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Thief! Again with the plagarized material. This time it's the (infamous) 30-Day Facebook Picture Challenge. Only without pictures. If a picture can paint a thousand words then why can't I paint you? Whoa! Already off on tangents and the first paragraph isn't finished yet. It's going to be a long, disjointed blog. So hang on.
Day 1. A picture of yourself with 10 facts: Here goes.
Red hair, hazel eyes, 5'10", classic curves. Eh... If you want the real picture, go reread all of my blogs. As for ten facts, what don't you know about me?
1. Born and raised in the heart of Dixie.
2. My granddaddy lived with us until he died.
3. Competed in a few junior beauty pageants as a child.
4. My first camping experience was with a canvas pup-tent held up with wooden poles.
5. Filed my first 1040 when I was 12.
6. Play the piano when bored.
7. Won scholarships to five colleges in a pageant as a high school senior.
8. Can never keep my Lenten discipline all the way to Easter.
9. My picture can be found in the dictionary next to the word "stubborn".
10. Want to live high on a mountaintop.
#8 and #9 seem to be contradictory. Let's see which one wins out in the quest for the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Who's with me?
Look at the calendar. It's Maundy Thursday. Not only did Jesus partake of the Last Supper with his disciples, He washed their feet. Then He told them to do the same amongst themselves. His new commandment was to love one another as He loved them.
In the late morning, Deirdre and I trekked to the Army Medical Center where the wounded warriors from Afghanistan and Iraq are sent to heal to the point of returning to their families. The purpose of the visit was to deliver Girl Scout cookies from several troops in the city. Some of the younger troops made signs and cards for the warriors. Deirdre, being older, was allowed onto the floors to interact with the warriors themselves.
The first warrior we met had no legs, as did the second. The third was in a neck brace and two full length leg casts. Our escort prepared us at each room with the injuries and the length of their stay up to now. Our fourth warrior has been at the Medical Center since July. He has no legs and only one arm. During our visit, waves of pain washed over his face but he tried not to express it. Instead we talked about the planes he used to jump out of.
The last warrior we saw in that wing had been shot and can't move his arm due to the nerve damage.
"How long have you been here?"
"I got shot on the 11th."
Ten days ago. And here he is, thousands of miles away from the fighting. Having a Girl Scout give him cookies.
At the evening service, the seminarian preached about being in a clinical pastoral internship last summer. In pedagogical terms, the internship was "do, reflect, do". He quickly learned, in his life, that could also be phrased as "receive, give, receive".
The sermon was poignant in its timing. In doing something that I considered to be giving of ourselves, Deirdre and I received untold riches in a few brief moments with those men. In doing, we receive. I want to do and do and do some more.
[Blog title taken from this song.]
The subtitle of today's blog could be "Hey, Mom! There's goop on my forehead!"
Remember your history? Remember how the Puritans in Massachusetts forbade the celebration of Christmas? Growing up as a Southern Baptist in the South, the church didn't celebrate Christmas with a church service unless December 25th happened to fall on a Sunday. We also didn't celebrate Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, or Good Friday. They were considered too "Catholic". Never mind that as a current Episcopalian, the church celebrates those holy days but without the authority of the Bishop of Rome, or the Pope, depending on which side of the Reformation you sit.
Today, in case you missed it, is Palm Sunday. It's the day that the Church remembers Jesus' triumphant procession into Jerusalem. We carry palm fronds and crosses woven from palm leaves as a reminder that the people laid palm branches and cloaks on the road as Jesus rode into Jerusalem. It's very celebratory.
But then something gets in the way. You see, Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week which culminates in seven days on Easter. In between, Jesus will celebrate Passover with his disciples (Maundy Thursday), be arrested, tried, and executed (Good Friday). Finally to rise again in the promised Resurrection (Easter).
That's not what gets in the way, however. What gets in the way is that people don't or won't attend church this week on Thursday and Friday. In order to have the Easter story on Easter Sunday, somehow we have to get Jesus from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the trials of Good Friday. So the Palm Sunday service becomes dysfunctional in attempting to celebrate Jesus, institute the rite of communion, and crucify him all in one fell swoop of a service.
