In Honor of My Wedding Anniversary

I share with you a true story:

Brides are crazy. This is a fact, not a judgment.

I know this, because I’ve been a bride.

I was crazy. How do I know? I made my own wedding cake.

You know all those “Baking with Julia” shows on PBS that have famous patissiers tossing off goodies with the venerable queen of the kitchen? Baking a wedding cake isn’t like that, although I did use Martha Stewart’s recipe from that series for the cake (not the filling or frosting or décor – that was Rose Levy Beranbaum all the way).

Here’s what happens.

A week before your wedding, when you are most insane, you buy a lot of sugar, and a very lot of cake flour, and a very, very lot of unsalted butter (it must be UNsalted, not regular butter), plus some other ingredients that require you to go to the extremely special cake and candy supply store way the other side of the universe.

You sharpen wooden dowels in a pencil sharpener to provide the support for the layers, which will weigh as much as Martha Stewart (her pre-menopausal weight, not her pre-jail weight, thank heavens), and then wash them for fear of giving your guests graphite poisoning.

You measure the quantities of ingredients. This is called mise en place but might well be called planning the D-Day invasion. Alternatively, one might call it the Bay of Pigs, at least in my kitchen.

You realize that your Kitchen-Aid mixer, although the ne plus ultra of mixers when you got it several years ago, cannot accommodate the very large quantities of ingredients you are going to have to mix.

You portion the ingredients into manageable amounts for the now-inferior Kitchen Aid mixer, organizing by layer size, since you’re making this cake in tiered layers.

You mix the ingredients, carefully following the directions.

You realize that you haven’t turned on the oven to preheat it, so you turn it on and have to wait.

You realize that you haven’t prepared your baking pan, so you spray it with a little Pam (should have used softened butter, but you forgot to get enough to meet that need), put in the parchment paper, which you didn’t cut as neatly as you wished you had, then spray it with Baker’s Joy . Will anyone know you aren’t using the butter and flour? Will this spell doom for the marriage?

You pour the batter into the pan and are on the verge of putting it in the oven when you realize you’ve forgotten to add the vanilla.

You pour the batter back in the mixing bowl, add the vanilla, re-prepare the pan, pour the batter back in and put it in the oven, praying that the leavening power of the baking powder hasn’t been compromised. (Do soldiers fear the power of their missiles is affected if there is too long a wait before they are fired? I think not. Baking is harder and more unforgiving than war.)

You hover over the oven. The rule about watched pots doesn’t apply to baking, where the art of the hover is finely tuned. You debate whether to open the oven when the timer rings, wondering once again about that faithless thermostat which is usually wrong, and how it might affect the cooking time. You test the cake with a cake tester, which took you ten minutes to find in your cooking tool drawer because it is so small, but it is better than a toothpick because it is EQUIPMENT.

You take the cake out to cool and wonder if perhaps you left it in too long because the cake has already shrunk from the sides of the pan and Rose and Martha told you not to let that happen. Will anyone taste the dryness of the overbaked cake? Will we be divorced by our first anniversary?

You repeat the process for the remaining layers. Timing must be adjusted for each because of the different sizes. But the change in timing is not a linear thing, and besides you’re miserable at math, so all you can do is hover and pray.

The cake layers cool. You drink a cup of coffee. You wish for a stiff shot of scotch, but fear the effect that might have on the cake.

Each layer must be torted, or split into two equal layers, so there is a place for the mousse filling to go. Getting the split even, so that the final assemblage doesn’t look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, requires a few technical tricks (or trucs, as the French patissiers might say). Your powers of concentration are waning, your mother and Julia never taught you the trucs, and one of the layers does not look quite perfectly even. You contemplate making a replacement layer. You burst into tears and jettison that idea.

The cake layers must be frozen, since it is four days before the wedding, and nobody’s recipe will last that long. There are too many other steps that must be completed.

You go to bed.

You rise to face the challenge of the mousse. In a descent into a deeper trough of madness, you decide to make two different kinds of mousse to fill the cake, one chocolate, one not. You are modifying someone’s mousse filling recipe, which is tricky even when sane. You don’t know if the mousse will freeze, which it will need to do to hold the cakes for the buttercream phase.

You make the raspberry base for that mousse. Making the base takes longer than you expect. You think this project will never get done.

You wait for the raspberry base to cool. You do not think of melting the chocolate for the chocolate mousse, even thought this will require a cooling period as well, because you are insane. Rational thought has left the building.

You finish the raspberry mousse, and take out the frozen torted layers to fill, rewrap, and put back in the freezer. You thank the gods of baking and your landlord, who had a big freezer in the basement of the house you are renting. The gods are smiling.

You start the chocolate mousse, melting the chocolate, doing all the whipping cooking tasting adjusting things that one does for the chocolate mousse. It is 7 p.m. and the child wants dinner. How dare she interrupt this process with something so mundane?

You stop and cook dinner for the child. It is 9 p.m.

You take out the layer that will have the chocolate mousse. You fill it, but realize that proportionally there isn’t enough mousse to make that layer the same height as the other layers. It will be ½ inch shorter. You burst into tears.

You dry your eyes, rewrap that slightly shorter layer, and put it into the freezer.

You go to bed.

Waking is not pleasant. Today is the day of the buttercream. This is not your mother’s buttercream, made with confectioner’s sugar, butter, and a little vanilla and maybe warm cream. No, this is a classic buttercream, made with an Italian meringue base per Rose’s Cake Bible ( the chemistry text for those who bake – Rose is the Marie Curie of the field).

This is not only classic buttercream, it is VAST QUANTITIES of classic buttercream. Rose takes pity on you and gives you the proportions of ingredients for a cake the size of the one you are making, but once again the iniquitous Kitchen Aid is unequal to the task. You must break the ingredients into smaller portions (mise en place times two) and pray that the two different batches are the same in appearance, so the finished cake doesn’t look like the Washington Monument, with a demarcation line where work stopped when they ran out of money.

Buttercream completed, you bring up the layers to be frosted. You unwrap each one, dust off any crumbs, and apply what is called a crumb coat of frosting to, logically enough, keep any crumbs from marring the final finish coat. Invariably a few stray crumbs manage to sneak by, but you are on a roll. The cakes, being frozen, take the icing quite well. You finish off each layer by running a hairdryer over it to slightly warm the frosting so you can smooth it. You think that you have truly descended into madness, using a hairdryer on a cake.

