With Thankful Hearts

Well, the boys were in great form this Thanksgiving. At our joint Thanksgiving Eve service with three other Episcopal churches, Ben made his acolyting debut as the incense “boat boy.” That’s him, obviously, standing next to me just before the start of the service.

He’s a natural up there — nice presence, respectful, into it. And while he’s eager to do this again, he also made it clear that when he’s older he’ll have other commitments on Sunday mornings since he’ll be an NFL running back. Fair enough. Hopefully he can hook me up with one of those sweet sideline chaplain gigs.

Zack also made a debut at the service — as an usher. He was disappointed that he wasn’t able to keep what he took in with the collection plates. But he rose to the occasion and did a great job. I admit I was very proud of both these kids who usually have a tough time sitting through a whole service. Children, like all of us, often just want to be needed and like nothing more than doing things that matter. A good reminder for me and a lesson for which I’m thankful.

To continue in the spirit of things, the boys and I helped serve at a community meal on Thanksgiving Day while Bryna cooked. And so it all came full circle: loving God through worship and loving our neighbor through service. Good stuff. And it made eating turkey and watching football together later that afternoon all the more special. 

Thanksgiving blessings to you all.

“Say Cheese!”

We tried to take the Christmas Card picture on Saturday. Total disaster. If one of the boys wasn’t making an “I hate this” face, the other was mugging for the camera like an overstimulated monkey. And on the exceedingly rare occasion that they both looked, if not happy, then at least not like Jeffrey Dalmer, Delilah ruined the shot by licking herself.

Mind you, we’re not out for perfection here. Those of you who have gotten our card in past years know this. But we do prefer the kids not be wailing on one another. It’s bad for that clergy family, “Angels we have heard on high” image we try to uphold.

Christmas cards are an interesting phenomenon. It’s great to connect with people you only hear from once a year. And we always send ours out not just to friends but the whole parish, along with the Advent & Christmas schedule. But there’s also something quite superficial about the whole charade, something that undermines the notion of authentic friendship. 

Because only the good news goes in. So you hear about the son that just got into Harvard and the daughter that won a ballet competition and the fabulous family vacation to Maui. But you don’t get anything about marital strife or job loss or their child’s bout with depression. Just once, I’d like to receive a Christmas card that would admit to the brokenness and need for healing right along with the proclamations of joys and celebration.

Perhaps the best Christmas card I ever saw was from a family we knew when I was growing up in Baltimore. It was from good friends who lived on a farm with their five children. On the cover they were pictured sitting at a table looking very serious. There was even a hen front and center being held by one of the kids. When you opened up the card, they were all still at the table but hands were up in the air, everyone was laughing, and feathers were flying everywhere.

That’s the reality for most of us; trying to put the best face on a whole lot of chaos. I think it’s okay to let the chaos shine through every once in awhile. Even around the holidays. Maybe we’ll even send out one of our ill-fated Christmas card attempts. But, if not, I’ll be dreading our next family photo shoot.

Partial Resurrection

I’m not sure if this is good theology or not, but I now believe in “partial resurrection.”

That i-Pod I dropped into the Pocantico River on my 40th birthday while letting Delilah get a drink following a six-mile run? On a whim I stuck it into my docking station last night and music started coming out. It was a miracle! Or at least a partial miracle because on closer inspection, nothing appeared on the screen. It lit up, but the screen was completely blank. On and on sang John Lee Hooker. Anonymously. Without attribution.

So now I’m a big believer in the Doctrine of Partial Resurrection. It may be heresy and I’d prefer if you didn’t mention this to my bishop. But the proof is in the i-Pod. I may get a monstrance for the thing and parade around with it for all to worship. Perhaps I’ll even charge per glimpse which would, of course, all go to a good cause: Father Tim’s New i-Pod Fund.

About Face

Perhaps it was inevitable. But I’ve finally given in to social (networking) pressure and joined Facebook. I’m a total hack right now, just figuring things out so if you’re one of my (23) “Friends” please bear with me.

