I Got a Name

Like most of you, I actually have several names.  To those who know me best, who profess to like me, I'm Deb.  To most of the folks at The Store I'm Deborah.  To my often-mortified sons I'm Mo-o-Ther (exclamation point and rolling eyes optional).

And, like most of you I have several distinct personalities living in my (wish-it-were) small frame.  Predominantly there's the inner brat.  You've all met her.  She was easy to name; she's obviously Patty, and couldn't have been anyone else.

Recently at girls' group we were discussing possible names for this other person, the person I want to be and want everyone to think I am.  Someone suggested Esther.  So Esther it was, for the moment, but Esther didn't stick.  I want this person to be strong.  Strong of will, strong of back, strong of conviction.  I want her brisk and efficient, no-nonsense, and laser-focused.  Esther has too much softness.  Softness is good, but that has another name; it has no place in the person I'm currently cultivating.

I thought about Constance, which is very close but not quite just it.  You see, this person has a name already; I just needed to find it so that I can harness her power in my outer life.  And I have found it.  I got a name, and that name is Constantine.

This week I have thought about and spoken to Constantine quite a bit, and have seen good things beginning to develop.  Constantine wrote half a dozen cards of encouragement, and actually stamped them and put them in the post while Patty sulked and complained.  Constantine made bread three time, while Patty trailed her fingers in the butter and whined about achy feet.  Patty has earmarked five pairs of shoes on deep discount at The Store; Constantine is sniffing in derision and mentally counting the unworn shoes Patty already has.  Constantine does not always win, but she always makes things a bit harder for Patty.  When Patty does get her way it is always with Constantine's aquiescence.  Constantine may not be soft but she does understand that Patty must be allowed some limited freedom or eventually she will break out, and at such time we will all face major payback; Patty gives little grace.

So we have the yin and yang, the black and white, the back and forth of Patty and Constantine.  Is there anyone else?  Of course, but two microphones is all I can handle just now.  Once I get these two balanced we'll bring in some other voices.  Any suggestions?

Prosaic Ode to a Bad Poem

I had a middle-of-the-night word-attack, and it turned out to be poetry.  Apparently, very bad poetry.  Actually thought it was lyrics, which is new for me, but it was only bad, bad poetry.  My musical son-number-four smiled through reading it, bemused and perplexed.  This is never the reaction one hopes for when the story line is sad and slightly hopeless; then he told me he isn't good at composing music for pre-existing lyrics. 

So it seems I've come full circle.  I'm back to the maudlin, unstructured, somewhat strained angst-poetry of adolescence.  Yikes.  Of the very few things I would like to recapture from that time, bad poetry lies somewhere between "mutant psychopathic gym teacher" and "weird strung-out kid who tried to set people alight between classes with his bic."  I would have complained more about that kid and his creepy habit, but he was my cousin, so . . .

I told young son that I would try to shop these "lyrics" out to some other composer, but probably I'll just burn them in the dead of night.  While I watch the brief flames consume the paper, perhaps I can scare up some sympathy for my weird, fire-starting cousin.

More on Lance

Lance was so kind as to give me permission to use his name in connection with my ruminations regarding ordination and it occurred to me that if I had readers, there might have been a few questions.  Follows the answers:

Yes, his name is Lancelot.
No, I did not leap from ordination to adoubement for this reason.

I would like you to poke around Lance's site a bit; you will find it worth your time, particularly if you're the bookish sort.  Lance is an excellent writer in several genres and enjoys talking, teaching, and writing about writing; has read more than anyone I have personally ever met and enjoys sharing his treasure; has more esoteric information at his command than Alex Trebek; has a quirky and intelligent sense of humor;  loves the Lord and His people; is an incredibly gifted and natural teacher; is transparent about himself, his past, his struggles, and his victories; is unfailingly kind and gracious; really, really loves his wife; is practically perfect in every way.  You may not find all this on your first visit to his site, but I have the incomparable blessing to know him personally (feel free to envy me at will) and I can't think of any stronger way to tell you how impressed I am with him than to point out that aside from my own children* he is the youngest person ever added to my collection.

He's prime, I promise.

*I am counting both The Girl and Rosebud among my children.  Try and stop me.

Lancelot's Ordination

I went to Lancelot's ordination.  In the whole grand scheme it may seem not that earthshaking an event; to Lance, his wife, his family, and we who love him, it was major.

