Officially Orthodox

I will have more to say - perhaps deeper thoughts, perhaps not - in the next few days, and I will also have pictures, but I wanted to post and tell you that at 6:25pm tonight, when the bells rang from St. George's Orthodox Church, we four were officially Orthodox Christians. We are confessed and Christmated, and now we will fast until after we have taken our first Communion tomorrow at Liturgy. Tonight the four of us stood in the dimly lit and gloriously golden church with our sponsors, took our saints' names, held our candles, prayed, were anointed with oil, and became Orthodox to the sound of the congregation singing God Grant You Many Years. To us: they sang to us. Of all the times we've sung that to others, this time we stood silent and our church family wished us many years of God's grace.

It's all unbelievable to me. God has brought us to this place - this blessed, holy place - and it is the greatest of gifts. I am more thankful - and on a very appropriate weekend, I'm sure - than I have ever been. For my 10 year old, who gently pushed his bangs out of the way to receive the oil on his forehead, for my seven year old who bravely stood up with all of us despite doing so being one of his greatest fears, and most of all for my Husband, who bowed his head and braved Confession, and radiated God's mercy and grace throughout all of the Christmation and Vespers service.

God bless and keep you all, friends. And parting on a humorous note, let me note for the record that, if you, too, become Orthodox, make sure you don't wear tights to your Christmation like I did. Why? Well, they anoint your feet, too, and tights make that kind of awkward.

Blessings, y'all. Many years ...

Church as Family

Today was the last day our church family will enjoy the presence of our Father Joseph at the altar; he is moving to another church - fortunately one still in town, so perhaps we will still see him and his family now and then. We missed church last week and so were unprepared for this; it wasn't until the end of the liturgy, when the church gave Father Joseph three rousing verses of God Grant You Many Years, and Father John our archpriest started to cry, that we realized what was up. As Husband and I wiped away a few tears of our own, I thought about the beauty of watching this family of ours eat together - or rather, take communion - each week. This Sunday we were up in the balcony: the perfect place to watch the throngs of people gather at the chalice (or chalices, in the case of our rather large church) each week. Some with babies in arms, others with arms crossed firmly across their bodies, they each tilt back their head a bit, bend a knee and receive Christ Himself each week. All from the same tiny spoon, and somehow there is always enough, even when the church is filled with people standing from one side to the other as it was today.

We are still in the midst of joining this family officially, although they have treated us as their own from the first. When we are one day down in the throng, waiting to be given that beautiful, holy food, I will miss - a little - the view from the balcony. The sight of the crowds of people, quietly and gracefully coming forth to taste and see Him, is a balm to my spirit. So have Christians gathered and ate together for so long, and in those moments all of them throughout the ages seem to be there with us, part of that family that will last beyond eternity.

"... Not unto judgment nor condemnation, be my partaking of thy Holy Mysteries, oh Lord, but unto the healing of soul and body. Amen." - St. John Chrysostom

Talking to the Mirror

My mother is in town, and listening to her is like listening to someone talking to the mirror. You know what I mean? Almost every sentence begins with "And then I said" or "So I told them", or some such variation. It's like she's being interviewed by Fox News in her head - a one-on-one hagiography about the life of an influential person. She is full of stories about her own importance in the world, and loves to recount how others come to her for wisdom - mostly of the Biblical and political variety - or how someone was so wrongheaded and she said just the right thing to put them in their place. The latter she calls "speaking the truth in love", but it more or less amounts to her spouting her opinion whether or not it makes sense or has any effect on the person she's speaking to, who might or might not be listening.

