Dog Fancying

Watching your beloved dog having a seizure is no fun. But that’s precisely what happened at our house yesterday afternoon. I was standing near Delilah on the driveway as she suddenly shot down and went into convulsions. It only lasted a few minutes but it felt like an hour as she stiffened up and thrashed about.

I tended to her as Bryna called the vet. I actually picked her up — no mean feat — and carried her to the back yard because she was uncontrollably banging her head on the pavement. She eventually came out of it as I sat with her and calmed her down. And then she was fine for the rest of the day — back to her usual self. We, however, were not fine for the rest of the day, which we spent observing her with shot nerves.

Bryna took Delilah to the vet today and everything looks normal. Some dogs evidently develop a form of epilepsy between the ages of two and five (she’s four). When and whether she has another seizure will determine the treatment plan. If it’s in six months to a year there’s no reason to put her on medication; if it’s relatively soon we’ll have to look into this.

We have friends who jokingly say that all their pets (and they have many) are Christian Scientists. In other words they refuse to pay boatloads of cash to the vet to extend the lives of their animals. Which sounds cruel until you get the bill from the vet for doggie chemo. But holding Delilah in my arms while she was convulsing made me want to do almost anything to keep her healthy and pain free. We probably won’t splurge on that pricey animal neurologist in Yonkers but when we know what we’re dealing with, it may involve an investment of sorts.

In the meantime, she’s by my side at the coffee shop as I take a break from crafting my sermon to write this. She’s as content as could be “gathering the crumbs from under thy table” (here’s an esoteric question: can dogs be in hog heaven?) and is being her usual charming, slightly stubborn self.

Hopefully yesterday was just some strange fluke. Because if she has another seizure, I just may go into convulsions myself.

Kitchen Karma

The most frightening place in any church is not the sub-basement. It’s not the rotting staircase leading to the bell tower. It’s not even that undercroft bathroom with the dated diaper changing table. It’s the parish kitchen. The place where you’ll find milk dating back to last Advent; the place where people reshelve lipstick-laden tea cups for next week’s coffee hour; the place where vermin feast on unswept up donut crumbs left over from the AA meeting.

The major problem with parish kitchens is that nobody ever feels empowered to throw anything out. Someone’s grandmother “graciously” donated a souflee dish (that was ugly, chipped, and one step from the garbage 50 years ago). But, since she was a pillar of the church, her ghost might forever haunt the culprit who decides to toss it. So there it sits collecting dust in the back of a cabinet.

Open any drawer and you’ll encounter both mismatched silverware, some containing forks with leftover bits of tuna casserole from the 1978 parish picnic, and an assortment of godforsaken utensils dating back to the Nixon administration. And there’s always a cabinet full of puke green clunky ashtrays. If you like to chain-smoke while making a cheese souflee with a rusty hand whisk this is your lucky day!

Last week a group of ladies, including Bryna, took matters into their own hands (and yellow rubber gloves). Six of them spent four hours scrubbing, throwing things out, and sanitizing our parish kitchen. Did I mention they threw things out? Bags and bags full of useless junk that no one will ever miss. They didn’t ask my opinion on anything and they didn’t want it. I wisely stayed clear of the proceedings.

By the time the whirlwind had passed through, the place was transformed. People were shocked and amazed. It looked like a place you could actually eat in without picking up the swine flu or whatver.

The next day, as I was leaving to do the early service on Sunday morning, Bryna lifted her head from the pillow and uttered a drowsy command: “Don’t mess up the kitchen.” I wouldn’t dare.

Clergy Haberdashery

I got another Almy catalog in the mail today and, as always, I’m fascinated by the models they use. On the male side, there are two type casts: the buff young curate and the smooth silver-haired rector. The young “priests” look like guys you’d want to go have a drink with at McSorley’s Pub but spiritual counseling? Not so much.

