Yeah, it’s not a proud day here in Lincoln-land. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in illinois is particularly surprised by B-Rod’s bad behavior, only maybe by the utter depths and stupidity of it. Here’s my favorite quote on the whole mess:
 It’s a little incredible that prostitutes weren’t involved (or aren’t yet, at least).
If you’re thinking about the American Auto industry bailout, it would be worth reading this. It’s a take on the whole issue from someone who has consciously chosen to live in Detroit and think about it what it means to watch Eastern Michigan crumble (and remember that the crumbling of Eastern Michigan started well before the current economic downturn).
I’m thinking about this today because we’re praying for a friend who hears this week about layoffs at an auto-related industry, and, less connected, we are grateful today that Erik chose not to take a position at a company that declared bankruptcy yesterday. (Although, word has it that he would have been in a department that would likely be one of the more secure places there.)
How’s this for ethnic confusion: my Presbyterian Church is currently overrun by little Swedish Lutheran kids celebrating the Feast of Santa Lucia. (And it’s actually the Feast of St. Nicholas today, so me and my Dutch genes are thinking about going home and whipping up a pot of pea soup.)
Meanwhile, just to make things even more interesting, one of our custodians is in the lobby having a discussion with one of the Swedish grandpas about, as far as I can tell, whether or not Judas went to hell.
Seriously, I am actually at church working, even though this sounds like I’m having some sort of weird church-dream. I just pinched myself to check.
I hold a soft spot in my heart for the neighbors up north. When people ask what I miss most about my switch from the CRCNA to the PCUSA, I usually answer: “The Canadians!” (The CRC is a rare bi-national denomination: actually the same organization in the US and in Canada, unlike many other protestant groups who have one entity that US and another Canadian.)Many of my favorite seminary classmates were Canadian, and many of my favorite American classmates are serving churches in Canada now. Plus, my mom’s family actually lived there long enough that she can sing “God Save the Queen” from memory.So, check out the crazy business going on up there. Now, while I am following this in part out of love for the Canadians, I also have to admit there’s a bit of come-upance in the whole thing for me: I was in seminary during the 2000 election, and we Americans took a good deal of abuse from the Canadians over the fact that our government couldn’t figure out who had been elected. Hmmm…looks to me like even a parlimentarian system run by very very nice people can hit some little snafus!
There’s this piece of child-rearing advice that makes perfect sense to me: imagine that you were a 2-year-old. You never get to make your own choices. All day, people say, “no” “don’t” and “do this”. So, you give your kid some sense of control when you give options (pre-packaged options that give the sort of outcome that you want.)
For example, instead of “Zora, stay in the nursery where Ms. Kathy and the kids are playing so that mama can do some work in her office, ” you say, “Zora, would you like to stay in the nursery and play with Ms. Kathy and the kids or would you like to play in mama’s office while mama works?”
Yep. That didn’t work too well. 45 minutes later we were just ending the complete and total meltdown in which Zora, completely beside herself, was in my office, screaming in quick sucession: “Nursery! Mama’s (h)office! Wanna book! Wanna color! Wanna make coffee (she has a little coffee set in my office)! My nose running! Nursery! Wanna book! Eat eat! My milk! Mama’s (h)office!”
So, I made plans to work on Saturday (since this was clearly not going to work), and scrambled to pull things together to go home.
45 minutes after that, all packed up and ready to go, with my coat on and everything I was sitting on a chair in the outer office because Zora had kicked me out of my office, and was happily, calmly, “working” (as she put it). Turned my radio on. Tapped on my computer. Came out to make photocopies. But, absolutely no mama in the office. Period.
And now, she is pretending to take a nap, and I am pretending that I can’t hear her babbling away because I just need a little snatch of peace.
I’m trying to script out the Christmas pageant. We haven’t had one at Fox Valley in a while so we’re going to try it this year.
Being stubborn, I am doing it myself from scratch…the scripting that is. The costumes are what truly scare me about planning these things, but it turns out we have 12 sets of angel wings, and 8 lamb costumes, wise-men presensts and enough shepherd/Joseph/inn-keeper/Mary costumes to outfit a small congregation.