This trip she's mostly focused on the wisdom she brings to children - how my cousin and her husband are so grateful for all the wonderful things she teaches their younger son, how overwhelmingly happy her Sunday school students' parents are that she is "teaching their children to really be in the Word, and not just about religion", and so on and so forth. Most of this is a jab at me, as I am, of course, teaching my children "religion" by taking them to Orthodox church. Her dissertation this morning at the table (as I tried to work on the computer and drown out the sound of her voice with my typing) focused on all the Bible verses she's taught her students, and included a long speech on how they have all learned through her that the only wisdom that matters is is the Bible, and not in all those other books - I can only assume she means the books on the 9 large bookshelves in this house, since she owns none herself.

You would think that in some way, someone so completely focused on themself wouldn't be so tiring to be around. After all, all her energy is taken up in thinking about herself, and how can that be so demanding to listen to? But it is, oh, how it is! Holding the mirror in which she preens and talks to herself is a very exhausting job; if it fell to me to do it more than twice a year I don't think I could take it.

It will be over on Monday, and I will be fortified for the finish line on Sunday by the Liturgy at church. And then we'll move back to normal life, and she won't trouble us again until November. Thank God for small mercies, and 1500 miles of blessed distance.

I'll be there when the Bluebonnets Bloom

Or at least, right afterwards. HT to Robert Earl Keen, of course.

We made a Spring pilgrimage to Hill Country last weekend, stopping at the Wizard Academy and the Salt Lick in Driftwood, and then winding our way down to Wimberley. The day was perfect in the extreme; the weather was glorious and everyone just about behaved himself (or herself - yes, I was mostly good). We ended up in Luling, stopping at Bucee's before driving down I10 towards home. You can't go home without fudge.

Here are a few pictures of the wonderful day. More are at my Flickr page. Enjoy.

What we Know of Love

Debra Parker's post today: a must-read.

I have to confess, I haven't met Ernest or Debra. I've simply been captivated by their story of sacrifice, of love, of abandonment of all else to the goal to bring hope and love to one child. Does this story resonate with me more because I, too, dream of bringing a child home from a far-away place? Without a doubt. But it is a story of love, as Debra says, and as such it should resonate with all of us. A father eagerly seeking out his child is a story as old as -- well, as old as the Bible. And since all of us look (whether we know it or not) for a heavenly Father who seeks us when we are lost, so we can all look at Ernest's journey to Haiti and see ourselves.

My cup runneth over today, filled with hope and love - all because of the love I have seen others pour out on one another in the past weeks. God bless, y'all.

He is Coming Home

For the two of you who aren't following the story of Ernest and Debra Parker and their son Ronel even more closely than I, let me be the one to tell you:

Ernest and Ronel are coming home to Houston. Tonight.

Praise God!

In case you don't know what's happened, here is Debra's blog. And a quick summary:

The Parkers were working their way through the paperwork to adopt Ronel from Haiti when the earthquake struck. Unable to get Ronel out with other orphans who had been cleared to leave, Ernest flew to Haiti and camped in the US Embassy. Literally. On the floor of the lobby for over a week. Through the intercessory prayer of hundreds (if not thousands) of people, and the selfless work of Congressman Ted Poe and Senator John Cornyn, Ernest and Ronel flew to Miami on a military transport plane last night. Now they are through immigration, through the children's home that needed to check Ronel out, and the word is they will touch the blessed ground of Texas sometime tonight.

Miracles are beautiful things, aren't they?

"We, thy thankful and unworthy servants, praise and glorify thee, O Lord, for thy great benefits which we have received; we bless thee, we thank thee, we sing to thee and we magnify thy great goodness, and in lowliness and love we hymn thee: O Benefactor and Savior, glory to thee."

UPDATE, 10PM: Ernest and Ronel had a race for their flight, but they made it and flew to Houston tonight in first class. Welcome home to Texas, wonderful Parkers. Thank you for letting us participate in your adventure ... and your miracle. God bless you and keep you well, now and evermore.

Overthinking School, Bus Accidents, and Other Thrilling Moments in Parenting

And so back to our regularly-scheduled examination of my navel, or, more accurately, an update on how I am doing micro-managing the lives of my overly-blessed and overly-mothered children.

Ahem.