For one of certain sensibilities, being ordained is akin to being knighted.  One makes a decision, undertakes a quest (like acquiring a degree in theology, or taking an internship), purifies oneself or allows oneself to be purified (Eustace Scrubb), submits oneself for consideration and examination, and determines to intentionally set aside one's desires, ambitions, and personal goals, not to abandon them but to subjugate them, to determine to subjugate them again and again, daily, in perpetuity, for the greater good of service to King and Country.  Once prayed over and knighted by the King, or the Kingdom elders, the knight/pastor goes forth on the King's business, declaring and elucidating the King's edicts, slaying dragons, righting wrongs, setting the errant on the straight and narrow, rescuing those in distress, comforting the afflicted, interceding before the King on behalf of the downtrodden, and doing it all at the King's discretion and for His pleasure. The knight's whole purpose, his whole life, is to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before his King.

Only a fool would undertake this lightly.

I do not know intimately the young man under discussion here, but I know his reputation among men of honour and it is sterling; he is no fool.

Personally, I like pageantry, liturgy, and ritual.  I like orchestrating things and injecting meaningful little asides.  I'm a control freak and drive people around the bend!  But sometimes, sometimes, simple is better.

Weddings are about pomp and pageantry, but marriage, at its most elemental and ultimately meaningful, is only a man saying "I will protect you and serve you all my life" and a woman saying "I will follow you and honor you all my life".  That's it.  And that's more important than the flowers, music, rings, bridesmaids, or any other trappings.  A man and a woman before God saying "I will".

So in that spirit, the true spirit of the meaning and soul of the thing, Lancelot's ordination was perfect.  The men who are responsible for him, who have authority over him, kneeling in prayer and dedicating him, his life, his family, his future, to service, whatever that may look like.  That's the real thing.  No pomp required.

In Honour and Gratitude

The Wild Rose

Sometimes hidden from me
in daily custom and in trust,
so that I live by you unaware
as by the beating of my heart,
Suddenly you flare in my sight,
a wild rose blooming at the edge
of thicket, grace and light
where yesterday was only a shade,
And once more I am blessed, choosing
again what I once chose before.

 Wendell Berry


Wendell Berry wrote this for his wife, I believe, but it speaks to me of so many of the amazing women in my life who remain faithful friends through what can be long ages of neglect on my part.  One does not have to be a man to appreciate the grace and beauty a woman is, or to forget.

A Serbia Moment

I looked out this morning over a balcony, across an empty street to a squarish, red-roofed apartment building.  There were gouges in the earth that might have been old, healing-over bomb craters.  I caught myself scanning the flawless blue sky for storks; for just a moment I was in Serbia.  My heart is there now, that quickly.  My prayer for Eastern Europe is the same this day as always:

The people, the beautiful lost people of Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, Macedonia, Hungary, Romania.  Lord, they are so precious, such a treasure that seems to slip from Your hand.  They deserve to know You and to speak Your name in praise.  They were created for worship; they will never be what they were meant to be without it.  Please continue fanning the flame that is beginning to burn there.  Bring down strongholds of lies and generational curses.  Bring the nations to Yourself for nourishment and comfort as an infant to its mother's breast.
 
 It is happening you know.  There are many small fires of Truth throughout the area, some only a spark, perhaps one family or even one person, but when these people are alight with the Gospel they burn with white-hot intensity.  The magic is that when you put someone dry, brittle, and dead near someone aflame with Christ, they will catch fire.

There are so many with the same story; abuse, neglect, drugs or drink, hopelessness, despondency, sometimes suicide attempts, desperation.  They have a driving hunger for food that satisfies.  Like that hungering infant, they don't know what the need is or what will fill it, but they recognize it when they taste it and they take it in joyfully.

Then they go to their friends and neighbors with a desire to share that is completely unfathomable to comfortable, prosperous American Christians.  They are starving people who have found bread, and they know they are living among people who are still starving, who still need bread. 

They are like miners lost in caverns.  When they find the light, the way out, they jump and dance and scream to their comrades still wandering in the dark:  "Light!  I've found light!  I've found the way out!  Come this way!  This is the way of rescue!"

I'm not really in Serbia this morning, of course.  The communist-looking squarish apartment building overlooking gouges that on cursory glance could be bomb damage?  That's a condo overlooking the sand traps of a golf course.  I am 5448 miles in space and seven hours in time away from Serbia but my heart is ever there, and I pray my Father allows me to return soon.  Often my thoughts echo the words of Paul to the Romans:

I thank my God through Jesus Christ for you all, since the news of your faith has become known everywhere.   I assure you that you are always in my prayers.  I am constantly asking Him that He will somehow make it possible for me now, at long last, to come to (you).  I am longing to see you.