Deep Thoughts – Page 17

Paragraph B

Monday night was a Presbytery meeting. For those not up on the inner workings of Presbyterian governance, it works like this. The smallest collection of Presbyterians is a congregation; the local church you find familiar. The governing institution within that church is called session, which is populated by members carrying the ordination of “Elder”. Our pastors are not actually members of our churches. They are instead members of the next biggest body, called Presbytery. I belong to Burlington Presbyterian Church, which belongs to Boston Presbytery. Presbytery is part of a larger regional body, called Synod. I think we’re in the Synod of New England? The Northeast? Then all the Synods come together in a body called General Assembly, which is a national body. There is no international body, but the various GAs usually have a certain communion with each other. It is also important to note that all Presbyterians in this body share two common books. The first is our creeds, which begin shortly where the Bible leaves off and has been added to as recently as th 60s. The second is our Book of Order, which is more or less the constitution of the church. All officers of the church vow to be guided by these two documents.

That’s a long introduction. Monday night we gathered together for a Presbytery meeting far more fraught than usual discussions. In 1996, an amendment was made to the Book of Order with the intention of preventing practicing homosexuals from being ordained in any capacity within the church. (It doesn’t actually SAY that, but that is widely understood to be the outcome.) Since then, every time GA assembles, an amendment has been proposed to Paragraph B. The latest version has come out of my church’s session and through the Boston Presbytery. It returns the language to a more Biblical focus (instead of a focus on the Confessions). (You can read more about it here) Needless to say, the original amendment was controversial and every amendment since then has also been controversial.

There is a lot to say on both sides of the issues. My main points would be:

1) We are all sinners. I personally violate the ten commandments once a week. I do a terrible job of remembering the Sabbath and keeping it holy and I have not been committed to changing that sin of mine. If ordination is only available to those who are not sinners, our church will quickly be depopulated, or only populated by hypocrites.
2) Jesus doesn’t talk much about sexual sin. He’s much more interested in hypocracy and money. We should go forth and do likewise.
3) None of the amendments would mean that any church had to accept or elect as an officer or minister any person they did not think was appropriate.
4) Who are we to say who the Holy Spirit can and cannot call?

Anyway, the amendment to Paragraph B above worked it’s way up to GA and now has come back down. It must be approved by the local Presbyteries in order to be adopted. Monday night was the night that our Presbytery took that vote.

For all that we sponsored this to GA, the passing was not a given. There was one commenter as we discussed this who said, “This amendment was born here. Let it die here.”

The meeting took nearly 5 hours. I’m sure that for some people there, it was agonizing. For me, it was inspiring. There is no doubt we disagreed. There is no doubt that people felt extraordinarily passionate on both sides. I know that some of my brethren in Christ feel as thought his amendment is corrupting. I see their point, although I disagree in both form and substance. What excited me, enthused me and filled me with joy was that we could come together. We debated this hot, passionate topic with kindness and love. There was prayer and song throughout. We sat mixed together in faithfulness. During the long vote counting process, as the clock neared midnight, we sang together as we waited.

I find it utterly thrilling, in this age of division and segregation on lines of opinion, that we could and did come together to lovingly disagree with each other. It feels like, as a culture, we have increasingly written off those who disagree with us as stupid, malicious, ignorant and vindictive. The Presbyterian church holds that people of good character can disagree with each other on issues of faith. I think that is an increasingly precious and beautiful point of view.

The future of the amendment to Paragraph B is uncertain. It narrowly did pass in Boston Presbytery. While I care about the amendment, I hope and pray that the church may continue to come together to argue with each other and disagree, and yet cheerfully be part of the same community.

Thankful Thursday

I’ve been super aware lately just how much there is to be thankful for in my life. Everytime I turn on the radio, it seems like something new is dire. It’s not just the economy either. From global warming to third world conflicts in Africa through to space junk, the world doesn’t seem like a very cheery place. I think that while there is a lot wrong, worrying and sorrowful these days that the world is still a fundamentally good place. Or, at least, as fundamentally good a place as it has ever been.

Every night when I put Grey to bed, I start a prayer. “Dear Lord” I say, “Grey is thankful for these things:” and then Grey will fill in the blanks. (This often becomes a list of people he knows. Or what he wants for his fourth birthday, which is, for the record, a DS and a Barbie.) I should be equally grateful.

