Kitchen Chaos

The crew came in to demo the rectory kitchen today. And it’s a marked improvement to what was in its place. Plus there’s nothing like adding a kitchen renovation to your sabbatical. I highly recommend this to any clergy out there seeking to have a renewing, peaceful, and prayerful sabbatical experience.

While the timing’s not great, it was long overdue. Like most rectory kitchens (and a lot of churches in general), ours was pieced together on the cheap. It’s understandable as we’re all on shoe string budgets. Church “improvements” are often done by well-meaning but unskilled parishioners. The problem, of course, is that this sort of short-sighted planning always comes back to haunt future budgets.

Our current kitchen was evidently put in about 14 years ago by the husband of a former rector. And it showed. Though I admit the time I opened a drawer and the entire facing came off in my hand made me feel quite manly. I flexed and grunted while Bryna just rolled her eyes.

In the meantime we’re all holed up in the dining room along with a slew of boxes, the kitchen table, a microwave, hotpot, and the refrigerator. Oh, and obviously the coffee maker. The only sink is in the upstairs bathroom and the washer and dryer have been disconnected. The boys like the adventure – it feels like camping. The dog’s merely confused. We’ll see how everyone feels after six weeks of this.

St. Mattress

One of the disconcerting things about being on sabbatical is not going to your own church on Sunday mornings. While it’s refreshing to “be fed rather than to feed,” this may take some getting used to. It was strange to hear the bells ringing for the 8:00 o’clock service from the comfort of my own bed. Strange but nice.

This is one area of my sabbatical that very much impacts the family. Bryna’s glad not to be a single-parent on Sunday morning but she’s not a big fan of going to new churches every week. We did this together for the first two years of seminary and she got sick of it. People would see a young couple wander in and virtually attack us. “Where you from? Are you looking for a church? Join the Altar Guild!” We were treated like rock stars. But only until they found out I was just a visiting seminarian; then they’d drop us like a bad transmission. Sometimes Bryna would stay and worship at “St. Mattress” while I’d trot off to an early service by myself.

Part of the challenge clergy face when attending other churches is the need to over-analyze the liturgy. It’s a professional hazard. So you find yourself critiquing the sermon rather than letting it speak to you; being distracted by the poorly trained acolytes, questioning the choice of hymns, and getting steamed about the typos in the bulletin. I leave the Coffee Hour critique to the rest of the family.

While the boys were annoyed that they couldn’t go to their own church on Sunday (I’ve never seen them so passionate about going to All Saints’!), they did very well on Sunday. This was much to Bryna’s relief and annoyance since they often don’t well with her in the pews. My saying, “I don’t know what the big deal is” didn’t help. But I recognize it’s tough for them — they’re too comfortable at All Saints’, Dad’s up there but not accessible, and the anticipation of our rockin’ Coffee Hour is tantalizingly palpable.

Oh, and the four of us were treated like royalty. At least until I was forced to admit I was a priest on sabbatical. 

“Zackvent”

We’re on the Birthday Watch these days. Zack’s in countdown mode for February 15th when he turns seven. He’s so focused on the date, I feel like I should create his own personal Advent calendar. Because we do seem to mark the season of “Zackvent” that precedes the big day.

Yesterday he designed his cake. He handed Bryna an ornate drawing with seven layers (to mark the years of course) — all with different colored frosting. Then he announced, “Have Carvel make this.” Oh, and since it’s a Godzilla party there’s a fire-breathing monster on top. I’m imagining the blank look from the teenager behind the counter. “Can I interest you in a Fudgie the Whale?” Uh, no. Unless you can make flames come flying out of his mouth with a can of Sterno.

Zack’s a bit touchy about the fact that his birthday is one day after Valentine’s Day. I think this is where the Godzilla theme comes in; it’s the anti-love fest. I joke with him about getting a pink cake with a big red-frosted heart on top. He’s not amused.

So, “Zackvent” continues. At least we’re not subjected to annoying “Zackmas” carols in the mall. 

