I am trying to read and write more…not writing for public consumption, and stuff I have no intention of ever showing anyone. Feeling like I need to, so I tried to write 1,000 words tonight.

I still have a few left.

I’m on my porch, listening to the crickets and sipping some very good bourbon. I don’t know why, but tonight, I decided, was a special occasion. Helo’s sitting somewhat contentedly at the edge of the porch, listening too. I’m sure he hears so much more than I could even imagine. His ears are like little satellite dishes, always going, always listening, turning this way and that. So cute.

I miss my family–my nephew and niece and the one that’s not yet born. I wish I was at the country home with the boy, who’s probably been in the hot tub and looked at the stars. You can see stars there. You can’t from my house–too many lights. And the sirens are drowning out the crickets right now.

The city’s been a violent place lately–lots of shootings, fights, etc. I joke that I don’t care till someone’s charged, but it really has been noisy on my end of town.  The boy spent Sunday on a manhunt in another county, looking for a murder suspect.

World gone mad, I guess.

But for now, I am sitting on my porch, sipping Van Winkle bourbon (told you it was the good stuff). The sirens have faded a bit and I can hear the crickets again, and my CD player has shuffled onto Jakob Dylan (preceded in the lineup by his father, of course).

Helo’s laying down now, and I’ve used my 60 words and then some. Hope you didn’t mind my sharing.

Night, ya’ll.

He wrote a blog post about the need to go local, to learn to take care of one’s self, to be sufficient and able to go it alone because the need may arise someday, particularly for those who try to actively live out their faith in a way that is meaningful.

He took some of his arguments from this guy, who is a friend of some friends and who I disagree with a good 95% of the time. When I do agree with him, it’s usually the core of his argument but rarely with the way he makes it or his conclusion. I’ve wrestled a bit with him at his own blog, and my priest tells me to stay off of it, so I try.

But it comes down to this one thing (and I have to be very careful because some of these issues about religious freedom and whatnot are very prescient and completely relevant to my paying gig): what do we think we mean when we talk about practicing our faith? I think, and this is just me talking here, that because so few American Christians practice anything that remotely resembles historic Christianity, we really have little room to argue.

And, because most of what passes for American Christianity bears a very keen likeness to the culture around it, we have no legs to stand on when it comes to how to order the national house.

We, as a culture, applauded and cheered the Facebook IPO last week. We cheered for money. Did anyone’s pastor say that was probably not the best thing we could be doing? We, as a voting block, tend to be more skeptical of climate change and resent any attempts to be told that we shouldn’t be able to run willy-nilly with environmental scissors in our hands. Yes, I’m talking about one particular political party. This one particular political party which has promised religious conservatives in this country the moon on abortion and unauthorized use of sexy-time, as long as we look the other way on a whole host of other issues that have damaged our communities and families much more than “the gay agenda” or Planned Parenthood.

I don’t think God is a Republican. I don’t think He’s a Democrat either. I don’t know if He worries too much about “Obamacare” and its mandates, because He has seen the Church undergo a lot more in the way of oppression.

But I think He was in the room the other day when my mom took out her own wallet and paid to keep a cancer patient’s lights on b/c the woman can’t afford her electric bill AND her chemo. (Reason #2341 why I LOVE my mom.) And I think He worries a lot about my particular salvation, why I get so mad so easily and whether I’m making the choices in my life based on the Truth I claim to possess.

Anyway, here’s a chunk of the comment I posted. I would love to hear anyone’s thoughts about it. I think this has been on my mind lately (usually). I do worry about  American Christianity, but that’s more due to its internal health than any external pressure it may be facing now and in the future.

American Christianity sold its soul to that political devil a long time ago, and now is complaining because the fire is hot.

…

And at the same time, our particular cultural brand of Christianity (I say this as a former mega-church Evanglical/fundamentalist Baptist before that and now Orthodox) has been unwilling to address any of the real issues facing our communities and the people in them. And the powers that be — Big Pharma, BigAg, BigMilitary, BigBusiness, BigOil — spend a lot of money helping good Christian-types get elected who promised to give them everything they’ve wanted as long as they promised not to be pro-abortion. We’re not really pro-life and the culture around us knows it. We’re pro-comfort, pro-money, pro-IcanberichifIjusttryhardenough, and now we’re reaping what we’ve sown. We sign the Manhattan Declaration, but we don’t stand up against the corporations eating our families alive and breaking up our communities. We holler against “Obamacare” but don’t really do anything to help the poor cancer patient who has to choose between keeping her lights on and paying for chemo (my mom had one of those this week).

Part of me thinks we can’t really complain or allow ourselves the luxury of fretting. We have the government and the culture we have chosen, by being on the wrong sides (as American cultural Christians) of most of the arguments and issues. For the rest of us, who truly want to live out the Gospel of Christ, this doesn’t feel like anything new.

We haven’t had a home here for a long time now. And we’re just trying to work out our own salvation… and show the world the Light of Christ.

And the Orthodox will do what we have always done: We’ll pack up our icons and go to the woods, to the caves and the caverns. We’ll love our neighbors and we’ll fight the darkness till it bleeds daylight.

I, however, I am doing surprisingly alright. I awakened this morning to the sound of birds instead of sirens. I drank my coffee while walking to the barn to retrieve the errant pup. After that, I took him for a run in a nearby state park and I thought as I ran about how whole I feel.

