The best and hardest of 2010

This is not a "best and worst" of post. Rather it is the best and the hardest--because I realize the benefits of much of the hard stuff in this year of monumental firsts and the hard things are by no means bad things (unless you count the sleep deprivation ;)

Best moments:

Positive pregnancy test
Getting into the second trimester
The first "real" contraction
Pushing
The baby's first time in my arms
nursing, 13857983759365 times
First smiles
First laughs
Watching our son become his own person
Becoming moms, together
Watching other people fall in love with our son
Wearing our baby in carriers, "close enough to kiss"
Realizing that the smacking noise the baby loves to make with his lips is his version of the kisses he always gets
The sense of closeness I now feel to the "BVM" (Blessed Virgin Mary)

Hardest moments

Fear of loss throughout my pregnancy
The sleep deprivation
Resuming work
Having to pump in churches with NO privacy or having to leave mid-mtg to pump
Going through major body transitions with a sense that so many were watching
Feeling isolated
Being forced to become more disciplined in my preaching (sleep deprivation and extemporaneous preaching don't mix!)
The enforced prayer time of the nursing mama
nursing, 13857983759365 times

All of that said...2010 was filled with so many blessings. And, I leave the year with a poem (yes, I wrote it. No, I did not get into the creative writing class I wanted to take in college because the professor did not think my poetry good enough--so keep that in mind as you read ;)

Birthing Amongst Women

Mary, mother of God,
While I screamed
You comforted
While I waited
You watched

The first suckle
As two bodies met
Was within your arms
Cradled together
Women and their son.

Grace became you
A slippery,
Floppy creature
Lion's roaring into our arms
Witnessed

A love unimagined.

Flight Into Egypt

I love this painting by Caravaggio of Mary asleep, with the baby Jesus in her arms, as Joseph holds a score for an angelic violinist. I love it because of the calm eye of the donkey, the weary look on Joseph's face, and the presence of God (as represented by the angel) as comforter and purveyer of beauty in the midst of a refugee family's all to real and present nightmare. I love it because Mary's face is serene and the baby clearly thriving on her milk and his family's love. And as I contemplate this artwork I find myself reflecting on what this time in Mary's life must have been like.

I do not know the specific's of postpartum ritual in the 1st century. But, I imagine that in her hometown Mary would have been surrounded by women, quick to offer advice and assistance. When labor pain set in, other women, her mother perhaps, would have gathered around her and guided her through each contraction. As she anticipated putting the baby to breast for the first time she would be surrounded by other nursing mamas--eager to help her learn.

I do know, that in her immediate postpartum period (based on the purity laws regarding women's discharge...lochia in the weeks following the birth) that Mary would have been given the opportunity for rest and a lying in with her new babe. Further, before Mary rejoined the wider community with her baby she would likely have taken a ritual bath for cleansing--a bath that (anthropologically speaking) would have represented her own birth into motherhood and a new status in the community.

But, instead, Mary and her family find themselves fleeing the threat of death...and they go seeking asylum in a land and a place far from the comforts of their home. Instead of a ritual bath Mary's transition into motherhood is marked by the crossing of a desert. Instead of the firm advice of experienced mamas and the chatter of her sisters, Mary sleeps to the sounds of the donkey asleep on his feet after a weary day's journey. Instead of a time of watching her child grow secure in the love of his extended family she faces a time of literal alienation as she and her family become strangers in a strange land.

It's truly amazing to me to reflect on what Mary was experiencing while standing on this side of my own child's birth. I am struck by her strength but also find myself imagining a period of profound fear, anxiety and loneliness. "Blessed are you amongst women..." truly.

Christmas With Our Baby

What wondrous love is this, o my soul, o my soul, what wondrous love is this, o my soul...



Truly a good day. May the blessings of Christmas spring forth for all of you.

Santa Baby...

No, not the song, the Santa and THE Baby. Yup, Jesus. Recently in Sunday School (Children's Chapel to us) I had to clarify that Santa was not born on December 25th. On the spot, I told the kids that Jesus was born on December 25th and Santa only exists because Jesus exists.

Which, is true. No Jesus, No Santa (reads like a bumper sticker!). And, as I stumble further into the Christian mama blog world (which is a peculiar one to say the least) I come across more and more folk who are vehemently anti-Santa. This has caused me to reflect greatly on what/how/why we will teach our son about Christmas. And, I have decided (we, really) to go ahead and embrace Santa as a family, as a family with a priest mama that faithfully attends church and holds Christ at the center of it all. Santa and THE baby are not incompatible in our household--let me explain why.

Regardless of how one feels about the guy in the big red suit, he has become central to most American's understanding of "what" Christmas is. Santa is an ubiquitous figure this time of year and somewhat impossible to avoid. And, despite the close ties to rampant commercialism and unquestioning capitalism, Santa has much to offer our children. And, what he offers is far greater than gifts (and really, Santa is only as excessive in his gifting as parents make him...).

