Life as a Personal Aide

Earlier this week -- like yesterday -- I had a conversation about home health aides with a friend who has recently entered this crazy system of so-called care.

This, in turn, prompted me to think about how I've been going about this aide thing all wrong. You do know that a huge part of my life (that I cannot imagine being without) involves assisting Ruth, aka Wheelie Catholic, right? I've written about this before.

I might start writing more about this because we have so many noteworthy adventures. For example, I recently had to explain how to get much-needed wheelchair parts more quickly. The parts, I was told by the vendor, were coming from "all the way across the country." I suggested the dealer might be commanded to use an overnight delivery service.

Okay, so maybe I'm a genius when it comes to using the phone but what about my onsite performance? After a bit of research into what other aides accomplish, I decided to discuss my key concerns with Ruth. In addition to being the Boss of Me, she has a lot more experience in these matters.

"I love the kitty apron but I think I should be wearing a uniform."

"One of those smocky things? You didn't want one."

"No, I just didn't want one with bunnies or puppies. I wanted one with cats."

"What else?"

"Well, I think I should probably be more like other aides and watch TV while you struggle to eat something in the kitchen."

"You're forgetting to demand gas money and that I order in an entire pizza for you."

"Oh, okay. Could I get anchovies with that?"

An Author's Life: Author's Copies (IV)

And then, dear readers, comes the great and glorious day when the sound of the doorbell is followed the thud of a box of books landing on the front stoop. Author's copies! I negotiated for 20. They arrived earlier this week.

Believe it or not, the carton sat unopened in my home office for a few hours. I was busy earning my mortgage payment and their cat food. I also wanted to sacralize the event. No unceremonious slicing through packing tape for me.

I pray many types of prayers during the course of writing a book. The arrival of a newly published one calls for prayers of thanksgiving -- for the gift of being able to write, the blessed support of friends, and the wise counsel of "first readers." With this book I also thanked God and St. Michael the Archangel that the production team didn't hire a thug to stem the riptide of my unrelenting input during the design process.

So I said my prayers and took a few deep breaths while removing packing material. And then, I held a printed copy of The Word Made Fresh. Pretty thrilling. Also a bit scary, but that's an entirely different post.

Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

A Gal and Her Risen Lord, Thanks Be to God...

The Gehakte Leber Test

Anyone who knows about me and my work knows I'm fascinated by how people accommodate multiple identities, especially when cultural identity has become tied to religious identity. Many assimilated American Jews, for example, tend to consider their Judaism a cultural identity having nothing to do with religious observance.

For the past couple of days I've been fixated on this quote from a recent Christian Science Monitor article, "More Blacks Explore Judaism." This from a black woman who had been raised as a Baptist in the South:

"It's odd to see black people convert to Judaism, and even Jewish people look at me strangely, I'm not going to lie," says Ms. Chaim "But once everybody sees that I can recite the prayers in Hebrew, their attitudes change."

Hey, I may in full communion with the Roman Catholic church but I still have the chutzpah to shrug and say, "Prayers in Hebrew? Big deal. What happens when they try her chopped liver?"

The Joys of Adult Conversion

Embracing Catholic Christianity as a sentient adult has its blessings. Currently topping my list is the blessing of not having been raised Catholic and therefore unable to do anything liturgical by rote. For me, liturgy is not at all what the symbolic interactionists would call a "world-taken-for-granted." [Note to self: spend some time thinking about how to reconcile prior training in and affection for this phenomenological approach with B16's teachings about the perils of moral relativism.] Okay, back to the Earth plane.

I, for one, could not lip-sync the Mass, although I can recite most key congregational speaking parts in a heartfelt way. I'm not too proud to admit being at a near total loss when expected to proclaim anything other than A or B options for the mystery of faith. Anyone standing near by might wonder if I'm saying, "WhenweeatthisbreadandhumunahhumahJesusblahblahglory." Not to worry all you Cradle Catholics, I'm determined to learn C and D long before it's time for my own funeral Mass.

So can you imagine what happens when I'm asked to be an Altar Server?

