baptisms

Yesterday was baptism day at church. I love baptism day, always have. I love hearing people's stories and what God has done for them and in their lives. I love the crying and the families and the wet look as people come out of the water. I love that at my church we let people besides the pastors baptize folks. And I really love that sometimes, and it's happened the last two times, a person gets baptized and then gets to help dunk the next person. It's a really beautiful thing.

Yesterday two of my friends took the plunge, so to speak. Mama T. was awesome. She's so well spoken and really displays poise so much of the time considering all that she's been through. And even though she didn't share all of that, I know some of it so I know this is huge for her. And huge for her kids to see her doing this and all the other fantastic steps she's taking in her life. Jenny shared about her stuff and where she's been and where she's going. It's great. She made that pastors cry.

And we had family meal the night before and we had a celebration dinner later (margaritas are my favorite) and I got in some good baby time. So I love almost everything about this day.

Except there was this one time - the day I was baptized. See, my church requires this for membership. And, well, I was raised for several years in the Quaker church, and my mom was raised a Quaker, and her parents were raised in the Quaker church, and their parents were too. What you might not know is that Quakers don't practice water baptism. If you are in a church, I'm sure you're shocked and apalled. Isn't it clear? Isn't it obvious? Quakers are heathens because of this, right? Well, that's what people thought back in the day (remember Witch of Blackbird Pond) and so they were persecuted and treated horribly. When all they really wanted was a stripped down church experience. No smells and bells, no fancy buildings, no hierarchy. Just the people listening for God's voice and sharing what they heard. Cool, huh? Part of it is a belief that an entire life should demonstrate belief, not just a moment in a day, which baptism had become, and still is, for so many people.

But it becomes a problem when those of us raised in this way step outside of that tradition and for whatever reason end up at different churches. Mom has had this problem for forever. She can't join a church that she and Dad regularly attend because she hasn't been baptized. And she probably never will. Dad, raised as a good Baptist, they are willing to let in, but he won't join if they don't let Mom join.

And then I found this church that I like (most of the time) and it's not a Quaker church. And they wouldn't let me join without having been water baptized. And it's not whether you were baptized as an infant vs. an adult. Dunked, sprinkled. Aware, unaware. Choice, no choice in the matter. It didn't matter. Just baptized. Period. At some point in your life.

So I had this choice to make - join or not join. Lead or not lead (had to be a member to help lead something. Had to be baptized to be a member). And eventually, after much shouting at God, lots of crying, and some serious doubts as to whether anyone understood me at all, I got some aqua shoes.

And, even though it was a few years ago, I still resent the fact that this was such a hard decision, something required of me to be a committed part of this congregation and that it wasn't an epiphany moment. I mean, really, I gave up something dear to me, and yes, I know that is the whole point, but couldn't there have been a voice from heaven or doves or fire or something? Or at least a warm fuzzy feeling instead of feeling like I'd lost this integral part of who I was?

But yesterday a girl of about 12 said something that I just loved when she shared. And I loved it because it didn't toe the party line. She said that she knew Jesus loved her even if she didn't get baptized and it wasn't something she had to do to get into heaven. Yay!

Grief

Abuelita died Tuesday at 3 in the morning.

It has been interesting trying to figure out how I feel about her death. She had Alzheimer's. It's a devastating disease. It's hard for the person that has it when they know that they no longer know what they once knew. It's hard for those around her or him because we are no longer known. We have been lost. And then they deteriorate to the point where they cannot communicate anymore. And it's a horrible thing to live like this I think.

But, death is a hard thing too. My friend Sylvia used the word "relieved" and I think that is what is mingling with the sadness of Abuelita's death. I am relieved that she does not have to live this way any longer. I am sad but I am relieved.

There were more people there than I expected considering that she has been out of the life of her church for so long. But they came. All the people she had taken into her house and taken under her wings. The people who knew who Jesus was because she introduced them. The people that were in her Sunday school classes as little children. The folks that she arranged rides for. The people that she made sure made it to camp.

And it was sweet to hear how many people rose up to call her blessed because of her life.