The school dilemma got more complicated yesterday, folks. Well, the decision to move the boys got easier, but I don't want to rely on what happened yesterday as grounds to make the decision, so then again it didn't. Get easier, that is.

Allow me to 'splain.

Yesterday in the mail we received One's packet from private school with details on his upcoming field trip. We've known this trip was coming since we enrolled him two years ago, but somehow seeing the package with our first bits of information freaked me out completely. Details are pretty much as follows:

• Two day bus trip there and back again, totalling 2400 miles.
• Ten days away from home.
• Gone over a holiday weekend for which we already have excellent and fun family plans involving close relatives not seen in almost two years.
• No identification of parent chaperones - just the names of the two teachers
  accompanying the children.
• Three pages of rules, including gems such as "keep feet on the floor of the bus" (for 48 hours?!), "be gracious to everyone", "no snacks unless you have eaten something from every food group that day", "maintain quiet conversation in vehicles", and "stay in sight of the adults at all times".
• A $1700 fee on top of tuition.

Hmm. Well, let's start with the bus company. One fatal accident in the past ten years, in the same state as One's destination. I saw the pictures of the bus on the NTSB website, showing how it ended up 1/3 shorter than it began - nightmarish. Then, the rules: he doesn't follow any of these particular rules at home, and I'm not sure how he's going to pick them up on this trip. And, the fee: did I mention we're already behind in tuition payments for this year? And that this "switch to public school" discussion arose not our of a dissatisfaction with our private school but out of financial concerns? I thought so.

Despite all this, I don't want to use this trip as the straw that breaks my camel's back. Why? Because if it's going to happen I want the school switch to be about positive reasons and not about "mommy is too frightened to be without her 'ittle sweet baby for a week." Because part of me is, and if I use this as part of the decision, I know it will be unhealthy for both One and me.

So if we move the boys, and anyone asks, remember: the move had nothing to do with this trip. I promise.

If I have to pray for weeks solid to make that a true statement, I will. I promise.

The Big Birthday

Husband is now officially 40. He has slept his first night as a 40 year old, and the news is as old and stale as a three day old baguette. I avoided blogging about his birthday over the weekend, since we were actually having his birthday, for real, and I preferred to participate in it. Even writing as little and as poorly as I do, there's something about writing about an event (especially as it happens) that turns you into a total spectator and not a participant. It's like being the one with the video camera at the birthday party: you can't help your child blow out his candles with that thing pasted to your face.

So the day was filled with peace and harmony, presents and food. The most amazing man I've ever met is officially a year older, and I love him 20 times more than I did when I met him 20 years ago. Life is good.

May God grant you many years, my dear one. I love you.

A Prayer for the Johnsons and for all Families

"O God, our Father, bind together in Thine all-embracing love every family on earth. Banish anger and bitterness within our homes; nourish forgiveness and peace. Bestow upon parents such wisdom and patience that they may gently exercise the disciplines of love, and call forth from their children their greatest virtue and highest skill. Instill in children such independence and self-respect that they may freely obey their parents and grow in the joys of companionship. Open hearts to hear the truth within the words another one speaks. Open eyes to see the example of virtuous parents; open hearts to complete forgiveness and understanding of all things willed by Thee, O Creator and Sustainer of families."

--- St. Augustine

www.axisofbeebles.blogspot.com

To My Birth-Mother

Hi. Well, I guess that 39 years ago you had one hell of a day. I just wanted to say "hey" and "I love you" and "thanks". Mostly thanks for doing the hard thing, and not finding a doctor who was sypathetic enough to your college-student self to help you get an abortion. Thanks for walking around campus for all those months, hiding under a coat and still having people stare. Thanks for the lost friends, the disapproving aunts, the fights with your parents. Whatever it was you went through, I'm sure it sucked. And so, thanks. Thanks for knowing I was a person even before you heard my heartbeat or felt me move inside you.