Sometimes this happens when I show up to read for the noon Mass. And if you think it's a young priest who invites me to serve him as he serves us, you'd be wrong. I'm granted this privilege by a man who really is old enough to be my father.

I do not take this privilege for granted. I cannot do it by rote. I always think I've messed up something sacred and he always kindly tells me I've done "fine job." I always say, "thank you, Father" and mean it. I also resist adding that I'd probably do an even finer job if I were wearing an alb and a huge pectoral cross and was eight years old.

The Summer of Saintpaul Continued

Absolved

Condemned

The Buddy System

Someone please tell me when it became either appropriate or effective for parents to call their young sons, "Buddy." From The Hermitage I hear this going on all day and double on weekends when Dads are home. Who, pray tell, is in charge?

To make matters worse, I hear cautions, commands, and even threats of punishment ending with the COP (Chief Operating Parent) asking, "okay?" As in, "Don't cross the street, Buddy, okay?" or "I told you to stop hitting him, Buddy, okay?" or "Okay, Buddy, you've earned a time out, okay?"

I live in a condo community populated by young families. When I first moved here twelve years ago it wasn't, but I've adjusted. In fact, I sometimes I view this Suburban Captivity as penance for certain things I wish I hadn't advocated during my Gotham-based '70s. And I like how the young moms perk up whenever I tell them how I think they're doing a great thing by staying home with their kids. They usually snap out of their exhaustion fog in that moment to say, "You do?"

Yes, I do.

But I don't think they're doing such a great thing by calling their sons "Buddy" and asking both sons and daughters for permission to assert parental authority. Imagine the voice from heaven saying, "This is my Buddy, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased." Compelling? Authoritative in the best possible sense of the word? I think not.

And I'm not a fan of casting Jesus as Buddy to make him more believer- friendly. I prefer the Jesus as Lord version. Oh dear God, I seem to be turning into Mrs. McClusky from Desperate Housewives.

Image snagged from: Jesus of the Week.

JOTTing right along...

Using voice activation technology, JOTT transforms spoken content into emails and text messages, will generate a list and organize appointments. It's free and does indeed "get simple back" as promised by the company's tag line. I've been using Jott for several weeks and love its convenience and ease-of-use.

But I did not anticipate how getting email from me to me would tap into memories of years in the personal growth and self-discovery industry. Specifically, I've been reminded of the quasi-spiritual practice that involved writing affirming love letters -- to self.

This exercise was usually assigned to participants of self-esteem programs -- after they'd learned the difference between kombu and wakame as well as negative and positive self-talk. The handwritten letter was supposed to be from Self to self. It was usually composed in a mediative state induced by the scent of Nag Champa and the taped sounds of distant wind chimes and pan-flutes.

At the end of the session, letters would be stamped with reverence and sent on a journey through the U.S. postal system. As a result, they'd arrive long after participants had returned to their esteem-depleting and soul-sucking lives. Theoretically, receiving a letter from Self would remind recipients of lessons learned, at least more tenderly than the retreat center's Visa charges. I both wrote and, as a program assistant, handed out hankies and postage for these things.

My last such letter was written and posted on November 15, 1995 while I was working my way through The Artist's Way. I found it tucked in my well worn copy of that book. (Looks like first class postage was once 32 cents.) And having reread the thing, I see that many of my hopes and dreams have come to pass. Very affirming. Thanks be to God.

So now it's the 21st century and I spend most of my time online. I use Jott. Get where I'm going with this?

Catholic Karaoke

Having arrived at the 12:10 Mass as the opening antiphon is ending, I slide into the nearest pew instead of scanning the church. I'll have more to say about church seating maneuvers in another post. This post is about the octogenarian seated in front of me. Feature this: The senior citizen seated in front of me is lip-syncing the entire liturgy.

I notice this especially after the Liturgy of the Word is completed and the Liturgy of the Eucharist begins. Yep, no doubt about it. She is not praying the Rosary. She is lip-syncing the entire liturgy. Entire. Liturgy. All the words. In order. Along with the septuagenarian priest.