You put the layers, unwrapped, into the freezer for a brief time to harden the icing before you rewrap them. You put the leftover buttercream into a plastic tub and put it into the refrigerator. You think little of that act at the moment, but it will be your salvation later on.

After an appropriate time, you once again take the layers out for the assembly. Each layer is on a thick cardboard pedestal. Just layering them without supports will cause them, once the cake defrosts completely, to sink like the lava dome at Mount St. Helens. You hammer in the wooden dowels with a rubber mallet as you construct the layers. This is just as Martha and Rose have taught you. Baking as construction project. The assembly is now almost three feet tall and weighs as much as a six-year-old child. You put it back in the freezer.

You think about what ordering a cake from the supermarket might have been like.

You sigh.

You go to bed.

The prospect of making flowers from an odd substance called gum paste sounds crazy. That’s alright, because we have already established that you are crazy. Gum paste, an amalgam of gum Arabic, sugar, glucose and other household chemicals, gives you a material that you can use to create the most delicate of flowers. You have decided that you are going to make gum paste flowers because Rose talks about them, and you’ve seen them in wedding cake books, and you know you can make the most beautiful things that are just like the flowers in your bouquet. Somewhere, the notion of just getting more of your flowers to decorate the cake, rather than creating an imitation of them, has slipped away, perhaps with your sanity.

You make the alchemical mixture. You start to form it into flowers, many flowers, many different kinds of flowers, each tinted slightly differently. You make gum paste roses, gum paste jasmine, gum paste ivy. You dust them with bits of edible gold dust, a silly thing to worry about since these flowers, though made in large part with sugar, taste awful, and no sane person will eat them.. You use the same sculpting techniques Rose has taught you when you make roses from chocolate modeling clay; at least that tastes like a grown-up Tootsie Roll. This tastes like you might expect from something called gum paste.

At midnight, you are still crafting gum paste flowers and assembling little sprays of them for the cake.

You fear you have developed diabetes from all the sugar products you’ve used over the course of the cake-making. You’ve read somewhere that a chef said he thought all chefs were fat because they absorbed fats through their skin. Perhaps this has happened to you.

You wonder if you will still be able to fit into the wedding dress you made for yourself – another foray into madness.

You put the assembled flower sprays into flat plastic shoeboxes (clean, of course) with tissue paper to protect them and keep them dry.

You go to bed.

You rise the next day, knowing that various relatives are coming to town today. You start the day by making the frightening trip to church with the cake. It will wait there, slowly defrosting for a day, in the huge refrigerator where it will share space with the half and half for coffee hour and the apple juice and baby carrots for the children in Sunday School.

You pray no one will touch it. You leave a sign on the door saying (in a very Christian way, of course) “Don’t touch this cake or you will die a painful, horrible death.”

You go home, take a shower, and dress for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Your back hurts from carrying the cake.

Your directions to the rehearsal dinner are fatally flawed: one of the key road signs has been stolen. The out-of-town guests drive miles out of their way before finally making it back to the gathering. You are mortified. The children are bored.

You go to bed wishing you had just gone down to Town Hall, gotten a damned marriage license, and went to Bermuda.

You wake up the morning of your wedding, and realize that the sky is blue and you are happy. For some reason this shocks you, perhaps because you are insane.

You dress in casual clothes to go to the church and finish the assembly and decorating of your cake. You do not have any coffee, because you want your hands to be steady.

It is Sunday, and you arrive during the normal Sunday service. The giant refrigerator is in the kitchen where the coffee is prepared for the post-service Coffee Hour. Edgar, the 92 year old man who has made the coffee since the Johnson Administration, is there. His moods swing between charm and curmudgeonliness. He is reasonably sane, though.

You are insane.

The cake awaits you in the refrigerator.

You will take it out and put it on one of the rolling carts, for final decoration and moving into the chapel, where your reception will take place. You reach in to take it out of the refrigerator. Edgar says, “Let me help you, dear.”

“No,” you say.” I’ve got it.”

He helps anyway, tipping the cake into your chest. Fortunately, this is as far as it tips, and you manage to get it onto the cart with no further problem…except for the two roundish dents in one side of it.

You contemplate killing Edgar, but realize this will not solve the cake problem and will distress your guests, not to mention your fiancé, who is opposed to murder on principle.

You realize that there may be enough extra buttercream to address the dents. You smooth it on, put the golden ribbon decoration around each layer, add some additional buttercream edging in swirls and flourishes, gently place the gum paste flowers, glistening with the gold petal dust, on the cake, and carefully move it into the chapel. You manage to safely transfer it to the top of the piano, where it will be displayed during the reception. You say a prayer to Saint Elizabeth of Hungary and Saint Honore, patron saints of bakers, to keep it safe while you go home to prepare for the evening wedding ceremony.

You go to the hairdresser, where Lucien has made a special trip to fix your hair. He makes it excessively poufy a la Priscilla Presley (the early, Elvis years), but you still feel lovely, particularly after the drink of brandy he gives you to calm your nerves. He makes the child look like a little princess, which she is anyway. You go home to dress and put on the makeup.

By now the boys are in their tuxes. They have relented after making cash offers to be spared the indignity, offers which you have refused. You complete your preparations. You are on some other planet now, watching yourself move through the various preparatory steps to making a marriage.

You think this is what hope is, doing this again, loving again after a disaster.

You go to the church, you see your beloved, you know that this is more than hope, it is belief in the essential rightness of this love.

You have the ceremony. The music is lovely, the flowers are lovely, the words spoken are lovely, you remember nothing of it but the quality of the light in the evening.

You are still floating during the reception. The toasts happen, kind words are spoken, people seem genuinely happy for you. People bring you food. You eat, but do not taste.

The time comes for the cutting of the cake. There it sits, in all its glory. The work of a week, of a lifetime, waiting to be sacrificed on the altar of love. You wonder, for a moment, if it will taste good. You cut, with the cake server your mother used at her wedding. You each take a bite.

It tastes sweet. It is sweet. All is good.


Happy Anniversary, dear PH. Eight years is only the start of bliss.

Cheesehead's Meme

Cheesehead has challenged me to participate in her meme:
Leave your name and... 1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of jello to wrestle with you in. (Ummm... actually, I won't.)
4. I'll try to say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
8. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal. You MUST. Okay...who wants to play with me??

