Painful

I have a Village Singers concert to sing in early this afternoon at a church over the other side of the metro area. No way I could make it to an 11:00 o'clock service and be on the risers on time. So I attended the 9:00 o'clock service at a large church in my area.

It's the "contemporary" service. I'd been to it a couple times previously, before the congregation added on their big new informal worship/multipurpose center.

This morning, I learned that the addition means not only a lot more space, it also means a bigger-and-better sound system and a lot more noise.

Lay aside the tunes and words of what was being sung. I'm talking about loudness. Volume. Decibels. Noise!!!

An ear-shattering, deafening force of sound that socked me in the senses as soon as I walked in the door.

And that was with only the worship team performing. This was the "prelude," after all.

I looked around to find some friends who attend this church, to see if I could sit with them. As I did, my eyes fell on infants, small children, elderly people, all folks whose hearing would be especially vulnerable to such an onslaught. But the kids' parents were sitting there quite happily with their little ones, and the white-haired elders seemed totally unfazed, all oblivious to what the amplification was doing to their ears.

Me, I could tell what it was doing to mine. By the next-to-the-last chorus, started by the praise team alone, I had to cover my ears and hope my friends would not be embarrassed to be seen sitting with me. At the first da capo, the congregation rose and joined in. I followed suit, and tried covering just one ear so I could hold my song sheet with the other. But on the second repeat (third go-round), the sound technician ramped up the volume a few dozen more dBs, and I had to drop the paper and cover the other ear as well. Jesu iuva me, it was painful. By the time the chorus was over, my left ear was ringing.

I made it through the rest of the service and greeted my friends now that it was acceptable to raise my voice over the din of the postlude and the babel of other shouting voices. Then I beat it back to the relative silence of my home, where I quietly played a hymn on my new old piano.

And to let my hearing recover in time, I hope, for this afternoon's concert.

But it's nearly noon and my left ear is still buzzing.

But I have to wonder about the hearing of all the members who attend that service every week, and services like it all over the world. Don't they know what that level of volume is doing to their ears? Or are they so used to iPod buds in their ears, surround-sound home theaters, and mega-boost car stereos all turned up to Level 10, that worship at that decibel level is only what they're used to?

More ominously, do they and all the other proponents of big loud worship services think the sound has to be cranked all the way up in order for them truly to worship? Just writing this, I have an uneasy feeling that some pastors and worship leaders would say I'm just being cranky to object to this, or old-fashioned, or worse-- that I just don't want people to worship Jesus.

But that's what I do want. I want people to worship Jesus, the eternal Son of God, who is not hard of hearing and who doesn't need the needle to fly off the sound meter in order to hear our praise. I want us to worship Jesus, the lover of our souls, who receives the sincere songs of our hearts and minds and voices but isn't impressed by the power of our technology.

Kyrie eleieson! I'm reminded of Elijah on Mount Carmel with the prophets of Baal:

"At noon Elijah began to taunt them, 'Shout louder!' he said. 'Surely [Baal] is a god! Perhaps he is deep in thought, or busy, or relieving himself. Maybe he is sleeping and must be awakened.' So they shouted louder . . . . "

We are not worshippers of Baal. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ is not deaf, or distracted, or asleep. Why do we Christians persist in acting as if we were, and He is?

Open House

This evening the Pittsburgh Symphony held their annual open house for new season ticket holders.

I'm not technically a new season ticket holder; I purchased a series back in '04-'05, and I went to that open house, too.

The January 2005 event was a behind-the-scenes tour-- views of the flyloft, the practice rooms, the musicians' lounges, the guest artists' dressing rooms, and so on.

Tonight they must have run out of time for the backstage tour--it was more an introduction (via Marketing Director speech and video) of the 2008-2009 season and of new PSO conductor, Manfred Honeck. It amused me that the video featured a quotation from some local civic leader saying that not only is Maestro Honeck a great conductor who'll do wonderful things with an already world-class orchestra, but that he's also "a great family man and a great role model." I've never considered orchestra conductors as role models for the general population . . . but if his qualifications are based on his being a family man, he's got that one-- to the tune of six children.

Wonder if they'll spend any time in Pixburgh, or if they're too tied up with school and activities in Vienna? Though they may be grown by now!

This season's open house featured more music than the 2005, I believe-- pieces and movements by Bach, Brahms, and Schubert.

Members of the PSO here play us the Bach Double Concerto, BWV 1043. I regret not being able to get a view of the pianist as well:


Here are some scenes from the tour and the presentation:

The Grand Lobby

The Grand Lobby, looking towards 6th Street

The Grand Tier, with a view of the stage

We hear about the coming season

The string players take a bow

(Ouch. Sorry.)

Questions and answers: Happy memories of outplaying the Viennese in the Wiener Musikverein-- at their own music!

Enough music and talk-- let's head for the refreshments!

An inadvertent moment of humor: Our docent was describing what's known as the "Heinz Box," Grand Tier, stage right. Said he, "Members of the Heinz family get first claim to that box whenever they're in town. For instance, Teresa and John Heinz sit there when they come to concerts. They have a house in Fox Chapel."

"Teresa and John Heinz"? Poor Senator Kerry! Still in his wife's late husband's shadow!

