The Cost and Joy of Discipleship: Now THAT Was Church!

When Trixie was born, I had not yet joined the church; indeed, I wasn't even so much thinking of joining the church.  Old First was a community I loved -- Julie had been a part of it since she was a volunteer there in college, and she joined immediately upon our move to Philadelphia, five years before Trixie's birth.  I loved the people, loved working at the homeless shelter (where we were known as "the ice cream ladies"), but I was actually exploring Judaism at the time, and was pretty sure that wherever I landed, it would not be as a member of a mainline protestant church.  

As it turns out, Old First worked its way into my heart and soul, and through that community, I found myself casting my lot with Jesus and his wacky band of disciples.  If conversion is a "turning around," I've always thought of mine as a 360, rather than a 180, degree turn; my dad, the born-again atheist, lives the most Christ-like life of anyone I know, and my conversion to Christianity has simply given life and community and rhythm and story to the values of simplicity and hospitality and love and stewardship that are my birthright and my family's lifeblood.  So on the one hand, my conversion was simple and easy; but on the other hand, it was oh-so-difficult, and it was precisely baptism that was the stumbling block.

I was not baptized as an infant, much to the chagrin of my staunch Episcopalian Grandma Rose. My parents held firm though; their baby would not go through what felt to them like a meaningless ritual simply to appease the grandparents.  As it turns out, I am forever grateful for their choice on my behalf, because their choice not to baptize me meant that I had to very actively and consciously choose the church, rather than just falling into it.   Had I been baptized as an infant, I could have quietly joined Old First without having to think very hard about it. But baptism! Wow, that felt really big.  How would I know when I was really ready?  

How would I know if I really was a Christian? What if all those lingering doubts just made me a big old fraud?   It was my friend Donna (there she is, taking some of these pictures) who finally distilled my dilemma for me:  "Marta," she said, "It sounds like it's time to shit or get off the pot."  Yup! On the day of my baptism, though, I did not feel like a new-born child of God. Mostly I was in a really grumpy mood, and wished everyone would stop asking me how I felt, implying that I was supposed to feel something in particular which I most decidedly did not, confirming my own secret fears that I was, indeed, nothing but a big poser.  

I like to think that baptism, like conversion, is something we grow into, forever, and not something that happens and then it's done.  I had clearly come to the point in my conversion where I needed to continue my journey inside the church, so it was time to "get washed up." But I'm always glad to have the chance to renew my baptismal vows, as we do at St. Vincent's at Easter Vigil, where older children and adults are baptized -- with lots and

lots and lots of water!  I've been going to Easter Vigil (with Pat, Trixie's confirmation mentor and our dear dear friend) for years at St. Vincent's, the Catholic church in my neighborhood where I also sometimes attend the mid-day Mass.  And I've always loved all the water, big copper urns of it, poured over the heads of the kneeling candidates.  My own church's tradition is sort of a desert version; water is apparently scarce in the UCC, so just a few drops must do.  That was my own baptism, but I wanted something different for Trixie.

It felt important to both me and Julie that our children have a choice, especially since, when Trixie was born, my own spiritual quest had not yet landed me in the Christian faith, so Trixie and Micah were both dedicated as infants, but not baptized.  As it turns out, we did not give Trixie so much of a choice; she has been very much raised in the Christian church (so much so, that once as a toddler, when we pulled into our church's parking lot, Trixie declared, "We're home!"  It occurred to us then that perhaps we were spending too much time at the corner of Fourth and Race.)  But whether or not we have really given her a true choice, her baptism is something that she has been able to actively and fully embrace as part of her year of exploring her faith in anticipation of Confirmation, and I am glad for that. Normally, she would be quickly baptized, with a few drops of water, prior to the confirmation ceremony (scheduled for Pentecost, on the 31st), but she, Julie and I all wanted something more special, and with LOTS MORE WATER.

Lucky for us, our dear ones Woody and Joey have a heated pool, which, if you're in need, is now full of a whole lotta holy water!  This seemed an especially perfect place as Woody played John the Baptist in Old First's production of Godspell a couple of years ago. And Trixie is an avid swimmer, so a plan was hatched, and a wonderful service and pool party followed.  In the words of our friend Wanda, who co-officiated with Julie's father at the service:  "Now THAT was church!"  Indeed.

I will leave you with the lovely Prayer of Baptism from the UCC Book of Worship's baptism liturgy, which I have always loved:

We thank you, God,

for the gift of creation

called forth by your saving Word.

Before the world had shape and form,

your Spirit moved over the waters.

Out of the waters of the deep,

you formed the firmament

and brought forth the earth

to sustain all life.

In the time of Noah, 

you washed the earth

with the waters of the flood,

and your ark of salvation bore a new beginning.

In the time of Moses,

your people Israel passed

through the Red Sea waters

from slavery to freedom

and crossed the flowing Jordan

to enter the promised land.

In the fullness of time,

you sent Jesus Christ,

who was nurtured 

in the water of Mary's womb.

