturday. The Easter Vigil is one of the Church’s oldest celebrations were traditionally adults are fully initiated into the community. During the many Old Testament readings, the history of God’s covenant with his people is traced from the creation story forward. I was chosen to do one of the readings, a favorite of mine; Isaiah 55: 1-11 – “All you who are thirsty,come to the water!” I truly cherish God’s open invitation to come and drink of the water of new life and wanted to proclaim it in a way that would allow others to feel it as well. I practiced reading the passage several times, sat with it, and prayed about it until I was as ready as I could be.

My time came. I rose and slowly approached the ambo. Adjusting the microphone just so, I began by saying, ” A reading from the prophet Isaiah.” and then took a pause and deep breath. Then, just as I began to proclaim the passage, I heard what I was certain was someone breaking wind in a pew to my left. A few seconds later, snickering confirmed my suspicions.

I was struck by the fantastic whimsy of the moment. For a few moments, I struggled to maintain my composure. I have a mean funny bone and when it is tickled, I find it hard to ignore and let’s face it, farts are funny. More importantly, they are basely human. From all reports, my dilemma was not reflected in my reading. For that I am thankful. I’m sure my preparation aided in my carrying on.

I am also thankful for that moment that God “broke into” my reading, reminding me that Easter is all about Jesus entering a very human world, where I’d bet even in his time, a fart would warrant a chuckle.

So this year, I gathered two important lessons about humility to unpack. Both of these moments, different, but very human, have led me to a better understanding of Christ’s passion and Resurrection.

Alleluia! Alleluia!

March 24, 2013

Just A Spoon Full of Sugar …..

Where is Mary Poppins when you need her? Saturday morning, after two weeks of using my home as a “flop house”, I was determined to bring order to the many small piles of unrelated items covering surface tops throughout the house. I really could have used a cheery helper who, instead of pulling things out of a carpet bag, crammed them in and made them disappear. I know tidying up shouldn’t be such a tough job, but when your mind is wired like mine, it is a major cardio event.

I started in our bathroom and worked my way out. The bathroom was pretty straight-forward not much to write home about. My ADD kicked in when I started clearing off the top of my dresser. It had become a clearing house for things that had entered our room but needed to go somewhere else. There was a folded dish cloth and towel left over from a load of wash I did for the church, a leaflet on exercises for positional vertigo I need to return to Angela, some loose change, a recipe a friend gave me that needed to make its way to the kitchen, a bottle of shoe stretcher, a pen and more stuff I can’t remember.

An example of a collections of unrelated items to be disbursed: Calling cards, dish holders Dave brought home, a cloth bag containing photos I took to show a friend, a baby sock I knit years ago (only one) an origami box Seth made at Christmas, a pair of Dave's reading glasses (he has several, in many piles.), a dead IPod (charging- just in case), a "D" ring, and some seed pods we picked up at Monticello last fall. Where does it all come from and where does it all belong? — An example of a collections of unrelated items to be disbursed: Calling cards, dish holders Dave brought home, a cloth bag containing photos I took to show a friend, a baby sock I knit years ago (only one) an origami box Seth made at Christmas, a pair of Dave’s reading glasses (he has several, in many piles.), a dead IPod (charging- just in case), a “D” ring, and some seed pods we picked up at Monticello last fall. Where does it all come from and where does it all belong?

The cardio kicked in as I took each one of these things in hand and returned them to their proper place, which was usually downstairs. Once I got down the stairs, I usually discovered something that distracted me and me in another direction. Each item I touched sparked a memory of where it came from, what I was doing the day I dropped in its current location. Many times I entered into a decision process to discern where the proper resting place for the thing would be. These actions compounded into so many trips up and down the stairs that if my travels were mapped with dotted lines it would look like one of the cartoons in the “Family Circus”. The end result could have been healthy work-out except each time I walked by the coffee table in the living room, I took some of Mary’s advice and grabbed a couple of jelly beans from the candy bowl. She was right, “a spoon full of sugar” helps a lot!

