Mother's Day Turns 100... and a blind eye.

I don't want to come across as a hater. And Lord knows I love my mother (and am the spittin' image of her). But I do not like Mother's Day.

And I'm not the only one.

In 1923, nine years after Anna Jarvis talked President Woodrow Wilson into establishing a national "Mother's Day," Ms. Jarvis turned around and began protesting it.

On facebook today, fourteen months after the death of his mother, Jason Nethercut describes Mother's Day as "prominent, glaring and threatening."

And for five years when I served at First Baptist Church in Austin, TX, I could be counted on to cry (hopefully non-conspicuously) at one service every year: Mother's Day.

Why don't we like it?

Well, Anna Jarvis hated how commercial it became in just nine years (oh Lord, she'd HATE it now). You see, she didn't start the movement to create a national holiday for "we the people" to give our moms flowers, and candy and cheesy greeting cards. She petitioned for this national holiday because her own mother organized "Mother's Work Days" to improve sanitary conditions and try to lower infant mortality, to tend to soldiers who had been injured in the Civil War.  Anna's mother's contemporary, Julia Ward Howe (who composed "The Battle Hymn of the Republic"), issued a widely read "Mother's Day Proclamation" in 1870, calling for women to take an active political role in promoting peace.

Mother's Day, for Anna, was to recognize extraordinary women, and specifically the one she was the closest to: her mother.

In other words, "Mother's Day was born in the aftermath of the Civil War, as a rallying cry for women worldwide to oppose war and fight for social justice." It wasn't actually about mothers being good moms, it was about women being good people.

Mother's Day was a cry to action. It was a call from the feminist and Christian communities for women to live to their fullest potential as God's children... and to protect God's other children.

Happy 100th Birthday, Mother's Day. You have forgotten who you are.

Transition: Something Just Broke

The movement into Holy Week starts off strong and exciting - like any good religious festival. From Sunday's palm branch waving and animal joyriding to tomorrow night's dinner with friends, things seem to be going well for Jesus and the Disciples.

But today, Holy Wednesday is traditionally the day that Judas is said to have gone to the High Priests... "What will you give me if I betray him?" Thirty pieces of silver later, and our story takes a swift turn for the worse. Way beyond foreshadowing, the climax builds as things fall apart.

At the passover dinner, Jesus hints that one will deny him, another betray him, and a party guest leaves in a huff.

Bread is broken and eaten, wine is poured and drunk, but the symbolism isn't traditional, and the disciples wonder what these mixed up metaphors might mean.

After dinner, Jesus excuses himself up to the garden to pray, taking with him his three closest friends. He asks them to wait and keep watch, while he begs God: let there be another way.

But God says no, and when Jesus returns, more disappointment awaits him. He finds his comrades snoozing, the passover hangover already upon them.

Heading back down the hill, things go from bad to worse as the one who ran away comes running back with guards in tow, a kiss of death upon his lips.

Peter draws his sword and the fight escalates when he cuts off a slave's ear. But Jesus, usually the peacemaker, knows that violence must wait a day and it certainly won't come from an army of angry revolutionaries.

But as Jesus returns the ear to the poor servant's head, his friends begin to panic. Everyone takes flight now, one fleeing so fast that when a guard grabs his cloak the disciple wriggles free and runs naked all the way home.

Jesus, on the other hand, is restrained, imprisoned, and left to await trial and potential capital punishment.

And we move from Holy Wednesday to Maundy Thursday.

Sleepy stewards, double-crossing kisses, and then... something just broke.

I'm Working on MLK (and what it means to me)

It's MLK Day.

I've written about this day before. And over the years, I've spent it in a variety of ways: playing in the snow since I didn't have to go to school in Missouri, raking leaves when I didn't have to go to work in Texas. And one year I even attended an MLK Day breakfast at Huston-Tillotson University with Austin icon, Volma Overton.

This year though, I will go to work (ah, corporate America); and I admit MLK Jr. is on my mind.

I can't pinpoint why. Maybe it's because I listened to this weird "I'm over MLK" discussion on NPR. I mean, I can't even...

Or maybe I'm paranoid about the gentrification of my neighborhood. Though admittedly, on my block, its affected the poorer Latino families more than it's affected the African Americans.

Or maybe I'm dreading all the MLK meme that will undoubtedly be posted on FB tomorrow - by conservatives trying to show they're not racist and by liberals trying to tell people to stop being racist. (None of it really matters as history suggests that few change their mind because of Facebook posts). (Furthermore, I will post some lovely meme on this blog to break up the text and appeal to visual readers).

2013 What A Year

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

2013 proved most eventful. After a fun-filled 2012, 2013 started off... on the couch. New Year's Eve last year, I had dinner with Person and the Joneses and then promptly fell asleep on the couch missing all ringing in and other celebretory festivities. But perhaps I needed the sleep to prepare for the year ahead...