And here's how she replied to me:

For Mibi: 1. Terrific pseudonym-osity.
2. "Still Standing" by Carrie Newcomer. It's a song about strength.
3. I was just kidding about the jello. ;-)
4. I'm glad your BC is no longer fiction.
5. I remember how you "get" having 'interesting' adult children.
6. A beautiful strong bird--a long distance flier of some sort. Maybe a hawk.
7. I wonder how your journey to ministry came about. What's that story like?

My dear, you are much cleverer than I! I adore Carrie Newcomer, but number 4 is so obscure I can't figure it out.

The journey to ministry was very long, circuitous, and serendipitous.

You can take the girl out of the Irish, but you can't take the Irish out of the girl...

You are St Brigid's Cross: St. Brigid is an Irish
saint who hand-wove a cross,out of rushes she
found by the river. She made the cross while
explaining the passion of our Lord to a pagan
man.

What Kind of Cross are You?
brought to you by

Friday Cat Blogging

The Spooky cat helping her RevGal mom in rainy day reading (note the RevGalBlogPals tee shirt).

Cassoulet

Rob built the furniture in the living room because I asked him to. It was my second year in the apartment, my second year in graduate school. The first year, I lived with another woman, an education major from Montgomery, Alabama. The apartment was furnished by the landlord with cheap, ugly pieces made of pressboard and plastic veneer. When she left, and Rob moved in, I asked the landlord to take the furniture back. I wanted our own space. We bought a bed.

We were in love in some childish, naive way. Enjoying the physicality, sharing music, sharing college gossip. We lived in a closed universe with a secret language all our own. He liked the idea that I would ask him to build furniture. This was a manly task, an appropriate one in his eyes. I gave him an idea of what I wanted it to look like, and he planned it and built it. A built-in L-shaped seating area, with cushions that I upholstered. A credenza of sorts under the windows, with terracotta tiles. I would tile and grout it.

His idea of the project was to build it so a 500-pound person wouldn’t break it. Since we had friends who were opera singers, and whose weight might approach that number, it wasn’t unwise. Thus, he bought a vast number of 2x4s, and overbuilt the thing so that a massive earthquake wouldn’t move it. Of course, the one element we didn’t plan for was comfort. The sofa was a miserable thing to sit on; the proportions were wrong. Sit on it for more than twenty minutes and your legs would fall asleep if you were short; your back would start hurting if you were tall. It looked pretty good, though, in a earth-toned 70’s modern way, and we shared the pride of having made something ourselves.

I was also responsible for the lamp, made from a big green glass jar. As with everything connected with the project, I thought I was saving money by doing it myself. By the time I bought the components, it always was more expensive. My heart loved it because I had made it, but no one would ever mistake it for a hundred dollar lamp, or even a twenty dollar one.

Having completed this fine project, we needed a party to celebrate. The occasion came when my mother decided to come up from New Jersey for a visit. Thirty years later, I can’t recall if she knew that Rob and I were living together – I think not – but she must have suspected it. Nevertheless, we decided we would throw her a dinner party, and I would cook a feast.

She didn’t know I could cook. In her home, the kitchen was her fortress. My father and I entered at our peril. Small tasks might be delegated to us – stringing beans, peeling potatoes – but she controlled the castle. She was a good cook, albeit a predictable one given my father’s predilection for meat and potatoes.

When I left for graduate school, after four years of college while living at home, I taught myself to cook, first by using Craig Claiborne’s Kitchen Primer, then by the ineffable Julia Child’s The French Chef Cookbook. I experimented every night after my last seminar, often cooking late into the night. That first year, living with my Alabama roommate, I’d often hear her drawl “Mary, you’re gonna have nightmares eatin’ that stuff this late.” Sometimes, I did. Some mushrooms - made a la grecque per the old Joy of Cooking - had a decidedly non-hallucenogenic effect – I knelt in homage to the porcelain god in our little bathroom for several hours. She was living on cottage cheese, with an occasional hot dog, so her comments on cuisine held little weight. She didn’t want to try my experiments, unless they were baked goods.

By the time the second year, and the fateful dinner party, rolled around, I was an experienced cook, at least by my own measure. Thus it was that I decided I would cook a cassoulet for the party, in honor of my mother’s Alsatian heritage. It was late autumn, so a hearty casserole-type dish would do well. That, plus a salad and bread, would make a fine feast.

That old rhyme that begins “for want of a nail” comes to mind when I think of the project that the cassoulet would become.

Vast quantities of various ingredients, some unavailable in Hartford in the mid-70s, were called for in the recipe. I needed to decide on substitutions for things like duck confit. I did find a regular Long Island duck, something that was not on the menu at my house growing up. I couldn’t find French garlic sausage. Kielbasa would have to do. And so on, through the seemingly endless list of things I’d need for this casserole, not the least of which was a very large bag of dried beans.

I am not a bean lover. I like regular American baked beans because of the high brown sugar-molasses content. I’ve learned to love lentils, with the variety of spices that can transform them. Unreconstructed white beans – no. The cassoulet would add some flavors, but this was a bean dish. Nonetheless, this would be my culinary triumph, my way of showing my mother that I was now an adult. I could cook! Not only could I cook, but I could make something that my mother had never tried to cook.

For this dish to work, only one pot would do: a massive Le Creuset pot. Le Creuset makes beautiful enameled cast iron pots. They are famous for two things: the slow, even heat such a pot lends to stews, and the incredible weight of the cast iron. Even the small pots are heavy. A large Le Creuset is hernia-inducing.

Off I went to the kitchenware store for the pot. I found my pot, in the traditional flame color (orange fading into red and a status indicator for foodies even then). It cost a whopping $185, a vast sum for someone who was working part-time as a schoolteacher. The investment was worth it. I was proving something (to myself? To my mother? To Rob?) and this was a requirement.

Cassoulet was originally created to use up leftover meats of various sorts, and stretch the protein by adding legumes. It was made tasty by some tomatoes, herbs and spices, and judicious use of fats and breadcrumbs. It was an end-of-the-month penny-stretcher (or sou-stretcher, to be more accurate). My recipe was not.

