If The Decorations Are Up

It must be Saint Nicholas Day!

This is my fifth Christmas season in this apartment. Hard to believe I've been here that long.

I've had the tinsel tree for four years. I moved it over this year, and I put out more of my St. Nicholas/Santa Claus collection--both around the tree and in the little room.
















And here's the mantle with the Nativity collection. If you want a closer look at the individual nativities, you can find pictures in this post from a couple of years ago.


The red stocking is half of a pair I made for Brian's and my first Christmas in our apartment, which means it's 24 years old. The green one is about 12 years old or so, when I made new stockings for Mom, Bill, and me. There are six more down in Pennsylvania. I made one for each of my brother's children when they were born. When the youngest received his, my brother asked me to make ones for him and his wife.

And here's a post by my friend Ann over at Episcopal Cafe: Guilty Advent Pleasures.

Happy Saint Nicholas Day!

Peace,
Jeff

Odds And Ends

A few bits and pieces of stuff that struck me as I read through some of the blogs I regularly peruse.

They Also Serve Who Are Knuckleheads, by Heidi Shott in the Daily Epsicopalian section of Episcopal Cafe:

Can ministry be as simple as a couple of knuckleheads saying “yes” when asked serve and then letting the Holy Spirit do its mysterious thing? I’ve been mulling it over, and it seems the answer to that question is “yes.”

Failure of Formation by my friend and former colleague Jan Nunley on her Jawbones:

What astounds me about this is that anyone who has been ordained in a mainline denomination, with the preparation and education that entails...heck, that anyone born or naturalized as a citizen of this country...would not understand that--in these United States, at least--there is no obligation on clergy to perform any marriage ceremony. Period. Full stop. It's called The First Amendment.

Mark Harris is Rummaging Through The Blue Book (two posted so far) on Preludium:

In the run up to General Convention I am reviewing various resolutions coming up and would appreciate any thoughts from readers.

Grandmere Mimi, an online acquaintance I would like to get to know better, writes about a recent visit to WalMart on her Wounded Bird:

Oh yeah! I went to Walmart yesterday. You folks get to read about my every visit, because I seldom venture to the big box, and every trip is memorable. I'm close to phobic about going there. By his request, my grandson and I went to buy his birthday presents yesterday.

For those of you who don't read my mother's blog, go read The Peace of Grief:

It has been almost ten years since my mother's death. I think I am finally at peace with it and with her. Thanks be to God!

Dan Roam's new book Unfolding the Napkin is due out in January:

I structured the book as a complete four-day visual-thinking seminar, taking readers step-by-step from "I can't draw" to "Here is the picture I drew that I think will save the world."

And finally, a piece that is on all four of the blogs associated with my parish, which you can find on the parish web site:

Grace Episcopal Church is not closing anytime soon. If indeed Grace does close, it will leave a hole in the city of Norwalk, and it will do so not with a whimper but with a bang, preaching, learning and living the gospel for all to see, here at the corner of Union Park and Mott Avenue, one way or another, every day of the week.

Peace,
Jeff

The Wearin' O' The Orange

I know. I know. On St. Patrick's Day here in the States everyone is Irish. As time goes by March 17 becomes less and less a religious observance, less and less a celebration of ethnic pride, and more and more an excuse for drinking and acting foolishly--a mid-Lent Mardis Gras, so to speak.

However, not everyone is welcome. ILGO, the Irish Lesbian and Gay Organization, is still denied a place in the New York City parade by its organizers, the Ancient Order of Hibernians (AOH). In order to keep ILGO out, the AOH continues to resort to the argument that the parade is primarily a religious observance, and since lesbians and gays are not welcome by the Roman Catholic Church, and the AOH is an organization primarily of Roman Catholics...

It's enough to make me want to wear orange in protest.

I am not, however, that naive. The color orange carries enormous political, social, and historical baggage in Irish Communities. The Loyal Orange Institution (or Order) is a staunch defender of a Protestant Northern Ireland as a part of Great Britain. Every year they insist on their right to march through Catholic neighborhoods, keeping the generations old bitterness alive.