I pray that God has blessed you for what you did. I hope that you changed other's minds about life because of your courage. And selfishly, I'd like to think that you'll never forget me.

Thanks always. And I'll never forget you - I promise.

This Makes Me Cry

It really does. Even though I'm supposed to know that many young adults view sex as nothing more than a physical itch to be scratched, it makes me so sad nonetheless. How can it not?

"At 25, May Wilkerson would like a relationship, but not a family — not quite yet. She's lived a lot of places: Argentina, Canada and Paris. Wilkerson says she hasn't found much intimacy with the men she's encountered. ... 'For many of us, the requisite vulnerability and exposure that comes from being really intimate with someone in a committed sense is kind of threatening.' And the thought of being in love with someone, Wilkerson says, 'is the most terrifying thing.' Yes, she has been in love, but the guy wasn't quite into it. There was one older guy who was serious; he used to bring her cupcakes. She couldn't work up an interest in him."

Who raised this poor child? Who taught her what her goals should be for her life? I'm not suggesting that a young woman's only goal should be family and marriage (I was married in the middle of law school and have worked almost every moment since as an attorney, for heaven's sake) but who on earth failed to explain to her that this kind of attitude is almost as self-destructive as developing a coke habit?

Parenting is hard. We all know that. But these are some of the most important lessons we can teach as parents. It matters not whether you are raising your children in a religious tradition or not; teaching your kids how to form healthy relationships, especially one that will lead to marriage and a family, is a lesson that every parent should want to focus on. In the end, what are you really offering your kids, if you don't teach them how to connect in a real way with others?

HT: Instapundit

55 Years

This afternoon we went to celebrate the 55th wedding anniversary of some of our oldest friends in Houston. We had perfect weather (73 and sun - no joke!), a perfect setting in the backyard of their country home, good food, mariachis, and many, many happy people.

Happy Anniversary, Nana and Popo. We love you very much.

The Dad Interview

I stole this from Nicole at Here's the Diehl, and boy was it fun!

1. What is something dad always says to you?
One – Hmmm. “To the moon, Alice, to the moon!” – whenever I ask where we’re going to eat
Two – MOOOOOOOOOSE!

2. What makes dad happy?
One – Good food and being with us
Two – I’m trying to guess here. Us being here

3. What makes dad sad?
One – Having to work too much and not getting to see us
Two – When we’re not here

4. How does your dad make you laugh?
One – Tickling and jokes
Two – When he’s tickling me

5. What was your dad like as a child?
One – Bullied by his brother
Two –Um. A baby

6. How old is your dad?
One – 40 this year
Two - 29

7. How tall is your dad?
One – 5’10 or 11
Two – From here to here (up on the bed with his hands over his head)

8. What is his favorite thing to do?
One – Be with us
Two – Stay home

9. What does your dad do when you’re not around?
One – I don’t know because we’re not around (He is sooooo pedantic sometimes!)
Two – I don’t know. Eats maybe, I should say

10. If your dad becomes famous, what will it be for?
One – I don’t know
Two – That’s a hard one

11. What is your dad really good at?
One – Being funny
Two – Basketball

12. What is your dad not very good at?
One – At faking he’s sad
Two – That’s the hardest one of all

13. What does your dad do for his job?
One – He’s a lawyer. He argues (I love this answer)
Two – Works

14. What is your dad’s favorite food?
One – I can say Mexican, probably, but that’s only an educated guess
Two – Hot Italian

15. What makes you proud of your dad?
One – He’s such a good dad
Two – When he’s crazy (non-responsive?)

16. If your dad were a cartoon character, who would he be?
One – Snaggletooth
Two – Race Bannon

17. What do you and your dad do together?
One – Oh, play, joke, hang out
Two – Play

18. How are you and your dad the same?
One – Hmmm. I don’t really know
Two – Our skin is the same color

19. How are you and your dad different?
One – He’s older than me
Two – Because our hair – his is black and mine is gold-ish blond and long