Unfortunately, my oomph ran out before all the piles were gone. While the majority of the house had been cleaned, vacuumed and dusted, and some of the piles tidied into neater piles, there was still what seemed like a long way to go. In the end, I decided to call it a day and have some lunch and take a rest. As much as I would love to have a house that looked like the magazines; where the surfaces are devoid of anything except coordinated décor, my life just doesn’t work that way.

I guess my neat piles of unrelated stuff are a metaphor for my view on life. I really have little control over what enters it. My house is bombarded daily by junk mail, newspapers and magazines, church bulletins, leaflets from local venues, coupons, ticket stubs, sale ads etc., etc., etc. Yet I attempt to bring order to the chaos, sort out and stash the important stuff while trashing the junk. Most importantly, I try not to let it overwhelm me. So, when I’ve given it my all, and the majority of the stuff is made orderly, a couple of jelly beans and a nice long sit on the couch with my feet propped on the coffee table is just plain Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious !

March 21, 2013

March Madness

SAMSUNG Usually when you hear about “March Madness” it refers to the NCAA College Basketball season coming to a climax and end. This year my attentions have been so diverted that I find myself today, the first day of the championship, not really knowing who’s playing who. Unbelievable!

Since the beginning of the month here in Greene County we have had three major weather events resulting in school closings. The latest was this past Sunday night which coincided with our parish St. Patty’s Day Dinner where we fed almost 125 folks all the corned beef, cabbage, ham, potatoes, carrots, salad and desserts they could eat. Our youth group waited tables while the grown-ups cooked and plated the food, supervised and after the last diner left, began the clean-up.

I have to admit that everything pretty much ran like clockwork up until the clean-up. After Mass, several of us met up in the hall and with our church clothes protected by aprons and armed with vegetable peelers, we peeled fifty pounds of potatoes and a huge pile of carrots while other quartered massive quantities of cabbage and onions. Enormous pots were set to boil on the big black commercial range and the first of the seventeen briskets began to simmer. Given the size of the kitchen, it was a herculean accomplishment to prepare this meal on such a scale.

By eleven-thirty, the food was prepped, tables in the dining room were arranged and set with bright Kelly green table clothes and festive St. Patty’s Day placemats and napkins. Irish pub music filled the room. We were ready except for the finishing touches.

The chief chef was an older woman who is a professional caterer. She single-handedly supervised the crew of volunteers and brought order to our piles of peeled vegetables. After a couple of hours, she sent everyone home, insisting she was perfectly capable and willing to sit with the pots for a few hours. Having been trained since my youth to always be ready to help out in the kitchen, I found it difficult to tear myself away. I did go home for a few hours, to change and grab a snack but was soon back in the kitchen, helping where I could.

At four-thirty our guests began to arrive. By five-thirty, over sixty dinners had been served. If you haven’t been to our tiny church, that might not seem impressive, but believe me, considering our hall only seats comfortably about eighty folks, and the fact that the weather was already showing signs of ugliness, it was a pretty big deal. By seven, the dinner was over, except for the clean-up.

The tables were cleared and the dinning room was swept and returned to normal in a few moments by the remaining youth and their parents. Left overs were wrapped and divided and stowed in the refrigerator. All that remained was a stack of large pots, chafing dishes, serving dishes and flatware. Under usual circumstances, we would have run most of the small things through a couple of cycles in the dishwasher. Unfortunately our dishwasher had been removed a couple of weeks ago in preparation for a new super fast commercial grade dishwasher that hadn’t arrived in time for the dinner. Having to wash all those dinners by hand wouldn’t have even been so bad had we had a good supply of hot water and enough dish washing liquid and Brillo pads to tackle the job. Necessity being the mother of invention, we collectively soon discovered we could make as much hot water as needed a quart at a time by running it through our Bunn coffee maker. Someone ran home for a bottle of Dawn and we were back on track. We even created a make-shift dish drainer by putting the top rack from the old dishwasher over a large baking sheet.

Two hours later, the flatware and most of the smaller serving dishes were clean, dried and put away leaving only the biggest, greasiest, burnt on dirtiest of pots and the floor to finish. Outside, the snow continued to fall. It’s not hard to imagine just how tired we all were. Most of us had been on our feet for four to five hours. We were pooped and our feet hurt; at least mine did. So, we did what sensible people do. We loaded the remaining pots into our cars to wash at home, agreeing to return on Tuesday (since Monday was going to be a snow day).