The women “clergy” either need an extreme makeover or are, well, hot. Which is kind of odd. It makes you wonder what other magazines and catalogs they model for? “Let’s see on Monday it’s the Almy shoot then Tuesday and Wednesday I’ll be doing Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

Facial expressions consist of either the cheesy coffee hour fake grin or a pseudo-pious, heavenward glance. And if you ever lay your hands on one of these (ask your priest — we get about one a week), check out the way both the men and women hold their hands — it’s hilarious. The overly pious hand clasp is a hoot. The only variation in the current issue is the strapping guy in the ugly striped clergy shirt with one hand in his pocket and the other on his belt buckle. What are you Father Fonzie? Aaay!

In all of these clergy catalogs the men’s clergy shirts, vestments, and assorted paraphernalia are in the front and the women’s section always feels like an afterthought on the back pages. It’s sad but true.

Well, I guess someone has to model these things. It would look even odder if they were all draped on mannequins. Yes, I know, you’ve heard some priests preach about as well as your average department store mannequin.

Perhaps I’ll start moonlighting as a J.Crew model in my spare time. Now that would look authentic.

Hard Choices

Because of the many little league rain-outs last week, Ben’s team played on Sunday morning at 9:00 am. We had to tell the coach that Ben would not be there because of church. Ben was not pleased.

After pitching a fit (no pun intended), which I mercifully missed because I was doing the early service, Ben got it together to acolyte at the 10:00 o’clock service. I talked to him briefly in the sacristy about priorities and disappointments and how being a Christian means sometimes making difficult choices. He told me it wasn’t a difficult choice at all — he would have chosen to play baseball.

During the service itself, the second reading to be specific, the famous Dodger southpaw Sandy Koufax popped into my head. No, my mind doesn’t always wander during the lessons. But in that instant, I knew I could help Ben see that even the greatest athletes on the planet sometimes must choose between faith and baseball.

That’s because in 1965 Koufax stunned the nation by refusing to pitch in Game One of the World Series for the Los Angeles Dodgers. That opening game against the Minnesota Twins fell on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement and one of the holiest days of the year.  Instead of pitching, Koufax attended synagogue in Minneapolis and fasted.

As the Dodgers’ ace, Koufax still pitched Games Two, Five, and Seven, throwing complete-game shutouts in Games Five and Seven and leading the Dodgers to the World Championship. And his decision — as well as his brilliance on the mound — remains a source of pride among American Jews.

I told the boys this story just before bed on Sunday night. I talked about Koufax’s brilliant and dominant pitching career (I left out the part about how he lost a bunch of money invested with Bernie Madoff). And how he took a righteous stand, showing that his religious beliefs were the most important thing in his life, even more important than the game of baseball. I asked Ben if he knew why I was sharing the story and he “got” it. Perhaps it won’t make the next time this happens any easier (thank you Briarcliff Little League). But in the long run I hope he’ll come to see that while he has a commitment to his team, by virtue of his baptism he has an even greater commitment to his God.

Horrible Marathon Photos…

…that I won’t be ordering.

Click on the link below to view thumbnails taken by the official Providence Marathon photographers. Click on the thumbnails to view larger versions and you’ll see why I’m taking a pass on these. The pictures with the orange cones show me sprinting toward the finish and are particularly unflattering. But, then, I guess it’s how you’d imagine I’d look after running 26.(nearly)2 miles. 

http://www.capstonephotostore.com/searchresult.php

And if this doesn’t work for you, click here and type in my Bib Number: 420. That’s racing bib, not because I drool while I run.

Rainy Season

Rain-outs are rough. Ben’s little league team has now been rained out three times in a row and the forecast for Friday’s game is bleak. Let’s just say he’s not taking it well. Especially because he didn’t have a game on the one nice day this week but, of course, his brother did. “It’s not fair!”

I can relate. I hated rain-outs when I was a kid because I was so passionate about playing baseball. Certainly more passionate about little league than practicing the piano. The great injustice of my 10-year-old world was that piano lessons never got rained out. And in those weeks when I knew I hadn’t practiced enough I would have done anythingto avoid the disapproving glare of Mrs. Gluck.

