A sure-fire way to get your home thoroughly clean is to have an out-of-town guest.  At least one a month ought to do the trick.  Let that be my cleaning advice for the quarter.

My husband and I were most grateful to have a friend come visit us last week, just overnight, but also in conjunction with a pizza party, brick-oven style.  I have a lot on my plate at the moment, and I was primarily consumed with thoughts of preparing for the cabin retreat I was organizing for the weekend.  Somehow I missed that our guest was actually staying the night in our house.  Ack!  Now I really had to clean the bathroom and make sure there were clean sheets on the bed.  (You don’t just willingly sleep in a kindergartner’s bed unless you know for certain it’s been cleaned; at least, I don’t!)

As I scrubbed the kids’ shower, I thought surely my husband had invited his pal to stay over so that I would get the house nice and clean before I left for the weekend.  I didn’t blame him; it needed to be done, and I was glad to do it.  Our paths crossed in the kitchen a few minutes later, when he came in from his yard work for something.  I told him what I thought.

“The funny thing is,” he said, “is that I figured you had invited him so that I’d finally get the yard all cleaned up.”

We both had a good chuckle and carried on with our work, knowing that we truly weren’t out to get the other for any inadequacies.  We were indeed working together with a common purpose and happy hearts.

Most of our friends know we work best under pressure, and somehow everything that had to be done got done.  My husband yet again wowed us with his pizza-making skills, and I left the house mostly clean the next afternoon.

Thank you, Casey, for everything, and thank you, Ryan, for coming to visit!  Come back any time!  Let this be an open invitation to all our out-of-town friends. 

I promised some friends I would share my commentary on the Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer, and I think I have been putting it off because I wasn’t sure how to go about it.  The best overall comment I can make is that I liked it like I like milk chocolate; it’s sweet, not good for you, but I enjoy it anyway.  There is, however, something to the series that strikes me as inspiring. *

The sweetness behind this vampire-human love story resides in its simplicity.  Two souls in love.  They cannot live without the other, and they will overcome all obtacles to be together.  Star-crossed lovers, indeed.  The story line hits all romantics at heart.  Make one of the characters a vampire, and there’s so much more drama and action involved, more images and history to pull from.  There’s also the innocence in the story, the moral platforms involved in which the heroine ends up making all the “right” choices.  The books are so relatively “clean” that I don’t mind my 11-year-old reading them.  (Of course, the killing might bother some.)

One can only take so much sweetness (even though I tend to binge on mine, thus reading all four books in a week or so).   Reading the books to me was like watching a movie.  They are highly entertaining, but I did not find them intecllectually stimulating.  I felt like all the plot lines were developed without having a great deal of research behind them, though I did read in the credits that Meyer learned a bit about motorcycles for New Moon.  It saddens me that pop lit is almost movie-ready material.  As someone driven by emotions, I felt carried through the series, but the logic in the novels doesn’t seem to me to be fully engaged.  I tried to get my husband to read the books to get his perspective on this, but he won’t.  Maybe that says enough.

I also know of people who criticize the reality of the situations.  The books are idealistic; perhaps that’s partly why I enjoyed them so much.  They’re predictable.  They girl gets the guy, and the guy gets the girl.  There’s a strong sense of family.  The heroine beats the odds and comes through as a powerhouse in the end.  But these books are fantasy.  Our emotions and imagination are engaged and can play along nicely if we allow them.

What inspires me in this series is that all of us who write should write.  I hold my own standards very high and worry that I won’t be good enough to compare to Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Wolfe, Steinbeck, etc.  But all stories that come as a gift should be told, for we never know who will respond, who needs to hear that story.  I hope that others who desire to write, after reading this series, are encouraged to share their stories.  My sincerest hope, though, is that the strength of a heroine comes not only from her deep love for another or some fantastic gift of mental control or superhuman strength.

Looking at the Twilight series as a whole, as a microcosm of life (even in the undead),  we can see many elements of our desires, weaknesses.  Utimately, most of us do hope to find our soul mates, the other whom we cannot live without, but I think the series falls short in assuring our young women in society that it’s not about smelling good and falling in “love.”  What a different story it would have been had Bella recovered from Edward’s absence, realized she had dependency issues and went on to find her true self, her true strengths — however human they may be.  Of course, I still want her and Edward to hook up in the end, too, but if she’s strong enough to mentally overcome newbie vampire craze, shouldn’t she be able to stand on her own?

