Behold, the Bridegroom comes in the middle of the night, and blessed is the servant He shall find vigilant; but unworthy is he whom he shall find neglectful. Beware therefore, O my soul, lest you be weighed down by sleep, lest you be given over to death and be closed out from the kingdom; but rise up crying out: "Holy! Holy! Holy are You our God; through the intercessions of the Theotokos, have mercy on us."
The Triumphal Entry has occurred. Christ is in our midst! There was a spirit of joy in the procession on Sunday, even through the misting rain and cold. I looked around at the other faces and saw the excitement of knowing the King has entered, He who we have waited for. We sang, "Blessed is He who comes..." softly, remembering not only the triumph, but the reason for the coming.
It was also palatable beneath the anticipation, and the acknowledgement of the great event, an all too close sense of the sorrow to come. It was most apparent to me after we got home, and I was bending the blessed palms into crosses for our prayer corner. I thought of what my sister-in-law said to me in relation to making the palms into crosses, "You have to do it while they are still alive, or they just crumble." Required also was the life required of the Lord, for our salvation.
Holy Week is here, and the flurry of services and preparations. My children also, regrettably, have standardized testing this week, three days. Thankfully, it is only in the morning on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. We're trying to decide which services to take all the kids to, which to only take the older ones, thinking about how to work the Pascha vigil. I'm exhausted already, may I be forgiven.
Observing Holy Week brings you to your knees-not only physically. It's an interesting place to be, feeling the weight of your sins, and knowing how sin bends, breaks, twists....
You must bend the palm, split it, twist it, and weave it through...essentially mangle it. Then, suddenly it begins to take the form of the Cross, this life-giving, all glorious symbol where the Lord died, where true living began-were death was vanquished.
Thanks be to God, there is more than the sorrow, more than the lamentation. Where we recognize only the end, the sorrow, the death, God works all things together for good, for life, and life eternal. Blessed Holy Week to all!
29 March 2010
25 March 2010
“Today is the beginning of our salvation,
And the revelation of the eternal mystery!
The Son of God becomes the Son of the Virgin
As Gabriel announces the coming of Grace.
Together with him let us cry to the Theotokos:
"Rejoice, O Full of Grace, the Lord is with you!"
Troparion of the Annunciation
This troparion was especially beautiful, and we had almost a full choir, too.
Saying I liked it is funny when I still don't really know what a troparion is and where to find it. I managed to figure out the first two lines and the last few lines. Sigh. I just stopped singing in the middle, lost. I am most frustrated because my kids are asking, "What are we singing?" and I have no idea. Haha.
I noticed last night, in a particularly long service for an evening, that my daughter who is six is 5000% percent interested. She loves prostration, wearing a head covering, she is bold and unembarrassed to step forward and touch the priest's robe during the Entrance, then she crosses herself and darts back to me...oh, it's lovely. Last night she stepped a little too close and Father John took a tiny pause mid-step, so we had a talk about touching the HEM and not getting in the way. With her, as soon as she sees someone doing something, she wants to know why and how and she jumps right in. At first, I didn't know what to do with this. I thought maybe it would be out of place, or disruptive. But all I ever hear is, "She is so sweet." She venerated the icon of the Annunciation, and had to jump a little to kiss it. Her metanoias are much smoother than mine. Maybe because she's not nervous like me and thinking whoswatchingmeamIdoingitrightohnoIcompletelyforgothow!!
Zachary, however, is absolutely terrified. Well, fascinated AND terrified at the same time. My husband talked to Father and he recommended a book about conversion that Zach can read on his own. I hope it helps. He is so busy wondering what to do with himself he completely missed the whole congregation prostrating. I tapped him on the shoulder and he was clueless about what was going on. Maybe because he was too busy staring up at the new iconography on the ceiling, of the Pantocrator.
In the Protestant churches we have been in, Beth has always been a little disruptive in "adult church". Put a little girl in a pew and tell her to sit still and make no noise for an hour...well, good luck. The first Anglican church we attended had a children's service, which I helped with several times at the request of the priest's wife (I homeschool, therefore I got the mad skillz?). There was a shortened (read: dumbed down) version of the Apostles Creed and some bibles reading. A commonly played game was "Forgiveness Tag" instead of Freeze Tag. We took the kids out of the kid's service, and they were the only children in the adult service...they didn't like us much but we really felt that attending the service with us was much more formative for them.
I think it's harder to convert, and to make any big life change, when you have children over 5. Sure, the babies are hard to deal with in new places because they fuss and complain and need all sorts of attention, but the older kids know what's going on. They hear us discussing beliefs and see us reading and reading and reading, and they know something is happening. We've done of lot of "Wait...this isn't what we're looking for," in their short lives, and I think Zach is somewhat unsure if we'll ever stay at a church.
