Seven whole days, not one in seven

Sad news has come forth this week about my seminary. General, like so many other Episcopal seminaries, is struggling. Heck, it, like so many churches, is struggling. I get the realities. We live in a post-Christendom world. A place where people are "spiritual but not religious." The church of the 1950s is dying and we're clinging to it as if it was/were/is our only way of life. So, of course, it makes sense that our institutions are struggling. Reimagining, rediscovering who the Church is, who the Church will become, is no longer optional--but all that is another post. This is a post about a place I love more than just about anywhere (if you asked me to rank Athens GA, Israel/Palestine and General Seminary--it'd be a tough job).

General Seminary is the first seminary of the Episcopal Church. Its beautiful campus is a respite in the concrete jungle of New York City. Its chapel, the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, is the place where so many priests (including me) have been shaped and formed and begun to understand what this vocation is all about. And now General finds itself in severe financial crisis. There are emails flying in and out of my box today--all filled with the details about a meeting that happened yesterday with the Board of Trustees. This press release puts a nice spin on it. I suspect the meeting was a bit more challenging. The thought of General not being General, of priests not being formed, of it not being that place of joy (and gossip and sometime pure annoyance--all the human condition is wrapped up in that place for me), it's just incomprehensible. A friend just posted on Facebook that he feels like he's been hit in the stomach. I get it. It's beyond understanding.

I sit and type this as Sojo looks out the window and Lucy is curled up beside me. My first day on the Close (the seminary campus), after the movers had left, after one of the smiling and wonderful maintenance men had installed my new air conditioner, I opened the closet door to let Lucy and Sojo finally run free in their new domain. Out came Sojo but Lucy was nowhere to be seen. I searched high and low for her. Everywhere I could imagine. She was gone. Someone called the front office to alert the staff to be on the lookout for a very lost cat from Georgia. My heart sank. One day out of Georgia and into NYC, and I had lost my beloved, declawed, defenseless cat. I sat there and questioned the decision to move to NYC, to start seminary, to become a priest at all. Somehow this seemed a horrid omen and all I wanted to do was pack up my Uhaul and head back home.

And then, on a lark, or perhaps out of sheer desperation, I got down on the floor, one last time and crawled under my bed. Lucy had always loved to hide in the box springs, and although I had already checked 4 times, I found myself looking again. She wasn't easy to see. In the move, more fabric must have come loose and she had taken her hiding place to a whole new level. But there she was. Hidden away from the chaos of boxes and packing tape. Not yet ready to come out, but safe and sound.

I don't really tend to believe in "signs," but that day stands as one of the markers in my memory of knowing it was going to be okay. In the days that followed, things happened. Strangers knocking on my door with a "hey, I'm new here too--let's go find the grocery store" suggestion, building-mates would share wine and bad reality television, study-mates would become life-long friends and classmates who always sat in the same seat at chapel, day-in-day-out, helped me grow into who I am.


I can not imagine my world or myself, who I would be, without the sacred ground of General Seminary. Here's hoping I don't have to.

King of glory, King of peace,
I will love Thee;
And that love may never cease,
I will move Thee.
Thou hast granted my request,
Thou hast heard me;
Thou didst note my working breast,
Thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art
I will sing Thee,
And the cream of all my heart
I will bring Thee.
Though my sins against me cried,
Thou alone didst clear me;
And alone, when they replied,
Thou didst hear me.

Seven whole days, not one in seven,
I will praise Thee;
In my heart, though not in Heaven,
I can raise Thee.
Small it is, in this poor sort
To enroll Thee:
E’en eternity’s too short
To extol Thee.

---

Holy Week and disappearing blog posts

Hi there. I'm still here, I've just been hiding a little bit. Lots going on and none of it terribly interesting. My last blog post was a story. A family story. And my mom made me  politely asked me to remove it as it referenced family members who wear inappropriate swimwear (read: tiny Speedos on old men) and some of the more colourful characters in my family. The blog post will reappear (perhaps this week  it would be more appropriate to say it will be resurrected) at a later date. With some edits.