I could legitimately wear orange. My Irish forebears were Presbyterians from Ballymena, County Antrim, in the north. My great-great-grandfather James Dick Blakley and his brother served in Irish regiments of the British Army. He even wrote a letter to the editor of the Westchester County Reporter (while he was living in Montreal, Quebec) proudly giving a history of the family's military history, including participation in the fight against the rebels during the Uprising of 1798.

But I know better, especially in New York City on St. Patrick's Day...

Peace,
Jeff

Of Growing Older

I spent the afternoon visiting an elderly friend while her husband went out for a couple of hours. They are both in their 80's, and he is the primary caretaker. It was a gift to both of them as well as to me. He appreciated some time for himself, and she appreciated having someone else to chat with. She did most of the talking and kept apologizing for doing so. I reassured her that I enjoyed listening, and for most of the afternoon it was a conversation.

In some ways the visit disturbed me. Walking into their living room gave me flashbacks to more than 20 years ago. At that time I did some part-time work for a friend who was a court-appointed conservator for elderly people with no relatives in the area (or at all). After a death, I would go into the house to sort through belongings, clean the house, supervise the removal of furniture, and send specified "effects" to heirs. The living room I walked into this afternoon reminded me of many of those homes--stacks of papers, magazines, and newspapers; dirty carpets and dusty furniture; and a musty smell. And this couple is still able to do most things for themselves.

I know she will tell me not to, but I worry about Mom. Especially after visits like this afternoon's. I don't want to be one of those children who doesn't have time to regularly visit their parents. I don't want to arrive at her home one day and see piles of stuff gathering dust on unvacumed floors. I know that as the older son, I will probably end up as the primary caretaker. And you know what, that's okay. I want Mom to be as independent as possible for as long as possible, even if that means I have to figure out how to find a place big enough for her, my stepfather (he might as well be...), and me.

I also worry about me. When I got home this evening, I immediately cleaned up the couple of stacks of things around my apartment. The only stack left is the "working pile" on my desk, which I go through about once a month to clear out anything that needs to be filed, tossed, or dealt with. I don't want to be one of those people living surrounded by piles of stuff. It scares me a little to think that I could easily become one. I wonder, as a single person with no children, who will take care of me when I get to that stage of life?

All of which leads me to wonder, where is the church in all of this? Isn't this one of the things we should be doing, caring for our elders, our wise ones, those who have cared for us over the years?

Peace,
Jeff

As The Teapot Turns

I'm back from spending a week with my brother's family. For the first part of the week it was just me and my nephews, as my brother and sister-in-law were away for a few days. My niece stopped by one evening for dinner. It was a lazy week. We spent afternoons at the pool, played Carcassonne, watched TV, and read books. Well, the boys watched TV. I read a lot.

And I spent nearly an entire week away from the Anglican Tempest in a Teapot. The oldest nephew's laptop couldn't hold its wireless connection, and the desktop has a very slow modem connection. With two teenagers and a ten-year-old in the house, "Uncle Older Guy" didn't have much of a chance to get online to check email, the blogs, or news of things Anglican after the "GAFCON 8" story.

Not much has changed. Well, a statement was issued by the GAFCON participants--or at least their leaders. The statement has been dissected, parsed, and rehashed by just about everyone. Bishop Bennison has been found guilty. And Anglican bishops around the globe are preparing to depart for the Lambeth Conference.

Before I left for my brother's, I wrote four of the Lambeth Bible Studies and scheduled them to be published. It's a neat feature of Blogger. I didn't finish the one for last Friday, figuring I could finish it during the week. I guess it's a good thing I wrote the other four ahead, given the computer situation...

So now I will finish Friday's Bible Study, write today's and tomorrow's. Then I'll take some time and look at the blogs to catch up on the tempest in the teapot.

Maybe...

Peace,
Jeffri

Bible Study With The Bishops: Eating Flesh And Blood

Reading Plan Text for March 27: John 6: 51-58

There is a family story about two siblings of my mother's generation. The elder was being confirmed, and the family decided that the younger should be as well. Since they younger had not been baptized, both rites were conducted on the same day as the elder's confirmation. When the two youngsters received communion, the younger became quite ill. The image of the bread and wine as the body and blood of Christ was too real for the younger sibling.

