i are a writer.

- ahem -

2010-02-13T18:25:00.003-05:00

Tap, tap, tap? Is this thing on? Stay tuned, folks. I find that I'm more sane when I force myself to write. And now since I am on the brink of something certainly not sane, I reckon I should stretch the ole blogger muscle once again.

What's the Opposite of Teflon?

2009-04-01T22:55:00.007-04:00

I buried PC this week. She was My Favorite Old Person. I wrote about her here and I think somewhere else on this blog, though I can't find where. I have also written about her on napkins and post-its and over there in that notebook. She was tough as nails, but she had a soft underbelly, too. Spending time with her was easy and always fodder for a good story.

One of the last times I saw her she asked after my love life: “Does he see you?” She said. “Really, really see you?” One of the best, most insightful questions ever, right? I told her that I think he does see me, and she smirked a little and gave me a highfive. Whether or not it should have, her approval mattered to me.

She passed over a Doral 100 for me to light for her, and then she randomly told me about her boyfriend from her freshman year in college. He seemed nice enough then, but now he's a registered sex offender. She wasn’t exactly proud: “He didn’t see me anyway. What an asshole.” She smoked that cigarette right down to the filter. She lit the next one herself.

At her funeral, I was very transparent: “In the interest of full disclosure, [all twelve of] you should know that visiting her was my weekly excuse to leave the office for hours and hours at a time. I’ll miss her for one million reasons.” Then I told a story about peas and Jesus and I thought about how glad I was that only three of us saw her in that hospital bed—bloated, yellow, and knocked out. The nurse took off her glasses, I brushed her hair, her brother felt awkward because I touched his dead sister, and then I left. That was ten days ago, and I have had a lump in my throat ever since. Any minute it’ll subside. Time sometimes helps.

When I became a priest I thought that the day-in/day-out of Other People’s Vulnerability would somehow toughen me up—make me strong—make me a rock. And, I guess, in many ways I am strong, I am rock. But the truth is that when I became a priest I did not receive the Teflon Cassock. And as it turns out, it’s not about being tough and hard like I thought… If anything, I have become more sensitive, more open, more soft. I mean, just watching people exchange the peace makes me tear up with joy. Presiding over the Eucharist still gives me chills. I touch people’s faces now. When I pray with people, I whisper in their ears and cry in their hair. Our knees touch. I see babies and (aside from the fact that my womb sometimes leaps with instinct) I cry. I see the sun reflect off a building a certain way and I get teary. I am quicker to hug, quicker to cry, and quicker to love in oooey gooey ways that I used to think gross and vulnerable and unnecessary. I have become more earnest, more sincere, more weepy.

Sometimes I wonder what it’s about—all of my girlish sensitivities. I think maybe I’ve always been this way, and something about being priestipants has just given me permission to roll over and let God scratch my belly. Like being more vulnerable and open—being upside-down and belly-up—somehow makes me more intuitive, more present, and even maybe a better pastor.

Or maybe not. But that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. Nonetheless, it are where I are.

Okay, to be clear: I am still really effing funny. My laugh is still way too loud and I still find joy in the small stuff (or at least I still try to). I still like plastic dinosaurs and bubbles and the smell of crayons. I still say really insensitive and inappropriate things sometimes. And I can still kick your ass in four square and I can still hold my own in a tough meeting. But I have lost a little of my edge. Rubbing up against me might not bleed like it used to. And, generally speaking, I believe that less bloodshed is a good thing.

Anyway. We were talking about Ole PC. My Favorite Old Person. Tough as nails with a surprise soft underbelly. Always fodder for a good story. She taught me over half of everything I’ll ever need to know. (A rough estimate.)

I think I’ll miss the end of our visits most of all. After she smoked six to ten cigarettes, dropped a couple eff bombs, passed out some unsolicited advice, and maybe even a fart or two, I’d wrap that hand stitched teal blue prayer shawl around her and ask God to protect her and keep her safe and pain free, clear-minded and open-hearted…When I would ask God to heal her and make her whole, she’d cry too. Big, fat softball tears. Not of pain, but of goodness and closeness to God.

Here’s to her. TBTG.

It's April.

2009-04-01T09:32:00.004-04:00

Would you believe me if I told you that I am actually working on not one but TWO things to say on this here blog. Maybe the coming of spring is the kick in the butt my father's been waiting for to get me writing something down again. I don't know what Dad does all day when I haven't published anything for him to read.

Anyway. Happy April. I wrote a sermon. You can see it by clicking over there, or right here if that's too much for you.

It's my [insert quote fingers] Lucky Day!

2009-03-17T15:27:00.005-04:00

Whereabouts? Interstate 75, Southbound between the Moores Mill and Howell Mill exits. I am travelling one exit down to meet a parishioner for a delicious pasta lunch.

When? Today.

What Happened?! I got pulled over by Georgia State Patrol and acted like an idiot. Here’s how it went down.

Patrol Guy: “It's your lucky day! Happy St. Patrick’s Day, ma’am.”
Me: “Hello, sir.”
PG: “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Me: “I’m going to guess between 70 and 75?”
PG: “So you know you were speeding?”
Me: “……….”
PG: “Ma’am. Do you know what the speed limit is on this stretch of interstate, ma’am?”
Me: “65.”
PG: “Guess again, ma’am.”
Me: “70.”
PG: “Ma’am, guess again.”
Me: “……….”
PG: “55 miles per hour, ma’am.”
Me: “Oh, well I was speeding.”

[License and stuff is handed off. Maybe it was because he kept calling me ma'am, but I’m trying really, really hard not to laugh.]

PG: “Ma’am? Where are you going?”
Me: “To meet a member of my parish for lunch.”
PG: “…………”
Me: [Doing that thing I do where I have to keep explaining so I may be fully understood, even if it is ridiculous and I’m shooting myself in the foot.] “Because I'm a priest. And sometimes my parishioners want to take me to lunch. We're going to Figo for pasta."
PG: “Well! A [insert quote fingers] priest! That’s an excuse I don’t hear everyday! I’ll be right back.”

So, he goes to his patrol car to process all my stuff. And instead of being concerned with the speeding ticket I’m about to get, I’m now obsessing over THE QUOTE FINGERS. I mean, really. Was that necessary? And an excuse?! Are you kidding me? Did he think I was making it up?! DID I MENTION THE QUOTE FINGERS?

He returns.

PG: “Well, Ms. Porter. Since you were so creative, I’m going to let this one slide.”
Me: “But, sir. I really am a priest. See?” [I point to my collar.]
PG: “Okeedokee!”

Did he just say OKEEDOKEE?

Me: “I mean, thank you and all. But really, I’m a priest.”
PG: “Alright ma’am. Why don’t you just let this one go before I decide to change my mind.”
Me: “Good call. Thank you.”
PG: "Be safe out there, [insert quote fingers] Rev."
Me: "[insert quote fingers] Okeedokee!"

And there you have it.

On Turning Toast Into Manna: The healing power of my parents.

2009-03-10T19:55:00.003-04:00

When we were kids, my mom made the best. cinnamon. toast. ever. As an adult, I know that the secret was butter. But she could intuit the perfect amount of cinnamon and sugar, too. And it was always on white bread. And it was always—always—crunchy and crispy along the edges and kinda floppy in the middle. I have tried to recreate it and I can’t, no matter how hard I try. I think she has the ability to turn toast into manna. I’m just sayin.

To keep our bones healthy, she sliced Monterey Jack Cheese as a side dish. To this day I can’t even taste cinnamon without experiencing a severe jack cheese craving.

My dad makes the perfect scrambled egg sammich, but I never wanted that for breakfast, because it’s clearly late lunch/early supper/late-night-snack fare. It’s also, when paired with ginger ale or a can of sprite, the perfect Healing Food. Toast the bread, scramble the eggs, apply an almost undetectable layer of mayonnaise to one piece of toast, assemble sammich, and slice on the diagonal. Because everyone knows that triangles taste better than rectangles. Regular stuff, but when my dad does it, I swear to God it changes into magic food made with fairy dust or Jesus powder or something.

I’ve been home sick today, napping out a fever on the couch and snuggling with the pups. Mom came by this morning with all kinds of goodies. Drugs, mainly. And little cans of ginger ale. And though I can’t stomach the thought of eating anything, I had fever dreams about cinnamon and mayonnaise. I reckon there are some things we never, ever grow out of.

Oh, good. Back-to-back episodes of House are on now. Something to do.

Sail Away With Me To Another World...

2009-03-03T09:41:00.015-05:00

Raisin and I were sitting in a booth in the smoking section racking our brains for the lyrics to any given Boys II Men song. Please don’t ask why. I can’t give you a coherent answer.

But this exercise, as futile as it may seem, led to one of our Best Song Lists Ever (and we've created some pretty good song lists). I won’t offer you the entire playlist, just because it’s very, very long, but I will give you a healthy dollup of our genius.

Here it is. The Cheesiest Freaking Lovie Dovie Songs That We Could Think Of:

(This list is not official, nor exhaustive. In no particular order.)

Saving All My Love For You--Whitney Houston
I'll Make Love To You--by the ones who started it all, Boys II Men
Islands in the Stream--Kenny & Dolly

Power of Two--Indigo Girls

(They Long to Be) Close to You--The Carpenters

Afternoon Delight--Starland Vocal Band (Who? I totally had to look up that one.)

In Your Eyes--Peter Gabriel

Crazy for You--Madonna (We're pretty sure this video featured marine life.)

Baby, Baby--Amy Grant

How Can I Live Without You--Trisha Yearwood

Take My Breath Away:

Sexual Healing--Marvin Gaye
You're the Inspiration--Chicago

Glory of Love--Peter Cetera

Even the Nights Are Better--These Guys:

The Only One For Me--Brian McKnight (This song is perpetually stuck in my head.)

Open Arms--Journey

Can't Fight This Feeling--REO Speedwagon

Don't Know Much--Linda Ronstadt & Aaron Neville

Tonight, I Celebrate My Love--Peabo Bryson & Roberta Flack!

What's your cheesiest freaking lovie dovie?

Smells Like Spring To Me.

2009-03-03T08:58:00.011-05:00

I was out of town when this alleged "blizzard" blew through Atlanta. As Cato and I ventured our way across Alabama and into Georgia yesterday, we sent biting text messages to friends and family accusing them of lies--all lies--because other than the occasional patch of dirty white ice, there was no evidence that less than 24 hours before there were snowflakes falling the size of your thigh.

Not to mention that the daffodils in my yard look perkier than ever.

I'm just sayin.

So, in honor of pending Spring, I'd like to post pictures of Bananapants that I took a couple weeks ago when I opened the windows.

Snugglipreciouspoops, right?

In Honor of This Blog Turning One, Post Titles Now Get To Be Longer Than One Word. (It's like my reward to myself.)

2009-02-23T20:54:00.008-05:00

Hi. As of tomorrow I have been maintaining (kinda) this here blog for one year. In honor of this Little Known, I have apparently decided to just not post anything at all for almost an entire month. No excuses other than life is weird and wonderful and horrible and difficult and sometimes writing something down for all the world to see is just too daunting and vulnerable for even the nuttiest of us.

So, anyway. The Online Crack Community has been INFECTED with a RASH of this Tell and Tag thing where people keep writing 25 Things about themselves, and then they tag, like, freaking all of their friends to do the same. It sounds innocent enough, but OH MY GOD, there was a period there there where I was tagged ONE MILLION times a day to write these freaking twenty-five things.

Well, I did it. (I like lists.) But instead of posting it to the Online Crack Community, I'm posting it here, and I ain't tagging a single one of yous. (Though you're all welcome to share your 25 with me privately or even in the comment section, if you so desire.)

Here are 25 Random Things About Me. Cute, huh?

1. I do not like moths or olives.
2. Turning 30 didn’t hurt.
3. My dogs make me a better person.
4. Hymn 382 from the 1982 Hymnal is the one song of which I shall never grow weary.
5. But I can’t hear the first six notes of the Beatles song “In My Life” without tearing up immediately.
6. I love bacon.
7. Expensive jewelry makes me nervous.
8. I love the way a room smells after someone has dried her or his hair.
9. The New Yorker is perhaps my single greatest indulgence.
10. Oh, I will always splurge on the nice, soft, slightly more expensive toilet paper.
11. I don’t think I’m as smart as you think I am.
12. Sometimes, in the midst of a really tight, solid liturgy, I can feel God smiling. For real.
13. I can’t get to sleep unless I’m wearing nine layers of chapstick.
14. I love whiskey.
15. Sometimes I speak in great hyperbole.
16. Maybe I have a green thumb. I wish I had the motivation to try having a green thumb.
17. I heart New York.
18. I love severe weather.
19. I do not return phone calls with any degree of regularity. This is my worst trait and habit, and I am sorry.
20. I am a priest. And the sacrament of Holy Baptism is why.
21. I am certain that fried goat cheese is a main course in heaven.
22. I am also certain that you’ll be there. Because God loves you more than you can even begin to imagine.
23. I usually cheat when I do crossword puzzles.
24. As long as the United States Postal Service keeps delivering snail mail, I will never not have something to look forward to.
25. Singing in a loud voice might be my favorite way to pass the time.

tardy

2009-02-03T18:31:00.005-05:00

I used to show up thirty seconds before the Tall Professor entered the room, throw my books down, and sprint to the coke machine for a Dr. Pepper. Because of this habit, I was always, always, always at least a half-minute late to class. And the truth is that I felt like I could get away with it, because I knew that he liked me. Also, I was too stoopid to realize that he actually noticed.

One day, he locked me out.

I've locked myself out of my own blog lately. Let's just say that the proverbial trip to the coke machine has been full of detours.

I just now--like, seriously, five minutes ago--started a post about Turning Thirty. It'll be posted before long.

Thanks for staying tuned.

finally!

2009-01-20T08:26:00.006-05:00

I haven't given myself time to blog about What's Happening In The World Today. So, I'll just send you here for now. If you're interested. It pretty much sums it up.

Everything's different now. I'm actually kinda speechless. Other than:

Holy crap. This is the best. day. ever.

Hope made tangible. Remember when I found this balloon on Election Night?

I believe it.

80th

2009-01-19T09:04:00.002-05:00

"Returning violence for violence multiplies violence,

adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars...

Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

~mlk, jr.

Happy Birthday, Martin. Thank God for you.

Spot

2009-01-13T18:07:00.004-05:00

"Hot Spot" is the catch-all term for a skin irritation that's been mauled by the scratches of its inhabitant. It's also the name of a pizza place on 8th Avenue in New York City where a cheese slice is a buck oh five. Nanapants has the former kind of Hot Spot on the top of her head. Its origins are probably that of bug bite or stick scratch, but it no longer resembles either. Instead it actually looks like a crusty piece pepperoni.

We went to the vet today to have the area clipped and treated. We're now on one million dollars worth of steroids and antibiotics, and we get to wear a beautiful crown for the next four to five days.

Needlesstosay, we're acting a little pathetic (and speaking in the third person, apparently):

Not so pathetic that Sally gets a day off from buggerdom:

Man, my dogs are cute.

Camp

2009-01-10T18:14:00.003-05:00

Fourteen years ago this weekend, I was at Camp as a part of a peer leadership team putting on a retreat for all the other Episcopalian teenagers in the universe. A friend of mine on the team borrowed a sheet of paper from my journal, found a poem I wrote, took it to a priest, and then there was an intervention.

They thought I was suicidal. Great.

So there I sat, face-to-face with two priests and two friends trying to figure it all out. I knew I loved my life and in no way wanted to kill myself, but these four people with whom I trusted, in fact, my life, were telling me that I wanted to die. I was so confused that I said nothing. I just cried, because that’s what I do when I feel misunderstood. And with every tear that met the collar of my shirt, they became more and more convinced that I was suicidal. The other approach was to tell me that it was inappropriate for me to write such depressing stuff if I’m not really depressed. God, that was humiliating.

Oh, and while I was being intervened upon, there was a dance happening two hundred feet away. I was missing a prime opportunity to stand off to the side and cast judgment.

I don’t remember how the intervention ended, but clearly I survived it. And I don’t think anyone ever told my parents (hi, Dad!); lord only knows what would have happened if they had. But I do know that to this day whenever I encounter any of them, I still feel a tish embarrassed and misunderstood. I was trying depression on for size, but I certainly didn’t take it home. Teenagers get to experiment. That’s all I was doing. But at the time I didn't have the words for it, and they had a responsiblity. To keep me safe. Apparently from myself. Geeeeeez.

Dang, I wish I could find that poem. (I bet it was just awful.)

I actually dreamt about that night not too long ago, and when I woke up I carefully journaled about it. Thank God I got over my Dark Adolescent Poetry Phase. (Most of us do.) Now if I lift a pen to write a poem it has a better chance of being about pork chops or pirates rather than pain or peril.

I’ve been back to Camp dozens of times since that weekend for a variety of other reasons. It has seen me at every phase of my life since I was twelve-years-old, and I’ve gotta tell you that other than my parents’ kitchen, there is no other place in the world closer to home.

It was at Camp that I first discerned a call to ordained life. It was at Camp that Christian Community finally made sense to me. It was at Camp that I found myself believing that God loves me more than I could ever ask or imagine. Camp taught me that I’m worth it.

And now it’s a part of my job to go to Camp. It’s also my job to love up teenagers. I love that I have the opportunity to walk with them through their drama and read their bad poetry. I like to think that I can discern from the depression experiments and depression realities, the tears of pain and the tears of frustration and misunderstanding. Teenagers are real with me (generally) because I’m real with them (generally), and at the end of the day it’s an honor to be let into their lives. Also, as long as it's my job, I can still get away with making poop jokes. So, that’s awesome.

Right this moment, I am a chaperone and leader at the exact same retreat as that weekend so many years ago. I’m actually in the intervention room, because it’s the only room with internet access. It still smells the same in here. The dance is in three hours. I’ll be there this time. But instead of crying or standing off to the side and passing judgment, I’ll be impressing them all by knowing every word to “It’s The End of the World as We Know It.” And, y’all, I feel fine.

Epiphanies

2009-01-07T12:36:00.005-05:00

Yesterday was the Feast of the Epiphany. We tell the story of the Magi—three wise men who were sent out by an evil dude to find Baby Jesus. They were astrologers, truly, and they literally traced the stars (or, as the story tells it, a star) to the new baby’s barn-of-a-birthplace. (Next time you leave a door open and someone asks you if you were born in a barn, say something snarky about how it was good enough for Jebus.) The wise men were so struck by the big power of the little boy, so struck by his divinity, so struck by his already-grace, that they gave him fancy presents. Then they went home by another way, so as to avoid the evil dude who sent them on the recognizance mission in the first place.