Bearded Gravitas

Like Conan O’Brien and David Letterman before me, I’m growing a strike beard. Okay, it’s a sabbatical beard but it’s the same concept. I just started a ten-week sabbatical and as I struggle to live into it — the early days have felt like parish ministry detox — I decided to stop shaving. I’m just tired of it; the same routine every day. Now this probably won’t last very long since Bryna thinks it looks ridiculous. And when it comes to facial hair, your wife is the final judge and arbiter.

But it’s day five and it lives. Who cares if it doesn’t connect on one side where the mustache and beard should meet? So I couldn’t grow a fu manchu. I think my new look gives me a certain rugged gravitas that I’ve been lacking. You might think I look like Crockett — or was it Tubbs? — from Miami Vice. But I’m pretty sure people pay a bit more attention to me now when I speak. Or they just may be staring at me wondering about that odd growth on my face.

But as I hang out in my favorite coffee shop putting the last few edits on my manuscript, I feel like a writer. Sure Hemingway had a fuller beard. But give me time — I’m just hoping to make it a whole week.

Yackety Yak

Back to the land of the living after being stricken with the flu this week. I’ll spare you the details but it wasn’t pretty. The worst was doing a funeral at 11 am the day after puking my guts out all night. Okay, I didn’t spare all the details. Got through it on sheer adrenaline.

Just when the worst of it was over, Bryna got it. So much for being coddled for a couple of days. The most difficult thing about being a parent is being a parent when you’re sick. Kids just don’t understand that when you’re subsisting on Fritos and Gatorade and barely able to walk down the stairs, the thought of making them mac ‘n cheese is nauseating.

It’s bad enough when I’m sick but when Momma’s hurting, the whole house falls apart. It didn’t help that I was only at about 50% when I was trying to do everything around the house by myself. Even at 100% I’m about 50% as effective as Bryna. So, do the math.  Okay, I’m not sure what that means but basically it took me all night to get the kids to bed, make school lunches, pick up a few toys, and do the dinner dishes. A multi-tasker I’m not.

But we’re all back to normal now. Somehow the kids skated by unscathed. And I’m left wondering why exactly I had that flu shot in the fall? 

Lego Church

Perhaps it was inevitable but it has arrived – the Lego Church. Check out the photos here: http://www.amyhughes.org/lego/church/photosfirst.html

We make a lot of things with Legos at our house. But certainly not churches. The closest thing to a worship space might be a fort. And what the boys build up, they like to destroy. I can’t imagine what they’d do to the Lego Church! But Ben and Zack’s efforts mostly go into things like alien spaceships and military vehicles. Basically anything that shoots. We’d make lousy Quakers.

It doesn’t help that we’re a well-armed household. Swords, light sabers, water pistols; our den houses a veritable plastic armory. But even if we tried harder to limit the miniature military-industrial complex that blossoms in our home, I doubt we’d have much success. The boys are, well, boys. And even if you took away every weapon, tossed out the army men, and trashed the ninja costumes, they’d always go outside and find a stick. So while we try to limit their exposure to violent images, there’s just something innate about boys wanting to play war games. 

And I’m okay with that. I did the same thing when I was a kid and as an adult I have no desire to blow things up. Perhaps my stint in the Army as a tank platoon leader got it out of my system.

So, enjoy the Lego Church. And know that if it was at our house, the Hulk would come crashing through the narthex.

Books Gone Wild

Bryna’s at her book club tonight. Which simply means she’s hanging out with a bunch of friends, eating well, and drinking white wine. I assume they discuss the book in between sips of chardonnay, but I have my doubts. The male equivalent of the book club is watching Monday Night Football at the local bar. The only reading involved is the appetizer menu and discussion revolves around whether to order the spicy wings or the mozzarella sticks. So basically it’s the same thing.

In contrast to Bryna’s evening, I had a frozen tamale and a glass of water for dinner and then spent the rest of my time trying to wrestle the kids to bed. Zack must be growing since he simply wouldn’t stop eating! A hamburger, applesauce, raspberries, cereal, two peanut butter sandwiches, an oatmeal cookie, and a final bowl of cereal in the two hours before bed time. And he’s the skinniest kid you ever met. I can’t imagine our grocery bills when they’re teenagers; perhaps I should invest in a cow to save money on milk. And Ben was just being sassy all evening before finally settling down to read.

