A Heart to Give

Since I introduced the concept of alternative holiday shopping in yesterday’s post, I am suggesting 3 more potential places to consider for giving gifts of goodness:

International Child Care Ministries is somewhat like Food for the Poor, but perhaps more personal, in that its primary mission is pairing sponsors with individual children in need. Our family has been sponsoring a boy in Burundi for several years. I know the director of this organization personally and can vouch for her Christ-like character and compassion.

Children of Zion Village in Namibia is a place of refuge, education and family for kids whose families have dissipated due to HIV and AIDS. My dear friend Jessica Breitenbach-Mubuyaeta left her life as a middle-class American and moved to COZV to care for these dear ones. As it turned out, she met her beloved while working alongside him at the orphanage. These newlyweds are among the most pure-hearted, real-deal purveyors of God’s grace in the world. If you’re looking for a way to spread more love this Christmas, sponsor them.

Care Net Center of Greater Orleans deals day-in and day-out with clients facing unplanned pregnancies, sexually transmitted infections, and other outcomes of intimacy outside the security and sanctity of monogamous marriage. I am very well acquainted with this agency and believe, most ardently, that the Spirit is present and active in this place. Such significant decisions and miraculous moments necessitate the support of people who love Life.

Yes, I am posting this a little after 8. I promise to postpone my “online on-time” to 8 a.m. tomorrow.

Lastly, my dad continues to recover from surgery. Dear A-Town readers who pray: Please keep it up!

Blah-Blah-Blog, Interrupted

I had started a new blog post Sunday evening but quit because of my new self-imposed computer curfew (more below). Then the phone rang, and both my computer curfew and my blogging urge blew away like crinkled leaves in an autumn gust. Dad was in the ER with shortness of breath and other signs of cardiac distress. My own heart lurched as I learned, 3 long hours later, that Dad needed bypass surgery. I took comfort in the fact that he was in stable condition, resting comfortably in a highly reputable hospital. Nevertheless, the past 3 days have felt more like 3 weeks as we have “watched and waited,” hoped and prayed, reminisced and worried that this precious person might leave us too soon. He hasn’t. He came through surgery like the strong, quarter-century-plus runner that he is. “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!” Speedy recovery, Dad- Dad- Daddy-o!

Back to my mundane blogging bits:

Computer Curfew (written before the crisis—hopefully the tranquility will resume this eve)

A few days ago, I started a new “program” (I know, I know—another one) in which I am restricting my computer hours to 7 a.m. – 7 p.m. This is something I have felt convicted to try in the past but haven’t done it because an array of excuses came to my aid. This time, I decided to go for it. In 3 days’ time, it has transformed the atmosphere of our evenings, especially. Without blogging and Facebook to distract me from the kids’ needs, I am reading to them more, getting them to bed earlier, and freed from the temptation to log on “just because.” That’s the beauty of boundaries, I think. They paralyze whatever amoebic habit threatens to take over one’s life. (Now if only I could stick to my “cookie curfew”… How does that go? “I think I can, I think I can…”—especially if I quit baking!)

Christmas Catalog Comparison (or maybe make that “No Comparison”)

Another part of my triune Pre-Advent Lent observance involves postponing my Christmas shopping until the week after Thanksgiving. I know this is some (or most?) people’s normal practice, but I prefer to shop ahead of Season. I have debated with myself, over the years, about whether early shopping costs more or less money, stress, etc. But I haven’t been able to stop myself. I just feel compelled to buy and wrap gifts—for all kinds of occasions, but especially for the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” However, the holidays will not be the ‘most wonderful time’ if we can’t pay our mortgage thereafter, and these days money is tighter than I ever remember. So this year I am giving myself the treasures of time and space to honestly assess our financial situation so that I can give—or not give—with integrity.

Having made this decision, I am almost immediately recycling the array of gift catalogs that began blowing (some barreling) into our mailbox along with autumn equinox. A few days ago, however, I was taken with one of them, Food for the Poor. The online version does not do justice to the print version of the catalog. The photographs and descriptions of needy people who can be helped with the price of a dozen dollars or more are compelling and convicting. I compared that catalog to another—one of my favorites, actually: Wireless, which features lots of fun, quirky stuff. But can we afford fun and quirky when kids are starving? This ridiculous “Hungry Alien Sculpture” struck me as exceedingly ironic. For $69.95, you can buy a zany metal figurine to collect dust in your kitchen, or, for about half that cost, you can feed a child for a full year. Hmmmmm….. I’m a patron of the arts, but not of mass-produced kitsch.