I like to think they were converted. By a baby. By a surprise. By a miracle. Epiphany.

In other news, things suck. The economic crisis is doing a number from the second act of Stomp on budget around here. Anxiety is raining down in a storm of shit. Morale is in the pooper. In my very humble opinion, there’s very little Gospel Work getting done, because the opposite of Gospel is Fear and Hopeless, and that’s the crap that’s being hurled at us. Speaking of crap, my stomach’s in knots. Even though fear mongering is far from my personal default, even though I try to be a person of Light and Hope, my stomach is telling me to be very, very afraid. I wonder if the pie and bourbon I’m craving at ten o’clock in the morning would make it better or worse…

But I can tell you what does help: Old People. I got to go to the retirement community across the way yesterday to preside over their weekly “vespers” service. I decided to do it up Epiphany Style. I even brought in a gold star the size of my hand made out of cardboard and stuck it to the wall.

We sang “In The Garden” and “O Come All Ye Faithful.” I prayed the collect for Epiphany with all the thees and thys (Old People love the thees and thys), and I read from Matthew’s Gospel. Every time there was a break in the service, I heard whispers:

“Where’s she from again?!”

“She’s so cute!”

“I can hear this one!”

“I don’t see a weddin’ band!”

They did get quiet when I started talking about spiders. See, at homily time, I told a story from my freshman year in college when I drew a spider in response to the Tall Professor’s assignment to “draw God.” I was being a punk when I drew that spider, because I thought the assignment was stupid. But Tall Professor put this almost embarrassingly beautiful spin on how God shows up sometimes like a spider—seemingly small and insignificant, but present and useful all at the same time, dropping in on us when we least expect it, usually harmless but freaks people out, etc. etc.

I was very adorable and charming as I told the story.

And then I told a story about ole PC who I visited on Monday. She essentially reminded me to count my freaking blessings, dammit: “I’ve stopped waiting for God to show up. I go lookin’ for him…sometimes God shows up no bigger than the size of a pea,” she told me. I cried and concurred.

Well, the Old People ate it up. And then this Grace Thing happened where I actually started to believe what I was saying. God is freaking everywhere. Like peas and spiders. And God is as consistent as the stars that led the Wise Men to Jesus, always present, unmoved, beautiful.

So. I’ll keep you posted. The truth is that I may very well be out of fulltime work very, very soon, so I’ll have plenty of time to sit still, spend no money, and bore Bloggerdom with my crazy antics. In the meantime, while I wait to see how all this pans out, I know this much is true:

God is Good. All the time. Even when I suck, God is Good. AND I believe that my faith in that—along with a remarkably strong community of family and friends and doggies and colleagues—will see me through, no matter what.

A friend of mine said something about miracles in an email yesterday, and it got me wondering if miracles are really possible. At this minute, I happen to think they are. When we, like PC, go looking for miracles, we can find them. I think. I’m going to start trying anyway. See what happens. After all, I preach miracles all the time. And when there’s someone in my office, and I’m holding her hands, and I’m telling her that God loves her more than she could ever ask or imagine, I might be inclined to tell her God can make something out of nothing. Isn’t that all a miracle is anyway? God making something out of nothing?

Following that star, hunting for spiders, finding peas on the ground. These things shall distract me from the anxiety, pain, and fear. And maybe, in the meantime, I’ll stumble on a little piece of divinity.

+

ripped

2009-01-04T19:29:00.004-05:00

Remember back in June when Nanas and Sal got the Awful Puppy Poos & Vomicks after eating ROTTEN FREAKING KITTY POOP? Well, that hasn't happened since. But that very same week back in June, Sal ripped her wonkified toenail. And guess what? She did it again. It sounded like this:

"MMMMMMMMFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW!"

This time it happened on a Saturday, so the vet was closed. But we found our way to Puppy Tequila and Nail Removal anyway. (Mad props to the Sandy Springs ER for Non-people who handled my Sallianne quickly, with great care.)

These pictures sum up their weekend, post emergency room and tequila. (Bananapants hasn't been drinking. She's just a child. She can be seen here in her natural state, drowsy on the back of the sofa.)

Clusterjoy

2008-12-31T10:36:00.005-05:00

‘Tis the season of The Inventory. Here’s my Top 11 things of 2008. And by “top” I mean, random pieces of funnery that I’ve enjoyed. Warning: This list may fall into the category of Way Too Much Useless Crap About Wendy. But I don’t care. It’s fun for me.

Without further adieu, and in no particular order, I present I Are A Writer’s Clusterjoy List of 2008.

11. My ipod, Trevor. Bless his little reset feature, that little guy has resurrected himself so many times this year that his middle name, Lazarus, finally makes sense to my friends and family. Trevor Lazarus Feildingsternblat Porter, my old friend, you’ve lasted another year. Hang in there, little buddy.

10. Fruit. First of all, I have reignited my love for The Clementine this year. This delightful, Spanish citrus is easy to peel, low in acidity, and three of them make for the perfect breakfast. There are two on my desk right now. And “Clementine” is the blog name for my sister-in-law. She’s one of my All Time Favorites. (See #6.)

Also: The Honeycrisp Apple. After a trip to a big ole apple orchard in North Carolina this fall, I remembered how delicious apples are. The Honeycrisp has become my all time favorite, but be warned: Don’t wiki it. It’s such a cultivated hybrid of a fruit, that I had to stop eating them for a week—long enough to stop thinking about how made up it is.

9. Fire. Christmas 2007, Blazer and Clementine gave me a fire pit. Not only does this finally give Raisin something to do when she comes to my house (lesbians love to build fires, apparently; and pack coolers), but it keeps us outside even during those bitter cold Georgia evenings. If you know what I mean.

8. Kids4Peace. This program changed my life. I blogged about it over there.

7. Cake. I have had plenty of clusterjoyed cake in 2008.

6. Brothers & Sister. When baby Jesus moved me back to Atlanta, I had no idea how friggin blessed I’d be to be back around my family. Particularly, those stupid brilliant brothers of mine. AND I got a sister-in-law this year. Like me, she’s always had to rely on her friendships with women to fill that ever-important sister role. Now we get to be stuck with each other. I heart her.

5. Front Desk Volunteers. Okay, so every parish priest I know has a tale to tell about the volunteers at their church, particularly those who answer the phones. I am no exception, my friends. Let me tell you—Big D and Polly P have easily become two of my Favorite Examples of Clusterjoy EVER. Big D is loud and pottymouthed, charming and a little ridiculous. He calls people things like, “Jinglebrains” and “Hippo-ass.” And he always saves me the crossword puzzle. (See #3.)

Polly P brings me pie. Also, she’s 146 years old, her scarf always matches her bag, and she can do a perfect split. I’m not even kidding.

4. The Snuggliwumpersnuffs. I heart my dogs. And I also blog enough about them to kill a small horse, so that’s all you’re getting for now.

3. Crossword Puzzles. My Gay Boyfriend From Seminary, Cletus, has been explaining the long-term benefits of crossword puzzles to me for years. I are finally hooked. I effing suck at them, but I dream in black-and-white boxes and letters that don’t fit.

2. Election Coverage. Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, Anderson Cooper in a suit, Donna Brazil gettin' sassy. Between CNN’s Magic Touch Screen of Clusterjoy and all things Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert, I have had nothing more to be thrilled about other than…

1. Barack H. Obama. I drank the kool-aid.

Here's to 2008!

merry

2008-12-28T17:18:00.006-05:00

Christmas is here, thanks be to God. And thanks be to a move in the midst of Advent (scroll down for my whiney moving wisdom), along with a general sense of lazy blahs, and a lost cord, I haven't posted a Saturday pic of one or both of the dogs. Check this one, but, be warned: She isnt' decent:

In other news, I survived Christmas Eve. It was actually wonderful in all the right ways. I think you should see the massive Christmas tree in the Parish Hall. It was decorated by the kids. I like to think that we didn't try to make it prestine because we honor the work of our young friends. The truth is that adults are just lazy. Even still, this might just make it into my Top Eleven Things of Oh-Eight. List forthcoming.

Merry, merry!

BVM

2008-12-22T09:30:00.004-05:00

In the past I've had a hard time relating to Mary, that blessed virgin. I've always understood her to be far too strong, resolved, faithful, and quiet to be anything like me--so doubtful, quick, extraverted, and loud. But this Advent she's struck me. Hard. Like a two-by-four accross the butt. For the first time I can see myself in her. I can feel her spirit in my feet--planted and tough like that oak of righteousness in Isaiah. I'm not always aware of my Inner Mary, but when I can tap into her, I find myself ready for just about anything.

The caffeinated priest shared this poem with me over the weekend. I'm committing it to memory, and it is with this poem that I will enter the process of writing this year's Christmas Eve Sermon.

This is the irrational season
When love blooms bright & wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
There'd have been no room for the child.

~Madeline L'Engle

Stay tuned.

moving

2008-12-15T23:11:00.004-05:00

On Wednesday, I will be following my shallow-planted roots all of four doors down. That’s right, Internets, I are moving. It’s a long story, but let’s just suffice it to say that when you live in a house owned by the church where you work, and the powers that be decide to move you into another parish house for whatever reason, you just do it. So, I am. And, in an effort to ease the temporary inconvenience, I’d like to take a moment from the cardboard cuts on my forefingers to compose a list of the reasons why MOVING IS JUST SO GREAT. It's not inclusive, and it's in no particular order:

Inventory.
Including outdoor furniture and the loveseat I used in seminary that’s now been converted into Puppy Love(seat), there are 26 spaces to sit comfortably in my possession. (This does not include the toilet, because it won’t move with me; nor does this figure include coolers that have been used for seating on various occasions, countertops, or area rugs.)

I cut my wardrobe in half, bagging clothes I never wear as I pack. Nothing is more liberating than this.

Also, I have discovered that I shall NEVER COMMA EVER be in want of plastic cutlery. (I moved a [lined] shoebox of plasticware from New York, an unopened box of plastic spoons from Delaware, and countless other pieces purchased since my move back to Atlanta.)

A Brand New Space.
Nothing says Fresh! and New! like a move to a new house. In this case, I am moving into the biggest, most bestest kitchen that a single woman on a salary like mine could ever imagine. The new kitchen finally gives me space to practice my rhythmic gymnastics floor routine for the 2012 Olympics.

And do you want to know about the new basement?! The house I’m living in currently could literally fit in the new basement. Said new basement will be the well-lit location for two up-and-coming lock-ins for my faithful (sometimes hormonal) youth group—there’s plenty of space for the boys and girls to not sleep in separate rooms.

Oh! And the backyard is fenced in. Good for the Frolicking Snugglipooperspups.

Paint!
I got to pick paint colors. The blue I originally picked out for the bathroom made me want to puke once it was on the walls. Have you ever had that experience? Now, thanks to the efforts, precision, and love of my dad, it’s a ridiculous pink color ("Hibiscus A6-6") that I love very, very much. He might need a bucket by his bedside, but I, on the other hand, shall sleep soundly.

(And I get to buy a new shower curtain to match the fantastic new bathroom color! Did your butt just clench with thrill?! Mine did.)

Friends.
The ones who—without prompting or wacked out motivation—offer to help. They’re keepers.

Sharpie Markers.
I get to use a big ole Sharpie every time I label a box. This alone is enough to make me want to move every six months. Almost.

A Moving Mix.
Sometimes the soul just needs another excuse to create another playlist on the ipod. Admittedly, this one was put together in haste, but still. Feel free to copy the crap out of this list. It’s good:

Pilgrimage—REM
Life in Technicolor—Coldplay
Something to Believe In—Shawn Mullins
Into the Great Wide Open—Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
Paris In A Day—Ellis Paul
She Came In Through the Bathroom Window—The Beatles
Heart of Soul—Beth Orton
Try—Billy Pilgrim
Walkin’ In Memphis—Marc Cohen
Your Eyes Open—Keane
Caring is Creepy—The Shins
Jigga What Jigga Who—Jay Z
Bold as Love—Jimi Hendrix
Perfect Time of Day—Howie Day
Asleep on a Sunbeam—Belle & Sebastian
Can’t Go Back to Jersey—G. Love
Paul Revere—Beastie Boys
Staple it Together—Jack Johnson
Wish That I Was There—Hanson
Everybody Knows This is Nowhere—Dar Williams
Put the Message in a Box—World Party
Dynamo of Volition—Jason Mraz
And, of course
This is It—Kenny Loggins

k. The Daily Show’s on. Knowing the reliability of a certain cable company that’s got the monopoly on cable companies, I better soak up as much VH1 and Comedy Central as I can while I’ve got it.

Stay tuned. Maybe this move will be fodder for bloggerdom. We shall see.

prop 8

2008-12-03T12:29:00.009-05:00

Another point in favor of me marrying Jack Black. Or, a woman if I were a lesbian.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

point

2008-12-02T15:45:00.001-05:00

assumptions

2008-12-01T17:31:00.009-05:00

Someone who, bless her heart, is discerning a call to priestworld, asked me the other day what stereotypes and assumptions are projected on me once I'm out of the clerical closet. I sat at Starbucks this afternoon and composed an answer. I think you might find parts of it kinda amusing. Here it is, edited to be better-written and to make more sense in this medium. Enjoy:

Dear Friend,
Unlike you, I had no aspirations to be a priest when I was in high school (it was nothing more than an idea). Even still, I was still a big ole church geek-slash-Jesus freak. Lots of my peers didn’t understand how I could not suck and be a church nerd at the same time. One day, this guy Matt went off on me for being “Holier Than Thou” after I simply asked him if he’d had a good day. Apparently, asking a polite question was out of the question for religious people. He thought it was “loaded” and accused me of trying to “save” him. WHAT. EVER. BUTT. TURD. I was just being nice.

So, yeah. If it turns out that this churchwork thing is the thing for you, gird your loins and arm your soul or whatever, because sometimes you’re going to be treated differently. Like, people apologize for cussing in front of me ALL THE TIME. Drives the shit out of me.

Assumptions made about priests & the religious include, but are not limited to: celibate, sober, boring, intelligent, humorless, perfect, kinky, and hypercritical. Of course, it’s hard to imagine that one could carry all of these stereotypes (plus some) simultaneously, but friend, never under estimate the judgmental capacity of a closed-minded, freaked out human being.

Being a woman makes it particularly interesting: “You can do that?”-and-“Are you, like, a nun?” –and-“Can you have kids?”-and-“What do they call you?”

"Obviously."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Wendy."

But hear me say this, too. No one can box me in. When I realized that I can be 100% myself and 100% priest, when I realized that I could be a writer AND a priest, when I realized that there was no mold, no formula, no right way to do this thing, that’s when I knew I could start seriously discerning a call to ordained life.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I have some regrets, sure. And I’ve made some pretty ridiculous sacrifices, sure. But I love it. It’s not glamorous. Sometimes it really sucks, actually. It’s not always fun and sometimes my sermons are terrible and I put my foot in my mouth all the time. But, at the end of the day, I get to make time sacred—being with people in their most formative transition moments, practicing sacraments, creating holy space. It’s pretty great. Even if it baffles the dude behind the counter when I saunter in on a Sunday, wearing my collar, and buy a case of beer. *

Gotta go. Love, w+

(*Sunday Booze, btw, isn't allowed in Georgia. Boo.)

tanks

2008-11-25T14:42:00.008-05:00

I haven’t posted anything in days and days because I haven’t really had anything to say that’s particularly post-worthy. I wonder what would happen if I posted anyway. Just my blah blah blah de blahs. Would you still be my friend?

Today’s been one of those days that was super productive before 11:30. Then it just went flatline on me, and I've been waiting like this ______________________ for an appropriate hour to split. I decided that typing something—anything—would make me feel like I was getting something—anything—done. So…

I thought that in honor of all of the Thanksgivingnesses going on this week I’d compose a list of things for which I are grateful. Here’s my start, in no particular order. I’m giving myself five minutes to type this list and then it’s pencils down. I’ve got emails to check and wondering around the office to do.

+My mom.
+Your mom.
+Hi, Dad.
+Dads in general.
+Paint Swatches.
+My dogs. Na-doi.
+The Raisin that I add to everything.
+All of my church geek friends and colleagues who make life better and funner, and who make all of this church work totally worth it.
+This olive wood cross that I squeeze when I’m on the phone.
+My bed.
+My couch.
+Actually, all of my furniture. I’m glad I have it.
+Barack H. Obama
+Oh! Manuel’s Tavern. I love that place more than my furniture. But not more than my dogs.
+Sandwiches.
+Facebook.
+That we’re out of Year A. Frankly, I am sick of preaching from the Gospel According To “Weeping & Gnashing of Teeth” Matthew.
+This red stapler.
+When I am away from work on a Sunday I actually miss the kids in my youth group. I have the best job on the planet.
+Ice cream.
+Yahoo! Messenger
+A walking commute.
+Oh! Cheaper gas!
+Refrigeration.
+The Buildings & Operations guy here in the office. He’s the most helpful human being on the planet, and he’s genuine about it.
+My dogs. Duh.
+Sharpie Markers
+My friend, Bartender, who's Irish and calls it "tanksgiving." Even though he lives far away from me, I always tink about him tis time of year. He makes the best damn bloody mary EVER.
+My stupid brilliant brothers
+Chapstick
+PENCILS DOWN.

What's your five-minute list? Make one. It's fun.

I’d like to end this post with a prayer from my favorite 8-year-old. She said this over her family dinner last night and her mom shared it with me. Wisdom abounds:

“Thank you God for hair cutters around the world who help people to feel better and look better, for the warmth of sweaters, and for people who have passed who have changed our lives. In Jesus Name we pray, Amen.”

five

2008-11-10T08:17:00.003-05:00

My very strange Little Yellow Dog brought me this during our morning walk:

I'm so proud.

wakey

2008-11-08T08:25:00.009-05:00

Baby's growin' up. My little Banana Muffin was Eleven Months Old yesterday:

She was in the mood to sleep, not party down.

So, when I took a nap yesterday on the sofa, my Nans stretched herself between my legs, on her back, with her head on my stomach. I woke up and very slowly sat up. She didn't budge. Dead weight. I didn't get a picture of this in particular, because that would have been awkward. Here's a pic of her the week I brought her home in the same position:

Are you about to just keel over from ALL OF THE FREAKING ADORABLE? She's like this ALL THE TIME. Like, right this minute, she's at the foot of the couch snoring a little bit and yawning a lot. She ate her breakfast five minutes ago, and it just up and worn her out! It's time for her first of SEVENTEEN MORNING NAPS!

