Good Friday: Spoiler Alert

I Support Marriage Equality but My Profile Picture Will Not Go Red

I support marriage equality but won't be changing my profile picture on Twitter or Facebook. Call me shallow, but my decision has to do with aesthetics. 

Red and pink?!? Even if you call it "crimson and salmon," it's still ugly. I shudder to think (or dare articulate) what the pink might represent. 

Everyone is so darn sensitive these days, I can't even bust out one-liners that would've been perfectly fine back in the 1970s when I was a gay activist.* I mourn those days of smart snark when only the most doctrinaire radical separatist lesbian feminists got easily offended about anything having to do with sex, gender, or sexuality. Everyone else was Free to Trash You and Me.

Outraged offense is so revoltingly mainstream these days that I nearly wept with gratitude when I saw this: 

*That's right, I was a gay activist. Yes, my husband knows about this.  

Back to The Bean!

Hi, my name is Meredith and I'm apparently powerless over coffee.

I've completely quit drinking coffee a few times. The time I remember best was circa 1982. I'd developed a major Super Joe habit during graduate school, years earlier.

Yes, dear (younger) readers (if I have any) this was a time before St. Arbucks. Dunkin' Donuts was the place to go for great coffee. I went to graduate school at New York University, so I could also get a great cuppa from the deli en route to my study carrel.

By the time I was on the Sociology faculty at Rutgers-Camden, I was drinking Medaglia D'Oro instant expresso. Don't judge me. It was a difficult time in my life, which you'd think would have prevented me from declaring The Bean evil. But I was experiencing cold shakes after only three mugs, so I knew I had to quit.

I stayed stopped until 1994.

Decaf was the gateway drug back. I went to /2 caff and 1/2 decaf after two weeks of being in "the rooms."* I was guzzling leaded high test within a month. After a few years and getting my "brains out of hock,"** I could no longer ignore how the accompanying gastric upset was not at all mitigated by therapeutic doses of Ranitidine, so I quit. Again.

I stayed pretty much stopped, getting my caffeine in other (insufficient) ways. Then what happened? A unholy trinity of things: 1) my Twitter stream is filled and flowing with heavy duty coffee drinkers who tweet about all things coffee day and night; 2) I was missing the taste; and 3) I needed...wanted...the jolt.

Currently seem to be holding steady at a 1/2 and 1/2 mix. Tipping the balance to more caff is really not a good look or feel for me.

Yes, I'm back to The Bean. Go ahead, judge me.

* & ** If you know what these expressions mean, you'll know what happened in 1994.

An Author's Life: I Submit

Catchy n' clever blog title, eh? Bet you can figure out that I'm referring to manuscript submission. The deadline was January 1 and I put the thing into DropBox on January 2.

To my father of blessed memory I owe my ability to meet deadlines. He tore up my fifth grade Blue Whale report saying, "This will teach you to leave something until the last minute." Yes, Mommie Dearest had a counterpart. Growing up was so . . . character building.

An alternate lede for this post: Turkeys are done; people are finished. The manuscript is finished; I'm done. Pretty much. What's next?

What's next is always a major clean-a-thon as well as creating and slamming through a punch list of everything I've neglected while writing or avoiding writing. The punch list includes activities like spraying WD-40 into door hinges, assembling tax records, thinking about getting back to yoga.

Already accomplished: vacuuming out the innards of my computer's tower, watching all of "Homeland," reading novels and picking up 15 more at The Book Thing this past Saturday, wandering in for much-needed acupuncture. More about the continuing apnea adventures in a future post.

True to form, I've begged loved ones to slap me upside the head if I ever ever ever talk about writing another book. True to form, I'm thinking about the next book. True to form, loved ones are laughing too hard to smack me.

An Author's Life: Does This Manuscript Make Me Look Fat?

Yeah, I have "food issues."  It's something I discovered after getting into 12-step recovery for something(s) else.  Call it the Whac-A-Mole theory of addiction. Never did I want to eat so much for no good reason as when I finally decided to stop [fill in blank].

When it comes to food, which is impossible to quit altogether, things really get dicey when there really is an alleged good reason for indiscriminate, mindless over-eating to self-soothe. Writing a book is one of those bogus good reasons. I'm now two-thirds and five pounds into this latest effort.

I am such a liar.

Truth be told,  I'm only slightly over one-third done with this manuscript and more like eight pounds heavier. Plus, I've restored caffeinated coffee to my writing regimen. At this rate, I'll be ready for detox and a new wardrobe by January.