It’s almost 7, and my time is up…or maybe I should say my time is “un”—time to unplug, unwind and understand the blessing of another evening with Dad alive and well, and 3 of his grandkids nestled snug in their beds, with visions of fed children, content, in their heads.

Pre-Advent Lent starts tomorrow 10/21

I started a new blog tonight: http://palforpals.blogspot.com/. I'm good at starting things.

Babies and Beef Cubes

First, it was the “Autumn Dream Stew” (which, by the way, no A-Town reader identified as the namesake of my first French horn NYSSMA solo, practiced for 3 days and executed for a perfect score in 1985…I’m not bragging. That experience set me up for a regrettable pattern of procrastination, from which I am still recovering).

Next, there was the “Braised Cheddar Beef Cubes,” a recipe from my friend Holly’s blog. I tried it out for a church potluck a couple weeks ago. To be fair to my fellow parishioners, I posted a sign beside my food offering: “Braised Beef Concoction (in crockpot), served over pasta (in pot)—made by ‘Grace,’ who rarely cooks and who really doesn’t know what ‘braised’ means.” It was a huge hit! Consumed quickly, with several complaints from people who did NOT get to partake. I didn’t feel I could call the dish by its original name because I had only a small square of cheddar to shred over the finished product, plus I made a few other modifications.

That seems to be the key to keep me cooking: Modifications. Adaptations. Flexibility. Part of my problem with recipes, historically, was that I haven’t had all the requisite ingredients, nor the necessary time to shop for them, so I simply didn’t do it. But now I am discovering that if I make do with what I have on hand, I can come up with some passable meals that are healthier and more economical than past non-efforts (e.g., soup from a can, pre-prepared frozen foods, take-out meals, or bowls of cold cereal with milk).

I’m on a roll! I invited more friends over for dinner the other night and pulled out my copy of Lickety-Split Meals For Health-Conscious People on the Go! by Zonya Foco. This was a purchase I made 3 or 4 years ago, totally snagged by the promo on the back of the book: “Make Your Good Intentions Come True!” Well, it’s taken me awhile, but it’s happening. I made the “Gypsy Stew” and the “Broccoli Salad with Dried Cherries.” My most noteworthy modifications were substituting cherry-flavored cranberries for the cherries in the salad (cranberries were about half the price of cherries where I shopped); and I confess that I added a smidge extra cayenne pepper powder to the stew recipe. I was hoping to help my friend A., whose baby is due any day. Alas, the pepper failed to induce labor.

I thought the stew was delicious, my best effort in recent history. I will definitely make it again soon, but probably not for my next formal cooking opportunity: Making dinner for another family we know who just welcomed a baby girl yesterday. I know from experience that breast milk and spicy foods should not mix! Perhaps I should attempt my friend Leena’s old standby, “Cream of Mushroom Roast.” (Hey, Leena—you out there? Where can I find that recipe, huh? I promise NOT to take it on any buses, trains or double strollers!)

RPO: Really Powerful Opiate

They had me at “Hello.”

I had the happy circumstance of occupying my sister’s empty seat at the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra concert last Saturday. She and my brother-in-law are regular attendees, but for this particular program, my sister got to be on stage, performing with the Rochester Oratorio Society, along with our mom and dad and about 135 other singers.

It.Was.Glorious. I can’t recall the last time I heard a professional orchestra, live. (2002, maybe?) However long it had been, it had been too long. This happened to be the opening weekend of the recently renovated Eastman Theatre, now named Kodak Hall in homage to the company that forked over the $10 million to get the hall looking and sounding so heavenly. I’m no sophisticate. I can’t tell you whether it sounded more or less “blended” or “balanced,” “dark,” “bright,” “muddy” or “optimum.” People who hear and understand well enough to articulate such terms are beyond me, intellectually. It’s the same with connoisseurs of fine wine and high-quality coffee. I know if I like it; I know if I don’t. I think I have good taste, but don’t ask me to talk about it.