From a trip to Portland to visit my sister... to a Reverse Oregon Trail (Let's-Move-Amy-Back-To-Chicago-Trip)... to a brief nanny job in New York... to a relaxing fall leaves Colorado tour... to an Adriatric Cruise in the Adriatric (I realize this is redundant, but you guys - seriously!!)... this year I travelled much, and felt extremely grateful. I saw some gorgeous sites (mostly in the US!) and some amazing artifacts (mostly in Italy).  If I had to choose 2013's world's best sights, I really, really loved Crater Lake in southern Oregon,

The David in Florence, Italy, and the ancient Greek theatre (complete with coastal views) in Sicily, Italy.

Other totes awesome and random loveliness includes... experiencing Moltnoma Falls, 

hearing Pope Francis speak, 

The Twelve Days of Christmas (2013)

On the first day of Christmas, the season gave to me... 

The annual picture 'round the Pittman Tree.

On the second day of Christmas, the season gave to me... 

Two dreamy friends, and a picture 'round the Christmas tree.

90 and Counting

Happy Birthdays all around this week.  Not only is it our nation's special day... Happy Bday Lady Liberty...

but yesterday was also my Grandma's 90th birthday!  That's right, Ninety, and still counting!  Happy Birthday to the noblest lady I know.  So vital and full of life.  You're an inspiration.  Keep on growing, girl.

  

Happy May Day from 1985 to 2013

1985 Ann listed "May Day" as one of the top four best holidays... right behind Valentine's Day (or is it Ann's Day - hard to tell).  Valentine's Day?  Seriously?  Obviously 1985 Ann never met 1999 Ann or 2005 Ann or 2011 Ann or... I mean, really, where were my priorities?  Also what, pray tell, is a "Bathday Party?"... Cause I totally wanna have one this weekend.

A Pittman Family Christmas

I set out to write a Christmas card like the super-organized perfect arm of Americans who have theirs in my mailbox before the twenty-fifth every year. 

I am not that talented.

Then I aimed for a new year’s card, or at least a new year’s blog.  So many funny things happened over Christmas that in rightful anticipation of it, my father bought all the participants “A Pittman Family Christmas” tee shirts.  It was like the Griswolds… with a little more sophistication.

There were no moose-eared-mugs or dickey-wearing-uncles or plastic-Santas-with -reindeer at our house.  I mean, before we arrived, my father stole out in the night to cut off pieces of garland growing around mausoleums in order to decorate his meticulously wrapped gifts with the freshest, most beautiful, and most aromatic accouterments.  “That one’s from the cemetery on Ashland, and that one’s from the neighbor’s back yard.” 

But this is nothing new.  When my sister married, my mom wandered the neighborhoods of St. Joseph with her scissors and garden gloves cutting blooms off hydrangea bushes.  “They’ll never notice one missing flower…”

No one was missing from Christmas this year, except Grandpa.  But at every meal that I was asked to pray over (will I ever stop being the token Christian in my family?) I reminded God to please tell Grandpa hello for us.  And truthfully, I bet Grandpa got a real kick out of all the laughing we did over Christmas; he would have loved it.  All his girls were home.

Family is a relative term in our household.  Of the six to ten stockings that are filled whilst we “children” sleep, not all of them go to “Pittmans.”  There’s Andee who spends every holiday with us, sleeping with Amy in her bed, just like they did when we were kids and neighbors.  However, this year we added Andee’s boyfriend to the mix, so with Andee and I both bringing boys home, and only two double beds in the house, both of my sisters had to give up their bedrooms this year.  “I have to sleep on the couch,” Emily complained, grabbing some blankets from the closet.  “Well I have to sleep with the ghost!” Amy shot back. 

After my youngest sister, Emily, arrived, sometime in the late 80s, I lost my bedroom and moved into my father’s study.  Unfortunately, the “study ghost” already lived there, so I went from sharing a bedroom with an infant to sharing a bedroom with an ethereal being.  Fortunately, I only had a twin bed.  But, he never bothered me, though several others had sightings of the study ghost including my sister Amy (now a surgeon) and another “sister,” Mary, from up the street.

Ah… memories.

But where was I?... Mausoleum theft… grandpa… stockings, ah yes.   So Andee gets her own stocking and there’s the BFOTY stocking (affectionately designated by my loving family members to go to the person whom they call my “Boyfriend of the Year” – whatever guy I can con into dating me in November so that he’ll drive me home for Christmas in December.)  Nice, right?  I know.  And usually the pets get their stockings too, although Santa forgot to fill them this year, so when the dogs got annoying on Christmas morning, sticking their wet noses into all our half-opened paraphernalia, Mother traipsed upstairs and grabbed the unwrapped dog treats and handed them out accordingly.  That quieted things down for a while. 