In this passage we see John the Mystic at work. Burridge does an excellent job of working through the layers and layers of meaning.

We also see Jesus pushing the envelope in ways not seen in the Synoptic Gospels, at least not this early in the story. Is it any wonder that "the Jews then disputed among themselves"? (Burridge points out that the Greek word actually means "fought".) In spite of several strains of Jewish Mysticism, it serves John's purpose to make those disputing with Jesus pretty literal minded.

Peace,
Jeffri

Keeping Secrets

A couple of days ago the news came across one of my mail lists that Honor Moore had written a book about her father, Bishop Paul Moore that is due out in May. It also noted that an excerpt would be appearing in the upcoming issue of The New Yorker. This morning a link to an online interview with Honor on the magazine's web site came across the same list. I listened to the interview while doing some filing, and I bought the March 3 issue on my way to the train home. I was catching up on other reading during the trip home, so I didn't get to Honor's excerpt until this evening while working on my parish web site (graphics are cumbersome in the content management system I've inherited, so I had lots of "wait time" during which to read).

Reactions to the article have already started to hit the blogosphere: Elizabeth Kaeton's Telling Secrets, Mark Harris' Preludium, and Episcopal Cafe's The Lead are the first three I happened across. The story hasn't yet hit the conservative blogs I usually read, nor even that place I try not to visit. I'm sure it won't be too long before it does. Nor will it be long before some of the liberals also start to rip the good bishop to shreds. As Elizabeth writes:

There will be rending of garments and much wailing and moaning and gnashing of teeth on both sides of the aisle about this book and her revelation.

Some will cry that many LGBT people could have been helped and the church's journey to greater social justice advanced years sooner "if only he had told the truth."

Others will cry that the church and his legacy is soiled by this truth that should have remained secret - that nothing good can come of any of this.

There will be those who will laugh and scorn the Body of Christ in its incarnation as The Episcopal Church and say this is but one more piece of evidence of its 'internal decay' which provides them with one more reason to leave 'this apostate church.'

Still others will say, "I told you so!" and smirk, "See, Gene Robinson is not the first gay bishop. He's the first honestly gay bishop."

I hope we're proved wrong, but knowing the blogosphere...

I met Paul Moore three times, and only after he had retired as Bishop of New York. The first time he dropped in on a friend of mine, while I happened to be visiting. The second time that same friend and I were walking in Greenwich Village and ran into him on the street. The last time was at my parish when our new rector, who happened to be Paul's godson, invited his godfather to preside at the first Easter Vigil held at the parish.

Honor's public revelation of her father's sexuality was not a surprise to some of us. It had been more or less an open secret in some circles. But it wasn't knowledge to be shared outside the circle. Given his generation, it was simply the way life was and is, even though our society has become more open about matters of sexual orientation and identity.

Reading the excerpt of Honor's book was a rather more personal experience for me than I imagine it will be for many (but not all). I don't know why that should have surprised me, but it did.

My father, a respected school teacher, lived a similar life. I learned about his secret at 13 when I stumbled across some of his porn collection, not unlike Honor finding a book in her father's study. My mother made a similar discovery nine years later, shortly after I'd come out to my parents during Christmas break. The resulting strain on our family manifested itself in many ways. More secrets were revealed over the next few months, but others remained untold until after Dad died.

I give my parents a lot of credit for the way they worked through that period. They remained amicably married, for the most part, until my father died of Pancreatic Cancer 10 years later. I know there were rough patches, and sometime I picture them as being somewhat like Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt after they weathered their own difficult marital problems. Each of my parents was also instrumental in helping me heal my strained relationship with the other.

My mother and I had always been close, but during college, as I came to terms with my sexuality, we grew distant. At one point she wrote me a letter letting me know how badly she felt that I didn't confide in her any more. My reply was a rather undeserved lashing out, in spite of the fact that I rewrote the letter three times before sending it. I don't think we'd be speaking even now if I'd sent either of the first two drafts! My father was furious. No matter what went on between the two of them, he was always fiercely protective of my mother. He told me in no uncertain terms that he expected me to go to Chicago while Mom was there visiting her parents. I resisted, but he was adamant. Finally, I said I'd go. It was a long, silent weekend, but it was the beginning of the healing of our relationship.