As the dark clouds started to appear on the horizon, I remember doing the anti-rain dance. This was similar to the snow dance, hoping school would get canceled, the major difference being that it was performed while wearing my Bulldozers uniform. And it rarely worked. And when it didn’t, when the rain clouds burst and drenched the field, I’d start to throw things — my hat, my glove, whatever I could find. My mother would then lecture me about not taking out my own personal disappointment on the rest of the family. She’d tell me it’s okay to be disappointed but that it wasn’t okay to take it out on people who had nothing to do with it. The precise lecture I had to give Ben yesterday.

We all have proverbial rain-outs in our lives. Things don’t always go according to plan; disappointments abound. And we want to throw our gloves and blame others or throw our hats and blame God. By doing so we open ourselves up to receiving that same lecture that I’ve both gotten and given.

I knew a priest who used to ask the following question when disappointments arose in life: “Is it my plan for God or God’s plan for me?” It’s an important reminder about perspective. Though I realize it doesn’t go over so well when all you want to do is get back out onto the little league diamond.

The Day After

I’m sore this morning. Grunting every time I descend another stair sore. Hobbling around like a 98-year-0ld man sore. And if experience holds I’ll be even sorer the day after the day after the marathon. Here’s a hilarious (and brief) video titled “The Day After the Marathon” which will give you a sense of how I’m feeling today.

Of course I’m not complaining — the aches and pains are reminders of a great day at the Providence Marathon. I ran the 26.2 miles in 4 hours, 9 minutes, and 59 seconds, shaving nearly 11 minutes off my previous best time, while averaging a 9:32 pace per mile.

Having only run marathons in major cities (Baltimore, Chicago, Boston) with thousands of other runners, this was a much more intimate experience (think 700 runners versus 30,000). Which has its advantages and disadvantages. Since we stayed at the host hotel, I was able to walk out my room 20 minutes before the race to get to the starting line. And on the other end Bryna, Ben, and Zack were able to watch me cross the finish line. Of course they all refused to hug me in my post-marathon state.

The real difference was in the crowd support. In Boston, the marathon is held every April on Patriots’ Day which, if you’ve ever lived in Beantown, is one giant party. There are literally people lined up on the course the entire way from the small towns at the start to the screaming women of Wellesley to the undergrads at Boston College urging you up Heartbreak Hill to Boyleston Street. If you feed off the energy of the crowds (and if you don’t, I’d need to check your pulse), it makes a big difference in those last few miles.

In Providence there were some folks at the beginning and some at the very end. In between it was pretty quiet — you’d see the occasional group holding up a ”Go Jen Go” sign or hear someone ringing a lonely cow bell. And at one point I heard someone yell to a friend “You go, girl!” — and I pretended they were rooting for me. But a smaller marathon really forces you inward, which can be a tough place to be when you begin to encounter (and hopefully overcome) The Wall.

One of the most rewarding things about the whole experience was raising over $2,100 for Episcopal Relief & Development. For me, raising money for charity while running a marathon adds a whole layer of meaning. It also allows me to use what is, in essence, a very self-focused activity to help others. And, not wanting to deny anyone the chance to donate, there’s still time! http://www.firstgiving.com/frtim. And if you already have givien to the cause, thank you — it means a tremendous amount to me and to those in extreme need throughout the world.

I’ll be hobbling around the next several days but it’s always worth it. As Lance Armstrong likes to say, “The pain is temporary; quitting lasts forever.”

Pig Plague Solutions

My friend, clergy colleague, blogger, and fellow Governor (Episcopal Life, Board of), the Rev. (Honorable) Scott Gunn has a solution to the Swine Flu hysteria sweeping our churches. You can read it here. You won’t want to miss this one — it involves Hazmat-inspired clerical vestments.

I’m not sure if Scott will wear one of these when we have dinner the night before I run this Sunday’s Providence Marathon (he’s a priest in Rhode Island).