Watoto Waimba

There was an announcement in the church bulletin.  The Watoto Children’s Choir was coming to Milwaukee.  I didn’t know anything about it but could tell by the “Watoto” part that it had something to do with East Africa, so I decided to go.  There were a lot of people from church there.

Friday night, the choir performed at Central United Methodist Church in Milwaukee, across the street from a Slayer concert at the Rave.  The choir consists of children and adults from a program in Uganda called Watoto that helps raise orphans.  Not a great name by trademark standards as it’s rather descriptive, but it seems like a program that’s been highly successful.  It also struck me as a very strange juxtaposition to have a band called Slayer performing next to a group of Ugandan orphans.

The group consisted of a little over 30 performers, children and adults.  The children mostly ranged from 8 to 10 years old.  The music was beautiful, a mix of traditional and modern East African music sung in English and Swahili – it’s possible some of it was also  in Luganda but I don’t know Luganda well enough to pick it out of a crowd.  (I could pick out some of the Swahili.)  The costumes were quite fun too, also representing a mix of traditional and modern.

I have to admit, I was a little nervous as we began to learn a bit about the Watoto program.  Two things particularly gave me that pay-attention-here warning.  First, it became clear that the tour was part of a fundraising gig.  Second, the organization was founded by muzungus.  Now, there’s nothing wrong either of these things in and of themselves – however, there is along history of muzungus with White Saviour complexes coming into Africa – or even from outside of Africa – doing fundraiser events to try to save the poor, backwards, dark, starving, etc. continent from itself.  I’m not a fan of these things (see my 2010 rant here).

Watoto impressed me.  For most of the program, the presentation felt genuine.  These were Ugandan children and adults talking about their experiences and what being a Watoto child had done for them.  There was a donation aspect and also plenty of good for sale in the lobby, but both were, for the most, were presented in terms of “help us continue this great work.”

There was one big exception and one little exception.  The video that was shown had the big exception.  It was going along with showing Watoto programs and students – and showing some really neat things like trade school classes – and then the founders came on.  Suddenly, it seemed like an ASPCA advert.  All pity and “save these poor creatures who cannot help themselves” mood.  Bummer.  At least it was only one part of an otherwise really well done program. 

The little exception was that everything was presented in terms of “Africa” despite that this group is a Ugandan group helping Ugandan children.  There is a new trial program offshoot in South Sudan, to be fair.  But, referring only to Africa and rarely to Uganda perpetuates the Africa-is-a-country misconception.

I’ve come to realize over the years that as much as some of this bothers me, some of it is necessary to get donations and foreign support.  Muzungu-pandering I call it.  Give the white people what they want to see so they’ll give their money.  I sort of now see it as a necessary evil.  Watoto kept the muzungu pandering well balanced with insight into real Africa, including its beauty and its sorrows.  I liked that.

The most moving part of the evening was during one of the breaks between songs where the children would tell their stories about how they came to Watoto.  There was a young girl stepped forwards to talk about the day she became an orphan.  “I came home from school and found my neighbors standing around my mother’s body covered by a sheet.  They told me my father had hung himself after murdering my mum.”

The sadness and concern in the eyes of the adult Watoto woman standing behind this small girl conveyed more than anything else in the entire program.  That expression, that empathy and care from another human being, from another person in the program reinforced the realness of these children’s stories and the importance of Watoto to them.

A Bus to Texas

Last month, I went on a mission trip with a group from across Wisconsin.  The pastor at our church asked for some reflections on the trip.  Mommy asked for those reflections to go here.  And since I’m (*cough* sometimes) a good girl and (*bigger cough* sometimes) listen to my mommy, here they are.

It seemed so strange Monday morning, to sit at a table eating breakfast alone instead of sharing the meal with 49 friends. After the wonderful week of egg bakes, casseroles and other delights from the oven, my bowl of knock-off Cream of Wheat was less than inspiring. Yet as wonderful as the previous week’s cooked food had been it hardly compared to the other food that had sprinkled the week in abundance.

Mind, body, spirit – that other important trinity – to have every aspect well-fed on one adventure is a pretty amazing feat. I went for the body-feeding, the hard work, the heavy lifting, the sweating, the dirt, the pleasant exhaustion of tired muscles. There was plenty of body-feeding, both in the way I expected it, full of grime and aches, and in the many delightful meals. For what is a gathering of Methodists without hearty casserole bakes dripping in cheese? But there was more, so much more.

There were the sort of obvious spirit-focused meals: devotionals, hymn sings, worship service. The sorts of things you know are supposed to uplift you and make you feel warm and fuzzy and close to God. But, the real spirit food came from outside these events. The way the community embraced us and the work we were doing, the way they supported us, donated supplies, fundraised for the projects, visited us, even just in how they knew we were there and welcomed us. A talent show where laughs were shared. Games played together, teaching, learning, and having fun.

And most importantly, the easy way in which we could talk to each other and to those we met, about our lives, about our thoughts, about our troubles, about our views on God, with no anger, no pretentiousness and no hostility. It did not matter that we did not all agree. It did not matter that we came from different denominations or different parts of the spectrum within the same denomination. We could share; we could talk; we could be together and yet be different. Conversations that fed our minds and our spirits – a rarity certainly worth two days on a bus.

I left Texas on Saturday morning with paint covered clothes, sore arms, an over-whelming feeling of excitement and happiness and 49 friends whose names and faces I may forget, but whose spirits will remain with me always.