By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was throw myself on the couch and put my feet up and that’s exactly what I did. Across the room I heard Dave begin to fill me in about the bracket alignment for “The Dance”. In past years I’d fuss about who got in and who got snubbed and why one team rated a one or two seed and another a five or six. This year, I was too tired to care.

It's important to stop and smell the daffodils, or at least look at them! — It’s important to stop and smell the daffodils, or at least look at them!

Monday was indeed another snow day. Tuesday we brought back our cleaned pots and finished cleaning the kitchen at church. Wednesday I got a call telling me that one of our parishioners had passed away and asking could I help out at the reception on Friday afternoon. Ahhhh. (Heavy sigh.) March madness takes many forms. But this morning, I discovered my daffodils were blooming for the first time. Beauty exists even in the whirlwind.

If the sprouts in the garden are any indication, I will have many opportunities to “vacation” from the pace of the days and months to come as the seasons turn from Spring and then to Summer and “The Wedding” approaches. I do appreciate my mini visits with creation and am forever grateful that I don’t have to look much further than my own back door.

March 16, 2013

What Are the Odds?

It’s amazing how each day, no matter how routine, can offer the most marvelous opportunities.

On Monday evening I attended my first meeting of the Greene County Women’s Club. I’ve known about the club for more than a year, many of the women from my church are members and consequently, their events and programs frequently make our weekly announcements. I’d paid some lip service to a couple of the gals about “having to come” to a meeting but for whatever reason have been reluctant about leaving the comfort of my home for a meeting.

This past Sunday after Mass, my friend Moira cornered me, but her hands on both my shoulders and said, “Don’t forget the Women’s Club meeting tomorrow night.” After such a personal invitation, how could I pretend to have forgotten again? So, the next evening, after an early dinner, I headed off to the church to check out the Greene County Women’s Club.

The meetings are held in our parish hall, a remodeled home adjacent to the church, a place that is very familiar to me. As I walked into the meeting room, Moira greeted me in a St. Patty’s Day sweater with huge shamrocks across her chest and a pair of bobby shamrock antennae on her head. “Oh good, you came!” she said, “Come on in and get a name tag.”

With my name safely stuck to my chest, I mingled through the room recognizing many of faces I saw. Everyone was very warm and welcoming, asking where I lived, how long I’ve lived here, where did I work; the usual. Then, someone asked, “Did you used to live in Virginia Beach?” I quickly scanned the face and then the name tag and on went the bulb in my brain – standing before me was my friend, Linda, whom I hadn’t seen in twenty years! I let out a shriek and gave her a big hug.

I ask you, what are the odds? Linda wasn’t just a casual friend, she was a good friend. We’d met through the kids’ elementary school where she taught both Maggie and Andy in third grade. We served on the PTA board together, had picnics, spent summer days on the beach sunning and reading while our kids romped in the surf. I don’t know when we lost touch with each other, but twenty years, and moves to Newport, Hawaii and back to Virginia Beach, took their toll, many close friends from those days were misplaced. People move, mail forwarding expires and lives move on.

How both could find each other in the Shepherd of the Hills parish hall in a very small town in Central Virginia is no less than miraculous. I’m so glad I went to that meeting. I can’t wait to see who or what will happen at next month’s meeting!

March 11, 2013

First Wedding Prep Trip to Richmond

Friday evening Dave and I drove down to Richmond for a working visit with Maggie and Jan. Maggie and I, along with her friend Kate, were on a quest to find “the dress” for her wedding, while Dave and Jan and Kate’s boyfriend, Kyle, did what most men do during wedding preparations; drink beer and bond.

Since my mother made my wedding gown, a task I didn’t choose to undertake for myself, I had very little knowledge of what wedding gown buying was like except for what I’ve seen on TV; mothers sitting in comfy padded chairs while well-dressed sales clerks bring them glasses of champagne on silver trays. Surprisingly, my real-life experience, bore little resemblance to television. I did get to seat in a comfy seat which bore evidence of having seated many mothers before me, but the sales clerks at David’s bridal, although congenial, were not what I would consider well dressed and no beverages were offered.