Physician, Heal Thyself

To all you preachers who happen to read this blog:

Don't you hate it when you successfully deliver a sermon on Sunday morning, and by Sunday evening, you have to preach and apply it again to yourself?

This morning I preached on the faith of Abraham, and the trustworthiness of God even when we can't see the path ahead, even when the path ahead looks pretty dark and dangerous.

Well, I'd thought I could see the path ahead. Friday evening, the clerk of Session at the Daniel's Run* Presbyterian Church called and asked me to come and preach again next Sunday, and maybe do a baptism, too. She told me she'd call me back when she knew for sure about the baptism, because Session hadn't met yet to officially approve the sacrament (as is the practice in the Presbyterian Church). But I was booked for the 24th. Hooray!

So yesterday morning, I got a call from the worship committee chair of the church where I'm getting the piano. She also wanted me to fill in for them on the 24th, because their pastor is taking some time off before the run-up to Easter. Sorry, I said, I'm already committed. Some other time, perhaps?

So this evening, I was thinking about planning worship for the Daniel's Run Church this coming Sunday. And I was thinking how great it was, that the honorium I would get from them, along with what I received from Redeemer* Presbyterian today, would enable me to pay all my ordinary bills the rest of the month without dipping into my home equity line or credit cards again. Things in the immediate future would be good.

But a little over an hour ago, the clerk from Daniel's Run called. Not to confirm the baptism, but to let me know that the child's parents had decided to put it off till next summer, when the grandparents could be there.

Oh, all right, I said, I won't need to factor in a baptism.

No, actually, the clerk said cheerfully, they wouldn't be needing me at all. Their long-time unordained graduate minister, IrmaLou*, is back in the pulpit, and if there's no sacraments to administer, I, as an ordained minister, am not necessary.

I did not tell her I'd turned down another opportunity to preach next Sunday because I'd committed to Daniel's Run. I did not tell her I wished she'd made it clear that my coming was dependent on there being a baptism or not.

She, meanwhile, was talking on, cheerfully asking me how it had gone for me at Redeemer Presby this morning. And I'm thinking, please don't do this, I have to call the other church's worship chairwoman to see if they still need somebody!

I told her I needed to hang up, since I had my dinner in the toaster oven, and the timer had already gone off. Which it had. There was no point in tying up a nice big guilt bundle and handing it off to her. Nothing she could do about the situation at this point, now was there?

Soon as I could, I (disregarding the timer) got hold of the other church. Yes, they'd filled their pulpit for next Sunday. They got a very nice elder from a neighboring church. Oh. Right. Some other time.

But there I was, thinking I had it all sewn up for the rest of the month. And now there's a big hole in my preaching schedule and my finances for what I see as no good reason. Lord God, what are You leading me into? Don't You want me to be safe and secure and have everything pulled together???

And then I remember. Abraham. Leaving Haran, just like that. No clue at all as to where the Lord was leading him or where or how he'd end up. Just taking God at His word and walking out in faith.

Preacher, preach to yourself!

I Can't See It

This morning, I supplied the pulpit at a church up in a goodish-sized town to the north of me.

Let's call it Redeemer* Presbyterian Church.

I preached on the faith of Abraham and the faithfulness of God, as shown in the patriarch's reaction to the Lord's call when he was your basic idol-worshipper in Haran. And I took the children's sermon as well. Now, I believe in giving the children a sample of the food off the grown-ups' table, so to speak, cutting the theme of the main sermon up into manageable pieces so they can swallow it down.

So I gathered the little group of five-to-eight-year-olds and asked them if they'd ever seen a blind person with a Seeing Eye dog.

"Yes . . . "

"What does a Seeing Eye dog do?"

"It helps the blind person."

"How does the dog help the blind person?"

"It keeps it from hurting itself."

It? Itself? Had I heard that right?

I asked, "What else does a Seeing Eye dog do for someone who can't see?"

"It puts the leash on and it takes it where it needs to go."

This was the oldest child speaking. And consistently speaking of blind people-- or am I supposed to say, "visually challenged"?-- as it.

And she kept on doing it. And so did the others.

But this was not my church and I had just then met these children. It would be getting off on an awkward and hurtful tangent for me to correct them in front of their friends and the entire congregation.

Instead, I told the children about my friend John from theological college, and his Yellow Lab guide dog Farina. I made a point of letting them know that my friend John is a minister who now pastors Two Big Churches. I.e., my friend John is not an "it," and neither are the other blind people these kids are likely to meet during their lives.

I summed up the talk for the children: God is like a Seeing Eye dog because we can't see the future and He can, and He leads us safely through it; God is not like a Seeing Eye dog because He is our Master, we are not His.

They seemed to get it.

But did they get the point that blind people are not its?

And where did these children pick up this attitude, of being blind to the humanity of physically sightless men and women? I just can't see it!

Playing It by Ear

I haven't posted anything for awhile here, because I've been writing about my consuming interest on my houseblog, here, here, here, and also here.

Yes, I'm teetering on the brink of adopting a 1911 vintage upright piano. The movers will bring it on Wednesday. The tuner will come sometime in March, after it's gotten acclimated.

But will it be a musical instrument, or just a big piece of antique furniture?

We'll see.

Hide and Seek

I babysat this evening for my friends Hannah* and Steve*.

