The Sub

Bryna’s been substitute teaching again this fall. She’s put her search for a full-time guidance counselor position on hold. Partly because I have a crazy fall schedule with lots of travel, partly because the job market’s lousy, and partly because she enjoys the flexibility of working a couple of days a week while the boys are still young.

She also loves it and is good at it. Which is amazing since you hear so many horror stories about substitute teaching. I know one thing: they’d eat me alive. I’d be the sub the kids hog tie and lock in the supply closet only to be found the following Monday morning by the custodian.

The calls Bryna receives are all computerized. She has a code she punches in and then decides whether she’s interested in the job or not. Second grade? Sure. High School English? Fine. Middle School phys ed? Not so much. Sometimes the calls come the day or even the week before. This is the best scenario since Bryna can then plan her week around her jobs.

The problem with this system, known as Sub-Finder, is when it calls at 6 am and Bryna’s at the gym. I’ve dubbed it Husband-Waker-Upper. There’s some code I could use to tell H-W-U to stop calling. But when I’m unceremoniously woken out of a deep sleep I can never remember it. And then it continues to call back every 10 minutes until they find someone willing to take the job. Like this morning.

I shouldn’t complain too much since she is earning money. Maybe I’ll just write that code on my pillow.

624

624. That’s how many copies of my book have sold so far according to my publisher. Which explains why I haven’t seen it on the New York Times bestseller list. I checked on Sunday.

Part of me is depressed by the number: “That’s it?!” And part of me is amazed by the number: “624 people have read my drivel?!” But it’s also early in the game. The reviews are just starting to come in. And, despite what you’re thinking, my mother only bought 20 copies — not the 500 you guessed.

Sure it would be nice to sell a lot of copies. Not because I’ll get rich and retire early — I’m losing money on this deal. But because I believe strongly in the message of “God’s Shoes.” As I’ve told audiences, I wrote the book because I got tired of reading books on spirituality that assume you have three hours to wander around the woods each day and navel gaze. Unless you’re a monk (and who is?) this just isn’t happening. So we work with what we’ve got and seek God in the zaniness of everyday life. And laugh along the way.

In the meantime, go ahead. Make it 625. Click here for the Amazon link. It’ll be good for my ego to up the numbers!

Bronx Bombing

I can’t root for the boys’ little league team this fall. I’ll cheer for them as individuals, I’ll pull for their teammates, I’ll even yell “Go Team!” on occasion. But in their four-team league they play for the Yankees. And it is against my genetic makeup to ever, under any circumstances, cheer for the Yankees. I just can’t do it.

They could have been on the Angels, Cubs, or Mets. But of course they were both put on the Yankees. As if I needed two more Yankee hats and shirts in my life. When I look out on the field, I try to see a bunch of 7, 8, and 9 year-olds. But I just see the numbers and equate them with the storied Yankee history that, as a rabid Orioles fan, I abhor. Zack’s number 5 is Joe DiMaggio; Ben’s number 9 is Roger Maris. I see their teammates making plays in the field and I see Jeter and A-Rod. Or at least I wish Jeter and A-Rod were as error-prone.

The good news is that by the time their little league season has concluded, the 2008 Yankees will be mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. And that gives joy to my heart. I may even hold a party. Of course I’ll invite Ben and Zack, my Yankee-loving offspring, to be the guests of honor. They can even wear their Yankee garb.

High Anxiety

I had a “liturgy anxiety” dream the other night. I think most of us have similar dreams depending upon what we do – meeting deadlines, public speaking, whatever. I get them very rarely these days but I’m always amused at what the subconscious conjures up.

Usually such dreams – even now – take place at the first parish I served, Old St. Paul’s in Baltimore. This makes sense since everything back then was so new to me as I eased into my priestly ministry. These dreams used to almost always revolve around preparing for the service. Usually I’m late getting to church (which has actually never happened to me – yet) and I’m trying to get my vestments on. The organ has cranked up the intro to the processional hymn and I can’t find my alb or my shoes.

This week my dream involved the death of a parishioner – fortunately it wasn’t clear who it was. But as the service started, someone handed me the old 1928 Prayer Book and for the life of me I couldn’t locate the burial rite. I was flipping through pages and pages and just couldn’t find what I needed. Ugh. Everyone was staring at me and I was only put out of my misery by waking up.

My favorite liturgy anxiety dream of all time falls under the sermon anxiety subcategory. Usually such dreams go like this: I step into the pulpit and suddenly realize the text of my sermon is still in my office. I either start to speak yet can’t remember a single word of what I was going to say. Or I leave the pulpit to sprint back to my office while forgetting the way and getting lost in the process.

The best one? I get into the pulpit and am relieved to see my text sitting right where it should be. Unfortunately it’s written in black ink on black paper.

