Follow the link to find out why the baseball coach was skeptical at first about Josh Eagle:
So much to blog about, so little time in the day.
Yesterday was the first day since my third chemo session on April 24 that I felt like myself. While that's good for me and reassuring to Hubs, I don't know if the kids at home appreciate it. ;)
Sunday was the nadir for me, physically. I really understood Jesus's prayer in Gethsemane: "Abba, Father, all things are possible to you. Take this cup away from me, but not what I will but what You will." (Mark, 14:36) I hate being sick, not because I am normally an active person but because I have a tendency to sloth. I don't need an excuse to be a couch potato; indolence is my natural state. So I have spent a great part of my adult life trying to overcome that tendency.
Call it a legacy of Catholic education or Catholic guilt: the idea that no matter how good I am at something or what I do, I can always do better or do more. When I stand before God and give an accounting of how I spent the time, talent, and treasure He gave me, will I have done well? Will it be good enough?
I don't know.
Like most people, I've had to make choices--some difficult, some less so. I've had to compromise. I've taken shortcuts, sometimes necessary ones. Breast cancer is my own personal Gethsemane, my own Way of the Cross, except that it affects my family and friends as well. And how I cope (or not) also affects them.
Odd things are a priority for me. I find it very important to me, personally, to get DS#2 and DD#2 up on school days and to pack their lunches. If I get nothing else done, they have that. And Monday, I couldn't do it. I warned them Sunday night that I wouldn't, so they knew and they reassured me they would be okay.
DS#2 appreciates my efforts now: typical young male, he decided he didn't need lunch and by 3:00 p.m. was starving. :)
Apparently, my body has decided it wants to wait to experience the side-effects of chemo. Instead of nausea, vomiting, and a rash immediately following chemo, it wants to wait about a week or ten days. When I called the oncology nurse, her first response was, "Oh, that can't be because of chemo!"
"It's happened the same way after my last two sessions."
"Oh." Silence. "What do you want me to do?"
Like I know? "Would you mind documenting it? And can I have more anti-nausea meds?"
"Okay."
What did I expect? My surgeon called in a colleague because she could only find one lymph node draining my left breast. Her colleague couldn't find any more either. Why should my body's reaction to toxic chemicals follow a normal pattern?
More proof I am a unique individual.
But y'all knew that. ;)
On Thursday, April 23, DD#2 was confirmed. The name she chose, Bernadette, is my mother's middle name and the name of my baby sister who died hours after her birth (I was five at the time). DD#2 decided that her Aunt Bernadette is her guardian angel. And why not?
And Lourdes is only a day trip from the village my great-grandfather came from.
The Confirmation was held at the new Cathedral, Christ the Light. This was the first group to be confirmed at the Cathedral; unfortunately, our new bishop has not been installed, so they were confirmed by the Diocesan Administrator with the assistant of the priests from the parishes of the confirmandi. There were 175 confirmandi from six parishes. Add sponsors and families, and the Cathedral was full. Still, it went very smoothly and we were done by 9:00 p.m. Add time for pictures, we were on the road by 9:45 p.m. And this included a full Mass.
I loved the sermon given by Fr. Danielson. He spoke of the time and devotion it takes to become good at something: soccer, music, art, football. You can't sit on the couch and expect to become a great athlete. Nor can you sit on the couch and become a good Catholic. Confirmation is a beginning, not an ending. Get up off the couch and get involved. Live your faith, keep learning about your faith, keep practicing your faith.
It was a great message; I hope it reached its intended audience.
On the other hand, DD#1, who has been having issues with being Catholic, not only came to the ceremony, she also received Communion. She goes to Mass on those occasions where it's important to me or to one of the family, but she usually doesn't receive Communion, although she will ask for a blessing by crossing her arms over her chest and bowing her head. (That's the custom in our parish.) I didn't ask why--I've been praying to St. Monica and St. Augustine for both DD#1 and DS#1--but I know if I push, she'll shut down.
Our pastor, Fr. P., was there, along with Fr. K., and they congratulated the confirmandi. Fr. P. asked me how I was doing and I smiled and said, "My job is done." Okay, not really. But I hope I've given all of my children the blessings of our Faith and the tools to deal with the world, the strength to find the answers to their questions. I know I'm going to keep St. Monica and St. Augustine busy for a long time yet. And continue to set the best example I can.
This post is blatantly borrowed from Julie D. over at Happy Catholic, who is certainly a more organized reader than I am. (I don't keep lists.)
It's Susan Murphy's (Reese Witherspoon) wedding day and she is about to marry up-and-coming Modesto news anchor, Dexter Dietl (Paul Rudd). During the preparations, Susan and Dexter have a moment alone and Dexter confesses that they are not going to Paris for their honeymoon. Dexter has a chance for a job in Fresno, which could be his stepping stone to a larger market. Susan is disappointed, but as part of "Team Dietl," she'll accept the change in plans.
Dexter heads back to the church. Meanwhile, a meteor crashes nearby and Susan is irradiated. At the altar, she begins to glow green and grow. And grow, crashing through the ceiling of the church.
The men in the black helicopters are not far behind. Susan is captured and taken to a secret facility where she meets other "monsters": a blob (Seth Rogen), a mad scientist who is a cockroach (Hugh Laurie), the "missing link" (Will Arnett), and Insectasaurus--a giant caterpillar. And their guard, General W.R. Monger (Kiefer Sutherland), gruff and officious. There is no hope of escape; no hope of returning to "normal"--which is what Susan desperately wants.
Meanwhile, an alien is trying to recover the mysterious substance from the meteor that made Susan big. Gallaxhar (Rainn Wilson) at first sends down his evil robot to do his dirty work. General Monger realizes this job requires the talents of his "monsters" and takes them to the fight, which happens to be on the Bayshore Freeway (Highway 101), just south of Candlestick Park.
The ensuing fight takes place all over San Francisco, including a scene where the Golden Gate Bridge is demolished. Eventually, the alien robot is also destroyed. As a reward, Susan and her new friends are allowed to visit her family in Modesto, where she learns a few things about Dexter.
Meanwhile, Gallaxhar decides to retrieve the substance himself--which means he has to kidnap Susan. And so he does. However, her friends decide they have to rescue her. General Monger drops them off on the spaceship and promises to return.
Gallaxhar is using the substance to make clones of himself so he can take over the Earth. So our brave "monsters" not only have to rescue Susan, but also thwart Gallaxhar's plan.
Hubs and I paid an extra $3.00 to watch this movie in 3D. The effects were pretty awesome: the movie starts with a guy playing with a paddle ball that had me ducking in my seat. And the writers pay homage to several B-monster movies, including the aforementioned scene at the Golden Gate Bridge.
The attention to detail is amazing. Strands of hair and fur move, the backgrounds are realistic, including just the right amount of fog on the Bayshore Freeway, the buildings in downtown San Francisco, the streets of Modesto. The story is okay: believe in yourself, don't judge people by their appearances (even generals).
But this is not a story for younger kids. One toddler spent the entire time crying (and mom was trying to explain that they couldn't leave older brother, who was enjoying the movie, alone). I'm not sure if younger children would handle the 2D version better. I discussed this with my sister-in-law who has a five-year-old and a 2.5-year old. The five-y.o. would probably enjoy it, especially in 2D, because he loves Shrek and Monsters Inc. The 2.5-y.o. wouldn't be able to sit still for it. Some children will be scared by this.
For a DreamWorks movie, it wasn't bad. For once, the actors personalities didn't overwhelm the animated characters. And the storyline wasn't completely left behind for the special effects.
