In Praise of Practice

Last Thursday evening was the first time it occured to me, how much my Mom put into these prayer services. These prayer services go back decades-- us gathered on the pink carpet of their bedroom at 1610 praying the Family Unity Prayer from the book with the blue vinyl cover. I could not yet read but I still remember the book and the words "Lord Jesus, our family needs your help today. We are searching for peace, unity, and end to discord." Years later, us clustered on the steps at 1610, my young sister mistaking, "Blessed is the fruit of diamond Jesus." The candles, the Italian Baby Jesus with Charo-esque eyelashes at Christmas, the John Michael Talbot tapes. And a very stern dismissal if you disrupted, say for instance by laughing at your sibling. If one of us were given a passage to read and made a "word mistake." This "word mistake" caused you to laugh uncontrollably to the point where you were convulsing with paroxisms and gasping for breath. The whole Gestalt of these family prayer-gatherings were something nostalgic and quaint for me.

It wasn't until Thanksgiving night that I realized what went into the preparation. My Mom selects passages from Psalms the Gospels, the Epistles, Daily Missals, Guideposts Devotional, as disparate as the words of St. Augustine from 360 A.D. but also then these call and response prayers that seem to have been penned by John Denver. Just before we all gather, almost 20 grandkids, us six sibs and our spouses, my Mom hands us each a reading. When you get yours, you just read over it and basically wait until you are called to read yours. You listen to hear if this person misses his cue, or if this nephew's voice has deepened. I love to look around and see my brothers and sister, us all together, and I love to hear them lift their voice to read. This year was Manny and Benicio's first time when they had been given a passage. This is when I became acutely aware of the scope of some of these passages. It really floored me.

In recent years, I had just not warmed to these prayer services. The whole thing brought out a cranky and pragmatic side of me. I could go into my skepticism about it all, how sometimes these times seem so forced. "Why can't we just eat before the kids spiral?" I demand. I find myself resistant to any sort of emotional goading, and then I start to get really irritable. It is usually not pretty.

For some reason on Thursday, I was able to follow the whole thread of the little liturgy she had planned out. I can't believe I hadn't done this before! My Dad started off with a reading about humble service. My brothers with passages about working for the Lord and not for man. I began to imagine my Mom standing at the copier at work, little postits in the pages of about 10 different books. Wondering how long that must have taken, what the co-workers thought she was doing. I read a Psalm about praising God as a mother enwreathed by her children. My teenage nephews with the call and responses about exalting God as from mountaintops. My heart softened.

I realized how lovingly and intelligently she had chosen each of our readings. How fitting they were, how they were both desperate prayers for us as well as proclamations and praises for God's work in our lives. And then lastly, my little boys shyly sounding out their passages printed out in 40 pt. size typeface, from Psalm 34:v3 "Glorify the LORD with me; let us exalt his name together." Man, it was knee-weakening. All at once, I got it . Here we are, practicing our faith with our kids. Demonstrating and giving them the steps, rehearsing the words with them. This is how we teach our faith. This is how we pass it down. Awkward and forced at times, this is how we show them.

The Great Advent Toy Purge

When we decided to embrace the Santa mythology, I did not anticipate the intricate web of white lies and near-truths we would need to weave. Maybe not we, but "I" would be more accurate. I found myself trying to pick up toys in the family room, a chore I used to do while the boys were at nursery school, Clara cool and calm in my sling. These days, this chore is akin to an Istanbul bazaar, with all the noisy haggling: "Yes, I absolutely DO know where the Playmo pirate's hair is!" and "I still use that ream of bubble-wrap for padding with my gliders." I have become a ruthless, swifthanded phantom who separates the boardwalk-arcade detritus from my beloved HABA toys. (You had me at "spiel.") I root out our Waldorfy dolls with full-flowing heads of mohair when they fraternize with the bath ducks who are suffering from internal mold issues.

Anyway, to head off the bargaining, I found myself threatening that I was going to write Santa and tell him that the boys did not know how to take care of their toys, that they were overwhelmed with what they had and to suspend their gifts until next Christmas. Harsh, I know. I am not proud of that, I will confess. However, my threat has worked! We have arranged the family room toy-shelves into labeled and organized perfection.

Many of the little armed soldiers have gone to the trash not because of the war association but rather because they hurt like the dickens when you step on them. We gave fond farewells to homeless puzzles whose boxes had collapsed. Spiderman's jet ski, a strung out slinky, these things needed to go. The boys looked over their shoulders, was Santa looking in? The purging was gaining momentum, "Mom, maybe I don't need this," Manny offered a translucent bug ball he's had since his first birthday. The whole thing was triumphant but heart-wrenching at the same time. Most of our great things remain; the 10 Plagues wooden Tenpin Set, their legion of of Supers, a basket of figures we called "Teeny Fighters," with Ninjas the size of cherry tomatoes mixed in with little thrifted Iroquois fighters with their bows and quivers. The 1950's green metal baby doll crib is where Clara lays either "Antal, "Podol," "Shandal" or sometimes "Baby Joy." I don't think I will part with that until she or Cloe want it for their girls. Honestly, when we purge the toys, there are some things we will never give up--Santa's watchful eye be damned!

Rather than St. Nicholas, the patron saint of poor children who brought joy and trinkets into the ghettos, I think I am raising our kids to believe that Santa is a capricious, conditionally-loving, voyeur.

Andy, Frida, a Night to Remember

After too much of what Anne Lamott calls "pharmaceutically-packaged candy," I was on a mission to find great costumes for the Design Ball at Geoff's school. Our get-ups required, trimming a wig, clipping fresh flowers, and studying portraits online.

Cigarette Girl, Pixie