My father and I had never been really close, and after the family turmoil of my college years, we drifted even further apart. Then one year I was planning a vacation trip, one of the Windjammer Cruises I'd been wanting to take for a while. Brian wasn't going with me that year, as our work schedules were such that our vacations fell at different times. At some point during the planning process, Mom came to talk to me. Dad, it seemed, really wanted to go on the same cruise, and would I consider traveling with him. I hemmed and hawed. Given our relationship, I just couldn't picture the two of us sharing one of those tiny cabins for a week. Mom pleaded, reasoned, and kept after me until I finally relented. I was NOT a happy camper. Traveling alone with my father was not the way I wanted to spend a vacation.

As it turned out, Dad and I had a great time. We were good traveling companions. We had some time to talk. We found we could enjoy each other's company. By the time we returned home our relationship relationship was well on its way to wholeness. I have always been thankful that Mom pushed and prodded until I agreed, because for the last two years of his life, Dad and I had a good father-son relationship.

I'm not sure why Honor chose to tell her father's story now. That she tells it in the context of their relationship is tremendously important. As this article, and then the book, become the topic of conversation, critics on all sides of the issue must remember that other people are involved. We can argue until we are all blue in the face about the rightness and the wrongness, the opportunities missed or not missed, and every other permutation of this particular aspect of Paul Moore's life. What we must not forget is that he was a human being in relationships with other human beings. As was my father. As am I. As is Honor.

It is not our place to judge. It is our place to love.

Peace,
Jeffri

Saint Nicholas Day

When Brian and I were together he would usually take vacation at the beginning of December and go someplace warm. Most of the time, I was not able to get away at that time. Since Saint Nicholas Day usually fell during his vacation, I would pick a weekend afternoon and invite my friends to at tree-trimming Saint Nicholas celebration. I began celebrating Saint Nicholas Day in college, when the German Club would celebrate the festival every year. Even though Brian and I are no longer together, I have kept the tradition of putting up the tree and decorating the house on or near Saint Nicholas Day.

In my current apartment I have a small tinsel tree that I put up. Small being the key word when one lives in 450 square feet. For a number of years I would get a small live tree in a pot, which then would often be put out in the yard. Once I started going to Pennsylvania to spend Christmas with my brother, however, I lost a couple of them due to lack of water. The first year I lived in this apartment I had no tree at all but found I missed having one, even though I decorated the apartment. Two collections also vie for space when I decorate. One is various Saint Nicholas and Santa Claus figures, and the other consists of creches, nativity scenes, and nacimientos (really three different terms for the same thing) from around the world. Many of them were given to me by friends, and some of them I collected on my travels. Sometimes it seems like overkill, but I love to look at them and remember who gave them to me, or the trips during which I bought them. My parents gave me my very first nativity set--white ceramic with just Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus--when I was in college.

When my brother and I were little, Honey and Grandad, our maternal grandparents, would give us each an ornament every year. Our boxes would be brought out on Christmas Eve, and before going to bed, we would hang the ornaments around the living room. Christmas morning all of them would be on the tree that Santa set up when he came that night. When we outgrew Santa Claus, we would hang our own ornaments on the tree when the family set it up. For a number of years the family would exchange ornaments on that day. We no longer do, mostly because Mom and I each have more ornaments than we use on any given year. My brother and his wife still give their kids ornaments every year, so each of them, like my brother and me before them, will have ornaments of their own when they set out on their own.

Deciding when to put up the tree always resulted in a "discussion" once Scott and I were old enough and Santa Claus no longer brought the tree. My mother's family tended to put their tree up the day after Thanksgiving; my father's on Christmas Eve. Until my father died, it was rare that the tree was up more than a week before Christmas. When Brian and I were together the discussion was about what color lights. My family always had blue lights; his multi-colored ones. We compromised with white. After we separated, and I lived again with Mom for a few years, we put both blue and white lights on the tree, so some nights we lit the blue ones, some nights the white ones, and some nights both.