I’ve lived in Fort Wayne now almost my entire adult life. I finished school here, found a faith here, and built a career and reputation here. But most importantly, I found me here. I’ve seen glimpses of the person I want to be. Through God’s matchless grace, I’ve been able to put back together something I thought was hopelessly damaged and broken.

Which brings me back to Plumadore. As I jogged through the woods, I thought about how just a year ago, I would have struggled more the day after writing that story. I would have struggled more the day I wrote the story. Don’t get me wrong, it was especially horrifying to hear someone say, with their own mouth, how they did what he did. And it was physically difficult to figure out how to put that into words for the reading public. But I know a year ago, I would’ve struggled longer to put myself back together afterward. There was little less of the “post-traumatic” stress about today.

Two years ago, I reached the end of myself as a solitary person. I felt like I finally found something in myself worth handing off to someone else, something worth sharing beside my inclination for protecting others. But I didn’t know what to do with it. For some reason, I found myself driving around and around, Sunshine snoozing in the back seat, listening to Coldplay’s “Fix You”, and Sufjan Steven’s version of “Come Thou Fount” over and over again, tears streaming down my face.

I don’t know what happened that day. I talked to my friend, one of the truest I’ve ever had, and something about that conversation made me feel like it was OK to put myself in a position to meet, to date, to fall in love. Four months later I did. Now, I type this with a ring on my left ring finger, our dog napping at my feet, and the birds singing still outside the windows of his home.

I know that A’s not the only reason I feel OK today, after Plumadore and his mess of a life. But I think the reason’s I was able to be open to A–to trust, to risk, to love, and to be loved–are are all part of it.

This used to be me:

I spend my life
Becoming invisible
It’s hard to maintain
And it’s hard to get by
I don’t recall
Fight or flight setting in
I have no introduction
I just breath it in like the air
And there’s nothing to remember
There is nothing to remember

I owe you nothing
That’s all I’ve got for you
And you’ll borrow nothing
That’s what you expect of me
So send me a lot
Out of thin sailors knots
And I fear underneath
Your radiant thoughts
My footsteps now
They will echo loudly
All I owe, all I owe
Strides I spend to the finish line
All I owe, all I owe
Strides I spend to the finish line
I’ll give you those

You told me something
That scared me to death
Don’t take me home
I can’t face that yet
I’m ashamed that I’m barely human
And I’m ashamed that
I don’t have a heart you can break

I’m just action
And at other times reaction

All I owe, all I owe
Strides I spend to the finish line
All I owe, all I owe
Strides I spend to the finish line
I’ll give you those
Just don’t make me go home
Give me something to remember
Give me something to remember
Give me something to remember (Neko Case, “Nothing to Remember)

It’s not anymore. For that I will be eternally grateful.

Sorry if this was over-sharing.

Monday night, after absolutely being a raging jackass ALL day long (don’t believe me? I have phone numbers for people you can call to confirm), I walked into church and straight to confession. I did not even put my purse down.

After I confessed, I told Fr. Andrew I was still struggling with the over-business, the inability to quiet my soul and my penchant for behaving like a really grumpy Martha in this Lenten season. (see earlier post)

There’s still time, he said.

Still time.

Because I took Holy Wednesday through Bright Monday off (more time, more church), I was able to do something yesterday I have never done before.

I sang in a funeral. The choir was small, so I volunteered to pitch in and tried not to hit too many sour notes while we committed the woman’s soul to God. She died after a two-year battle with cancer and a lifelong battle with mental illness. And through it all, she loved God.

In the text of the funeral hymns, there is this gem. “Vanity are all the works and quests of man, and they have no being after death has come.”

I don’t know, maybe reading it in a different form than on a bumper sticker like “he who dies with the most toys still dies,” but for some reason it stuck with me and has been bouncing around in my head for 24 hours now. It stood in direct opposition to my sense of busy, my over-competitive way of being at the newsroom, and a reminder of how this whole thing is a paradox. Maybe a tautology, I don’t know.

We have time left to do what we should, but it may not be as much as we want.

A few weeks ago, we received news in our family that a dear friend is very sick, also with cancer. She is the closest thing I have to an aunt, and it is impossible to overestimate her and her husband’s importance to us. The fiance drove me up to my mom’s after we received the news, so I could hold my new niece and give my mom a hug. On the way back, he let me blather on about memories of times with this woman and her family. And we talked about how you always think you have more time –to introduce the fiance, to return a phone call, to drop by to have a cup of coffee.

So with that in the back of my mind, my chronic busy feeling, the wrinkles developing around my eyes and my increasing need to go to bed earlier and earlier, I stood at the funeral and I sang.

Vanity are all the works and quests of man, and they have no being after death has come.

I hope that that which I have busied myself has had some value further on from here. I hope that I make better choices about how I live in the moments I have. I hope that as I go to another funeral this week, this one for the Son of God as we take His most precious body down from the Cross and spend time in mourning, awaiting His most glorious Resurrection, I remember that there is still time for the Mary moment–to find myself at the feet of Him who loved me so much He became man, rose from the dead and promises me that I will one day rise as well.

I hope I remember this paradox and find a way to live within it.