On the March Hare scale: 3.5 out of 5 Golden Tickets
(crossposted on Catholic Media Review)
The novel, by Alice Sebold, starts with the stark facts: "My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name , Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973." Susie is a member of the Chess Club, the Chem Club, burns everything she tries to cook in home ec, and loves biology and her teacher, Mr. Botte. A boy in her class, Ray Singh, has a crush on her and is close to kissing her for the first time. Her sister, Lindsey, is a year younger, and her brother, Buckley, is four. She is lured into the underground hiding place built in the cornfield by her neighbor. The design intrigues her and she is too naive to realize what is going on until it is too late.
Susie finds heaven a different place than she has imagined. She has a roommate, Holly, and an intake counselor, Franny. Heaven, for Susie, looks a lot like her neighborhood and the people she sees are in their version of heaven that overlaps hers. Franny tells Susie and Holly that they can have whatever they desire--except to grow up.
But Susie can watch her family and friends left behind on Earth. The police are stymied by the lack of clues to her death--the only part of her body that is found is an elbow. Her sister, Lindsey, handles her grief by pushing it down deep. Buckley doesn't understand, at first, that Susie will never be coming back. Her father searches for the killer on her own. Her mother moves away and Susie's Grandma Lynn comes to take care of Lindsey and Buckley. The detective handling the case can't forget it.
Life continues on Earth and Susie's understanding of Heaven and what she can, and cannot, do broadens. Two classmates of Susie's continue to feel her absence: Ray Singh and Ruth Connors. Susie's spirit had brushed by Ruth on her way to heaven and Ruth had felt it. Susie's spirit haunts Ruth throughout high school and her memory affects Ray.
But the story is not dark and gloomy. Ultimately, it's about love, the different ways it's expressed, and the healing love brings. And, for us parents, it's about how we can't always protect our children from evil, but we have to let them grow up.
Ms. Sebold's idea of heaven and the afterlife doesn't exactly jibe with any Christian theology I'm familiar with, although I like the idea that there are dogs in heaven. But it works really well for the novel and what a fourteen-year-old girl might envision.
On the March Hare scale: 3.5 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks
(crossposted on Catholic Media Review)
California is in the third year of a drought, so the Water Company has been urging us all to conserve--shave 13% off your usage or pay a penalty. As a water-conserving family--we let our lawn & garden die out long ago and have installed low-flush toilets and low-flow showerheads--it's been really difficult to find that 13%. A couple of months we have had to pay a penalty. Hubs is threatening to install a timer in the shower, especially for DD#1 who has been known to use all the hot water.
Overall, the customers served by our Water Company have done a tremendous job. So well have we conserved that the Water Company is going to reward us--by raising our rates!
Yep. We're using so much less water, that revenues are "too low" and have to be made up.
Caltrans is using the same logic on the six bridges spanning the Bay that are under their purview (the Golden Gate Bridge is under a separate district). Because of the drop in employment, increased use of public transportation and carpooling, toll revenues are less than expected. Never mind the fact that traffic is flowing more smoothly. Forget that the bonds that built these bridges,especially the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, were supposed to be paid off forty years ago and the bridge is supposed to be toll-free. Forget that the new Oakland-to-Yerba Buena Island part of the span still isn't finished and isn't likely to be for several more years (the Loma Prieta Earthquake that damaged the bridge happened 18.5 years ago).
No--revenue is down, so the customer/taxpayer must pay more! Including carpoolers, who now drive through free of charge. Forget the havoc this will cause during commute times, the long delays, the gridlock. The Bridge Needs More Revenue!
There goes my tax cut...
"Who will move the stone?" According to Mark, that's what the women wondered as they approached the tomb with oils and spices to anoint the body that had been crucified three days before.
What they found was "a young man, dressed in white." Mark does not call him an angel. So who was this young man?
I love the Triduum. I love the rites and the rituals from Holy Thursday through Saturday. The covering of the statues. The washing of the feet. The story about the Last Supper. The procession of the Holy Eucharist through the church to the Altar of Repose. The empty tabernacle. The extinguished candle.
And then the solemnity of Good Friday. The necessity of the Death so that Christ may triumph.
This year, I was privileged to be a lector, sharing the reading of Genesis--the beginning of it all. Reading in the dark Church, with just our voices. Then the story of Exodus and Isaiah--the story of God's Promise to His People.
Then the Gloria, the bells and the light and the celebration.
And the best part: welcoming those who have chosen to "cross the Tiber"--or to complete their journey. This year we welcomed an entire family as well as a long-time parishioner who had never been baptized.
Afterwards, there is the chorus of "Happy Easter!" as we head out of the church, back to our homes, knowing we have been saved and that Good has, indeed, triumphed over Evil.
I am dependent on these rites, these rituals. They mark the passages of my life. I love it when Passover coincides with Easter, the way it was in the beginning, the way it should be. There is a strength to that, a Power.
Add the prayers of those celebrating Pascha (Mimi--did I get that right?) and God is truly Here.
I was scheduled for my next session of chemo on Friday, but the blood test on Thursday revealed my white blood cell count was too low.
"Come in on Monday," the nurse advised. "That's 21 days from your previous treatment."
Hubs has Fridays off and while his boss is very understanding about this, Hubs & I would like to inconvenience his fellow employees as little as possible. The nurse grumbled, but pushed my appointment back a week.
I'm a bit annoyed at her attitude because Hubs and I told the clinic that we would prefer my appointments to be on Fridays and they assured us there would be no problem once we saw how I tolerated chemo. And it was one of the staff who moved my appointment up four days.
Okay, so that means I have to rework my personal calendar to determine how I'm going to be feeling at different events and try and schedule around when I think I'm going to be wiped out.
The nurse (who is really very nice) warned my about avoiding "large crowds," so I decided it probably wasn't a good idea for me to be a Eucharistic Minister at Mass. But I did go to that and to my poetry group.
But I feel fine. I've been going to my aqua aerobics and aqua running classes for the last two weeks; working, riding BART, going to my favorite warehouse store to stock up on yogurt and string cheese so I'd have quick, high-protein snacks. I feel strong. So how can my white cell count be so low?
And then there's my hair.
My hair felt really dry. Then the roots started hurting, not a lot, but whenever I brushed it or the wind riffled through it. This past weekend, it's started coming out en masse, whether I brush my hair or not. I'm trying not to play with my hair (a habit of mine while reading) because I'd need a garbage bag or wastebasket nearby to dispose of the remnants. I am in a shedding competition with our dog.
Beauticians have commented on the amount of hair I have; my hair is fine, but there's a lot of it. I am now amazed myself. The "blonde" seems to be falling out; the silver-white gray is hanging in there, though for how much longer is a mystery. I bought some very nice hats on Saturday--DD#2 helped me pick them out; DD#1 critiqued them and approved of two, thought one was "very much you, Mom," and we agreed the fourth one needs some jazzing up. (It's white and a very soft cotton, which is why I bought it.) I took out some of my other hats and tried them on as well. My hat size is noticeably smaller and I can only attribute it to hair loss. At Mass last night, DD#2 kept brushing stray hair from my shoulders.
Hubs has slowing been losing his hair on top and the kids were teasing us about really looking alike as long-married couples often do (we've been married 30 years as of the middle of March).
"Yeah, but mine will grow back," I retorted. Hubs groaned.
Usually I pick my hat to match my outfit. Now I'm picking my outfit to match my hat!
I was going to use Jaime Escalante, the teacher who brought advanced math courses to the students at Garfield High School in East Los Angeles, as an example of someone with an "Encore" career. While Mr. Escalante was successful at Garfield, I thought I had read he had much less success when he moved to a different school with a different ethnic make-up. I went to Wikipedia to start my search, and found something else I hadn't known and hadn't thought of.