Even with the substitutions of more mundane ingredients, this casserole was going to cost me a lot. Furthermore, it was going to make a large quantity of food. How many days was I willing to eat beans? Not that many.

We decided to invite several friends, so my mother could meet the young people with whom I worked and played in Hartford. Musicians are eccentric as a rule, and this was certainly true of the young men and women we asked for the party. John, an organist who affected a French beret and a quasi-British accent, was among the milder variations. Stephanie, a mezzo who would later marry a gay organist and then be shocked – shocked – when he left her for a man, was the most sane of the women. The apartment was small and our well-constructed furniture could accommodate weight but not quantity of people. We decided to add some folding chairs. This might destroy the elegance (so we thought) of our design, but would make it possible to share the beans with more people.

I began cooking the components of the cassoulet three days in advance. Ventilation was poor in the little space, and I began to feel like the dish had entered my pores, but I was on a mission to prove my abilities. Step by step I worked my way through the complex recipe. When I reached a step which gave me some down-time, I cleaned or made another course, like dessert. I can no longer remember the other courses. The cassoulet, built with a hundred 2x4s of ingredients, took all my attention.

My mother arrived the morning of the feast. She was more focused on the sorry state of our neighborhood, with prostitutes trolling on the street corners and dirty children playing in the gutter, than on our elegant interior design. She was not shy in her comments. The cat hid under the bed in an act of self-preservation from the acerbic tone and the second-hand smoke.

I completed the final stages of the dinner, relatively calm because of all the preliminary work, and set up the buffet in the kitchen. Our guests would have to balance their plates on their laps. Had I thought of this problem, I might not have chosen the meal I did, but it was too late now.

Slowly, and predictably late, our friends came. The concept of time to a musician is relative, not absolute. This is particularly so for opera singers, who made up the larger part of the guest list. For them, tempo must be flexible. How else would one hold a high note until the conductor is shaking with rage?

We had wine, hors d’oeuvres, chatted away. My mother, never easy with young people and in the unfamiliar role of being the guest rather than the chef, squirmed in her uncomfortable seat on the home-made sofa. Our friends were oblivious to her discomfort; I was intensely aware of it. I could think of nothing that would put her at ease, and felt the sting of failure as her hostess. I didn’t realize then that there was nothing I could do to make her feel better. Her discomfort was not the awful sofa, it was being in a group of young people who already had more privileges than she had ever had in her life, who were not only done with four year college degrees, but were in graduate school. Their conversation might have been in Urdu. She didn’t belong. I was too busy fussing with the food to act as a conversational bridge for her. If I had she might have resented it even more.

It was time for the piece de resistance: the cassoulet. I announced the main course, and everyone got up to grab another plate in the kitchen. The young people didn’t let Mother go first. This was an unforgivable sign of poor manners in her eyes. When she got to the buffet table, she looked down and said, “Beans? You made beans?” My protestation that this was cassoulet, that it was French, that I thought she’d like it, were useless.

I had not even made real food for her. I had made beans.

Everyone (perhaps even my mother) enjoyed the dish. Several of the guests had second helpings. Even so, we barely made a dent in the ocean of beans that was the pot of cassoulet. My stomach was already jumping at my mother’s displeasure and the jug wine; the thought of beans for the foreseeable future nearly sent me over the edge of nausea. Somehow, I survived the main course, and started the coffee and served dessert. Whatever it was, it was well-received. Full of good food and sufficiently alcoholic wine, we continued to sit, though some were shifting from side to side. Whether this was the beans at work or the 2x4 sofa, I didn’t know.

Rob and the guests departed, and I was left with the clean-up. My mother helped. Washing dishes was the equivalent of Zen meditation in her household. We did the work silently. I wondered how angry she was about the beans. I was too young to know that it wasn’t the beans that she was angry about.

She stayed for another two days. We went out to eat and had mediocre food, in no way the equal of the cassoulet, but she paid for it, and was happy. She didn’t thank me for the hospitality or the effort or the food, nor did she compliment our décor. I had failed.

Almost thirty years have passed. I have learned that the predicate of pleasure at the table is the company and the love with which the food was prepared. At potluck dinners, I still find myself doing competitive cooking, asking my husband if what I served was superior to what others had brought, but I no longer overbuild what I bring and tend to rely on the same favorites again and again. I think I know now that food is not competition or proof, but it can be love, and that is the best of what we bring to the table.

Seminary Application - Spiritual Reflection

As part of my seminary application, I must write a spiritual reflection. I'm on draft # 49 1/2 - perhaps I'm overworking it a bit? - and would like to share it with you. I covet your comments and suggestions.


Spiritual Reflection

Perhaps the briefest way to explain the journey that has brought me to apply to VTS is this: it is easier to say “no” to myself than it is to say “no” to my Lord.

I was born in 1952 and spent the first four months of my life in an orphanage. I was designated to go to one set of adoptive parents, but my godmother’s intercession with her supervisor in the Diocese of Newark caused me to be redirected, as it were, to the couple who became my adoptive parents.

I was raised Roman Catholic, but attended a Ukrainian Catholic grammar school for grades 1 through 3. These nuns and lay people, who had escaped the repressive Soviet regime that crushed their nation in the mid-1950’s had a faith that puts us all to shame. Even at that early age, I could sense their sense of purpose and determination to live as Christians in a new life in America. Thereafter I attended Roman Catholic school, and was particularly impressed by the Dominican nuns who taught at my high school. Their academic excellence, their rich spiritual life, their sense of social justice informed my beliefs as a young woman.

I was disillusioned, though, by the Catholic Church’s view of the role of women. The level of respect accorded to my high school teachers, who were academics and theologians of some excellence, was not the equal of that accorded to priests, who were, of course, male. Some of the priests were wonderful. Some were less than wonderful. Yet their position in the hierarchy was clearly higher. It rankled.

I was further disillusioned when, in my college years, I was the victim of sexual violence. I was told to go to confession. What I was to confess, I still do not know, but the confessor impressed upon me that I had somehow done wrong and needed to repent.

Though I felt I could no longer attend Catholic Church, I could not separate myself from God. The next year, when in graduate school, I got the opportunity to sing in a choir at a Congregationalist Church. It was a very different spiritual environment. Scriptural exegesis was not part of what I had grown up with, but I enjoyed it, and grew from the experience to a deeper appreciation of the Scripture. It was revelatory to realize that the laity could study Scripture, could delve into it without the mediating influence of the priest.