They've recently moved to an old three-storey farmhouse out in the country (good place for an old farmhouse to be, right?). Steve's in the process of renovating it, Hannah hasn't been able to get everything put away, and consequently, it's a great place to play hide and seek.

As usual, seven-year-old Stevie* suggested the game. Except this time, he said, we'd use toy guns and pretend we were spies.

I volunteered to be It first. I loudly counted down from 100, then announced, "I'm gonna come get me some spies!"

Ostentiously looked in the bathroom. No spies. In the kitchen. No spies-- unless you count the old gray cat. Then in the living room. "I'm gonna find me some spiiiiiieees!"

I really thought Stevie and four-year-old Letitia* were hiding upstairs. Till I heard the giggling from behind the sofa, that is.

"K'yew, k'yew!" went my toy gun! "Bang! bang!" Stevie returned fire. But it was in vain. He and his sister were caught.

Stevie was It next. Letitia and I crept upstairs, and tonight, she accepted us splitting up. She concealed herself under a quilt on her bedroom floor, and I slipped just inside Stevie's doorless closet.

Soon Stevie the spy came up the stairs. "Bang! bang!" he shouted, "I've found you!" But I didn't hear his sister.

Silence.

More silence.

Then Stevie's voice, saying, "Come on, where are you? Stop hiding! I'm gonna find you! Pickle Face, Big Butt, come on out!"

Excuse me, child, just whom are you calling Big Butt!? But I suppressed my urge to giggle-- which Letty did not. "There you are!" cried her brother, who'd actually had no idea where she was.

She knew where I was, and turned traitor. A hail of imaginary gunfire once he came into his room, and all was over.

And it was Letty's turn to be It. I'll say, she did a good job of counting. Made it up to forty by ones, with no misses. As I listened to this performance, I concealed myself behind a rack of hanging clothes in the spare room.

I don't know where Stevie hid; wherever it was, his sister found him quickly. And he volunteered to help her find me.

But I wasn't being found!

Or they weren't looking very hard, either one. A tiptoe or two through the hall. A loud declaration, "She's hiding under Mom and Dad's bed! . . . No, she's not. Where is she?"

I kept silent and concealed in my blind of jackets and sweaters.

"Blogwen, come out!" I heard Stevie's voice from below. "Blogwen, you don't come out, we're going to get in trouble! We're going to turn on R movies like we're not supposed to watch! We're going to eat ice cream! And candy! Lots of candy! Come out, come out!"

I stayed where I was.

A short silence from below. Then the sound of the TV. I wasn't worried: Hannah and Steve don't keep R-rated videos in the house.

Then Stevie's voice again: "We're eating candy! We're getting stomach aches! Our teeth are hurting! You better come down and stop us!"

Then, "Pleeeease come out! We're getting scared! And we're watching R movies! Come out, Blogwen, come out!"

I am cruel. I threw them a little bone. In a subdued but high-pitched voice I cried, "Come get meeee!"

"A wolf!" exclaimed Stevie. "A wolf!"

"Come gehhhht meeeee!!!"

"A wolf again!"

"Come gehht mee! Come gehhhhhhtt meeeeeee!!!"

I heard his footsteps mounting the stairs. Quietly, I crept out from my cover. I carefully peeked out the doorway of the spare room. Stevie was in the open at the end of the hall. "K'yew! k'yew!" I opened fire. "K'yew! k'yew!"

"Bang! bang! bang! Got cha!"

Or we got each other. He ran at me with his plastic pistol, and I have the cut on my hand to show for it.

My turn to be It again. This time, Stevie and Letitia did a much better job of hiding. I might not have found them very quickly, except that the light in Hannah and Steve's bedroom kept mysteriously coming back on every time I switched it off. Ghosts? No, children hiding behind the clothes in their parents' closet, but afraid to do it in the dark!

The last time, the children were It together, and I went and hid, behind the chimney up in the third floor playroom.

This time, they hardly made a pretense of looking. Less than a minute passed before I heard, "Blogwen, come out! We're scared! . . . . Picklebutt, picklebutt, Fatbutt, Pickle Face!"

(This is designed to make me descend and defend my dignity as an adult. Sorry. Ain't rising to that bait.)

"Come out! We're eating more candy! We're getting really, really fat! We're watching R movies again! You better come down and spank us!"

I heard them come upstairs and actually start to look. I tiptoed out to where I could command a view of the third floor stairs, and waited until Stevie should come up.

"Come on, these R movies are really bad for us! And all the candy and ice cream! We're eating so much we're getting sick! Our teeth are falling out! Come on out, come on out!"

Finally, Stevie worked up his nerve to tiptoe up the steps to the third floor-- where I got him in my deadly ambush!

Whereafter, we all went downstairs, made popcorn, and watched The Incredibles till Hannah and Steve got home from the movies.

I think I really did misjudge something there. Not my keeping still while the kids shouted for me to come out. No, by getting the jump on the poor little kid, I blew my chance to do a really bang-up histrionic dying scene!

Answers

This morning at the Daniels Run Church* I heard the answer to some questions I hadn't yet asked.

And those were, what were their plans as to long-term or steady pastoral ministry? Were they thinking of hiring someone for longterm stated pulpil supply? And if so, would they consider looking at me?