Was I impressed with the new Kodak Hall? Sure, yeah, I suppose so. But how about that orchestra?! You should have heard the magic they made!! Incredible!! I could barely believe my luck. I felt tempted to pinch myself several times throughout the concert, to ensure I hadn’t passed over into Glory. I was that good.

The first piece, Geo, composed by Douglas Lowry expressly for the occasion of the theatre’s re-opening, began with a French horn fanfare that stirred my muse from its 7-year slumber. “Hello!” I am a French horn player—not often anymore, but it’s my instrument. And hearing the horn in orchestral works is a little like flipping through a family album and pausing on particularly flattering photos of oneself. “Oh, look—there I am. I look good, don’t I? I have put on a few pounds since that picture was taken. Perhaps I should go for a jog today.” That’s how I feel when I hear the French horns. They are familiar and beloved, and I listen with a more critical yet eager ear than I possess for any other member of the group.

Geo’s five movements were as diverse and delightful as anything I’ve ever heard. It was haunting and humorous, quirky and lush. I loved it! In fact, Geo’s kaleidoscopic qualities reminded me of one of my 5 favorite possessions on God’s green earth, the crazy quilt my mother made around 1972. It hung in the extra-large doorway between the two living spaces in my childhood home. It served as a temporary wall during the Bible club classes my mother hosted at our house. I have such fond memories of the old ladies who came with their flannelgraph boards and their fascinating accounts of the Ancient of Days at work in ancient days. Like the crazy quilt, each segment of Geo could have made an attractive, serviceable “blanket” in its own right. But together, what a flavorful feast for the ears!

The second half of the program featured Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. I knew this was a famous work, and I knew it would be a rare and important opportunity for me to be edified by it. I knew that the famous tune to “Ode to Joy” was part of the Ninth, but other than that, I couldn’t “name any tunes.” Furthermore, my unsophisticated self suspected I’d hear an entirely different opening line. I expected to hear: “Dum-Dum-Dum Duuuuummmmm, Dum-Dum-Dum Duuuuummmmm…” When the actual Ninth Symphony began and I barely recognized it, the realization popped over my head like an invisible cartoon conversation bubble: “Ohhhh, no, no, no—that’s Beethoven’s Fifth. (Whew—glad nobody else can see how simple I really am.)”

Having recently read Steve Lopez’s heart-rending story The Soloist, about Nathaniel Anthony Ayers, a Julliard-trained musician afflicted with schizophrenia, I thought of Mr. Ayers and his utter adoration of the composer whose miraculous music I was witnessing this night. I remembered how Mr. Ayers, a man whose illness had rendered him homeless, defensive and disorganized to the nth degree, sat with Mr. Lopez of the LA Times awaiting an LAPO concert and lamenting that “Serenade in D major, Op. 8, Piano Trio No. 3 in C minor, Op. I, No. 3, and String Quartet No. 5 in A major, Op. 18, No. 5, are not among Beethoven’s more celebrated works, nor will we see the entire orchestra in its full complement.” Mr. Ayers’ reflections rendered me more aware of the privilege I was experiencing.

By the second movement of the Ninth Symphony, I felt like I was visiting an old friend I simply hadn’t recognized at first. By the third movement, I felt that all was right with the world. By the end, I became a believer all over again.

I thought of Mr. Ayers in Disney Hall, experiencing freedom from his garbled wits for the few moments the music flooded his beautiful mind. I thought of how some people would rather be at Disney Land than anywhere else in the world. I thought of how gleeful and grateful I felt to be right there, right then, in that glorious realm of the RPO in Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre in Rochester, New York.

I left the concert in the same spirit poet Sonia Gernes describes her parents on the cusp of 50+ years of marriage: “…they strode from the church, believing in sunshine—the prairie ringing for them, the October trees all aflame with praise…” (“Golden,” from What You Hear in the Dark, University of Notre Dame Press, 2006)

With earnest appreciation for the Divine gift of classical music and the human beings who follow the high calling of embodying the beauty that is art—Amen.