Gloria was in town this year too.  That made my Grandma happy.  My Aunt lives in Hawaii, but not just in Hawaii, on a tiny privately owned island called Lanai.  So getting over to visit her is not an inexpensive task.  And grandma hasn’t made that trip yet.  So Gloria and I, both bundled to the max in scarves and hoodies and gloves and coats having left behind 70 and 80 degree climates to journey to Missouri, were both home for Christmas this year. 

And as such, all ten of us had tee-shirts… turquoise-colored cotton with white block lettering and a snowflake to remember 2012, which proved to end with, indeed, a classic Pittman Family Christmas.

Taken while BFOTY was adjusting the camera settings :)  Merry Christmas!

Twelve for 12

Twelve Great Songs to Start Off 2012...

• Not As We by Alanis Morisette
• The New Year by Death Cab for Cutie (or as my mom once called them, the Dead Taxis)
• That Year by Brandi Carlile
• Passing Afternoon by Iron and Wine
• Our New Year by Tori Amos (or Pretty Good Year!... so hard to decide.)
• Did I Ever Become by The Krusty Brothers (Waterdeep)
• In the New Year by The Walkman
• It's the End of the World As We Know It by REM (duh, hello 2012!)
• Bitter End by The Dixie Chicks
• Waiting Out the New Year by The Whiskey Priest (instrumental)
• The Cave by Mumford and Sons
• My Dear Acquaintance (Happy New Year) by Regina Spektor

And here's a freebee to the first song on my imaginary album... you'll have to find the rest yourself (although Regina's & Death Cab's videos have made it on my blog in New Years Past).

Merry Christmas 2011

This has been a strange Christmas.

A Christmas of firsts.

Strange firsts.

In honor of the first strange Christmas here is a website with awesome (and sometimes blasphemous) nativity scenes. Here's my favorite...

And the one that most made me go... "Wha...?"

And for my strange Christmas of firsts, this was my first Christmas away from my family. Yep, my first Christmas not in St. Jo Mo with Mike & Carol in 33 years. Whoa. Santa's been down that chimney a lot of years, but this year, the tracking sheets arrived with *Emergency! Re-Route! * Papers all over them.

Why am I not in St. Jo Mo you ask? Where have all the slightly sad, tongue in cheek posts about life in Missouri and Christmas at the Pittman household been? (Exhibit A... Exhibit B...)

They were traded for a trip or two to the hospital.

Because of frequent (three this year) bouts of tonsillitis and my new career of performing (I was only without throat ailments in one of the three shows I did this year), my doctor decided that 20 years of tonsillitis was enough and we scheduled a tonsillectomy. Unfortunately, this is not an easy surgery for adults. Apparently 33 years old is like 97 in tonsillectomy years.

So despite the fact that my surgery was the 15th and the nurse said I could still go home for Christmas since home was near a hospital, I did not get to go home this year because for my first major surgery, there was a major complication.

Of course there was.

My sister, an ENT surgeon herself, aptly noted (after the fact) that because of she is a doctor, there was bound to be a complication. It's Murphy's law. So while Murphy was clearing his throat, I started bleeding from mine. I threw up a blood clot the size of a golf ball if you want the gory details. So skipping the ER, I went straight back into surgery where they sutured me up. Awesome and horrible. All wrapped into one.

They said this didn't really delay my recovery, but losing that much blood after already losing about 10 pounds on a liquid diet, and I felt like I was back at square one. No talking. Major pain meds. Mucho sleeping.

And no singing.

For the first Christmas (ever probably), I didn't sing. Not one note. For the last, probably 15 years, I've gone caroling, been in Christmas choirs, sung at Christmas parties or at somebody's church for Christmas. Usually Wyatt Park's Christmas Eve service. But not this year. Not even a carol from the choir or the pew. This little strange bird was silent.

And alone.

Did I mention this was my first Christmas away from home?

I know, I am such a baby.

But thanks to modern technology this was my first Skype Christmas as well. Christmas Eve we opened our one gift as usual, and as usual, Amy, Emily & I got jammies. With fuzzy sweaters. Nice!

We arranged a time (12 noon since mom had church this morning) when we would open presents Christmas "morning." I was to be at dinner with a family here in Austin at 2pm so we thought that would suffice. As always, mother delayed us with work in the kitchen which I unfortunately would not reap the benefits of this year. But we soon got started with stockings. I got tights and make-up for my theater kit and jewelry. Amy & Emily got Mary Kay, Sephora and jewelry.