You can help by keeping me in prayer . . . and sending dark chocolate.

Can't Make This Up: I confess to Almighty God...

but probably not to you . . .

Photo taken at the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Mary Our Queen in Baltimore, MD.

Life As a Clergy Wife: Toting Along My Own Chaplain

I'll do anything to goose the healthcare system into being responsive to healthcare needs -- mine and those of others.

Until now, I've relied almost exclusively on my vast and frequently horrific personal experiences as a patient and caregiver. These have made me a fierce advocate for patients' rights. As a result, I'm fearless about demanding to see my health records, get copies of tests, and making doctors take off all their clothes if I have to take off all of mine. 

Kidding about that last thing. Not kidding about squelching the unequal first-name-basis thing. "It's 'Dr. Gould,'" I say, muttering "neuro-proctology" under my breath.

I've recently added Collar Power to my tools and tactics. What the hell, my husband is already dressed for work, he may as well stay in that outfit while accompanying me on medical adventures. Folks seem to get really weirded out if he's wearing a Roman-type notched collar with a black shirt instead of an Anglican-type "dog collar" with a colored or striped shirt. Winning!

He no longer notices the looks his clerical collar generates. I do. I notice an amusing (for me) mix of deference and anxiety and then curiosity when they realize he's with me.

I don't tell him to do this, but he always tends stand behind me with great solemnity. I don't check, but I'm pretty sure he stays in role whenever he hears me say:

"And I've brought my own chaplain, in case you really screw up."

My Latest Video: Don't Be That Church II: We Need a New Website

For those of you who follow my adventures in and around the world of church communications, here's a copy of a video I recently created. OK, yesterday. I created it yesterday evening using XtraNormal, a fabulous text-to-movie program and then posted it to YouTube.

Also posted it to my #ChSocM (church social media) blog earlier today and have received all sorts of amusing and disturbing responses via the back channel from church folk who don't want to share their angst in public.

I, on the other hand, seem willing and able to do just that . . . share my angst in public. Would this be different if I were still on a parish staff? Perhaps. I guess that would depend on how badly I wanted to stay on the payroll.

Without further ado or boo-hoo:

Life As a Clergy Wife: The Incredible Lightness of Laundry

Years ago, (Roman Catholic) rubrics about who is allowed to wash sacred vessels changed, making it Not Okay for Extraordinary Ministers of the Eucharist (read: laity) to do anything more than guzzle down leftover Precious Blood (read: consecrated wine) after Mass.

Only clergy (read: men) were allowed to perform this sacred duty, something that got lots of laity (read: women) bent out of shape. I was absolutely not among them. "So let them do the dishes, what's the big deal?"

Fast forward to right now and while today's sacred snicker might not qualify as the proverbial last laugh, verily, it's on me.

Moving Day is Coming Up

Closing on Monday, August 27.

Moving on Thursday, August 30.

Image: SpeedBump by Dave Coverly

Life as a Clergy Wife: Monday, Monday, Not So Good to Me.

Just when I thought Monday was the preferred day of rest for clergy who spend weekends working their butts off sharing the Good News of God's abiding love and mercy, I discover otherwise.

A quick bit of crowd-sourcing swiftly revealed how just about every other cleric I follow on Twitter takes Fridays off.*

"You need to get with the other Prots," I tell my husband, who takes Mondays off, thanks to episcopal fiat. Such are the joys of serving on a diocesan staff and getting blessed with a supply gig almost every [adjective] Sunday.

I'm having a tough time getting in alignment with this schedule.

So what if I've been baptized for well over a decade, Fridays are Shabbat. And thanks to years of serving in music and liturgical ministry during my very own Christian Era, Sundays begin the work week. In my weird world, Monday has always been the second day of the work week. It still is for me, but not for my husband.

Annoying, confusing, and somewhat inconvenient. Still, I must confess this situation is forcing me to acknowledge how I actually don't take any days off. Gee, not only am I violating the fourth commandment, but I'm also being stupid about necessary self-care.

Clergy wife life is proving to be quite illuminating.


*Years ago I worked for a priest who took Wednesdays off, primarily because that's when he and his BFF could get great tickets for Broadway theater, the reviews about which he regaled staff during Thursday meetings -- right after we cracked open the Word and before we dealt with parish angst.

Moving Not Right Along: Hitting a Snag

Voice of Doom on the other end of the phone.

