As Thanksgiving 2010 Approaches . . .

As Thanksgiving Day approaches, I fondly recall the first parish-based ministry I volunteered to lead: the Comfort Food ministry. Can't remember if it was always called that, but that's what we called it when I stepped up to the plate ─ pun shamelessly intended.

It was a food bank of sorts, developed for parishioners in distress. Comfort Food ministers kept the parish freezer stocked with home-cooked dinners. Those in our healthcare, bereavement and Elizabeth ministries took these good-to-go meals with them to parishioners as needed.

It was generally known that anyone could take a meal; generally understood that the rationale for doing so was more dire than, "I'm tired of pizza delivery and the same goes double for Chinese take-out."

Thanksgiving was always somewhat challenging. Despite extraordinarily "robust" levels of academic achievement, parishioners needed weekly reminders about dropping off whole, uncooked and frozen turkeys, as in: Don't do this! Bulletin blurbs became increasingly less gentle by the 4th Sunday of Advent.

Although I rued this annual situation, as well as the inevitability of baked ziti, I had more pressing gustatory concerns.

And so it came to pass that I began my tenure as head of the Comfort Food ministry proclaiming: No meal shall ever be glued together with cream-of-anything soup.

I never faced any overt push-back from the casserole crowd. Perhaps I imagined hearing a huge sigh of relief ─ other than mine.

One Home Closes, Another One Opens

Many years ago, someone wise in the way of prayer explained to me how praying for "patience" is just plain stupid. Why petition the Almighty for opportunities to practice what is already in short supply?

Made sense, so I switched to simply praying for God's will and have, over the years, been fairly faithful to this approach.

In re: selling my suburban hermitage, I finally got back to basics after messing around with St. Joseph. Clearly, burying him under a clump of day lilies wasn't working. What had I been thinking? I kissed off that technique and kissed the house sale up to God.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and by 11:00 this morning I no longer owned property in New Jersey.

So, did God send me the buyer with cash? The buyer who didn't bother getting a formal property inspection, loved the garden and wanted to close the deal quickly? The buyer who, according to my realtor, showed up at today's closing wearing a ginormous cross and mentioned how she "felt something" the moment she walked into the hermitage? Did God send this buyer?

How much do I want to spiritualize the kiss-it-up-to-God thing? I wish I could say not much, but that would be a lie.

Your will, God, not mine.

Okay, now what?

Scenes From My Garden

(Deliverance) Prayers from Suburbia

Dear Almighty God,

Given the omnipotent, omniscience and omnipotence thing, You probably already have this situation covered. Still, I feel compelled ─ and You know why ─ to note The Hermitage is going on the housing market this Wednesday.

I'm hoping to You that the perfect pre-qualified ─ but preferably with cash ─ buyer appears in the twinkling of an eye and long before the last trumpet sounds (1 Co 15:52). Please give me the strength to eschew burying St. Joseph upside down in the yard and let me not have to go whinging to St. Jude.

And because the earth and its fullness is Yours (Ps 24:1), I'd be most grateful for a buyer who loves gardening, finds chipmunks amusing; one who appreciates ants and ladybugs alike.*

I give You thanks and praise for delivering me from Suburban Captivity during this, my enfleshed lifetime. All glory and honor are Yours, Almighty God ─ and so am I. Hallelujah, amen.


*How are my kitties' souls doing? I suspect the Betta Boys will be joining your holy menagerie sooner rather than later.

Scenes from Suburbia

Like a kid trying to wait up all night for Santa Claus, that's how excited I was on Wednesday night. Not that I ever believed in Santa...and not just because I was raised Jewish. Many other parts of the Santa story strained my credulity.

I digress; back to me last night.

I was brimming with overwrought anticipation...and not just because I'm prepping to move out-of-state. For years I've been desperate to escape Suburban Captivity. Now reconciled to the reality that I'll never afford Manhattan, I've chosen another city to resume urban living.

Again, I digress; back to me last night.