When we were kids, no matter when the tree was put up, my parents would pick a weekend in the middle of December to decorate the house. That included baking Christmas cookies. The highlight of that day was unpacking and setting up the creche. The rough wooden stable and ceramic figurines dated to my parents' first Christmas together. Once the stable was set up on its fabric "field," my father would hand my brother and I, in turn, a wrapped figure from the box. We would unwrap it and carry it carefully to Mom, who would place each one in the creche. It was a big deal to us who got the Baby Jesus to unwrap!

It is interesting to look back and see how our Christmas traditions have evolved over the years, with each family doing things a bit differently. But no matter how we celebrate those traditions, we have memories and stories that are shared every year. The traditions and the stories connect us as a family. So tomorrow, after I clean the apartment, I will unpack my Christmas boxes and remember the traditions and stories as I decorate.

Peace,
Jeffri

Headlong Into Advent

Thanksgiving has passed, and we are now fully into the Holiday Frenzy. We embraced the frenzy fully on "Black Friday" when my brother and I took his family into New York City to see some of the sights, have dinner, and see 9:00 p.m. showing of the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. I generally try to avoid the City the day after Thanksgiving, but this was one of the few times the whole family was here, and my brother really wanted to make the trip and see the show with his wife and kids. We had a good time.

Saturday we celebrated my mother's birthday early, which was the whole point of this family reunion. I would say "just a quiet dinner at home," but that just is not possible with four kids ranging in age from 9 to 19 and my brother and me. Two generations of sibling bantering--not to mention three generations of parent-child bantering. And, of course, we took some family pictures, including a couple of just me and my brother. After 45 years, now that I've lost enough hair to match his hairline and his hair has become as gray as mine, we finally look like brothers.

Late Saturday afternoon they left to return to Pennsylvania. Mom and Bill can reclaim their house, and I have my apartment back. The two youngest slept on air mattresses on my floor, which makes things pretty crowded in a 450 square foot apartment. Especially with the 14-year-old being taller than everyone in the family! Fortunately, we did not spend a lot of time there. When we were not sleeping we played Carcassonne together, or the youngest played computer games while the 14-year-old and I did crossword puzzles. Then we would pile into the car and drive over to Mom's.

I have completed about half of my Christmas shopping, but only because I bought some things while on my various trips around and out of the country. That does not mean I will have a calm prayerful Advent, however. Work promises to be especially stressful over the next few months, between various ongoing projects, a major conference, and the reorganization. I have some projects for church to work on. The first big cluster of family birthdays falls around this time. And I have friends that need my attention.

Generally, this means that, no matter how intentionally I start out, Advent is over before I have a chance to breathe and sit quietly. Sometimes, if I am lucky, God sneaks up on me, and I have a few quiet moments of calm in the midst of the frenzy.

Peace,
Jeffri

Before The Horde Descends

I am enjoying the last few minutes of calm before Thanksgiving weekend. The shopping is done. The laundry is half done. The apartment is clean. In a short bit I will go to Mom's for dinner, and we will await the arrival of my brother and his family.

This will be the first holiday we have all been together in about three years, and it will be the first time my brother's entire family will be up here for a visit in many years. I decided that we ought to make the effort to all be together this year, as Mom's 70th birthday is just after the holiday. No big fuss, which Mom would hate, but some time together. Things sort of spiraled from that decision. You can read some of Mom's thoughts here. Fortunately, given the number of people involved, my stepsister is hosting Thanksgiving dinner.

There was some talk of going into the City Friday morning. I put a stop to that right off. New York City the day after Thanksgiving? Are you nuts? With three teenagers and a nine-year-old?

And I don't even want to begin thinking about Christmas!!

Peace,
Jeffri

Ordinary Lives

Susan's son serves in Iraq flying helicopters. Today there was news of a helicopter crash west of Baghdad, and many of us immediately thought of Susan and Jamie. She posted her reaction to the news on her blog. Just another mother worried about her soldier son.

Lisa lives near a river. This past Spring the river overflowed its banks. Lisa kept us posted in her blog. Just another working woman worried about the rising river and her home.