In later years, when I was married to my former husband, we attended Unitarian Church. It was the only church I could convince him to attend. He, too, was a former Catholic, and had felt deeply unhappy with the experience. Although the concept of a non-credal denomination seemed strange to me, I embraced the opportunity to explore a different way to address the Divine. My Judeo-Christian roots were strong, and sometimes I disagreed with some of the more unusual approaches some of the congregants in that church took in their search for truth, but the pastor there was a gifted and thoughtful man, who rarely took the easy way in his sermons. I learned from him and was grateful for his teaching.

I’ve attended the Episcopal Church, and Saint Peter’s in particular, since 1995. Subsequent to my divorce, I returned to the Washington area, where I had worked several years prior. A friend suggested St. Peter’s, with its rich music program, as a possible church home for me. When I came to Saint Peter’s and to the Episcopal Church, I felt I had come home to a place and a people who recognized the importance of the sacraments and who valued a spiritual life that balanced the mystical, philosophical, and liturgical elements of faith in a way that resonated for me. I was received into the church in December of 1997 by Bishop Peter James Lee. Saint Peter’s was also the place where I met and married my husband, Doug, who is ordained in the Evangelical Covenant Church and works as a pastoral counselor with the Center for Pastoral Counseling of Virginia. Though he is ordained in another denomination, he attends St. Peter’s with me.

Since coming to Saint Peter’s, I’ve served as a member of the choir – music has always been the way that I felt I could reach out to God - I’ve served as chair of the Every Member Canvass, I’ve been on the vestry and served as its Senior Warden during a time of great tumult in our parish, I’ve been a delegate to Region III and currently serve as its Vice President and Secretary, and I serve as Chair of the Board of our Generation to Generation Fund. I have raised funds for the Diocese’s Mustard Seed Fund. Every now and again, I have fun baking for coffee hour, and I regularly cook for Meals That Heal.
One of the ministries I’ve especially cherished at Saint Peter’s has been as a Lay Eucharistic Minister. It has been my sense that it is in the sacraments that we help people at moments when they are most vulnerable and most open to God’s voice. When I help distribute wine at the Eucharist, I feel a sense of privilege in service that is humbling. On those occasions when I’ve brought Communion to shut-ins, it was instructive. Learning to be quiet and know that God is there and that sometimes words aren’t necessary was not a natural lesson for me. I’m grateful that I have started to understand that.

In a leadership role, or in a service role, I always feel the Lord by my side, and am grateful for the opportunity, but I have felt in recent years that I am called to do more.


I long to participate in the sacraments in a deeper, more active way. This is at the core of my belief that I am called to be a priest. I could continue to serve in lay ministries, but there is that insistent tug on my sleeve saying that I am called to do more, to walk with people as they make their faith journeys, to help them when they fall, and to show them that sinners who fall as I have can get up, with God’s help, and to share the sacraments with them.

I have had a full professional life, serving in two branches of Federal government and in the private sector, running units of multinational corporations and being an entrepreneur. I believe that the skills I learned in those jobs would prove useful in the priesthood, particularly in parish administration and in resolution of congregational conflict, and I look forward to the kind of training and spiritual growth that would help me to preach God’s Word.

Part of this process for me has been to develop a more disciplined prayer life. I have been saying Morning Prayer pretty close to daily for the past couple of years. Recently, I’ve been trying to add Noonday or Evening Prayer, although I confess that has been more difficult. I’ve been reading a number of books (Henri Nouwen, Parker Palmer, Nora Gallagher, among others) to help me contemplate God’s call for me, and I’ve begun a self-study program in Biblical Greek. Four years of Latin in high school have helped with that a bit. I am a weekly communicant at Saint Peter’s, and participate in the Emmaus/First Acts Study Group as well as the Women’s Bible Study. I have the benefit of a wonderful spiritual director, who challenges and encourages me in my conversation with Christ.

I believe that at this point in my life I will be a capable student. I have a Bachelor’s degree and a Master’s, and have had additional study in business management at Stanford University. I’ve had a great deal of coursework related to my professional life in software engineering, government relations, and in diversity issues, and have excelled in that work. I’ve written coursework in software engineering as well. I’ve written extensively (public policy issue anaylsis as well as speechwriting) for a Congressional Committee and for the trade associations with which I’ve been affiliated, and regularly speak at conferences in my industry. Frankly, maturity has increased my diligence and hunger for knowledge on a broad range of subjects; it has also provided me with an ability to separate the wheat from the chaff in analyzing content. I’d like to think I have an agile and hungry enough mind to take on the rigors of the seminary.

The thought of going from a job where I am at the top of my game, and which compensates me well, to an uncertain future and financial challenges, is daunting. I have thought about this long and hard. I’ve tried saying “no” to God for several years. He keeps drawing me in, saying there is something more I need to do for Him. At this point, I want to give up to His will, where it may take me. I want to say “no” to my human desire for comfort, “no” to my craving for the familiarity of the life we now live, and “yes” to Him who is the source of all that I am.

Nursery School is So Very Cool.

It's especially cool when you've got a matching dress and shoes and backpack. This is granddaughter Katie (all in pink) with her best friend since birth Skyler at their first day of nursery school.

Knitting Blogging

Ah, yes, I know I've recovered from the trauma of GREs. I'm knitting again.

For several weeks I had focused on "The Ultimate Math Refresher Book." I've gratefully passed it on to StrongOpinions, who has SATs next Saturday. I can now concentrate on more important things, like doing the laundry, knitting, Koine Greek, and working on some troublesome legislation.

It has also turned blissfully cool here in Your Nation's Capitol. Thus, sitting and knitting while watching Jacques Pepin and America's Test Kitchen of a Saturday afternoon is not only possible, it's delightful. Perhaps PH's fisherman knit sweater will get done by Christmas, after all! The Spooky cat likes to cuddle alongside me while I knit. Who needs Prozac?

We three went out to dinner last night. StrongOpinions, as usual, shared her strong opinions with us. What a delight she is turning out to be! I'm such a lucky mommy!

Testimony...

as to the power of prayer.

The GREs went remarkably well, despite my fears. I followed Quotidian Grace's suggestion and reminded myself to breathe. I said a prayer before I started, and whenever I was completely bumfuzzled by a question.