Behold, the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night, and blessed is that servant whom He shall find watching; and again unworthy is he whom He shall find heedless. Beware, therefore, O my soul, lest thou be overcome with sleep, lest thou be given up to death, and be shut out from the Kingdom. But rouse thyself and cry: Holy, Holy, Holy art Thou, O God, through the Mother of God, have mercy on us.

Then, interspersed in there, the necessary and welcome services of Great Lent. I feel like I haven’t had time to catch my breath. Instead of finding God in the whispers and the silence, I’m trying to catch him like a DC Metro train at 6 p.m.–squished and packed and heart-pounding as the doors close behind me.

It isn’t how I want to do Lent, and it makes easy for me to justify not doing it right, not polishing up that image of God and working toward His likeness. I mean, I’m so busy, right? Who has time to be a  human being?

Last Lent, with my friends on their blog and the fury and the fire of what happened to them, my heart seemed just broken and raw through the whole season. I wanted, craved, the safety of the Church and the rhythm of the season. I was Mary, sitting at the feet of my Savior and begging to feel whole.

This year, man, I am all Martha–a white rabbit going everywhere and getting nothing done. In a couple weeks, we’ll be at the end, with the darkness and flickering hope of Holy Week leading us to the bright and raucous light of Pascha. With a little luck, and probably a whole lot more discipline, I’ll find some kind of rhythm by then. But I’d be fooling myself to think this is not how it’s going to be from here on out. I’m heading into married life, I’m approaching 40 (EEEK) and our culture shows no sign of giving anybody room to breath. Even if it’s just baby steps, I’m going to have to come out of the kitchen and listen to what’s going on with the Teacher.

In other news, Helo’s still a pretty awesome puppy. One of these guys met him and said he’s well-socialized. To me that’s like having Michael Jordan tell me good shot.

Last week, he learned to swim. ‘Twas pretty darn cute.

To the Lord in my affliction I cried out, and He heard me.

O Lord, deliver my soul from unjust lips, And from a deceitful tongue…

Woe is me! My sojourning was prolonged; I dwelt with the tents of Kedar.

My soul sojourned a long time as a resident alien.

With those who hate peace, I was peaceful; When I spoke to them, they made war against me without cause.

The first rule of faith, or so says Gaius Baltar in that inspired work, Battlestar Galactica, is that this is not all that we are. So say we all!

Last night was the first Liturgy of the Presanctified Gifts, which outside of Holy Week and Pascha, is my very favorite service. I can’t get enough of them and if it weren’t for their presence as a mid-week anchor point, I am darn sure I wouldn’t get through Lent, i.e. check out in the first week (Steak, please!)

There’s something so otherworldly about them –all dark and mysterious, minor tones, incense, lots of kneeling. And I rush to them, often barely getting there on time, fresh from some joy in the newsroom or courthouse. So it’s like going through some kind of portal into another place, another time, or really another dimension.

I could NOT engage with it last night–I tapped my feet, twiddled my thumbs, watched the candlelight dance around my diamond ring (it’s pretty). I stared at the windows, gazed at the icons and just generally tried to not get up and walk around.

Until Fr. Andrew started talking about the Psalm. About how we don’t belong here, and how this whole place is like being lost somewhere or worse, stuck somewhere. About how this Lenten journey is about trying to work our way out of that place, about getting free from the war-ravaged tents of Kedar. About how we know this, and how it is probably what keeps us up at night, or should, and how we always feel out of touch, out of step and out of place.

I know I talk about this a lot, but tell me you don’t feel it too. Tell me it does not feel like this is not your home. How can we possibly belong here–this place with the 99% and the 1%, the abortion and the death penalty? How could this be what He meant us for, this land of the constant-conflict and the nuclear weapons programs? How can this be what He meant us for?

Well, I’m getting out. It’s going to take me a whole lot longer than just the next 35 days (what’s left of Lent), but I’m going. I can’t take it anymore–the grief, the suffering, the nonsense and the mundane. I’m going to take that pill, every week at Holy Communion. I’m going to stare at the icons till I learn what it is they want to show me. I’m going to try really, really hard to not be such a raging bitch most of the time.

I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to be any good at it at all. I’m too far gone, too comfortable, too much like the trolls in the stable in C.S. Lewis’ The Last Battle. But by God’s grace, I’m going to try. I’m going to do what Lucy did, and I’m going to follow Aslan “further up and further in.”

I’m going home.

Did you know I got engaged? Yeah, I did. I think I talked to God about it, but I don’t remember. I don’t do well with bringing the big things up or remembering them when I pray. Even when they’re good things. True story.

My dog died, too. That was sad. I cried and probably forgot to talk to God too much about that as well. I don’t do really well with bringing up the sad, either.

So I got this new puppy. He’s kind of crazy and he doesn’t do a good job of giving me space in the evenings to spend a lot of time before my icons and in prayer.(I think that’s what is commonly called an ‘excuse,’ right?)

Oh, by the way, did I mention today I failed miserably at my attempt to do Lent today, right out of the gate? I did. Failed. Miserably. I mean, I didn’t eat meat or anything, but boy, oh boy. I hated people about 45 seconds into my day at the courthouse. You know — people looking for their 15 minutes of fame, child killers (alleged), too much work, too little time and an itch of injustice in a place I can’t scratch.