Then we moved on to Santa gifts I got skinny jeans (to wear with boots - don't confuse me with those oh-so-hip-hipsters) and 2 adjustable window screens, and hair hot rollers (also for my theater kit). And we had drawn names to ease the burden on the three girls (none of whom make very much money) and added in Grandma this year. I had Dad and had worked hard on a frames of six pictures from my father (and mother's) production of Stop the World I Want To Get Off back in the 60s at William Jewell and my production at Austin Playhouse earlier this year. Unfortunately, communication lines had gotten crossed and my package had been addressed to mom and when she opened it I burst into tears because the one thing I was supposed to do this Christmas (since I didn't get to go home or sing at church or do any of the other Christmas favorites) got fouled up (and let's face it, I was emotional anyway). So I started crying.

My sister's boyfriend Jesse saw me crying on the computer first, but I could tell he didn't know what to say and eventually the rest of them caught on and then the round of apologies began and the "I like it's" started, etc. etc.

I eventually got over it.

But then 2 o'clock hit and though we weren't quite done, we finished quickly and said our good-byes. I wore my comfiest outfit ever (some people eat comfort food, I wear comfort clothing) complete with arm warmers, a jingle bell ring, my favorite Charlie Brown Christmas tee-shirt and a fuzzy hat. My sister said I looked ridiculous. I prefer precious.

So I headed off to lunch where I ate my first Christmas meal free of meat. This year I decided to be a full out vegetarian. No more being polite and eating meat at dinner parties or at Holiday feasts. It's been about 10 or 11 months now. Thanksgiving was my first major holiday meal and I made it through! But this was my first Christmas meal sans meat!

Truthfully, I cheated a little.

I figure the gravy was probably made from meat, but since I'm a full-fledged vegetarian now and I can only eat soft foods, my choices were really limited. So I filled up on mashed potatoes and gravy, cooked veggies and a soft croissant. Yumilicious. Food. Is. So. Good. And it had been So. Long. My pants were falling off me I'd lost so much weight. And then dessert: coconut cake, moist and amazing. The jeans are fitting a little better now :)

It was strange being with other families: visiting their homes, eating their meals, listening to their stories. While we may have visitors to our home every Christmas (who hasn't made the trek to St. Jo Mo for some holiday or another, really?), I rarely am the visitor, the outsider, the guest. And that was different... to be welcomed rather than to be the one with open arms. I admit. I liked it. I thought it would make me sad, but it made me feel special to be invited into someone else's sacred tradition.

I drove around the city I live in from friend's house to friend's house and it was weird. A day that is so special because it is the one day every year that my entire family is together: all five of us, but I was in Austin, in my place of ritual. So it was strange looking at the city through the lens of the Christmas lights.

And one thing I see in Austin every day, I never see in St. Joe. Or at least, never on Christmas.

A homeless man.

Standing on the side of the highway with his cardboard sign, his backpack, and his dog. Because I worked in a downtown church for 5 years and interacted with homeless people on a daily basis, because I know Austin's statistics on people who beg for money on the sides of roads versus people in shelters and agencies, I never give money to the people I pass in my car. If they approach me, I explain that I donate money to Caritas or Salvation Army or the Trinity Center if they'd like to seek food or shelter there, they can. But today when I saw the man with his dog, I grabbed all the coins from the tray in my car and rolled down my window. Because for heaven's sake, it's Christmas. And as far away as I felt from home this day, at least I have a home of my own and a home for my family and I can't imagine Christmas without one. Since today was my first day driving in 10 days and I have no real food in my house, there were no bottles of water in my car or pb&j sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. I had nothing to give him but those coins, but hopefully that was enough.

It was a Christmas of firsts. Firsts from and firsts for. And strangely enough, I survived. And I may have even liked it.

So Merry Christmas. From Austin... a first.

Happy Thanksgiving 2011

"For Anna Catherine on Thanksgiving"

by Samuel Hazo

The first girl in generations,


you came when the century clicked

We studied you

as our particular event,


our small surprise, our bonus.


Months earlier, I prayed


that you'd be born intact


and healthy, and you were.


Today I wish you beauty, grace,


intelligence—the commonplace


grandfatherly clichés....


What makes us crave for those


we love such bounties of perfection?


Life, just life, is never


miracle enough no matter


how we try to church ourselves....


Squirming in my arms, you save me


from my tyranny of dreams


with nothing but your version of a kiss


and the sure, blind love of innocence.

from nines to zeroes to plus one.

Capped on a pallet, you flexed your toes

and let us count your fingernails.

First holiday in Austin with the family... Mom, Dad and Grandma. A thankful day indeed!

Happy Halloween!

Le Petit Prince SHOES!

When's the next holiday?! Cause I want these!... (Women's Size 6, Syle II with Navy stitching).