They have you do the writing exercises first, and I really felt like I got into a groove with them. I won't know the scores on them for a couple of weeks. but I'd be surprised if I got less than a 5 on the six point scale they grade them on. The multiple choice verbal and math sections came next. I think I over-thought some of the verbal questions. When the math section started, I went completely blank, couldn't remember a single rule, formula, equation...nothing. Slowly it started coming back. I guess I remembered enough, and the Holy Spirit helped. Score on the verbal section was 710 (bummed I didn't make it to 750, but I'll be quiet now) and quantitative was 650 (now you KNOW the Holy Spirit was helping me).

Thanks for the prayers. I'm so relieved that it's over with and the scores aren't mortifying!

Not Traveling, But Rather Testing Mercies

GREs tomorrow at 9 am. Four hours at the computer typing away. Just me and my #2 pencils. Fortunately, I have choir tonight to settle my nerves. Just to make tomorrow complete, I get to have my annual physical tomorrow afternoon. Heaven only knows what my blood pressure will be by that point. Ah, well, God is faithful.

For calm, for memory, for the ability to articulate, for perspective, for health, I ask these things so I may do Your work.

Amen.

Thank you...

...for the prayers. I survived the PDC meeting with some tears, a lot of talk (2 and a half hours worth) and a sense that these dear people are starting to understand the nuts and bolts of my life and why I feel called. So hard to express the metaphysical in mere words! Another long session in mid-October awaits.

Prayers, Please...

For good things: my stepson and his wife, parents of grandbaby Bryce, have told us they are expecting again. Since grandparenthood is just about the best thing since chocolate, I am very happy. May God grant them a good pregnancy and smooth delivery in the springtime.

For scary things: I'm taking GREs for seminary on Thursday. How is it that StrongOpinions, who is retaking the SATs next month, gets to bring a graphing calculator to the test and I, an ancient crone with a 29 year old master's degree in music for heaven's sake, get to bring...


(wait for it)


...2 number two pencils? Life isn't fair. Dear Lord, bring me inner calm so I can use the intellectual gifts you have given me - such as they are - to perform decently on the test.

For unknown things: tomorrow will be my first session with my parish discernment committee. A couple of hours of conversation about who I am and how I got here. How do I answer when I am still figuring that one out myself? Jesus, let me be willing to be vulnerable in this process so I can most honestly figure out what it is You want me to do for You.

I'm stepping out in faith and trying really hard not to trip over my own feet.

And my last prayer for the day:
For all those who have been affected by the hurricanes,
our thanks, Lord, for those who were unharmed,
your healing grace, Lord, for those who were hurt in ways physical, psychological or material,
your loving arms of welcome, Lord, for those who died.

Amen.

Weird Feelings and Flowers

I went to a board meeting of our trade association tonight. Fancy restaurant, lots of very pricey wine. I was nominated to a senior leadership post. I couldn't say no, since I'm not "out of the closet" with these folks on my discernment yet.

I feel like I've got my feet in two different worlds, yet I don't fully belong to either.

Very strange sensation, indeed. I don't like being neither fish nor fowl. I just want to settle into being a duck-billed platypus, dagnabit, and be done with it.

Okay, speaking of neither fish nor fowl, here's a picture of one of our pond flowers. The plant from whence it came has just looked spindly and unimpressive for several months, and then, lo and behold, this amazing flower appeared. It doesn't look like anything I've ever seen before. Aren't God's creations marvelous things?

Praying for Quotidian Grace, Mr C, and all of the folks who may be in the path of Hurricane Rita...

Continuing on the Path

My Parish Discernment Committee met for the first time on Sunday after church. As I've mentioned before, they had the first meeting without me, to hear from the rector what the process will be. A good friend of my husband's (happens to be a M.Th. grad) will chair it. Should be good. I'm so very fortunate to have the support that I do! I can't wait for the first meeting with them.

One of the young couples in the parish gave birth Sunday night to twins, born three months premature. One weighs 1 pound and a half, the other slightly less. These tiny babies, each weighing about as much as a gerbil, have an 80% shot of making it, according to the neonatologists. Too soon to tell, of course, if they will have any neurological or other deficits because of the extreme prematurity. Thank goodness they're in a superb teaching hospital, where they'll get state-of-the-art care.

It raises a question for me, though, about pastoral care. I wanted to ask you RevGalBlogPals about it, because I suspect many of you have tender hearts, as I do. How does one keep emotions in check when working with these folks? They surely don't need my tears. I want to honor their struggle to cope rather than adding to their burden by welling up. I know when I get to CPE, my supervisor will tell me "It's not about YOU, Mibi." I already know that. I'm still a softy, though. How do you manage it?

In the meantime, people are bracing for Hurricane Rita. Seems like we're being washed in the salt of the sea, instead of the blood of the Lamb...a much less gentle cleansing, I think.

Fall Meme (I Can't Resist)

Several of the RevGalBlogPals had posted a Fall meme. Me, too! Me, too!

Favorite Fall Food: apple crisp, with the first wonderful apples of the season.

Favorite Fall Date: October 12th, my anniversary to PH. Beautiful million-colored leaves on the ground, the family all around, PH's grad school buddy preaching, the church at dusk, my little daughter in her bridesmaid's gown and my sons in their tuxes (which they tried to bribe me to avoid wearing).

Favorite Fall Memory I: Walking around Rome, and walking and walking, in the rain, and eating Roman-style deep-fried artichokes in the Roman ghetto.

Favorite Fall Memory II: Hiking in the Shenandoah National Park.

Least Favorite Fall Memory: my ex telling me he wanted a divorce.

Favorite Holiday: Yup, I'll join the crowd saying Thanksgiving, despite the work of cooking for the clan. I actually love the work of cooking for the clan. Halloween is a close second. There's something about little kids in home-made costumes that just warms my heart.

Favorite Exercise: Walking at lunchtime around the National Mall - my office is a couple of blocks away.

Least Favorite Exercise: Raking leaves and preparing the garden for winter.

Favorite Change in Clothing: Being able to wear sweaters again. Especially old, big, snuggly ones. Not having to expose my thighs to the world in shorts.

Least Favorite Change in Clothes: Too chilly for sandals.

Best for Fall Sex: early Saturday morning, while it's still dark out, hiding together under the covers.