I did make it my entire class at HU without swearing, so there’s that. I let them go early so they could watch the Bachelor and I could go home. Then I promptly swore in the parking lot when the puppy trotted off to explore somewhere he shouldn’t.

So, this Lent thing. I’m going to start over again tomorrow, well, right now, I guess. I’m going to finish up here, take my prayer book and go stand before the icons. If I have to put the puppy on a leash to do it, I will. But I’m not sure what he’ll do when I start praying the prayer of St. Ephraim.

That should be fun.

It’s been almost one week since I acquired another dog, this one a 25-pound fluff ball that is allegedly a Australian Cattle Dog, a “blue heeler”. He’s currently dragging around a knot in his mouth and batting a lacrosse ball across the living floor with his paws. Multi-tasking, I guess.

I hadn’t meant to get a new dog quite so quickly. And I wasn’t sure if I should. But the puppy needed a home and I needed a dog, and well, sometimes that’s all it takes. His coat came in black and his tail looks like he dipped it in a bucket of white paint. He has tan paws and a grey speckled nose. Who knows what color he will be in six months. He’s soft and wicked smart. When we walk somewhere new, he puts himself in my footsteps (heeling, herding me) with his little ears cocked all serious, trying to keep track of his charge.

I need for you to understand how completely different this animal is than my Sunshine. But this season of my life, preparing for a wedding and to join lives with someone else, is totally different than the one I just left. Fitting, I guess, that Sunshine would take leave of me at this particular point.

This new dog, Helo (the Helo monster, Little Fluffybutt, Mr. Barky Pants), is our dog. We, the couple, A and me, had to have a series of conversations about whether I was getting a new dog before we get hitched, when we were getting hitched, what kind of dog was I going to get that was going to be allowed to live in the house, what did he want in a dog, what did I want in a dog, what were we going to feed it, who was going to be its vet, blah blah blah…Exhausting and totally foreign.

I haven’t had to ask someone about what I want to do in my personal life (other than my priest or out of politeness) for most of my years now. Totally strange to have to do it … I told my sister that some of those conversations were like Sunshine’s last gift to me, prompted by her death and the impact that her dog soul had on my life. Those conversations grew me, grew the relationship and I know I’m not any good at having them, or even thinking about having them.

I told my sister about how it seems God knows I speak dog, not in a wow-is-she-a-really-good-dog-trainer way, but in the way that I learn more from them, or find they prompt some strange spiritual work in me that may not get done othewise.

The Sunshine season of my life, as I outlined earlier, was a place where I carved out space for myself to rest and to trust, something made so much easier by her calm and easy way, her love of naps and the way she just was happy hanging out.

I’m not sure what the Helo season is going to look like, but it’s already busier and I’m spending less time on the couch. It’s going to be a season of more intention and conversation, of better planning and discipline and it is the first thing A and I have done together.

He’s given up on the lacrosse ball (thankfully) and is now gnawing on a rawhide A bought him. I wonder what he’ll teach me tomorrow.

P.S. I’m using the Monks of New Skete‘s methods to work with him (Orthodox dog…)

Once upon a time, I used to write obituaries. (Most real reporters have. If you haven’t, well…) Sometimes I still do. Big newspapers have ready-to-go obits, works in progress for really important people who, when they die, are going to require a lot of attention –like the Pope, the President, etc.

This is one of those obituaries, one I’m writing while my eyes are relatively tear-free. This is for Sunshine, my dog. She has not died, yet, but her time here with me is drawing to a close. I write this, not just in tribute to a really cool dog I’ve had the privilege of hanging out with for the past six years, but to give thanks to God for those things He brings into our lives to change us, to save us even.

I told my now-fiance A last night as we sat in my living room trying to figure out what to do with her that she was responsible for helping to bring much of what I have into my life — my house, my fiance and my emotional health. I believe these things are all true. For whatever reason, God used that really cool dog as an agent of change in my life and I am forever grateful.

Sunshine, Madame Fuzzy Fanny, Miss Barky-Pants, my sweet pea and fur friend, the honey bear and S-dog…has had a really good life, I think. She’s done things, gone places that most dogs never get to do. For the first year I had her (she was about six), she was the official newshound of the Journal Gazette’s west bureau. She came to work with me, slept under my desk, snoozed in the bureau kitchen, made me go for a walk in downtown Columbia City every afternoon around 4:30 and wagged her tail whenever I came back to the office.

She covered fires, floods, tornadoes, city councils, school boards and jury trials. Often sources figured out (I told them) she was outside and would often go out and say hi. The mayor of Decatur loved her because they had the same hair color. The police chief of Bluffton went so far one day as to go and take her from my car and put her in the police department. When I came to the police department, I saw my dog and the police chief trotting down the hall back to her office. We were looking for treats, she said. Later she told me she had just put her own dog down and could not resist enjoying an afternoon with a dog, any dog. Sunshine was snoozing under her desk while we talked.

She watched my back on those early morning web shifts from hell, including the recent wrenching morning that involved the fruitless search for the little girl. Sunshine always offered her ears for scratching and belly for rubbing after I had a long day at the courthouse. She listened as I swore and grumbled about my job. She chewed her rawhides with enthusiasm, rubbed her face with her paws when she was excited and buried bones throughout the yard, usually on Sundays.