Despite the disconnect between fantasy and reality, we did find “the dress” in pretty short order. I don’t want to give away any details about the gown, but suffice it to say, Maggie looked knock dead gorgeous in it and I was happy to have had the luck to find it on our first time out.

Another one of our goals for the weekend was to check out local hotels for our wedding guests. We stayed at the Hampton Inn and it too was a good choice. The staff were friendly and welcoming, the room was comfortable and spotless, and the complementary breakfast was tasty. They are a definite contender.

Maggie and Jan in front of their soon to be new home

Our final goal of the weekend was to see the house Maggie and Jan are in the process of buying. It is a charming 1920’s bungalow in a the Forest Hills section of Richmond, a well established neighborhood just up from the James River. The home has been well maintained and is surrounded by flower beds that, while still in a semi dormant stage, promise to be spectacular when in full bloom. Almost as soon as we’d parked, the neighbors from the right side of the house came over to introduce themselves, followed in short order by the neighbor to the left. They were so welcoming and the house so cute, I almost wished we were moving in there!

The current cat in residence was kind enough to illustrate how comfortable Rupert will be in his new home.

The current owner was away for the weekend, but one of the neighbors was certain she wouldn’t mind if we peaked in the backyard as long as we didn’t let the dog out. So, she opened the gate to let us see the back. It too was delightful, with a porch perfect for sitting, a greenhouse potting shed and more gardens to keep Maggie and Jan busy. There was also a chunky kitty sunning herself on a chair in the yard; a reassurance that Rupert and Ivan will also enjoy their new surroundings.

A step and gate from another time adds to the interest of the neighborhood.

After we checked out the house, we took a short walk around the neighborhood and down to Forest Hills Park. Unlike the areas we lived in most of our married life, where cookie-cutter houses line short streets that end in cul-de-sacs, Forest Hills is a patchwork of homes built at different times by folks with distinctly different styles in mind. The lots are very large for city lots and although most have been updated, many of the old architectural details still remain adding charm and interest. The history of the area hangs in the air, begging to be discovered. I can see why Maggie was drawn to it. She mentioned she is eager to begin volunteering with the local historical society.

As a parent, it is so incredibly rewarding to see your child’s life bud and begin to fully bloom. Maggie and Jan are embarking on an amazing journey together, their path clear and sunny for as far as the eye can see. Just like their new gardens, there is much promise for great beauty with some work and maintenance along the way. As for me, I will enjoy the view from the porch!

March 7, 2013

Grown-Up Snow Day

A couple of weeks ago I wistfully wondered when we would get a good snowfall. I dreamed of finally inflating the snow-tube I got Dave for Christmas two years ago and taking rides down the hill in the backyard. Well, as they say, you should be careful what you wish for.

For several days the weather folk had been predicting a major storm was potentially headed our way. Over the weekend, while checking in with The Weather Channel, I discovered what I thought was an advertisement above the weather map turned out to be the name given our winter storm, Saturn. The maps showed us residing in the epicenter of the maximum snowfall for our area. With a named storm and threatening maps, I decided to run to Foodlion for an extra gallon of milk and a couple of boxes of cookies. We already had a pantry full of canned goods and other ready to eat stuff, but cookies are best in times of stress.

As predicted, the snow began to fall here last Tuesday night at about ten o’clock. The snowflakes were big and wet. I was so excited at the prospect of my sledding adventure the next day that it was difficult to fall asleep. Once I did, my rest was interrupted several times by the sounds of the power coming back on. Apparently, every electrical device in our house has some kind of buzz or beep associated with interrupted electrical current. Each time the power resumed, the washer buzzed, the smoke detectors beeped and the CD player in the kitchen clicked in a vain attempt to recapture the disc it had ejected when the power went out. All this buzzing, beeping and clicking was punctuated by the jingling of kitty collar bells as Izzie and Purrl scurried from room to room to escape the noises and find peace.

