The Great Blessing of Circus Peanuts

On Pascha Anna snuck some Circus Peanuts into our basket. I mentioned that I was concerned that Circus Peanuts might be just unblessable.

Derek Bowers took me to task when he devised this blessing for them. This blessing won't make it into The Great Book of Needs (for goodness sake--who could need a Circus Peanut?) but it is certainly worth publishing:

GREAT BLESSING OF THE CIRCUS PEANUTS

I know, O Lord, that I partake unworthily of these, Thy Circus Peanuts, which Thou hast prepared for the nourishment of Thine unworthy servants, for oft-times have I scorned Thine artificially flavored foodstuffs. Verily, from the day that my mother bore me, I have been reared on the choicest flesh of fattened calves and the most costly of spirits, and I have forgotten the vision which Thou didst reveal to Thine all-holy and laudable Apostle Peter who beheld upon the housetop at the sixth hour a great sheet descending from the heavens which was filled with four-footed animals of the earth, wild beasts, creeping things, and birds of the air. And then there was the voice: “That which God hath cleansed, thou mayest not call unclean.” But how can I, who have ne’er partaken of even so much as a creeping beast of the earth, dare to bring forth to my defiled lips the Circus Peanut, a substance the nature of which Thou hast not deigned to reveal to the minds of earth-borne men? Thou bringest to my mind, O Lord Who makest all foods clean, the example of the holy king and prophet David, whose company Thou didst once nourish with the Bread of Thy Divine Presence, a thing incomprehensible to the mortal mind. And so, as Thou didst once strengthen the heart of David Thy servant to eat the bread of Thy mystical presence, a thing far stranger to the minds of men than even the Circus Peanut, so now give me the courage to say with boldness: “These Circus Peanuts are blessed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” May they be neither to the deterioration of the enamel, nor to the fattening of the flesh, nor to the orangification of the tongue, but rather to the nourishment of the body, the reinvigoration of the mind, and the pleasure of the palette. Amen.

foiled (again)

My husband is a pack rat and I am a purger. While in some areas of our marriage we've found a happy middle ground, this domestic tension has only intensified over the years, especially when it comes to the thousands of books we collaboratively (John 91%, me 9%) own. One time I even shattered a plate in rage when he brought yet another book into our home. Moving has been torture. When my dad helped us move into a third-floor walk-up he suffered a heatstroke from our bulk of books.

Every now and then I get the urge to sneak a few out of the house. I keep my covert operation within respectful limits--I do not carry off books from his office, for example. But I might snatch a few titles from my bookshelves in the back of the house, a few from Anna's room, and perhaps a few from a dusty corner of a closet that haven't seen that light of day since 1931.

One problem with books is that despite John's great passion for them, charities aren't so enthused. Last time I tried to hawk a few titles at the Salvation Army they turned me away. But last week I had an idea--I would drop a few books in the Powell's give-away box.

I loaded up my car with clutter from Anna's room, household items and some of my old maternity clothes. I also had a few books with me, and I was able to carry them off undetected (score!). I was inwardly cheering at my success, when John sweetly offered to help carry a load to the car. "Oh no, really I'm fine," I said as I staggered to the car, both arms overflowing with stuff, one of Natalie's eyes peeking out from the sling.

When I returned to the house for another load John was waiting for me on the back deck. I was nervous but tried to act cool. "Would you like to take my black cords?" he asked, offering me a pair of pants with a most unfortunately located stain. "That's the spirit, Honey!" I said, as I flung the pants over my forearm. I made it safely down the street to Powell's, double parked and chucked the books in the give-away box as fast as I could. Two days of domestic harmony followed, and I thought I was in the clear.

On Sunday morning, however, John was serving in the altar and I smiled sweetly at him through the royal doors. He did not smile back. During coffee hour he cornered me. "Which of my books did you sell at Powell's?" he asked. "Um," I said, stalling. "Who did you talk to?" He would not reveal his sources. "Now I have to go to Powell's, search their entire inventory and buy back my own books--and how could sell Jacob's book?" His hands were trembling.

My face flushed as I realized that I'd accidentally slipped our friend Jacob's book in with the others. But I still couldn't figure out how John knew. "But John, you don't have to buy back our books. I put them in the giveaway box!" He smiled then, satisfied. "Well, good, then I've already picked them all up!"