A Morning at George's

I thought Id like to go to church on Sunday morning. I already had a two-day bus pas that stopped at a church downtown, so I thought I'd attend there. St. George'sCathedral is not only the oldest cathedral in southern Africa, it is also the seat of the Arch Bishop of Cape Town. I bet you can all name one Arch Bishop of Cape Town, even if you don't realize it. This was Arch Bishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu's church.

It's a beautiful old stone building in the classic cross shape with tall stained glass windows. The seating is wooden chairs linked together rather than pews and the kneelers are individual cushions stored under the chairs in front of each row.

This was my first Anglican service, so I didn't quite know what to expect. I soon found my familiarity with Catholic mass quite useful in navigating the service, though there was far less kneeling. The congregation present for service seemed a mix of local members and tourists, people of all shapes, sizes and colors.

The reverend conducting the service explained the guest speaker listed on the program could not attend as he had been needed to escort Arch Bishop Emeritus Tutu to Nelson Mandela's burial in Qunu. The two had left Cape Town at 4 that morning for the burial proceedings. I was able to watch a bit of the burial live on tv at lunch after service. Arch Bishop Emeritus Tutu was one of many clergy walking the long road behind Mandela's coffin after the funeral ceremony.

A brass quartet welcomed everyone into the church before the service started. A processional led by someone swinging a ball of incense marked the start of the service, with the choir, the preachers and a whole onslaught of others in long purple robes walking around the sanctuary and up to the front. The church conducts its services in English, Afrikaans and Xhosa. Songs and recitations are printed in all three languages and the congregation is invited to use whichever they choose. Most of the talking-at parts of the service were done in English, although some of the readings were done in other languages. The Old Testament reading was from Isaiah, read in Xhosa.

Much of the service was devoted to remembrance of Nelson Mandela and the sermon talked of both him and John the Baptist – the New Testament reading was about when John is in prison and sends a message to Jesus to ask if Jesus is the messiah. There was a beautiful poem dedicated to Mandela read by the poet. And a special musical offering on a South African instrument that I think was called a Zeze. The instrument itself looks like a bow and it was played by rubbing a stick along the hard, curved part of the bow. The lady held one of the hard, curved part in her mouth but I don't know if that did anything or was just to old it. It had a very unique, eery but pretty sound.

The service was beautiful and it hardly felt like two hours had gone by when it ended. There was a coffee hour afterwards, but I didn't stay. I wandered around a bit to admire the sanctuary and take some photos. And I found something delightful that really made me smile. A Kimberly-Clark paper towel dispenser in the washroom!

 

Open Door is Open for Worship!

History was made in Richmond this past Sunday.  It was the first service for Open Door United Methodist Church.  Open Door is a new church with very old roots, born of the merger between El Cerrito United Methodist Church (where I’ve been attending mostly since I moved here) and Good Shepherd United Methodist Church.

El Cerrito UMC was founded with the City of El Cerrito as the home of the first Sunday school in the area.  I don’t know much about the history of Good Shepherd UMC other than that its old letterhead proclaims it to be an Inter-racial community of faith.  That makes me think it was founded sometime in the 60s. 

The Good Shepherd church building, which is now the building for Open Door, is beautiful and was built by the people of Good Shepherd.  It’s two floors, upstairs being the sanctuary and a small office and downstairs being the fellowship hall, kitchen and a small playroom.  It’s a peaceful, rustic wood with stone accents and lots of stained glass windows depicting church stuff and the history of Richmond.  Each side of the sanctuary is floor-to-ceiling clear windows.  To the right, a view overlooking the Bay; to the left, an indoor garden with trees and lots of greenery.

The first service was wonderful; the pews were very full.  The two churches had been worshiping together for awhile already so the faces were all already familiar.  The service began with praising and ended with dancing.

There was one new element introduced today, pew sign-in books.  They’re red books were each person in the pew puts their name, address and email and then checks the appropriate “member,”  “visitor,” etc. box.  My mommy’s church has red pew sign-in books very similar to these.  I was excited.  Munchkinhead and I always enjoy drawing little pictures in the check boxes.  I drew a kitty face today.

The sign-in books will take some adjustment for the congregation.  Lots of people tried to hand the books off to the row behind them instead of passing them back down their own pew.  We’re not used to having things only go down one pew.  Usually, what we’re passing around are clipboards with sign-up sheets for church events and volunteer opportunities.  They start at the front of the church and are passed from there, arriving at the back pews already full. 

I think people will get the hang of the new books soon.  It’s a pretty small adjustment for such a big occasion.

La Cerrito aux Folles

I’m sure there was a time and are some places where 20 Methodist going to see a production of La Cage Aux Folles as a church outing would be quite scandalous.  But, the San Francisco Bay Area in 2013 is not that time or place.  And what a fabulous outing it was!

The churches music director is the music director for Contra Costa Civic Theater’s production of La Cage Aux Folles, which runs through July 21.  Of course we had to go.  We were very excited to find that the band, including the music director on keyboards, is visible through the entire performance on a nice ledge perched over the center back of the stage.

CCCT has outdone itself with two fantastic musicals in a row.  After how amazing Next to Normal was, I was holding my breath a bit, half-expecting La Cage to fall back to the theater’s usual level of so-so musicals.  Instead, I was blown away.  The singing was grand, and the dancing – my goodness, the dancing was absolutely amazing.  All we could talk about after the show (other than the music director, of course) was “where did they find so many amazing male dancers for community theater?!” 