Music Fest

The boys have discovered iTunes. Only Ben has an iPod (because what 9-year-old doesn’t?) but they both have iTunes accounts on our family computer.

Zack is especially enamored with the whole concept. He knows exactly how many songs he has under “Zack’s Music” — 149 — and he’s always angling for more. Now, most of his songs have come from either my account or Bryna’s but he’s always hearing new songs and begging us to download them (at 99 cents a pop this adds up).

And while they’ve discovered iTunes, they haven’t discovered good taste in music. I came downstairs on Saturday morning to “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys. Which you can’t listen to at low volume — at least they can’t. I felt like I’d walked into Studio 54. Which is not a good place to be before you’ve had your cup of morning coffee.

Bryna checked the lyrics online before downloading this particular song for them (she shockingly chose the version without explicit lyrics). But it really didn’t matter since you can’t understand a word they’re saying. As Bryna likes to say “I fear their adolescence.”

There’s something about kids and music and autonomy. ITunes fits right into this. It’s their music reflecting their tastes and their preferences and no one else’s. Music becomes an extenstion of a child’s identity. Like snowflakes, no two iTunes accounts are alike. Unlike snowflakes, they can be gratingly loud and obnoxious.

Thumbs Up

I finally broke down and got a BlackBerry. So now I’ll be able to check my e-mail in the bathtub. I’m pretty sure I was the last 30 to 40-something male in Westchester County without one. And I admit it was nice to have something to do yesterday at Back to School Night while the principal droned on with the same speech I’ve heard for five years in a row (yes, I put it away when we actually got into the classroom).

I’m still getting used to it but I’m finding that my opposable thumbs come in handy. In another thousand years or so I think the human thumb will evolve to become the strongest muscle in the body but with a tiny tip. My thumbs are feeling pretty fat right now but it’s getting easier to manipulate. The phrase “he’s all thumbs” was a prophetic statement that would prefigure the frustration of Blackberry newbies.

I tell myself that having one of these will enhance my ministry and make me more accessible. Of course that’s also what I’m afraid of. I’m worried that I’ll become the very reason they’re referred to as “CrackBerries.” But I think Bryna will be a nice balance for me: she won’t let me sleep with it under my pillow so I can check my email whenever it vibrates in the middle of the night.

Hopefully I won’t end up like a friend of mine who’s a lawyer at a big firm in New York. He can “feel” his BlackBerry vibrating on his hip even when he doesn’t have it with him. Scary.

I’ll try to remember to turn it off on occasion. The beauty of the divine relationship with humanity is that we have access to God 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. In contrast there is absolutely no human being to whom we need access at the same capacity.

Gotta go — I’m vibrating.

Media Darling?

Here’sNice article about “God’s Shoes” in this morning’s Journal News by Gary Stern. Gary, the paper’s religion reporter, stopped by the rectory last week to chat about the book. He’s a great guy who is really good at his job — I’ve always been struck both by how well-researched and well-written his pieces are. Which is certainly not always the case in the newspaper business. Plus I always feel like we lead parallel lives: he also has a second and fourth grader at home. Oh, and he writes a killer blog on all things religious — one that’s quickly become a popular stop in faith circles. Here’s a recent post about our meeting.

Our paths first crossed when he came to All Saints’ to write about our U2charist. USAToday took note (the Journal Newsis a Gannett paper) and asked him to write an expanded piece on the phenomenon. This is what led to the segmenton ABC’s Nightline.

The boys were disappointed that their picture wasn’t in the paper — Zack actually went down the driveway to get it the last few mornings. But a few shots of the three of us ended up on the online gallery. And Gary even alluded to Ben’s favorite thing about church: Coffee Hour.

Slip Slidin’ Away

Labor Day began with a thud. Literally. I got up at 5:30 in the morning and proceded to slip feet first down the stairs. Ouch — I broke most of my fall with my right elbow. Luckily that didn’t translate into a broken elbow, just a very sore and bruised one.

Bryna, of course, rushed to see if I was still alive. It really did make a horrible sound. The line from “Twas the Night Before Christmas” popped into my head: ”When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.” Before I knew it she had the ice pack out for my elbow.

Fortunately my great fall didn’t wake up the boys.  Not practicing what you preach is a lousy quality in a preacher. And how many times have I yelled at them to “Stop running on the stairs with socks on!” Not that I was running — I was barely awake.  

So what was I doing getting up so early on Labor Day anyway? Good question. I thought it would be a good idea to celebrate resting from my labors by running the New Haven 20K (12.4 mile) road race. For a split second I considered just going back to bed but since I was up — well, still sitting on the bottom step — I figured I’d just stick to the plan. Plus what better way to ignore the pain of long distance running than focusing on some other body part that hurts?

It wasn’t my best race but considering the circumstances, it wasn’t so bad. Next time I think I’ll just keep the shoes and socks at the bottom of the stairs.