The reality in our household is that Santa lends himself well to lessons in social justice. We will teach our son about Santa because we plan on it becoming his first lesson in philanthropy. The original St. Nicholas stories have the good saint assisting women living in poverty, and he does so with no expectation for reward. Where else do we hear stories of altruism in our world? Where else are we encouraged to give gifts anonymously--giving all the credit to someone else? (Yes, I know, Jesus--the best altruist. But, it's easier to teach a very small child about altruism through the giving of gifts than through death on a cross. Our son will learn about both, but developmentally the concrete reality of a gift will be more appropriate than the abstract reality of the paschal mystery for a few years).

Thus, as we prepare for our first Christmas as mamas...well, let's just say the stockings are already hung by the chimney (read, above the couch) with care ready to be filled to bursting. But, there is an extra stocking in our house--already filled to the gills. A stocking prepared with love and prayers, a stocking that will be given to a child in a shelter, from Santa. Because, Santa is magic like that!

Whistling in the Dark, An Advent Reflection

“This is a direct act of hope, to look through the cloud, and look for a beam of the light from God; and this is called in scripture, “rejoicing in tribulation”, when “the God of hope fills us with joy in believing”: every degree of hope brings a degree of joy.” -Jeremy Taylor

Whistling in the dark--a subversive act in which we use the power of a simple and somewhat ridiculous act, whistling, in order to remove the power of darkness to fear and weaken us. Could it be said that rejoicing, year after year, in the birth of a child who will die on the cross is, in and of itself, an act of whistling in the dark?

Do you ever find yourself “whistling in the dark”?

Maui, An Advent Meditation

We cannot survive without light. And, as the days grow shorter we find ourselves in darkness far too often. Thus, we find ways in which to endure the long days ahead—with light. Brightly peering through the darkness we see light cast from candles, and fireplaces, light from the porch to greet us at the end of the day, warm and filling food to fill our bellies, lights strung from our houses and shops. As I contemplated the role of light in our lives I found myself recalling a story from my own childhood:

The sun was too quick in its daily work, swiftly crossing the sky and leaving little time for those down below to accomplish their daily tasks. In particular, this brought much consternation to an elderly woman on an island in the middle of the Pacific ocean. One day, as she hung out the freshly washed Tapa cloth to dry she complained to her grandson about the sun’s swift course and how her cloth would not be able to dry in the short period of time that the sun was shining. Now, most of the time such complaints would be merely an airing of grievances—a grandmother sharing with a grandson the difficulties she faces in life, without any expectation that he would actually do something about it. However, not every grandmother has a demi-god for a grandson. So, Maui, hearing his grandmother’s complaints grew very angry at the sun and came up with a plan. Taking his longest ropes, made from the fibers of the coconut, he hid in the house of the sun (Haleakala) waiting for the sun to emerge and bring with it the morning light. From behind a giant rock he aimed carefully as the sun peeked from his house. Casting the rope he snared the sun. With stern admonitions he told the sun that if the sun did not slow down not only would his grandmother not have time to dry her cloth but the people would perish because there would not be time or light enough to grow food in their gardens! The sun, hobbled by the bindings, was thus forced to limp across the sky each day--giving the people (and Maui’s grandmother) time for all of their tasks.

This folk tale brings home the reality that light and our survival are intimately connected. With this reminder, I contemplate the “light of Christ”. If it is the light from the sun that allows our planet to exist…what is it about the light of Christ that allows each of us to grow and thrive?

(the art work of Holy Innocents church, Lahaina, Maui)

Advent meditations: Halley's comet

I wrote 12 meditations for Advent for our parish Advent calendar...I will post some of them here as well.

In 1986, when I was eight years old, I began to understand the finitude of human life when it is juxtaposed with the universe--heady stuff for a second grader. It was late at night, much later than I was usually allowed to stay up, and my entire family had gathered at the summit of Mount Haleakala to observe the passing of Halley’s comet. It was cold at the 10,000 foot elevation and we were crammed with a great many other people in the observatory perched above the cinder filled caldera. I huddled next to my grandmother and craned my neck in order to see. A bright star traced across the sky and I was silent with the magnitude of the night, the cold and this star that moved and caused the usual rules to be suspended. It was then that my grandmother turned to me and told me that she would be dead when this star crossed our skies again. I was not saddened by this news, but rather impressed: impressed at the length of days that lay ahead; impressed that she trusted me with this information about her own mortality; and impressed with the idea that I might live long enough to witness Halley’s crossing again. More than 20 years later my grandmother is still alive and I am struck once more by her long life…a long life marked by the reminder that even the longest of lives is short. I am also struck that the first recorded sighting of Halley’s comet is recorded in the Talmud and is dated to 66 AD —around the time of the composition of the Gospels (approximately 30-90AD). Our story in the here and now is connected…connected to the story of all history. In this Advent as we prepare for the arrival of the baby Christ I am reminded of the perpetual promise of salvation and the restoration of creation in the simple fact of new life.

How do you connect to the story of history in the here and the now?

(the Hubble telescope image gallery)