The 5 or 6 gentlemen that played Les Cagettes spent most of the three-hour show leaping, kicking, twirling and tapping in high-heeled mary janes.  The splits, the cheer-leading jumps, the pirouettes, were all jaw-droppingly impressive. 

The show was excellent, and the cast, crew and musicians should all be very proud of themselves.  If I had to give one piece of criticism on the performance it would only be that the woodwind player could use some more practice time with his clarinet.

The story part of the musical was ok.  The plot felt a bit hidden, sort of stuffed into the end as a reason to have all that spectacular dancing.  But I suppose it’s such a classic now, that hardly matters.  If you’re in the East Bay area and can make room in your weekend schedules this month, I’d recommend checking it out.

Side note: My favorite part was Sunday morning when everyone was settling in at church and the music director began playing tunes from the show for the “get ready for church to start” music.

Community

What is “community”?  Or rather, where’s the line between “our community” and “the community”?  And when are we really involved?

I don’t quite know when it happened, but I realized that when I visit or learn about a new church, the first thing I look for is if they’re involved in their community.  Maybe it’s the Peace Corps in me; maybe it’s because my current church is so good at it.

Nearly every church I’ve come across claims to be community-involved.  Yet, most of them seem to do “community” without ever having to come into contact with people beyond the church community, existing or potential.

A couple weeks ago, I read through pamphlets for a church a friend had visited.  The pamphlets talked heavily about community work.  All the examples listed were intra-church programs, singles group events, married couples bible study, youth group, etc. 

I visited a church out-of-town this past weekend.   The focus of the whole service was community work (related to Jesus’ “I’ll make you a fisher of men” phrase).   The pastor mentioned a lot of programs, both within his own congregation and as part of the greater Methodist Church: support for missionaries, a school supply drive to help UMCOR’s efforts in Oklahoma, a knitting group that met after service once a month  to make blankets for those in need.

Other things I’ve seen touted as community work include having Bible study or small group meetings at pubs and coffee shops.  The idea is that these locations make religion more accessible to people who are scared of the “church” part.

But all these things, valuable as they are, none of them strike me as community involvement.  They focus on those already part of or interested in being part of the church community.  They insulate church members from anyone on the receiving end of the church’s work.  There’s community, but there’s no involvement.

The church I currently attend does these types of programs - women’s group, food drives, public small group meetings – but it’s also involved in community beyond.  Not just beyond the church walls, but beyond the “potentially interested in church.” 

There’s a community garden in Richmond where members help out sometimes.  Groups from the church regularly serve lunch and dinner at a local homeless shelter/soup kitchen.  And of course there’s my favorite, knitting every week.  Sitting next to someone, knitting together, becoming friends is so, so different than knitting a sweater or a blanket elsewhere and sending it to the shelter. 

There may even be more programs that aren’t on my radar.  What I like most about these activities is that they aren’t fishing for new members.  They aren’t asking people to come to church or talk about God, but they’re still feeding people’s souls.  They’re real and authentic.  People.  People simply going out there and showing God’s love through simple, everyday things.  And that’s powerful.

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, but not Good-bye

There’s lots of fabulous things about my church, but one of my early favorites, one of things I loved even when I wasn’t sure about the church was this pair of sisters.  Older women, they reminded me of the aunts from Arsenic and Old Lace; one tall, one short, always together.  As far as I know, they didn’t serve anybody elderberry wine.

Marie and Nina.  They always sat together near the front of the church, which was quite in contrast to the older people at the churches where I grew up who hid in the back rows.  There they were, always sitting together.

For the past many weeks, it’s been Nina without Marie.  It seemed very strange the first week, and only slightly less strange in the weeks following.  Yet it also always seemed like Marie was still will us, though not physically present.  She was ill and in between hospitals and home.  Yesterday, Marie went Home-home.

I’m sad to think I won’t see her sitting in that pew again or hear her insightful comments at church small group or grasp her hand during sharing of the peace.  I actually know very little about her outside of the relatives who have come to church.  But there was one glimpse I will never forget.

At the church’s Thanksgiving potluck, we were to bring our favorite Thanksgiving dishes.  I brought sauerkraut made the way my grandma used to make it (minus the turkey drippings.)  Most of the locals were befuddled as to what to do with this “condiment” without any hot dogs, but then I heard Marie ask, “who made the sauerkraut?”  Not only did she like it, it reminded her of when she was younger.  Someone in her family used to make it, from scratch.  Here I was feeling all foreigner again and then someone else shared a piece of my culture!  I suddenly didn’t feel so out of place.  It meant the world to me at that moment.

Marie always struck me as very regal and tall, even though she needed to lean on something or someone to walk.  She was also always well dressed.  And I would often think, “when I’m older, I want to be like Marie.”  Not just for her fashion and strong presence, but also for the warmth and calm understanding that seemed to radiate from her.

I have a feeling that warmth will be back in church on Sunday, radiating from somewhere unseen.  ‘Til we meet again…

 

 

Photo: painting by Martin Johnson Heade – A Vase of Corn Lilies and Heliotrope, public domain.  Held at the St. Louis Art Museum

Whatever Happened to the Sabbath?

My church (which is on Facebook, and Twitter) is doing a number of small group studies for Lent.  Every group covers the same topic each week, and that topic is related to Sunday’s service as well.  Pretty neat.  One of the groups is structured around writing.  It’s being led by our Pastoral Intern and she’s posted some of her writing for the group on her blog. 

It’s pretty neat and though I’m not as brave as her to share so much, I thought I’d give it a try and share my writing for this week on the topic of Sabbath.  (Last week was on prayer; we wrote psalms.)