Not too long ago Gordon was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's. On his blog we get glimpses of his everyday life with his spouse along with occasional updates on his Alzheimer's. Just another couple living with the ramifications of an eventually severely debilitating disease.

These happen to be three people who blog regularly. In spite of their involvement in lbgt issues, they all live lives familiar to everyone. There are others.

B & P share custody of P's daughter with her mother. They take her to church almost every Sunday. They take her camping. They help her with her homework. Just another family working together to make sure their child receives the best they can provide.

P & J worked hard for a number of years so that J could return to school and begin a new career in nursing. Just another couple making sacrifices to see that one of them could follow their dream.

G travels nearly three hours round trip every Saturday to visit his mother in the nursing home. Some weeks he must make the trip two or three times in order to meet with doctors and nursing home staff regarding her care. Just another adult child caring for an aging parent.

When Brian and I started dating, it was a couple of months before I took him to meet my family. That same weekend my brother brought his soon to be fiance home to meet the family. Scott and Maureen were married at the end of May the next year. Brian and I moved into our first apartment the next month. Years later Mom told me that she watched both couples go through the same stages of their relationships at the same time--until my niece was born.

The condo complex where Brian and I lived for most of our 11 years together was filled with couples and young families, all of whom were pretty much the same age as we were. If someone was ill, other folks in the complex would stop in and make sure that person was okay and bring food while their spouse was at work or on a business trip. If someone needed to run out on an emergency errand, someone else in the complex would watch their kids. When a snowstorm buried our cars, everyone would pitch in to dig them all out. We collected each other's mail and watched each other's homes when someone was away. In other words, it was a tightly knit neighborhood.

When Brian and I separated 12 years ago, we had to sort through a lot of stuff. I remember sitting in the attic going through the boxes of Christmas decorations to make sure that childhood ornaments, stockings, and other cherished heirlooms went into the right person's boxes before each of us moved on. My friend L remembers doing the same thing when she and her husband divorced.

Basically, we get up in the morning and go to work. We come home in the evening fix dinner, do some chores, watch a little television, and go to bed. On weekends we take care of the house and the yard. We make trips to the library to get something to read. We go to the grocery store to buy food. Ordinary lives being lived in neighborhoods and communities across the country and around the world.

This is what so many heterosexuals are afraid of?

Peace,
Jeffri

Commuting 201 - Flooding And Explosions

Yesterday morning it rained. Hard. It wasn't raining that hard in Norwalk when I got on the train, but the skies were getting ominously darker. The train made pretty good time until we were about halfway through the Bronx, when we came to a complete stop and sat for about 20 minutes. No explanations, no apologies, nothing. We just sat. Eventually, we started on our way, crossed into Manhattan and down under the streets. Once in the tunnel we stopped a couple of times and sat for a few minutes. Again, no explanations or apologies. It was not until we pulled in to the platform over half an hour late that the crew informed us that there were flooded tracks in the Bronx, and we stopped to wait our turn to get through.

One of my coworkers endured the brunt of the track flooding. He stood on the platform of his station in the Bronx in the rain for over an hour waiting for a train. Even the scheduled trains did not stop.

Once I left Grand Central Terminal to walk to the office--a two block walk up East 43rd Street--I could see why things might have been bad in the Bronx. It was raining so hard that water was not just running down the gutters of the streets, but up and over the sidewalks, ankle deep in some places. Many of us spent the morning walking around in stocking feet while our shoes dried.

By the time we left at the end of the day, some subway lines and Long Island Railroad lines were still being affected by flooded, even though the expected afternoon rainstorms never materialized. The Metro North lines seemed to be fine, and I caught the 5:23 train back to Connecticut.

About 40 minutes later a steam pipe near 41st and Lexington exploded. By all accounts it was a scary mess. The same coworker who had been caught in the storm in the morning was at the gym at Grand Central. They evacuated the building, and he did not get home until after 10:00 last night. It is a miracle that more people were not killed or injured.