Here's what it looks like when I wake the baby. These were taken yesterday after I wedged myself out from under her little 30-pound body and poked her with a fork to get her to stir.

(As long as I have dogs, I will never not have something to say.)

Happy Almost-One, Baby Bananapants!

Shift

2008-11-06T08:50:00.012-05:00

The past two days have been nothing short of a thrill for me as I've watched and read and celebrated and wept over the election of Barack Obama to the 44th Presidency of the United States. It's also been difficult to finally be on the greener side of the fence--I have good friends and lots and lots of family who are waving at me from the other side; for the first time in eight years, my blue peeps and I are the ones celebrating. Our tears are of hope and joy, not confusion and grief. We feel a daunting sense of responsibility. We are proud to be Americans. We don't feel so crazy anymore. I am trying to remain sympathetic to the other side's pain. We blue peeps know Election Grief all too well. And, at the same time, I can't stop wearing my Obama/Biden pin and smiling at strangers. I'm having a freaking great time.

I'm trying to articulate the shift in fear that I am detecting from some conservatives. For years, the fallback rhetoric has been Fear and Scarcity, though they may qualify it as Security and Necessity. And yet, suddenly, now that the official, elected rhetoric has become Hope, I am finding that my conservative friends are actually scared. Maybe it's because Hope seems to be a vague concept--especially for us Americans who need results and answers immediately. Maybe the new fear exists because no one is exempt from Hope. The lines between us and them are getting fuzzy, and that makes us feel wonky and vulnerable. After all, Hope knows no status, race, gender. It gets to be available to all of us now. Who will we be when our networks are invaded by people who think and believe and look differently from us? Making new identity is tough work.

And, truthfully, we don't know what the other side of Hope looks like just yet (we have a lot of work to do until its totally tangible), but on this side of the fence we do have this feeling that maybe things will be better. Maybe soon there won't be a fence. What would that be like? Or maybe the war will be over--not won (there are no winners), but OVER. Lives of the poor might improve. Maybe we'll become friends with other nations again? Partners even? Maybe the economy will take a turn that none of us can predict? Maybe we'll start conserving the environment in such a way that adds years of abundance to the earth? Does that sound so crazy?

I'm not dumb enough to really believe that one man can make radical good changes overnight. But I am smart enough to see that we have come full circle from slavery, through the Civil Rights Movement, to this moment where Americans elected an African-American man with a funny name to their highest office. What a beautiful symbol of how we can grow, how we can change. Electing Barack Obama means that we get to keep stepping in that direction.

I spent Election Night at My Favorite Bar of All Time here in Atlanta. Manuel's Tavern is a glorious blue dot in a deep sea of red, and I can't imagine spending those hours anywhere else. I saw this balloon:

And this was my view of the moment when the earth shifted on her axis:

An hour later, I took a celebratory shot of tequila and talked to Kendra who could feel the land under her feet quaking. She can look at her daughter, Little Miss S, and tell her that our president was raised by a single mother and grandparents that love him. Little Miss S can be anything she wants. Our president-elect is living proof. If that's not Hope, I don't know what is.

Anyway. I actually signed onto my blog this morning to post this article about the writing community's support of the president-elect. It resonated with me (after all I are, supposedly, a writer), and maybe it will with you too. Enjoy.

audacity

2008-11-04T07:33:00.006-05:00

(Too distracted this morning to compose a paragraph with all of the grammar, so you’ll have to deal with this weird verse-like post. It’s not unlike how I used to write angsty letters to boys in high school.)

I wasn’t going to say it here, but I’m up early
watching and
listening and reading,
and it feels like Christmas to me
because there’s a burn burn burn—
Can you feel it?
Can you feel the buzz of change?
It’s in the air. I keep tearing up.
I have goosebumps. And my stomach is in a knot.

I need coffee (to help with the knot, to wake me up). Then
I am voting for Barack Obama.

Because, at the end of the day,
I look at the story. I study the narrative. (It’s what I do.)
The narrative says more to me than any opinion,
The narrative says more to me than any campaign.
The narrative, the story
is the umbrella, the informant, the source.

And I believe his story.
That’s right, you heard me.
I. Believe. Barack. Obama.

(My father is rolling his eyes.
My brother is thinking,
“Oh shit. She really did drink the kool-aid.)

His story resonates with me and my idea of the American Dream.
It’s a story that speaks to the poor, the meek, the hungry, the peacemakers.
It gives the underdog power. (Sounds like The Gospel of Jesus Christ to me.)
It’s a story that ripples with humanity, community, charisma, and care.
Genuine care. And chances, options, respect, and grace.

(As opposed to fear, war, violence, and wealth.)

I can go in circles with you about Issues and Policies,
But I probably won’t. I’m not articulate enough.
Some might point out that I can "get emotional."
And I’m done with the Us/Them.

What I know for sure—
I know that I’m hooked. Hooked on Hope.

(It's pretty dang good kool-aid.)

Oh, and
Thank GOD for those who have gone before us—
Those that fought fought fought for my right to vote.

Please...

2008-11-04T00:11:00.001-05:00

vote.

tongue

2008-11-01T08:37:00.000-04:00

Boo!

2008-10-30T11:18:00.004-04:00

October 31st, 2005. I was a freshly collared priest, standing in line at a Panara Bread in Wilmington, Delaware.

Dude #1: “Is she a nun or a priest?”
Dude #2: “I think she’s a priest.”
Dude #1, to me: “Hey. Nice costume.”
Me: “Thanks.”

*******************

October 31st, 2006. I’d been a priest for over a year. This time, I was at a WaWa, wearing a collar, still in Wilmington, Delaware. In line, I was waiting to purchase a delicious Diet Coke and a refreshing bottle of Aquafina.

The Friendly Neighborhood Homeless Schizophrenic walked in and caught my eye. I smiled at him, like I always did. Sometimes he knew me and smiled back. Usually, he addressed me as “The Good Reverend.” Typically, we had a nice repport. Ready to purchase exactly nothing, he got in line behind me.

FNHS: [hissing] “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
Me: [holding very still]
FNHS: [still hissing] “Geeeet theeeee beeeeehind me, Saaaaatan.”
Me: [holding my breath]
FNHS: [screaming in my ear] “BEHIND ME, SATAN.”

He was escorted out. Two days later, I ran into him at the grocery store. This time I was buying dog food. He was trying to open a bag of frozen peas.

FNHS: “Hey, Good Reverend!”
Me: “Hi! How’s your week been?”
FNHS: “Thanks for asking! I’m great! You’re an angel face.”

Alas. Happy Halloween!

shoes

2008-10-25T20:16:00.006-04:00

TOMS Shoes is an organization that gives one pair of shoes to a child in need for every pair purchased from their website. I have three pair, not just because I'm a big ole do-gooder, but because I LOVE THEM (and I like doing good things). They are way comfy, remarkably durable, and super cool. I always get complements.

My Polka Dot in Eggplant pair is featured in this Saturday pic of Bananaboat the Beautiful Begging Bassedor.

CATO!

2008-10-23T15:24:00.004-04:00

I never met Kato’s Momma, but she raised my hysterical, life-loving friend, and for that I—along with the rest of you who know Kato—remain forever grateful.

Kato’s Momma died rather suddenly last week. I traveled to Mississippi for the visitation and funeral, and let me tell you how much it sucked: A LOT. Not the travel, just the event. I’m not sure how it happened that I’m now an adult whose friends’ parents die, but I am and it really effing sucks.

Kato, of course, agrees.

Grief is a gelatinous blob of beauty and pain. It’s at once a moment full of hope and hopelessness. Ugly and light. As Christians, we believe that death is another beginning. A portal into the Everlasting Freaking Awesome. It’s the time that we get to meet God without barriers or confusions or earthly set-backs. In its own way, death is a good thing. But for those of us left behind, it effing sucks.

As a Lil’ Miss Priestipants, it gets to be my job to be with people as they die and with people as they grieve. Oddly enough, as much as the death/dying/grieving thing sucks, it’s actually a part of my job that I like. It’s important, beautiful work, to be with people in their grief, or to be there when someone dies. Surreal, but good.

But I’m not Kato’s priest, nor was I Kato’s Momma’s priest. And though, technically, I’m always a priest/you can’t separate the priest from the person/blahblahblahblah, I have to say that I can’t be On all the time. Sometimes I just gotta turn it off, be a friend, sans the priest gig. Even though I looked like a priest at Kato’s Momma’s Funeral, I was there as a friend. I just was.

...Which kindasorta explains why it seemed like an appropriate thing to compliment Kato on her dress as she was practically sobbing her soul out on my shoulder. As I was saying it, I saw the words float out of my mouth like the way that worm or whatever talks in Alice In Wonderland. Kato was SOBBING and I said, “At least you’re in a pretty dress.”

I mean, y’all. Really. On the inside I was thinking, "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SAY SOMETHING ELSE! YOU DON'T HAVE TO TALK, WENDY! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" But the words came out anyway, and as soon as they were out of my mouth I wanted to die myself. Real sensitive, Porter! Way to comfort your friend who JUST LOST HER MOTHER.

But, dude. The strangest thing happened after I said what I thought was the most insensitive thing on the planet: Her tear ducts sucked the tears back from her cheeks. I swear. (Raisin saw it too! Ask her!) And then the screaming started:

“CATO! CAAATO! CAN YOU BELIEVE I GOT THIS DRESS AT CATO?! TWENTY-NINE-NINETY-NINE! TWENTY! NINE! NINETY! NINE! OH MY GOD, THANK YOU, GIRL! I LOVE CATO!”

(And that’s how Kato got her blogname.)

The human spirit is a remarkable thing. In the middle of the saddest moment of your life, you’re knee deep in shit, you’re at your own mother’s funeral, and just. like. that. you can—for just a split second—transcend it all. It’s not easy to step outside of the gelatinous blob of grief, but when it happens it can be loud and hilarious.

help!

2008-10-22T19:06:00.006-04:00

I have pulled up my own blog seven times since I posted the "Sonseed" video below just six-and-one-half hours ago. I've watched the video AT LEAST twelve times today. I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME. I CAN'T STOP WATCHING IT. HELP.

ZAP!

2008-10-22T11:26:00.004-04:00

This video, along with Jesus, has taught me to praise my God and still play rock-n-roll. What did it teach you?

inventory

2008-10-19T00:11:00.005-04:00

I have no idea how it got to be mid-October. Alls I know is that it is. I've turned off the AC for good, the firepit's out, I've been to Western North Carolina and seen The Leaves (dude, you gotta do that), and there are gourds and wheaty shits on display in front of Publix. Everything is orange. I'm going to wear a scarf tomorrow. Doesn't the air feel cleaner or something?

I took a vacation this week. It seemed like a natural thing to do after Old Friend's Wedding. I knew I'd need a breather, and I did, and it was good. After The Wedding in Habersham County, I visited RevSophia in Waynesville. I met Raisin there, and we spent a good deal of time drinking coffee by a river and catching leaves on our tongues. On Wednesday we meandered home through the mountains (have I mentioned that the hills of Western North Carolina are where you should be RIGHT NOW?). That afternoon, we landed squarely at our favorite bar to watch The Final Debate. John McCain looked scared. I wore an Obama/Biden sticker given to me by an Irish man. It all made sense.

But there was a cloud. We poured one out for Kato's mom who died that very hour. I haven't figured out how to/if I should tell that story, but a story it is nonetheless, and it is sad, sad, sad.

Friday morning I traveled to Mississippi for the funeral. While there, I laughed and cried and ate the best gyro ever. I also sang hymns I don't know, took one hell of a nap, and met a dog named Chewy.

I got home one hour ago. Drinking wine now. Feeling the need for a brief inventory. This, for the record, is the first post I've typed directly into the "create post" field. Usually I require hours in a Word doc and nineteen to thirty-seven edits. Today I'm feeling not-so-polished. It's kinda liberating. (And it won't last.)

All this and I've been sans my girls, my sweet doggiluciousloves. I'll pick them up between church and church tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll put this picture in my pillowcase to keep me warm.

Goodnight, friends.

frolick

2008-10-13T15:17:00.005-04:00

I am in a delicious coffee shop in Waynesville, North Carolina. Raisin and I are sitting across from each other, by the window in the back, overlooking the river, and instant messaging one another. We're on vacation.

This past weekend I was in ye old Habersham County, Georgia, presiding over Old Friend's Wedding. I'll write about that soon enough, but in the meantime, you just go ahead and enjoy these pictures of Sals and Nans, frolicking in The Parents' backyard. Life is good.

FYI

2008-10-08T11:19:00.007-04:00

Today's office volunteer said, "Wendy's got her Sarah Palin look goin' on this morning."

I'm not the first woman who's gotten this. Several of my friends who wear glasses and stick their hair up on occassion have been the butt of this sort of comment.

So, I'd like to go on record with something:

If a woman wears glasses and puts her hair up, she probably needs to use her eyeballs and get her hair out of her face. She is probably NOT trying to look like Sarah Palin.

I'm pretty sure that I'm not wrong about this one.

Also. I haven't posted in a while. I know this. It's not you, it's me.

More later.

caught

2008-09-27T19:21:00.005-04:00

Doesn't it look like I caught them doing something naughty?

I've been working on sermon all day. They pretty much just stare at me when I sermonize. Hours and hours of...looking. It's so cute. And also kinda creepy.

"@*%^$~!!"

2008-09-25T11:56:00.005-04:00

___________________________

Dad: "Hey, Poohbear. Your blog. You used a four-letter word. It didn't add anything."

Wendy: "Godda*#$@* Dad! Sometimes I wish I'd never even told you about that eff*tastic sh*%hole of a godda&% blog! Give me a little bit of f*7^cking credit!"

Dad: "It's just that I like to show people what you've written..."

Wendy: "I don't f&*$ing care! I choose my words really godd^*&# carefully! Seriously!"

Of course, I went back, considered his opinion, and changed the motherf&**#ing word. It was unnecessary. I hate it when he's right. Too bad he's right ALL THE BLEEPING TIME.

Thanks, Dad, for the reminder that no work is solitary. I are a writer. Not an island.

work

2008-09-24T15:08:00.004-04:00

I went to the hospital to visit The One Who Fell This Week, and while there I shared an elevator with a rabbi. For the first two floors we were alone—we exchanged grins and hellos. When we stopped at the third floor, the doors opened and a Muslim woman wearing a veil on her face joined us.

She nodded, we smiled. The rabbi, I could tell, was trying not to giggle. Not because it was funny (I don’t think), but because, I mean, really. You should have seen us—a rabbi in a suit, a female priest in jeans, and a Muslim woman with her face covered—sharing an elevator like there was freaking peace on earth or something. It was brilliant and beautiful, and in some places, to some people, it would have been utterly ridiculous.

All three of us got off on the sixth floor and went in different directions. The moment was over.

The One Who Fell This Week was miserably confused. “It happened so fast, Wendy. I don’t know where I am. Get me out of here. I’m a prisoner. It happened so fast. It happened so fast. It happened so fast.” Her wrists were tied down and her arms, hands, face and neck were covered in deep purple bruises. She’s old. Her skin is thin. It looked to me like the bruises were fighting to pierce her from the inside out. The whole scene looked really bleepin' painful. I swelled with righteousness and grief. I wanted to pour a gallon of oil on her head and demand God to take it back. To fix it. To heal her or take her away. But instead I held her hand and brushed her hair and told her about my elevator ride. I have no idea if she understood the nuances of the story, but for some reason she did find it hilarious. She guffawed. Then she asked if I could sing the Lord’s Prayer. I can and I did.

As I was leaving, she said, “Tell your funny elevator friends to come sing to me, too.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll work on it, okay?”

“Work on it,” she said. And then she said it again. Work on it.

I blew her a kiss and got on the elevator. Alone.

party

2008-09-20T15:19:00.005-04:00

Raisin turned thirty this week. I decided to throw her a party. Raisin Three-Point-Oh, we called it. And it was good.

At 7:30, when all of the lists had been ticked away, when the beer was iced and the weenies were ready (scroll down for the recipe), an eclectic mix trickled onto my back porch. They were:

+Profiteers
+Non-profiteers
+Church People
+Lesbians
+One Gay Man
+Brothers
+Teachers
+Drinkers
+Not-so-much drinkers
+Introverts
+Three to Five Extroverts
+Smokers
+Weirdos
+Jewish people
+People who work with Jewish people
+Republicans
+Democrats
+Blonds
+Dancers (Booty & Swing)
+Other

All in all, it was a success. In the nine o’clock hour Jaw passed out the champagne and Blazer passed out the noisemakers. Clementine and I candled up the cake and we all bothered the shit out of the neighbors, no doubt, with the most rousing, out of tune Birthday Song of all time. There was just enough cake, and it was good. (Thanks to Clem who made it from scratches.)

Raisin blushed a lot. It’s what she does.

The last guest left at, like, two in the morning. Raise and I had a lot of processing to do (“she wore that?” and “they sure hit it off!” and “who trekked the weird crap into the kitchen?”). We also did some serious before-bed cleaning, making wake-up way more pleasanter.

This morning I did an inventory of leftovers. Not too bad. Just enough. Here are my two new tailor-made-for-Raisin-three-point-oh recipes. I love a crock pot.

Raisin’s Thirtieth Teenie Weenies
(This recipe can be reduced or increased to scale for the likes of your party. These measurements worked beautifully for a party of approximately 30 people. We have just enough leftovers for Raisin to gnosh for a couple days.)

Three Pounds of Lil Smokie Teenie Weenies
Two Jars of Heinz Chili Sauce
One Regularish Size Jar of Generic Cheap Apple Jelly
Two Apples, pealed and grated up (This can get surprisingly messy; best if grated right into the crock pot.)
Some Cumin (I think I added, like, two or three teaspoons. Eyeballed.)
A Heaping Tablespoon of Brown Sugars
A Halfa Bottle of Whatever Beer You Happen to Be Drinking.

Throw all of that into the crock pot. Crank it up to high for an hour or so, then down to low for the party. Serve from a slotted spoon. Eat with toothpicks.

The Last One To Leave suggested that a couple teaspoons of flour would have nicely thickened up the sauce. I agree.

Artichoke Dip: The Next Generation
(This recipe is a step beyond The Best Artichoke Dip Ever that my mom and your mom has been making since they started canning artichoke hearts.)