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Sabbath.  I can’t hear or see the word without thinking “nsabata,” the Tonga word for “Saturday.”  Having the word built into the week like that was a constant reminder.  “What is today?”  “Sabbath.”  “Rest.”

As Easter draws near, I long for Sabbath.  I miss it fiercely.  That week I used to find some way to set aside.  “What denomination does that?”  Because it’s not a valid religious practice unless sanctioned by some denomination.  Yet, I made it happen.  Me and God, me and a dorm room, a hut, an apartment.  Me and myself and fear, of the dark, of boredom, of being alone.  Me and God and calmness and peace.  It seems impossible now.  The world calls.  How can one disappear for a whole week?  But the world called then, too.  And yet, I found Sabbath.

Now, my Sabbath comes in smaller doses.  An evening knitting.  A BART ride with closed eyes and a prayerful heart.  A deep breath.  A hug.  A connection to God and God’s world that may not last for days or hours, but long enough to listen, long enough to stop, long enough to be.

I still miss that week.

Shalom to you my friends

Round and round we went, feet crossing this way and that, circle within circle within circle of people, all dancing, all going round and round, breaking to swing a partner, like a giant chicken dance without the flapping.   In the center of our concentric rings, my friend was teetering high on a chair hoisted above the crowds.  We were celebrating her, her Bat Mitzvah and the B’Nei Mitzvah (plural) of seven other adults who hadn’t had the opportunity for a Bat or Bar Mitzvah when they were 13.

I was having so much fun dancing and learning to do the Horah, it was hard to believe that a few hours earlier I’d been standing in the foyer of the synagogue feeling awkward and worrying.  Would it matter that I was German, even though my family left Germany before World War II, the way it matters that I’m white when I’m in a room full of black people even though my family came to the US long after slavery ended?

Deciding not to think about it, I followed others from my friend’s group into the large worship room and tried my best to do what they did.  Not only was it B’Nei Mitzvah, it was also the synagogue’s young adult Shabbat Service and the seventh day of Hanukkah.  There was so much going on.  I opened the worship book and was a bit surprised to find the page numbers going in descending order.  Everything in the book was written in Hebrew, transliterated Hebrew in English letters and English.

The readings, the recitations between the Rabbi and the congregation, all these were in Hebrew.  When the Rabbi spoke to the congregation, that was in English.  She explained the day’s Torah reading, the story of Joseph from Exodus.  She gave the Cliff Notes version of the entire story up to the point of the day’s reading, everything about Joseph being thrown in a pit by his brothers, rescued and then sold into slavery and how his ability to interpret dreams had saved him.  She even mentioned his technicolor dream coat and ended with a soap-opera style “last time on..” and a good “dun-dun-dun.”

The day’s reading was printed in English in the bulletin, but the actual Torah reading was done in Hebrew by the B’Nei Mitzvah.  And they weren’t reading a transliterated version; they were reading real Hebrew.  They took  turns, each chanting a few sentences of the passage, their voices rising and falling in a beautiful rhythm.

Although the chanting was in Hebrew, it felt very familiar and reminded me of Catholic mass. Many things in the service reminded me of Catholic mass.   The way the Torah scrolls were treated, from the time they were removed from the Ark behind the Rabbi until they were returned to that place, reminded me very much of the treatment of the host; the standing, the bowing and kissing of thumbs, the reverence.  I don’t know if that’s evidence of the connection between Judaism and Christianity or if these were only things that are similar across many religions.

The service was full of music.  I didn’t dare try to pronounce the Hebrew words of the songs, yet certain familiar words caught my ear as everyone around me sang.  “Amen.” “Adonai.” Words I knew from my own church services.  As I listened, I looked around the room, watching.  The joy illuminating people’s faces as they joined in lively songs of praise, the tears moistening the corners of their eyes as they sang the somber Kaddish to remember the dead; whether happy or sad, it was all prayerful.

And then, voices began to sing in English.  Not just a song in English, a song I knew.  “Lord prepare me, to be a sanctuary; Pure and holy, tried and true.  With Thanksgiving, I’ll be a living, sanctuary for you.”  Standing there together, our voices lifted in praise all with the same prayer,  it was illuminatingly clear, We truly are all God’s children.

Churning Churches

I want to go to the church I went to when I was 8, or the one I attended when I was 16.  But where do I find those churches in this crazy new-fangled world?

My church in El Cerrito took a little field trip up to a “new” kind of church in Sacramento.  It had all the eh-things about my church without any of the good things I like to balance it out.  Like the big non-denominational churches some friends attended in high school and college, this church was all about doing things a new way, with drum sets and solo singers and that sort of stuff.  Different, new, exciting, yadda, yadda, yadda.  “Church attendance is down, we have to do things different.”  “People are looking for something new.”  “Church has to be exciting.” Bah humbug.

I want organs and choirs in robes; acolytes with long wick holders, preachers draped with stoles, Bible passages read from a giant Bible on a pulpit, hymnals and people in their Sunday best.  I want my favorite hymns that I can only hear in church.  Not electric guitars and drum sets and one singer with a mic, not overheads and jeans, not songs I hear on the radio.

But somehow, for some reason, church can’t mean these things anymore; it has to mean the opposite.  And before you know it, there’s nothing special, nothing about church you can’t get anywhere else.  Before you know it, there’s no reason to go.

While the easy-going churches lighten up even more to fight dwindling attendance, the Catholic church up the road fills 5 services a week. 