Here is what I am grateful for:
*A husband who loves me
*Two fine, healthy, bonny boys
*The smiles Thane gives. They’re truly remarkable.
*Disposable diapers
*A house I really enjoy living in
*Neighbors who are becoming friends
*A church full of people all working towards doing God’s work
*The impending return of the Red Sox to my daily life
*Employment for both my husband and me
*My iPod, which dramatically improves my life with stories and music
*The really neat return address stamp I got for Christmas
*The astonishing and continuing ingenuity of humanity
*Getting to eavesdrop on the stories Grey tells himself
*The first day of Spring tomorrow
*My husband’s latest hobby: bread-making
*Entering the sweet spot where you still have energy, but also have experience
*Gazing out over the fields at night

What are you thankful for?

Gabriel

Spending my lunches at daycare (theoretically nursing Thane, but in reality just giving both of my boys big hugs and playing with them) has reminded me of Grey’s first year, when I did the same thing. There was a little boy at daycare name Gabriel. (Long “a”, like “Gah-briel” not “Gay-briel”)

Gabriel was about three at the time. The age Grey is now. He had big, dark eyes and curly dark hair. He also had behavior problems and didn’t talk. He would throw violent, inarticulate fits. He grew to really like me, and I to like him. He would stand next to me when I nursed Grey, and I would talk to him. I would ask him questions and, unfamiliar with child development, be contented with the few words he gave back to me. His face lit up when he saw me. I was afraid for him. Rubertina does her best, but children need parents, not just daycare providers and ladies who come for 15 minutes a day to feed their babies.

After a while, things got unsettled for him. His mom changed his name from Gabriel to Vince (not really sure about the story there). His mom got pregnant, and then wasn’t again. (Again, there is a story there I don’t know.) He was often at daycare late into the night because his mother was at parties. I remember that one of the last times I saw him, he shouted my name and ran up to me for a hug. His mother was there and shocked that he could say my name, that he knew my name.

Grey’s age. Grey can almost spell my name.

A few days later, when I came to daycare, I asked where Gabriel (I was NOT calling him Vince) was. Rubertina said that his mom had just moved him one day. That she thought maybe she had gone to Florida. There was no chance to say goodbye — for him or for me. There was no keep in touch. There was no forwarding address.

I have wondered, since, what he is doing. He would be six. The direction of thoughts is not a happy one. I wonder if he has just trailed after her since, unattended to and left too long with paid care providers — not all of whom are as good as Rubertina. I wonder if he was enrolled in school on time. I wonder if anyone has addressed his learning delays and behavioral issues. I wonder if that open face with its transparent joy to see me has been totally closed down by neglect and hard life.

What I really wonder, though, is whether anyone keeps track of kids. There is no one who knows where he went and would know if he was ok. Is there some sort of registry where if children don’t show up, someone notices? What if there are no friends and family? No concerned grandparents or Sunday School teachers? What if no one expects to see a child anymore because they’ve moved across country? I don’t know what check or balance there is against that. And I worry about Gabriel.

Wherever he is, I hope he is ok.

Gabriel is the boy holding the red chair

Hold on to what is good

During Lent, I am trying to not walk down the path of panic, negativity and despair. I know the path is there. I know what is going on in the world. But I see nothing to be gained by letting fear corrode my soul, by widening and making firm that dark road. Bad things will happen, or they won’t. Who by worrying can change what may or may not come?

Of course, there still needs to be planning. I think we’re all saving our extra nickels these days and carefully looking at our balance sheets. Do you lie in bed at night and think about how long you would be ok if you lost your job? I do. I make plans in my head for what I would do if it were a little bad, a lot bad, horrible. I stop at the “martial law and pillage” level because I don’t think there is a good plan against that one.

During the hard times, though, those who have enough and a little bit extra need to be sure that we throw our weight against the doors of last resort, to keep them closed against hunger, nakedness and bitter cold.

This morning I read an article talking about food banks. Actually, donations to food banks are up. But costs and needs are up higher. How horrible it would be to swallow pride (your only meal for the day) and go to a food bank, only to discover that there is nothing for you.

http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2009/03/16/turse/

There is a great sense of powerlessness and anxiety, rippling through our culture and our days. It is hard not to feel insignificant in the face of problems in the Trillions of dollars and the canker of uncertainty. We can’t fix the banking system. We don’t know how the world will look when this all shakes out. We don’t know if ours was an aberration of time, and things will never be that way again. Against that, however, we need to hold on to what we have and what we can do. We have love, friendship and fellowship. Spring is not aware that life is dismal, and will shortly be glorious as though it’s 2005 all over again. And while we can’t fix the banking system, many of us can give a donation of money, food or time to help our brethren eat.

Hold on to what is good. Encourage the faint-hearted. Help the weak. Be patient with them all. Rejoice without ceasing.