So tempted was I to spend the night perched on the garage stairs. Recycling pick-up is Friday and having missed the previous one a couple of weeks ago, easily one third of my garage is currently occupied by buckets of recyclable paper, plastic, and bottles. According to condo association rules, I may haul everything curbside on Thursday evening. Who wouldn't be excited by Wednesday night? (NNTA)

In fact, if it wouldn't cheese off the neighbors, I'd start schlepping stuff right now. Yes, I am that excited. Santa Claus? Feh.

Meanwhile, here in Suburban Captivity. . .

Behold the glory across the street:

And what's happening
right in front of my hermitage:

The Insects that Bloom in the Spring...Tra-la!

Ok, Spring is officially here. Crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils? Pffft. I'm talking ants. This morning, I found a few marching across the tiled floor of my bathroom, no doubt the scouting party for a platoon to follow. Fine with me.

I absolutely do not get the ick factor relative to ants, not the little cute busy ones, anyway. Carpenter ants are a somewhat different story, possibly because I worked on a pesticide account for two years. Even so, I admire ants. I find them inspiring: "Go to the ant, you sluggard! Consider her ways and be wise..." (Proverbs 6:6, NKJV) Go, ants!

And ladybugs? They've started sunbathing on my house plants. Delightful. Love the polka dots. Who wouldn't? One of my neighbors, apparently.

Two days ago, I encountered her shivering with disgust because ladybugs were "swarming" on her windows. Ladybugs. Swarming. She wants them exterminated. What's up with that? I don't even want to know what she'd want done with my ants.

Snow Day! Let There Be Snacks.

A chicken is roasting in the oven, but that's not why I went food shopping yesterday afternoon.

The weather forecasters predicted a huge snowfall, something folks on Twitter were tagging as #snowpocalypse. Having lived in Rochester, New York and then central Massachusetts, I'm rarely moved by weather-generated hysteria. I've seen real snow. Heck, I've even driven in it without 4-wheel drive. Not around here, of course.

Here in Suburban Captivity, everyone freaks out whether one inch or three feet of snow are predicted. Here, everyone heads for the stupormarket to stock up for the big storm. What do they jam the parking lot, clog the aisles, and choke the checkout lines to buy? Bread and milk.

Bread. Milk. Why?

Me? I go to the store to load up on items in these essential foods groups: crunchy-salty, dip, dessert, caffeinated soda, and dark chocolate. Being very disciplined, I wait until at least four inches of snow have accumulated before digging into these goodies.

And I never worry about gaining weight because like anything scarfed down in a moving vehicle, snow day snacks do not have calories.

Back to $chool $upplie$

For reasons that probably have to do with attending a Roman Catholic church, I have lots of friends with lots of children. While this provides any number of Aha Moments throughout the year, I'm currently fascinated by the annual tribal ritual known as Back-to-School Supply Shopping.

During the mid-20th century, each student arrived at school with a three-ring binder, notebook paper, a wooden ruler, a pencil, and a pen. Big Splurge: a Pink Pearl eraser of one's own. Bigger Splurge: pre-printed book covers instead of using brown paper bags.

The public school system supplied everything else. And if I remember correctly, it even supplied teachers with red pencils and gold stars. If teachers purchased anything to enhance the classroom experience, they bought hamsters, turtles, goldfish, and pumpkins. Not any more. These days, school systems force teachers to force parents to buy the basics -- and beyond.

"If I get away with spending under sixty bucks per kid, I'll consider myself lucky," said one friend who has the blessing/curse of four little darlings. (Actually, two of those little darlings are now in college, so the combined annual tab for their education is more like sixty grand, give or take a few thousand dollars).

I knew she wasn't exaggerating when she forwarded the list, which includes things like glue, tape, dry erase markers, and colored pencils in massive quantities. What really got my attention were the facial tissues and Zip Lock plastic bags. Good Lord have mercy, what's next? Toilet paper?

So for what, exactly, do I pay exorbitant school taxes? And why do 7th and 8th graders need to bring Zip Lock bags to school? I probably do not want to know the answer to either question. Do I?

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.