THIS is pair of shoes I initially found that made me drool and commit the sin of coveting...

... but apparently they're made by a Brazillian designer and were released in 08 or

09 so I don't think I have any hope of ever securing a pair (and trust me, I've spent almost 45 minutes on the Internets trying to find them!)

All of this started of course because I was researching Halloween costumes (I'm VERY BEHIND this year). I'm interested in going as She-Ra Warrior Princess of the 1980s cartoon series...

Cindy Lou Who of How the Grinch Stole Christmas circa 2000...

or a feminine version of Le Petit Prince....

However, no such costumes, adult or teen, exist for Le Petit Prince, so I would have to make-shift a costume for myself. Not a problem. But a lot of creative work. And it was in researching what other people have done to make themselves look like the Little Prince that I came across the shoes.

Sigh.

How long 'til Christmas?

For the Fourth

"This is what you shall do..."

by Walt Whitman

"This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."

33 Wishes... sort of.

It's here. Better late than never, eh? This is my Wish List for my 33rd Birthday which will be upon us in eight days. While my therapist suggested I register for gifts like women would for weddings or baby showers (debunking the idea that the community only helps provide for a woman if she's getting married or having a baby), I'm not ready for that. However, I will categorically share my wish list in three parts: What I Want, What I Need and... Be My Patron. Check it out...

WHAT I WANT

• Gift certificates to Parts & Labor (my favorite local store in Austin), Creatures (another local Austin treasure - it and P&L are located on South Congress just south of Riverside) or Anthropologie!
• Full sized sheets for my bed (with two queen sized pillowcases) in neutral colors: white, cream or beige with minimum 400 thread count.
• A curved curtain rod like this one (double rod!) at Bed Bath and Beyond or this cheaper one.
• A new shower head like this one (also found at BB&B) with a "finger pause button" for when you're shampooing, shaving, etc. (awesome!)
• a blender (for margaritas and smoothies - would like to try some new healthy alternatives) and maybe a vegetarian smoothie cook book (P.S. don't tell anyone I asked for a cook book. I'll never live it down).
• a bar stool like this one at Ikea in black.
• Other things I love... Books!... Candles!... Cool Belt Buckles!... Earrings and Rings!... Shoes (size 6)!... Scrapbooking stickers and stuff!... and Fingernail polish: one day a month or two ago I just decided that for the first time in my life, I wanted to wear bold, bright nail polish. But not your normal red or pink or brown. I want fun colors!...

WHAT I NEED

• New size 6 tennis shoes for walking, jogging and exercising (haven't had a new pair of in years and am running another 1/2 maraton relay in October).
• Fillings on six teeth (approx $200 a tooth)

So this final section is things I would like to have but can't currently afford. They are things that, if I lived in the 1800s or early 1900s I could maybe get or do because I am artist and I would possibly have a patron. That patron would sponsored me and my art allowing me time to write and perform and not worry about how to pay the bills...

BE MY PATRON

• Headshots by Claire McAdams. $250. She's local, she's young, her work is amazing, and I really need a good headshot for auditions.
• Dance classes at Ballet Austin in Ballet, Modern or Broadway Jazz. They sell "Class-cards." For a 4 class-card it's $60, an 8 class-card is $110, 12 classes is $150, 16 is $190 and a 20 class-card is $220.
• My hair returned to it's more natural and more likable red-brown color (I'm still currently sporting the leftover blonde Evita hair now with two inches are dark roots!) I go to "gypsecowgirl" at Topaz Salon on South Lamar. $120-160.
• Buy me a day to write. I earn $15/hour babysitting (and work 8-10 hour days) and approximately $10/hour acting (if I get cast in a show that pays!). So, buy me a "writing day" for $120 and I'll take a day off work and devote 8 hours to working on my book or buy me a writer's block for $40 and I'll devote four hours of a weekend to writing (either way, you'll get your name in my list of thank you's when/if the book is published!).
• Voice lessons... in addition to getting another Masters in Minority Literature, I'm also considering another Masters in Vocal Performance. If so, I have to have the recommendation of a vocal coach to even apply to schools. And that costs money. Depending on the teacher, between $50 and $100 a lesson...

He Is Risen! He Is Risen, Indeed!

When Tessla (my nanny charge) and I were on a walk earlier this month, we passed by a colorful driveway. And while we often get the free viewing of chalk art by the children and grandchildren in this Cedar Park neighborhood, I couldn't help but pull out my phone and snap a picture of this driveway.