Anyhow. It's Holy Week. This year I'm lucky because I have this totally amazing intern who preaches like a rock star. So she's got Good Friday covered, leaving me with Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday (I use St. John Chrysostom's Easter Sermon for the Great Vigil). And I think (just maybe) that I'm about done with Maundy Thursday.

Preaching Easter Sunday is hard. I mean, double the attendance and folks that you never see and you've got this one shot to "get it right." Of course, there is no perfect getting it right. There's only preaching the Gospel. There's only unpacking some tidbit of truth that is hidden or not-so-hidden in the Gospel. The truth is that no one comes for the preaching. They come for the music and the flowers and a whole lot of them come because their mom promises to take them out for brunch if they go with. And yet, we all know a good sermon when we hear it. We all know the power it can have to help re-frame a familiar story, taking it to a whole new level. So I play with words and wonder what that key nugget of truth is.

This week has been hard. I miss Jerusalem. Which always catches me off guard. Not that "oh, it'd be nice to get back" kind of missing, but an actual ache. Which sounds corny and silly. But there is something about that land, that soil, that air that I miss at a visceral level. So I find myself blubbering like an idiot that I'm stuck in Chicago and not in a war-torn country where my politics are not appreciated by the reigning government.

So...Tuesday in Holy Week. At the coffee shop. Shawn Colvin is singing "Steady On" on the jukebox. I was fed a delicious breakfast by my Bible Study group. My assistant is a copying fool and things are good there. And one sermon is (almost) done. So things are pretty good. Exhaustion is inevitable. But I'm well prepared (you should see my organized refrigerator!). More to come...

Blek

Things have been a little wonky lately. Between Daylight Savings Time, my insane (for me) travel with my grandmother's funeral, negotiating stuff that at work that has to be negotiated, like tuck pointing and boiler maintenance and voicemail mailboxes and other less than Gospel-centric things,  and oh, yeah, the season of Lent--I'm having trouble keeping up. I'm seriously tired, y'all. That kind of how-do-I-manage-my-life, how-do-I-keep-this-up tired. It's the tired that comes not from not getting enough sleep, but from not having enough whatever-it-is in me to do what needs to be done. I haven't been to the gym in forever. I am, on the bright side, doing pretty well in terms of eating and cooking, but the sort of basic self care? That's out the window.

It's a phase, a season, and it will pass, but right now, getting dressed and out the door is like the biggest task of the day.

On the bookshelf: By Grief Transformed

 

So I'm knee deep into this book, By Grief Transformed: Dream and the Mourning Process.  It's written by Jungian analyst (and one of my mom's BFF's) Susan Olson. The truth is that I'm not much of a reader--I have a gazillion books, but ever since I got out of seminary, save some trashy mysteries and the weekly need to read commentaries, my literary intake has been minimal. I listen to tons of books (thanks to Audible.com), but in terms of paper books, I'm just not that much of a reader. My mom sent me the book and I got it Wednesday afternoon. I peeked at it just before our Wednesday Night Forum began and got hooked. It's a strange book to be "hooked" on and yet I am having trouble putting it down. In it, Susan writes about the death of her daughter, Elizabeth, who was a vital and vibrant part of my childhood. Susan writes about dreams and archetypes and it is so captivating, that I've had a hard time putting the book down. It's not exactly a "feel good" book--I mean it's all about death, dying and grief. But it is, I think, a book about resurrection, although that's my terminology, not Susan's (at least to the point I've reached).

It is strange, all these years later, to read about Elizabeth's death. I never knew my father's parents. And when my biological grandmother died (on my father's side), I was 7 years old. The funeral and the time around her death are vivid, but I didn't hurt, I didn't experience the loss that death brings with her death. I was, I think, for the most part, unmarked by the sting of death until that March 3rd of my Junior year in High School. My high school pal Dan and I had gone ice skating in Atlanta. It was long before the advent of cell phones. We stopped on the side of the road and watched a KKK rally, horrified and fascinated, hiding at a safe distance. And then we went back to his house, where my mother had been calling and calling, waiting for me to get from Atlanta, urgency in her voice. She wanted me back at home. The horror, the unexpectedness, the capture of death had shaken her, as news of Elizabeth's death moved throughout the town. I remember it as if it was yesterday. And so I read, all these years later, the story, the unimaginable heartbreak of a mother who has lost a child and yet has found, through dreams and myth and the strange weavings of God a place of life and goodness. It is captivating, I know, in part, for me because I knew Elizabeth. But more than the individual knowledge, this book opens a gateway, opens a lens, opens a door, for seeing the transformative power of both dreams and death. It's not an easy read--it is filled with emotion that is real and sometimes raw. But it's a good read. Okay. Enough writing. Back to reading....