They've been without a regular minister since November or so. As I understand it, up to then the Daniels Run Church was supplied by IrmaLou*, a student from Steelertown Presbyterian Seminary* (SPS). This past year she graduated and took her denominational ordination exams. While she waited for the results of her ords, she continued to serve the DRPC Church. I think the idea was that, once she passed and could be ordained, they'd call her to be their pastor, at least on a half-time basis.

But the PC(USA) exam results came out this fall, and IrmaLou had flunked one of them. Church polity (i.e., constitution and government), most likely. It usually is. And someone-- maybe the Committee on Ministry of the Presbytery South of Here, wouldn't let her sit for a retake until she'd gone back to SPS and taken a class or another class on it (It is possible to get through seminary and your ords without taking Polity. Ask me, I know.) And if she did that, COM would let her keep serving the Daniels Run Church in the meantime.

But her life situation forbade her from taking more seminary classes at this time. She wouldn't be able even to think of it before next September. Since she was no longer a student but not yet eligible for ordination, the COM would not or could not allow her to continue to fill the DRPC pulpit.

So what, I wondered, were the Daniels Run people going to do all the coming winter, spring, and summer? Could I help them on any steady basis?

I got my answer this morning.

One of the elders accosted me at the door, just as I was about to enter the sanctuary: "Could I make an announcement before you begin the service?"

"Could you do it during the regular announcement time?" I suggested, wondering what was so stupendous it couldn't wait.

"No, I want to do it at the beginning. I have something I need to pass out to the congregation."

Oh. Seemed a little odd to me, but hey, I'm only the weekly supply. "All right," I said.

So after the prelude, I said, "Silas* has an announcement for you."

Silas stood up in his place and said, "I'm head of the committee that's working to get us a regular pastor, and I've got some news! We've been working with the Committee on Ministry and IrmaLou on how we can get her back as our regular pastor! And we've all decided that she'll be certified as a Commissioned Lay Pastor and we'll hire her on half-time. That means she'll be able to run Session meetings and do baptisms and funerals and communion-- but just for this congregation.

"But first," Silas continued, "Committee on Ministry wants everyone in this congregation to write down what they expect in a minister. I'm passing out a survey, and you write down what's important to you, like preaching, visiting, teaching, that kind of thing. You get them back to me, and when we get everything worked out, we should have our pastor IrmaLou back with us!"

He passed the papers around and throughout the service, people were busily filling them out. And me, I was mentally crossing the Daniels Run option off my list.

Even though it cuts me out, I admire their loyalty to their regular student supply minister. I admire it all the more since she's a woman, and many churches I know run their woman pastors ragged and suck them dry, then get angry at them because they can't give any more. This congregation seems to be different.

I just hope when IrmaLou gets her CLP and returns, she'll preach them Christ and Him crucified. If you don't do that, you're not qualified to be any category of Christian pastor at all.

Suspicious

Two or three weeks ago I won a certificate for two free nights' hotel accommodation. I registered the number online as required, and a few days ago, I received a reservation request form from the affiliate company that's the actual hotel room consolidator.

This form has to be in by the 22nd. So yesterday I located it in the pile waiting on the stairs to go up to my study, and began filling it out.

I saw they want around $24 for "room tax." OK, I'd expected that. But I also saw they want the room tax fee paid by money order only.

As Arte Johnson used to say, "Veeeehhree in-ter-esstingg!"

So just on spec, I Googled this consolidator, Premium Travel of Maple Valley, Washington . . . What's this? They're cited on a couple of consumer complaints sites. They're not always on the ball with sending the room vouchers, apparently. And allegedly their customer service over the phone leaves a lot to be desired. And refunds, when demanded, take forever to arrive, if they ever do.

But that was just two or three people with problems. I imagine a company like this must process thousands of orders every year. Bound to have some things fall through the cracks.

For more information, I checked the Better Business Bureau for western Washington state. Whoo-ee! This Premium Travel outfit has had a hundred or more complaints in the past thirty-six months, and a lot of them remain unresolved.

Hmm. That's not good. But let's not be hasty. Maybe a lot of those complaints were from people visualizing free stays at the Ritz-Carlton, but actually being lodged at the Days Inn. I mean, free is free, right? What do you expect?

Still, still . . . I wasn't going to run out and buy my $24 money order. Not until I'd called this company and formed my own ideas of how cooperative and helpful they were.

Besides, I truly wanted to know what to expect, as to hotel class, proximity to attractions, and so on. And how much flexibility we'd have as to room arrangements. I mean, I'm travelling with a friend, and it'd be awkward to find out our free room only has one double bed, and that it'd cost a small fortune to change.

So this afternoon I called the number on the reservation request form, at Premium Travel's address outside Seattle. Ring .... ring .... ring .... ring .... ring .... Computerized phone company announcement came on: "This number has been disconnected. Calls are being taken by . . . " and the voice told off a number with a different area code.

Back online, thanks to various reverse lookup websites, I learn this new number is located in Sumner, Washington, down closer to Tacoma. But none of the sites say it belongs to Premium Travel. Some say no other information is available, others want to charge me to go further, and one says the number is unassigned!

I try "Premium Travel" in Yellowbook.com. "Business unknown," in the entire state of Washington.

Hmm. Curious. More than that, suspicious.

I call the new number, just to see what happens.