What a wondrous time is spring

I have spent the better part of 12 years being confused about Spring. I think there must be one year in your childhood — I’d have to pick the year I was 9 if I had to guess — where you solidify your view about how certain aspects of the world ARE.

Sweet and sour anything is yucky. I like hiking. Spring starts in March.

Some of these ideas are more easily modified than others. I have yet to get over the “Spring Starts in March” issue.

In Washington State, it does. The crocuses are probably starting out, even in my mountain home. The days are getting lighter. The last snow has probably fallen for the year. By the end of the month, there will be daffodils and you will be able to smell things outside again (for good or for ill). But I live in New England. Not even Southern New England. No. Middle New England.

It was 12 degrees when I woke up this morning. There is a foot of fresh snow on the ground, and more in the forecast. It is, by no means, the beginning of spring. By the end of the month, there will be 6 inches of dirty snow left on the ground and we will have at least one surprise snow storm in front of us. Possibly in June.

But somehow I can never quash that inner child who believes Spring is coming. My husband laughs at me because I always pointed out the red buds at the tips of the trees as a sign of the imminence of Spring. I had lived here maybe 8 years before I figured out that the red buds appear at the END of FALL. But still. I can’t help myself.

My youngest, my baby, has never in his entire life known a warm, welcoming world. His toes are rare and unusual visitors to his curious hands. It snowed the night he was born – an unseemly early snow in the Berkshires I barely processed in my post-partum fog.

But.

There are tiny little daffodil spikes under the snow, in front of our basement window fan (where it is much warmer). I saw the beginnings of snowdrops during a recent melt. I showed my son.

I heard birds singing this morning.

The days are longer.

And look! There are totally red buds on the tips of those trees!

Mendicant monk

I saw a mendicant monk today, watching the churning waters of the Merrimack. He was dressed in brown wool –the tassels of a rope belt just barely visible under heavy cowls. His feet were in sandals, with thick woolen socks as an accommodation to harsh northern climes. I could not see if he was tonsured — he wore a regular stocking cap in the same browns. He sported the wispy beard of a boy who wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t shave.

His long strides made quick work of the old metal bridge.

I have seen him before and wondered. What order is he? What brings him here? Where is he going? What does he think, in his anachronistic outfit. Is it a costume he puts on and feels all cool and monkish, an SCA member walking the ungentle streets of Lawrence? Is he a man so driven by call that he put aside not only fancy clothes, as his forefathers did, but all the clothes of the culture into which he was born? Does his stride with spiritual energy to do work among the poor? Does he like that we all slow down to look at him?

The crow

I have composed this post in my head a hundred times. It starts at the same place, at the same time. I walk out of my office, laying down myself as a worker on my way to daycare where I will pick up myself as a mother.

Between work and daycare are the ravens.

I’ve never quite worked out the difference between rook, raven and crow. They’are all filed under “large black birds that go caw”. They’ve always been around me. In the deep dusky August forests on the slopes of ancient Northwestern mountains, the caw of the crow is the only bird song you hear. I have sometimes wondered why there are no songbirds or warblers among the firs. There aren’t. Just the crows.

My vision of the crows pulls deeply from what I have read. There is, of course, Poe’s infamous raven. But there are also the dark clouds of menacing birds in deserted Hollin (points if you know the source), the attack of ravens in “The Dark is Rising”, the violent menacing swarms of Robert Jordan’s world, the Northwest Indian trickster and the wise bird of Celtic mythology. They swirl together in my mind in a circling upward spiral.

On my journey between places and persons, I watch the crows flock in the twilight. The flock is vast. There must be nearly a thousand birds. Sometimes they blacken the tree by the Merrimack so thickly that their wings are like leaves in summer. Sometimes they perch in strangely even spacing across the roof of the abandoned mill. Sometimes they circle in the wind in noisy motion, gilded by the glow of twilight.

A final answer

Today my mother-in-law called me with the autopsy report on her husband. There was no sign of a return of cancer. It wasn’t the liver function. It wasn’t the morphine. It wasn’t the pancreatitis. It wasn’t the staph infection he’d fought off. It wasn’t depressed vitals. None of the things he’d fought against for years was his undoing.

My father-in-law died of a massive, systemic bacterial infection that affected all his major internal organs except his lungs. It was a very unusual infection, and a sample has been sent to the CDC for analysis.

“That’s great!” I told my mother-in-law.

