Lysistrata's Daughter

This is how the Padre served his first funeral as a priest:  About a month after he was ordained, we got a call from some very close friends of ours with sad news: they had had a still born baby at five and half months gestation. They wanted to know if the Padre could come and bury the child at the Orthodox convent in Ventura county. We both went, driving through the beautiful farmland around Fillmore and Castaic. It was a perfect Southern California day: the sun made all the hills glow green, but it wasn't too hot. Our friends were outside at the monastery, talking with the nuns. I felt a bit awkward. What do you say to people when they've suffered that kind of loss? I said nothing, hoping that hugs could communicate when words failed. I noticed that the father was holding a small box in his arm when I walked up, but I wasn't sure what it was. He set it down to go get something out of the car, and I realized it was a miniature coffin. When he returned, he tu...

I continue to be bewildered at the proliferation of flat screen TVs at all sorts of public places.  Also, the need to tune each set to a different channel.  Further, why there is on each channel an ever increasingly tawdry show:  court shows, daytime talk shows, and celebrity tabloid shows.  Finally, why people would go on the shows and put their strange personal problems on display for strangers' voyeuristic pleasure. My only hope, especially for the talk shows that insist on airing complicated paternity problems, is that the 'guests' are really paid actors. My other hope is that family oriented burger joints and the YMCA will soon cease to feel the need for all the dang TVs because I'm tired of having to concoct believable fictions to answer the pint size inquisitor as to "Why are all those people fighting/shouting/wearing hot pink talons for nails?"

I looked at Vuk as he played in the kitchen sink. And I Saw him. All is wonderful Vuk-ness concentrated in his face. He was absorbed totally in his actions. His body, mind, and spirit are all together, in the same place and time. A gift, to see my boy like this. Perhaps this is the gift children give their parents--to see a person whole and complete. For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Dear Facebook, Thanks so much for contributing to the bumper sticker-ization of American politics. Every time I log on, I can see the new Occupy Wall Street posts, some making fun of the people who support it and some making fun of the people who are against it. I do so enjoy this political porn. I'm so glad we've democratized the dissemination of ignorant and crude opinions so everyone can be hated on equally. Because everyone who has money has stolen it from working mothers and orphans and old people. And everyone who doesn't is a lazy jerk with an entitlement problem. I'm so glad we've got that cleared up. Vomiting in your general direction, Lysistrata's Daughter

At the wedding reception: When are you going to have kids? When they get back from the honeymoon: So, pregnant yet? When you haven't been informed of a pregnancy within their first six months of marriage: You're not using birth control are you?! When a couple who got married after them announces a pregnancy before them: Your turn next! Also, avoid making reference to other people's love making habits or pregnancies or lack thereof on Facebook. We don't hang out the bloody sheet anymore, people.

I have always struggled with doubt. I wish that belief and trust came easily to me, but they do not. I think the first time I was aware of my doubts about Christianity, I was nine years old, weeping to my parents that I didn't have a 'personal relationship with Jesus', that hallmark of Protestant salvation and goodness. As a young adult, I discovered Catholicism, then Orthodoxy, and learned to pray the prayers of the church, relieved that I didn't have to make it all up myself anymore. As a Seventh-day Adventist, I hated to pray. I didn't know how to go about addressing the Almighty. I was told to just talk to God as if He was a friend. Of course, God is a friend, but I didn't feel right chatting away about my crushes or worries about what classes to take. It felt stilted and forced. In college, a Catholic friend taught me how to pray the Rosary, and I loved it. I could simply relax into the prayers honed and polished by generations before me. Nev...

My son-- you have marched to the beat of your own heart since you first woke up to the world Too often you will be told Too often you have been told To get in line march with the others-- head bowed, mind asleep But you haven't And I pray you won't ever lose the insistent pound of your own rhythm I say, my son march on dance on run on with your head up your heart open your mind alive My lion heart-- make your path fierce, fearless, untamed.