Lord, have mercy.
And the revelation of the eternal mystery!
The Son of God becomes the Son of the Virgin
As Gabriel announces the coming of Grace.
Together with him let us cry to the Theotokos:
"Rejoice, O Full of Grace, the Lord is with you!"
Troparion of the Annunciation
This troparion was especially beautiful, and we had almost a full choir, too.
Saying I liked it is funny when I still don't really know what a troparion is and where to find it. I managed to figure out the first two lines and the last few lines. Sigh. I just stopped singing in the middle, lost. I am most frustrated because my kids are asking, "What are we singing?" and I have no idea. Haha.
I noticed last night, in a particularly long service for an evening, that my daughter who is six is 5000% percent interested. She loves prostration, wearing a head covering, she is bold and unembarrassed to step forward and touch the priest's robe during the Entrance, then she crosses herself and darts back to me...oh, it's lovely. Last night she stepped a little too close and Father John took a tiny pause mid-step, so we had a talk about touching the HEM and not getting in the way. With her, as soon as she sees someone doing something, she wants to know why and how and she jumps right in. At first, I didn't know what to do with this. I thought maybe it would be out of place, or disruptive. But all I ever hear is, "She is so sweet." She venerated the icon of the Annunciation, and had to jump a little to kiss it. Her metanoias are much smoother than mine. Maybe because she's not nervous like me and thinking whoswatchingmeamIdoingitrightohnoIcompletelyforgothow!!
Zachary, however, is absolutely terrified. Well, fascinated AND terrified at the same time. My husband talked to Father and he recommended a book about conversion that Zach can read on his own. I hope it helps. He is so busy wondering what to do with himself he completely missed the whole congregation prostrating. I tapped him on the shoulder and he was clueless about what was going on. Maybe because he was too busy staring up at the new iconography on the ceiling, of the Pantocrator.
In the Protestant churches we have been in, Beth has always been a little disruptive in "adult church". Put a little girl in a pew and tell her to sit still and make no noise for an hour...well, good luck. The first Anglican church we attended had a children's service, which I helped with several times at the request of the priest's wife (I homeschool, therefore I got the mad skillz?). There was a shortened (read: dumbed down) version of the Apostles Creed and some bibles reading. A commonly played game was "Forgiveness Tag" instead of Freeze Tag. We took the kids out of the kid's service, and they were the only children in the adult service...they didn't like us much but we really felt that attending the service with us was much more formative for them.
I think it's harder to convert, and to make any big life change, when you have children over 5. Sure, the babies are hard to deal with in new places because they fuss and complain and need all sorts of attention, but the older kids know what's going on. They hear us discussing beliefs and see us reading and reading and reading, and they know something is happening. We've done of lot of "Wait...this isn't what we're looking for," in their short lives, and I think Zach is somewhat unsure if we'll ever stay at a church.
Lord, have mercy.
23 March 2010
...in all things
Our history board today.
It's interesting to look at history, at what we think is important from our past, and realize how steeped in religion the world was. Sometimes it seems it was only religion, a practice without a faith, but often enough it was practice and great faith. It's fun to look again at church history throughout the ages and have my children noticing that a good amount of important historical figures were Christians, and if they were not they ceaselessly approached Christianity, as if obsessed with the fullness expressed there. Life for centuries revolved around and within the Church. Oh, that I could find a way to bring my family into that cycle as well. God help me.
Zachary, all of eight years, was enthralled today reading about how at roughly the same time the New World was discovered Michelangelo was camped out in the Sistine Chapel- for years. We read how Michelangelo was reclusive, and preferred to be alone. Bethany (6) immediately piped up asking why Raphael was so outgoing but Michelangelo wanted to be left to himself.
"He sounds mean, " she said, wrinkling her nose, "but at least he painted God and stuff." And stuff, I laughed at this.
Zachary replied, quietly, "I think he was shy."
Zach would know shy.
18 March 2010
A new family member
We recently adopted a dog from the local animal shelter. I had not wanted a dog -I didn't feel I was ready to take care of anymore than I already have. My husband pushed the issue, and I brought home a dog to foster. I am glad now that he pushed. I've always had a dog, and life without one is noticeably less enjoyable. I am often less confident, more hesitant, so it is a good balance to have someone who spurs me forward.
It only took two days for us to decide to keep him. He's a mix, but beautiful. Patient, curious, quiet, loyal...I'm so glad to have a dog at my heels around the house again. I don't know that he's the type that would take a stance against a threat, but you never know. He's around a year old, and has obviously been mistreated because even though he's warmed up to us, you still see him stop and stiffen up now and then when someone reaches for him. His name is Sidney, which my daughter Bethany named him because of a book she'd been reading. I call him Sid mostly.