Hah!

I was robbed on Wednesday.

Someone walked into my place of work and stole my wallet. Thankfully my check card wasn't in there, it was in my pocket. My checkbook is in another bag. My Discover Card - well it only has about $70 left on it. Stupidly, these filchers tried to get cash via an ATM. Well, you might need a pin number - and it has nothing to do with my birthday. And, if you plan to use it to get gas, you'll need to find a gas station that does not require zip code verification.

So - HAH - you theiving theives who would take my hard earned money
THERE IS NOTHING TO TAKE!
I do hope you find and enjoy the Borders gift card and don't toss it down into a drain. It's worth $25 of pure book bliss. At least you would be well-read thieving theives. Perhaps something on resumes and cover letters to help you get a real job?

The Horror!

Why???

Why, Girl Scouts of America, have you taken away my beloved Animal Treasures? They were perfect shortbread and fudgey goodness.

And now they are gone. Gone. GONE!

The Frey Fray

It seems that James Frey is getting a lot more publicity than he would like regarding his book A Million Little Pieces. Or, if bad publicity is still a good thing, then he might be very happy. The Smoking Gun has gone through the book and pointed out all the inconsistencies in a very long article that you can read here.

Upon the recommendation of my friend Derek, I picked up this book and read it. I sent it home with Brother and his girlfriend in the summer. She read it and passed it along to her friends. I don't think Brother has gotten to read it yet. He brought it with him to Christmas but handed it to Mom on one of the plane rides as he tried to read Harry Potter and she kept asking him questions. I got My Friend Leonard for Brother's Girlfriend for Christmas.

And now all of this hubub. But here's the deal and my ten cents: Did anyone really believe all of this stuff when they read the book? Even though it was touted as autobiographical, I certainly didn't think it was all true. Artistic license happens everywhere. In the end it is still a damn good book and continues to be worth a read.

I think the contribution to the addiction recovery community is probably quite significant. There are probably people who feel as though this could be them or some side of them that other people don't know about. It gets some of it out in the open. There is strength in it.

I love that Frey's characters in rehab are as varied as we are out in the world, a judge, an indigent writer, a mobster, etc. And it's a good reminder that we are surrounded by people with addictions everyday, we just don't know what they might be because they are functional in a basic sense.

So go read this book, seriously. Take it with a grain of salt, but read it.

The bleeding toes

I have ingrown toenail issues. Both Brother and I inherited this from Dad. Apparently it's his whole side of the family. It was a topic of discussion at some point when we got together over the holidays. This morning I was digging away at them (I know, lovely imagery) and managed to cut off a little too much skin and my big toe started bleeding. My dad does this all the time.

As I looked down at my toes sometime today, my mother's chorus from the holidays rang again in my head "You are so much like your father." She usually said this when I was being obstinate about something or insisting that I was right. Dad always says "It's a curse" being right all the time.

I am so much like my father and Brother is so much like my mother that, once upon a time when we had a family friend who practiced psychology, she felt that we would make an interesting case study. Mom and Brother are artsy. Brother is fantastic in his abstract, contemporary sort of way. Mom is more of a realist, but quite good as well.

Sometimes I find myself reading signs along the road outloud. This is so my mother. I'm also a bit artsy - it's just that I didn't get the private lessons in it like Brother when I was younger. I was musical so I got lessons in that. Or buying wrapping paper after a holiday because it's cheaper and I'll be able to use it next year. That's my mom. I managed to refrain this year.

Dad is very ethnic. And he feeds that in me. He take positions in places where there is a large population of Latinos. He cares about bilingual education for kids. He met Cesar Chavez. I cried when my mom tried to throw out Chavez' obituary that I had clipped from the newspaper when he passed.

Brother was given the ethnic name. My mom liked how his name was pronounced in Spanish. It's also very common in English so it was unsuccessful. His middle name is taken from a poem that Dad loves (and now I do too). I own a copy of the poem and sent the obit. notice when the author passed away last year. I don't think Brother owns a copy or has even read the entire thing. Now, unless you are Jewish, my name doesn't seem terribly ethnic - but currently pretty popular for little girls. But it's very Quaker as well. My mom was third generation Society of Friends. I gave in and got baptized a few years ago - on Cinco de Mayo. How's that for ironic?