Two Cans of Chopped Artichoke Hearts
One Cup of Mayo
One Cup of Whipped Cream Cheese
One Pound of Mozzarella
A Cup or So of Grated Parm
A Halfa Onion, grated up.

Throw all of it into the crock pot. Crank it to high until it starts to bubble. Take it back to low for the party. Serve with crusty bread. Tortilla chips also make a nice vehicle.

ENJOY! We sure did.

blink

2008-09-20T10:40:00.000-04:00

Baby needs a manicure.

scrumpsch

2008-09-15T15:22:00.002-04:00

I was far, far away this weekend, and therefore unable to post a pic of the pups. Lookit this one I just took of Nana. Isn't she scrumptious?

ramble

2008-09-07T16:18:00.004-04:00

Why Wendy Should Never, Ever Make the Announcements at Church
____________________________________________

“Good morning! Welcome to Saint Anne's! We’re glad you’re here! Welcome! If you’re a visitor today, Welcome! We're glad you're here! Please fill out one of the yellow flippijibbles in the pew thingies in front of you and drop it in the plate that collects money at the offertory which is when the plate comes around to collect money. We’re glad you’re here! We just decided yesterday to collect blankets for the Open Door Home so it’s not in print yet but if you have blankets that you don’t want or if you’re out shopping and you see a blanket you want to buy for our homeless brothers and sisters that’d be great! Please just drop them in the purple bins that aren’t out yet but they will be next week. We’ll take gently used blankets. But not dirty blankets. Oh! And children’s choir rehearsal is today? Tomorrow? When is it? Oh! It’s Wednesday? Wednesday. Thank you dude in the front row who must have a child in the choir! So, yeah, if you have a kid in the choir rehearsal is Wednesday! Yay! There is so much going on in this vibrant community, so I direct you to the insert in your whatchamabulletins, it’s full of all of the vibrant and exciting things that you may or may not want to get involved in, but even if you don’t, we’re glad you’re here! Also! Today was the first day of Christian Education for the youth and children! We hope you went today and participated and if you didn’t please come next week even though we’ll be on the parish retreat next weekend, but don't worry because there’ll still be some stuff for you to do. Adults! Sunday school’s not just for the kids! Did you go to your education offerings this morning?! Be sure to check the insert in your bulletins that I just mentioned for a listing of all the great classes we have for you! We're glad you're here! If you for whatever reason don’t read the thing inside you’re bulletin, trust me when I say that there’s lots of options like the class on Paul and there’s something new for parents of small kids, children and youth, but of course EVERYONE’S welcome, because this is the Episcopal Church after all. We're glad you're here! Oh! And everyone is welcome to this altar to receive Holy Communion, but, right, I’ll say more about that after we exchange the Peace at the Offertory when the plate comes around! One more thing! We have our Ministry Round-up after this service—Yee Haw! There are so many awesome, vibrant things going on in this community, and we hope you’ll decide to sign up to be a volunteer for one of the many awesome, vibrant ministries and stuff that happen in this vibrant community. And now let us take a moment of silence to prepare our hearts and minds for worship. We’re glad you’re here!”

stewart

2008-09-05T12:00:00.006-04:00

Set aside five minutes & fourty-three seconds to watch this clip from Wednesday night's The Daily Show. THIS, my friends, is how we shall survive the next fifty-seven days.

The ministry of Jon Stewart shall keep us afloat. TBTG. Amen, Alleluia.

(Working on a post about what it's been like for me to watch the RNC this week. Unfortunately, I can only muster a sentence or two at a time without having to excuse myself to vomit. Give me time.)

vigil

2008-09-01T13:09:00.006-04:00

The Weather Channel is every episode of Law & Order’s first cousin—both keep me company in equal measure, even if I’m not paying attention to the television. It’s just on, in the background, comforting me with the CHUNK-CHUNK between scenes and the blessed elevator sounds of Weather On The 8’s. I know that I am not alone with these addictions. I am well aware that y’all stand with me on this one—between Law & Order Marathons and The Weather Channel, you are never at a loss, you are never bored, you always have a friend.

This Labor Day there is not a single L&O marathon on ANYWHERE. Maybe this is God’s way of turning us all to the Weather Channel to watch Gustav The Asshole Hurricane pummel the Gulf Coast. And it’s working—my computer’s in my lap, I’m still in my pajamas, my dogs are at my feet, and the winds are knocking over meteorologists in Houma, Louisiana.

The only thing that would make this more enthralling would be if Michael Phelps were reporting from a rooftop in the French Quarter.

You know, hurricanes are beautiful in their own right. They are fantastic, awesome nature. The body of wind and rain, always in a perfect circle, swirling and shifting, growing and shrinking. They are a metaphor for power and might and greatness. They are such beasts that we name them, in alphabetic order. We find personality and life in them—they are objects of study and characters of intrigue. But the romance of them is lost when they make landfall. Levees break and water rises and roofs are blown to oblivion. Tornados spin out, rain falls in sheets of medal, and waves turn into walls of destruction. These effing storms are the slap in the face reminders that We Are Not In Control. Sobering, painful, small, vulnerable.

What is usually a simple addiction to the Weather Channel has turned into a vigil. When I need a change of pace, I flip to CNN. The outlook is even darker from there. And with the rest of the aware, I keep watch from afar. I pray, and wait. Wait for the storm to pass and disintegrate. Wait for my friends who live in the region to wave at me in an email, through a facebook status, something, anything. Wait for the skies to turn blue. Wait for the footage to shift from rain to recovery. And then I will hold my breath as Anderson Cooper and others wade through the wake of the storm… As a nation, we will lament destruction, honor life, and—with all the energy and grace we can muster—we will hold on to hope.

Let. Us. Pray.

labor

2008-08-29T11:00:00.005-04:00

Today's Friday Five is all about labor. Read on. And thanks, gals, for giving me something to do this morning.

1. The Worse Job:
Did you know that the summer after my freshman year in college—the summer I drove across the country with Old Friend—the summer when I waited to the very last second to get a job—I took a job working at a dry cleaner sewing buttons on shirts that’d lost buttons in the process? That’s right. I worked on an assembly line. I listened to the top 40 in Spanish. There were no windows. It was hotter inside than outside.

2. The Best Job:
Other than this priest gig? Waiting tables. I’d go back to it in a skinny minute.

3. If I could do anything?
I’d drink coffee and write mediocre poetry by day and I’d wait tables by night. Also, I’d be married to a hot doctor/bartender/musician/landscaper named Joshua.

4. Break this summer?
See the post below this one. (I just had to wipe down my laptop with Lysol. I sneezed.)

5. Summer to Fall Changes at work?
Oh, you know. Youth group starts back up which means my Sunday afternoons are absorbed by (mostly) boys who don’t understand how their youth minister could POSSIBLY not let them play games that involve GUNS (e.g. paintball, lazertag, etc.), but who love me best when I scratch Bible study for Mexican food (it’s happened more than once). Frankly, I think I have the best job in all of the land...Why NOT do youth ministry? (I love start-up in the fall.)

And as for the bonus question about mommas in labor… For the record, I was in the room when my friend Kendra gave birth to Little Miss S. I was there when that kid entered the world. I WAS RIGHT THERE. I freaked out. I don’t have to have given birth to feel like I’ve experienced it, dude. My god, I’m feeling faint just thinking about it.

Thanks for the Friday fun. I think I’ll coat my face in Vicks Vapo Rub now.

staycation

2008-08-26T15:45:00.007-04:00

Like an angsty teenager or a hung-over seminarian, neither of which I am anymore, I woke up yesterday morning at 11 o’clock. Today, I plan to nap for HOURS.

I’m on vacation.

Other big plans include(d), but are(were) not limited to: dogs, coffee, warm baths, the gym, maybe some tea, the New Yorker, the internets, a clean kitchen, coffee, cheap red wine, the DNC, Oprah, the Daily Show, Netflix, and a of couple nights in north Georgia with Old Friend. I’d like to de-hair the house of doggie dander tumbleweeds. I’d like to clean out the gutters and sit at a coffeeshop, updating the blog. I’d like to read all these magazines right here and those books that are over there, and then I’d like to clean up my itunes and maybe even scrub the floor in the bathroom. Big, big plans.

Of course I got out of bed this morning with a smidge of The Crud. You know what I mean—my throat is itchy like a carton of Marlboro Reds and my head is swimmy like a fish tank and my eyes had boogers when I woke up. I was in denial about it initially—sometimes we feel gross in the morning; it’ll pass after I’ve had some coffee; maybe a plate of Mexican food will kick me out of it. Instead, it only got worse; now I’m sick AND awake; half of the enchiladas are waiting in the fridge for my taste buds to return. WHAT. THE. HECK.

I have developed a theory about this crud THAT WILL PROBABLY SPREAD TO MY CHEST. I think my body has been storing it up all summer, waiting for me to stop. Earlier, between trips and camps and funerals, a couple of days on the couch with The Crud would’ve probably been a welcome interruption. But I chose to ignore it in order to tend to another disease that all do-gooders are prone to—a (hopefully temporary) case of They Can’t Do It Without Me. This particular strand of Narcissistic Bullshit runs rampant among young know-it-all ministers like myself and is often accompanied by a mild case of Living Martyrdom—a nasty flu-like bug that looks like death but is, in fact, nothing more than a snowball of crap.

It always happens like this. Put the jar of martyrdom and the pedestal of They Can’t Do It Without Me on a shelf for a week. Climb off your highhorse and give yourself a vacation. You’ll see what happens. You’ll get a Damn Common Cold. The kind that demands nothing but naps, spoonfuls of honey, and a stack of Jane Austen dvds. Sigh. I guess it could be worse.

kithes

2008-08-23T09:55:00.002-04:00

(The creature to the right is Sally the Sea Lion.)

poke

2008-08-20T13:34:00.004-04:00

Last Saturday I completed my sermon preparation before the sun went down. This feat is cause for celebration, so I treated myself to a pitcher and some company at my favorite bar in Atlanta. We were there, cracking up, eating baked potatoes, and observing the patronage, when another friend moseyed in with some of his associates. He paraded them by our booth for introductions. Niceties were exchanged. The Associates took a booth by the door.

Later, I walked by them on my way to the bathroom. I made a little stop by their booth and like a server I said, “How’s everything over here? Can I bring anybody anthing?" My friend played along, making a little joke about needing another beverage. The Associates were unimpressed, but whatever. I continued to fart around with them, made a comment about the one woman’s massive loaded hotdog, and THEN I DID THIS:

I looked at the plate belonging to the Man I Don’t Know, and in my weird little head I thought, I wonder if that’s chicken or fish? (Fried white meat, dim lighting, it’s a valid question.) And, as though guided by a devilish force, my pointer finger reached out and POKED AT HIS FOOD.

“Oh!” I said to the MAN I DON’T KNOW. “That’s not chicken! I hear the Fish n’ Chips here are delish! Congrats!”

“I haven’t even had a bite yet,” he said.

And that’s the story of the time that I TOUCHED A STRANGER’S FOOD.

(I should’ve just stayed at home with a cup of hot tea and a puzzle.)

smudgies

2008-08-16T10:08:00.004-04:00

So, for your Saturday Enjoyment, I'm posting a picture of the girls behind the glass door in the kitchen. It's certainly not the best quality pic in the world, but it's worth posting if for no other reason than the way it captures their nose smudges on the glass. I sat in the carport for many minutes yesterday taking pictures of them starring at me, begging to be let out. But this one's my favorite. They were distracted by a very, very tiny bug.

Check in with the sermon blog manana. Back to work...

distractables

2008-08-15T17:30:00.008-04:00

By “working on a sermon” I mean that I’m “stalking my youth group on facebook and using my dustbuster to vacuum the house.”

These kinds of procrastination tactics are not new to my writing process. In fact, despite this frozen, runny case of The Distractables, I’m right on schedule. At this rate, in 24 to 36 hours I will have a decent mediocre sermon written in manuscript form ready for me to carry into the pulpit. Once I get there, it will come alive with my kinetic, flailing hands and a hint of self-confidence. Viola! A Preaching Moment is born. (Of course, this formula also relies deeply on the work of the Holy Spirit. Ultimately, she gets all the credit.)

But. Until then, until the Preaching Moment happens, I have a lot of sitting here to do. I’ll walk my dogs, too. Then maybe watch the Food Network on mute, troll the youtube for videos of cute animals being silly, pace a bit, drink some coffee and sit. Then I’ll change the channel. Bob Costas will talk to Michael Phelps again, and I’ll probably blush a little (I can’t help it). Then I’ll walk the dogs again, fill up their bowls, rub their ears. Maybe I’ll shower. I’ll certainly think about it. I will sing to my dogs, sing to myself, sing to my sermon. I’ll read the Gospel text aloud. Maybe with a British accent. Maybe I’ll rearrange my Netflix queue.

At some point, probably in the one o’clock hour tomorrow, I’ll begin to get nervous. That’s when the standing begins. I’ll get up to pace, but end up just standing there in my kitchen or living room, just standing—this is what a friend calls the Dark Place. When I am just standing there, probably rubbing my face, I’m at the point where I think it’s never, ever going to happen. There’s a still, small voice in me that knows better. It’s the same still, small voice that’s writing this post right now. The one who knows the process. The one who knows that a sermon will be written, and I will be fine. But in the hour of the Dark Place on the Saturday before I take the pulpit, hope is but a pin light in the distance. A moving, winking, almost taunting pin light. And it is from that moment that nightmares like the one I had last night come:

The dream started with me brewing coffee at six in the morning on a Sunday. It’s my day to preach, but in the dream I’d forgotten until the very minute I started brewing coffee. My hair was really, really long. And there, in the dream, for some reason my coffee pot was blue, I just stood counting the little perky drip-drippies, trying to figure out how to get out of going to work. Next thing I knew I was in my office, for some reason my office was on the other side of the building and for some other reason the building was surrounded by a moat. What would Freud say? And I was scribbling furiously on post-it notes. My pen kept running out of ink, but I kept writing anyway. Maybe I could read the inkless impressions on the post-its, maybe I wouldn’t need ink, maybe it was raining frogs and pigs were flying outside. I went to the sanctuary for some inspiration, and I knew I only had, like, seven minutes to get something together, and there was this kid from my youth group sitting a couple pews back picking a scab and I was all like, “Kid. I don’t have a sermon.” And he was all like, “Wendy. You don’t have any pants on.” And then the dream was over.

I woke up HORRIFIED until a solid thirty seconds later when I realized that it was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

Anyway. So, here I am. This is the six-hundred-fifty-somethingith word I’ve written in the past hour and it’s not a word for a preaching moment, instead it’s a word for this here blog--the grandest distraction of them all. I think Seinfeld is on. Maybe an episode of Friends. I wonder how far this Sharpie marker will go up my nose. Oh, wow. I wonder how long it'll just stay there like that. Uh-oh. Banana hasn’t been out in a while. I'll take her out in a minute. But first, I wonder if that Charlie kid is still biting his brother’s finger on the youtube. Maybe I could do some laundry. Or fit my fist in my mouth. Something, anything.

brag

2008-08-12T21:24:00.011-04:00

I was thinking about scratching the whole Posting Pics of My Snuggliwumpers on Saturdays Thing since it really has little to do with anything but showing off. I am supposed to be a humble, modest parish priest. Not a BraggyMcBraggerton Show Off.

But I can't help it. I AM a show off. I am a show off HammyMcHammy who has the cutest most preciousable pups in the whole wide world. I have to share the goodnesses.

I skipped last Saturday, so here's what you missed because of my inauthentic humility...

A pic of Nans the week I brought her home. I mean, really. Come on. She's practically chewy:

And then there's this one of Sals taken the day before I brought home Bananapants and changed Life As She Knew It:

She may not be the most socialized animal on the planet, but I will say this: There's nothing better than a dog who smiles. And this one smiles at me all. the. time.

Saturday I'll post something new for all two readers-- Dad, Raisin: You're welcome.

summertime

2008-08-09T09:48:00.007-04:00

the friday five
___________________________________

Yesterday's RevGal's Friday Five was all about Summertime. The season, not the New Kids' latest hit, though I could talk about that for a while. Don't worry. I won't.

My summertimes, especially from childhood, have always been full of Camp and Lake. Check it:

1. What is your sweetest summer memory from childhood?
Holding a 279-lb vhs recorder on my shoulder in the front seat of the bumpy ski boat dragging any given member of my family or The Friend Ship on a torturous innertube. Also, the smell of a beach towel at the end of a long day at the Lake, the smell of sunscreen, the smell of aloe on a nasty sunburn.

2. Describe your all time favorite piece of summer clothing.
There were these jeans made into shorts after the hems had been walked right off that appear in almost every picture of me at Camp from the time I was 14 until the time I was 18. I don’t know how they made it as long as they did—at some point I had to wear another pair of shorts under them so as not to reveal my whathaveyouparts. The ass of the shorts was the first to wear out, then the crotch, then the beltloops began to drop like flies. By my freshman year in college they were nothing but a scrap, not unlike the kind left from a well-loved baby blanket. The shorts were my blankie. And then they disappeared. I am sure The Mothership didn’t throw them away. Wait. I’m sure that’s EXACTLY what happened. (I actually don't blame her, but I have to maintain the Angst Front.)

3. What summer food fills your mouth with delight and whose flavor stays happily with you long after eaten?
Nothing reminds me of summer like the taste of a hotdog burp.

4. Tell us about the summer vacation or holiday that holds your dearest memory.
I missed all of the ’96 Olympic Games in my hometown because I chose to go to Camp instead. Also, in 1994, I missed The Chase of the White Bronco. It’s not the things I missed. It’s just that what I was doing was gooder than the rest. Camp is the first place where community made sense to me. What was happening in Places Elsewhere didn’t hold a candle to running into Jesus over and over again at Camp.

5. Have you had any experience(s) this summer that has drawn you closer to God or perhaps shown you God's wonder in a new way?
24 little 12-year-old experiences.

Bonus question: When it is really hot, humid and uncomfortable, what do you do to refresh and renew body and spirit?
I’ve been swimming in my clothes twice this summer. Also, I enjoy really, really cold domestic beer.

scratch

2008-08-05T15:37:00.007-04:00

I’ve had the overwhelming urge to delete this blog lately.

Sometimes I log on just to read what I have to say about myself and I am overwhelmed by my own narcissistic crap. This whole blog thing just seems like something I do to make myself feel good. About myself. And the things I do. And say. And believe. And then I wait for other people to tell me how smart and funny I are. Talk about ego-mania. Sheesh.