I find that I’m only about five years late on any given technology. I started blogging a year ago this month, just got a Blackberry a few months ago, and joined Facebook on Saturday. Oh, and we only got basic cable a couple years ago — don’t even talk to me about DVRs and Tivo until after 2015.

The one thing I refuse to do is beg for friends. It just feels so virtually demeaning. And I also won’t relate my self worth to the number of friends I have. Of course that’s easy to say when you only have 23 friends.

One thing the whole Facebook thing does is water down the notion of “friendship.” I take the concept of friendship seriously — there’s a sense of loyalty and companionship that is truly a sacred covenant between two people. In my (face)book, that’s a divine gift. St. Aelred, the 12th century English monk, did a lot of writing on the notion of “spiritual friendship.” I love his statement that, “Though there can be love without friendship, friendship without love is impossible.”  I don’t think the founders of Facebook really had this in mind. So maybe the term “social networking” is much more appropriate in this regard.

Okay, I’ll get off my high horse now. I’m looking forward to just having fun with Facebook and connecting with people whether they’re mere acquaintances, people I knew a long time ago, or actual friends of mine.

And 23 is a pretty lame number so…please…friend me! I’m begging you!

Up-To-Date

I’m sitting at Kansas City International Airport on a rainy afternoon waiting for my flight to take off. I have a sneaking suspician it’ll be late since it hasn’t yet arrived at the gate and it’s due to leave in 30 minutes. I’ve spent the last two days here for an Episcopal Life Board of Governor’s meeting. In between a heavy dose of meetings I was able to get in a nice dose of barbecue at the famous Jack Stack Barbecue restaurant. I’m not sure if everything is up-to-date in Kansas City (certainly not my flight), but the BBQ is delicious.

Unfortunately the small bottle of barbecue sauce I had in my carry-on bag was confiscated by the TSA gestapo. Sorry, Bryna, I’ll be arriving home empty-handed. They did let me keep my tube of toothpaste after rifling unceremoniously through my bag so you’re welcome to that.

One of the reasons I’m carrying on my bag (aside from time-saving convenience) is because Midwest Express now charges $15 to check a bag. That’s the fee for the first one; the second is $25. I understand USAir is now charging $20 for a blanket/pillow combination. Of course you get to keep it which will certainly get you through a long, cold winter. Or at least your lap. In a climate controlled, pressurized environment. I’m almost used to the fact that many airlines charge for snacks and the formerly complementary soft drinks. But some airlines are even charging extra for window and aisle seats.

Stop nickel and diming us! I’m happy to chip in for things like, oh, jet fuel but what’s next? Charging a fee for the drop down mask in case there’s a drop in cabin pressure? A lavatory fee? A barf bag surcharge?

I realize I’m just cranky because my plane’s delayed and they confiscated my BBQ sauce. I’ll go ask for a discount at the ticket counter.

Conference Call

We had teacher conferences this week. Which meant half days and lots of play dates to keep the boys occupied. At least that’s what Bryna tells me. I was at the conferences but try to avoid being home during afternoon play dates. Yesterday I had to pick something up at the house and ended up getting sucked into pitching a wiffle ball for 20 minutes before I could get out of there again.

The conferences are always interesting. Whenever I go into the classroom, part of me reverts back to feeling like a 2nd or 4th grader. But a really tall one. You sit down at a table across from the teacher and jam yourself into one of those miniature chairs. It actually makes me feel like Gulliver. It’s always nice to hear that your kids are polite and respectful somewhere. It’s certainly not always the case at home. There’s undoubtedly something they can improve on — math facts or holding the pencil correctly. But it’s a relief to know they’re not biting other children or stapling their lips together.

Teaching is really an amazing calling. I’ve been so impressed with the boys’ teachers — they’re patient and kind, not arrogant, boastful or rude. (Wait, that’s something else — too many weddings this fall). But the passion and energy and commitment to the children is great. I also know I could never do it. A classroom full of 4th graders would eat me alive. Like sharks, they’d smell fear and chew me to pieces. So kudos to all the teachers out there — especially the ones who’ve survived fall conferences with pushy parents.