Sometimes it’s not a need for less structure and more change, but a need for more structure and less change that we need. 

Adventures from Home: Daddy’s Day

“Trains, planes and automobiles,” we would always say, laughing. Describing how all three of us had come home for whatever adventure or holiday.  Alfred would drive, Munchkinhead would fly, and I’d come choo-chooing in.  But not this time.  This time it was only planes and automobiles.  I suppose you could add feet if you count Katrina’s walking out of her bedroom.  But no matter how we all got there, the important part was that we were all home.  Home and going to church together.

You see, it was Father’s Day – which is a special enough reason – but, this was an even more special day.  Daddy was worship leader. 

Mommy, Alfred, Munchkinhead and I shuffled into a pew behind some familiar heads and beamed proudly at the back of Daddy’s head in the front pew across the aisle.  “That’s our daddy"!”  we thought. Well, not Mommy; but you get the idea.

Suit and tie, microphone in hand, Daddy stood up front welcoming everyone.  He always looks so spiffy when he wears his suits. I think I especially like it because seeing him in a suit reminds me of when I was little and he’d come into day care to pick us up. From across the room we’d spot him coming in the door, the tall guy nicely dressed in a suit.  And here he was again, easily spotted from across the room; the tall guy nicely dressed in a suit.

There was a guest preacher that day, from a different denomination.  She seemed pretty nice.  Reminded me a lot of a kindergarten teacher. Although, for some reason, most female pastors remind me of kindergarten teachers.  my current pastor in Cali may be an exception.  I was super excited to hear Daddy’s children message, but the guest pastor got to do it instead.  Oh well, Daddy still did a great job and it was wonderful to be back in church with my whole family.

 

Eggs, Friends and a New Dress; What Else Does a Girl Need?

It’s only Saturday night, Mr. Trizzle isn’t even here yet, and I’ve already had one of the most amazing weekends ever!

But that’s not what I want to tell you about today.  Today, I want to tell you about Easter.  Easter is my favorite holiday, absolute favorite.  Everything about it is my favorite.  My favorite season, my favorite church hymns, my favorite Bible stories, my favorite candies, my favorite dresses, my favorite shoes, everything.

Easter morning started out perfectly.  Mr. Trizzle and I got dressed up and went to church together.  The service was beautiful, well I thought the service was beautiful.  Mr. Trizzle referred to it as “boring white people church” or something like that.  Although, he did agree the bell choir was amazing.  Those Methodists, they can really play their bells!

I shouldn’t complain.  Mr. Trizzle comes to church with me on Easter because he knows how important it is to me.  This is the fourth Easter since Mr. Trizzle and I met.  Of those four Easters, there was only one where we didn’t go to church together.  Last year, he was living out here and I was in Nashville.  I spent Easter at home with Mommy & Daddy and Daddy Bunny in Milwaukee.

After church, we had a big brunch, hung out with Mr. Trizzle’s mom and The Legend and looked for our Easter baskets.  Mr. Trizzle, his mom and The Legend took a little while to find their baskets, but eventually did.  Looking for mine wasn’t that fun.  Somehow, I seemed to know exactly where it was.  Maybe I have a telepathic connection with the Easter Bunny.

Our baskets were filled with goodies: our favorite candies, plastic eggs, hardboiled eggs colored all pretty, chapstick and Pez dispensers.  Well, most of us got Pez dispensers.  Not The Legend.  He got a set of 10 forks.  Now maybe I’ll be able to find more than 1 fork in the kitchen at any given time.

After brunch and basket hunting, Mr. Trizzle, his mom and I hung out and played dominos.  (The Legend had gone off to the City with his own mother.)  It was a lot of fun.

Ok, ok, now for the most important part (second-most, after the whole resurrection thing): the dress.

 (Full-length picture with the requisite Mr.Trizzle looking-as-though-he-is-only-in-the-picture-for-compliance-reasons look, which is true.)

This year’s Easter dress was a Regency gown.  Mr. Trizzle’s my Mr. Darcy, so it’s only fitting I look like Elizabeth, right? ;)  I had basically made the dress a number of months ago, but it wasn’t quite finished.  Just before Palm Sunday, I added the button-holes and laces on the back of the dress.  And on Easter, like years of Easter dresses before it, it made it’s debut.

I’d had the fabric for a long time but never knew what to make with it.  Light beige, almost ivory, with little shoes all over it.  By sheer coincidence, Mr. Trizzle had chosen a similar colored tie with shoes on it.  We matched!

The dress has removable sleeves, just like an original.  I decided to forgo the sleeves when one came unbuttoned and I couldn’t reattach it with the dress on.  To stay warm, I opted for my short sweater, styled very similar to Regency gown jackets.  No new Easter shoes this year.  I wore my high-heeled Timberland boots that I absolutely love.  Figured they were period-appropriate.  I like the dress a lot and hope to wear it again as soon as I get around to doing the laundry.

The Magic of… Wait, What Magic?

A child sits on Santa's lap, whispering into his ear her deepest desires, telling Santa exactly what she wants this year because she's been so very, very good. She knows Santa's watching her every day from his home high above her at the North Pole.  Even though she can't see him, he’s watching.  She's been told so often that he knows when she's been good or bad, knows if she's naughty or nice. And if she's good, she'll get nice presents, but if she's bad, she won't. She must please Santa to be rewarded.