This is what happens: I hear another computerized voice, telling me, "The mailbox for Premium Travel is full. Please hang up now." Said in a way that clearly communicated, "We don't really care if you hang up now or not, because we're going to cut off this call Right Now anyway, screw you."

Mailbox is full, eh? Full of irate messages from people wondering where their bloody hotel vouchers are or wanting their room tax fees back?

Um, I strongly suspect that I'd be an idiot to buy that money order and send it in. Besides, where would I send it? Obviously, the address on the form is no longer good!

Looks suspiciously like my friend Frieda* and I will have to do rather more planning and spend a bit more cash if we want to go to Williamsburg in the spring. But I'd rather do that than waste hours of my time on a wild goose chase, all because I got hooked in for $23.95-- and have to pay our own way in any event if we still planned to go.

I may be in for $15 already for processing the initial certificate, if I could remember what card I charged it to. That's enough.

I haven't talked to Frieda yet to see what she wants to do.

Nor have I notified the appliance dealer where I "won" the initial certificate. Wonder what they'll say!

Sad

A week ago last Sunday at the Daniels Run Church*, where I'm preaching this month, a woman approached me during the coffee hour. She introduced herself and said, "I'm a published author!"

"Oh!" I said, suitably impressed. "What have you written?"

"I wrote a book about a woman who escapes from an abusive marriage. Maybe you'd like to buy a copy? It might be useful if you were counselling someone in that situation, you know."

I agreed it would be. But I didn't have the cash on hand at the moment.

"Oh, don't worry about it!" the author said. "I'll give you a copy!" And then, "Actually, the book is about me. I changed my name in the book, and I used a different name for the author. But it's about me."

Standing there, she told me briefly of the escape she'd made from her violent and manipulative husband. How she'd always considered herself a strong woman who'd never get trapped in a situation like that, and then she did. How she hoped what she'd written would help other women in similar circumstances. Hers sounded like a compelling story, and I was interested in reading more about it.

This past Sunday, she gave me the book. It was a slender volume, put out by an unfamiliar publisher.

I read it yesterday. And it was sad.

Sad in the basic story it told, of a woman trapped far from home by a plausible but false and cruel man, who for his own sick gratification worked first to undermine her mind, self-image, and emotions, then to injure her body, and then to destroy her relationships and place in society.

Sad, because the manipulation and abuse did not end once she had fled the husband and the home, but threatened her safety and compromised her relationship with their infant child.

And sad, because her story could have been told so much more powerfully, so much more feelingly. It is a story that begs to be told, but it wasn't, not in this little book. My author never ventured below the surface of her subject. You never get inside her skin, feel her fear, or rejoice in her ultimate recovery. It was like a conversation overheard at the next table at a cafe, one woman giving another a rundown on her latest news. Reading the book, I learned and felt nothing more than I had chatting with the author over coffee after church a week or so ago.

Is it simply that she cannot write? Or-- sad again! that even a decade or more after the experiences recounted, she cannot yet truly face them? Is there great pain still lurking there, and much healing left to do?

If I were the permanent pastor of this church, I might find out someday and be of help. But with me merely providing pulpit supply, I can't presume to suggest it. It'd be an intrusion; perhaps even a new form of abuse.

And that's sad.

Soldiering On

I preached this morning at the little church in the Presbytery South of Here. Since I'm booked in for the next four weeks, I'll call it Daniels Run* Presbyterian.

Thrills and adventure arriving. As the crow flies, the church is close to two major divided highways. But by the lay of the land, it's in the back of beyond and the windy twisty roads can take you anywhere.

Especially when what you think is the church address is actually the number of the church secretary's house! So much fun driving up and down Daniels Run Church Road, attention split between trying to spot something, anything! that looked like a church and coming up with excuses and apologies for being late, when I knew it was my own fault, I shouldn't have hit the snooze alarm the second time this morning and why, oh, why did my dog have to lift his leg on the bookcase and the rug in the Kitten Room just as I was about to put my coat on and take him out to do his business anyway and put me even farther behind, but of course you can't tell a congregation you've just met that, it'll make them think you can't control your dog, for Pete's sake, let alone that you have no discipline about getting up in the morning, and-- oh! where was I?

Oh, yes, trying to find the church. Ended up going back down to the bottom of the road, to the feeder highway, to actually look at the Presbyterian Church Up Thataway sign and see how many miles it said I had to go. Vs. Google Maps' opinion, that is.

In the end, my being late didn't seem to matter. Most of the members got there after I did, and between coordinating the hymns with the organist (the same church secretary), getting the Christmas tree and the Communion Table candles lit (well, one of them), and so on, we got started around fifteen minutes past the time, which seemed to bother no one.

Singing the hymns was a further adventure. Good thing they were familiar carols. The organist is largely self-taught and does the best she can, but that doesn’t necessarily mean playing the notes when and for as long as written. I kept soldiering on, trying to give a lead, figuring that if she and I and the congregation came out together at the end of each line, we were doing pretty well.

So that was all right.

What wasn't all right was the feeling I had while I was preaching my sermon. It felt like nothing at all was happening. Nothing was coming back to me from the congregation. Or worse than nothing. It was almost the feeling I’d get if I’d been preaching a half hour and everyone wanted to get home and watch the football game. But I didn’t have a long sermon for them today. What was the problem? Didn’t know. I felt like I was just flapping my jaws. Couple of times, I found myself thinking, Is there any point in my going on with this? What if I should just stop?