I was feeding him this evening and when he was thumping his tail and looking up at me with humble gratitude I started to remember all the other furry faces that have been part of my life.
Throughout my teens, my family's livelihood was raising purebred Golden Retrievers. I must have seen twelve litters if I am counting right.
This may sound funny, but when I was in labor with my first baby, I didn't think of the hundreds of books I'd read and the movies I'd watched to prepare for childbirth. I thought of the Retrievers.
I witnessed all the births. A few weeks before they whelp, the mother dogs always started nesting. They would dig a deep hole under the barn, and if you filled it in, they'd dig it again. We let them once we figured out that they had an instinctual need to make a safe place to have their pups. Plus it helped us figure out how close the puppies were. We had one female dog (I have never been able to call them bitches) who was stocky and strong and wanted no help with her births. You could watch from a good distance. Her name was Beauty, and she was a passionately involved mother. Her third litter, after having thirteen pups, she accidentally stepped on one and killed it. I remember she wouldn't let us take the body away, and held it between her paws and licked it and howled for two days before we snuck it away. Beauty was affectionate only to her puppies, though, and never won my parent's hearts. I spent many hours watching her and the pups, and was probably closest with her.
After eight litters, Beauty was retired. My parents took her to a farm abruptly, and I was horrified that she was given away after providing so many litters for our livelihood; that's a thousand dollars a puppy. We had kept one of the puppies, and bred her. Her name was Sarah, as I had named her. She was a terrible mother, skittish and terrified in birthing. I was the only one who could calm her, and spent many hours helping her care for her pups. She did nothing but give birth, we had to wipe the pups down, suction the fluid from their noses and mouths, and cut and tie off their umbilical cords. Sarah would nose the pups, and whine and lick at them, but didn't know what to do. She was clueless, where Beauty had been a pro from the first. Sarah hardly nursed the pups, and we had to start them on milk replacements early. I remember feeling pity for her, because the dog knew we were disappointed. You may think I give a dog credit of too many emotions...but I don't think I ever met a more emotional dog than she!
Humans are the same way. There are women who take to mothering like second nature, and women who are terrified and cannot cope. There are women who guard their children and give all of themselves for the life that came from them, and there are women who push their children away fearfully. I don't know if this comes out right: I know of God's creation through my experiences with raising puppies, through being outdoors, through working with horses...and now through raising my children. I am not comparing raising children to raising puppies, let me make clear, it is not at all the same. I am just saying I was aware of creation being unique and not of any earthly mould, long before I knew who was the author of that creation.
When Elijah was close to being born, I thought of Beauty. I thought of the way she calmly labored, determined and focused, and I remembered her compassion. It was the acceptance of the pain, the process, and of the sudden loud, bawling, demanding life that clearly defined Beauty's mothering of her pups. She did not fight against anything, but labored solemnly along with it. She accepted it.
I think acceptance is important in one's life. It is the things I have learned to labor beside, and not against, that are most important and prominent in my life.
The father of all the pups was Boss. I remember getting him from a farm in Sturgis, Michigan. My parents had stopped on a whim after seeing a sign at the roadside, "Golden pups for sale". It was fall, I remember the leaves on the ground where the mother dog sat surrounded by round, blond pups. She urged my parents into buying a puppy with her sweet demeanor and piercing intelligence. My dad, no matter how rough around the edges, always had some soft spots and the mother dog came to him and offered him a paw. My dad has huge hands and her delicate, domesticated paw was swallowed in it. We took home her littlest, reddest one. He grew quickly and was not at all little. That dog was proud. My sister and I fussed because he was strong and pulled where he wanted to go on walks, we said he was bossy, and he became Boss. I took him on every forest hike and country lane run. We'd even ride our bikes and he'd trot on a leash beside us. Boss defended me several times against badgers and stray dogs. He died a few years ago, after going blind. My mom called to tell me they put him down because he couldn't get up much anymore and was unable to find his way anywhere. I cried for a few days. I'm sad now, writing about it.
Anyway, Sidney is here to stay. I hope he will grow with my children, as Ella is inseperable from the "pubby" as she says, Zach and Elijah are constantly "adventuring" with the dog, and Bethany cares as she always does, overwhelmingly, feeding the dog too much and petting him too much. He hasn't really complained, though. I don't think the kibble came as easily at the shelter.