It wasn't until I was sitting in the 5:00 p.m. service this afternoon that I realized I really don't like the Palm Sunday liturgy. Especially since I plan to attend church on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. And this year at our parish, there's even a Holy Saturday service for the "forgotten" day of Easter.
A couple of things made up for the week's worth of liturgy packed into one service. The 5:00 p.m. service is much higher church than the other services at our parish. Incense carries our prayers heaven-ward while a sung liturgy hearkens back to the early Church. After communion, parishioners are invited into the side chapel for a laying on of hands for healing.
The 5:00 service was my first choice following the shattering of my finger back in January. Having a priest lay hands on my head and pray for healing and health brings me comfort and peace. Yet today, the priest did something that I don't remember from other healing services. He rubbed his thumb in the chrism and made the sign of the cross on my forehead before laying his hands on my head and praying for my continued healing.
Five weeks ago there were ashes in the exact same place and design reminding me that I am but dust and to dust I will return. Now the olive-and-balsam oil is anointing me with healing strength. The same questions from Ash Wednesday creep into my thoughts.
Do I wash it off or let it wear away on its own? It's an outward sign of an inward contemplation, although nowhere nearly as obvious as a big black smudge. I can see the shiny cross on my forehead in the mirror because I know what I'm looking for. Like the Turkish rug merchant showing a buyer the slightest imperfection, it's my disclaimer before God that I need His healing grace.
The Easter Bunny didn't stop at our house last night. My youngest agreed to give him this year off. Not that she doesn't believe in him, mind you. We just opted to fill our Easter baskets with something more meaningful this year.Easter baskets? Meaningful?Yep. A friend of a friend who is Eastern Orthodox told me of the tradition. Remember way back in February? Ash Wednesday? The beginning of Lent? Remember we all gave up something for Lent? Well, if Easter heralds their return to our lives, what better place for them to appear than in our Easter baskets?My husband's Easter basket was filled with two different single malts. Mine had a Starbucks gift card. The eldest child's had Anime books. The second's had teenage fashion magazines. And the youngest's? Her basket was brimming with candy. All sorts. Runts, jelly beans, fudge, Air Heads, Starburst, SweeTarts, and chocolate! It was very hard seeing those baskets sitting on the bookcase in the dining room just waiting for Easter. Knowing that our baskets would be individualized made Lent and the baskets themselves more meaningful to all of us. Even those of us who have been jaded about the Easter Bunny. I think that we'll give the Easter Bunny his gold watch. Our Lenten Easter baskets are here to stay.
The back pain began with a vengeance two years ago. Was it residual sciatica from my third pregnancy? Was my four-time-a-week running schedule creating a tight piriformis muscle or SI joint? Time to find out.
After numerous MRIs, x-rays, nerve tests, muscle tests, six months of physical therapy, deep-tissue massage, and two rounds of epidural steroids, the pain still radiated down my leg and tingled my toes. If my toes are going to be tingling, I’d prefer a different method. The doctor put me on a nerve medicine and two pain medicines which are enough to stop a horse. No wonder I feel like I’m walking in a fog all day that never lifts.
Today’s office visit was to discuss other options than living on meds the rest of my life. However, five minutes into the conversation and it was becoming clear to me that he wanted to do another round of epidural steroid shots. Thank goodness my husband was with me to drive me home.
So instead of heading off to the gym for some cardio and strength training, I ended up walking gingerly back to the car for a not-too-pleasant ride home. Um, did I say home? I made the unfortunate mistake of checking my email on the way home. My Girl Scout troop’s cookie manager needed me to pick up cookies for today’s cookie booth. (Yesterday was a wild goose chase for cookies in which I ended up driving two hours roundtrip and still didn’t come back with the two biggest selling cookies without which a cookie booth is basically useless – Thin Mints and Samoas (coconut and caramel with chocolate drizzle).)
Today calls for a medicinal latte. If it’s medicinal, then partaking won’t be breaking Lent. Ten o’clock was too early for anything harder. Although it’s four o’clock somewhere. Europe, perhaps? Stilton, anyone?