Mr. Escalante had to fight the academic establishment at Garfield to get the classes he wanted. He didn't have success until a principal came along who supported his efforts. In fact, when the principal, Mr. Escalante, and another teacher who used the same methods left Garfield, the math program fell apart.
One of the reasons Mr. Escalante left, according to Wikipedia, was professional jealousy from other teachers and the political in-fighting that often happens.
My school district had "Coach Carter," who benched the entire boys' basketball team when they failed to live up to their study contracts. Mr. Carter also did not have the support of the principal, but he remained steadfast and eventually the team got their academics together. What did the school district do? Move the principal from the inner-city high school to the suburban one, where she was just as ineffective. (She was the principal during DD#1's senior year and DS#2's freshman year, before we moved him to a different school in a neighboring district.)
Eventually the school district caught on and transferred her to a grammar school.
So how many people, after putting up with the "daily grindstone" of working for a corporation, will put up with the political machinations that go on inside most urban school districts?
And what do the NEA, AFT, and other teachers' unions think of this plan? After all, we simply cannot have unqualified (i.e., uncredentialed) people teaching our children. It would be absurd to have a former CPA teach economics or math or a former corporate lawyer teach about government.
Wouldn't it?
Teachers spend years learning classroom management and skills like how to teach reading and math and social studies to young children. How could anyone just "walk in off the street" and into a classroom and be successful?
Maybe they could be classroom aides. Or go to school for a year to earn their credential first. And then experienced teachers can "mentor" these Encore Career teachers and guide them through the political thicket of the typical school.
Okay--I'm being more than sarcastic here. I know that corporations are also political minefields. Still, I find there is a bit of the "Lady Bountiful" attitude in this suggestion: those of us "lucky" enough (because, you know, hard work and discipline never plays a part in one's success) will come to a classroom in an "underserved" area (another one of my favorite euphimisms) and spread enlightenment and learning on the children eager to lap at the pool of knowledge.
Which is why Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn are university professors, I guess, and not in the nitty gritty classrooms of a Chicago school.
My local paper carries Ellen Goodman's syndicated column. While she's an articulate writer, I often wonder what planet she's living on.
Scratch that. I know. She lives in Boston and summers at the Vineyard. You know, like regular folk.
Her latest column is "The Benefits of Working Longer" and I can't figure out whether she is for it or against it. I think this is her thesis:
But if the downturn comes with the seeds of generational conflict over jobs, it also carries packets of social change. There is a chance for the boomer generation to make a virtue - or a revolution - out of the necessity of working longer.
We already know that a growing corps of people in their 50s and 60s are more interested in renewal than retirement. Marc Freedman of Civic Ventures talks about "encore careers" for those who want to leave their midlife jobs and move into work with social value. (emphasis added-ed.)
Now, he says hopefully, "The one benefit of this economic crisis is to drive home the reality that longer working lives are going to be necessary and desirable. If we can give people a sense that contributing longer is not another set of years at the grindstone but an opportunity to do something they can feel proud of, we'll have accomplished something significant."
I find those words "social value" especially chilling. Who determines the social value of a particular job? I happen to enjoy my job and I help many customers make full use of the data my company provides, data my customers use to expand their businesses and hire more people. Or import more cargo, which provides jobs for Teamsters and stevedores and clerks and cargo inspectors and... You get the idea. Doesn't that have "social value"?
On May 5, Bishop Salvatore Cordileone will be installed as the fourth bishop of the Diocese of Oakland. Unfortunately, it's after DD#2's Confirmation--ah, well.
Bishop Cordileone comes from San Diego and has quite a theological background, having received his doctorate in theology in Rome. According to Fr. P, Bishop Cordileone has a reputation of being a theological conservative, which, if true, just might cause some friction the more liberal clergy at some of the local universities. I don't think that bothers Fr. P at all.
Bishop Cordileone was a parish priest in Calexico, just on the California side of Mexicali, and speaks fluent Spanish--a plus here as well. He's also young--52--so Fr. P wonders how long he will actually be with us before he's tapped for bigger and better things.
I haven't checked other Catholic blogs to find out more about him. The latest edition Catholic Voice, our diocesan newspaper, was published before Bishop Cordileone's appointment was announced. I'll be interested in what they have to say as well. The paper tends to have a liberal bent, although our previous bishop, Bishop Vigneron, was conservative.
(Can you be theologically conservative and politically liberal?)
As ever, prayers for the new Bishop who will have many challenges in the coming years.
For a friend of The Anchoress. Heather is pregnant and has an aggressive cancer, so is opting for radiation only until the baby is born. Please keep her and her family, including her baby, in your prayers.
Stories like Heather's give me some perspective in my own life. My "baby" is 15 and is well on her way to adulthood. She and the others may depend on me for emotional support and for guidance (along with a good deal of nagging on my part), but they are all self-sufficient. No one will starve if I can't cook dinner. They can shop, they can do their own laundry, they can even clean when the spirit moves them.
Even Hubs, whom I like to tease about his inability to multitask, can fend for himself.
I can afford to take an aggressive approach with my cancer. And for that I am grateful.
Last night Hubs, DD#1, DS#2, and I attended the annual banquet of La Ligue Henri IV. It was the 114th Anniversary banquet and we filled a table with my mother (who is the widow of a member), my three brothers (who are members) and their wives, and Sis#2. DS#2 is a new member and wore his tux. Bro#1 is now a Directeur, and eventually will move up the ladder.
Our great-grandfather belonged to La Ligue, founded as a benevolent society back in the 19th Century before the government designed programs to rescue us. The aims of the Ligue are simple: to provide insurance for the members, to promote French culture and language--particularly that of the Bearn, Basque, and Pau Valley (where Henri was born)--and for charitable works.
My great-grandfather must have found some comfort in going to meetings, dinners, and picnics and hearing the patois of his village, which is much different from the French of Paris. We are peasant stock, built low to ground, the men barrel-chested and the women wide-hipped, designed to climb the mountainsides.
I can't say that I appreciated this when I was a child, except for the food: hearty and heavily laced with garlic and onions.
La Ligue has widened its membership requirements in recent years, accepting those who do not necessarily have a French last name and whose French heritage is from a wider area. One thing has not changed: it's still men-only.
As the MC detailed the history of La Ligue, I thought back to other benevolent and fraternal organizations started around the same time: Lions, Moose, Elk, Rotary, Native Sons & Native Daughters of the Golden West, E Clampus Vitus, Italian Catholic Federation, the Caledonian Club, the Hibernians, and others. They were all designed to take care of their members or the widows and children of members as well as the wider community. Men and women met and mingled, took care of one another, sponsored youth groups and charitable causes such as providing eyeglasses for children who couldn't afford them.
I wonder if this is a model we, as a society, need to return to as "The Government" becomes overwhelmed trying to be all to everyone. There were over 1000 people at the banquet last night, most of them middle-aged, most who also have children they want to take care of and pass their culture to.
Odd to think that La Ligue may be as subversive in its own way as ACORN and MEChA.
My children are used to me exclaiming over the death of a celebrity whose name they don't recognize. I've been doing it a lot lately. But Natasha Richardson they knew as the mother in the remake of The Parent Trap with Lindsay Lohan.
And they know Liam Neeson as Obi Wan's mentor in The Phantom Menace.
To me, Ms. Richardson was one of those classic English beauties: blond, calm, self-possessed when needed, fiery and passionate inside. She seemed to have a graciousness onscreen. I remember he performance in Nell and in A Handmaid's Tale, though I didn't realize that she played "aFrank" until I read her obituary. The idea that she died from fall on the bunny slope seems preposterous. She didn't slam into a tree, as Sonny Bono did. She wasn't doing anything particularly daring or dangerous.
She was on holiday with her family.