Wednesday Afternoon Recipe Blogging

Yesterday I wrote a whole long blog post only to erase it by accident. Grr. Argh! And I haven't had time to sit down and write a replacement. So instead, I'll offer this:

I'm working late tonight and had some space in my schedule to comehome a do a bit of cooking. In a Weight Watchers meeting last week, someone tried a recipe for Butternut Squash Ricotta Baked Pasta. It's a Weight Watchers recipe and I decided to give it a shot today.

The recipe lists the dish as one that takes "moderate" skills. It took a few pans, but was super easy to make (I think it's listed as "Moderate" because of the multiple pans).

Here are my thoughts--I love garlic, but I've made this sauce twice and somehow the garlic seems to clash a bit with the flavor of the faux rue. So I'd cut down, if not cut out, the garlic in this. 

And...Trader Joe's now has canned butternut squash puree. I suspect this would work as well as doing the work of cutting, baking and mashing the squash.

For what it's worth--the walnuts and the ricotta make this dish very delicious! Enjoy!!

2 spray(s) cooking spray
20 oz butternut squash, fresh, peeled and cubed
1/8 tsp table salt, for cooking pasta
12 oz uncooked whole-wheat pasta, penne
1 1/4 cup(s) fat-free skim milk
2 Tbsp white all-purpose flour
2 tsp minced garlic
1/2 tsp table salt
1/4 tsp black pepper, freshly ground, or to taste
1 Tbsp thyme, fresh, chopped, divided
1/2 cup(s) part-skim ricotta cheese
1/3 cup(s) grated Parmesan cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano recommended
1/4 cup(s) chopped walnuts, toasted

Preheat oven to 375ºF. Coat a baking sheet with cooking spray. Coat a 2 1/2- to 3-quart baking dish with cooking spray. Place squash on prepared baking sheet; roast until tender, about 20 to 30 minutes. Place in a large bowl and mash. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. After squash has been roasting for about 10 minutes, cook pasta according to package directions; drain and return to pot. In a medium saucepan, whisk together milk, flour, garlic, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat, whisking frequently; reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring often, until thickened, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat; stir in mashed squash and 2 1/2 teaspoons of thyme. Add sauce to pasta; toss to mix and coat. Transfer pasta mixture to prepared baking dish; dot with spoonfuls of ricotta and then sprinkle with Parmesan and walnuts. Bake until top is lightly browned in a few spots, about 15 to 20 minutes; remove from oven and sprinkle with remaining 1/2 teaspoon of thyme. Yields about 1 cup per serving.

Here

I'm here. In Athens. Eulogy written. I'll post it under sermons sometime later this week. It's long by my standards. And not a sermon, but a eulogy. But I'll post it there anyway.

I'm drinking wine and eating pie. I don't need my coat on outside. I'll sleep well tonight. 

The calm before the...

I head back to Athens tomorrow. My uncle began texting me at 3:31 AM this morning (I know because I sleep with my phone beside my bed). 3:31, y'all. I think the family has officially gone insane. Like my grandmother dies, and no one knows how to function (yes, I'm being dramatic. No one is really that crazy. Yet.) I am up to my eyeballs in bulletins for the burial, sticky-notes with reminders to pick up the dry-cleaning and alterations, pastoral care meetings and oh, yes, the ever present need to do laundry. Sigh. I'll get home around 8:30 tonight and start on laundry, do the much over-due dishes in the sink, pack and try to write this damn eulogy.

I'm used to last minute writing. Most of my sermons are written on Saturday evenings. I do lots of reading during the week, some study, maybe even jot down an idea or two, but somehow the big writing part seems to wait until the very.last.minute. Always. I'm hoping the same is true here.