Don't get me wrong - it's not that it's a bad thing being like my father, or my mother, most of the time. I generally respect them. But it's just scary sometimes as I do something then feel horrified as I realize I am becoming more and more like them, bleeding toes and all.

Cats and such

OK. I must confess - I do have cats - only two though, despite all the temptation to get more as time goes on. I am NOT, however, a Cat Person.

Some of you out there that know me might disagree, because, for as long as you've known me, I've had a cat or two and they amuse me. I grew up with dogs and had a variety of other animals running around the house too - lots of lizards when we lived in Arizona, a few hamsters when I couldn't keep my dog with me. We adopted baby birds and promptly, though with good intentions, hurried them on to their baby bird deaths. But I am an Animal Person - not a Cat Person. It's an important distinction to make.

I live an hour away from my job. I leave for several days at a time. I couldn't do this with a dog, as much as I think I would like one from time to time. I am not at home enough to keep a dog company or to take it out and walk it every so often. I have a life people! Besides, cats are great at catching bugs and mice and such things.

The cats that I have are both second-hand. My first cat was an adult when I got him and had been through two temporary homes in two weeks when I brought him home. The building where I lived was having some bug problems at the time. They diminished about the time that the cat came to live with me - not a direct correlation but rather nice. My second cat was an older kitten when I got him. The lady that had him also had a little boy and kittens with sharp claws and teeth and little children don't really mix too well. My first cat seemed like he needed some company. I didn't know that the second cat would takeover like an gangster claiming territory, but he did. I also didn't know that he would become a one person cat. I never had cats growing up so I don't know much about the whole cat psychology thing. Apparently they aren't all alike?

But now I have two live cats. They live with me. They walk across my legs and stomach and dance around my head as I try to sleep. They whine in the morning (5 am or so) when there isn't any dry food in their dish. I Do Not need any reminders that I have cats or actually like the cats that I have.

I am not starting a collection dammit! All of you well-intentioned friends and family out there - Don't Give Me Cat Crap. No cat photo frames or ornaments or wall hangings or calendars. I won't use them. I won't hang them up. I refuse to decorate with an animal as a theme at this point in my life.

Thank you for your attention.

I do need to submit an addendum to this rant. My friend Velda got me this very groovy cat broach/pin thing for my birthday/Christmas present. It's actually quite fun and not tacky and I got a lot of compliments on it when I wore it. But here's the problem with actually liking and wanting to wear said broach: if I wear it I'm afraid people will assume it's because of the collecting cats thing when it's really just a fasion accessory that I like. So there it is. Sigh.

Christmas thoughts

I realize this is a bit late - not as timely as I would like but I've had limited blog access while I've been off of work.

I spent the first hour of Christmas crying. Not the usual response. The day before I spent a couple of hours with friends from church delivering carloads of gifts to people that we came in contact with over the past year. People that live 8 and 10 to a house or a grandma who was raising her dead daughter's 4 children. We had one family who lived on the second floor of a two flat. Their relatives lived on the first floor but we didn't have them on our list. I don't know if we hadn't had contact with them in the past or what. But while we were delivering gifts two of the girls from downstairs asked why they didn't get anything. We left them a ham - it was all we had not already assigned to another family. It was heartbreaking knowing that what we were doing was barely even a small dent in the need and sadness that is out there on Christmas and every other day of the year. One lady wanted food, another diapers. Simple things like a pair of gloves or a scarf.

And it makes me wonder why? Christmas is the celebration of God Incarnate. If God has come to Earth, why is there still suffering and sadness and hunger and poverty in the shadow of great riches? Why has it taken so long - almost 2000 years - for Christ to return and truly end all of this? While I am not anxious for second coming of Christ as it is portrayed in something like the Left Behind series, I cry on Christmas morning because I want to see things like they are supposed to be, not the way that they are.