Try as I might, I cannot place my thoughts elsewhere. I think, "Good thing you're not getting captured on hidden video in the Archdiocese of St. Louis."

So at this point during Mass, as is often the case for many Catholics except I write about it, I'm struggling to pay attention. But hey, at least I am not getting all distracted by screaming infants. No, I am getting all distracted by thoughts about Church history, in part because I'm currently reading Women in Christianity by Hans Küng. I figure I'll get back in line -- so to speak -- when it's time to receive Communion.

It's time to receive Communion. I go up. She stays put and I think, "Wow! Are you excommunicating yourself for lip-syncing the consecration?" I'm dying to ask her -- an idiom I don't at all mind using given my belief in the Risen Lord. Instead, I decide to mind my own beeswax, especially on this feast day for the patron saint of beekeepers.

After the dismissal (which she lip-syncs) she turns to me and asks, "Why weren't you the lector today?" I tell her I wasn't on the schedule and ask, "Why didn't you receive Communion?" She tells me why. By now our hands are clasped together. Christ is present. I decide not to ask her about the Catholic karaoke thing...just yet.

Feast Day of St. Benedict of Nursia -- July 11

Although it's highly unlikely I'd last longer than one cycle of the LOTH before getting booted out of a Benedictine monastery, I'm a fan of The Rule of St. Benedict.

I'm such a fan of its durable wisdom that during the ashram years I bought copies of McQuiston's contemporary interpretation of The Rule for everyone on the senior management team there. Hot flash: Like the Church, ashrams have senior management that, like the Church, only a bold few refer to as such. (See: Ch. 5 of The Rule for reasons why I wouldn't last longer than one cycle of the LOTH.)

What I love is the wise way St. Benedict integrates and balances prayer, work, and service into daily life. I love the core ethic that, "All who arrive as guests are to be welcomed like Christ..." (Ch. 53:1)

What I do not love in The Rule includes these lines from "The Tools of Good Works":

• Not to utter words that are foolish and provoke laughter. (Ch. 4:53)
• Not to love much or unrestrained laughter. (Ch. 4:54)

Was he kidding?

Also not keen on St. Benedict's views about sleeping arrangements (Ch. 22) or disciplinary measures (Ch. 23-26, 28, 30) which explains, in part, why I'm drawn to hermitic rather than monastic life. Still, this hasn't stopped me from treasuring personal retreats at Holy Cross Monastery.

I Confess

I was given two "Our Fathers" and two "Hail Marys" for penance earlier today. That's right, I went to Confession today on sort of my own volition. I say "sort of" because it wasn't a Saturday afternoon, Lent is long over and it's not even close to Advent.

But something in the homily during today's noon Mass inspired me to ask the (visiting) priest if he had time to hear my Confession, so according to my calculations:

Something + Sort Of = Holy Spirit

At some point, I'll probably write about my latest Confession. It was interesting in the way it always is when I let the Holy Spirit call me to reconciliation. Right now I'm fixated on whether there's a statute of limitations on completing this penance.

Was I supposed to say these prayers before leaving church and driving over to DSW Shoe Warehouse where I finally found canvas Keds sneakers in my size? Was I supposed to complete them before watching episodes five through eight from the third season of "Desperate Housewives" while scarfing down sugar free chocolate pudding made with Lactaid milk? Well, I didn't.

I'm waiting for something to sort of reveal the right time and place. Veni, Sancte Spiritus.

Meanwhile, back at the Office

Office?

I'm referring to the Liturgy of the Hours, the readings for which are conveniently delivered daily to my igoogle home page via Google Reader. Given recent conversations I've been having about what it means to be catholic and Catholic, this afternoon's reading leapt from the computer screen right into my heart.

Here's the passage, 1 Corinthians 12:24-26, in a variety of translations. It's supposed to be prayed circa 3:00 PM but why wait?