It’s amazing to think that as over-protective and over-involved as parents are these days in their children’s lives, there’s this huge hunk of the day where we have no idea what’s going on. The usual answer to the question, “How was school today?” is “Fine.” Oh. “What’d you do today?” “Nothing.” Most kids dole out the precious information their parents ask about school on a need to know basis. And we evidently need to know nothing. The CIA is less secretive about their activities in Nicaragua than Ben and Zack are about their elementary school goings-on.

I continue to pry and occasionally get a small nugget. The conferences help; once I’m finally able to get back out of that doll-house sized chair.

Farewell to Youth

Well, they “got” me on Sunday. It’s hard to let your 40th birthday slide quietly under the radar when a whole church-full of people sings you “Happy Birthday.” Ugh.

But the conspiracy did result in perhaps the greatest birthday cake in the history of 40-year-old birthday cakes. Parishioner Natalie Johnson, a professional cake creator, put together this incredible confection. The picture here doesn’t do it justice, though it does give the flavor (so to speak).

Yes, that’s me sliding helplessly into my own grave. Ben and Zack loved it. Though Zack took a little bit too much glee in decapitating me and gouging my eyes out. I never thought I had too much in common with John the Baptist but we’ve both seen our heads on platters.

The cake was a nice touch and I’m grateful for the good wishes. I even feel like I’ve been accepted into a new secret society of people over 40. I keep waiting to find out if there’s a special tattoo I’m supposed to be getting. But, then, tattoos on people over 40 never look good so hopefully that’s not part of this new fraternity of old people that I’ve been initiated into.

On the gift front, I wasn’t too sure what I wanted for my birthday — nothing usually comes to mind until a few months later and then by the time October rolls around, I’ve forgotten. But after a certain event on my birthday itself, now I know. Unfortunately it’s too late. You see, I went for a nice run with Delilah in Rockefeller State Park on the 30th. And afterwards I went down to the Pocantico River, which runs through the park, to let Delilah drink some water. And I dropped my i-Pod into the drink. Yup, it slipped out of my hands as I was resetting the stopwatch and plunged into the shallow water. I grabbed it quickly — it was only submerged for about 2 and a half seconds. But now it doesn’t work. You can send money designated for the Father Tim i-Pod Fund to…

Fortunately an old (and I mean that literally) college friend and his family came by for an intimate birthday dinner on Saturday night. He came bearing 40 beers with miniature bows adorning each one. That should take some of the sting out of the i-Pod fiasco.

Spooky Doings

I took the boys on a field trip this week to the cemetery around the Old Dutch Church in Sleepy Hollow. Living in the lower Hudson Valley means living in the Halloween capital of the world and so it just felt right to take advantage of this. We got there at 5:30 pm, just as the sun was setting figuring that would add to the spooky factor. Unbeknownst to me, the gates officially close at 4:30 so technically speaking we were breaking and entering.

But there we were lurking around the old gravestones as it got darker and darker. I picked them both up to peek inside the window of the church and then we started talking about the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

One of our family traditions is to read the story of the Headless Horseman the week before Halloween. And since it all took place right around the Old Dutch Church I thought it would give them a bit of context to walk the ground upon which the Horseman allegedly trod.

But I also had an ulterior motive: I wanted to link Halloween to All Saints’ Day. Because All Hallows Eve exists only because it’s the night before the great Feast of All Saints’. We mock death by wearing costumes because Christ has conquered death. And this often gets forgotten amid the sugar high.

So, I was able to get a bit of education in this year, between bites of Kit Kat bars and Twizzlers. It’s always a work in progress. For the record, Zack went as Jango Fett from Star Wars. Ben went as the Yankees’ Jason Giambi. Which, to this Orioles fan, was truly frightening.