Best Fall Vista: northern Vermont on Columbus Day weekend: drive up the Toll Road on Mount Mansfield in Stowe. Use Lamaze breathing to calm yourself driving back down again.

Second Best Fall Vista: Skyline Drive in Virginia, but dealing with the zillion other drivers on it during leaf-peeping season is not so much fun.

Favorite Sunday Afternoon Road Trip: Anywhere they're pressing fresh apple cider, especially over in the western part of Virginia towards the Blue Ridge.

Traditional Fall Candy: Anything that comes in "Funsizers" bags.

Best Fall Aroma: Baking bread.

Fall Childrens' Memory: Mommy hunched over the sewing machine, making Halloween costumes (Robin Hood, Belle, Pirate, Bride - what was I thinking?).

Best Tree in the Fall: Northern sugar maples. Beautiful austere birches a close second.

Favorite Sound: A tie between the neighborhood three-year-olds saying "Trick or Treat" and the crunching of leaves under my feet on the nature trail.

Favorite Music: Whatever extremely loud piece - usually an arrangement of some hymn tune by Ralph Vaughn Williams - that our choir prepares for the October visit of the Bishop, when he confirms our young people. Our choir director usually plays trumpet, the organist cranks up the volume, and we all sing very loudly. It's great fun. Not necessarily a transcendent musical experience, but great fun.

Reliable Prediction: the leaves will keep on falling several weeks after we're really sick of raking them up.

How Different People View the Hurricane and Its Aftermath

I sit on my employer's Diversity Council, an effort on the part of our very large corporation to make our world a caring, accepting, safe place for all our colleagues, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or differing abilities. Sometimes I find the work frustrating - I mean, how long can we keep talking about these topics and still not get it right? - and other times I am in awe of my colleagues as they try to go deep on these issues. The council has about 30 people, of different ethnicities, genders, sexual orientations, and levels within the company.

We started out our session today talking about what we had observed about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath.

The white males talked first, and observed the fact that a great divide between the haves and have-nots was revealed, and that while they were disappointed in the government response, they were gratified that everyone was now pitching in, particularly the private sector and faith-based organizations.

Then the people of color talked. Oh, my, how they talked, about how it feels as a black person in America seeing your brothers and sisters so poor and desperate and so ill-served by the government that's supposed to provide some safety net. They talked of the pain of seeing the poorest and weakest - the oldest and youngest - left by the side of the road to die. They talked of the hurt they felt in seeing people so misjudged ("Why were they so ignorant not to know to get out of town? Why did they steal a TV set in a place with no electricity?"). Some of them couldn't even talk, they just cried.

It reinforced my own pain - I was pretty close to tears much of the time - and reminded me how far we have to go yet on issues of social injustice. It reminded me of how far we still have to go to even see those who live below the poverty line in cities and towns all over America.

The rich man wouldn't give a drop of water to Lazarus, the rich man who had so much [who among you has fed Me when I was hungry?].

The day will come when we who have so much will ask Lazarus for help. How will he respond to us?

Greek et al

Tonight's our first Koine Greek class at church. I've been studying on my own, using a computer program, but I think I'll progress faster with the stimulus of a class. Our rector was a classics scholar while in college, and it should be a good group.

He's also lined up my parish discernment committee (the next step in my discernment process) and will nominate them for the vestry to approve next week. Can't wait to get started! Nine sessions. One organizing meeting, five sessions with me, one with PH, one to vote on whether they'll support my move to postulancy, and an optional last one to review my writeup of the process.

On the "Oy vey" front, StrongOpinions says that Useless Boyfriend, who will leave for school in the Midwest next week, has pledged his undying love. They're thinking of living together when he's done with school in two years. She will then be a sophomore in college. All I can hope for is that Paris Hilton or Brittany Spears, or someone of that ilk, will spirit him away before the die is cast. Ah, well, StrongOpinions is a smart girl and a beautiful one, and hopefully a better life choice, or even better, a better temporary choice, will appear on the radar screen once Useless is out of the way. She is too young for anything like this. Do I sound like a scheming mom? You betcha!

Forgiveness

This has been the week for pastoral care of many sorts. I've mentioned a parishioner who is angry with our rector because of what she perceives as a lack of pastoral care in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Her solution to this was an email to the vestry in complaint. Another parishioner and vestry member jumped on board - darn that triangulation - and the rector responded by being very defensive. So I spent a goodly amount of time talking with both of them, trying to get them to calm down the rhetoric and to reach out to each other as faithful Christians. Not sure how much I accomplished there (maybe a teensy bit), but I think it was work I was called to do.

Last night we had the parents of the pregnant teen who's living in our basement over, so we could all sit around the table and talk through the plan for the future. We've made clear that we'd like them to be in their own place by Thanksgiving. They are both looking for work again, and she is starting to get help through the county for medical care, etc. Her mother is so very angry, and really started to lash out at both of them. Not productive, of course, and she reduced them both to tears before we could refocus the conversation to the future needs of the forthcoming child. At the end of a long and difficult conversation and a couple of boxes of Kleenex, we all had a plan that we think might work, and we think a lot of the venom was discharged. I'm hoping it is the beginning of a healthier relationship between them all. At the end, the mother said, "I guess I've got to stop being so negative about this. It doesn't help." True words.

In both cases, I was struck by the difficulty of forgiveness. Barbara Cawthorne Crafton wrote a beautiful piece on forgiveness yesterday http://www.geraniumfarm.org/dailyemo.cfm?Emo=537 . Our lectionary tomorrow is Matthew 18:21-35, about how many times we are called to forgive. The part that really hit home was how forgiveness is not really for the other person whom we forgive, but for ourselves, as a way to getting back into right relationship with God. In each case in my owrld this week, the lack of willingness to forgive stood in the way of a person's happiness and sense of wholeness.

I think of a problem we had a few years ago when our prior rector was being attacked by a small group with a specific agenda. He eventually left, although I think this incident was just one part of his decision. One of our parishioners, who had really adored him, continues to be unhappy about he was treated, and regularly talks about wanting "justice" for what happened to T. She still is angry at another parishioner, whom she feels urged T to leave. Several of us have talked to her about the fact that her view of the situation was not true, and even if it were, she should move to forgiveness. She's stuck in the moment of her anger, and stubbornly doesn't want to let go of it. Whether she thinks she'll get justice - whatever that represents to her - if she clings to this anger, or whether it ties her to fond memories of T in the past, I can't say. But I do know it stands in the way of her moving forward.