As the chalk drawing admonishes, Happy Easter! And please, pay no mind to the spaceship further up the driveway. I'm sure that was not intended to be a commentary on the validity of Jesus' resurrection or his later ascension. Although since the FBI released information this month regarding the circular disks and alien bodies found in Roswell, NM, who knows?! Maybe after leaving the Milky Way Galaxy, Jesus stopped by the Pinwheel Galaxy. I guess that'll just have to be one of those questions we ask God when we finally meet Her. (It'll be right after I ask Her about mosquitoes and red fire ants. I mean really. What was She thinking?)

Anyway, Happy Easter. He is risen. He is risen, indeed.

Palm Sunday Reflections

I don't go to church anymore.

This is not a lifetime commitment... to no longer attend church... I intend to attend church again someday. It's just that I currently am not attending church.

"So what?" some of you say, "Sinner!" others may chide. And still some, "Seriously, Ann?" which are the comments that sting the most.

I'm not attending church in part because I exhausted myself attending church, creating church, doing church and being church for the five years I spent at my last job, and the 27 years before that (four days a week in college, three days a week in high school...). The way I figure it, I've gone to more church services than your average church-going sixty-five year old man. And I'm only 32.

So I'm taking a break.

But fatigue from church-going (you'll note I didn't say from church-being, which I try to still do every day to my friends and family and the people whose paths I cross) isn't the only reason I'm not currently attending church.

The other reason is Palm Sunday.

I used to love Palm Sunday. It's the sixth Sunday in Lent, kicking off Holy week. It remembers the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the donkey when the people lined up in the streets waving palms (because it was the Jewish Passover), heralding in who they believed to be the Messiah.

At FBC, the kids always start off this Sunday morning service by running down the center aisle waving Palm branches above their heads. I love that... the joy, the simple faith, the praise symbol, the welcoming of the Messiah.

But the other part about Palm Sunday is that, as I said before, it leads us into Holy Week, a week of betrayal, abandonment and death. A week of missing the point. The irony is that all those waving the palms in exaltation on Sunday turn to waving their fists on Friday demanding the release of Barabbas, and the crucifixion of the innocent man.

And that's the other reason I'm not attending church right now.

It's ironic in more ways than one. Whenever people would argue that they'd be happy to attend church if it weren't for all the Christians, I used to argue that that was the very reason I loved church. It is not for the healthy, Christ says, but the wounded. I loved that church was messy, filled with hypocritical, trying-to-find-their-way-and-missing-it-half-the-time people on a journey to be church and follow Christ.

I don't feel like that any more.

Palm Sunday is painful because right now I want to escape somewhere and feel loved, not beaten up. And the house I want to go to is God's. But God's house isn't always welcoming.

My boyfriend is a music director at a church and tonight he's at a parishioners home building crosses: three of them, for the "Last Words" musical they'll be doing at his church this upcoming Holy Week and Easter Weekend.

Nailing together crosses that will symbolize (for some) God's ultimate sacrifice of himself for the people, an act of the incarnation that says, "Yes, I will even take this so far as to die to help you understand"... Nailing together crosses that serve as a constant reminder of the death of a Messiah at the hands of the empire, the death of a Savior at the hands of evil, the death of a man at the hands of those who loved him...

I called my boyfriend after I got out of rehearsal tonight and heard the crosses being nailed together on the other end of the line. "I have tomorrow off," I said. "I don't have to go to work. I could come up there now if you want. And if you're not done with the crosses, I could come to the house and help out."

"But -----'s here." he replied. That's his ex-girlfriend's mother. And despite the waving of the palms and the confession that Christ is the Messiah, despite the ashes on our heads reminding us that we are not, despite the resurrection of Jesus that will come on Sunday and represent the resurrection we practice every day in our life, my phone conversation with my boyfriend ended with, "Fine, I won't come up there."

Because I'm not welcome at his church.

And that's the second reason I'm not attending church right now.

Not only am I not welcome in the church building, at the church services, but I can't even help build the crosses for the Sunday morning play because his ex-girlfriend's mother will be building crosses too.

And that is the embodiment of the irony of Palm Sunday: that the church often does a really shitty job of being church. And while I used to love that about church - I loved that the genealogy of Jesus included Tamar who slept with her father-in-law and Rahab the prostitute - I don't anymore.

I just don't.

At this point in my journey I can't handle any more paradox. No more irony. No more grotesque beauty. I just want God, and I just want peace. And like the Israelites when they were carted off to Babylon, I too am now learning that God doesn't reside in a Temple (or a church) but in my heart. So I'm finding God there.

And sometimes in a dressing room. And sometimes in a hotub. And sometimes on Facebook. And sometimes on my yoga mat. And sometimes on my couch snuggled up under some blankets with my best friend.

You may judge me for not going to church, or you may applaud me, or you may not give a damn either way (and if so you probably didn't make it this far in the blog), but what I really want is a little compassion. Keep your condemnation, applause or indifference. I want compassion.