Postscript:

John went for a walk the same day I attempted my scheme. Free from my ever-watchful gaze, he decided to court the give-away box at Powells. To his amazement, he found one with Jacob's name in it. He tucked it in with an armload of books that he thought would make a great "addition" to our library. He thought it strange that so many impressive titles were in the give-away box, with irresistible titles like A History of Ancient China, and The Many Faces of Iran. Sunday morning, when he was serving with Jacob in the altar, he turned to him and told him that he'd discovered one of Jacob's books in the give-away box at Powell's. Jacob was equally baffled, as he hadn't been there in years . . .

grieving a miscarriage

I've got a new piece up on Boundless about grieving a miscarriage. To read it, go to www.boundless.org.

a candle for Eric

It's been a week since Eric Iliff's funeral. I am part of that cloud of witnesses who continue to struggle and reflect over his death and its implications.

Here's the story of how I ended up at the funeral--a stranger among the mourners:

A week ago, I headed out to Burbank to make an "addendum" confession. In the car, I called Amber for my daily dose of her (if you've read her blog, you can imagine why I need her so). She told me that our friend Rachel was headed to Eric's funeral in Normal. This conversation intensified an earlier desire to go to the funeral, although I did not know Eric or his family.

I wanted to be there for reasons I can not articulate completely. I ache for Eric, for his family, and for everyone who is struggling now. And although I don't know the family, we are all family in the Church--even those of us who don't know each other yet.

By the time I arrived in Burbank, I had begun to formulate a plan, and Fr. John had given his blessing for me to make the trip with Natalie while he cared for Anna at home. There were, of course, a few small details I had not yet figured out.

"You see, I'm not exactly dressed for a funeral," I said glancing down at my jeans and red sweatshirt, after I'd arrived at the rectory. "Well," said Miriam, "Perhaps we should go up and look through my closet." I found a red sweater and black skirt that fit nicely. When I was changed and ready, Fr. Luke arrived with directions he'd printed out from mapquest.

On the long drive up, I conversed with myself about what the heck I was doing. If I had to turn in a comment card for myself, I'd surely write, "Seems to be getting a bit crazier each day." And yet I felt magnetically drawn to the funeral, and this feeling, irrational and unexplainable as it was, only intensified as I drove.

I went through a mental checklist: Computer? Check (I was on deadline for an article). Powercord? Check. Extra diapers and clothes for N? Check. Sling? Check. Toothbrush and paste? Mmmm. Wallet? Oh, I hope and hope it is somewhere in this car. The nagging fear about my wallet tugged at me on the long ride through the infinitely flat cornfields.

And then Rachel called to tell me that she was stuck in Pennsylvania because of a blizzard (all flights out of NYC were also canceled). She said that the other two carloads of seminarians would be driving all night to get there. What else can go wrong? I asked myself as I started to lose courage.

When I finally arrived at the funeral home, I began to see the rightness of being there. During the Panakhida a lady glanced at Natalie in the sling. "A baby," she said, "There is hope." Natalie did not seem to understand that one is supposed to be solemn at a funeral, and she cooed and gurgled while everyone wept around her. After the service, Fr. James Ellison checked me into a hotel and I wrote him a check (saving the day for the wallet-less me).

In the church parking lot the next day, I was shocked by the amount of cars in comparison to the shoe-box-sized church. I opened the door and could barely squeeze in with Natalie in the sling. We were body to body, all these people who loved Eric and were shaken by his death. I spotted Deacon Alex right away, with Josiah at his feet, and then I saw Nathan, eyes bloodshot from the all night drive.

Fr. John was in white vestments, and the choir was singing words that didn't always fit perfectly. A little later, Eric's picture tumbled to the ground, and it was swiftly picked up and kissed as if it were an icon. Through tears, Fr. John spoke about the darkness we were in. "But in a few short weeks," he said, "It will be Pascha, we will light our candles off of each other and the light will spread."

At the end of the service I made my way up to the family. I thought about Nate Schroeder's funeral, a little more than a year ago, also in central Illinois. I remembered how most people kissed and touched Nate. I wanted to kiss Eric's casket. I was afraid, though, because I knew he had died violently. And then I remembered about the cross and how our Lord had died violently as well. I stepped forward, then, and kissed the casket. As I made my way toward the family, I saw Julia, with Esme in her arms, bending over Eric, her lips brushing the lid of his casket.