But I told myself, No, I've got solid Scriptural meat and milk for them here, both pastoral and theological, and I have to lay it out for them whether they react to it or not.

Afterwards, there was one man, at least, who seemed very affected by what I'd preached. And everyone seemed very friendly and eager to see me next week.

So I guess you never know.

I just hope things loosen up during sermon time the next four weeks. It could be grim otherwise.

Are My Values Screwed Up or What?

Yesterday afternoon I came up with a number match for a contest at the local appliance dealer's and won two nights' accommodation for two at my choice of a selection of destinations.

You can read all about it here.

So my friend Frieda* and I are planning to visit Colonial Williamsburg in the spring.

But I am not that excited about it.

I mean, I'm not that excited about actually winning the scratch 'n' match.

No, I am more excited that furr teh furst tyme eber eber eber i aktooly haz gottid mee a nawt sekund in the comments on I Can Has Cheezburger.

That r pathetik.

(Teh kommint r parthetiks, 2).

*Rolls eyes at self*

I can haz persp-- purrspk-- hed awn strayt, plz?

Kthxbye

An Advent Evening's Entertainment

Yesterday afternoon my friend Hannah* dropped off her four-year-old daughter Letitia* at my house while she took her son Stevie* on an errand. Letitia had come to help me make Christmas cookies.

The Whistle, the Kittens, and the Bloooood-uh

First thing the child did when she arrived was to ring my Westminster chimes doorbell. Twice. Once inside, she proceeded to blow her whistle (a favor received at an afternoon preschool Christmas party) not twice, but repeatedly.

"Letty! Don't you want to see the kittens? If you keep blowing that whistle, they'll hide under the bed and they won't want to see you!"

"Why not?" (Blows whistle again.)

"Because it scares them."

"Why?"

"Because it hurts their ears." (Mine, too, Kiddo!)

"Why?"

"Because it just does. So stop it, okay?"

We go into the Kitten Room (formerly the Guest Room). I'd trapped the kittens there in anticipation of the child's coming. Otherwise, they'd run and hide among the boxes under the basement stairs and not be visible for hours.

The kittens Gwenith and Huw are hiding under the bed.

Against the far wall.

Of course.

"Get Creamie for me!" demands Letitia, using the name Gwenith went by the week or two she lived at their house. "I don't want Tiger! He scratches me!"

"Huw doesn't scratch me," I reply confidently. "C'mon, Huw, come, baby, come on, boy." I coax him out to where I can just-- uh! reach my left hand--ooh! in under the bed--and, uh, pff! get him around the shoulders and-- "Ouch!! he scratched me!" Got the second knuckle of my middle finger! Ow!!

But I didn't swear in front of the four-year-old. And I didn't let go of the little cat. Not till she'd petted him tentatively a time or two.

"Now get Creamie!"

We pull the bed out from the wall. And I scoop up a squirming, protesting, wiry bundle of pink and white fur.

"Can I hold her? I want to hold her!"

"Can you? She's gotten pretty big, hasn't she?"

Letitia regards the eight-plus pound kitten in my arms with new respect.

"No, I don't want to hold her since she's gotten that big!"

Just then, I noticed how badly my knuckle scratch was bleeding. "Come on, Letty, I have to get a Band-aid on this. We don't want to get blood on Gwenith, do we?"

We open the door. Gwenith and Huw escape and disappear. Downstairs. To the box storage under the basement stair landing.

Of course.

In the bathroom, I'm getting out the peroxide to disinfect my cut. Letitia lets rip a new one on her toy whistle. Tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!

"Don't doooo that!!!!"

"Why not?"

"Because it hurts my ears, and if you don't put it away Right Now I'm taking it away and you may never, ever see it again. Okay?"

Okay.

The Dog's Salute

With the child's help I get my cut cleaned and bandaged. Though it's still bleeding so much I'm worried we might end up with strange red streaks in the sugar cookies, and they won't be food coloring. But before I had much time to consider this, in walks Llewellyn, my part-collie, part-beagle, part-some-other-kind-of-hunting-dog mutt, and marked the excitement of the occasion by peeing on the bathroom floor. And finished it off by saluting the door jamb and the hall floor in the same fashion.

"Llewellyn!! Naughty! Naughty!! . . . No, Letty, stand right there! Don't move an inch!"

Fortunately, she obeys, and I clean up the mess with an old towel from the linen closet.

Well, at least it was on the vinyl and the wood, and not on the carpet. At least.

Maybe I should have taken him outside at that point. But there didn't seem to be any point to it, since he'd, well, seemed to have shot his bolt.

I thought he had, anyway.

Cookie Artists

And we wanted to get to the cookie-making business. So after we'd both thoroughly washed our hands, down we went to the kitchen. I covered her party dress (which she refused to change out of) with the apron I'd made in 6th-grade Home Ec class, and I donned the Philadelphia Orchestra apron I received, o lord, thirty years ago as a WFLN fund-raising premium. And weren't we a lovely pair of throwbacks!

And we had a lovely time. The dough was already made, so we took turns rolling out and Letitia wielded the cookie cutters. And acted as official dough sampler.

Cutting out cookies is a deliberate process with a four-year-old. Especially with a bright one like Letitia, who asks tons of questions and expects real answers to them.