So I thought this would be easy…one, maybe two narrators, kids in in costumes, and adults who basically push the kids in the direction they need to go. To be honest, I want it that simple. Because it’s sweeter that way. I like it when one of the sheep gets distracted and starts to scratch under his fake ears, or when Mary looks at Joseph like she’s no so sure he’s all that great for playing house. Probably, in reality, because I want it to feel like little-church so that I can feed my personal sense of nostalgia.
But I never thought of all these little details in the story and the staging:
Click here to visit the sermon it took me two months to post!
Because, as I was finishing it up, just after I printed it, when I went to quit Word, and it asked if I wanted to save changes, I hit “no.” Brilliantly stupid.
Thanks to Linda, the wonderful church person who kept pestering me to post the sermon, and finally offered to retype it for me.
(Also visit the call to worship that I wrote to go with it. I think I like it better than the sermon. It’s whimsical and sweet and true all at once, I think.)
3 years ago, I found out I was pregnant just about when Advent started. So, obviously, I thought alot about Mary and Jesus and the whole waiting thing from the perspective of one who was with child. (Plus, the contrast of finding out from a pee-stick or an angel was poignant, too.)
With this year’s advent just around the corner, I’ll be thinking about Jesus as a two year old. Or, rather, Mary as a the Mother of God (a God who happened to be a two year old at some point).
For example: How did Mary feel when Jesus insisted on eating off her plate? What about potty training (obviously different before plumbing, but…)? Temper tantrums? The need to do the same numbingly boring thing over and over and over and over again? Throwing things?
I know there were those moments of heart-warming looks and affection, too. But just think: the Savior of the World as a two year old. For Mary. that must have been part of the waiting. She knew something big was coming, but I’m guessing two to three was the year where she really wondered.
(Bonus theological discussion question: If Jesus was without sin, how would you say that changed the dynamic of the terrible twos? No temper tantrums? More compliant? Or basically the same?)
I’m feeling a little bummed out that we didn’t just throw caution to the wind, strap Zora into the backpack, and head for Grant Park on Tuesday night.I’ve been consoling myself by thinking about how we were functioning in the best interests of our child.But check out what these crazy people did!!! What a story! Seriously, you have to read this.
I cried last night. Here’s why:
From 2003-2005 I taught here. (And, turn on your sound if you go to the link because the choir rocks.) All of my students were African American. Most were on track to be the first in their family to go to college.
It was hard work…for us as teachers, and for them as students. Many came out of sub-standard schools. Many had tough to heart-breaking situations at home. Every last one of them were great kids.
One day, driving home, I passed one of my junior boys walking to the train with his little nephew trailing behind him. This kid was not the easiest to teach. He had a delightful mischievous streak that was absolutely horrific if you were his teacher. But he was so smart, and so charismatic, and I wished we could just squeeze a little more responsibility out of him. His grandma felt the same way whenever she had to come in and talk to teachers about his grades.
His nephew was in the grade school, and here they were walking together to the train. You could tell that he loved this little boy, and you could tell that this little boy adored him.
And then I realized: for this little guy, his 16 year old uncle was IT in terms of male family members who were around for him. At 16, my student, who wanted to be a normal, goofy 16 year old, was carrying the weight of that. Being the man for this little boy. Being the first in his family to go to college. Being the family’s bridge to a solid footing in the middle class. He was the adult to this little guy, but he had to do this with no one being the adult man for him.
It broke my heart.
I only taught there for two years. Now I work very comfortably in the suburbs, and I’m just not around those probalmes anymore. I feel strongly about this, but in all honesty, I am not giving my all to changing things anymore. But I can’t forget those two boys walking home.
This was the first presidential election that many of my students there voted in. So last night, watching a group of kids from Spelman College crying as the race was called, I started crying, too. Because this doesn’t change everything, but it changes some things. Yesterday, my kids from PSM got to walk into a booth and had the choice to vote for someone who at least looks like them. I am so proud of them for voting, and I am so proud that they had that chance.