But I’m not complaining. I spent much of the late afternoon at the hospital with the family of a woman who’s dying of cancer. She’s not long for this world and I’d be surprised if she makes it through the night. And it’s times like this that I especially relish the life-giving chaos of our household.

Grill Master

Bryna sent me out to grill hamburgers tonight. I don’t mind grilling; like most red-blooded and red meat-loving American men I cut a dashing figure holding a set of tongs.  I’m just not that good at it. Especially when it’s dark. That’s the thing about winter grilling, you can’t see a thing. Which adds a certain degree of difficulty for the grilling challenged. So I was out there tonight with a flashlight trying to cook the perfect burger using the braille method. It wasn’t pretty. On the plus side, no one at our house was picking up salmonella poisoning. Unfortunately we basically ate shoe leather on a bun. 

Whenever we invite friends over for a barbecue, I graciously and confidently ask how they like their burgers. “Rare? Medium well? Burnt to a crisp?” But it doesn’t really matter what they tell me. They get it the way it comes off the grill. Let me take this opportunity to apologize to all of my past and future guests. Why don’t we just order in Thai next time?

I do own a copy of The Barbecue Bible which I consult from time to time. Though it’s more intimidating than anything else. If I can’t pronounce the name of the sauce, what makes you think I’d be able to grill the mahi mahi correctly? The best thing about The Barbecue Bible is its name. I love any book with “Bible” in the title: The Cake Bible, The Bible of Makeup Application (no, I don’t own this), The Fisherman’s Bible, etc. If I ever wrote a commentary on the Bible I’d call it the Bible Bible. But I’m babbling.

‘Tis No Longer the Season

Is there anything more depressing than de-trimming a Christmas Tree? No one ever wants to do this job. Obviously the boys are nowhere to be seen but even our dog Delilah makes herself scarce. As yuletide traditionalists, we usually keep ours up through Epiphany (January 6th). This year it was unceremoniously stripped and hauled down the driveway on New Year’s Day. Where it remains waiting to be picked up by the town. ”O Christmas Tree,” O the indignity. It wasn’t my idea to take it down early – I like to keep it up until Epiphany even if every single needle has fallen off. Partly to make a seasonal point but mostly to procrastinate. But with an upcoming kitchen renovation at the rectory, Bryna is, shall we say, “in the zone.”

So I spent the first day of the New Year wrestling the tree out of the stand, spewing needles all over the place (note to self: haul it out top first next year), and getting covered with sap which I’m still trying to get off my hands (another note to self: use gloves next year). The boxes of ornaments are sitting in front of the attic door; Bryna’s not so subtle hint. Maybe I’ll wait and take them upstairs on Epiphany, just to make a passive aggressive point.   

Back to Reality

The kids are back in school today. And, yes, that’s a good thing for everyone involved. The first day back from vacation is tough on everybody. Actually it’s not the first day back so much as it is the night before. Combining back-to-school anxiety with bath night, the regular bedtime (which got away from us during the break), and no more Wii (the big family Christmas gift) after dinner, is like trying to lasso an eel. Okay, that’s a horrible analogy. But you get the point.

This morning went fine. I think. Or at least it seemed to be moving along in good order before I had to leave 20 minutes before the bus was due. Sorry Bryna. For us things are relatively calm in the morning until the last two minutes before the boys need to go down the driveway to catch the bus. That’s the precise moment when they finally consent to eat breakfast, get socks on, finish their homework, brush their teeth, whine about having to go to school, decide they don’t like the shirt they’re wearing, fight with their brother, and go to the bathroom.  And this all happens in the tiny mudroom near the back door with the dog barking in the middle of it all. It’s no wonder I’m ready for a drink by the time that yellow bus pulls away. 

So back to the regular routine. That is, if you can call it either “regular” or “routine.”