"Are you a kid?"

Bless the baby! "No, not any more."

"Are you a teacher?"

"No, not right now. I used to be."

"What are you, then?"

(Oh, an unemployed architect. An out-of-work Presbyterian pastor. I don't know, myself, so how can I answer a four-year-old? )

I don't try. "Um, so, Letty, what did you do in preschool today . . . ?"

. . . More trees, holly, angels; also moons, dog-bone shapes, and dots. She's really keen on the dots.

"Blogwen?"

"What?"

"After Creamie and Tiger get all grown up, and they don't jump on things anymore, and they're all grown up, you think they could come to our house and be our kittens and live with us?"

"Uh, I think that's up to your mom and dad."

(Who would emphatically say NO. They're my kittens, thank you very much. You have two big cats of your own that your dad is allergic to already. So lay off my kittehs!)

Love Locked Out

After the first two sheets of cookies were in the oven, I set up the gates to bar Llewellyn from the kitchen. Did not want him jumping on the counter for samples. He moped and whined, but too bad. He's not getting any if I can help it.

Juvenile Chemistry, or Chaos Cubed

We had the first sheet of Round Two filled and were starting on the second, when the doorbell rang. It was Hannah and Stevie, come to help with cookies, too, and to eat a snack meal of chicken nuggets (her provision) before she took the children home.

Well. You know those elementary-school experiments where you poured vinegar on bicarb of soda to make a volcano? Or better still, those dorm-party episodes where you really shook up the beer cans for the fun of watching them spurt across the room when the pop top was pulled? That mildly describes the effect of plunging six-year-old Stevie into the mix.

Two children is not one child plus one child. It is a whirlwind squared. Cubed. Dodecahedron'd. Stevie demanded a piece of the action (and of the cookie dough). Letitia, crowded out, began to do the spaghetti-leg whine. Stevie lost interest in baking and ran down the basement to try to find the kittens. Letitia joined him and they proposed pulling out all the boxes to make the kittens come out. No. We get them back upstairs and send Stevie into the living room with treats to play with the dog. He does. For about three minutes. Then comes back into the kitchen (about collapsing the dog gate as he does) to brag that he's going to get a set of Yugi-Oh! cards for Christmas, Yes! Yes! Yes!

Next thing we know, both kids are down on the basement landing, with Stevie proposing to play some imaginative but hazardous game with a large flashlight I keep there, while his sister gleefully egged him on. His mother and I run to investigate. He won't give the flashlight to his mother. He won't give it to me. Not even with our Stares of Death coming at him from two directions. "No! No! I'm keeping it! No! It's my Secret Weapon!"

"Stevie," I say, "put it down!" He turns it on instead.

"Stevie," says his mom, struggling with him to get it away, "turn it off and put it down!"

Actually, I know the thing is hard to turn off. He does get it extinguished-- then it comes back on again. "Hahahaha, look! It's magic!!! I'm the only one who knows the secret! It's miiiiieeenn!!"

"Stevie, this is my house and I did not tell you you could touch my things." Did I make any useless threats? Did his mother? Hell if I know. I think it was only his bafflement at not actually being able to control the thing that made him put it back and come upstairs.

So we send him into the living room again. Where he entertained himself sliding on the fake Pergo. I'd hoped to finish the last sheet of cookies so I could get them in the oven then out for the chicken nuggets to go in. But clearly there was no time. Something was about to spontaneously go ablaze, and it wasn't the gas in the oven.

To be fair to Stevie, he's one of those kids who bounces off the walls when his blood sugar is low, not when it's high. And it was lower than a sidewalk crack at the moment. He needed protein, and he needed it now.

So, chicken nuggets into the oven, with one sheet of cookies! Nuggets out, and the last two sheets of cookies go in! Mom opens the fridge to organize drinks. Stevie sees two bottles of blue flavored water in there that I bought one day in thirsty desperation and pulls them out, demanding them for his sister and himself. I consider one split second: no, too much artificial junk. Too much for me, way too much for them. "No," I tell him.

"No! No!" (with manic giggling) "They're ours! They're ours! We brought them! We can have them! Right, Mom? They're ours, they're ours, they're ours they're ours they're ours they're ours!!!!!"

"No, Stevie, they are not. They're mine, and you're not having them. And I do not appreciate your taking them out of my refrigerator without permission, and then lying about it. You keep that up, you won't be able to come back and see the kittens for a loonnnng time!"

"No, no! We brought them, we brought them!" Giggling, darting, feinting, till I got the blue bottles back and put them where they belonged. Hannah gets glasses of water on. Time to sit down and eat, and the kids are wrestling each other on the living room floor! "Come on," calls Hannah, "time to wash up and get to the table!" They go on wrestling. Somehow she manages to untangle them and get them seated. More or less.

The Oven Rebels

Just then, Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!!

"FIRE!!!" screams Stevie! "Run for your life!!! Run! RUNNN!!!" And he and his sister go pelting off to the front room, bellowing "Fire! fire!"

Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!!

"Don't worry," I say calmly, "that smoke detector always goes off when I've got something in the oven. It's just because the oven's dirty. I'll just push this button-- here-- and it should shut up."

But it didn't. Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!!