"God has arranged the body and that there may not be disagreements inside the body, but that each part may be equally concerned for all the others. If one part is hurt, all parts are hurt with it. If one part is given special honor, all parts enjoy it. " Jerusalem Bible

"God has so composed the body, giving the greater honor to the inferior part, that there may be no discord in the body, but that the members may have the same care of one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together." Revised Standard Version

"God has so constructed the body as to give greater honor to the part that is without it, so that there may be no division in the body, but that the parts may have the same concern for one another. If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if one part is honored, all the parts share its joy." New American Bible

And the next verse? "Now you together are Christ's body; but each of you is a different part of it." Grateful to be reminded at this point in time.

U.S. Religious Landscape Survey -- Prayer

Last night I drifted off to restless sleep trying to conjure up what, if anything, would get Jews as upset about Judaism as Catholics ever seem to get about Catholicism.

One year during the 1960s, my mother was infuriated with the UJA for publishing the dollar amounts of everyone's contribution. I don't know whether this happened on a national or local level. All I remember is a lot of Tourette's Syndrome-like muttering that didn't affect either our religious affiliation or Jewish identity. I'll need to ponder the larger issue a bit more.

Meanwhile, after reviewing The Pew Forum findings about who's the ONE, my attention was captured by what Catholic respondents revealed about prayer.

When it comes to frequency, 58% say they pray daily and 21% cop to praying weekly. When asked, "How often do you receive a definite answer to a specific prayer request," 15% apparently receive a definite answer at least once a week, 11% once or twice a month. (N= 8054)

My sociological imagination is running amuk and wondering if folks consider "no" a "definite answer." How about "not yet?" And would that change the response category for the 31% who said they "Seldom/never" have their prayers answered?

I'm also curious about the 8% of Catholics categorized as "Don't know/refused" when asked about receiving a definite answer. Does this mean they're waiting for burning bush quality verification or saying "it's none of your beeswax"? Maybe they can't take "no" for a divine answer.

U.S. Religious Landscape Survey -- Part II

Last week The Pew Forum released more research findings from its U.S. Religious Landscape Survey. Observers have zoomed in on responses which seem to indicate that a belief in God does not necessarily correlate with an adherence to religious teachings or doctrines.

Among Catholics, for example, only 19% would agree that "There is only ONE true way to interpret the teachings of my religion" and only 16% would agree that "My religion is the one, true faith leading to eternal life." (N = 8054)

There are a number of ways to interpret these results. One is to challenge survey itself and indeed Robert Wuthnow, director of the Center for the Study of Religion at Princeton University is quoted in the Wall Street Journal as calling the methodology "sloppy." Another is to question the religious literacy of respondents who, depending on their cohort, probably never learned much about Catholicism to begin with.

Or maybe today's American Catholics are becoming less doctrinaire? More flexible? Hard to imagine given some of what has been going on lately. Last week's clerical craziness relative to Sr. Louise Lears has generated a potent combination of personal angst and embarrassment. I guess this means I'm really a real Catholic now.

The Summer of Saintpaul

"WASHINGTON--The Center for Disease Control and Prevention of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services is collaborating with public health officials in many states, the Indian Health Service, and the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to investigate an on-going multi-state outbreak of human Salmonella serotype Saintpaul infections..."

Coincidence or correlation? Whatever. Deeply believing the tomato will be vindicated, I have been drinking buckets of gazpacho. Note: Moosewood Cookbook, p. 31.

Fourth of July

Over the years, Independence Day has shifted in meaning for me. When I was a kid, it meant watching James Cagney strut across the t.v. screen in the 1942 biopic, "Yankee Doodle Dandy." The screen was small, the picture was black & white but colorful nonetheless. I could count on this movie showing up every fourth of July just like I could count on seeing "The Wizard of Oz" every Thanksgiving.

During my teens, July 4th meant playing "Stars and Stripes Forever." For factoids about this great Sousa march and a clip of a Boston Pops performance, check out A Concord Pastor. Laugh and point: I played what during the late 1960s was considered a totally gender inappropriate instrument -- baritone horn.

And today? Between working for a recent war widow and having a dear friend about to be deployed to Iraq, Independence Day is especially poignant this year. I'm contemplating the freedoms I take for granted, the ones I wish for others, and the mixture of God's grace and human agency that makes any of them possible.