May she rest in peace and may her husband and sons find comfort in her memory.
A Long Way Down, written by Nick Hornby, who also wrote Fever Pitch, About A Boy, and High Fidelity, is told from the perspectives of four people who happen to meet on New Year's Eve on the roof of the Toppers' House--intending to jump to their deaths. Each of them has a different reason: Martin, a former TV morning talk show host who was convicted of statutory rape; Maureen, who is the sole caretaker of her severely-disabled adult son (and has been for his entire life); J.J., a musician and the only American, who has broken up with both his band and his British girlfriend (and is mostly upset about the breakup of his band); and Jess, a seriously messed-up young woman with no impulse control whatsoever.
Maureen arrives on the roof as Martin is sitting on the edge, smoking, and contemplating his final act. When Jess rushes up to the roof, heading straight for the edge, Martin tackles her, and he and Maureen pin her down to prevent her from committing suicide. J.J. arrives with a pizza. The story follows them around as they form an unlikely bond and learn how each of them happened to arrive on the rooftop that fateful night.
And, in their own warped ways, they try to solve the problems that brought them to the edge, although it's not that each individual tries to fix what's wrong in their own life. That wouldn't be funny enough. Three of them try to fix the problems of the fourth, in a kind of rotation, although Jess is usually the catalyst.
There is definitely a British sensibility to all of this, along with the black humor. And some very substantial issues are discussed: what does it mean to be a mother, a father, a husband? What obligations does one individual have to another? How do the mundane, everyday choices one makes in life affect what happens later? What is one willing to sacrifice for love? How does one define oneself? How do subjects left undiscussed come back to haunt?
The story alternates among the first-person voices of each of the characters and very often key events are told from several different perspectives. Each voice is clearly labeled and has its own vocabulary and tone, so you know who is speaking. Mr. Hornby makes this technique work and it serves the story well.
The ending is pretty true to life: rather vague and open-ended. The characters are not the same people they were at the beginning, yet the changes are subtle. Each has moved out of the small circle of themselves and been forced into a wider world. Overall, they still are who they are, but their perspective has changed. And isn't that what happens to most of us over time?
On the March Hare scale: 3.5 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks.
crossposted at Catholic Media Review
Fr. P. has slowly been making our parish his own. His first steps were to bring our liturgical practices into conformance with GIRM. Not harshly, but firmly. He then went to work on the music.
He's a priest in the mold of Benedict: well-schooled theologically with a love of music. He brought back chanting to the Mass, especially during Christmas and the Triduum. He's encouraged our choirs to expand their repertoires and include some traditionally hymns and more vocally challenging pieces.
But his big project was restoring the organ in our church. He not only succeeded, he also enhanced it by adding more pipes that became available from a synagogue in San Francisco (which I find rather fitting, in a "completing the circle" kind of way).
Last night, the Bishop Emeritus came to bless our new organ, on the feast of the patron saint of our parish. A noted organist was brought in and we were treated to thirty minutes of music as he put all the pipes through their paces, demonstrating the range and the possibilities. That was followed by Mass.
DD#2 was one of the acolytes. Her primary job was to hold the Bishop's mitre and crosier. The Knights of Columbus were also there, swords, capes, and plumed hats. And I was reminded that singing with an organ is definitely not like singing with a piano! Organs can hold a note, so the pace of some of the familiar hymns was slower than usual, notably the Gloria. Which means my breathing had to change to match, something I had learned waaaaay back in the '60's.
And then there was the Recessional. The first few bars played and I laughed, unfortunately out loud. The organist chose Holy God, We Praise Thy Name, my all-time least favorite hymn. And we sang all three verses.
(Perhaps an explanation is in order. Growing up, in my pre-Vatican II parish, only one recessional hymn was ever sung: Holy God. In fact, Holy God was just about the only hymn sung in English. Now, I only know of about three people, not in a choir, who can actually sing this hymn without squeaking. I am not one of them.
(Just for the record, my other least favorite hymns are Come Holy Ghost, again because no one I know can sing it properly, and Faith of Our Fathers because I find the melody somewhat whiny. Come Holy Ghost was practically required at Pentecost and Confirmation, as was Faith of Our Fathers.
(I know, I know... all three are "classics." Frankly, I prefer Kumbyyah to any of them, especially when the congregation gets behind it!)
After Mass, we had a "St. Joseph's Table," an Italian tradition that I somehow missed. Basically, there was a table of food set up in the Parish Hall, all day long. And each family was encouraged to take a loaf of bread to bring home to share. The tradition started much like Thanksgiving: a village in Italy, facing famine, prayed to St. Joseph for a good harvest. Their prayers were answered, so they had a communal meal where all could share the bounty and celebrate. This was a wonderful way to end the day, talking and laughing with friends and fellow parishioners. I hope our Parish is able to carry this tradition forward next year.
On a funny note: the sanctuary was decorated with cala lilies. It took me twenty minutes before I made the connection between the lilies and St. Joseph. D'oh!
I can't wait to hear the organ during the Easter vigil.
Wow! I didn't realize it had been so long since I posted. I compose posts in my head at odd moments and somehow they never seem to make it online.
I had my first round of chemo about a week and a half ago and spent the rest of that week discovering how the chemicals were going to affect my body. The anti-nausea meds worked very well, especially when a friend mentioned that it's the kind of nausea that goes away if you eat something. Oh--like morning sickness! I know how to deal with that! So I ate crackers when I woke up and ate something every couple of hours. (So much for my Lenten fast...) Then, over the weekend, which was several days after I stopped taking the meds, I noticed my vision was blurry. Turns out one of the meds is a steroid and blurred vision can be a side effect. Swell--my choice is nausea or blurred vision. I'll take blurred vision for $100, Alex!
There was the expected fatigue and then there was the fatigue that crept up on me that I didn't always realize was there. There was constipation, despite drinking several quarts of water a day. There's the nagging sore throat, not a bad one, just one that worried me because I have a history of tonsillitis and strep. So I slept, added molasses to my morning oatmeal, and gargle with warm salt water.
This week I feel like my old self, so much so I went back to my aqua aerobics class yesterday. And then had to explain where I'd been since the beginning of the year. I'm one of the regulars and my absence was noted, which is a nice feeling, actually.
I cut my hair short, kind of like the pixie cut I wore as a girl, which everyone thinks is really cute. And "you got new glasses!" Well, yeah, back in November. People notice the hair and then notice the glasses.
I also made my oncologist laugh at my follow up appointment on Monday. I mentioned I had returned to the office on Thursday after my chemo and she was surprised.
"I had Girl Scout cookies to deliver," I said in explanation.
"Oh... Girl Scout cookies!"
"Yeah. We have our priorities."
"And I can see where Girl Scout cookies are a priority," she said and laughed.
As Sis#2 pointed out when I mentioned the doctor wants me to "keep up my calories": like there's any problem with that during cookie season! (My favorite? All of them, for different reasons and different moods.)
I also attended the special Mass & Anointing of the Sick held by my parish over the weekend. And, yes, I did feel better after attending. Part of it was the feeling of community: I am not alone, spiritually or physically, in my suffering. I have the Communion of Saints to get me through this.
My next treatment is a week from this Friday.
Also, please pray for my friend who was just diagnosed with Stage III lymphoma. She's known in our local Girl Scouting community as "Grandma Willow," and keeps us on our toes! Her daughter, one of my closest friends, is taking this turn of events very hard.
My surgeon just called: there was no cancer in the second excision she took, which means that the cancer on the edges of the first lumpectomy was it.
Thank You, Lord!
Yes--it is 6:07 p.m. and she called me personally.