20. How do you know your dad loves you?
One – He says so
Two – He hugs me

21. Where is your dad’s favorite place to go?
One – I’ve never asked him
Two – I think Schlitterbahns (Oh really? At least neither of them said Buc-ee's)

22. What is your dad’s favorite song?
One – Our House by Madness
Two – I don’t know because he turns on different music all the time

The Boy Scout

In 1950, my father travelled by train to Valley Forge, PA to attend the 2nd National Boy Scout Jamboree. He started up in the Adirondack Park, in his tiny hometown, and travelled through NYC and on to PA. He remembers unloading everything from the train and starting the walk to the campground - when they got there there were more boys than he could have imagined in one place. He and his friends stayed the entire Jamboree - the food was great, he heard President Truman and General Eisenhower speak, and - most special of all - there was a tent with a tiny television, the first TV my father had ever seen.

To him, PA was far away from home, and although he was 12 years old, he was a little homesick. He was glad to get home again, although he claims his mother was a little disappointed he'd found his way back. ;) He didn't know at the time that this was an historic event, one that would turn into a nationwide tradition running over 50 years. For him it was an intensly personal event, a time when a not-so-big boy stepped out on his own and did something he never thought he could do. It was this trip that started him down the road to a much bigger one - to the Air Force and Korea, Japan, and all over the US.

When I talked to my dad about this Jamboree, his voice was full of wonder; the trip was very clear in his mind, and I could hear his enjoyment of it as he spoke. He hadn't thought about it in years, but as we talked I could see him in the dusty tent, staring in amazement at TV, and under the stars at his campsite, talking with friends into the night. I love those pictures he shared with me; now they are mine as well as his.

Michael Kelly on Happiness

Michael Kelly, who was one of my favorite writers of all time, once wrote this on happy families:

"Tolstoy wrote in Anna Karenina one of the great founding untruths of the intellectual age, 'Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.' This was exactly, entirely wrong. Happy families are all idiosyncratic, each with its own unduplicatable history, each with its own cherished oddities. Very nearly every unhappy family is very much alike, the same tedious, awful story of selfishness and dead love and the destruction wrought by the fall of one of another family member into the grip of one or another vice.

Reject Tolstoy and all his minions. Look around the table on Christmas night, or as you light the menorah, and regard your doddering parents and your annoying siblings and your dotty aunt and your insufferable uncle and your cousin the schnorrer and your nephew the nose-ringed, and rejoice in your magnificent wealth."

Amen.

Therapy Much?

My mother in law came to visit yesterday:

MIL: "Why don't you have Oscar put to sleep? Then I can buy the boys a puppy for Christmas."

We're all very grateful I wasn't in the house at the time. If I had been I'd be writing this on the wall of the county jail with a pencil stub.

Can we move and not leave a forwarding address? She called four times yesterday and came by twice. Once she called my cell phone immediately after Husband told her I was upstairs taking a nap. Who does this kind of stuff? And what kind of nuts put up with it?

I spent 16 years estranged from my father and 4 years not speaking to my mother - I think it's time we tried that tactic on the other side of the family...

The Island of Bob

I had a report from my dad and step-mom this AM. They live on the central Atlantic Florida coast and were hammered by Tropical Storm Fay. Dad described the water in the street and surrounding the house as "rivers". The streets had at least 15" of water in them, their retention pond backed up and poured water into the subdivision - the only thing that saved their house was my dad's foresight to have the house built up above the then-current floodplain. With the house surrounded on all 4 sides by water (hence Bob Island), they just stayed put and hoped for the best. Thankfully it all worked out and nothing flooded. But they're as shell-shocked as we Houstonians were after Alison - he kept repeating "the rain just kept coming" when I talked to him today. They've sat out 2 hurricanes so far, but this has been the worst weather experience they've had. Thank God everything is okay.

Anyone have Florida Fay stories to share?