The same child kneels before her bed in the evening, whispering her prayers to God, thanking Him for the good thinks in her life and telling Him what she wants. She knows God's watching her every day from his home high above her in Heaven.  Even though she can't see Him, He’s watching.  She's been told so often that He knows whether or not she has been behaving, knows if she has thought bad thoughts or wanted to do bad things. If she's good, she'll go to Heaven, but if she's bad, she won't. She must please God to be rewarded.

Then one Christmas Eve, the girl tiptoes down to her Christmas tree long after she should have been asleep and sees her mother putting more presents under the tree, eating the cookies on the plate nearby. There's no reindeer on the roof, no fat man in a red suit, heck, there's not even a chimney.

Why wouldn't she also question God's existence?

 

Christmas. Adults. Nope, they just don't go together. By the time we're adults, most of us have one of two standard perspectives of Christmas, both equally sad. Either the Christmas Story is nothing more than a story, no more real than a jolly man who lives far above us at the North Pole with his helper elves. Or, the events surrounding Jesus' birth are so familiar and comfortable that we can no longer see the miracles in them - those events, why that's just the way things are.

We learn about Christmas as young children.  The story is broken down so we can understand it: Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem on a donkey.  There, the Virgin Mary gave birth to a little boy in a stable, because there was no room at the inn. She put him in a manger and the cattle lowed. Three wise men came to visit and brought him gold, frankincense and myrrh. This baby was Jesus, that guy hanging on a cross in other pictures. God's son, an important person who would become a leader.

As children, we don’t know what a virgin is.  Even if we do, storks bring babies, so so what?  We don’t know that a manger is a food trough, that animals smell and are filthy and can be really mean.  We don’t understand that hay is itchy and can be full of bugs.

As children, we expect people to visit new babies; we expect birthday presents.  We know gold’s nice.  We probably think frankincense and myrrh were normal baby presents back in the day, like diapers and strollers now.  Even as adults, we probably don’t stop to think that these are items used to prepare a body for burial.

As children, it seems perfectly logical that someone who is going to be a great leader starts off very poor and regular-seeming.  Look at Abraham Lincoln, Einstein, Nelson Rockefeller, Obama!  and every other great person we’re encouraged to be like when we’re young school children.  We are taught that the way to success, to become great, is to start off with almost nothing and pull ourselves up by our boot straps.  For Jesus to be born poor and be the Son of God that will save his people, that is no miracle.

And yet, as adults, when we should be able to look at these pieces in the context of biology, of history, of society, when we should be able to understand that a unmarried woman who has never had sex just can’t suddenly become pregnant, when we should be able to understand how awful it would be to sleep in a barn with some animals, or how scary it might be for a mother to receive burial ointments at the birth of her son, when we should be able to contemplate how much it would suck to walk for days and days, how uncomfortable it is to sit on a donkey or how difficult it is to get a donkey to do what you want, when we should be able to really get all the many miracles and the hardships in the story, we don’t think about them at all.  It’s Christmas; it’s normal; it happens every year.  And the magic is lost, as lost as if we didn’t believe at all.

Finally El Cerrito UMC

“We tend to sit together up front on the left, it stays warmer that way,” the lady greeting me explained as I entered the small church. A few people in choir robes milled around in the first three pews up there so I asked for clarification from one of the few non-robed people. “Right here.” She said, pointing to the area I had thought was for the choir. Still uncertain and feeling a bit odd about sitting with the choir, I chose a seat at the end of the pew directly behind the choir.

When the service began, I started to understand. About half the people in attendance wore choir robes. I made the number present an even dozen, though a few more trickled in as the service went on, perhaps bringing the final number close to twenty. Even by the end, there were only two men present. Even more surprising, all the people were white. That never happens in the Bay.

Communion was laid out on the head table, which also confused me since it was not the first Sunday of the month, the Sunday generally reserved for Communion in the Methodist church. The back of the bulletin listed the Minister as “All of Us.” It seems in this church Communion occurs whenever an ordained person is available to come and give it. So, this day, this fourth Sunday was Communion Sunday in this church. The visiting, I don’t even know what she’s called, tore off pieces of a single croissant and gave them to each worshiper to dip in the white grape juice. Flaky pieces of croissant floated on top of the nearly clear liquid.

One of the choir-robe decked people gave the sermon. I liked what I heard, but I’ll admit I was having a very hard time paying attention. My mind was wandering, thinking about how much I need to get out of here, how much this perfectly epitomized my impression of this God-forsaken place.

Not that God has forsaken it, but that it has forsaken God. To love God, or rather, to acknowledge that you love God, makes you an outcast here. I hate that. Everyone is so concerned with individualism and political correctness (that’s what the sermon was about!), that there is no room for God.

Maybe that’s why I was so happy when the Jehovah’s Witnesses showed up at my door in the middle of the week and again on Saturday. Here were people who were not afraid of their faith; who were willing to go out on a limb and share that faith. I know it’s part of their beliefs and practices to go door-to-door, but I still admire them for the ability to do it in this hostile environment. I wonder what the most common reaction they get is.

I’ll go back to this church, when I’m around here. Even though it makes me sad to see such a small congregation. The people were nice, it’s a walkable distance, the singing was beautiful, and I need church. However, I am hoping there are many more Sunday trips to Merced in my future, I really like that church in Atwater and want to go back as often as possible.

Church! Finally. Sort of…

I finally made it to a church service today. It was wonderful. I really need that. However, it wasn’t the El Cerrito United Methodist Church that I’ve been trying to go to for about a month or so. But, it was a United Methodist Church. Let me tell you the story…

Mr. Trizzle and I decided to go bowling in Atwater. It’s a little town about 10 minutes from his town and is his nearest bowling alley. It’s also cheaper than bowling around where I live. We decided to meet at the bowling alley at 11.