I don't often write about him here, but I'm overwhelmed by the goodness of my partner in crime. The guy I work with, who serves both as organist and parish administrator. Out of the sheer goodness of his heart, he's formatting and printing the burial office bulletins for me. And he--honest-to-God--he offered to fly down and play my grandmother's funeral. But more than all that, he can handle my moody frustration and laughs appropriately when I tell family stories and actually knows and (sort-of) likes the Church in the Wildwood (one of the more odd hymn choices that we're going with on Friday). It's good to have good people around.

The other good news: I found my Coach purse. It's the only "dress" purse I have, the only purse I have that doesn't look like it came from a store that sells to drag-queens and hookers (that's where I usually buy my purses). So at least that's covered.

I hated Finding Nemo, but I'm singing the song today. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming....

Correction

So my father informs me that the recipe I included in yesterday's blog entry is not for the slow cooker but to be cooked up in the skillet! Apologies!

As for me...I'm working on my grandmother's eulogy. Still. It's so damn hard. Going nowhere fast. I need to get over the idea that I'll cover all 90 of her years in one piece. Add to it some of the chaos of family and trying to include all of their stories in mine and I'm looking at a colossal mess. Blek. There's a reason I encourage family members not to do this!

A random blog entry on food

I've been doing a lot of cooking lately. Less than what your average housewife or mom (of which I fall into neither category) does, but a lot more than I usually do. It's been for a multitude of reasons: to save money, because I'm doing Weight Watchers, because I'm eating less meat. But also, I like to cook. I'm not very good at it, but I enjoy it when I can. What I have trouble with is putting it all together.  I mean, I can cook a dish, but I have more trouble creating a meal. Or a menu for the week. It feels like pulling teeth. And I am so jealous of my friends who seem to be able to pull it all together and make it seem effortless. 

Growing up, both my parents did a fair amount of cooking. My father made this amazing and deliciously spicy pasta sauce (which, Papa, if you're reading this, would you email that recipe to me?). In fact, my father used to cook all kinds of amazing stuff. As a kid, I know I was a total a-hole about his food because it wasn't generic. I mean, I think I wanted what I now refer to as "middle America" food: bottled salad dressing, Mac & Cheese out of a box, hotdogs and hamburgers. I didn't grow up on that stuff. I grew up on big salads (my mom makes the most amazing salads on the planet. I can run a close second when I try, but nobody puts together salads like she does. And she always makes her own creative dressings.), very spicy food, usually with minimal meat. Or rather, meat not as the center. You know, meat and a veggie and a starch as the generic meal--ours never looked like that. Way more heavy on the veggies.  I can remember being embarrassed when friends would come over because it wasn't food like you'd see advertised on TV, like Shake and Bake or Hamburger Helper (that would be added to the repertoire at my father's house when he married his third wife. That and breaking up the spaghetti so that it could no longer be twirled--the true scandal of my youth).

When my mom and my step-dad married, suddenly there were teen and pre-teen kids living in one house. So not only were they negotiating what married life meant, but we were an instant, not-well-mixed, kinda lumpy blended family. Food was a huge issue: my step-sister drank Coke in insane quantities. My step-brother only liked canned spinach. My primarily vegetarian mother and I ate a lot of funny looking food that didn't go over terribly well with the other half of the family. Food was a source of stress. And so we began to go out a lot. I think at least 3 nights out of the week, the "family dinner table" was at the local pizza joint. So in some ways, eating out feels more like the family dinner table than anywhere else.

So now I'm trying to return to the times of my youth--when food was eaten at a table, prepared by members of the family. It sounds kinda corny here, but there's something great about peeling a butternut squash and talking about your day. I'm also in love with slow cooker recipes. I'm making this bbq tofu chili weight watchers recipe and it's insane how good it is (and I'm not even that big of a tofu fan). And if you're curious about one of my father's insanely delicious and spicy recipes, here's an easy one, fashioned for a crock pot, cook in a skillet, all together:

Picadilo:

1 pound ground beef

1 chopped green pepper

1 garlic clove, chopped       

2 onions, chopped

1 large can of tomatoes

½ cup of raisins

1 cup of olives

1 tablespoon of capers

1 tablespoon of red wine vinegar

 Cook it up and serve it over rice…++