Really. Who gives an inch about my farting dogs or my liturgical theology or about the time there was a weird guy at that Waffle House? Who would want to read about why I love gay people or about the time I bought a lousy loveseat? Why do I feel the need to come clean about what a NEUROTIC CONTROL FREAK I AM in front of the WHOLE WIDE WORLD WEB?

My dad (hi, Dad!) likes to call me and discuss the comments left on this blog. It freaks me out, and one day I told him so:

“Dad. It freaks me out when you mention the comments on my blog. I feel weird now.”

“Why, Poohbear?”

“Er…uh…it’s…just…that…um…I...don’t…it’s complicated…I don’t know. I just don’t like it when you want to talk about my blog and its comments.”

He took the Sweet Daddy Tone: “Do you feel like I’m reading your mail?”

I screamed: “YES! THAT’S TOTALLY IT.”

It is totally it. I love this blog on one hand, but on the other I feel like all of these well-meaning people I don’t know—and some that I do—are READING MY MAIL. And then it occurs to me that OH MY GOD I'M A NARCISSISTIC EXHIBITIONIST BLOGGER. Why in the world am I doing this to myself?! What IS the point?! Why don’t I just keep a journal or something?! Or write a book?! Or, I don’t know, talk to an actual someone…not just all of you virtual people who may not be real to begin with…

What is the point? Seriously. There must be one. THOUSANDS of people keep blogs. We can't all be NARCISSISTIC EXHIBITIONISTS, can we? And other than the socio-reality of it all, other than the culture shift that has made this an acceptable means of expression, WHAT IS THE FREAKING POINT?

I’m still talking this out with myself (and you, too, apparently).

I can say that I have been known to ramble on a lot about the value of community. It's taken me several months, but I’m beginning to see what people mean when they talk about the blogging community. That, in of itself, might just be a reason to not delete this thing. (Blogs I’ve followed for a while have mentioned this benefit—click here for my all time favorite and one that thrives on the community in a beautiful way; it also happens to be some of the bestest, most funniest writing on the intertubes.)

And I can say that posting things here reaches over and scratches an itch that I haven’t been able to reach for a long time. No, not the itch to reveal sometimes personal details about myself to the complete judgment of strangers. And, no, not the itch to spell out the trifles of ministry or being a young, priest girl in a good-ole-boy world (though such trifles do need to be exorcised somehow). It’s more the itch that I pushed to the periphery when I decided to go to seminary—the itch that wants desperately to sit around and write mediocre poems, a couple novels, wait tables, and have dogs. Writing for this blog somehow harkens me back to a dream that can’t really be fulfilled at this point—the dream to be a lazy, poor, waitress. That waitress of The Great American Dream who writes for Americans about American Life and stuff. Doesn’t she sound cool? God, that’s who I wanted to be.

I can say that there is something highly satisfying about clicking that “publish post” button on the compose page. Because, even though these days anyone can be published in this medium, posting crap up here still makes me feel, for just a second, like I’m a little more specialler. Like maybe I have something to offer the world in addition to and beyond that of church geekery. Maybe writing stuff down is a gift of mine. Maybe blogging feels like I’m living into my own truth. And telling the truth is always liberating.

Oh, for crying out loud. Call Oprah.

batbunnydog

2008-08-02T19:58:00.005-04:00

My parents have a miniature "poodle" called Stella. She's the WEIRDEST DOG ON THE PLANET. I swear this dog sprouts wings after my parents go to sleep, and flies around the house rearranging things. And, actually. You should know that she's got some jackrabbit and BAT in her pedigree.

I spent the better part of my Saturday with Stella the Luna-tick. Today's Saturday Girls Pic is devoted to her:

metergone

2008-08-02T09:37:00.005-04:00

Did you hear the news?! Did YOU get the message?! Are you okay?!

Remain calm. It's just that my blog wasn't working.

Every time I logged in, I got this AWFUL message telling me that iareawriter was an OPERATION ABORTED. Then the pop-up told me that I was a failure. It went on to explain that I'm too fat for my own blog, that my hair is frizzy, that I'm a lousy driver, and that I'm going to die alone. The Internet can be so cruel.

Anyway. I took a deep breath, shook it off, and did what any girl does when she finds herself in a pickle: A Google Search. Simply typing in "BLOG ABORTION" gave me a veritable plethora of explanation. After two clicks I found the solution to my blog's impairment: Turns out sitemeter dot com blew up. All blogspots with sitemeter installed went bazerkonuts and HAD TO BE ABORTED POST HASTE. I am sure that for the past 12 hours I have lost valuable readers. Well. Come back. Take heart. Everything is okay. Operation Aborted has been Aborted.

(Sigh. Now that my sitemeter is gone, however, I will have no way of knowing where my readers are. Countless minutes obsessing about a nameless aol.com reader in Ohio--lost.)

blocks

2008-08-01T12:49:00.006-04:00

the friday five
___________________________________

RevGalBlogPals is a blogging community for churchy women. I’ve been following them for a while, finally bit the bullet and joined, and now, for the first time ever, am posting my own Friday Five—just a weekly short survey suggested and posted this week by songbird. Today's theme is obvious. Read on!

1) How do you amuse yourself when road construction blocks your travel?
Sing. Make a phone call. Chew some gum. Drink some water. Listen to crappy but entertaining radio. Make stuff up.

2) Have you ever locked yourself out of your house? (And do you keep an extra key somewhere, just in case?)
I have successfully locked myself out of every home and office I’ve ever occupied. I think it’s safe to say that if I have a key to it I’ve locked myself out of it. Raisin has my spare key. And I think there's one in the drawer in the bathroom. That doesn't really help, though.

A story: When I was a kid I once locked myself in my grandfather’s bathroom. For whatever reason this event goes down as one of my most horrifying experiences. Obviously, it was hardly dire straits--everyone was home, watching tv at the other end of the house. But in the moment, to this six-year-old, the room was getting smaller and smaller. And there was a slight drip drip drip coming from the faucet. It was a strange form of torture and entrapment. I was scared.

I don’t think I knocked or banged or made a lot of noise. But I do know that I cried and cried and cried. Eventually (five minutes felt like five hours), Granddaddy saved me from the small room and the dripping faucet. He hugged me and said, “Sometimes we all get stuck, Poohbear. You’ll be fine.”

3) Have you ever cleared a hurdle? (And if you haven't flown over a material hurdle, feel free to take this one metaphorically.)
This one time, I got ordained. It was fun.

4) What's your approach to a mental block?
Rub my earlobes. Stare at the screen. Tap, tap, tap. Get up. Walk Banana. Come back. Pace in the living room. Proceed to the kitchen. Stand in the kitchen and drink milk straight from the carton. Keep standing. Pace. Walk Sally. Come back. Stand in the kitchen. Stare out the window. Stare at my computer. Stare out the window. Open the refrigerator. Stare. Close the refrigerator. Call dad. Rub Sally’s ears. Pace.

5) Suggest a caption for the picture above; there will be a prize for the funniest answer!
I’m not too good at funny like that. I will happily let someone else take this one. But I do have an anecdote. I’m sure you’re shocked:

There’s this church where I used to work that is, um, secluded from the hustle of the real world. In order to get there you must not depend on Mapquest or even those handy The Episcopal Church Welcomes You signs. You must just know where you’re going. And once you turn the bend, go through the stop sign, turn another bend, go over massive speed humps (not bumps, humps) and pull into the drive of the ~~estate~~ ~~compound~~ church, you still can’t see the building until you’re practically right there in the parking lot. (This place likes to be its own little secret.) Anyway, for whatever reason, just as the beautiful church building enters your line of vision, there’s a remarkable “APPROACH WITH CAUTION” yellow sign on the side of the road.

Do you see my point?

+gene

2008-07-28T14:54:00.009-04:00

Bishop Gene Robinson is gay. He's been excluded from the otherwise all-inclusive meeting of Bishops at the Lambeth Conference in Canterbury this month. He's decided to head to England anyway. Not in protest, but rather in solidarity. He's not picketing the conference or anything. He's just simply in the same town, hosting conversations, going to meetings of his own, sight-seeing and going to tea.

To you, I recommend his blog. It's so transparent and graceful. So full of pain and honesty. Courageous and confused. Beautifully written.

http://www.canterburytalesfromthefringe.blogspot.com/

And inspiring. So good.

banter

2008-07-26T20:38:00.004-04:00

Raisin says (8:30 PM): wow. did you know that Die Hard is TWENTY FREAKIN' YEARS OLD?

Wendy says (8:30 PM): I did know that about Die Hard.

Raisin says (8:31 PM): i mean, i knew it on some level, but it's like seeing the "born before _____ date" in bars

Wendy says (8:31 PM): I understand.

Wendy says (8:31 PM): Did you ever watch Moonlighting, Raisin?

Raisin says (8:31 PM): yes

Raisin says (8:32 PM): my parents hated that show

Wendy says (8:32 PM): Sigh.

Raisin says (8:32 PM): sometimes we still talk about it

Wendy says (8:32 PM): How much your parents hate Moonlighting?

Wendy says (8:32 PM): After all, what is there to hate?!

Raisin says (8:33 PM): it was all of the...talking. so much talking. and talking over each other.

Raisin says (8:33 PM): it confused and frustrated them

Wendy says (8:33 PM): (Sal just FART.ED.)

Wendy says (8:33 PM): Are you saying that it WASN'T the sexual tension between Maddy and David. It was their witty banter?

Raisin says (8:34 PM): it was the banter

Raisin says (8:34 PM): [members of my family] don't banter

Wendy says (8:34 PM): But you do, sometimes, banter.

Raisin says (8:34 PM): well, i have escaped some of the restraints of my upbringing

Wendy says (8:34 PM): Where did you grow up again?

Raisin says (8:35 PM): saskatchewan

Wendy says (8:35 PM): Saskatchewan, Mississippi?

Raisin says (8:35 PM): it's a beautiful place

Wendy says (8:36 PM): Full of earnest people with no banter?

Raisin says (8:36 PM): Yes. earnest and polite, and very, very couth

Wendy says (8:37 PM): Even though you grew up EATING SQUIRREL?

Raisin says (8:37 PM): the two aren't mutually exclusive in saskatchewan

Wendy says (8:38 PM): Fair enough.

squishy

2008-07-26T09:31:00.008-04:00

It's Saturday and I'm HOME! Which means it's time for the first Saturday pic of one of the Puppitons posted in... a month? Weeks? Long enough.

Of course, I'm working on a sermon (check back under i are writing sermons sometime tomorrow to see what I manage), so it's not really a Saturday off. But at least I can write it from this chair, in front of the VSpot Top 20 Countdown, and with this face peering at me in between naps:

Yesterday this face brought me a dried up, dead froggie.

Other

2008-07-22T13:49:00.008-04:00

Stone Mountain, Georgia. Home of the KKK, a carving of some confederate soldiers in a big piece of granite, and these apparently famous leather handbags that have been described to me as “like butter.”

Technically, I grew up in Lilburn, just on the Stone Mountain border. It was—still is!—a great place to raise a family. Relatively safe, suburban, fantastic public schools, and this Greek restaurant called Colossas where you can order the best gyro plate ever. (Hi, Dad!)

If I knew a Muslim kid living in Lilburn or Stone Mountain when I was 12, I didn’t know it.

There were a couple of Jews at Trickum Middle School. They were kinda different, but I didn’t really notice. We never talked about it.

The Catholic Kids were the ones who gave us real religious diversity. They were very different.

When I was in the 9th grade and announced to my history class that my family joined an Episcopalian church, this girl named Rachel said, “Piss Pail Again?! EW!”

Anything that wasn’t Baptist or Methodist was weird.

Some years later, I began to broaden my circle. I ended up seeking out different people in college (I’m easily bored), and now I’m happy to know people from all different faiths. But I can say this: We didn’t get religious education—in even a secular, non-threatening, historic way—when I was growing up. It’s hard to seek The Other if you don’t even know it’s out there.

It wasn’t until the Tall Professor taught a class called “World Religions” that I could even name the major faiths of the world. I have been known to cite that class as The One That Changed Everything for me. It’s not that I was a dummy; I just hadn’t learned. The notion of religious diversity was simply not taught in Stone Mountain, Georgia. I had zero understanding of Buddhism, Hinduism, or Baha’i. Never mind how deep and beautiful Jewish ritual is, or how vibrant Muslim life is. I certainly couldn’t articulate what made Jews, Christians, and Muslims different from one another, much less the things that make us so similar…

I’ve just recently spent two weeks with 24 kids—Muslims, Jews, and Christian middle-schoolers who came together from Israel, Palestine, and Atlanta to go to camp and become friends. We visited mosques, synagogues, Christian churches. We sang goofy songs about bananas. We were loud and hilarious. The boys fought over girls and they didn’t always clean up after themselves. The girls taught each other how to braid and stayed up whispering until the sun came up. They learned how to cuss in Hebrew and Arabic. They went swimming. They kept kosher. They are 12.

Kids4Peace is a powerful program, especially for those of us raised in a culture that tells us that anything that is unlike us is weird or sinful or wrong. K4P works because it's not defensive or bitter about our differences, rather it embraces them. K4P works because, with very little poking or prodding, the values we share float to the surface and unite us. It’s not a political program or evangelical/recruitment tool. It is relationship-based. And we're gettin' 'em while they're young. We're blowing stereotypes right out of the water before most of them even know what the word “stereotype” means. And now, there are 24 kiddos out there who will embrace The Other, who will find truth and beauty in other faiths, and who will ultimately find their own faiths stronger than ever. They don’t have to wait until they’re in college and reading about World Religions from textbooks in order to learn from other faiths. Instead, they learn from each other. They learn from their friends.

And then they make farts with their armpits. Some things are universally 12.

catch

2008-07-18T17:11:00.007-04:00

I blame two dozen eleven- and twelve-year-olds for the two hours I just spent cleaning up the yard.

Due to some unusually wacked-out storms (rain unlike we’ve seen up in these here parts in at least a year) and nearly a month of neglect, there was a jungle of weeds and grass in my yard, waiting for me upon my return from CULTIVATING WORLD PEACE WITH CHILDREN. I thought that if I ignored the jungle an angry but well-meaning neighbor might opt for Good Karma and just Fix It in the middle of the night. That didn’t happen. Instead, I lost Bananapants in the weeds this morning and decided that action—on my part—must be taken post haste. For the puppies. I did it for THE PUPPIES.

Anyway.

After nearly three solid weeks of 24/7 youth and mission work, I have plenty of fodder for the blogosphere swimming around up there. You've already read what I had to say about the teenagers and the Gulf Coast. (If not, scroll down to or click here, lazies, for "h o p e" and then "found".) Now, I’m working on honing one good, concise piece about Kids4Peace, the program for which I’ve been a spiritual director and counselor since January. All of our work culminated into two weeks of play and work with 24 kids from Jerusalem and Atlanta. We came together to learn and grow and stuff, all in an effort to build grassroots world peace. Sounds lofty, right? Well, it’s not. It’s possible. And when I finish the yard, and after I process it all out just a little bit more, I’ll tell you how. Just gimme a minute to catch my breath and clean out my fingernails.

It’ll be worth the wait, Dad.

solution

2008-07-16T11:26:00.002-04:00

THE GIRL EFFECT:

found

2008-07-07T15:20:00.002-04:00

My group’s Google map led us to a public park overlooking the Mississippi sound, and the instructions on our post-it note simply said, “Weed.”

Since Katrina, public recreation spaces have been largely ignored. City employees have been needed elsewhere; cutting the grass has not been a priority. The memorial park in Pass Christian was overgrown completely. We had our work cut out for us.

Not to mention that we had 27 pissed off teenagers on our hands. They wanted to work on houses and deal with people. They wanted to handle power tools and paint brushes. Yard work was NOT their idea of CHANGING, LIKE, THE WORLD. There was a crapstorm of crappitudes at the park that first day: “No one cares about this effin place.” “This effin sucks, Wendy.” “Why did we even bother effing getting the eff up?” “I hate this effing shithole.” Eff. Eff. Eff.

But us old people were actually kinda happy right from the start. We overlooked water and there was a breeze cutting through the million-degree weather. All of us knew how to dig or pretend to dig, so we did. We got our knees dirty and started pulling up this awful torpedo grass stuff that has roots, long and white, that are strong as hell. This stuff could pierce its way through tarps and rubber and maybe my hand if I held it to the ground long enough. Mutant coastal weed.

You can imagine the marijuana jokes that ensued over the course of the next three days.

Hour after hour, we sat and pulled and pulled. Over time, our work shifted from weeds to grass to edging. We cleaned up the playground, the gazebo, and the sandbox. And this weird thing happened—as we cleaned, people showed up. Literally, as the three of us in the sandbox dusted off our butts and took up our garbage sacks, four children made running leaps into the sand. The goodness was tangible.

I spent a lot of time walking the park, checking on the clusters of young people working to make things bright and beautiful. At some point, the collective attitude took a turn for the better. The bitching was replaced with giggling and matchmaking and macho-talk and gossip. Among the weeds, relationships formed between them. And, eventually, they each had a relationship to the park. They learned to love it, and in return, the park looked loved. When it was all said and done, I actually thought they’d be sad to leave it, but they weren’t: “It’s not ours,” said one formerly aloof punk, “it’s theirs.” I love it when teenagers shut up and get it.

When Digger—another leader on the team—and I were in the bed out front, she kept finding shit. A beer can full of brown water, some string, and a bouncy ball were among her finds. She also found an Easter Egg. It was hot pink with a sticker about Lovin’ Jesus as the inside prize. We giggled with delight. Treasures were everywhere.

h o p e

2008-07-01T00:09:00.012-04:00

We were in direct sunlight doing manual labor for four straight days. My hair is blonder, my face is redder, and there are new stains of paint and soil on some of my most worn, loved clothes.

And we weren’t alone. Along with youth ministers and teenagers from all over the southeast, there were The Survivors. Men and women and kids who lived through, at least in body and certainly in spirit, Hurricane Katrina.

Life on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi doesn’t look anything like it did on August 28th, 2005, the day before the storm. That Sunday residents may have been found stocking up on water and bread. Some of them boarded up their windows. They bought extra batteries. It wasn’t enough.

You’ve all read and seen and heard about the devastation. You’ve seen pictures of people clinging to treetops, wading in shit water, standing on the mounds of garbage that used to be home. Most of those images were taken nearly three years ago in the immediate wake of the storm. Those pictures will be in history textbooks one day.