Knowing she was soon to be my dog made it easier to break up with my Italian #*(&$% boyfriend, necessary for my emotional survival. I bought my house so she’d have more places to bury her bones. I took a chance on dating because, well, why not, the dog worked out so well.

But most importantly, and this goes back to those pills I take every day, she provided me an amazingly safe place to do the work I needed to do to get well. The VA prescribes dogs to veterans with PTSD. My therapist did the same back in the day for me. And for about seven months, Sunny came with me to every session, snoozing under Annie’s desk while we talked.

She was not a particularly well-behaved dog. She was extremely lazy, and people often mistook it for a desire to please. She really couldn’t give much of a crap. If she determined that the cost of moving (committing the sin) was outweighed by the benefit (eating the apple pie on Thanksgiving), well then, she’d do it. If not, forget it. She never, ever came when she was called and was horrible on leash.

But she loves me. And I love her. And for some reason that dog was brought into my life to work for my salvation. I have no doubt that she did just that. Should she pass on tonight, and go chase bunnies in the eternal back yard, I know that my life has been so much better because of that really cool dog.

Thanks, old girl.

They work, to pay the bills, at a residential treatment center in northwest Indiana, helping to redirect other people’s children who have (often through no fault of their own) gone off the rails. So these two little ones, my nephew and new niece, will be often around the have-nots. My sis feeds them holiday meals. My sis and her husband work as the directors of spiritual life, ministering, praying for them and crying with them over all the things that have occurred in just the few short years of their existence.

It is an accident of birth that my niece will spend today and every other day in the presence of those who love her, completely and faithfully. My nephew is already aware of the perfect Love of God, and loves Him in return (this is why we baptize infants, but that’s another blog for another time). I have no reason but to assume that my niece will have a similar experience. How lucky are they?!

I know so many people who love their children well. I know so many who try really hard to develop empathy, passion, respect and belief in their children. And I know, or more like I see, those who do not. My sister sees that too, and they spend so much time cleaning up that particular mess. And it is not the fault of those children — that they are poor, that they may smell bad or are dirty, or that at a variety of places down the line they were taken advantage of or used for someone else’s evil purpose.

If I were a Calvinist, I’d probably shrug my shoulders and be merely grateful that God “ordained” this better life for my beloved niece and nephew. But I’m not a Calvinist, so I believe that His justice and His grace demands that we endeavor to give those others the best life we can because it is not their fault, nor does it have to be their destiny, that they tumbled into this world on that side of the line.

Welcome little one! I can’t wait to meet you.

My brother-in-law conducted an odd but interesting social experiment Thanksgiving night, after dropping my sister and nephew off at home. He drove 40 minutes back up the highway to the shopping centers to observe Black Friday. He found friends standing in line. He wandered through Target and other stores. He did nothing but observe (and buy my sis a new waffle iron. We all thank you).

At our family Thanksgiving, on Saturday, he was telling us all about it and it was interesting to listen to us talk to him, to hear him describe it. It was if he had spent six months with the Peace Corps studying aboriginal people. We just sat there slack-jawed as he described a culture that is not ours (none of us like Christmas shopping and our Christmases tend to be pretty simple and are getting more so as our budgets shrink).

Apparently it was a pretty good Black Friday (for everyone who wasn’t pepper sprayed or who had to work). And Cyber Monday broke records as well. I don’t know if you noticed, but gas prices stayed lower until last night, when they jumped 10-20 cents. Feel manipulated? You should. The teevees and pundits told us we were supposed to be happy little shoppers, park our sleeping bags outside the Kohl’s and march in when the bell goes off. It does not matter if you need the new pots and pans did-you-see-the-price-oh-my-god!

Part of me wonders, though, if the reason this shopping season is off with such a bang is because we as Americans are just collectively saying SCREW IT. I know no one (except my sister who finished grad school and got a better job) who has a healthier wallet. I know mine’s not noticeably improved. Retiring debt in one area means I just work harder then in others.

I think we are, in the words of Battlestar, hopelessly frakked. And I think we know it. So buy all, buy merrily, before we die all, die merrily. I have sensed, in a strange way, a bit more community in odd places, a bit more desire to stay put and grow roots and maybe help. There’s been more enthusiasm about our Christmas Bureau families at the office, and we have less money as a staff then we had last year.

I agree with this guy who said the whole global economy is beginning to reset. We know, in our hearts, this can’t continue. Those of us who pay attention to such things are watching Europe self-destruct, for now somewhat peacefully (but Lord, you know they can’t keep that up). We are making peace with $3.50 a gallon gas because we are sure it will be higher at some point. Maybe we’ve reached peak oil before we have anything to replace it.

Some of us, most of us, are still stuffing ourselves with trinkets and Twinkies, but I think I feel something changing. With any luck (please Lord, have mercy) we’ll keep our wits about us and settle in to the new normal, where we figure out how to keep our roofs over heads, our cars running and realize that our money is just money and we owe less than the banks do to us and well, you do what you can. Maybe we’ll figure out how to make life more local. If gas is expensive, it’s going to have to be. If those of us who have more (at least for now) can figure out how to ease the transition for the less-equipped (emotionally, physically and socially), we can keep our families safe as the water seeps through the foundational cracks of our Republic.

Keep the important stuff up off the floor and by all means, kids, keep your powder dry.

