14 April, 2006

Maundy Thursday

Maundy Thursday
Holy week. Maundy Thursday. Tenebrae Service and Lord's Supper.

The Maundy Thursday service at my church is so intense. Talking before and after the service strongly but tactfully discouraged. A lone parishoner silently handing out bulletins. The shutters all closed tight against the invading twilight. Songs. O Sacred Head Now Wounded. Handwashing and communion. Scripture after scripture - shadows of denial, betryal, anguish, destiny, the cross. Death, the final insult.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Oh, sometimes it makes me tremble. Tremble. Tremble. Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

During that song, the minister removed his robe. Removed all elements, candles, sacremental symbols from the altar table and covered it in rough black fabric. Then he used another piece of the rough black fabric to cover the pulpit. And in silence he left us. He hammered three nails into wood.

The organ sounded an earthquake. The sanctuary was completely dark. It was after eight, so darkness was outside; even the twilight had given up.

After a few moments a few of the lights came up and people could see to leave. I sat in my pew. Crying. Reminding myself that without the death of Jesus, there could be no resurrection. Without His suffering, no salvation. Without the cross, no empty tomb. Without Maundy Thursday, no Easter Sunday.
As I continue to grow older, and grow up, I notice more and more things that "have to be." I remember when Rudy Huxtable got her period and she was horrified and did not want to be a woman, did not want to take part in any of the rituals her family had developed to mark that ausipcious occasion. Clare told her "to be a mother, this has to be." I remember that moment as though I had been there.
This has to be. Darkest before the dawn and all that. Seven years of infertility to get Molly. A year of struggle before Bob got the great job. The death of Jesus for the salvation of mankind. This has to be. This has to be.

10 April, 2006

Is that a tissue in your pocket?...Meet Mati...Now what?

Is That a Tissue in your pocket?

OR IS IT A MOUSE? A LONG DEAD, COMPLETELY DESSICATED BABY MOUSE?

We were cleaning out the garage and found Molly's very cute gardening apron. With a bulge in the pocket. A bulge exactly the size of a long dead, completely dessicated baby mouse. And I was somehow elected (by default?) to see what was in there. So I poked and did not expect to find anything and.

SOMETHING. WAS. THERE.

I dropped the apron, screamed like a girl, and jumped about 3 feet. All of this made Bob scream and jump too, and then I knew I had a choice - throw the apron away and let the mouse win or look, see, and empty the pocket into the trash, wash the apron and never speak of it again. Be a big baby or a rational grown up.

I thought. The kids were watching. I decided to be the grown up. I picked up the now not-so-cute gardening apron and peeked in.

And it was a wadded up Kleenex. And I laughed. And felt like an idiot. And I decided that the grass seed and whatever else might attract the disgusting varmints (mice not kids) must go. Now. Rational or not.

interjection
"dammit I fell off my clogs!" -Will, Will and Grace

Funny!

Meet Mati
Mati O'Malley. My new character. Great hair, not so great body but working on it, married, no kids, brownish-red hair (did I mention hair already? Oh well.) Directs a non-profit agency, reads, writes, seeks, finds, gets lost and finds a new way. Neat freak (see the fiction?), lower-than-average self-esteem, good friends, difficult family, loves TiVo, loves coffee drinks and diet coke, majored in communications, southern, sassy, funny, sarcastic, wonderful with children but not sure she wants her own, married to a sci-fi writer, hates clothes, mirrors, diets, scales, and being fat.

She's me and she's not me, me only different, me only truer.

She's Fat Girl Skinny.

And this is (c) Shannon Warren so don't steal her.

Now What?
Lent is almost over, and along with it, the pop culture embargo. Or is it?

Have I really missed anything by not knowing every.single.thing. going on in NYC and Hollywood?

Can I go back to just a little celeb gossip? Or is it an addiction like smoking, where if you pick up one cigarette, you 're back at 3 gossip blogs, US weekly and People, and the radio and the TV shows?

And really, does it matter? Can't I just not care? I mean who cares, really?

People are starving, gas will be $3 a gallon by Easter, and Bush's approval rating is in the toilet (oh, wait, that's not bad news...), so is it so wrong to crave a little escape, a little fantasy, a little info about lives no one real really leads?

I don't know yet, but I do know that no one wants this to be so existential less than I do! But here we are, all Camus and everything, and I secretly know what Gwyneth named her baby and I don't think that makes me a bad person.

Does it?

sfw