I had gone out to dinner with a friend and remained blissfully unaware of the disaster until I turned on the radio this morning. In fact, I didn't know it happened last evening until I flipped open my cell phone to check for messages. The screen read "4 Missed Calls Mom." Obviously, she wanted to know if I was going to work this morning, so I called her to let her know I was on the train going in. Form all the news I'd heard so far, it appeared that our building was not in the "frozen zone," was not blocked off, and had power.

Wrong.

Mom had called four times LAST NIGHT trying to find out if I was okay. I was flabbergasted, because I had the phone with me all evening, and it was on. Only after I arrived at the office did I realize that the ringer was turned way down, and I obviously had not heard it ringing.

So, I knew that it would take a little longer to get to work because of closed streets. Little did I know. By the time we arrived this morning, they had actually opened a couple more exits. However, subways, while running, were still not stopping at Grand Central, so many more people were heading for the outside exits than would be otherwise. We could exit on Vanderbilt, the north side of the station, and walk over to 45th. However, at Lexington, the wouldn't let us continue East on 45th, so we had to go up to 46th. Yet once I got to 3rd Avenue, I could walk south all the way to 43rd. All of that because the block between 3rd and Lexington is closed off...as is Lexington for several blocks north, but not as many south. I'm sure there's a reason for the way they've cordoned off streets, but it doesn't seem to make much sense. It took almost 20 minutes to walk to the office. You can see the route I walked on the map below. The office is marked with an "X" and the explosion site with a circle.

All morning news reports and City bulletins said there was no asbestos in the air, but it was not very reassuring to see emergency crews (though not all of them) wearing ventilator masks. Later in the day we received reports that there was indeed a minuscule amount of asbestos in the air, but we should not worry because health problems come only from prolonged exposure. Another one of those "we don't want to alarm you, but [insert information here], so don't worry" communications.

It is likely that traffic--both vehicular and pedestrian--will be disrupted for days, if not weeks. If nothing else, it means I will get my morning walk in getting from Grand Central to the office.

Peace,
Jeffri

The Clutter Of Preparations

While the Anglican Communion implodes, there is still work to do. At the office I am rushing around trying to get the last details of our trip to Ecuador taken care of and ordering and collecting the last of the resources we will take down with us. Yesterday I had dinner with my mother and step-father. Since I was going, I asked if I could pick up Mom's large suitcase, because I do not have a large checkable bag for traveling--especially if I am taking all this additional stuff with me. She also said I could borrow her digital camera for the trip. Instead, I arrived to find that they had a late birthday present for me, a digital camera of my own. It was totally unexpected and something she didn't have to do. (You're the best, Mom!)

Usually, I try to leave my work at the office. Starting last week, however, that has been impossible as I bring stuff home to prepare for packing. My small room, which serves as my dining, dressing, and work room, is already cluttered with piles of things to be packed. Here is a picture I took with the new camera, with which I have a week to become familiar. What you cannot see is that there are actually two sets of piles, including some on the floor behind the table. Not only am I packing for Ecuador next week, but also for a recreational weekend away that was planned long before my boss thought about going to Ecuador.

Because my apartment is so small, it does not take much to make it look cluttered. Not making my bed in the morning means that the large room looks like a total mess. On the other hand, I can give the entire apartment (two small rooms, kitchen, and bathroom) a thorough cleaning in less than three hours. I plan on doing so Friday morning after everything is packed and before I head off upstate for my long weekend.

My desk at work looks less cluttered at the end of the day, primarily because most of the stacks that accumulate during the day get put in a rolling catalog case and carted home. If you were to stop by at lunchtime, you would find stacks of papers and books on all three sides of my cubicle. My coworkers have been ribbing me because of the unusual clutter.

Yes, my friends, this is what the conservatives in the Anglican Communion are afraid of: an openly gay Episcopalian man doing his job within the church structures. While I am passionate about the issues facing the Episcopal Church, and will continue to stay informed and express my views, there are times when I have more important things to do than worry about the likes of the Most Rev. Peter Akinola and the Rt. Rev. Martyn Minns playing "you're not welcome in my church." Pardon me, guys, I have to go organize this clutter and start packing.