In the aftermath of death, you find yourself placed in the oddest circumstances, saying things that are just bizarre when you step back and look at it. That said, this is just about the best news we could’ve had without getting him back. Here’s why:

1) No one missed anything. It wasn’t that his doctors were careless. It wasn’t that my MIL should have fought to get him ventilated after the morphine. That wouldn’t have done anything. There weren’t signs that should’ve been heeded and weren’t. This likely had only been going on for a day or two prior to his death, and there really wasn’t any way anyone could have known.
2) Even if we had known it wouldn’t have changed much. Mike had vowed that he would never take antibiotics again. He had a terrible, painful reaction to them — and the amount of antibiotics this would have required might have killed him in their own right. I’m glad he didn’t have to choose not to fight it, but it would’ve been an awful fight. If there was any way for us to have known. Which there wasn’t.
3) It’s not genetic. There is no warning in this to Mike’s sons.
4) This particular infection might have killed a healthy person. I’m not entirely sure that’s *good* news, per se, but once this infection got started, even being healthy wouldn’t have helped him much. This helps remove any guilt about “if only we’d gotten him a little stronger”, etc. It wouldn’t have mattered.
5) It was quick at the end.
6) We KNOW. There isn’t a lingering mystery. That’s actually quite a relief.
7) There is absolutely no cause for guilt. This one was just bad fortune.
8 ) Mike went down a fighter. He must have really had amazing strength and constitution to fight not only all the things that were wrong with him from day to day, but this additional massive infection. It makes me feel like he went down throwing punches to the last.

Now that we know this, it really feels like we can start healing. The last of the mysteries are resolved. With that resolution comes the laying down of all the might have beens and would have dones that linger at the edges. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, or make us miss him any less, but it puts our mind at rest.

Hens are too fluttery

There’s a line in Miss Buncle’s Book (which is lightly set in the depression in England) where she writes about having read that there was all this economic trouble but that she didn’t really understand it until her dividend checks came in at half their value, or not at all. I think there is an element to that for all of us. Bad news happens all the time, and it has little day to day effect on us, until some part of it does suddenly touch our lives and draw us up short.

Happily, my little “moment” today isn’t big or important. It has nothing to do with my job or employment. I just got a notice from E*TRADE (where all my non-401k retirement savings are) that they’re completely eliminating all their nice cheap index funds. As they say:

After long and serious consideration, E*TRADE Securities has made the decision to discontinue our family of proprietary index mutual funds.

Of course, pretty much all of our IRAs are in said nice cheap index funds.

2 years ago, no one would even have considered that this would ever happen. I suppose it isn’t all that surprising, but somehow I never realized the ways this might affect me.

Also, I have my reports set up to tell me about my earnings since I bought into the fund. In a rising or even volatile market it’s a good reminder that while I might be down on the day or the quarter, I’m still up since I bought them. Right now, not such a good idea. It makes it too easy to see how much lower they are than their purchase prices…. in 2002. Ouch. And now they’re making me lock in my paper losses.

I’m renting my house from BofA

I hear a lot about the wider world. I listen to NPR so religiously my son thinks that his phone number is 800-909-9287 (the pledge number for WBUR). I read the Economist over my Honey Nut Cheerios every morning. No day is complete without various other news sources as well.

In the last year or so, it is possible I might have heard one or two stories about home prices and the economy. Perhaps you’ve heard one or two too?

I have this bad habit of rethinking decisions that have been made. In October of 2007 we found a great house for $350k in a town I’m happy to live in. By December of 2007 we were moved in. At the time, I was proud of myself for not buying at the top and waiting until house prices had declined. The house had originally been offered for $409,000. A bargain, no? I keep wondering if buying then was the right thing to do.

But here’s another way of looking at the equation. House prices have stood up decently where we are. According to Zillow, our house is now worth $329,000. That’s not bad in this market. We’re still above water. But I’ve been thinking about that $21,000 difference. Between 2000 when we got married and 2007 when we moved, we rented. Our first apartment in Roslindale was $1200 a month. The lovely three bedroom place on Cliff street was $1500 a month. If we lived in Cliff Street for the 14 months we’ve lived in our current place, we would’ve spent $21,000 with no equity returned to us. We lived there for three years. 36 months times $1500 a month is $54,000 that we spent on housing, with no equity returned to us for our expense.

There is, of course, lots more complexity to it. Our mortgage payment is larger than our rent was. Rent didn’t include interest. Rent wasn’t federally tax deductible. (It is state income tax deductible here in MA.) I didn’t have to pay the water and sewer back then, nor did I pay real estate taxes.

But I don’t think we should regret our decision. Paying your mortgage while your house declines in value is a lot like paying rent. You may not get equity, but you do get a place to live. And hey, assuming you have a fixed rate mortgage, at least you won’t get any rent increases. How good the landlord is is entirely up to you.