Realizing that maybe this wasn’t going to be the kind of event I hoped for with snow play and warm cocoa, I lay awake mentally inventorying my dry goods planning cold meals for at least a couple of days. Cereal for breakfast, pb&j for lunch and ham sandwiches for dinner….

5:00 AM Wednesday (before the power went out again)

A little before 5:00 AM I thought I’d take advantage of a moment with power to brew a pot of coffee so we could at least have something hot to drink with our breakfast. But, just as I pushed the power button on the coffee maker, there was a green flash outside and everything went dark again. I calmly went to the pantry to grab my portable light bulb but it was dead. The second one worked and I went to the garage to grab the lantern. It worked fine but the big flashlight next to it was also dead.

All this activity had me too wound up to go back to bed. Instead, I threw the switch on the gas fireplace and after a pregnant pause followed by a reassuring “poof” I had heat! I curled up on the couch with a yellow fuzzy afghan and napped there for an hour or so.

Breakfast was easy. We had plenty of milk and cereal, juice and fruit so that part was pretty normal. Sadly, the coffee never made it through its cycle so we were reduced to drinking Cokes for our morning jolt; a truly Southern tradition, but not one I readily embrace except as a means of avoiding a caffeine headache.

Not long after we’d finished our breakfast, the power came back on! In short order the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the house and we held warm mugs in our hands. The sky was really gray and it was still snowing pretty hard so we decided to wait a while before we headed out to shovel and then play.

By the time we actually got bundled up and out the door to shovel, the temperature was close to 40 degrees and the snow was becoming wetter and heavier. Dave fired up the snow-blower and headed down the drive while I cleared the walk with my ergonomic snow shovel.

The news reporters called this “heart attack” snow because of its density and weight. It was quite a job clearing the ten inches or so of snow from our sixty foot drive. It looked like Dave had the easier job pushing the snow-blower but after I gave it a try, I decided I’d rather go back to the shovel. Although it moves the snow faster, it is loud and is harder to push up the drive than it looked. I think had the snow been lighter and fluffy, it might have been another story. We’ll see, hopefully next year.

Our snow removal took a little over an hour. It was after lunch time when we finished and I was sopping wet, pooped and hungry. So, we came inside, put our hats and gloves over the heat ducts and warmed up some chili and rice and then settled down for well deserved afternoon naps.

No, we never did inflate the snow tube. We didn’t make a snowman or even throw a snowball like we did when we were kids. Instead, we did the grown-up stuff that grown-ups do. Today, I am reminded of the grown-up stuff by a really stiff lower back. I am also aware of just how poorly prepared I was had the power outage continued. At least two of my back up lights had dead batteries and it probably would be a good idea to have a couple of cans of Sterno on hand to at least heat my supply of canned goods when my gas grill has ten inches of snow on top.

Red sky at night, sailors delight (and mountaineers too!)

Despite the lack of snow play time, it winter storm Saturn was a beauty to behold. Seeing everything around me blanketed in white, hearing the insulating quiet of the snow and then the giggles of the little ones across the street as they slid down the hill in the front lawn with their daddy all made the day one to remember. But then, as the sun went down and the day ended, God smiled on us and promised nicer weather on the way.

Last night I slept well. The excitement and physical work of the day had worn me out. My snow lust for this year had been sated. I think I’ll readjust my wistful wonderings to springtime and start looking for the signs of new life. Spring is only two weeks away.

March 1, 2013

My “Bucket” List

devil One of my dreams came true last night. After a dozen years of watching Duke basketball on TV, I finally got to see them play live. The game wasn’t in Cameron, but you can’t have everything, including a winning team.

The Duke – Virginia game was the last in a set Dave and I had tickets for. In the course of this season, I have moved from politely rooting for the home team to a becoming a fan. The games have been everything a college basketball fan could want, full of excitement, incredible shots and questionable calls on the part of the officials. From our seats way up in the nose-bleed section, we’ve had an excellent vantage point of the John Paul Jones Arena. At earlier games, I was surprised by all the empty seats in the stands and the relatively small student attendance given the size of UVA. In comparison, students cram onto the bleachers in Cameron, unable to sit because there simply isn’t enough room. Last night the JPJ was packed!

