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Wise as a serpent, gentle as a dove

When our family started visiting "our Sisters" once a month or so, I was assigned the job of cook. When we had work days, Ed and the kids would be out raking leaves or planting bulbs or picking apples, I'd be cooking hot dogs and making applesauce for the 50 or so folks who'd be working with the Sisters that morning.

My constant kitchen companion in those days was Sister B. Sister B has an education in pharmacology, and despite being retired, she uses that same exacting care with quilting, cooking and dozens of other things that fill her days.

Sister B comes up to about my chin, which is to say she is petite. She has silver rimmed glasses that sit properly on her nose, a quick grin and smiling blue eyes. With the soft voice, she always asked me far more questions than I asked her, as we cooked and prepped the lunch.

It would be easy to brush off Sister B as a "nice little old nun." I know, because that's what I did. I got accustomed to her sweet voice …
Recent posts

Theological Questions Re' the Nature of God, Humanity and Our Co-Existence (or "Why Does God Hate Me So Much?")

We got home from a lovely vacation this past weekend. Despite my neuroses and anxiety, everything went pretty darn well. Shout-out to AirBnB for a great place to stay. I even managed to keep my pain under control for nearly the entire trip.

Then there is the post-vacation let-down: the laundry to take care of, the mail to sort, why did we think we'd have food here when we got home? stuff. And we diligently went about taking care of things.

(Here I must insert a comment. We have two cats, a good cat and a bad cat, if you will.)

We had to figure out where the black sand came from in the living room (a small pot for a succulent that I had forgotten about, but our bad cat didn't! No, he was doing a little happy dance as we left because he knew that black sand was his.) This cat also has developed a taste for electronic charging cords. We have no proof, of course, but we knows he's to blame for the chopped, short and now completely unusable cords scattered about the living roo…

Boneheaded Questions While Trying to Manage A Life

Comedian Bill Engvall has built a career of joking about dumb people. And to be honest, we all are dumb once in awhile:

"I was driving around in Texas and got a flat tire. I managed to pull into a gas station. The attendant came out and said, "Tire go flat on ya?"

I couldn't resist. "Nope, I was just driving around when those other three swelled up on me. Damnedest thing...." And here's your sign.

A couple of weeks ago, the Gospel of Luke has Jesus, post-Resurrection, visiting the bewildered Apostles. Jesus, "Why are you so troubled?"

I don't mean to be flippant, but ..... Really, Jesus?? Really??

The Messiah has come to his people. He is their salvation. Turns out, he's a carpenter from a backwater town. Now, he's been executed. He was buried, but now his body is missing. Mary Magdalen has told the Apostles that Christ is Risen, just as he promised.

But still....

That whole dead-and-coming-back-to-life thing? We are still a bit ..…

Let's talk about love

via GIPHY


Ah, love. Since it's spring, young men's fancies (what???) are turning to thoughts of love. It's nearly as thick in the air as pollen.

We use the word "love" liberally. We "love" our mom's mac & cheese; we "love" our new car. Of course, many of us take the time to tell friends and family that we love them.

In the immortal words of Tina Turner: What's love got to do, got to do with it? What's love but a second hand emotion?

All props to Tina (I hope I look half as good at her age!) but that song got many, many things wrong.

Everyone say it together now: "Love is NOT an emotion." Nope, it's not the butterflies in the stomach when that really cute 8th grade boy makes his way across the gym floor to ask you to dance. Love is not about coveting a designer handbag. It's not our affection for our car, our cat or any other possession.

Love, dear reader, is an action.

That's right: love is what you do, no…

Credo or Credon't?

Quick Latin refresher: credo means "I believe.")
We've been baptizing babies left and right at our parish. Our pastor, Fr. L., is amazing and joyful. He also loves baptizing babies. 
Last week, the little doll that got baptized thought Fr. L was nothing short of magnificent. The babe stared up at him as the baptismal waters were dumped on her precious head (Fr. L believes in liberal amounts of holy water.) When Father anointed her, she cooed and smiled. It was picture perfect.
Yesterday, Father didn't have the mojo, at least for this baby girl. From the moment Father stepped in front of her to trace the cross on her forehead, she starting wailing. Not just a tear - nope, full-on terror. By the time Father baptized her, she was wailing so hard, she was red in the face.
Father's homily yesterday focused on our friendship with Christ, and read a lovely section from Pope Emeritus on this topic. However, Father had to acknowledge that Jesus was a friend to the little…

Living in the traumatic past

We all know someone who "lives in the past." Maybe it's a high school friend who is constantly bringing up those "glory days," as Bruce Springsteen put it. Maybe it's an elderly relative whose memory of breakfast is weak, but can recall the most minute details of her First Communion.

The past, as good as it may be, is not a place to live. Being mentally healthy means, in part, that we visit the past, but we don't stay there.

Unless you've suffered trauma. Trauma - when it's not fully integrated and successfully treated - drags us back to the past, over and over. (We generally call this PTSD.)

Last year, I lost two jobs. I couldn't do all that was required well. I was constantly making mistakes, and being told the same thing over and over didn't help. I was, for the first time in my life, failing miserably at work. Why?

As a recovering perfectionist, I told myself all this was my fault. For some reason, I was not remembering details of t…

Unsettled

I read "Pioneer Girl," the annotated autobiography of Laura Ingalls Wilder about 2 weeks ago. Her life, as reflected in her work, was pretty unsettled. She was young enough to remember the last of the Sioux Indians being driven from their own land.

Her Pa started getting itchy feet whenever he would feel hemmed in by people in what many saw as a vast prairie. (He apparently tried to talk his wife into moving to Seattle in their later years. Ma put her foot down.)

As a reader, you don't get the sense that Laura felt unsettled. Every outing was a new adventure, a new place to explore, new people to meet. She may have moved a lot, but Laura never felt unsettled.

I am a "settler." I like the familiarity of a place, the curve of the ground in my backyard, the knowledge that my neighbors are the same today as 20 years ago.  I lived in the same house for the first 19 years of my life, and watched the world blossom, bloom, die and fight back to life out of the same wi…