I go in tomorrow so she can take a look at the incisions and how my breast is healing. Right now it's a lovely shade of green-and-purple and a little bit swollen.
Many thanks to all my friends who have been storming heaven on my behalf.
First hurdle done; two more to go.
The movie opens with a line up of the latest recruits for the New Jersey State Troopers. They have one more test: the obstacle course.
Paul Blart (Kevin James) is shorter--and considerably heavier--than the rest of the gang. But he climbs, crawls, jumps, and runs the course until he collapses--six inches from the finish line.
Paul has hypoglycemia, which causes him to fall asleep if he doesn't get enough sugar.
He discusses this with his family over the dinner his Mom (Shirley Knight) has prepared for Paul and his daughter, Maya (Raini Rodriguez). It's clear that food is the way Mom shows her unconditional love to her family.
Maya reminds Paul that he made a promise: if he was still single by November, he would sign up for an online dating service. Paul's first wife--Maya's mom--used Paul to get a green card, then split, leaving Maya behind. Mom and Maya help Paul fill out the application.
The next day, Paul takes his Segway to his job as a mall cop in New Jersey. He takes his job very seriously, which his co-workers don't understand. Paul is assigned to orient the new guy, Veck Sims (Keir O'Donnell) and teach him the ropes. Paul uses this opportunity to impart some of his philosophy about protecting the mall to Veck.
A new saleswoman for one of the kiosks catches Paul's eye. Amy (Jayma Mayes) smiles back at him and Paul is smitten. She invites him to join the gang for an after-work get-together where Paul inadvertently gets drunk and makes a fool of himself.
The next day, he apologizes, but Amy isn't sure what to make of him. She heads off to the bank and is taken hostage there as part of the mall takeover. Everyone else evacuates--except Paul, who was playing video games in the arcade and misses the excitement.
So he ends up being the only one on "the inside" for the police department and SWAT team. He has a chance to leave, but doesn't take it when he realizes Amy is one of the hostages.
But he's overweight, hypoglycemic, doesn't have a gun, and has no training. What can he do?
This movie is a "Happy Madison" film, which is Adam Sandler's production company. But there's no cameos by Mr. Sandler or any of his regulars. In fact, most of the actors are B-listers, whose faces you recognize but can't-quite-place. There's lots of physical comedy as well as playing off cultural and physical stereotypes, but I didn't find any of it malicious. No profanity. No nudity. Maya, who is a "tween-ager" is mostly sweet. She loves her dad, although she is a bit exasperated by him.
Paul has taken a lot of abuse: for his weight, for his inability to pass the State Trooper test, for his hypoglycemia, for his seriousness about his job. But he knows what's right and what's important. And he's not stupid.
DD#2 (15) saw this with some of her friends and thought it was hilarious. In fact, Hubs and I saw Mall Cop based on her recommendation. We enjoyed it, although I didn't find it as funny as she did. It's rated PG, which feels about right. Overall positive messages about family, ignoring stereotypes, and believing in yourself.
On the March Hare scale: 3.5 out of 5 Golden Tickets
crossposted at Catholic Media Review
Thursday afternoon I went in to have more tissue excised.
Doesn't that sound better than saying the surgeon hacked off another chunk of my boob?
I wasn't under as long, so I recovered faster. Except that I'm now taking a broad-spectrum antibiotic that is playing havoc with my stomach. (I am eating lots of yogurt.) And the bruising is turning my skin a lovely green-and-purple.
Next appointment is Wednesday to review the new pathology report. I'm praying the margins are now "clean" and this is the end of this stage. If not, then I'm looking at a mastectomy--or, as I prefer to think of it, becoming a left-handed Amazon.
Fortunately, I can do a lot of my job from home. Still, I find that there are files and things I need on my PC at work that I just don't have here.
I am truly touched by all the prayers and positive thoughts that have been sent my way. I have such a wonderful circle of friends and family!
Subtitled One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World, the book chronicles A.J. Jacob's quest to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, from a-ak to zywiec. The book is filled with the fascinating tidbits of information he discovers, for example that John Heisman of football trophy fame was a Shakespearean actor during the the off-season. Mr. Jacobs then wonders, "Why aren't there any Shakespearean football coaches nowadays?"
Mr. Jacobs also explores why he began this quest. The answer is not as straightforward as the entries. He is concerned that his time as editor of Entertainment Weekly has caused him to lose much of the knowledge he gained while at Brown. As a boy, he fancied himself the smartest boy in the world--a self-concept that was severely shaken as he grew up. And then there's the competition: his father, who has a truly amazing list of degrees and who has authored 24 or 25 serious, scholarly books on points of law, had also attempted this feat. Dad, however, dropped the project around the B's. Could the son accomplish what his father couldn't?
The project takes him about a year. There is a chapter for each letter of the alphabet, except for X, Y, and Z, which are combined. But how can Mr. Jacobs be sure he actually is becoming smarter?
Thus he investigates the nature of knowledge and "smartness." He joins Mensa, interviews a gentleman with an acknowledged stratospheric IQ, interviews Alex Trebek of Jeopardy!, and participates in the game show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? He looks for others who have read the entire encyclopedia. His search even leads him to Chicago and the headquarters of Britannica itself.
And, oh by the way, Mr. Jacobs is married and he and Mrs. Jacobs would like to have a baby.
I have a lot of natural sympathy for Mr. Jacobs. I, too, love arcane facts and get side-tracked easily while looking up words in dictionaries or checking facts in encyclopedias. (Internet databases have not helped. I only become side-tracked more quickly and more deeply.) Some of the facts Mr. Jacobs shares are interesting, some are odd, some are downright funny. His sense of humor is much like my own: wry, a little dark, self-deprecating, and fascinated by the world around him. (He is a pessimist, however, while I tend to be an optimist.) In fact, this book was a Christmas present to me from DD#1 who saw the title and knew I'd enjoy it. (She knows me too well!)
What keeps this book from being a classic, however, is that Mr. Jacobs is truly a product of his environment: a secular Jewish liberal, born and raised in New York City (Manhattan, in fact), educated in elite private schools. Everyone around him is a liberal. His parents have an apartment in Manhattan and a country home in East Hampton. His friends get married in Italy, so Mr. Jacobs and his wife fly over, spending time in Venice before attending the wedding.
So of course he takes potshots at President Bush, with kind of a knowing wink because everyone feels this way. It's obvious. One or two cheap shots I could overlook. But there are several. They were unnecessary. It's almost as if Mr. Jacobs couldn't resist. So what could have been a classic book instead becomes more limited.
Okay, it was interesting as an anthropological study of a certain segment of Manhattan's socio-economic-cultural strata. A society I will certainly never fit into even if I do read the entire Britannica myself.
On the March Hare scale: 4 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks
crossposted at Catholic Media Review
Ostensibly, Marley & Me is about the world's worst dog. In reality, it's about family and love.
John (Owen Wilson) and Jen (Jennifer Aniston) Grogan are newlyweds. Jen has their life together all planned: moved somewhere warm, get jobs, buy a house. When a houseplant dies, Jen complains, "How am I supposed to take care of a kid when I can't take care of a stupid plant?", John realizes what Jen's next "step" is. He discusses this with his bachelor friend and colleague, Sebastian, who recommends getting a puppy. So John takes Jen off to a breeder where they get a "Clearance Sale" puppy--Marley.
Marley turns out to have a few quirks. He eats anything and everything. He's afraid of thunderstorms. He has nearly unlimited energy and an unconquerable will. He is untrainable. And he loves John and Jen unconditionally.
And they love Marley, despite all the chaos he brings to their lives.