"FIRE! FIRE!" shout the children. And the damn smoke detector still won't shut off. I take it down. I can't remove the back to loosen the battery. It keeps on screaming. So do the kids. Wonderful.

I resort to putting the thing in the living room out of range of the dirty oven smoke, and take my place at the table. Hannah has the kids seated, and Stevie proclaims, "I'm saying grace!"

"No!" Letitia replies bitterly, "you said it last time!"

"Well, I'm saying it!" And he does, including a touching line about "Dear God, help us to do the things we should." At which this ordained clergywoman managed not to laugh hysterically. How could I? He's a child! With my friend his mother sitting right there! Besides, I believe in total depravity from before birth, oh, yes, I do! So how could I be disappointed or surprised?

"Why does he always get to say grace?" whines Letitia. "It was my turn!" Hannah about has her mollified when suddenly, Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeee!!! Eeeeeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeeeeeee!!!

It's the bloody upstairs smoke detector! Good grief! The oven's only on at 350 degrees! Yeah, I could smell the drips burning a bit, but still!

Hannah squelches the children while I go squelch the upstairs detector by opening a window. I sit down again and start eating when, Beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep!

"Shut uuuupppp!!!" roars Stevie. Oh, gosh, is that what I'd just said? Did he get that from me?

"No, it's just the timer for the cookies. It's time for them to come out of the oven. I'll get them on the rack and up out of the dog's way and-- Oh, no!"

Our lovely cookies. They were burnt black and brown, the color of a Rottweiler. But nowhere as nice smelling as your average large fierce dog.

Just what I need. I'm ready for my big Christmas baking campaign, and the oven thermostat goes out. Again.

The Meaning of 'Naughty'

Oh, well. I shoveled the carbonized remains onto the racks, figuring Llewellyn couldn't possibly be interested. And he wasn't. During dinner. During dinner, he lay calm and well-behaved next to my chair. Waiting.

Somehow, Stevie and Letitia managed to get some food into their little stomachs. Hannah and I began to clear up, and here came Stevie into the kitchen, seated astride my mutt and shouting hilariously, "Ride 'em, cowboy!!"

That tore it. I rescued Llewellyn and took the child very firmly by the shoulders and gave him a stare he couldn't possibly misapprehend. "Stevie. Don't. You. Ever. Do. That. Again. You understand? Llewellyn's a good dog, but you do that to him and he may think the only way to defend himself is to bite you. And I do not want you to get hurt. Do you understand? . . . Okay."

About that time, his mother, who'd been dealing with his sister, came in and realized what he'd gotten up to. 'That's it," she said. "You get on this stool and sit here until we go home!"

"Oh, nooooo! You're going to tie me to the stoooool! No, no!" Yeah, right. I keep my bondage ropes right next to the dishwasher detergent.

"Knock it off with the drama queen act! Your momma said sit, and you're gonna sit!"

Said Stevie's mother, "I think I've changed my mind about those Yugi-Oh! cards. I'm taking them back."

He flew off the stool and struck a tragic pose at her feet. "No, no, I beg of you!! You can't! You can't!"

"Get back on that stool, or I definitely will!"

Just then, Llewellyn, taking advantage of the diversion, jumped up on the counter and began chomping away on the burnt Rottweiler cookies.

"Llewellyn! No! Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!"

"What does 'naughty' mean?" inquired Stevie from his perch.

"What you've been all evening," I replied grimly.

The Doggie, ReDoo. Sort of.

Hannah retrieved the kids' coats and after a little more silliness and histrionics, Letitia and Stevie were got into them. We made sure they had all their stuff, and arranged for them to come back on Friday to ice the cookies and make some more. We said our goodbyes and I was walking them to the door, when--

"Llewellyn!! Naughty dog!"

"Wha'd he do? Wha'd he do?" in tones of anticipation and wonder from the children.

"He pee'd on the floor, again. Here in the front room. No, Letty, don't walk there, you'll step in it! Stevie, keep back! I'll get a towel . . . There. Now you can get to the door. I'll clean the rest of it up after you leave."

"Why'd he go to the bathroom on the floor?" Stevie inquired.

"Probably because you kids were so wild and loud he got too upset and excited and couldn't hold it in."

And with that charming judgement I said goodbye to Letitia and Stevie and their mother and she took them off home to their beds. Where I hope they settled down and actually slept.

But it occurred to me after they left that Llewellyn could just as well have lifted his leg on my grandmother's antique lamp to get revenge for being shut out of the fun in the kitchen. But if consideration for the dog's bladder will help Stevie and Letitia keep the mania level down in my house, a little misplaced justice isn't-- misplaced.

An Advent Meditation

I got more towels, and cleaned the dog's offering off the fake wood floor. I dumped the burnt cookies in the trash, cleaned the kitchen, and watched the kittens emerge shellshocked from the basement.

And I contemplated how different being a mother is to being a teacher or childminder who only has to deal with kids' craziness a few hours at a time and then can let them go home and out of her responsibility. I still wish I could have had children of my own. But oh, would I, could I have had the backbone to stand up under the job?

I'm sure that Jesus' mother Mary had more kids. The little brothers and sisters started coming, and she didn't have time to notice how perfectly-behaved her Firstborn was. She was just darn grateful that He gave her no trouble and was such a help with the younger ones.

That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it. Blessed Advent, everyone!