I’m glad I read the books, mainly so I know what my daughter will be reading but also to have insight into our pop culture.  I did enjoy them for their entertainment value and for the work Meyer put into attaching to the reader’s emotions.  Even more, though, I appreciate the inspiration given to share my own stories in their own realistic way.

Oh, and I did like the movie and plan to see New Moon with my daughter and her friends.    I have a HUGE sweet tooth!

*I’m sure you can Google millions of Twilight reviews that are more literary based and biased one way or the other.  All statements here are completely my meager opinion, written before reading any of the aforementioned reviews.

I went to The Magnetic Church Conference because when I first read about it in our diocesan communication, it struck me as interesting, something important.  Our priests were willing to send me, and I ended up making the solo trip, the alone time not unwelcome.

The conference is about evangelism.  I’m Episcopalian.  The two E-words usually do not go together in casual conversation, not without a shudder, anyway.  The Episcopal Church is about welcoming, but we’re not so much into going out and collecting.  Apparently, we’re not great fishers.

But this is what the conference told us.  Re-think the way we view evangelism.  It’s not some salesman on t.v. with a bad comb-over, promising everything your heart desires if only you choose to live his path . . . and send him money.  For Christianity, our evangelism is in loving one another, “inviting people along the path and sharing the feast.”  It is best exemplified in radical hospitality and compassion.  And we went on to spend many hours talking about how a church might do this.  There were many laughs at our own and at our Church’s expense.

My personal test, however, lies within the principle of “inviting” others along the path.  I have an “all paths lead to God” kind of mentality, spirituality, whatever you want to call it.  What our speaker called “ecumenical mush” with apparent distaste, I don’t so much have a problem with.  Some people need more tradition than others, more frame work to make sense of the great Mystery.  I like the traditions, the liturgy, but I don’t have to have them.  It’s like having a beautifully illustrated book.  One doesn’t have to have the pictures.  Indeed, we don’t have to have a book at all.*  The Mystery exists whether we name it or not.  But it helps us, we mere humans, to work at this Mystery, to share what we have discovered on our way.  Each of us  — whether unchurched, lay, or ordained — has insights to the Truth of the Mystery.  Our lives are enriched in the sharing of these Truths.  Of course, we are human in our own right.  We only have one perspective in any given lifetime, and our understanding is thus limited.

My test?  Keeping my focus on what I feel is True.  I have to keep in mind that my view of God through the colored glass is different from others’, whether they be across the street or on the other side of the world.  My evangelism isn’t so much limited to the Episcopal religion as it is to the experience of the Divine.  I choose the Anglican Church as home for my spirit because it feeds me deeply and encourages my walk in faith, constantly providing nourishment for my journey.  But daily life is the test.  How do I embody Christ’s love to others.  How do I embody God to others?  How do I embody Spirit to others?  Is this not the cross that Christians bear?

Our free will tells us that we choose how we live our lives.  Sometimes, though, I feel more chosen than the chooser.  Truly, I don’t have to take up the cross.  For me, though, that’s like not smiling at a stranger, not comforting the crying child, not loving those in pain.  When you have a gift, it’s best enjoyed when shared.

Perhaps one of my greatest gifts is Love, and I choose to share that with you, no matter what you call it or how you experience it.  You choose whether or not to receive, but that doesn’t change the presence of the Love that is there, patient, kind, and never-ending.

*I’m not saying we don’t have to have the Bible.  I am saying that Christ lived and practiced what we call “Christianity” without a name, without a Bible.

I found myself getting off the familiar interstate exit, the one that led to the college.  I needed a coffee and gas before I headed home.  (Okay, I didn’t need the coffee, but it sounded good.)  In my way of charting errands, trying to make sure I had as few left turns as possible, I went for the coffee first.  Maybe I’d even take a trip around the college campus to see how the construction was going.

Focusing again on the road before me, I saw him.  Sun-bleached messy hair.  Eyes squinting from the sun, though clouds covered the sky.  Maybe they winced in pain.  The cardboard sign said “hungry” and something else — homeless? jobless?  Did I just imagine the vest he was wearing looked like a combat vest?