Image from the Muppets’ “Ode To Joy,” available for your viewing and listening pleasure at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpcUxwpOQ_A.

Writing Pains, Back Porch Volunteers and Poor Persons' Pizza

“A room without books is like a body without a soul.”—Cicero

“A world without music is like a world without oxygen.”—Andre Tanneberger

“A week without blogging is, like, a week when I made serious progress on my other writing project!”—Grace Waters

Only so much creative energy to go around, you know? I’ve been concentrating on my other writing project, a book that may or may not ever be published but that keeps begging to be written. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m writing. As I wrote to my friend Leena on Facebook the other day: “The book-writing thing is totally: ‘How do you eat an elephant?’ ya know?” She replied: “One bite at a time. Sometimes you gotta choke it down. Other times I think, ‘I can’t do this. It’s too…big, maddening, frustrating, and for WHAT?!’ For the challenge of doing it and the joy of laying the words on the page. Even if it’s nothing more than that, there is value in the process.”

I’m trying to stay away from book-writing advice in general. I’m in “Just Do It” mode. But if I get stuck, I’ll explore the bounty of books about writing books. I have heard the average novel is 75,000 words long. Which means I’m about (oh, man—a math problem…where is Will when I need him?) 7 percent done! (Man, oh, man. I’m gonna need a BIG blogging break. Maybe I can rope Will into telling a few A-Town tales.) However, if I go by NaNoWriMo standards, it’s only 50,000 words, in which case my book is (darnit, where’d that computer calculator thingy go?) precisely 11 percent complete! Still not very far along, but I’ve got the rest of my life, right? (Or, if I NaNoWriMo, 53 days—better get typin’!)

In the meantime, a couple of A-Town tidbits:

Behold, Our Back Porch (above). It’s the plant we’ve all been watching these past few weeks. This is what I believe gardeners call a “volunteer”—something we didn’t intend to grow there that sprouted up on its own. I suspect it is a cucumber plant, but only because I thought I spied one in a neighbor’s yard that was actually bearing “fruit.” However, clearly what I really need on this scene is a volunteer to paint my porch!

Poor Man’s Pizza (or perhaps more appropriately: Poor Persons’ Pizza, since there are several of us and we are not all adult males). We recently discovered the benefits of ordering bread sticks with cheese from Uncle S’s Pizzeria in A-Town. For about half the price of a regular “pie,” you can get, essentially, the same ingredients, packaged better for little people (smaller portions and less sauce = less waste and less mess). Che bello!

Cork Boards & Butt Cheeks: The 8 mm solution

Today I found out that the answer to my problem is an 8 mm.

Ha! No, I’m not getting a gun, I’m getting a lift—a heel lift. My pelvic X-ray revealed an 8 mm discrepancy in leg lengths that’s preventing my psoas muscle from healing. That’s the assessment of my chiropractor, whose opinion I truly respect. I had two questions for her:

1) Will I have to insert this disc-like devise into every pair of shoes I wear for the rest of my life? And,

2) When can I run again?

To which she replied:

1) I don’t know. And,

2) I don’t know. Oh, and,

3) You also have to have a butt lift.

(Say what? But I thought my butt was looking better these days. C’mon, 25 pounds down from a year ago—whadd’ya mean, a butt lift?)

The heel lift will stabilize my stance when I’m standing, but when I am sitting, a thin-ish magazine—about 8 mm thick—tucked beneath my right butt cheek, should do the trick. (I’m paraphrasing. Dr. L somehow made this message sound much more professional. She’s my wordsmith hero.)

So there you have it: Months of frustration, stretching, coddling and cajoling, and the answer boils down to a sliver of corkboard. I hope.

The Nerve

i'm a bundle of nerves,

and i don't know why

x-ray today—

but first: field trip to the fire hall,

and before that,

the rush to school,

and after, my job,

where there’s so much to do,

i don’t know where to begin

weary of the juggling—

readying the kids,

figuring out who needs to be where, when—

the daily dance of will’s work and mine,

trying to keep the schedule straight,

trying to keep the bank accounts black—

failing

and, all the while,

wanting to write,

trying to write,

jonesing to write—

Must Write!!!

but can’t—

gotta do stuff

i'm a bundle of nerves,

and now i know why