It's our fabulous Realtor who is normally very upbeat, but with measured tones and revealing years of Catholic education she announces, "I'm about to fall from grace."

I can and cannot imagine what's coming next. "The deal has fallen through," she says.

Imagining that she's holding her breath, I quickly assure her everything is just fine and I'm fine. Really. I'm fine, as opposed to being F.I.N.E* about this turn of events. I'm even feeling somewhat relieved because the deal was starting to get way too complicated.

The sellers were in near-mortal combat with one another and we were on the verge of becoming collateral damage. First, they were unable to make necessary repairs. Then, the bank's appraisal came in $13k under the price, which submerged them underwater. We'd already gotten into the life boat and were now rowing away. Quickly.

Our Realtor cannot believe I'm not sobbing and/or screaming at her. I am doing neither. Instead, I'm telling her that I believe in a sovereign God and know I'm under the protection of angels. There's no grace to fall from, only grace to be recognized and embraced. "We dodged a bullet," I tell her.

Let's hear it for savoring the ripe and ready fruits of spiritual practice and abiding faith! But, I must confess a wee bit of triumphalism. I knew this deal would tank and got excited about hearing the magic words, "you were right."  Now that is F.I.N.E.


*FYI: F.I.N.E. = Fukt up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.

A Special Day on Twitter

Just sayin'

Life as a Clergy Wife: My House Doesn't Have *That* Many Rooms

As it turns out, neither of us has the energy for a major housing move right now. Still, for 36 hours, the prospect of maybe moving into a rectory provided rich fodder for fantasy. Mine, of course.

Since I'm married to an Episcopal priest, I swiftly imagined the rectory would be either a quaint cottage or a more imposing, yet modest, Tudor home. At least one working fireplace, wainscoting, sconces, graceful arches between rooms. No goofy colors or bizarre wallpaper, not even in the children's nursery that I'd turn into an office for myself.

The garden, lovely but a bit overgrown, would include climbing roses; perhaps a mature wisteria; chestnut and redbud trees. The path from rectory to church would have herringbone brickwork and be lined with hostas. 

None of this charm would be sullied by the central air conditioning unit, because that would be neatly hidden by freshly painted lattice work. A wealthy generous (now dead) congregant would have made sure that all electrical wiring and plumbing was up to 21st century building code standards. 

I share none of this with my husband, the Canon. Boom! Some fantasies are best left unexpressed. Mine, of course.

Details, arriving via email from someone at the church, reveal the rectory is a 1950's brick ranch-style house. And although it's never stated explicitly, I'm imagining jalousie windows, Avocado or Harvest Gold appliances in the kitchen, and a carport with a corrugated metal roof. 

What I'm neither imagining nor anticipating is this kicker: 

"There is a requirement that the church use a room in the lower level (separate entrance) for Christian formation on Sunday mornings.  We also store stuff in the basement."

And in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, I'm fantasizing about stumbling past parishioners and picking my way around Christmas pageant and Passion play dreck to do laundry. So what if "my Father's house has many rooms"? Mine, does not, not that many. Lord, have mercy.

Life as a Clergy Wife: See It Painted Black

In my own feeble defense, I was a little distracted by the look on my future husband's face, so I was a bit slow on the uptake that fine summer evening.

Five seconds earlier, we had crossed the threshold of Jos. A. Bank and already he was manifesting the blank look of panic that accompanies dissociation-in-progress. He was leaving his 42-long body before even looking at new jackets, let alone trying anything on.

I'm filled with compassion, but also on task during our first clothes shopping trip as a couple. Cozy. For me, anyway.

"I'm very good at this, want me to take over?" 

He nods yes, smart man. Moments later, I'm flipping through jacket options like my family had been in the schmatte trade for centuries. Two for one on jackets? Buy two get one free on slacks? Game on. Bring it.

"Here's a nice hounds-tooth with a blue that will highlight your eyes."

"Okay and I need black."

"Check out the muted herringbone. It'll go well with taupe trousers."

"Okay and I need black."

Unreal, even more so because we're in Baltimore, not New York City. For the record, I'll take Manhattan.

I shoot the saleswoman a look, the kind of look that passes between women in men's clothing departments. She has already approved the two jackets I've selected and explained how they look much better than the one he chose -- in a fugue state.

"How about a new blue blazer? The one you have is looking a bit . . . ratty." 

I'll wait until after we're married before mentioning the so-wrongness of things like nautical-themed faux brass buttons.

"No, I need black." 

"Jeez, what's with the black thing? Planning to go to lots of funerals or what?"