The first six to twelve months following the storm brought in masses of outsiders—volunteers and aid workers bombarded the area and began to help the people put their worlds back together. And the national government, in its own special way, did what it could. It was unprepared and often sloppy. Local governments did what they could, too. Mistakes were made. They always are.

But. The volunteers. Hippies and professionals and old people and young people. Skilled people, fat people, lonely people, bored people. Religious groups. Grassroots groups. Men and women. Gays and straights. Black, white, yellow. Solid gold. People passing out water, people with hammers, people making grits, people in hazmat suits braving the mold. The People have spoken by showing up.

It’s been almost three years since that storm. The volunteers keep coming. And this week, they were us. Over one hundred Episcopalians—young people and their ministers from all over the southeast—came together at Mission On The Bay in Bay St. Louis where the buildings of Christ Church used to be. The marble baptismal font survived. So did the bell tower.

And the people, the Church, they survived too. Buildings may be gone, but the Church withstands.

Anyway. There we sat under a Quonset hut on the slab of concrete that continues to be the foundation of Christ Church’s sanctuary and nave. We sang and prayed and even played a little, and then we were sent out in groups of nine or ten to different sites. We were handed manila folders with Google maps to neglected public parks, unfinished new homes, ruined old homes, littered beaches. Driving around, we found that everywhere is like a war zone or a third world country or a construction site.

The Bishop of Mississippi calls Hurricane Katrina an "equal opportunity destroyer." No one was spared. Today, the poorer neighborhoods look like the storm hit yesterday. The middle-class areas are slow to return, but life is humming with the buzz of power tools. The upper-class has replaced their old family mansions with new, fancypants mansions. The more money you have, the more likely you are to appear Back To Normal. The less money you have, the more Normal looks different. The people of Working Mississippi get up everyday and work on their homes. It’s What They Do Now. Rebuild has become a way of life. It is what it is. And we got to be a part of it for five short days.

Suffice it to say, I am still processing. I have one-million things to say and another hundred stories to tell. My sunburned brain is still sorting a lot of it out. Over the next few days—despite yet another mission commitment—I plan to write a lot about our brief stay in Mississippi. Some of it might even make it on this here blog. But, in the meantime, I shall remember this: Suffering makes Endurance happen, and that leads to Character which brings Hope. And that’s Biblical.

comfort

2008-06-21T09:33:00.012-04:00

A useless, random story for your Saturday:

When I moved to General Seminary the summer of 2001, I had the smallest room ever--Dodge 4bSouth. It was on the top floor of a four-story walk-up and TBTG it faced the park-like Close. It was maybe 500 square feet, no closet, with a beautiful, space-sucking fireplace. BUT. It had the best windows. They took up almost the entire south wall, and on my best days, I felt like I was living in a sunsoaked treehouse.

Like most poor people who move to New York, I had to get creative about space. By the end of my first year, I acquired an old, lop-sided futon that became my bed, and with the help of the fathership a "closet" was fashioned in the corner with fixed shelving and a rod for the hanging clothes (hi Dad!). The room actually morphed into comfortable and cozy space, and more often than not the two other women on the hall--Tee and Acme--congregated in my room for gossip and evening prayer (yes, we prayed in seminary, but only in Lent).

The sitting-space grew when my ever-resourceful momma in Georgia found a sixty-five lb., kinda comfortable, foldout, foam love seat at a Pier 1. The Boy I Spent All My Time With (that name doesn't work...let's call him Cletus) went with me on a NYC Furniture Hunt and we found the same piece at a store in midtown. I clearly remember Cletus--a man of great decorum and taste--pretending he thought it was lovely. "You don't have to ever, ever sit on it," I said. He looked relieved.

It was delivered 14 hours later in a box on the back of a kinda puny delivery guy. He laughed his way up all four floors, so proud to be carrying an entire piece of furniture by himself. I gave him a $10 tip, and it was easily the best day of his life.

I named the love seat Big Blue almost instantly, and she's been with me ever since.

In Delaware, Sal took over Big Blue and claimed it as her own. Since then, it's been the doggie seat in our home, and this week it is the location of your Saturday Girls Pic. You probably don't want to sit on Big Blue when you come over, but you might want to squeeze these snugglibumps:

Could Brown Dog be less interested in having her picture taken?

**UPDATE: Nearly six hours after this post first published, The Yellow Nutbrain PEED ON BIG BLUE. It's almost as though she got jealous of Big Blue's Saturday blog attention... Remind me not to blog about suede, the backseat, or my ipod without running it by her first.

visit

2008-06-19T10:05:00.004-04:00

PC is anything but politically correct. She lives in a tiered retirement community out in the middle of nowhere and she’s been a member of this church for a million years. She swears she knows no one, but you get her talking and she starts name dropping all over the place. She rides around on one of those motorized wheelchair jobbies, and it’s impossible to find her because she, as she says, “rolls the wheels right off this piece of shit.”

She’s tough as nails. You know those big nails they use to build railroads? Really more like stakes. Steaks? No, stakes. She's made of those big nail stake things used by the railroad makers. Tough.

Bowler took me with her on a pastoral visit to meet PC yesterday afternoon. “You will love this woman, Wendell,” she kept telling me.

“We’ll see…” I’d joke.

“NO. REALLY. She’ll be your ALL TIME FAVORITE.” (Bowler speaks in all caps 90% of the time.)

When we pulled up, PC was outside smoking just steps away from someone’s oxygen tank. Bowler whipping us into a parking spot yelled, “THERE SHE IS! HAVING A CIG! HURRY! LET’S! CATCH! HER! BEFORE! SHE WHEELS BACK INSIDE!”

We did catch her, and with her we sat for about a half hour. She made a couple inappropriate comments (like when Bowler said she was going to a funeral for a friend who died two months ago, PC said, “He must be good and ripe by now.”). She smoked another cigarette, and gossiped about the other residents. She kept covering her mouth when she loudly said things like “ass” and “goddamn.” She was crass and hilarious and when we asked her how she was really doing she said, “I’m pissed as hell. Aggravated to death. I mean death. I’m done with this bullshit.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I need this surgery and there’s nothing to do about it, that’s what I mean. Doctors don’t give a shit and I’m aggravated to death.”

“Can we pray with you?” Bowler asked. And I thought to myself, Riiiiight…I’m here to pray with her. With all of the juicy gossip talk, I’d almost forgotten that I was a praying priest person there to provide care.

So, we each took a hand and right there between the buzz of someone else’s oxygen tank and a public ashtray, we prayed. Bowler was the opening act, and I closed us out. We sat there with this big, crass, cussing woman and prayed tenderly. We thanked God for her tenacity, her courage, her faith. We thanked God for that motorized wheelchair, that cigarette, and her friends. Then we got bold. We asked God to keep her out of pain, to walk with her, to be so present in her life that she never doubts God’s presence. We asked God to keep her safe and comfortable. We were audacious enough to ask for radical healing. We were praying so hard that I could feel my heartbeat in my forehead and PC’s pulse in my hands.

When I opened my eyes she was weeping. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, wetting the collar of her mumu. Bowler and I both reached up and rubbed the tears into her leather face before we wiped the tears from our own eyes. “God is good,” PC said. We exchanged awkward wheelchair hugs and left her there to smoke another smoke.

“Holy Ground,” said Bowler as we climbed into the car.

“Absolutely,” I responded. Dang, if it meets my feet when I least expect it.

gag

2008-06-14T23:23:00.008-04:00

I haven't posted a single thing since last Saturday's doggie pic. I have, like, seven documents in progress, all of which are minimized right now on my own little screen. They suck.

My dogs do not suck, but they do have The Sick this week. It all started with a potent, middle-of-the-night, shit explosion. This made for two trips to the vet, one i.v. drip, one TUBE of anti-diarrheal GEL (meat. flavored. gel. in. a. tube.), and plenty antibiotics to go around. Why? WHHHHHHY? What was the cause of this fiasco? What could have POSSIBLY gotten into their systems? WHAT DID THEY EAT?

Rotten outdoor kitty poop.

Isn't it weird how a dog will sniff for hours in search of the perfect 10-inch plot of earth to dump on, but they don't think twice about EATING CAT POOP?

Anyway. Fast forward to Thursday afternoon in the backyard. The girls are feeling fine and we're throwing the ball around and suddenly The Big Brown Dog lets out a yelp that is not to be described. I imagine that it's spelled kinda like this:

"MMMMWWWAAALLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOW."

Yeah, that's the noise a dog makes when she RIPS HER TOENAIL CLEAR OUT OF ITS BED.

The vet gave her a shot of tequila, cleaned up her foot, and bandaged it right up:

This picture was taken seconds before she passed out, standing up, leaning against a wall.

unbirthday

2008-06-07T11:28:00.002-04:00

My little, yellow, Nanasmootches turns 6 months old today. She can hardly stand it:

exactly

2008-06-05T21:18:00.002-04:00

Please see what my friend Rev. Dr. Mom has to say to Hillary Clinton in light of this week's events. There's no way I could've said it so clearly. I don't talk as good as her does.

Rev. Dr. Mom: An open letter to a candidate#links

impulse

2008-06-05T14:31:00.003-04:00

From yesterday's marathon instant messenger exchange between Raisin and me:

Me: THE R.E.M. TICKETS HAVE ARRIVED!
Raisin: DO NOT PUT THEM IN YOUR MOUTH, WENDY.
Me: (too late.)
Raisin: *sigh*

entitled

2008-06-02T12:21:00.007-04:00

From behind the wheel of her luxury sports utility vehicle, she almost wiped out a mother and a baby. She parked in front of the Starbucks in a spot that wasn’t even a spot and left her lights on.

She never took off her sunglasses, even after she entered the store. I have a hard time trusting people who wear sunglasses inside.

I watched her stand in line. She seemed anxious and pissed off from where I stood. One pointy-toed shoe taptaptapping, one blue tooth ear thingy blinking and wedged in her ear, one hand digging through her very large, very designer bag. She’s a big, huge woman—not fat, just really tall and thick with lots of blond hair. Perfect posture, puffy lips, and shiny, almost black fingernail polish. She exuded what I like to call a Heightened Sense of Self Importance. She could kick my ass.

And then. She approached the counter and ordered THE MOST RIDICULOUS DRINK I’VE EVER HEARD.

“Venti, half-skim, half-2%, 200-degree, double shot hot chocolate with two-inches of room at the top for half-and-half.”

The barista, a man I’ve grown quite fond of, tried to call it back to her. He failed.

“No. I said venti, half-SKIM, half-TWO PERCENT, TWO-HUNDRED DEGREE, DOUBLE shot, hot chocolate with TWO-INCHES of room.”

“Ma’am, we don’t really specialize our coffee by “degree.”” (Yeah, he used quote fingers with the word “degree”.)

“Well, I get it every day at the Starbucks near my house. Please move my cup to the front of the line. I’m in a hurry.”

“Ma’am, we’re really, really busy this morning. We’ll fix your drink the way you want it, but you’ll have to wait.”

“I’ll be outside on an important phone call,” she said. “Please have someone bring it to me while I wait there.”

She paid and moved on.

I am proud that my friends at my local Starbucks managed to keep from shooting snot rockets into her drink. I can't say I would have had the same restraint.

"Well, that was entertaining," the stranger to my left said as we waited for our own drinks.

"It was something," I said.

I found myself praying to God for some compassion. Some love. Some Something. I needed some magic manna God Substance to remind me that even this Blond Amazon Beast Witch Woman has got Love Stuff in her. I want to be able to look into her eyeballs with enough grace that I can see Jesus. But she has to meet me half-way. The sunglasses have got to go.

firstborn

2008-06-01T09:29:00.006-04:00

When Sal was away at camp last week so Nan could heal, I missed her so much I couldn't sleep. Her weight on the back of my legs in the middle of the night reminds me that I'm not alone and I feel like it keeps me safe. Sigh. She's my big, brown girl.

The hair around her little nose is getting grey and I've switched her over to senior food. She slows down sooner when we're playing with the yellow ball, and she's tougher to wake from her all-day naps. All reminders that she's getting up there in age. When I think about it too hard, I cry a little--I want her to live forever. But then I remember the woman who stopped to talk to us on a walk not long ago. The woman who'd just laid to rest her 17-year-old chocolate lab: "She lived long because we loved her too much. Spoiled her rotten."

Sounds good to me.

represent!

2008-05-29T15:12:00.007-04:00

I hope my inner child looks like Bowler’s daughter, Lew. She’s a leggy ten-year-old who talks real fast in a vocabulary far beyond a sixth-grade reading level. She loves her friends and her parents and her sister and tree houses. She’s feisty and giggly and her cheeks appear to be made of the same stuff used to grow caramel apples. Hugging her is like hugging homemade bread, and when she laughs I can literally feel my soul swell. I love this kid.

She’s wicked crazy smart—one of those kids who devours books and holds details behind a hot-pink trapdoor in her brain. She’s a little all over the place, too. Maybe this is why I identify with her. Talking to her is like trying to jump rope and drive a racecar at the same time.

So, between the two of us, we’re all over the conversation map. Yesterday, within seven minutes, our conversation covered the way toilets flush on the other side of the equator, why Beth had to die in Little Women, why she should be able to drink cappuccino before she turns 16, and why I prefer Cheerios to Fruit Loops. Her brain is fast and complex, and I'm just wacky enough to keep up.

Lew graduated from the fifth grade last week and won so many medals that when she walked it sounded “JUST LIKE jingle bells!” When Bowler called to tell me about it, she oozed out proud motherstuff: “Wendy, I’m not exaggerating. She won more awards than any other kid.”

“Lemme talk to her,” I said.

“WENDELL! I won SO MANY MEDALS! I sound JUST LIKE jingle bells!”

“Lew, I’m so proud of you I can hardly stand it. Tell me all about it.”

“Well, I won the This Award and the That Award and an award for Whatever and Whoever and You Know!”

“SO MANY!” I observed.

“AND WENDELL?”

“YES, LEW?!”

“Itotallywontheimportantprindnbabdnandawardnd,” she said.

“HUH?!”

“THE PRINCEDONALDREWARDEDTON.”

“Lew, dear. Sleeeeeeeoooooowwwww doooooooowwwwwwn.”

“I. Won. THE. PRINCIPAL’S. AWAAARD-D-D.”

She went on to explain that it’s the highest award given at her school. It is given to the student who embodies the perfect balance of citizenship and academia. Then she told me that most of the people who won awards were boys.

“I felt like I was representing all girls everywhere! It was awesome.”

I don’t care what the experts on the Today Show say. Women are competitive creatures. We might not show it like the men do. I mean, we don’t have to play sports or video games or whatever (though I know women who enjoy both); our competitions are not as explicit. We’re full of guile when it comes to competition. We’re slicker and subtler than the men. We’re constantly sizing up ourselves to other women—who’s the thinnest, the smartest, the most successful. Who can balance career, kids, and clean home the best. Who is friends with whom, who sits alone, who has the best hair. Who doesn’t need botox, who can eat like Seabiscuit without gaining an ounce, who goes to the gym, who’s wearing the right shoes.

And Lew blew all of that out crap of the water. She didn’t say, “I won! I’m awesome!” She said, “We all won! We’re all awesome!”

It’s true. Girls Rule. Way to go, Lew. Thanks for keeping me humble and reminding me that I’m awesome. At the same time.

freedom

2008-05-27T14:36:00.007-04:00

This is HRH Banananutmuffin minutes before we left for the vet this morning to have the staples removed from her belly. She had no idea that she was about to be liberated.

And here she is minutes after arriving home. Her ears have never felt wind like this before.

And I know, I know. I like to post pics of the fluffysnugglewobblers on Saturdays, but the internets have been broken at home. This makes me watch more Law & Order and post less on the blog. More later. Or, as the kids would say, L8r.

unclench

2008-05-17T18:23:00.013-04:00

It took me 97 minutes to drive 8.2 miles.

On the way to my final destination, I was passing Sally off to her grandpa for a week at camp so Nana can heal from her ovariohysterectomy (new favorite word) without an old dog around waiting to be provoked. I was running late, so my gracious fathership suggested to meet at the corner of Scott and N. Decatur in the Rite Aid parking lot. And though that seems easy enough to you, I was on the verge of some kind of nervous, psychotic break.

“D A D” is how I answered the phone.

“Pooh bear! Where are you!?” He always, ALWAYS sounds full of cheer.

“I’m at that point where I start saying the serenity prayer.” I hadn’t moved more than ten feet in fifteen minutes, and it was raining sheets of mean, wet cats.

The truth is that when I need the serenity prayer I can never remember it. How does it go?

Hey, God? Grant me the wisdom to grant myself strength to not change the courage that I may or may not have regarding change in general, but most importantly I wonder if I even know the difference. Amen.

Whatever. I've been trying to say it for the past 20 days, and the right words never come. I HATE the serenity prayer more than traffic because it's too complected. And it rings too true. Shut up.

The point is that I think I am beginning to start accepting that I might need to maybe admit that I am probably a bit of a control freak.

Here's where I need to start whining, because, y'all, May has been a rough month. I’m ready for it to be over, over, over and done with. The past ten days have been a whirlwind of chaos—personally, professionally, and globally.

Kids fall down and brothers grow up. The earth quakes in China. Children die. Traffic sucks. Neil Diamond is at the top of the charts, for crying out loud. Tornadoes happen and hundreds of thousands of people die. And at home my internet access has been spotty. And I've been to the vet nineteen times in the past three days. And gas is seven dollars a gallon. And we're at war. And Hillary won't just drop out already. And the milk went bad.

And, how.

The collar around my neck doesn’t grant me any more control than before. I can’t fix a thing. I can’t stop an earthquake anymore than I can prevent a child from falling out of a tree. I can change policy all the livelong day, but that doesn’t change behavior or the weather or the expiration date on my milk for that matter. I can’t spin mud into gold. I can’t pound rocks into diamonds. I can’t change anyone’s mind about anything unless they’re ready to change themselves. I ain’t got nothing.

And despite what I sometimes think, Fixing Things isn’t my job. Sure, The People want to hear what I have to say about natural disasters and global crisis. And sure, I’m spending my nights in emergency rooms and my days in meetings about trifles. But despite expectations (of others and, most of all, my own) I’m not in charge. I’ve got zippo control.

Being a priest is ridiculous, awesome work for one million reasons. This week, I can’t help but be swept up by the expectation to Maintain Total Control and the still, slow reality of having absolutely none.