John is offered a chance to write a twice weekly column. Initially, he's reluctant to accept it because he sees himself as a reporter. But the offer includes a raise, so he takes the assignment. His first column is about Marley. His editor (Alan Arkin) reads it and, perfectly deadpan, says, "This is hilarious. I'm laughing my ass off here."
Eventually, John and Jen decide to have a baby. Jen announces she's pregnant at the same time John's colleague, Sebastian, is offered a chance to go to the Middle East--and he wants to bring John along. John has to make a real choice here: career versus family.
And then Jen has a miscarriage.
John doesn't know what to do. But Marley does.
The Grogans do have children eventually and Jen has choices to make as well. Although Marley doesn't treat the children as chew toys, he's still pretty incorrigible and Jen becomes overwhelmed with it all. John is feeling the stress as well: he's the sole breadwinner and his column is now running five days a week. A decision--a serious one--has to be made about Marley and his place in the family. John and Jen also have to make a decision about their future as well.
Because the movie is based on the real-life experiences of the actual John Grogan, many of the scenes hit home for Hubs and me. The conversations John and Jen had were conversations that we've had, albeit with wittier lines. Their relationship with their kids, as well as the relationship of the kids with Marley, rang true. Despite the comedy, this movie does not sugar-coat the sacrifices each partner makes so that marriage and family life works.
The ending is predictable but not overly sentimental. The parents acted like adults, not hiding the facts of life from their children but helping them cope with the inevitable.
Bring tissues.
This movie is rated PG but I wouldn't bring young children (although there were some in the audience), mostly because the emotional undertones might be overwhelming. There is some swearing, a couple of implied sex scenes between John and Jen (hey--they're married, right?), one implied nude scene (again, it's John and Jen in the privacy of their own backyard). DD#2 (who is 15) enjoyed the movie, although she didn't always laugh at the same parts Hubs and I did. On the way home we talked about the dogs in our family, especially our current dog who broke through a closed window as a puppy--twice--and was notorious for chewing stuffed toys and underwear. (Fortunately, old age has mellowed her. She is currently sleeping on the couch next to me.)
The casting, by the way, is superb. Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston play off each other well. They look like real people who have lived real lives. They're sweet and goofy and serious when they should be. Alan Arkin plays John's unsentimental editor who pushes him to grow into adulthood. Kathleen Turner has a great cameo as the obedience school trainer. Eric Dane is Sebastian, the eternal bachelor and the life John Grogan could have had. Sebastian could be a sleaze, but he's not. The actors who play the Grogan kids are not precocious or overly adorable.
Kudos also to the animal trainers and handlers as well as the dogs who played Marley at different ages. Having a dog misbehave on cue is no small feat!
On the March Hare scale: 5 out of 5 Golden Tickets. An especially good "date night" movie for us old married couples who have raised a dog and a kid or two.
crossposted at Catholic Media Review
Thursday afternoon was the Big Day. The two youngest went off to school for finals, the second oldest to work. I stayed up late Wednesday night because I wasn't going to be able to eat or drink after midnight (just call me "Gizmo") and I wanted to forestall a migraine induced by low blood sugar because my surgery was scheduled for the afternoon.
I took a shower, washed my hair, dressed in a button-front shirt, flannel pj pants, and slip on shoes. And after Hubs and I found the correct place to check in, got prepped and... waited.
No laptop. No cell phone. Just me and my latest issue of Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. They finally let Hubs back to keep me company. Plenty of time for a quick Act of Contrition (got to cover all the bases, right?) and Apostles' Creed.
The staff was wonderful. But the questions--Oy! I repeated my name, my medical ID number, which breast needed surgery. I confirmed that certain opiates make me vomit. I confirmed that I was not pregnant, that I did not have to pee (come on--I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since midnight. What was supposed to come out?), that my blood pressure and pulse rate usually are ridiculously low.
"How do you respond to anesthesia?" the anesthesiologist asked.
"I have no idea. This is my first surgery," I explained. I was almost apologetic. "I always thought that was a good thing."
She agreed.
Did I mention that, except for the recovery room nurses, the staff looks like they are the same age as my children?
I remember the anesthetic going into my IV. I remember waking up. I have no idea how long surgery actually took.
When the nurses told me I looked a little blue, I thought it was because I had just come out of surgery and was feeling a little nauseous. But actually I was blue from the dye the surgeon injected to find the tumor. I also had a drain in my armpit.
Hubs brought me home and surrounded me with soup, yogurt, and orange juice. I snuggled into the recliner and fell asleep.
The next morning, I got up and went to the bathroom. What a surprise! Somehow I missed the note in the Post-Op Instructions about how the blue dye gets out of my system.
One of the recovery nurses called me to see how I was doing and to make sure I was managing my pain. Fortunately, I haven't had much--my broken arm hurt much worse. I had a kind of sinus-migraine-type headache and a sore throat (from the tube) and that's about it. The drain is more bothersome than painful as I try to limit the use of my left arm.
I have an appointment on Wednesday to go over what the surgeon found, assuming the lab reports are back. And hopefully to get this drain out. Sometime after that I'll meet with an oncologist to plan chemo treatments and radiation.
Hubs, DD#2, and I went to a movie on Sunday to forestall cabin fever and to make me get up and walk around. I did change out of my post-op attire but am now back in mis-matched gear. I'm am also trying to convince Hubs that I have plenty of "bulk" at this point--I don't need to keep eating constantly. Especially since my exercise level is practically nil.
Thanks to all for keeping me in your prayers and sending good thoughts my way. I appreciate them as I continue down the road.
I have heard about the "dark night of the soul," when one feels abandoned by God. But I had never read the famous book of that name by St. John of the Cross. The book is primarily aimed at spiritual directors, but it's also a good background on the concept and what to expect.
The idea has its roots, really, in the story of Job, who is alternately rewarded and punished by God. In Dark Night, St. John compares the dark night to gold being refined by fire. The process is painful, but necessary for the ore to become something beautiful, pure, and precious. All the dross is melted away as the soul becomes more like its Creator, the better to become one with Him: "Souls begin to enter the dark night when God is drawing them out of the state of beginners, which is that of those who meditate on the spiritual road, and is leading them into that of proficients, the state of contemplatives, that, having passed through it, they may arrive at the state of the perfect, which is that of the divine union with God." (Ch. 1)
There are two stages: the Night of the Sense and the Night of the Spirit. The Night of the Sense is the first stage and, frequently, many who begin the journey go no further. Many beginners fall into the sin of pride--much like the Publican in the parable, they are proud of their devotion, their sacrifice, their good works. But as they grow, they become humble, looking at others as better, "regard(ing) them with a holy envy in their anxiety to serve God as they do." (Ch. 1)
St. John goes on to list and explain other spiritual sins that beginners make. These mostly have to do with our human need to feel (both physically and emotionally), to see, to hear, to taste. Our bodies distract our souls from the perfect contemplation of God and Satan uses these weaknesses to his advantage. During the first night, "God is now changing that light into darkness, and sealing up the door of the fountain of the sweet spiritual waters, which they tasted in God as often and as long as they wished." (Ch. 8) No comfort is found in things of God, nor in "created things." St. John then goes on to explain how those who have entered this first night are to behave and the necessary role of a spiritual guide.
Once this stage is completed, a person may stop there or may experience only a respite for the much more rigorous dark night of the spirit. This stage requires much more from the spiritual director because those going through it feel completely abandoned by God. They must continue on their journey with complete and utter faith in Him. The length of time required for this dark night may be months or years. There may be periods were God shows His Face and His Love is directly and powerfully felt, but then withdrawn, forcing the seeker to trust and believe. And to pray--always prayer.
The end is complete union with God. St. John intimates that for most of us, Purgatory will be our Dark Night of the Soul; very few reach the state of perfection while here on Earth. (This is probably as good an explanation for Purgatory as any I've heard.)