Peace,
Jeffri

"God Himself Could Not Sink This Ship"

So said a deckhand in Southampton to Mrs. Sylvia Caldwell when she asked if the Titanic really was unsinkable (quoted in Walter Lord's A Night To Remember). Yet six days later the great ship struck an iceberg and sank in the wee hours of April 15, 1912. The event was the news equivalent of the JFK assassination or 9/11 of the era. There were investigations, lawsuits, and a whole lot speculation. Many facts were not uncovered for years, and many may never be known.

From the moment she sank 95 years ago, the Titanic has been the subject of countless books (both fiction and non-fiction), sermons, films, television shows, songs, plays, editorial and political cartoons, a Broadway musical, and even a Nazi propaganda film. I first learned of the ship and her ill-fated voyage as a third grader, when I read Lord's book for a book report. Since then I have read almost every English language book written on the ship and her sinking. That does not even come close to giving me fanatic status in the world of Titanic buffs!

I have been resisting the temptation to use the Titanic as a metaphor for the current mess in the Anglican Communion. I know that people on both ends of the debate, and in the vast "middle," have different ideas of what or who is the iceberg, the ship, the captain, the passengers, the Carpathia, etc. I think I will leave well enough alone.

Instead, I will tell you a story about my first (and so far last) voyage on an ocean liner. The summer after I finished junior high school (which was 7th, 8th, and 9th grade at the time), my family took a cruise to Bermuda on the Statendam. We had two cabins near the bow of the ship, one for my parents and one for my brother and me. After a day and a half at sea, we docked in Hamilton early in the morning. I was startled out of my sleep by a loud scraping noise along the side of the ship. It took me a few groggy moments, as I stumbled around trying to find my life jacket, to realize that the noise had been the ship scraping the bumpers of the dock and not a hole being torn in the hull. Such was the power of the Titanic story on my 15-year-old mind!

Peace,
Jeffri

Spring Is A New Beginning

One Easter over 30 years ago (okay, 1965) Honey and Grandad, my maternal grandparents, gave me a small book called Spring Is A New Beginning with text and pictures by Joan Walsh Anglund. It sits on my bookshelves next to the Winnie the Pooh books (original illustrations, not the Disney version, thank you), a book of Mother Goose Rhymes, and a couple of other books from my childhood. It long ago lost its original paper cover. It's 36 pages pair Anglund's whimsical drawings with a handful of sentences about Spring. Pulling it off the shelf and paging through it brings back childhood memories and promises of new things to come.

"Then the earth is rich with seedlings."

The illustration on the page facing this sentence shows a little girl planting a garden. During my childhood, a sure sign that Spring would return was the arrival of the Burpee Catalog in Mid-Winter. Every year Mom and I spent hours paging through the catalog and planning our gardens. Some years we had a sizable garden, and other years we planted only a couple of plants. Some years we had no garden at all. No matter what we ended up planting, I always planned an herb garden.

I love the smells, textures and tastes of herbs. My interest in herbs, in part, stems from my interest in history. Whenever we visited a historical site that included gardens, I always wanted to spend at least a few minutes in the herb garden. The medicinal and culinary uses fascinated me then and still do today.

Every place I have lived I have had a small garden or a couple of pots of herbs. Spending a few minutes with the plants is a great way to unwind after a day at work, and I have fresh herbs to season my evening meal. Last year, however, I did not have a garden or pots of plants. My current apartment complex does not allow us to put things on our porches or along our walks. I have missed a garden. So this year, as Spring approached, I started thinking about the window in my back hall. It faces southwest, and receives a fair amount of sunlight during the day. A bookcase sits under the window to hold odds and ends. The top of the bookcase is large enough to hold a good-sized window box and a couple of pots. If I cannot have a garden outside, I can have one inside!

I think I am enjoying the planning almost as much as having the actual garden. Which plants can I put together in which containers? Which ones would I like to have for this garden? Do I want herbs for cooking or herbs for teas? Which scents would I most appreciate having around again? Which textures? I will compile a list of possibilities, but I will make my final choices during my annual pilgrimage to Gilberties.

"Then new life presses out
from every growing thing...
fulfilling our trust,
renewing our faith
that this has always been,
that this will be again..."

Happy Spring!

Peace,
Jeffri