And eventually...

I want to be welcomed back to church.

happy valentine's day 2011

So on my facebook author page, I've been running the 14 days of Valentine... fourteen posts in fourteen days with articles and stories I've written about men and relationships over the past five years or so. Some are more recent while others, I really had to dig deep to find. To recap...

February 2... "The Windy City, Harry Potter, and the Importance of a Glerb"

February 3... "Reinventing Dating"

February 4... "More About Men"

February 5... "33 Days and Counting"

February 6... "I Walked Through the Door"

February 7... "Reflections On Relationships"

February 8... "85 Days and the Loneliest Job In the World"

February 9... "Well, That Was Different"

February 10... "What It Says About You In the Papers"

February 11... "I Smelled of Smoke and Men"

February 12... "I Went To My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding: A Sermon"

February 13... "Cats and Cookies"

And today's the day. But it's a little anti-climatic. I feel obligated to post something about the dreaded day even though it doesn't feel differently from any other. People have sent me beautiful graphics...

And wonderful videos (with compromising language, so I'm refraining from posting them here). And another lonely soul from Georgetown invited me to lunch at La Madeline. And KiKi and Pitty sent me a cute card about how I'm a princess (cleverly stuffed with money!). And my grandmother who collects, well, everything, posted this picture of a card my Great-Grandfather gave to my Great-Grandmother in 1907, one hundred and four years ago!

Kind of amazing.

But this was my day today, awake at 6:55pm after a 9.5 hour tech rehearsal (with one dinner break) yesterday (11 hours if you count driving time). Fed my neglected dog. Minimally got ready for the day (threw on clothes, brushed my teeth, did not brush my hair but put it in a pony tail), ate some of my roomie's cereal (because I haven't been to the grocery store in over two weeks ) and drove to Cedar Park.

I arrived to find everyone already awake. Bethany and the baby were eating breakfast out of the same bowl, cream of wheat with peanut butter in it. Gabe was loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash.

Why were they awake this early? Well, Tessla had awoken at 7:30, who knows why. Gabe had a morning meeting at work. And Bethany? Well, she has her second round of chemo today at the hospital in Round Rock. (If you missed her story, click here.)

"Here's the errands I need run. Stuff that needs to be dropped off places. It's all labeled," she said. "And I packed Tessla's overnight bag, everything except food. You can take care of that."

Yep. I'll be nannying tonight on Valentine's Day. Tessla will have her first slumber party at Auntie Ann's. And Auntie Ann doesn't have time to think about men or being lonely or wishing someone had bought her a "day at the spa" package or maybe a "pre-paid trip to the dentist" package. No time. No time for nice dinners at our favorite restaurant, no time for wine and chocolate and a little snuggle time in the TV room where the candles are dripping onto the furniture. No time for anything but the essentials: changing diapers, running errands, visiting the hospital, and practicing sign language for words like "please," "thank you," "mommy," and "story."

That's my life right now. And a fourteen and a half month old baby will be my Valentine this year while her daddy stays with her mommy who wants to get well.

If my perspective on this day weren't so acute, I might have posted about one of my favorite songs by Patty Griffin...

or perhaps written, not of how Jesus is my Valentine, but about the intent of Love, reflecting in part on the lyrics of Mumford and Sons song, Sigh No More:

Love it will not betray you

Dismay or enslave you, it will set you free

Be more like the man you were made to be

There is a design, an alignment, a cry

Of my heart to see,

The beauty of love as it was made to be.

But I won't. Not this Valentine's Day. Nope. No sad bastard music or morbid Glenn Close movies. No long hours of journaling into the night. Just some green pea Gerber baby food and a little Goodnight Moon for me.

And maybe that's all it takes.

For me and my valentine.

Up to the Mountain (the MLK song)

Happy MLK Day?

I remember when I heard my first discriminatory joke. Or rather, I remember the first time I was old enough to hear a racist joke and be able to discern it as such. I can remember whose house I was at, in whose kitchen, who told the joke and the knot in my stomach when I knew it was time to decide, do I laugh or not laugh?

I must have been an early adolescent. I remember it was a boy who told the joke and I desperately wanted him to approve of me. I also remember later being in another group of friends who were telling jokes and wondering whether or not it would be appropriate for me to share the one I'd heard from the boy. Get the laugh instead of being laughed at? The reverse in prospects were inviting.

I don't actually remember how I responded in either situation. I mostly just remember the feeling. Usually with boys, I would laugh and reprimand them, thrilled they even noticed me. At some point in college though, I quit laughing, and would explain to the men around me that racist jokes, sexist jokes, weren't funny. And that laughing only contributed to the problem. "How can things get better if we continue to condone underlying assumptions about race and gender by laughing them off?" I was the femi-nazi of William Jewell College and I moved straight from there to Truett Seminary.