Once I knew what time we were meeting for bowling, I was able to look for a church. It just had to be somewhere between El Cerrito and Atwater and get out at a time that allowed me to get to Atwater’s bowling alley by 11. Atwater United Methodist Church just happens to be directly across the street from the bowling alley and have a 10 am service. Perfect!

The church was really nice and everyone was extremely welcoming. The congregation was small, but more diverse than I expected. People were dressed up for church and the old ladies had short permed hair like old ladies are supposed to have.

Today was a special service for Veterans’ Day on the 11th. Atwater used to be home to Castle Military Base. Half the population was associated with the base. When it closed, the town was devastated. It’s rebounding a bit now, but is still very much a military town. Even the pastor of the church is retired military, 20 years.

The pastor asked people who had served in the military to stand. Most of the men and a few of the younger women stood. Then he asked spouses of people who had served to stand. About half the congregation was standing. Then he asked parents of those who had served to stand. By that point, there were about 3 or 4 of us left sitting.

The special service was really neat. It was a singing w/ narration type deal. They sang the usual patriotic songs, including the Star Spangled Banner, for which everyone stood, and recited portions of “The Gettysburg Address” the “Declaration of Independence “ and a newer speech I didn’t recognize. One soprano cracked trying to reach the really high note at the end of God Bless America, but it didn’t matter. It was still all very beautiful.

The service actually ended a little early so I had plenty of time to change out of church clothes, into jeans, and head to the bowling alley. Bowling was lots of fun. We hadn’t bowled in several months, so we only played 3 games. As usual, I won one and Mr. Trizzle won the rest.

Then we headed into Merced for lunch. Mr. Trizzle is still exploring the town and finding good places to eat. This time it was a cute little diner. Pretty good food. After that, I helped him unpack some things and got to assemble a shoe rack for him. It’s nice to be good at something.

It was a really fun day. Nice weather, a great time with a good friend and an uplifting church service. That nice Sunday dose of God and patriotism may be just enough to get me through my two scheduled visits to Berkeley this week.

Church, Strike 2

It seems like a strange thing to say, but maybe God doesn’t want me to go to church, at least not to this church.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon El Cerrito United Methodist Church.  I checked out the website and decided to give it a shot.  I was pretty excited about finding a Methodist practically in my backyard.  Well, last week, you may remember, I arrived at the church for the 9:50 service only to discover it was a 10:00 joint service at a different church far away.

This week, I was super excited about trying again, especially since Mr. Trizzle went out of town for the weekend.  Same as last week, I walked down to the church, enjoying the warm sun and soft breezes and the beautiful vegetation along the footpath under the BART tracks.  And just like last Sunday, the church was all shut up.  Only this time, there were cars parked all along the street.  I had arrived at the church at 9:45, only to discover that this Sunday, service was at 9:00!  Bummer.

The really annoying part is, I was up and ready then.  I could have made a 9 o’ clock service, but I didn’t know.  Instead, I was at home cleaning until 9:30.  Next time, I’m walking to the church on Saturday to read the sign in front of the church so I know when and where the service is on Sunday.  Geez, sure do wish they’d update the website.

Holy Mary, Mother of God

For reasons we don’t need to get into, I took Bart home today instead of the bus.  There was an almost-middle aged Asian woman sitting on one of the sideways seats.  She looked to be in her late thirties.  She had a large black bag from which she took a small velvet-looking pouch.  From that small velvet-looking pouch, she removed a blue and silver rosary.

The train was crowded enough that a few people were standing in front of the where the woman sat, but not so crowded that people weren’t able to see beyond the back of someone else’s head.

The woman clasped the rosary in one hand and with the other made the sign of the cross.  She bent her head in prayer.  After a few moments, she raised her head, made another sign of the cross and slipped the beaded rosary through her fingers, grasping onto the next bead.  Her head bent again.

I don’t know how long she continued, how many beads, how many prayers.  I had looked away, not wanting to stare and soon needing to switch trains.  But I admired her.  This is San Francisco after all.  A city where it’s generally unacceptable to be openly anything other than gay.

It is rare in this day and age that anyone expresses their religion in public, unless they are trying to shove it down your throat.  Yet here was a woman, sitting in public, not afraid to pray in such a visible manner.  Keeping completely to herself and doing what she needed to do at that moment.  Not afraid to let others know she is Catholic and in no way making anyone else feel like she was judging them for not being what she was or trying to get them to convert to her faith.  She wasn’t flaunting her righteousness or salvation.  It was just her and her prayers.  Her and God (or rather, I guess, the Virgin Mary) alone on a crowded Bart train.  It was beautiful.

Here is the Cafeteria, Here is the Stage

Today, Mr. Trizzle took me to a service in the church where he grew up.  No steeple, no organ, no hymnal, no solemnity.  I need not say more about how I liked it; we need no more posts about my reactions to ‘modern’ churches.

The preacher started listing off qualities somewhere near the end of the whatever-that-sort-of-like-a-sermon-thing is called.  He was just going through them; I don’t really remember what they were.  I just remember thinking after each one, “that’s my mommy.”  Then the guy said, ‘these people make the best friends.’  And I nearly started crying cuz I miss my mommy (and cuz I know that she is the best kind of friend). 