Living in constant luxury and merriment, man is indeed as if lulled to sleep by the strong drink of this world. But then, in the midst of luxury and merriment, the thought of death tugs at him and awakens him. Oh, I must die! I must leave this world! I must come before God and before the angels! Where is my soul? Where are my deeds? With what shall I leave this world, and with what shall I enter into the nxt world? Thousands upon thousands of those who have been awakened from sinful sleep by such questions have fled to the wilderness and, day and night, they amend their souls and purify their hearts by repentance, prayer, fasting, vigils, labor and other proven means by which man kills the fear of death, and becomes adopted by God.

- St. Nikolai Velimirović (h/t to Jason Rossiter)

There’s a lot of medical stuff in there, too, particularly attempts by hospitals and medical groups to collect on the debts owed by the horrendously ill or injured. Those make me particularly sad.

This week I found one that was this poor guy being sued by the local neuro-spine and pain clinic for about $30,000. The bill was attached to the complaint, so I read the itemized charges. It was horrible. Skull infections, burr holes, hydrocephaly, pain meds. And after each treatment, it showed they ran his Blue Cross insurance card and it was denied. Here ya’ go, Mr. Unidentified Sick Guy, sorry about your brain injury and your horrific months of painful treatment but you owe us this much money. Did you know that down the street is federal court, where you can file for bankruptcy so nobody wins?

Why, Rebecca? Why are you telling us this on this happy day of balloons floating past Central Park, cranberry sauce, football games and family time?

Because I am thankful. I am thankful that nothing like that has befallen me or my family. Yet. I am thankful that I am have a job, that my mortgage has been reset at a lower interest rate so I can better afford the annual jacking-up of my insurance premiums.

I hope, though, that we as a nation, particularly those of us who claim to follow Christ, recognize that what happened to Unnamed Sick Guy is unacceptable in a developed country and that greater attention is needed as to who profits from others’ misfortune. I hope that we recover that inherent socialism that drives Limbaugh so crazy this time of year when we remember the shared table of the first (probably mostly mythical) Thanksgiving.  We’re all in this together, whether we like it or not.

So be thankful, my friends. Have a glass of wine and grab another slice of pie and be grateful that this year you probably weren’t the “least of these.” But remember those that are and remember that there, but for the grace and intervention of God, you could very easily go in the next 12 months.

Gobble, gobble.

Anywho, I don’t think this is going to end well. There are those in the blogosphere who seem to think we’re in the last days of Empire, but, frankly, I think we’re past that already. You know when a person dies, there’s that last breath, the gasp and the rattle in the chest. We’re living in that — the vapors expelled right before there is.no.more. We’re done, as a country, as a culture–as the “land of the free, home of the brave/in God we trust, red-white-and blue” stick a fork in it, kids.

A really smart guy (who uses dirty words, so beware) predicts the #Occupy Wall Street movement is just one testosterone-crazed young man with bigger ideas away from a full-on violent, French Revolution kinda outburst. I tend to agree with him. Right now the populace is adequately entertained with its Real Housewives and its X-Factor and its Monday Night Football, but give it time and we’re going to have the roiling masses throwing park benches through office windows and the police are going to be doing more than just pepper-spraying the inconvenient protesters. Heck, they already arrested a woman who closed her bank account at Citi. True story.

I see it in the faces of the people waiting in the hallways of the courthouse, trying to make ends meet, trying to save their homes, their dignity, their whatever-they-have-left. I feel it sometimes in myself when I open another bill, put those student loans back in deferment, or wait to see how bad my health insurance is going to go up.

We, as a country, could have fixed this years ago. The president could fix this –make those useless bureaucrats in the SEC and elsewhere do something about the crimes that were committed, make the U.S. economy to stop functioning like drunken Midwesterners on a First Nation casino bus tour through Michigan. The GOP (and a handful of Democrats) could fix it too by stop saying NO, by knocking off this non-stop “if I don’t get want I want, I’m going to hold my hand over the country’s mouth until it turns blue”.

We’re done. We’re done because the churches (particularly the Evangelical masses) have long since stopped being a prophetic voice against the wanton accumulation of wealth at any costs. We’re done because the churches (particularly the mainline) have long since stopped being a prophetic voice for morality. We’re done because we’ve confused partisanship for patriotism. We’re done because we allowed our representatives to make campaigns secret. We’re done because we’ve decided that corporations are people too! Yippee!! We’re done because, while there’s no I in team, there’s I in “I want” and “mine.” We’re done because most Americans (largely of Evangelical bent) think that we’re Exceptional because we’re here

We ain’t nothing new and people like us have existed and been wiped off the map of history countless times before by impatient masses who start chanting “mine” louder than the people in power.

Woe to those who add house to house and join field to field until there is no more room. Who chase after rewards and love a bribe; who do not defend the orphan nor does the widow’s plea come before them. Isaiah 5:8, 1:23.

I want to blog more tonight, but I’m tired. I should be in bed. But I’m not. I should have gotten more done today, but I didn’t. I probably could use a good cry, but I won’t. Maybe I even need a good fight, but I shouldn’t.