And yet. I remember that, despite what I sometimes say, I love this work. I am called to be right here, right now. So are we all. Living in the gray. Knowing nothing, having everything, knowing the difference. Spinning plates about details. Staying up late with people in crisis. Putting on A Show once a week with the same lines and the same stale bread, and trusting that The Show will resonate Life for someone, anyone. Remembering that here, in the West, our shit stinks too. Raising awareness of what the world looks like; raising money for people other than ourselves; finding the broken and realizing that we are they. I bless Kroger-brand olive oil and I duct-tape my Bible. And as the days grow longer and the heat grows stronger, I keep wearing black. It’s what I do.

And I pray. It doesn’t change God, but it changes me. Keeps me in perspective. Scales down my own narcissism. Makes me small. Prioritizes. I might not be able to remember the serenity prayer, but I am never at a loss for words:

Dear God. Just be present with me now, okay? Give me the audacity to speak when no one else can. Give me the foresight to shut up when I should. Help me remember that you Love me even when I suck. I’m in control of nothing but this prayer, right? Amen.

(Oh. PS. If you could make this traffic move right now, I’ll promise to relinquish control-freak-tendencies tomorrow. And I’ll give up bartering for Lent next year. Amen, for real now.)

fixed!

2008-05-17T14:10:00.007-04:00

Pre-ovariohysterectomy:

Post-ovariohysterectomy:

example

2008-05-13T15:49:00.006-04:00

I live down the street from the church where I work and across the street from the playground of the church's dayschool. The kids call me "Pastor Wendy."

This conversation JUST HAPPENED. Sal and I are in the front yard cutting grass. Playing Boy & Girl are across the street playing with sticks and jump ropes:

Playing Girl: HEEEY PAAASTOR WEEENDY!

Playing Boy: PAAAAAAAASTOR WEEEEEENDEEEEEE!

Playing Boy & Girl: PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR WEEEEEEEEEEEENDEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Me: [cutting off lawn mower.] Hey, Boy & Girl! What's up?

Boy: Where's Banana? What's Sally doing? What are you doing?

Me: Nana's inside. Sally's following me around. I'm cutting my grass. What are you doing?

Girl: Playing outside. Hey, Pastor Wendy?

Me: Hey, Girl?

Girl: Why are you doing that?

Me: Because if I don't my neighbors will think I'm a yard slob.

Girl: But why are YOU doing it?

Me: Because it's MY yard. Who cuts your front yard?

Boy: I don't know.

Girl: Uuuummmmm....A man. Do you want my mom to call him to cut your grass for you?

Me: No thanks.

Girl: But I didn't think that girls cut grass.

Boy: Pastor Wendy isn't a girl!

Girl: [clobbers boy in the arm.] YES SHE IS. SHE WEARS EARRINGS.

hereyago

2008-05-10T00:22:00.006-04:00

Happy Saturday Doggiblubberbabypups!

Big, wacky week for Mother Wendy. Pending post on the horizon. (And this is no empty promise, Dad.) Let's suffice it to say that, even though I am a parish priest, I'd forgotten that prayer is a big, huge thing. And it works in unexpected ways. Also, suffice it to say that I haven't slept much, and when I have the dreams have been about fast ambulances, donuts, flying saucers, and fountains of fuzzy socks. Exhaustion makes sleep weird, I reckon.

ole!

2008-05-06T11:23:00.000-04:00

In response to a million-hour Sunday and a pending late-night meeting, I took off the better part of yesterday afternoon. I spent some time with the doggiesnugglepups, made a three-thousand-million-dollar trip to Target (what?! I needed soap and toilet paper and fifteen-dollars worth of candles!), and had lunch at my favorite fancy-ish restaurant for my favorite Thai grilled chicken salad.

I sat at the bar with the New Yorker and a glass of wine, and I waited patiently for my favorite food to arrive. I feel comfortable in restaurants. I love the culture, server-talk, institutionalized hospitality. I chatted a little bit here and there with the bartender who is honing his wine-pairing abilities and who loves to travel, and I made a book recommendation to the woman sitting to my left. All in all, a lovely way to spend an hour.

Right after my food arrived, an elderly couple slo.w.l.y entered the restaurant. We all watched nervously as she climbed onto a barstool. He helped her gently. They were easily in their mid-late 80s. The bartender offered to sit them at a booth, and the man’s response was biting and clear—they wanted to sit at the bar, man, so let them sit at the bar. “We’re old, not incapable.”

Now, the bartender was especially amiable. Fast-forward seventeen minutes when the couple finally found themselves seated and comfortable, and that bartender had charmed his way into being the grandson they never knew they had. He poured them water and got them menus:

“We don’t need menus and I don’t drink water,” said the woman.

“No, we just need two strong margaritas,” said the man.

“How strong?” asked the bartender.

“More tequila than ice,” said the man.

“Cinco de Mayo!” said a nearby patron.

“Damn right,” said the man. “Damn. Right.”

Ole!

Ball!

2008-05-03T12:57:00.003-04:00

Look! I remembered to post a Saturday pic of the girls. This is a typical moment in our backyard.

In other news, I am going to have to go back on my promise to report on the latest Miley Cyrus Half Naked Fisaco. I have nothing intelligent to say, unless "UUUUGHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRHUUUUMPH" counts.

LAOS

2008-04-29T19:02:00.007-04:00

He looked in my eyes and gave me the clue from a sidewalk cafe in Amsterdam: "This country is an anagram of a synonym of a homophone of an even prime number."

The only even prime number is 2. TWO.
The homophone of TWO is TOO.
A synonym of TOO is ALSO.
An anagram of ALSO is LAOS.

So, just for the record, I figured out where in the world Matt Lauer will be during the Today Show in the morning. And I did it all by my little self. I didn't know whether to be THRILLED with myself or if I should, after publishing this post, ever show my face in public again. And then I remembered that my dad is the only one who reads this. He'll be so proud. (Hi, Dad!)

The Today Show plays a remarkably large role in my day-to-day operations. After another year of therapy, I might be able to analyze on this blog why I feel like I know Matt, Al, Meredith, and--even, Lord help me--Ann on an intimate level only comparable to the dearest of friends. I have had the same displaced feelings of friendship for musicians and radio personalities. For instance, Soterios Johnson from WNYC's Morning Edition. I. Love. Him. And I feel like I know him well enough to say that if he'd just give me a chance, he'd love me too. That's all I'm saying.

Anyway. Working on writing something intelligent about the latest Miley Cyrus Photo Fiasco. Stay tuned, Dad.

kissifacespuddinbabies

2008-04-26T10:20:00.003-04:00

I'm going to start posting pics of the girls every Saturday. I just can't help it.

I've been totally suckered by the little one. Clearly:

They don't fit in my pockets.

Sigh.

8:35am

2008-04-24T11:02:00.001-04:00

Barista: One Venti 2-Pump Hazelnut Non-fat Latte for Madre!

Me: Oh! I guess that's me! Thanks!

Barista: The force be with you.

Me: And also with you.

Barista: Amen.

current

2008-04-23T14:15:00.009-04:00

My first openly gay friend was this hysterical, skinny guy named Sam. We spent a couple sessions together as camp counselors the summer we were sixteen. One afternoon we were at Bruster’s eating ice cream cones bigger than your head when he said, “You know I’m gay, right?” And I was all like, “Uh, yeah. You know you’re gay, right?” And he was like, “I’m gayer than gay. Look at that girl’s fake tan. How embarrassing.” And that was that.

We spent the bulk of that summer working for the county’s parks and recreation department. We were slaves—the county government, ridiculous paperwork, entitled parents, glue guns too hot for the kids to use, and a relentless schedule of four-square, bad crafts, and swim lessons made up the rulers of our summer roost. We survived on nothing but field trips to Chick-fil-a, one another’s friendship, and a mutual love for 80’s music.

Eventually, the summer ended. Sam went back to where ever he came from, and I went back to school to begin a very dramatic junior year. We were penpals for about seven minutes (real letters with stamps and everything), and then we lost touch. Any second now, I’m expecting to find him through the wonders of the Online Crack Community, but so far my attempts have turned up nothing but a 20-year-old with the same name—first and last—living in Wisconsin who, according to his picture, enjoys taking shots of vodka from the cleavage of a nameless Asian woman. Definitely not my Sam.

It wasn’t until I ascended The Hill for college that it even began to occur to me that Sam might not be welcome through the gates of Heaven. Maybe it was my naiveté, but I just hadn’t quite picked up on the Gay Hate in the world. From the little I could glean about God from the Bible, homosexuality was a non-issue. Christians are about love and peace, right? Church is for everyone, right? Jesus was an equal-opportunity kinda God, right? Right?!

But the more I was there, the more I could peer into the massive gulf between the Super Duper Christians (SDCs) and everyone else. By my sophomore year, I was torn—could I be a Christian AND someone who has gay friends AT THE SAME TIME?

Now, I must come clean. I did go through an hour-long SDC Phase. Somewhere in the middle of my very first semester I wanted to belong to something—anything!—so damn badly that I learned the language and tried to hang out with the SDCs. But as all things inauthentic to me, it didn’t stick. Bible studies and praise-and-worship-sing-a-longs went kinda in one ear and out the other. I wasn’t hearing God the same way everyone else seemed to be hearing God. I was too distracted by the cute boys playing the guitar to pray.

I started walking away from prayer circles when I got honest about what I did and didn’t buy into. I never believed in my heart that Sam or I—or anyone!—had to “get saved” in order to get in. I believed then as I do now that there’s nothing to be saved from other than our own darkness and ignorance and fear—we only have to wake up to feel the Love. The death and resurrection of Jesus didn’t change God’s mind about us, it didn’t reconcile God to anything; rather it is meant to be a window into God’s Love for us that has always been there for everyone.

The fundamentalist Christian perspective is laced with the rhetoric of exclusion. You believe that you are worthless without Jesus, or you’re out. You believe that God penned every word of the Bible, or you’re out. You believe that women have no authority, or you’re out. You believe that homos are living in sexy, nasty sin, or you’re out. What’s it that Heidi says on Big Gay Project Runway? “Either you’re in, or you’re out.” And that’s the worldview we’re talking about here. Look like us, think like us, live like us? You’re in. Otherwise, you’re out.

So, my hour as an SDC passed. And next thing I knew I was a religion major with the ring-leaders of the SDCs and I was standing in the middle of the rushing river of conservative Christianity. Just standing there, trying to block the current.

And I was standing there with my friends, with my community. A gay man from the theatre department who could sing like Ethel Merman. A group of solid, beautiful women who worked at the rape crisis center where I volunteered. My friend Kendra—a soul sister/transfer student who found me our junior year while she was looking for the mailroom and a safe place to cuss. Just to name a few.

…Eventually, I realized that there were actually more people than I thought who erred on the side of inclusion. Good news! The household of God has no limits, no boundaries. Sure, in church we have to have values and standards to define us. But God’s eyes see everyone. God’s palm holds us all.

My friend Friday refers to this kind of inclusion as God’s Kin-dom. We get to all be connected, like kin, like brothers and sisters, seeking truth, finding God, loving each other as best as we can.

Last week, a heated debate on a discussion board in the Online Crack Community gave me the strength to climb back onto this particular high-horse. A bunch of alumfolk from The Hill found ourselves debating the gay thing and Bible semantics. And it’s clear to me that for conservative Christians homosexuality is justified as a sin because of a handful of Bible verses. (Same can be said about women like me who bear authority in church. Oops!) To some others of us, it’s not a sin. It's DNA. And we don’t think that a couple of verses get to dictate who God welcomes into the Kin-dom.

We get chummy and pat ourselves on the back for having the conversation. We make ourselves feel better when we say things like this: “Let’s agree to disagree!” Or, “We’re just never going to read scripture the same way,” because, “the people on this side of the line read the Bible like it’s word-for-word from God, and the people over here don’t.” But what we're really doing is simplifying this deeply humane issue by taking the humane piece right out. Wow, we're not just simplifying it, we're making hateful behavior okay.

It's. Not. Okay.

Christians are the MASTERS of taking the person right out of the issue… Crap, we hear it all the time, don’t we? “Love the sinner, hate the sin.”

Well, I’m here to say that’s bunk bull dookie crapola.

Ask any gay man or woman if they are loved when their “friends” tell them that they’re living in sin and going to hell.

Ask any woman if love is really at the core of why she can’t be ordained.

Ask any black man or woman if their parents felt the love when they sat in school, un-integrated.

These exclusions from the Kin-dom have been and still are justified in the name of scripture, in the name of Christ. Instead, I wonder what it would be like if we asked ourselves why we’re afraid to be so diverse. Why radical hospitality to the other scares us.

I woke up this morning thinking about Sam. That hilarious, hot summer I rode around in his Ford Taurus, listening to Cyndi Lauper, eating waffle fries. We bitched about our job and loved on first graders and played in the rain and doctored one another’s glue gun burns. He was a temporary friend, but a good one nonetheless. The first Real Live Gay Person I’d ever known, and because it was never, ever in my head that it could be wrong, I didn’t even consider excluding him. He wasn’t a threat or a disease. Just a guy. A friend. And such innocence and oblivion to how hard his life was going to be aided us both well. Because I didn’t know that it was the norm to judge him, I didn’t.

If being gay is so innately wrong, wouldn’t have my intuitive reaction been to shut Sam out? Probably. And what a shame that would have been. Not just for him, but for me, too.

I get to be righteous about homophobia because it is a justice issue. I get to be righteous about this because we’re talking about the dignity of human beings. We’re talking about what it means to see God’s face in one another. We’re talking about my friends. And God’s friends. God’s people. People made, wonderfully and beautifully.

I’m not backing down on this one. I’m not stepping out of the current.

SPEECHLESS

2008-04-23T08:20:00.004-04:00

Did you see the author of this book interviewed by Matt this morning? DID YOU SEE IT? Have you read this article? REALLY. A CHILDREN'S book about MOMMY'S NOSE JOB & TUMMY TUCK? ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Good Lord, Deliver Us.

meantime

2008-04-19T10:09:00.005-04:00

This Banana doesn't appreciate the value of a good bath.

I are working on a sermon and a new post, so lucky for all two of you who read this blog (Hi, Dad!) there will be a wealth of new material for your reading pleasure soon and very soon. In the meantime, let HRH Princess Bananapants and The Venerable Lady Salliannidott keep your browser company.

heartbeat

2008-04-12T20:19:00.010-04:00

The truth is this: When I entered seminary I didn’t think I knew jackcrap about liturgy and worship. I certainly had nothing intelligent to say about it. That’s one of the thirteen billion reasons I picked General Seminary in New York City to be my seminary home. General carries a long-standing tradition of excellence in liturgical training. There are, no exaggeration, like, 21 services a week in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd.

The best way to learn something is to live it. And the best way to live it is to show up.

So I did. Kinda. Eight o’clock in the morning isn’t exactly my finest hour. Naturally making it to Morning Prayer was a bit of a challenge. But. And. Anyway.

My point is that I learned about liturgy in the classroom and in the chapel, daily. I graduated in 2005 as ready as I’d ever be to be a priest who actually leads liturgy and presides over services and celebrates Eucharist. Dude, don’t get me wrong, I’m still learning; I’ll never know everything there is to know. But I can tell you that I’ve honed a style and a presence in worship that works for me right now, as I am, where I am.

By some of my brothers and sisters in different denominations, the structure of the liturgies found in the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer (BCP) have been criticized as too rigid, archaic, obsolete: “Y’all Episcopals don’t leave no room for the spirit!”

The liturgies of the Holy Eucharist, which in most places take place every Sunday morning, have been said to be too repetitive and predictable: “Y’all Episcopals just do the same thang every week! How boring!”

But I am here to say that there is grace in the structure. Something beautiful happens when you live liturgy like we do. The rhythm and the repetition becomes a heartbeat—a steady, constant thumpthump-thumpthump that gives life and energy, all in the name of God, Son, and Spirit. Good stuff, right?

Good liturgy makes time sacred. It honors God’s Timing—the Fullness of Time—cyclical time—everlasting, eternal time—better than any practice I can think of. The lectionary guides us through Word. The Sacrament of the Holy Table brings us into our story—God’s story—of thanksgiving and grace and love. We get to enact the moment that Jesus gave us The Great Commandment to Love one another as he came to Love us. That one, defining Love Moment--it's gigantic! And we get to enact it every time we gather for worship! Yay!

We pin-point the Love Moment (I mean the Last Supper, y'all) over and over again so it’s a part of our heartbeat…thumpthump-thumpthump… And holding onto that heartbeat is a year-long structure that guides us through the incarnation, death, and resurrection of Jesus. In Advent we wait for the birth. In Christmas and through Epiphany we celebrate the incarnation. In Lent we prepare with Jesus in the wilderness. We kinda countdown during Holy Week as we live the Last Supper, the Passion, and the Resurrection. And in Easter and beyond we recount the miracle through story and teachings over and over and over. Thumpthump-thumpthump.

See, we don't do the same thing every time we gather! We're moving through The Story of God's Love for US! Thumpthump-thumpthump. And every time we walk into a liturgy space, we come as a different people! Last week I felt full, this week I feel mournful. Three days ago I could've cared less, but today I need to be fed. There's always space for you in liturgy no matter how you are. There's always room for you to be fed. Besides, you can't stop beating, right? Thumpthump-thumpthump.

There's more! We weave in the important and beautiful liturgies of our lives in the midst of the year. Baptisms and weddings and funerals transform the linear events of our lives into God’s Time, The Fullness of Time. And those liturgies become a source for that heartbeat, a way to keep us together in community, a way to feel the rush of what God wants of us.

I believe that liturgy—which literally means The Work of the People—is the most important work we Christians do. It provides safety and space for us to gather in community. In liturgy and worship, we hear the Word and we gain the tools to proclaim that Word. We get the Holy Food and the Holy Drink for our journey, and from there we get going. We are called to be God’s hands and feet in this broken world, and we Episcopalians need our lifeblood--our liturgy!--to do that well. And so, we do. We get juice, we exchange handshakes and hugs, we get a little exercise, we hear Our Story, and then we process out of the red doors as One Body with One Heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Man, I love this stuff!

(Church geeks, raise your hands. Please. For the love of God, don't leave me hanging.)

1968

2008-04-04T09:06:00.006-04:00

Hatred paralyzes life; Love releases it.

Hatred confuses life; Love harmonizes it.