"When you are right you cannot be too radical; when you are wrong, you cannot be too conservative."

At some point over the last few years I quit trying so hard. My spirit of equality for all got tired I suppose (as spirits tend to do), and battles had to be picked instead of fought. I quit telling people to stop making sexist jokes because they weren't funny. Whereas in college, I demanded utmost respect for women of the men I was with, and in seminary, I would offer the most feminist perspective I could muster just so people would hear me and maybe concede a little towards a happy medium, over the past few years I returned to my more adolescent coping mechanisms. Flirtatious affirmation, I explain it to my therapist. "Cut it out," I now tease back. "You don't believe that." It's the same reason I have trouble turning men down if they ask me out on a date even if I know it won't work. "I don't want them to feel bad about themselves," I tell my therapist.

"Their self-esteem isn't your problem," she responds.

True.

Sometimes.

As an adult, I felt again the feeling of anxiety in the pit of my stomach when I heard one of my black neighbors speaking poorly of Hispanics in our city. "Um, can you say that, cause... you know you're black right?" I wanted to remind him. In other words, you of all people should know that discrimination doesn't get us anywhere. I didn't say that. And unlike the racist joke told in childhood, I do remember how I responded: in silence, with a head nod, as his verbal putdown was quickly passed on by the next topic, the next discussion to come rattling out of his mouth. Truthfully, I spend most of my time just nodding my head at him, as the conversations fly by so fast I sometimes wonder if I was even a part of them.

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."
My friend Julie, author of One Hand Clapping, wrote a post today wondering if she should bring an awareness to her child's life of the difference between race. Her kindergarten daughter doesn't yet see difference between skin color yet because she has been raised in a very diverse environment. So trying to explain MLK and what he did doesn't make a lot of sense to her because racism isn't yet a part of her worldview.

I responded to her blog with some of my thoughts about sexism. While I did manage to grab that racism existed even in middle America by the time I hit middle school, I didn't understand that sexism was just as prevalent until College. College.

I didn't actually realize that "women jokes" weren't on par with "blond jokes," i.e. that people really believed women were inferior or couldn't do the same things as men or (fill in the blank). College. My mother says she "may have pushed the women thing a little too far" with me, but I say, who cares? For 18 years I thought I had the same rights and opportunities as men. I thought that women jokes were dumb, like joke about the blond who threw all the W's out of the M&M factory. A stupid way to make a silly joke at some other group's expense. I was always being made fun of growing up. If a boy says something mean about you, then he likes you (omg, wait for the post I'm now writing in my head about how that condolence screwed me up). Seriously though, teasing someone during High School, they called that flirting. Blond jokes were told to blonds to get them to laugh and be defensive and maybe slap the boy on the arm who told the joke. Same thing with women jokes. Fill in the blank. Substitute brunette for blond or ginger for brunette. I didn't know those jokes were rooted in a deeper anxiety, a deeper hatred, a deeper ism (I'm now speaking of women jokes, not blond jokes) in people's lives.

More power to your daughter, I wrote Julie. Let her reality be spoiled when she's old enough to afford the therapy it'll take to recover her innocence, but not too old that she won't have a job or health insurance to be able to afford the therapy. It's a fine line.

So happy MLK day, I guess. Happy MLK day to those whose children don't yet understand that black "means" different or brown "means" inferior. Congrats. You've got some bubbles to burst, but your kids are lucky.

Happy MLK day to those who are stuck where I once was: hearing the "harmless" racism that the world shares with one another in polite circles at parties and has to decide: to laugh or not to laugh.

Happy MLK day to those who are black, who have achieved some level of equality and power in America, and now get to choose whether or not to oppress the new minority... Hispanics.

Happy MLK day to all those who are oppressed for whatever reason: the color of their skin, the accent on their tongue, the anatomy of their genitalia, the money in their wallets, the gender of the person with whom they fell in love.

Happy MLK day to all of us who live in a really imperfect would and who would love to live life, even for just a day, seeing the world through Julie's daughter's eyes. Who would love to take a stand all the time against injustice in this world, but my god, who has the time. Happy MLK day to those who have time only to pick their battles (may they pick good ones), and may they continue to believe that "unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality."

MLK writes, "Like an unchecked cancer, hate corrodes the personality and eats away its vital unity. Hate destroys a man's sense of values and his objectivity. It causes him to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true."

And cancer always starts small.

So be aware. Burst your kids bubbles or break your kids of their hate. Be militant. Or just choose your battles. I don't know. But "nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." So let's let love "release... harmonize... and illuminate life."

Happy MLK day.