(Source: mishalmoorebloggyblog, via sabergilbert)
Further proof that the boy and Eddie K have been buddies since before they realized that they were buddies: today’s installment of Flashback Friday (inspired by designing daddy’s post) shows the boy and his fellow adoptees in a class photo a few days before we headed back to the States. The boy is seated second from the left (wearing a green shirt) and Eddie K is seated smack dab in the middle (wearing a blue shirt). It’s amazing how much the boys have grown and changed in five short years, but at the same time, their faces are still so recognizable from when they were babies.
In early March, I was on my way up Lexington Avenue in New York City on route to meet my friend’s 22 year old daughter who was in need of an objective, yet compassionate ear. My express train landed me on the Upper East side earlier than planned. I didn’t want to tweet or eat, I just wanted to get off my feet and be still for a few minutes. As I looked around, I found myself gazing up at a beautiful Catholic Church. I quickly climbed up the stone steps, gripped the circular metal handle and pulled open the massive door. From the corner of my eye, I saw a security guard behind an old desk. I spotted the altar in the distance and as I headed inside, I thought I heard the guard say “Miss you don’t belong in there!” He was probably right, but I marched inside towards the rows of wooden pews anyway. There was one woman kneeling in the church. I sat two rows behind her and her Bergdorf bag.
I gently pulled the knee rest down and knelt into a Catholic pose called genuflection for reflection Staring straight ahead I could see the carved frescoes and the spiral staircase leading to the pulpit. My eyes searched for him and as I tipped my head towards the ceiling I spotted the holiest of Martyrs nailed to the cross. This is when I usually chastise myself for being a bad Catholic who only attends Mass on the holiest of holidays, weddings, funerals and baptisms.
I didn’t always berate myself for poor attendance. For three years while in high school, I taught Catechism at my local church. My religious attire was a field Hockey uniform because the nuns scheduled the class after my games and practices. There was a path in the woods that led from my public school to the parking lot of the church. I don’t know if my 4th and 5th graders took me seriously, but they asked alot of questions.
”Jackie, why can’t you covet a neighbors wife?” ” Jackie, do you know anyone that covets?”(that answer is for the short sequel) “Am I going to hell, cuz I’ve stolen lots of stuff?” “If Jesus is God’s only son who is God’s Father?” I don’t remember what I told these young, impressionable children, but it prompted me to begin my own religious research. It was a Talmudic study, with a Catholic spin.
My Father, a Eucharistic Minister, passionately fond of the chalice, seemed a reasonable resource for information regarding the Ten Commandments and the Sacraments. I would tell him how confused many of my students were about the Holy Trinity and Original sin. You know, those accessible theological concepts. Dad instructed me to tell the children that “by dying on the cross and by his holy ressurrection the Lord set us free”. Thanks, that’ll do the trick. Then he added, “Just make sure you have them memorize every commandment. If they don’t know all the prayers and sacraments they can’t be confirmed.” Hey, I was confirmed, but I had no inner feeling of confirmation or freedom?
I invited my class to attend a 9:00 am Mass in a small church located in a less than ritzy side of our town. I was a singer in the folk group along with a beautiful red-head and Sister Margareet Mary, both severely tone-deaf. Our guitar players were a brother and sister duet, with John Turturro hairstyles and more inside jokes than 30 Rock. Now that I think about it, they were probably laughing outloud at how horrific sounding our ensemble was. It was. As I bit the insides of my mouth, Sister no tone and the Screecher harmonized to Our Father and Amazing Grace. It was impossible to drown them out, but I really tried.
My entire class showed up for the morning Mass. The only two people that didn’t show was Sister Margareet Mary and her side kick. With Tony and Tennille missing, I was solo! Hallelujah! I followed the dynamic guitar duo down to the basement of the church for a quick run through. For the first time in two years, they weren’t laughing. They played their little guitars and smiled during Mass. My family was seated in the front row and my Mother sang louder than anyone in the congregation. Even my students sang along and genuinely listened to the little visiting Priest from Chile. That day they witnessed their Teacher engaged in something she loved. We celebrated together.
My personal faith has certainly deepened over the last 20 years, as well as my understanding of the intrinsic need for a place to sit, to pray, to sing and be still with all our questions that may not have answers. I may not be the Poster girl for the Vatican, but my relationship with God is more intimate and free. Like my students, I am still inquisitive but now, the path is my prayer. Though I still find comfort inside churches, where I light a candle and say a little prayer, I also believe as Lao Tzu wisely shared that “at the center of your being you have the answer; you know who are and you know what you want.”
(Source: messagewithabottle)
[video]
Go Girls!!
(via xhigher-love)
I had just dumped a pile of clean, warm laundry onto my bed and turned on my folding companion, The Desperate Housewives. It was the episode where Susan (Terri Hatcher’s character) was molested by an 80 year old newly engaged neighbor on her front porch. After planting a big wet kiss on her lips, he growled “that’s the stuff”. Susan tells her husband of the incident and he laughs and says “it was just a kiss”.
Just a kiss! Summer of 1995, my husband and I rented a modest beach house in Fire Island across the street from the ocean. It was the perfect place for our three year old daughter. The community was small, microscopic in fact. I was watched, talked about and black balled within the first week. My out-going friendly nature attracted the wrong neighbor. We were invited to a cocktail party on our first weekend by an older couple, with grown children. They wanted to know if we played tennis and whether we were considering buying realestate in FireIsland. Being lowly renters, the community needed to explore our real intentions for sharing their ocean and ferry transport. This was our fourth summer renting in Fire Island. We rented in FairHarbor, Saltaire and this was our second Summer in Dunewood. Upon leaving the party, the host insisted that we play doubles Monday morning. I would be his partner.
My husband left on the 6:00 pm Sunday ferry. My daughter and I shouted goodbye till we couldn’t see him waiving back. On our walk back to our humble shack, we ran into my silver fox tennis partner. He gave me an uncomfortably long hug and reminded me of our 9:30 am game. I didn’t like him.
Next morning my daughter was eating cheerios and watching Ninja turtles and I was drinking a cup of coffee and reading the Times. I heard a knock at the screen door, I looked up and Mr. Wimbledon stood smiling with racket in hand. I got up to open the door and he whispered “Don’t be late” and then leaned into my face, pressing his lips and tongue into my mouth and quickly sashayed away. I stood motionless on my front porch and looked over at my daughter who was still entranced by overactive turtles. I called my sitter and told her to come over right away. I aggressively applied my sunscreen, kissed my daughter goodbye and grabbed my balls. I told the girls I’d meet them at the Bay beach in an hour.
When I arrived on the court, sponge lips blew me an air kiss. I shook hands with the two opponents and crossed the court to have a word with my partner. I looked him in the eyes and said, “you are a deviant, and after this game I will no longer have anything to do with you, come near me again and everyone in Dunewood will know about your atrocious behavior.” We played the set and won and did not exchange one word to each other. I told my husband what had happened, he confronted him on the beach in front of his wife. That’s when we were informed of his pacemaker.