This edition, translated by David Lewis and published by Saint Benedict Press Classics, is 189 pages, heavily footnoted, with short chapters. But the text is really dense. I found I could only read a chapter or so at a time because the prose is a bit clunky. And it can be repetitive, in the manner of a teacher who says, "Have you got this yet?" I haven't read any of St. John's other works which might have helped. A study guide, either a person or a booklet, probably would have helped as well. But Dark Night of the Soul did shed some understanding of what Blessed Mother Teresa experienced and wrote about.
When Mother Teresa's spiritual trials were revealed, I read comments by some Christians that were rather disparaging, mostly from those who hold to sola scriptura. The "dark night" might be a peculiarly Catholic tradition--although I wouldn't be surprised if this is also understood in the Orthodox religions as well, since they have a monastic tradition.
Biographical background about St. John of the Cross can be found in Wikipedia. I was kind of surprised by the list of those influenced by his thoughts, which included Dorothy Day and Pope John Paul II.
This isn't Catholic-lite. And it's not a book that I understood at first reading. It deserves more study than I'm prepared to give at this point, but I would like to return to it and to St. John's other works, as well as those of St. Teresa of Avila.
After our Girl Scout meeting last night, DD#2 wanted to go to the local Big Chain Bookstore. She needed to pick up a birthday present for a friend who loves manga.
Unfortunately, the Big Chain Bookstore was having their After Holidays 75% off sale. And, since I'm a member, I believe I even got a discount from that.
Five books (four for me and the manga for DD#2) later we left. The total was less than $20.
So I picked up The Federalist: The Famous Papers on the Principles of American Government (I thought the topic was timely), Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson (inspiration for my own poetry, maybe), The Short & Bloody History of Knights, Spies, and Pirates (just for fun and because, thanks to my dad, I am a sucker for both knights and pirates), and A Long Way Down by Nick Hornsby. Mr. Hornsby also wrote About A Boy and Fever Pitch which I really enjoyed.
There's something about books that are deeply discounted or remaindered that tugs at my heartstrings, kind of like the puppies and kittens in the SPCA display at Macy's during Christmastime. I want to adopt them all. Unlike puppies or kittens, books just need to be stacked, dusted occasionally, read, and ultimately shared.
Still I rather regret leaving behind a nice edition of Christmas stories by Charles Dickens, which included A Christmas Carol, the only one I've ever read. This edition had gilt edges and a ribbon bookmark and old-fashioned type. But I know I wouldn't read it. So I left it behind along with some "beach" novels that also looked like fun. It's kind of like putting back a piece of clothing you really, really like so you don't feel guilty about the money you are spending.
Surgery has been pushed back to Thursday.
Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor? Patience has never been one of my strong suits.
Add to that, no one can tell me much of anything until after surgery. Everything "depends" because everyone is different. I know this intellectually. But I am one who Likes to Plan. In fact, when Hubs was still Boyfriend, he was amazed at how quickly--and how far ahead--my calendar filled up. I like Knowing.
Now I don't. This bugs me.
At work everyone has been supportive for the most part, except there is a little bit of "who is going to take care of my customers while you're out?" Unfortunately, my boss will be out of her office while she's helping another office relocate. The other office has the only other Customer Support person outside of HQ. So three of us will be unavailable (out of seven). Sales reps aren't always very patient either.
I know this is Not My Problem. But I hate being a burden, especially since the others also have their own projects. I'm working from home again tomorrow, hoping to catch up a bit.
Friday afternoon the surgeon called. She has an opening for the next Wednesday--do I want it?
Next Wednesday? I wasn't planning to have surgery for another two weeks! I have projects to do, customers to train, reports to send off!
After I finished hyperventilating, I accepted.
Then I spent the weekend catching up with chores. The simple ones: dishes, laundry, taking down the Christmas tree and the decorations.
Yeah, our tree was still up. I didn't feel too badly, though--many of my friends also had just taken their trees down as well. We commiserated about the boxes now decorating our living rooms.
And I did what any good Catholic does in a crisis: I went to Reconciliation.
I always have difficulty with Reconciliation. It's not that I don't have sins; it's just that my sins seem so... boring. I lose my patience with Hubs and the kids. I have difficulty not holding a grudge against my MIL. I goof off at work and don't give my all. I gossip. I have a "smart mouth."
How many times have I confessed to these over the course of my life? (With Hubs & kids taking the place of parents and siblings.) I have improved some--I'm much better at restraining my impulse for the "zinger" around people I don't know well. But, overall, my weaknesses are my weaknesses and improvement is incremental.
Reconciliation is also a lot like getting called into the Principal's office. My hands get cold, my heart races. I am now going to hold myself accountable to someone. It's kind of like announcing that I'm going on a diet. My sins become public, as does my failure to reform. If I don't tell anyone, no one will know that I've failed except me. And I can continue on the charade of being a better person than I know I am.
Because going to Reconciliation (especially since this was as an individual) is so tough, I know it's good for me. Humbles me in a real way. And I always feel better afterwards, especially if the priest doesn't let me off the hook too easily--which some of them do.
Am I ready to face what Wednesday will bring? Not entirely. But more than before.
And I've got breast cancer.
The tumor is small--about the size of a pea. But it definitely needs to come out. I've opted for a lumpectomy and radiation. I met with the surgeon today and surgery is scheduled for February 3, unless there's an earlier opening. Radiation starts about a month after surgery. I also had an EKG and pre-op blood tests.
Besides the tumor, the surgeon will also remove at least one lymph node under my arm. If that's clear, she won't have to remove more. I probably won't have to go through chemo, but we won't know until after the surgery.
I'm beginning to hate Januarys. Otherwise, I'm in my "take charge and do something" mode, which is good for me mentally. I'll break down later. I'm not looking forward to telling my mother & the two youngest kids about this.
Continued prayers appreciated!
DD#2 and 59 fellow candidates for Confirmation left this afternoon for their weekend retreat. She and two friends are bunking together--I feel for their counselors.
Please pray for these teens (most are sophomores in high school, so they're 15 & 16 years old) as they learn more about the Catholic faith and their place in it.
The Coordinator of Lectors emphasizes the importance of our ministry. "You never know who you will reach by your proclaiming the Word of God," she says at every meeting.
Last night I was a Eucharistic Minister at the Youth Mass. One of the altar servers was fairly new, but I've known her since she was in Kindergarten at the Parish School and through Girl Scouts. I'm in the Sanctuary, getting ready to receive the smaller ciborium to hand out the Body of Christ, when she comes up to me.
"I don't feel good," she whispers.
She is slightly hunched and has her hand cupped over her mouth, which my mommy-sense tells me is the sign she's ready to throw up.
"Go to the sacristy," I whisper back and point. (Just in case she's forgotten or didn't understand me.)
She leaves. I think about following her, but there's Father K. (a new priest himself) standing there. I take the ciborium and head out to my spot.
On my way, I look for the altar server's mom. Like most of us, she sits in the same spot, more or less, each week. She and I find each other.
"She's in the sacristy. There's a bathroom there," I whisper.
Mom nods and heads off.
After Mass, I notice the girl was in the pew with Mom, looking very pale.
Part of me wonders what she would have done if I hadn't been there. Would she have been brave enough to go up to another adult and tell them she didn't feel well? Or did she come to me because she knew me as the mom of DD#2? (I had spoken to her briefly before Mass.)
Chalk this up as one of my more unusual experiences in ministry... :)
For me. Tomorrow I go in for a breast biopsy
I find it awkward to ask for prayers for myself. Part of me wants to stay in the background. Another part--the proud part--thinks I can handle this on my own. Or that I should be able to. I've never been very good at public announcements like this.