From my lofty perch I could see a sea of orange with the random dots of blue scattered about. In the moments before the tip-off, the band, cheerleaders and dance team led the home team fans in cheers lifting both the level of excitement as well as volume. The UVA fans were out for blood; blue blood!

Once the play began, the noise was deafening. The fellow beside me decided he would cheer extra loud when I discovered I was rooting for Duke and clapped in my left ear most of the game. I, in turn, retaliated with a hearty cheer when Duke scored, although that didn’t happen as often as I would have liked.

As the game wore on and my Blue Devils struggled to take the lead (which sadly they never did), I saw many Duke fans retreat quietly to the exit. Faithful to the bitter end, I cheered my team on despite their failure to score and the dirty looks I received from the UVA fans around me when I clapped in approval for a Duke basket.

When the game finally ended, the UVA fans rushed the court, celebrating their victory over the giant. Dave and I left in silence. Sure, we were disappointed to see our team lose, but more than that, we’d learned just hard it is for any team to take the court as visitors to any home court. Granted, all arenas are loud and the cheers are the same with the home team’s name “inserted here”. At this level teams are accustomed to playing with the noise, but just from sitting in the seats in the nose bleed section, I could feel the difference between cheering for a team vice jeering against them. I was both stalwart and intimidated, proud and humbled.

So, I guess my dream coming true wasn’t what I had expected it to be. It would have been nicer if my team had won. It was after all, just one game and not their last. There will always be another game and Duke will probably always be my team because I have followed them so closely for so many years but next year, I’m sure I’ll be back in the nose bleed section of the John Paul Jones Arena, cheering for UVA, unless of course my Devils come back to town.

Footnote: Duke has won 17 of the last 19 games played against UVA….. I’m just saying.

February 25, 2013

A Good Shepherd?

e good shepherd One of my favorite Bible verses is the 23rd Psalm, “The LORD is my shepherd, ….” It is a source of great comfort when I am low and reassurance when I am feeling uncertain.

I have always found the image of Jesus as the “Good Shepherd” to be so warm and loving, gently guiding his sheep from pasture to pasture in search of safety and sustenance. Today I got a much different glimpse of those who profess to follow in His footsteps view the role.

An article in this morning’s Daily Progress, the Charlottesville, VA paper, reported that Bishop Francis X DiLorenzo (Bishop of the Diocese of Richmond, VA) has told the Church of the Holy Apostles, a blended Roman Catholic/Episcopal parish located in Virginia Beach, that they can no longer worship together as they have for the past thirty years. That’s right, they’ve been sharing the Word of God together and then separating for denominational specific rites of the Eucharist for thirty years!

Following a study begun last November, they are being told that allowing Catholics and non-Catholics to participate in a combined communion liturgy violated Roman Catholic norms. I know the Church moves slowly, but this is a bit extreme.

As long as I can remember the Holy Apostles community has been a haven for inter-faith couples wishing to worship together and share community with each other. Through my years in Virginia Beach, I’ve known several families who attended Holy Apostles because it offered a bridge between the different faith traditions which are so incredibly close in many, many ways. Now they must find a way to separate but maintain their community; a challenging concept wouldn’t you agree?

In his statement, Bishop DiLorenzo stated, “As the shepherd of the Diocese of Richmond, it is my prayerful desire that this ecumenical community at Holy Apostles continues and flourishes.” From my perspective, he seems less of a shepherd and more of a sheep dog nipping at the heels of that community. It seems to me that a real shepherd would have let this unique community alone, to flourish as it has in the past. It is a small parish, with a rather plain facade. Most folks driving up Lynnhaven Parkway probably don’t even know what a remarkable place it is, or sadly, was.

If you’d like more information on the vision the community of Holy Apostles was founded upon, you can visit their website: http://www.ha-arc.com/bhistory.html.

Postscript:

This week’s issue of The Catholic Virginian stated that the investigation into the practices of The Church of the Holy Apostles was prompted by a letter written to the Papal Nuncio for the US by a man from New York who read about the parish in a magazine. Sadly, there do seem to be some “well-meaning” Catholics who deem it their duty to report any kind of what they consider to be irregularities to Church officials. In our previous parish, we had visitors who wrote the Bishop concerning all kinds of things ranging from the lack of kneelers in our church to the recipe of the communion bread. After wrestling with the options available to me, I have decided to pray for these people, that they will learn to see beyond rules and regulations and see the face of God instead.