It only took two days for us to decide to keep him. He's a mix, but beautiful. Patient, curious, quiet, loyal...I'm so glad to have a dog at my heels around the house again. I don't know that he's the type that would take a stance against a threat, but you never know. He's around a year old, and has obviously been mistreated because even though he's warmed up to us, you still see him stop and stiffen up now and then when someone reaches for him. His name is Sidney, which my daughter Bethany named him because of a book she'd been reading. I call him Sid mostly.
I was feeding him this evening and when he was thumping his tail and looking up at me with humble gratitude I started to remember all the other furry faces that have been part of my life.
Throughout my teens, my family's livelihood was raising purebred Golden Retrievers. I must have seen twelve litters if I am counting right.
This may sound funny, but when I was in labor with my first baby, I didn't think of the hundreds of books I'd read and the movies I'd watched to prepare for childbirth. I thought of the Retrievers.
I witnessed all the births. A few weeks before they whelp, the mother dogs always started nesting. They would dig a deep hole under the barn, and if you filled it in, they'd dig it again. We let them once we figured out that they had an instinctual need to make a safe place to have their pups. Plus it helped us figure out how close the puppies were. We had one female dog (I have never been able to call them bitches) who was stocky and strong and wanted no help with her births. You could watch from a good distance. Her name was Beauty, and she was a passionately involved mother. Her third litter, after having thirteen pups, she accidentally stepped on one and killed it. I remember she wouldn't let us take the body away, and held it between her paws and licked it and howled for two days before we snuck it away. Beauty was affectionate only to her puppies, though, and never won my parent's hearts. I spent many hours watching her and the pups, and was probably closest with her.
After eight litters, Beauty was retired. My parents took her to a farm abruptly, and I was horrified that she was given away after providing so many litters for our livelihood; that's a thousand dollars a puppy. We had kept one of the puppies, and bred her. Her name was Sarah, as I had named her. She was a terrible mother, skittish and terrified in birthing. I was the only one who could calm her, and spent many hours helping her care for her pups. She did nothing but give birth, we had to wipe the pups down, suction the fluid from their noses and mouths, and cut and tie off their umbilical cords. Sarah would nose the pups, and whine and lick at them, but didn't know what to do. She was clueless, where Beauty had been a pro from the first. Sarah hardly nursed the pups, and we had to start them on milk replacements early. I remember feeling pity for her, because the dog knew we were disappointed. You may think I give a dog credit of too many emotions...but I don't think I ever met a more emotional dog than she!
Humans are the same way. There are women who take to mothering like second nature, and women who are terrified and cannot cope. There are women who guard their children and give all of themselves for the life that came from them, and there are women who push their children away fearfully. I don't know if this comes out right: I know of God's creation through my experiences with raising puppies, through being outdoors, through working with horses...and now through raising my children. I am not comparing raising children to raising puppies, let me make clear, it is not at all the same. I am just saying I was aware of creation being unique and not of any earthly mould, long before I knew who was the author of that creation.
When Elijah was close to being born, I thought of Beauty. I thought of the way she calmly labored, determined and focused, and I remembered her compassion. It was the acceptance of the pain, the process, and of the sudden loud, bawling, demanding life that clearly defined Beauty's mothering of her pups. She did not fight against anything, but labored solemnly along with it. She accepted it.
I think acceptance is important in one's life. It is the things I have learned to labor beside, and not against, that are most important and prominent in my life.
The father of all the pups was Boss. I remember getting him from a farm in Sturgis, Michigan. My parents had stopped on a whim after seeing a sign at the roadside, "Golden pups for sale". It was fall, I remember the leaves on the ground where the mother dog sat surrounded by round, blond pups. She urged my parents into buying a puppy with her sweet demeanor and piercing intelligence. My dad, no matter how rough around the edges, always had some soft spots and the mother dog came to him and offered him a paw. My dad has huge hands and her delicate, domesticated paw was swallowed in it. We took home her littlest, reddest one. He grew quickly and was not at all little. That dog was proud. My sister and I fussed because he was strong and pulled where he wanted to go on walks, we said he was bossy, and he became Boss. I took him on every forest hike and country lane run. We'd even ride our bikes and he'd trot on a leash beside us. Boss defended me several times against badgers and stray dogs. He died a few years ago, after going blind. My mom called to tell me they put him down because he couldn't get up much anymore and was unable to find his way anywhere. I cried for a few days. I'm sad now, writing about it.
Anyway, Sidney is here to stay. I hope he will grow with my children, as Ella is inseperable from the "pubby" as she says, Zach and Elijah are constantly "adventuring" with the dog, and Bethany cares as she always does, overwhelmingly, feeding the dog too much and petting him too much. He hasn't really complained, though. I don't think the kibble came as easily at the shelter.
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