The stoplight was still red.  I had eaten most of the strawberries from the container of fruit I brought with me for my little trip, but there was still plenty of grapes, some orange wedges.  Fumbling, I yanked off the lid and put the whole apple and orange into the container.  Of course the light turned green then.  Of course my window made a horrible buzzing noise in protest before it decided to go down.  I managed to pull forward with traffic, but I paused for a moment.

“Here, you can have this,” was all I managed to say, holding the container out the window, trying to get his attention.  He was probably used to being ignored.  Maybe he was used to ignoring our ignorance.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he replied after a quick double-glance, with a voice that conveyed more experience than I will ever have.

Through the intersection, I looked down and realized I hadn’t given him the lid to my recycled cottage cheese container that held his fruit.  Would he need the lid?  Could he use it for something else?  Perhaps, but I knew more likely than not that I would never see him again.  I knew for certain that he needed that fruit more than I did.  I knew I had more at home in my fridge, waiting for me to feel like I might be hungry or seeking or wanting.

I felt the pain in my chest and the swell in my eyes that didn’t spill over.  I drove around the campus and through downtown, making my way to the coffee shop and gas station before getting back on the interstate.  I felt quiet, like the still character in the middle of constant motion.

I won’t know if the man ate the fruit, dumped it or gave it away.  I can hope it nourished him in more ways than one.  I wish I had said something better, given him blessings, told him I loved him, too, as a brother in this f***ed up world.

I had an individual-size bag of SunChips in my bag I had forgotten about, but I was glad I didn’t give him those.  We who have to budget know that the processed food can be so much cheaper, easier.  It’s not as healthy, though, not nearly as nourishing and nurturing.  Later, as I munched on a few, I realized they didn’t taste all that great, either. No, it was better just to give the fruit.

Sweet.  Fresh.  Prepared.  Available.   I hope it gives him hope.

He may think I’m a crazy lady who carries fruit in her van.  He might have thought I brought it just for him.  Maybe I did and just didn’t know it.

I cannot remember the last time we truly took a holiday weekend, or, rather, that I took a holiday.  There is something seemingly appropriate about a mom taking Labor Day as an excuse to kick back.

Truthfully, it started Friday when my daughter and I played our pajama day card.  The fact that I’m reading the Twilight series might have something to do with that, too (future post to comment on that one).  I was supposed to have a meeting with my spiritual director, but a change of plans led to a cancellation.  During our brief phone conversation, I mentioned my p.j. day with novel in tow, and she said it sounded like I was pretty well-balanced.  Would I be her spiritual director? she asked me.  That resulted in a good laugh, but I was glad she approved of my unkemptness.    I did manage to get dressed, pick up kids from school, and make it that night to a delightful cookout at my cousin’s house with her family.  My day felt rich and full.

Saturday we slept in.  Then I went out and purchased a bike trailer.  I haven’t truly ridden my bike, even a bike, in almost eleven years (the age of my eldest daughter), if not longer.  But I felt a sense of determination.  This is something I was going to do, not only for myself but for the family as well.  Home from that, I left with my girls to meet a friend and her daughter to go on a bike ride along the trails in our city.  I hadn’t been on them before, even to walk, and I loved it — sore derriere aside.  I don’t know how many miles it was, but it was beautiful outside, overcast, the rain holding off for the late evening/early morning hours.  I truly felt the beginner’s mind on our trip, being very much in the moment.  You never forget how to ride a bike, but I got reacquainted with my gears.  I went on faith that the girls were okay behind me in the trailer.  At one point, they were sprayed with mud slung from my tire; a little while later they were almost asleep.  We got back an hour late, but we came home to a clean house, thanks to my dearest, and immediately submerged ourselves into a small dinner party.  The yummy dessert wine that concluded our feast was a testament to sweet enjoyment all around (I hope!).  I slept so well.

As if that weren’t enough to wrap up a most lovely weekend, we topped even that.