February 19, 2013

Snowy Memories

It’s snowing again! This winter I have thoroughly delighted in the many flurries we’ve had; each one a lovely surprise. This morning for example, just minutes after the weather man predicted a long cold rainy day, literally out of the blue (or grey) the sky was full of big, white, fluffy flakes dancing to the ground. Here at my kitchen table, facing my back yard, I have a front row seat to the snow show. It is exciting in its unexpectedness.

These flurried moments are such a gift! They hold such a possibility of excitement; school closings, power outages, driving challenges. Granted, not all of these things are welcomed, depending on your perspective. As a kid I remember sitting by the radio waiting for my school’s name to be called on snowy mornings, hoping for the blessed “snow day”. My mother, on the other hand, I am certain wished that school would not be cancelled and she could have a few hours of peace and quiet.

Bundled and ready for a snowy adventure.

Snow is among the top headlines of my childhood memories. Living in the snow belt of Western New York State, snow was a given during any winter season. Despite the snow and ice, most of my memories of cold wintery weather are so warm; memories of sledding, making snow angels and building snow forts.

To protect us from the cold we were bundled in thick layers of clothing that took a long time to wriggle into. Multiply that by four or five and you get an idea of what my poor mother would go through to get us ready to brave the cold on snow days and school days. Yes, even on school days we had to be bundled against the cold. It was a long walk down to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus. As a little girl in the early 60’s, I was expected to wear a skirt to school regardless of the weather, although we were allowed to wear snow-pants underneath to and from. And then there were the boots. The boys wore big black rubber boots with metal locking buckles. I can’t remember what color my boots were, only the difficulty in sliding them over my shoes. Mom heard somewhere that if we put our shoes in bread bags and then slid them into the boots, the boots would slide on easily. It worked well, but I can’t say that I really liked wearing Wonder Bread wrappers over my shoes. Luckily, we weren’t that fashion conscious in those days.

Once out in our yard, we had what seemed like an immense ice cap to explore. A large pine tree with low hanging branches sat in our front yard. The weight of the snow would bend the branches to meet the ground forming a perfect shelter beneath. When the snow was really deep, we would tunnel out a doorway and to the inside and pretend we were Eskimos. It was so very quiet in our igloo under those pine branches insulated by several inches of snow and the air was full of the sweet smell of the pine needles. The protection was so perfect that the floor of our shelter was green grass, an amazing sight for children in a wintery yard.

On one side of our house was a big hill perfect for snow coasters. Since Dad worked all day, the only time he could play with us was in the evening. So, he put a light atop a pole at the top of the hill to light the hillside. After a good snow, we’d go out to the hill and patiently wait while Dad made our coaster run. Slowly and intentionally he would move down the slope, rocking back and forth, creating a deep furrow and banking curves that would steer us clear of the pond to the far right at the base of the hill. Once the run was ready, we’d take turns flying down the hill under the our special light keeping the dark away. We older kids rode solo but the little ones rode down with Dad or even Mom sometimes. My mother has never really been the outdoorsy type, so to have her play with us was extra special.

Eventually it was time to go inside so one by one, we’d file into the house, stomping the snow from our boots. We were both cold and sweaty, our faces red from the cold. We’d peel off the many layers of clothing, kick off our boots and head upstairs in our stocking feet. I’d like to say we all carefully hung up our coats, hats, snow pants and mittens but I’m sure we left a big heap of wet clothes and bread bags on the floor left by the door. Sometimes, Mom would give us our jammies fresh from the dryer. I can still smell the clean freshness and feel the coziness of that warm flannel against my cold skin. It felt like love.