Hatred darkens life; Love illuminates it.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
(Januray 15th, 1929-April 4th, 1968)

(We remember. And some of us down here are working on it, Dr. King. We have our good days and our bad days, but this I know for sure: We're not giving up. )

collision

2008-04-03T00:46:00.015-04:00

One of my brothers, the one I’ll call Blazer, got married to the one I’ll call Clementine. Blazer and Clementine's Story is one not for me to tell, but I can tell some of the wedding story, the one that took place last weekend. Even though I left my glasses in Atlanta, I can tell you what it looked like from my eyes.

Blurry, surreal, and beautiful. It was full of new people and old people and new/old people coming together to dance and drink and pray and laugh on a field of citrus in Florida.

It was the last weekend of March, and right there in the middle of Florida, the happy two collided: Earthquakes happened and plates shifted and new continents formed into a bigger family, a wider community, for better for worse, etc, etc.

Porters were present. Mom and Daddy were there, beaming. And my baby brother, The Best Man, was there. I was there in the unique dual role as Sister/Priest.

I had a lot of lines in the midst of their collision. I had a lot of Official Words to say. Not the entire nuptial fiasco, but a lot of it.

For instance, I blessed a sizable quantity of food—countless pieces of steak, tilapia fillets, chicken breasts, potatoes, and stalks of asparagus. Not to mention the cake, the salads, and the soups: “Gracious, Beautiful God. We Love You. We Thank You For This Day….And this Food…To Our Use…Whathaveyou…YouknowwhatImean…Yadda…Yadda…Amen.”

I had other Official Words that didn’t just have to do with the delicious food. I was a part of the ceremony itself, after all. I bore witness to and guided The People and The Couple through the vows, the ring exchange, and some prayers. At one point, I stood over them—these two that I love, Blazer and Clementine kneeling before me—and on behalf of God and The People, I got to bless them in the name of God, Son, and Spirit. I got to. It was awesome.

So, I had a lot of speaking parts, and I almost entirely spoke those parts into the head of a microphone. My voice cracked a couple of times, but not a tear did I shed…

(Insert requisite egomaniac back-pat.)

…until I cried.

I was standing behind them as they cut the cake. It was precious. A young, blonde couple with pretty teeth smearing icing on one another’s chins, kissing it off, sweetly. But in that moment, Blazer reached his left hand to the back of his own neck for an innocent, unconscious scratch. There it was. His wedding band.

The single most reformed human being I’ll ever know, the one I watched grow up and change, the one I trust most in the world. My brother, scratching his head and wearing the Eternal Band around that finger on his left hand and—seriously, you may not believe me, but I swear to God in Heaven—the. ring. winked. at. me.

I lost it.

I had no words, no official role at that moment. I was simply the Sister of the Groom standing in the crowd of ooo’ers and awww’ers. Long after everyone else had shed their tears, I tapped into my own, and I lost them all. I wept like a big, fat, chubby baby in front of everyone and I might have looked like freaking moron, but whatever. While everyone was eating white cake, I was crying because my brother, my friend, one-third of the Porter Trifecta, was—is—married. He’s something New and Good and Different now. Blazer gets to be something that me and The Best Man can’t be yet. He gets to know this Marriage Thing…And, in the moment, there was nothing for me to be other than a proud weepy big sister. So, so proud. So, so weepy.

Before I was a priest. Before I was a writer. Before I was a waitress or a do-gooder or a beer drinker. Before almost everything that I am or will be, I am a big sister. And in that moment, while he cut the cake, I was nothing more or nothing less than that sister who loves her brother deeply and without explanation. It felt Good and Holy and Okay. There were no words.

After the cake-cutting, Mom and I made a trip to the bar. We hugged and walked it off. (Thanks, Mom.)

I came home on Sunday night, had a beer with my friend Raisin, and took really long nap.

Anyway. That’s what I did last weekend.

accelerate!

2008-04-01T21:06:00.009-04:00

This afternoon I threw down a Borders gift card and another $11.34 for the brand! new! r!e!m! album! As I said to someone else today, I am a clinger-on when it comes to music. Though I support the whole buying-the-new!-album!-online thing, I just couldn't bring myself to do it for this one. I need the anticipation. I need the pain and thrill of reading the reviews. I need to hold it in my hands. I need the liner notes.

"This is the best! day! ever! I am one of those geeks in the fanclub and I bought early-release tickets to the concert this morning and I have been living! for! this! very! moment! for! weeks! I don't even need a bag," I told the woman who I swear to god rolled her eyes at me. "Can you just open it up for me back there?"

"No," she said.

So I used my teeth in the parking lot, and stuffed the plastic in my pocket (be proud that I didn't litter), and I wrapped the sticky seal around my pinky, and I found myself shaking--seriously, trembling with thirll!--as I put it in my c.d. player.

I made it through the first four songs before I got home.

My sunroof was open, and I drove too fast, and it was all I could do to keep myself from pulling over and dancing like Molly Ringwald in a stranger's driveway on Northside Drive.

Few things in life make me this happy. Today was the perfect perfection storm: 70-degree-after-rain-springtime weather, a sunroof, a twisty road in a zippy car, and my! favorite! band! playing! songs! I've! never! heard! just! for! me!.

It was religious, dude. So, so, so good.

queso

2008-03-31T22:15:00.001-04:00

Moments like this might explain why I keep a notebook in my bag. This is what I wrote down just a couple of months ago...

There I am, waiting to pick up my to go order. The man at the bar says, "Are you an Episcopal priest? I'm Episcopalian!"

"I am! How'd you guess?"

"You look like one."

"I was just thinking that you look an awful lot like Ted Danson."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Looking like Ted Danson doesn't get me out of speeding tickets, though."

"Good call."

background

2008-03-26T20:34:00.011-04:00

I was a legacy on The Hill by simple virtue of my last name. I come from a long line of Porters who ascended that Big Baptist Hill for undergraduate studies, and it was—on the surface—a natural fit for me. Small, comfortable, nuthin fancy. But by the time I made it there in the fall of 1997, it was almost overrun by very conservative, faithful, Young Republican, prayerful, Lord Lovin, one-minded, Super Duper Christians (SDCs) who could actually hear the audible voice of God. Huh.

Hear me say this upfront: My SDC peers on The Hill were—are—good, devoted people who, like me, are doing the best they can with what they’ve got. I disagree with most all of them on very fundamental faith issues. Bottom line is that we read Scripture differently. At the end of the day we don’t see eye-to-eye on the essence and character of God, and the result of this conflict is sometimes as pleasant as chewing on moldy tinfoil while wearing a wet diaper on your face.

BUT. AND. I love them very much. Even the asshole ones. Turns out that conservative religious folk are people too--this was new to me. Living on The Hill among the SDCs forced me to form and articulate my own faithlife and religious understanding. Because of my time on The Hill, I learned how to live among people very different from me, and I learned how to actually like some of them. Some of them even ended up liking me, too. It must be my winning smile.

For the most part, the faculty was more regular-minded. I might classify most of them as moderate, but in comparison to the majority of the student body they were bra-burning, gay-lovin, spicy liberals. Like most college kids, I made very deep, meaningful friendships on The Hill, but the truth is that many of those friendships were with my professors, some random administrators, the man who ran the mailroom, and one very important, very misplaced secretary. It’s not that I didn’t graduate with friends who were also peers. I totally did, and I am still connected with many of them. But. For the most part I was among Them Heatherns, and We Heatherns had to either stand tall on very firm ground or fly under the radar. My laugh carries too far to dip under the radar. And I’m a bit of a fighter. So, you can imagine.

Oh, and did I mention that one very tall professor coerced me into being a religion major? He bribed me with circus peanuts dipped in honey and handed to me by his perfect blond children. He told me I was not dumb or crazy and that the religion department NEEDED ME. Crap. One of my buttons. He hit the one that should be paying for my therapy. Do you have that button, too? Mine’s flashing green and it reads I NEED TO BE NEEDED. Damn button.

I often wonder if I would be an Episcopal priest today if I had chosen to go to, I don't know, a college where it was normal to see doors propped open with cases of Bud Light. And even if I were a priest no matter what, after all...I wonder how I'd be different. I suspect that The Hill made me a better, more tolerant person over all. I also suspect that sometimes I'm a better priest for it. Being a religion major there certainly prepared me for seminary--The Tall Professor and his colleagues didn't exactly give us freebies, if you know what I mean. I worked pretty freaking hard, and I learned how to be (sometimes) successful in an academic environment.

Anyway. Now you have the four-minute version of some very important background information. While I continue to dabble in Bloggerdom, I just know that I’m going to have to share stories and anecdotes from my time on The Hill. It was formative and strange, and not exactly average. As always, I promise to change up names out of respect to the mean people I don’t talk to anymore and the nice people in my life with any remaining self-dignity.

In fact, as soon as I can wrap my brains around it, I want to tell you about Reds and Reenie. In the past month through the wonders of an on-line crack community, I’ve reconnected with them, and they’re my new favorite old friends. They were SDCs on The Hill. AND they’ve since come out of the closet. AND I collect people in Religion Recovery. AND I collect lesbians. My life just got thicker with goodness.

Stay tuned.

peep

2008-03-24T23:14:00.005-04:00

It was just an idea.

I wish I could say that not a single Peep was harmed for these photographs.

response

2008-03-22T10:36:00.019-04:00

Dear Caffeinated Priest,

Thank you for your Maundy Thursday blog post. I get it.

Here's what I remembered this week. (Of course, I'll have to tell nineteen stories to get to my point, so bear with me.)

On Holy Tuesday, at the renewal of ordination vows, I gave myself permission not to vest. I just wasn’t in the mood to look like this:

Actually, I wanted to look more like this:

So, there I am sitting seven rows back, behind the vested clergy, with a handful of other priests who, for whatever reason, also decided not to wear vestments for the service. I can't entirely explain why I didn't vest out... All I can say is that I wasn't Feelin It that day, you know? And as soon as I gave myself permission to not get fancy, I actually wanted to go. I wore my favorite black pants, my favorite black t-shirt, my collar bib, my converse tennis shoes and these kick-ass earrings that almost hit my shoulders. I felt good, like I was taking care of myself, like I could still be a priest and renew my vows without processing in a penguin parade of priests wearing schmancy outfits. Sometimes I feel like schmancing, sometimes I don't. And I guess I didn't want to make a big tadoozy over something that felt natural.

Do you remember the Wendy in seminary who didn’t want to be a priest? The Wendy who had no clue what it even meant, the Wendy who wasn't sure if she wanted/was called to be one, the Wendy who resisted All Things Clerical? I would have rather been telling poop jokes or faith stories over a beer on the lawn than reading Augustine or going to Morning Prayer. I struggled with--and continue to, for that matter--conformity, "fitting the mold", and discernment.

Ultimately, I got over myself just a tiny bit. I began to live into my call to be a Christian the day I realized that God made me pretty good. I didn't have to make any drastic changes to my overall personality to follow Jesus. And, dude, I love Jesus. And that's Okay. Oh, and then I realized that if I sat next to the right people in Morning Prayer could get away with telling poop jokes. The heavens split wide open.

And the moment (a very fullness-of-time moment) I began to accept myself as a priest was the moment I realized that (almost) anyone can do this job. But. The People had spoken and chosen. They picked me up under my armpits, set me to the side and said, "Hey, weirdo. You should do this for us." The cocktail that got me to ordination was equal parts the support and trust of others, with a heaping tablespoon of Holy Spirit and a splash of liquid Suckitup.

Remember the day we were ordained together? The cathedral was dark and we were wearing COLLARS under those white albs. I remember looking at us and thinking, "Damn. We look pretty good." And we did. To my surprise the collar suited me, and still does. You, too. It was like I found this old, soft glove that I'd never worn before but that fit me like it was made for my hand. It didn't feel like a noose. Color me full of surprises.

But I also remember that suddenly I stood out. Suddenly, even if some people couldn't immediately identify me as a priest, I looked different. Now I was physically set apart by what I was wearing. I had to begin learning how not to apologize for the church all of the time, because clearly I'm a member. I couldn't pretend to be a social worker or a waitress or a flight attendant when I talked to strangers on airplanes. I had to OWN it. SAY IT. It took some getting used to.

And remember the day we graduated from seminary? It was a perfect New York Day. Mid-May, sunny, breezy, happy. I had this fantastic moment in the middle of the commencement ceremony where I looked around at all of us--all of those strange and wonderful and sometimes awful and always devoted and faithful people in our class--and I thought, "Holy crap. Lookit what God did." And we prayed to Jesus and we sang to God and we got our hoods and hugged tight and got a little drunk. I learned tons of crap in seminary, but you know what I learned best? Nothing beats community life in the name of Jesus. It's hard and fun and it sucks and sometimes the food's not that great. And at the end of the day, when it seems like there's nothing left but the human condition, we can see Jesus in each other's eyeballs. Look real close. It's so good.

On Tuesday, I was glad for my friends and colleagues who dressed out. There's something beautiful about a line of people in regalia, and many of those people were my friends, my beautiful friends. I looked around me at the folks just wearing black shirts and collars, the folks who didn't want to be in the parade, and I was glad for us, too. We weren't sweating.

The clergy of Atlanta were all there--one mass of black and white--reminding each other in Word and Sacrament that we do what we do for the Love of Jesus. We put on whatever we're feeling like that day--robes or jeans or collars--and we stand up and say, "Okay. I love Jesus, and I love The People of God. I'm a priest because I want the world to know the Love Stuff."

I want the world to know.

And that's what I remembered this week.

Thanks for standing with me.

Your Friend,

Wendy+

miss

2008-03-18T15:26:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I read things on the internet and throw up a little. Here's a little something from Miss Manners.

I mean, seriously. Was it important enough to GO TO A BRANCH MANAGER?

(For a refresher, scroll down & read the post from 03/05, "names", regarding The Trouble With Titles.)

nun?

2008-03-16T14:38:00.002-04:00

At the gas station:

Man Pumping Gas: "Are you a...."

Me: "Nun?"

Man Pumping Gas: "Yeah."

Me: "No."

going

2008-03-12T09:37:00.007-04:00

I was at Starbucks at 8 o'clock this morning to get something delicious and caffeinated and milky and venti-sized.

The woman behind the counter said, "I know you're an Episcopal priest."

"I am!"

"Some of us were talking after you left yesterday. They thought you were a Catholic."

"A Catholic priest? Oh, no. Obviously not. What with having a uterus and ovaries and everything."

"I've got to get back to church," she divulged.

"Oh yeah?"

"My husband--ex-husband--wanted to raise our daughter Catholic. They always went together. I couldn't stomach it, so I just quit church all together."

"Well, bring it on," I tell her. "The Episcopal church ain't perfect, but it's a good place to be."

"At least God doesn't take attendance..."

"No, but don't you think God wants what's best for us? Being in community is ALWAYS better than going at it alone, don't you think?" I said.

"Your total is $4.27," she told me.

"Fair enough."

names

2008-03-05T15:49:00.016-05:00

I stopped at a British Petroleum in the Northeast Georgia mountains for a bottle of water & some gum, and maybe an airfreshener in the shape of a flipflop or something. I'm in clericals & blue jeans. This is the exchange between me & the man behind the counter:

He asked: "You a church leader or in a cult or somethin'?"

I replied: "Yes."

Sometimes it's easier to just cut to the chase, if you know what I mean.

In seminary, we talked a lot about what we were, what we were going to be. Titles, addresses, and labels were aways fodder for good conversation. Especially for women. And there is plenty of debate out there regarding what to call female clergy...

I have some colleagues who ask to be called "Mother." If male priests are addressed as "father" and female priests are to be a collegial counterpart, then "mother" is an appropriate address, right? I can agree with it on principle, but it also gives me the shivvers every time someone calls me that. "Hello, Mother," someone said to me in Whole Foods the other day. "Me?" I asked. "Please, call me Wendy," I said. "Well, that would be rude!" she said as she placed a $15 block of cheddar in her basket. Oh well. Bottom line: I'm no mother superior, mother hen, or mother priest. I'm a mother to two dogs and a dying lavender plant. That's it.

I know others who ask to be called "Pastor." In fact, at the Day School the kids call Bowler and me "Pastor"--We are "Pastor Wendy" and "Pastor Bowler." It's not too bad. I mean, nothing sounds bad when it's coming from a class of four-year-olds. In their sweet voices they could all yell in unison, "Hey Stankbreath Fatass!" And I'd be all like, "Hi, Sweet Peanut Marshmallow Lovecake Children!" Even still, "Pastor" has too many evangelical connotations to me. It evokes images of male, baptist preachers. Though I know and love plenty male, baptist preachers, I don't really want to be *like* them, you know?

And, well, the truth is that being a pastor is only a part of my life as a priest. Pastoring is something I do daily, but it is not the whole of my vocation. I am a preacher and I am a writer. I am an administrator (not my strongest point, but still), a hospital chaplain, a teacher, a fundraiser, a program-planner, a liturgist, a church-bus-driver, and a sacramentalist. Not to mention I throw one hell of a party, I can out-sing just about anyone in the genre of Campy Church Music, and I can pull an icebreaker out of my pocket at any moment.

Anyway. What else do they call me?

"Rev. Wendy" or just "Reverend" is okay, I reckon, but it's not my favorite. It's not really grammatically correct. "The Reverend" is a descriptive title like, "The Honorable" Judge Soin Sew or "The Stupid" President or "The Royal" Family. You wouldn't go in to fight that traffic ticket and call Judge Pitstains "Hon. Pitstains." You wouldn't address the president as "Stupid President." Or maybe you would. But you get the point.

Old friends, mostly from college, call me "Father Wendy." When it comes from (most of) them, it's a nickname that I actually enjoy. Though at first calling me "Father" was an ironic way to ease the confusion (you're going to be a WHAT? A priest? WHY?) and diffuse the ignorance(women can't do that, can they?), it has, over almost a decade, turned into a term of endearment. After all, I went to a Baptist school in the south. How many 20-year-old women in Rome, Georgia say, "Yee-haw! The priesthood is for me!"?

But, at the end of the day, when people ask what to call us priestgirls, the answer for me is simple. Call me by the name that Jesus will call me in heaven, y'all. I am Wendy. My parents gave me that name when being an Episcopal priest was hardly an option for a woman in her twenties. It's the name I had when I wanted to chase tornadoes, when I was working in a ~~sweat shop~~ dry cleaner sewing on buttons, when I found my life's favorite work as a waitress. And, godwilling, if I ever write that freaking book, Wendy will be the name that I sign to it.

So, here I are. As long as I work in God's church with God's people trying to bring about God's Kingdom, I'm going to ask that you and your kids just call me Wendy. The collar around my neck changes somethings for sure, but nothing can touch my name.