I hate being so far away from my family.  I want to be able to stop by whenever and visit.  Or see my parents for dinner every week like my aunt and uncle saw my grandparents before my grandpa passed away.  (Now grandma is moving in with them, so they get to spend even more time wit her.)  I want my family to remain the center part of my life it’s always been.  I want a grown-up life like Mommy’s side of the family, not Daddy’s.  (I love my aunties and uncles and cousins on Daddy’s side, but they are all very separated and have been together only twice or something in the past 30 years.)

The speaking guy went on, talking about other types of good things these people make.  Wives, Fathers, Husbands, etc.  When he got to mothers he talked about how they’ll raise the best families, families that are these neat little together units and stuff.  How they pull everyone together and make a home that flows together and works as a team.  Mommy did a good job of raising a connected family.  Can we please stay that way?

In the Ayer

Palm Sunday.  My second favorite holiday.  I always wear green.  It's the start of the most exciting time of the year.  And it means spring is on the way.  This year it was particularly exciting because it was also my birthday.

I sat in the back of the church alone, watching all the families and couples sharing this wonderful day.  Sad to be alone, but glad to be there with God and hymns and the joy that comes with a man riding into town on a donkey.

The children's choir sang, the real little kids; it was cute.  Then came the youth choir.  Ten and Twelve year olds grouped together in the front of the church, donned in long black choir robes with the short white ruffled mini robe on top.  Several of them began beating drums, which were slung over their shoulders.  "African drums for Palm Sunday, hmmm, neat,"  I thought.  The rhythm sounded sort of familiar.  I couldn't place it, so I decided it must just be a standard rhythm.

Then the boy on the end opened his mouth.  And my head started shaking.  His blond bangs swooped to the side, he looked like one of those choir angel Christmas decorations people put out at the holidays, or maybe a member of the famed Vienna Boys Choir.  But what came out was anything other than angelic.  The young boy opened his mouth and started rapping. (Yup, looked pretty much just like this picture.)

Not just rapping, mind you, but a particularly insane sort of thing.  The choir, or presumably the stout bald headed man directing the choir, had rewritten the lyrics to Flo Rida's In the Ayer!  For church!

I, in fact, did not even realize this until a week later when I happened to be listening to Flo Rida's old album.  The beat started and I was like "where have I heard that recently?"  Then the hook came on: "oh hot dam, this is my jam,  keep me partying until the a.m.  make me throw my hands in the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer."

You see, the church version had said some stuff about donkeys and such and then the kid said "they threw their palms in the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-er."  This little choir boy, standing in the front of a massive church, stained glass crucified Jesus rising high behind him, a baptismal font across the aisle from him, wooden pews, stone floors, arches, Bibles, Bibles everywhere for goodness sakes, and this kid is standing up there saying, no rapping "ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer!

By the time the kid got to the ayer part, I had burried my head in my hands.  It's too much for me.  I like hip hop; I like heavy metal.  But rapping and electric guitars do not belong in church.  I want bells and a nice pipe organ, putting joyful church-sounding music into the ayer, ay-ayer, ayer, ay-ayer, thank you very much!

A Very Wisconsin Weekend

What a great weekend!  I love being home.  Last night, after going out for dinner (I had two glasses of milk), we all sat down at the kitchen table to play games.  With Mommy and Daddy's new record player playing in the background, Mommy, Daddy, Alfred, Nathy-Boo and I sat down to five handed Sheepshead while Munchkinhead played Backgammon with herself. 

First we were playing four handed.  Mommy really doesn't like playing Sheepshead with Daddy because he remembers every card played and days later will complain about how you should have let trump instead of hearts on the third hand or something.   But Daddy promised to be nice because we were teaching Nathy-Boo how to play.  (He's not from Wisconsin.)  Besides, Alfred made enough stupid plays to distract Daddy from getting mad at Mommy.

You can see Mommy's concern at Daddy's kibitzing in this picture.  She has the go-first-chapstick and is trying to decide what to lead.  We kept forgetting who was supposed to lead, so we used the chapstick to mark the leader.  (And by "we" I mean I kept trying to lead when it wasn't my turn.)

If you're interested in learning Sheepshead, this is a great book.  My favorite part is the chapter that actually starts, "Did you move away from Wisconsin and now you can't find anybody to play with?"  Nathan's holding the book in the picture.

Today, Munchkinhead, Nathy-Boo and I played board games while the rest of the clan watched the Packer game.  (Yesterday it was us and Mommy while Daddy and Alfred watched football.)  Alfred thinks a Packer game is a good reason to wear pajamas to church!  I think her lack of decorum may be even more infuriating than her lack of fashion sense.  At least the Packers won!
After dinner (homemade pea soup, yummy), the kiddies borrowed Daddy's grandpa car and headed for the epitome of Milwaukee, Leon's. :)

Leon's is an old-fashioned drive-in frozen custard stand.  No indoor seating, just a building with a parking lot.  You drive in, park, walk up to the line, wait for your turn at the window, place your order, plunk down your spare change (Munchkinhead and I each got a 2 scoop cone for a total of $3) and then walk off with the most delicious treat. 

My sorority sisters and I used to drive in from Waukesha (about half an hour) for Leon's, even though we had 3 other custard places out by school.  It is the best frozen custard ever.  You've had Culver's or something and think you've had frozen custard?  Wrong.  You haven't had custard 'til you've had Leon's.  And please, don't call it ice cream.  Leon's is so good that there is always a line, even at 10 pm on a freezing cold night in the middle of December.  (Trust me, I've been in it.)  Or, as you can see below, at 6 pm on a freezing cold night at the end of December.