When my own children were in school, I would watch the television, to see if I could just let them sleep a bit longer and have a day “off the clock”. Living in Virginia

was much different than where I grew up. Days with snow on the ground were few and very far in between. Sometimes years would pass without so much as a good flurry. A couple of times I remember see the flurries in the air and hurrying to bundle the kids up so they could at least feel the flakes on their faces, or try to catch one on their tongues. A couple of inches of snow on the ground was a time for celebration, to dig out whatever warm clothes and boots I might have had for the kids (which at times was plastic bags over their sneakers) and go out into the cold to play in the snow while it lasted. The whole neighborhood would be out front, building snowmen and making snow angels. I tried so hard to pass on the legacy of fun in the snow, even if it was only for a few hours or in some cases, minutes.

But then, like today, all to quickly, as if a switch were thrown, the flurries have ended. Now it is sunny and bright. The pavement and deck are dry and except for my memory of a spontaneous flurry, the snow is gone. But in my mind’s eye, the hill is lit and the coaster run is ready for another flight down.

February 5, 2013

Second Class of Women

This month’s issue of the Rutgers Alumni Magazine arrived last week. As usual, I immediately flipped back to the class news section and was not surprised that Class of 1977 column was short and didn’t include any news about anyone I knew. I tossed the magazine on the coffee table so Dave could take a look at it before it went to the recycling pile. A couple of days later he asked me if I’d read the article about the first class of women at Rutgers. In my haste to move the mail along from the box to the bin, I’d totally overlooked the story. I decided to give it a read.

I already knew most of the information about that first year; that 40 years ago this fall that 600 women were admitted to the campus on the banks of the old Raritan into a population of almost 5,000 men and that Rutgers was the last non-military, all-male state school to go coed. The article described the peculiarities of the formerly all-male dorm bathrooms having the word “Men” on the doors as well as urinals on the walls, something I was aware of since they were still there the following fall when I arrived as well as some very colorful graffiti. (There was one memorable piece of art on the door of the middle stall on Brett 3rd floor involving a moose and a guy named Ferrell which now, as I think about it, I wonder why it wasn’t painted over before the women arrived.)

There were also things I did not know, such as the lack of female faculty members and the resistance on the part of male department heads to vote in favor of adding a gynecologist to the clinic staff feeling that female students could get the information they needed from their mothers! Amazing. It got me thinking about my first months at Rutgers College, just one year later.

Me, a few weeks into my freshman year taken by my friend, Marc Dolce.

This is me at eighteen, just a few weeks into my first semester at Rutgers College. I’d arrived the day after my 18th birthday and was very excited about the prospects of joining in on the second year of co-education and continuing the raid on the all-male bastion of education. But in the end, I found it to be not such a big deal. Yes, there were more men than women, but there were no visible signs of animosity or inequality. I guess any that had been there was addressed the previous year.

Yes, there were differences in my experience compared to those of my female counterparts at other schools. Yes, we had urinals on the walls of our bathrooms, which were very handy since for the most part, the bathrooms became coed after midnight. Yes, the graffiti in those former men’s rooms was bawdy. And yes, most definitely there were many more men on campus than women; probably five or six to one my freshman year. I never felt intimidated, threatened or afraid.

To be honest, that first year had all the romance and magic of a fairy tale complete with villains, witches and damsels in distress. I freely tested my limits and stretched my boundaries. One of my most famous personal test involved my tolerance for drinking beer; I apparently have none. Twice I found myself trying to keep up with my male friends, beer for beer with very unpleasant results earning me my nickname OBM – One Beer Monica. There are worse things to be called.

By the end of that first year I’d grown up a lot. I’d made some incredible friends and even met my true love. No other year in my time at Rutgers ever measured up to the first. The thrill of being as Alice in a Wonderland of streakers and toilet paper wars in the quad, round the clock frisbee throwing to gain fame in the Guinness Book of World Records, of attending a frat party on Halloween dressed as a cat in leotard and tights complete with a braided black yarn tail and headband tethered ears (which oddly enough turned out to be a bachelor party – not a Halloween party) to finding my prince after kissing many, many frogs. It was a marvelous year. I’m not sure what part my being a member of the second class of women played in the outcome of my life. Would I be so different today if I’d accepted my offer to attend Douglass College which at the time only admitted women? I don’t know. I can only say what is, and it is very good.