After church Sunday morning, we came home and prepared for another day outdoors.  We planned on rock climbing, but why not take the canoe on her maiden voyage (for our family, anyway).  My husband and I realized we can load the canoe on the van by ourselves (and get it off).  We also discovered what fun it is, even just on a lake, taking turns with the children.  But most fun for me was the time I got to take by myself.  Not only am I reading Twilight, but I am also premenstrual; truthfully, I could have been a recluse all weekend and have been just as content, though not nearly so healthy.  My dear girlfriends suggested I take my book out on the canoe and read in peace, not worrying about the children.  I wasn’t climbing anyway due, I supposed, to PMS lack of energy.  I took the canoe out.

“Where are you going, Mom?!” my 5-year-old shouted after me from the bank.

“I’m running away!” I shouted back with a laugh.  “Be back soon!”

I thought the “lake” seemed small, but it was enough to float in nicely in the late afternoon sun, reading a few more chapters.  The loudness of our children beckoned me back, their voices along with others along the wooded trail, reminding me of my responsibilities.  Come to find out, the lake is bigger; I just didn’t go around the bend.  There’s always next time.

Back home, we enjoyed yet another dinner together with our friends, finishing off the leftover soup, replenishing the sides.  Sleep found us quickly.

Labor Day, I did actually make myself do some work on the house that was showing signs of neglect, even after having been clean on Saturday.  Sunday night I even dreamed of mounds of laundry that were just a little to close to the real thing.  By the end of the day, the house looked and felt better, and I could settle in to read some more with good conscience.

The weather was beautiful all weekend, especially with the evening storms.  I appreciated feeling the muscles in my body.  I appreciated the rests I took.  I enjoyed the time spent away in books.

Mostly, though, I am grateful for the awareness, the time, the being, the relationships nurtured.  We should spend more weekends like this with even more of our family and friends.  Many thanks to all.

After a busy day, a fulfilling, worthwhile day, I truly love to get the kids to bed and kick back and relax.  Cue the DVD player, escape to another reality, and vicariously experience a range of emotions.  I consider it my down time, time when I don’t really have to think about anything.  I unplug from my life for a little bit, plugging instead into a different time and place.

Netflix has facilitated this down time for me, increasing my repetoire of movies viewed, some of which I wouldn’t have ever seen had it not been for their lovely search engines and categorizing.  I may not be able to watch their movies online (because I never got it to work), but I do have three movies at any given time to choose from.  This is helping me dwindle down our personal DVD collection, facilitating that clearing of “stuff” we don’t really need.  For that, I am grateful.

But then I began to feel like I needed to push movies through my que, like I needed to watch a movie a night to feel like I’m giving myself a break.  Truth be told, it is escapist, and not necessarily healthy in my opinion.  Occasionally, sure.  I love a good movie and always will.  I grew up loving John Hughes movies, watching them repeatedly.  Somehow other people’s lives, fictional Hollywood characters’ lives were and are more fascinating than mine.

So, I’m cancelling Netflix.  We’re getting rid of our big, old t.v.  It’s not a flat-screen or anything fancy, and it’s a family hand-me-down.  We’ll get the big entertainment cabinet out of the living room and re-use it for pottery or something.  Not to worry.  We have two computers and a laptop in the house.  We have video capabilities.  We have family with plenty of television/cable viewing opportunities.  We’ll just be encouraged to moderate the time in front of the screen.  Why not keep the t.v., movies, games, etc.?  Can’t you just moderate your time and keep the equipment?  We’ve been asked.

We have four kids.  We have hobbies.  We have precious few hours of time as a family.  And my “down time”?  If I seriously need down time, I need to unplug and stay unplugged.  Filling my mind with static doesn’t help anyone.  And there are books.  So many books I haven’t read; so many books I have yet to write.  There’s also good old-fashioned staring off into space.  I can just sit and look out the window, gaze at the stars or the trees.  In the silence, I can hear myself, allow myself to be still, and maybe, just maybe, realize how close God really is.  Why keep something around that we don’t even use?

My life is a far-cry from Hollywood, but each of us is given an amazing opportunity to find what is magical, what is truly Holy.  Two hours a day or night is a lot of  time to search for something, to discover something that has been there all along.  I would hate to miss it because I was too busy watching the screen.

Thanks, Netflix, for helping me discover what I knew was here all along — time to do everything that needs to be done.