Isn’t that weird? Restless…pacing inside. Feeling unsafe and not able to do much beyond locking the doors and closing the windows. But it’s not even that kind of unsafe…it’s just that unsafe, like you’ve gotten yourself up to high or out too far and there’s no getting back without risk. Your throat and the pit of your stomach have met somewhere in between. It’s not anybody else’s doing or anybody’s particular fault, but rather the realization that this is where you find yourself.

I don’t mean this to be fussy. It’s just one of those odd statements of fact. I will drag myself in to say my prayers and I will try to drag myself out of bed for a run. I will feed the dog. I will go to work and I will cross my fingers, say more prayers and hope that the routine brings some sense of stability, that in getting the necessary accomplished, I can find some quiet. At least, for now, the illusion of safety.

Just again to reiterate, for my mom, who reads this…nothing is wrong. Just one of those days.

Pretty great quote. A timely one for me, I guess, this week.

I am working really hard in this relationship with A to let my better angels do the talking and to keep those old destructive impulses at bay as best I can. The other night I was clearly in the wrong. And in the wrong because of a long-standing pattern of “things I do because of my overdeveloped sense of guilt and responsibility” (somewhere there’s some friends nodding in their understanding of this). Anyway, the older me would have figured out a way to make it not my problem, to make this non-function of my self necessary to the relationship, i.e. take it or leave. So while we sat in relative silence over salads at Texas Road House, I let my better angels and my self duke it out. Before the main course came, I figured it out, but I didn’t really mention it until the waitress brought the bill.

So I said, “A, I did this because of this…”

A says “I know and I can live with that, but you just have to let me know.”

Me: “Sorry.”

A: smile

As I chewed on my iceberg lettuce, I could feel myself becoming angry at him–not because he did anything (he didn’t) but because he wasn’t being unreasonable which didn’t give me any room to be unreasonable back. He just kind of sat there with a mostly placid look on his face, no doubt internally amused at my obvious frustration.

This quote (which came into my twitter feed via the mayor of Newark) makes me think of that, how my anger was trying really hard to chew a hole in the fabric of the relationship, which would have damaged me in the long run much more than A.

It makes me think of some of what’s going on at work, how that place so full of silliness is now filling up with anger and how it’s damaging relationships, and eating away at the fabric of functionality. I know I so easily contribute to that because all the unreasonableness allows me to feel justified in seeing their unreasonableness and raising them by grumpy.  It’s mostly overwhelming, and exhausting. I need to figure this out, too.

Do not be irritated either with those who sin or those who offend; do not have a passion for noticing every sin in your neighbour, and for judging him, as we are in the habit of doing. Everyone shall give an answer to God for himself. Everyone has a conscience; everyone hears God’s Word, and knows God’s Will either from books or from conversation with other people. Especially do not look with evil intention upon the sins of your elders, which do not regard you; “to his own master he standeth or falleth.” Correct your own sins, amend your own life. —St. John of Kronstadt

But it’s not like I haven’t had thoughts, or thoughts about my thoughts, or (my favorite and probably the worst), thoughts about somebody else’s thoughts.

So a quick update, I guess:

* ran the Warrior Dash and climbed over three 20-foot walls (I’m kinda scared of heights)

* ran my first 10k

*made my first anniversary with the boyfriend, a milestone he tracked down via his bank records in a really sweet way and one I forgot. (Go him!)

* I’m kind of jealous of those Occupy Wall Street peeps. Professionally I’m not supposed to have any personal opinions, but, boy, I’ve got ‘em. And as a member of the 99% who does not control the wealth and the power, as someone who has been in my career for a dozen years now, and is making little progress on my student loans, on salary advancement, on benefits, on anything, I wish I could say Get ‘em! to those marching around with signs. If I could say anything like that, I would say that I hope that the powers that be listen and that we become a more just society, whatever that means.

* I’ve missed church for the past two weeks. Once for work and once for a family event. In the past few eight weeks, I have not been in church a total of three times (any Orthodox church). I don’t think that’s happened since I became Orthodox. I don’t like how this has made me feel. I don’t like the disconnect. And I don’t like what it has done to my soul. I look forward to worship this Sunday, to Communion this Sunday, to Church.

So, here’s that apology. Sorry about the missing month. I’ll try to do better. I have other things I want to say and probably ought to say.

For now that’s it.

Parting picture of the sisters at the Warrior Dash. Isn’t that fun?!

We tried to get back there this year, but like a heroin addict chasing that first high, we couldn’t quite recapture the magic of that first shipment of steamed Maryland blue crabs, the corn rolled in melting butter and Old Bay Seasoning getting in the cuts and nicks on our hands caused by the crab shells.

This year, we had thunderstorms, an unbelievably bad Notre Dame football game, an ailing dog, and way more beer than we could drink with Uncle Scott in Krgyzystan. The party was totally different, equally enjoyable,  but just not as mystical as that first one.

This one involved a 3-year-old. Every party should involve a 3-year-old. Upon his arrival in the house, he told my mother, whom he calls Um-Mum (long story), to take a deep breath. If you know my mother, and you know how completely crazy she can be when left unattended, you know this is a PERFECT singular piece of advice.

The following conversations all occurred:

#1:

Oma (88-year-old great-grandma): L, I see your dimples

L (the 3-year-old): (finger pointing) No, you do not. They are in my private parts.

#2:

L: I don’t like it, Mommy, it’s soggy.