Looking back on my divorce, it took me a very long time to forgive the ex for ending the marriage. Until I could, I was stuck in that awful moment, and was only half a person. Once I did, I could be so much more present for my children, and it opened my heart to the possibility of love again, which led ultimately to my remarriage to PH.

I'm also dealing with an ugly situation in my work right now - the blame game is in full force, and I'm part of the team trying to resolve it - so once again I'm challenged to forgive those who are acting in their own self-interests in this situation. While I'm angry, I'm not at my most effective in coming up with a solution. So I should take some of my own good advice, and not pick at the scab of my anger, and look forward to my Lord.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, having mercy on me, a sinner.

Various Good and Bad Things

I went to the eye doctor today. I had suffered a few months ago from a bout of optic neuritis - an inflammation of the optic nerve which may or may not be related to incipient MS. It was a frightening thing, suddenly going from almost perfect vision to 20/400. The immediate problem was resolved by massive doses of steroids, bringing my vision back to some sort of reasonable functionality, but it has not come back one hundred percent, and at this point is unlikely to. So I went to the eye doctor, he tested me out (20/100 in the right eye, 20/50 in the left) and problems with both distance and close vision. No surprise there, so it's time for bifocals. I was glad that my vision can be corrected back to 20/25. Bifocals, though. Ah, well, I am very grateful to be seeing as well as I can, and that glasses will further correct things. Now if I could only lose the 15 pounds (okay, almost 20) that I gained from the steroids, life will be good.

I've been dealing with a friend at our church who is understandably terribly upset about the Hurricane Katrina mess; she's from New Orleans and still has some family who are unaccounted for. She was very unhappy with our rector's sermon on Sunday - felt it didn't do enough to address those who were affected. I will agree that it wasn't a very pastoral sermon - he's an academic and pastoral care is not his forte. She decided to express her unhappiness with a letter to the vestry, plus an email to me ranting about the rector. This, of course, is the rector who is my presenting priest in my discernment process. I tried to point to the lectionary (what he had preached on, namely, Matthew's account of how we should deal with people with whom we are in disagreement). Her response was that she had tried that before with him and it hadn't worked. After church on Sunday, he had cornered me to complain about how she was "going after him." So I'm in the middle of this ugliness, just trying to be supportive of her without getting caught in triangulation. I think she's calmed down a little bit. She is taking that tack that he is the way he is, and won't change, so it doesn't help for her to rant. I know, however, that I'll hear from him about how mean she is to him (he's a wee bit needy...well, a little more than a wee bit, to be truthful) when he really needs to acknowledge the pain she's currently going through, so she at least feels listened to. Needy parishioner + needy rector= bad feelings/paranoia/stress. Our assistant, who is very pastoral, is on vacation this week, so I can't look for her to intervene, so I guess I get a little chance to be pastoral to both of them. He's used me as a sounding board before when he's upset, but the dynamic is very different now that I'm in discernment. Thank goodness for PH, who is always a good source of strategies to deal with such things. This is where having a spouse who is a professional therapist and also ordained clergy really helps.

Strong Opinions made it back safely from her trip to the North Country to her uncle's wedding. I asked her about the ceremony and she was quite opinionated about it, as always. "It only took five minutes. No prayers, no nothing. Very unimpressive." The prayer comment amused me, as she is currently claiming to be an agnostic/Buddhist. Two years ago she claimed to be a Rastafarian, and before that, belonged to the Church of Kurt Cobain. A few years in a Christian elementary school and many years of Sunday School aren't completed washed out of her system, it appears. She drove up north and back with Useless Boyfriend, who cannot drive - I think I'm happy about that - so she did it all, thirteen hours up and thirteen hours back.

Stonemason is still working and doing reasonably well. He hasn't asked for any money from me this month, which is always a good thing. He's trying to sell his little Saab so he can buy a pickup truck - more suitable given his current employment. We shall see if that comes to pass.

Litigator seems to be adjusting well to being back at college. He's continuing counseling for his alcohol use. Please, Lord, take care of the boy.

So should I practice my Koine Greek now, or pratice (eek) my algebra for the GREs? Or should I go downstairs and hop onto the elliptical trainer? Or should I have a piece fo chocolate? Hmmm....

The Supermarket

One of my Saturday rituals (while PH is off bicycling 50 plus miles - yes, he is insane) is to go to the Farmer's Market, and then to the supermarket, for our week's food.

The Farmer's Market is in our town's courthouse parking lot, and has a little over a dozen vendors, mostly truck farmers from the outer counties of Northern Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Maryland. It's beautiful, food - fruits, veggies, dairy products - many organic. It's not inexpensive, but the flavor is awesome.

The supermarket is bright, full of great food, including very fresh seafood. I use my little clipped coupons to keep the cost down.

I usually love this experience. I've done a menu for the week, planned my shopping, more or less, and can do it efficiently in 90 minutes for the two stops.

Today it was depressing. That old Catholic guilt hit me, as I took note of the ease with which I can feed my family healthy food. In my head, a videotape keeps running of desperately poor people in the heat, with nothing to eat and no place safe to sleep. I know that the National Guard is in New Orleans and Biloxi and Mobile now, bringing food and water and moving people to safer venues, but I keep thinking of what these people went through, particularly the youngest and the oldest of them, and my heart breaks for them.

Am I the only person who thought it ironic and unsurprising that the only survivors who had a photo op with the President were white, cleaned up, cleared by the Secret Service?

The Washington Post quoted one of the New Orleans survivors as saying "black people must be marked in some way" to have such horror visited upon them. The heart breaks once again.

So, as I stood in line to pay for my groceries, I picked up one of the "donate $5 to the American Red Cross" slips and added it to my pile of goods - we had already made a larger donation to Episcopal Relief and Development (www.er-d.org) for the victims of Katrina, and felt slightly disgusted with myself that I wasn't doing more.

Dear Lord, help me never to forget those who are hurting in body and in spirit. Help me find the resources within myself to do more, to leave my comfortable world, to not delegate to others the work I should do myself. help me to look at the hard pictures. Let me never turn away from the hurt, so I remember to help Your children. Amen.