Just before Christmas, I went in for a routine mammogram. Just after Christmas, I was called back for a second look at my left breast, followed by a sonogram.
The radiologist found a small "nodule" in the middle of my left breast. It's about the size of a pea and can only be seen on a mammogram, not felt. So my timing was just about as perfect as it could be. Since this is a suspicious nodule/mass/lump--not a cyst and it has irregular edges-- the doctor encouraged me to get a biopsy as soon as possible.
And then I wait a week for the results.
BTW, I cannot say enough good things about my HMO, Kaiser Permanente, at this point. The Nurse-Practitioner called me twice from home to set up the appointment for the biopsy and for the follow-up appointment with the surgeon (as she said, "If you don't need it, it's easy to cancel). And then my GYN, who works out of a different facility, called me as soon as he received the results of the first mammogram. He called me both on my cell and at home to make sure I was receiving the appropriate follow-up care and to ask if I had any questions.
I told Hubs and the kids at home but haven't told the rest of the family. I figured I'd wait until I know more. I left a garbled message for my boss (who works on the East Coast) about why I need tomorrow off.
Meanwhile, life goes on, albeit I'm a bit distracted and worried. At this point, I've been praying and trying to live "Thy Will be done"--and mean it. ;)
BTW, Ladies, if you have been putting off getting a mammogram, please don't.
The movie opens with a voice-over: Marty Bronson (Jonathan Pryce, who played Elizabeth Swan's father in Pirates of the Caribbean) explains how he started the Sunny Vista motel and the reactions of his two children, Wendy and Skeeter. Wendy is a serious and solemn girl. Skeeter has a wonderful imagination and a sense of adventure. Skeeter loves living in the motel and can imagine nothing better than to run it when he grows up.
Alas, Marty Bronson is no businessman and is forced to sell his motel to his rival, Barry Nottingham (Richard Griffiths). However, he does make Mr. Nottingham promise that his children can live in the motel as long as they want and that Skeeter will have a chance to run it some day. Mr. Nottingham promises and Mr. Bronson signs the contract.
Cut to the present. The modest motel is now an upscale hotel and Skeeter (Adam Sandler) is the maintenance man. He's a good maintenance man, but is clearly not seen as hotel management material. The head concierge is Aspen (Lucy Lawless) who treats Skeeter with disdain. However, he is not intimidated by her and answers her tit-for-tat.
Skeeter has another rival: Kendall (Guy Pearce) who is named as the "Manager Apparent" for Mr. Nottingham's new mega-hotel. Kendall is also dating Mr. Nottingham's daughter, who loves to party and is often photographed coming out of the hottest clubs.
Meanwhile Wendy (Courteney Cox) is going through a bitter divorce. She is the principal of a local school, which is slated to be closed. She has an interview in Arizona and asks Skeeter to watch her two children, splitting the duties with her best friend, Jill. Jill will take the "day shift"--getting the kids to school. Skeeter has them at night, along with their guinea pig, Bugsy.
His first night with them, he realizes he has to do something to entertain them, as Wendy does not have a television and the kids' books are all of the crunchy organic/progressive kind. Skeeter decides to make up a bedtime story, much as his dad with him and Wendy.
The story is a barely concealed sketch of Skeeter's life at the hotel, illustrating all his frustrations. The kids, Bobbi and Patrick, start to get into it and add their own scenes to the story. The story ends with Patrick exclaiming, "And then it rains gumballs!"
Skeeter brushes it off as a bit of childhood whimsy and gets them to bed. However, the next day events follow the narrative of the story pretty closely. It even "rains" gumballs! Skeeter tries to explain this to Jill (Keri Russell), who thinks it is merely coincidence. However, Skeeter tries to take the story in a new direction, one more positive for him. But the kids interrupt, adding their own twists.
The next day, events happen that mimic the story, but only the parts of the story the kids have added.
Meanwhile, Mr. Nottingham has announced a competition between Kendall and Skeeter: whoever comes up with the best theme for the new hotel will become the manager.
And then there's the fate of the school where Wendy is Principal, Jill is a teacher, and the kids are students. Can it be saved?
There is some clever wordplay, reminding me of the Amelia Bedelia stories, where confusion reigns because the same word often has several meanings--especially between a six-year-old and a thirty-something-year-old.
This is a Disney movie, so there's no nudity, no bad language. Several archetypical stories are represented. Discussions of divorce and the impact it has on a child's emotions (the absent dad is mentioned but never seen). I did find it rather odd that Wendy would have to go to Arizona for a teaching job when the Los Angeles Unified School District is the largest in the state. And Principals are covered by California Teachers' Union seniority rules. The only Sandler regular who appears is Rob Schneider and even his character is restrained.
Hubs, DD#1 (who is 22), and DD#2 (who is 15) saw it with me. Our verdict: it's a cute movie, especially suited for grandparents to take the kids during the holidays. I'm not sure, though, which age level/s Disney was aiming for. Bobbi and Patrick appear to be five and six, but I don't think kids that young would get the story. Tweens (11 and 12-year-olds) would probably be bored, especially if they were expecting more typical Sandler craziness. DD#2 didn't like it right off the bat, but thought it was "pretty good" after she thought about it.
Bedtime Stories is not a typical Sandler movie--he's much more restrained, although there are plenty of snarky comments between him and the other adult cast members. I thought there were clever and funny, but then verbal "zingers" are an honored tradition in my family.
We saw this at a matinee--I wouldn't pay full price to see this one. Bedtime Stories might do better in the rental market, either on DVD or cable.
On the March Hare scale: 3.5 out of 5 Golden Bookmarks.
crossposted at Catholic Media Review
There's something special about college football. While money is always a factor, for most of the athletes, college is the last time they'll get to play in a stadium in front of a crowd. For many of the seniors, there is no "next year." They seem to want to win for the sake of winning and will lay their bodies on the line for a trophy as simple as an Axe, a Bell, a Cup. And if they get to play for larger stakes--a shiny silver trophy awarded on national television--so much the better.
The play-calling is more creative, the coaches more willing to try a stunt play. The Song Girls/Dance Team/Pom-Pom Girls look like the girls next door and often cry when the team loses. The Cheerleaders/Yell Leaders and the Mascots give their all to rally the audience behind the team.
This year Cal was invited to the Emerald Bowl, located a mere 1.5 miles from my office. The Bowl sponsors were thrilled: they got their first sell-out. The Cal Seniors were happy: they played their last game in front of a home crowd. And Cal fans were excited: it was cheaper to see the Emerald Bowl than the Big Game versus Stanford. Cal fans bought up their allotment and all the tickets the University of Miami turned back in. Ten members of my family attended--thanks, Mom! And Happy Day-After-Your-Birthday, too. :)
The only Bowl Game that would have made us happier would have been the Rose Bowl.
Jahvid Best, who played for the local Catholic High School in my neck of the woods, gave the right answer when asked about next year's Heisman Trophy: "We want the National Championship!" Turns out the Rose Bowl hosts the BCS Championship game in 2010.
Ah-ha.
The game turned out to be closer than it seemed like it would be. Miami's team is young and I foresee great things for their young quarterback. I wouldn't be surprised to see another Cal vs. Miami match-up at a Bowl Game next year. Meanwhile, I hope Tedford finds the answer to the passing game: a QB who can throw accurately and Wide Receivers who can catch consistently.
The Pac-10 is now 5-0 in Bowl Games this season and will gain some respect among the football pundits.
Nah. Don't think so.
Other games are on, allowing Hubs and I to watch dispassionately, analyzing strengths and weaknesses of the various teams. Next week it will all be over and I'll reading about the Giants and the A's, their bullpens and the stadium plans of the A's.