Mommy: What does soggy mean? If you want to make an argument, you have to know what the words mean.

L: Daddy, what does soggy mean?

Mommy: No, you have to know what it means?

L: I don’t know what it means

Mommy: Then you can’t not like it because you don’t know what it means.

#3 (while on a walk)

L: I think Daddy’s going to the store to pick up my new cousin.

Me: Your new cousin? Who is your new cousin?

L: His name is Julio.

Me: It is? What does Julio look like?

L: He looks like an elephant.

(five minutes later)

Me: What does Julio look like?

L: Julio looks like a long-necked giraffe.

Me: Is he ferocious?

L: He is ferocious.

The 3-year-old prayed to bless the meal Saturday night, his hands kinda covering his eyes and his voice barely above a whisper with a huge grin on his face.

“Jesus, thanks for crabs. We like them.”

This morning, while rushing out of my fave coffee shop to get to the newsroom, I literally ran into a woman I hadn’t seen in about five years. Funny thing, this. Back in the day, a long, long time ago, we were really good friends, the best of friends. But “whatever” happened and we stopped speaking, other people around us stopped speaking and it was a big ugly mess. Oddly, we’ve never run into each other except one other time in the decade since we stopped speaking to each other. That in itself is kind of strange because, let’s be honest, this city ain’t that big. There’s only so many sushi places, so many good coffee shops and only one decent Indian restaurant.

I’d always figured when, or if, I ran into her, I wouldn’t have a ton to say. Hurt feelings are like that. But when the door to the coffee shop opened, all I thought was, wow, I haven’t seen her in a long time. And it’s kind of good to see her again.

We talked for about 30 minutes. It was a good talk. Grownups can do that, I guess. We laughed. We shared pertinent family details. Her father has since died and that makes me sad because I always liked her dad. She was happy to hear of my sisters lives and my continued employment in the shaky world of newspapering.

I realized as I walked away, in one of those now-shortened-skirts, that her daughter, now about 12, had pooped all over that skirt when she was just a couple days old. An attempt to get the stain out lightened the skirt a bit, but over the years of washing, the skirt faded up a bit and now it’s indiscernible.

Now the skirt is shorter, the stain is less noticeable  and I”m a few pounds lighter in personal baggage.  I’m not sure if I’ll run into her again, but it was good to do so today. It was like finishing a sentence or the last measure of a song. It would have been wrong to just tuck the whole thing in the closet without an update, or at least pulling it out again and trying it on a new day.

Totally felt crazy tonight. And then felt very grateful for those people who choose to attach themselves to me in spite of all the fun I provide.

Tonight’s example: Had a totally enjoyable evening with the boyfriend at the Trion Tavern, the nifty little New Haven watering hole with the 20 taps. He is a really good sport, albeit a lover of wimpy beer (read Miller Lite), and let me pick his brew: Kostritzer Lager. It scared him with its impenetrable blackness but rewarded his bravery with its surprising crisp taste. I had a Three Floyds Pride and Joy ale, a sentimental favorite.

He bought me dinner. I bought him beer. He let me beat him in a game of pool, put up with the guy next to us smoking a nasty cigar and did not make fun while I sang along to Bob Marley and told stupid court stories.

How did I reward Mr. Patient? Why, I spent the entire drive back to downtown Fort Wayne yipping to my dear Republican about the evils of the Bush administration. I mean to tell you, I hollered. He was so kind, even then: leaning on his arm, his rolling eyes hidden behind his Oakleys while I grew red faced over the deficit and the Iraq war.

It occurred to me that he may not want to hear all that, at that volume, as I pulled up next to his truck.

Me: OhmygoshIamsosorryDoyouhateme?!

Him: No

Me: I am so very crazy.

Him: Yep.

Me: Oh jeez.

Him: Eh. It’s OK. I still love you.

One of the most amazing things about this relationship (and I’m sorry to gush here) is that it never, ever occurred to me before I got myself healthy(er) and then risked this, that you could actually be yourself in a relationship. And just maybe, there would be another person who wouldn’t want anything more from you than that. I never saw that in my home: that emotional safety to just be, even if being is ridiculously silly or passionate about the absurd (beer, politics).

God made us for relationships, to be in community with others. That was a very difficult thing for me to learn. But I love how much I have grown in this relationship already. I love that already I’ve taken much more out of it than I ever expected. I have had really good friendships that did that for me in some ways, but this is a totally different thing. I like this thing.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to get too mushy.

Here’s a fun picture. He’ll probably threaten me to get me to take it down and not wax so sentimental, but too bad.

Me: (via text to judge) Calling in 5

Judge: (on telephone) Did you get my text?

Me: No. What number did you send it to?

Judge: Your phone. 341-xxxx.

Me: Oh, well that’s my work phone. I don’t get texts on my work phone.

Judge: What? You work at a newspaper. How do you not get texts on your work phone?

Me: It makes no sense. Nothing here makes any sense, especially our technology and equipment.  Lose my work phone number and send all texts to my personal cell.

Judge: Oh, the 515-xxxx?

Me: Yes. I just sent you a text from there. Did you get it?

Judge: You did? No, I didn’t get it.

Me: (after looking at my phone more closely) Oh, well that’s because I sent it to your house.

Judge: My house doesn’t get text messages.

Me: Yeah, probably not.