Dead silence. A glimpse of reality. The World to Come.

Not giving up social media for Lent . . .

...and not giving up Twitter or LinkedIn and especially not Pinterest. In fact, I'm planning to spend even more time on Pinterest, pinning sacred images that support my Lenten journey.

Some people get all in everyone's face about giving up social media for Lent. A few years ago, I would have agreed with them about how futzing around online can be a distracting time-suck.

Much has changed in the years that Facebook (8), Twitter (5), and Pinterest (> 1) have been around. These days there are lots of great reasons for making social media use an integral part of Lenten devotions. My thoughts about this are trotted out in more detail in today's Blogalogue question on dotMagis, where editor Jim Manney asked me about giving up social media for Lent. You can read it here.

Imagine my surprise to wake up to a  news story about Pope Benedict XVI (or his team on his behalf) getting involved with tweeting during Lent. Looks like we finally agree on something in addition to loving cats and the music of J.S. Bach.

Lent Begins . . .

And 

Because Jesus did not die so we could be humorless, boring, and dull.

(John 15:11)

#Lent Madness Begins This Year on February 23

Yes, I'm participating in this Lent...Madness!

I was an observer and voter the first time the Rev. Tim Schenck (blogging at Clergy Family Confidential) crafted this clever crazy alternative to March Madness (aka, the annual NCAA basketball tournament).

Last year, I was invited to be one of four "Celebrity Bloggers" writing compelling blather for the Final Four round. I wrote about Clare of Assisi and was bummed when she was beat by C.S. Lewis. In fact, I'm still somewhat steamed about that. C.S. Lewis?!? Saint?!? Oh right, I support ecumenical dialogue.

This year, Tim has teamed up with the Rev. Scott Gunn, Executive Director of Forward Movement and Lent Madness is getting very snazzy. It now has its own website and I'm one of eight bloggers. Tim and Scott will post a video conversation each Monday after the competition begins on Thursday, February 23.

How does this work? If you understand how brackets work, bless you. I don't, even after staring at this one for a while. What I do know is that every day you'll have an opportunity to read up on a saint and vote for your favorite.

During the first round, you'll get to read simple biographies of the saints. During round two, you'll be treated to Quotes and Quirks of the Saintly Sixteen. The Elate Eight round features Saintly Kitsch. God only knows who will make the Final Four and what adroit bloggery will win votes.

I'll be blogging on behalf of St. Catherine of Siena, St. Margaret of Scotland, St. Mary Magdalene, and John Cassian (considered a saint by the Eastern church but never canonized by the Western church).

You can get to the Lent Madness website by click on the widget in the sidebar of my blog or by subscribing directly by clicking here. Lent Madness is also on Facebook. It's a great way to learn more about saints and watch otherwise faithful and cordial colleagues succumb to electioneering faster than you can cross yourself after receiving Communion.

Shabbot Slalom

sla · lom (noun)

any winding or zigzag course marked by obstacles or barriers

sla · lom (verb)

to follow a course with many twists and turns

This is not the first week I'm muttering "Shabbot slalom" to myself.  By 1:00 this afternoon, I felt like I was hurtling through an obstacle course on the way to Sabbath...peace? Yet another week when I think I might have to observe (if I could dare call it that) Sabbath from sundown on Saturday to sundown on Sunday, rather than starting at sundown tonight, Friday.

I suppose it could be worse, or at least more complicated. 

If I were an uber-observant Jew, I'd have to get everything prepared before sundown. I am not uber-observant (anything), but each Thursday I start feeling a certain urgency around making sure my apartment is clean, laundry has been done, and there's enough food for the weekend. (Do not ask how I define "enough food.") 

I have my Jewish mother to thank for this deeply embedded pattern because this went on in our home when I was growing up. Thursday was house cleaning, laundry, ironing, and food shopping day. It was also the day my mother went to The Beauty Parlor and the day I generally got yelled at to clean my already impeccably tidy room.  

On Friday night, usually after sundown, we'd light Sabbath candles, recite prayers, and tuck into something of the fish persuasion before schlepping off to synagogue. Yes, fish on Fridays in our Jewish home, which is probably why I start hankering for sushi by 4:00 pm on Fridays.  Go figure. Go...fish?

Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul

These images of St. Paul always cheer me up. 


I'm wondering if this makes me a good Jew and a bad Christian . . .


Or a good Christian and a bad Jew. . .


Bad Christian and bad Jew?