Jesus was baptized by John

in the water of the Jordan,

became living water to a woman

at the Samaritan well,

washed the feet of the disciples,

and sent them forth

to baptize all the nations

by water and the Holy Spirit.

Bless by your Holy Spirit,

gracious God, this water.

By your Holy Spirit

save those who confess

the name of Jesus Christ

that sin may have not power over them.

Create new life in Trixie

baptized this day

that she may rise in Christ.

Glory to you, eternal God,

the one who was, and is, and shall always be,

world without end.

Amen.

Lots more photos on Facebook (Margaret? Marjorie? I'm just sayin')

Diary of a Mad Housewife: Gratitude in the Garden

On Mother's Day, Julie took the kids to church and then to visit her Auntie, who lives in a nursing home about an hour away, and I had the whole day to work in the garden.  It was cool and sunny, a perfect day.  When I arrived in the garden, though, I realized that the wheelbarrow -- the bright yellow, new, very expensive wheelbarrow -- was missing.  The night before, Micah had been done with the garden, so I sent him ahead with the keys.  I planned to follow minutes later, when I realized I couldn't lock up the shed because the padlock doesn't work without the key.  So with every intention of returning, I left the wheelbarrow full of weeds in the middle of the garden and went home to attend to the squirrelly six year old.  Upon my arrival at home, I was felled by an allergy attack of epic proportions, the sort that only sleep-inducing antihistamines will allay.  And I forgot all about the wheelbarrow.

When I arrived in the garden on Mother's Day, I immediately noticed it was missing.  I also immediately noticed that Mrs. Meadowland was standing on her front steps, talking to someone and shooting the evil eye at the garden.  My rational mind knew that she had nothing to do with the missing wheelbarrow, but I wasn't feeling particularly rational just then.  I burst into tears.

Another neighbor, a very dear man named Vlad, happened to be walking by just then and asked after me.  I poured out all my venom at Mrs. Meadowland to poor

Vlad, who used every single one of his considerable 12-step counseling skills to talk me down.  He could not have been more kind.  He went to get me his wheelbarrow, and said he'd be back in a couple of hours to fetch it.  He also recounted a story of a particularly difficult, bitter relationship he'd had, and how he decided to pray, for two solid weeks, that his adversary would get everything he needed. Vlad said that relationship was transformed, and there was nothing else he could attribute the transformation to.  He also observed that I really need to figure out a way to let go of the specter of the Meadowlands, which always feels looming when I'm working in the garden, so that I can really enjoy myself there.  "She's a small, bitter woman.  Imagine being her," he said. I felt so very very cared for.

While I moved mounds of compost around in Vlad's old, beat-up wheelbarrow, I thought about what I wished for from the Meadowlands.  All I want, I realized, is to have a cordial, polite, neighborly relationship.

A "Hey, how you doin?" sort of relationship.  That's all.  And I realized I could have that sort of relationship, even if they refuse to reciprocate.  Maybe an hour later, Mr. Meadowland pulled up, parked in front of their house, and began walking to the front door. 

"Good morning, Mr. Meadowland!" I called, in my most neighborly voice, but without stopping my work.  

"Hi! How are you?" he called back.  But I'm pretty sure he didn't see me, or know who had called out to him.  Still, I felt better.

I will admit that when Mrs. Meadowland came out a little later, I couldn't screw up the courage to call out to her, but I'm working on it.

Later in the day, my neighbor Tom, who is helping me build a fence (okay, let's be real:  I'm helping him build a fence; he's a master carpenter, and I can follow simple directions if he speaks slowly and clearly), stopped by, and apologized for not bringing the wheelbarrow back.  He had taken it with him and a whole load of weeds that he was dumping at a worksite where they needed landfill.

And I knew that.  I had completely forgotten.

I don't really believe that things happen for a reason, I really don't.  But I was feeling pretty grateful by the end of the day.  It was, as at least half a dozen young men passing by said to me that day, a "Happy Mother's Day."  

Photos, again, from my dear Donna.

Diary of a Mad Housewife: Micah at Six

On Sunday, Micah went to Zaire's birthday party, with, as it turns out, his favorite little skateboard keychain hidden in the gift bag with Zaire's gift.  Micah is not allowed to take little toys like that out of the house, because he will lose them -- he does lose them -- but that doesn't stop him from trying.  

"But Josh brought a Webkinz to church last week -- I want to show him mine!"  

"But I want to play Bakugon with my friend outside!"  

"No, no, really, we're allowed to take toys to school as long as we leave them in our backpacks!"

On Sunday, apparently he knew we would say "No," so he didn't even ask.  He just slipped the keychain in the first convenient hiding place, which just happened to be Zaire's gift bag. Unfortunately for Micah, he forgot that he had hidden it there, and there it stayed (and can I just say "I told you not to take small toys out of the house!  This is the reason you're not allowed to -- you always lose them!  This is exactly what I was talking about!")

In fact, Micah forgot so completely that it wasn't until Wednesday at school, when Zaire brought his new toy -- you know, the one Micah gave him -- and why wouldn't he think that Micah had given it to him, after all, since it was in the gift bag!?-- it wasn't until then that Micah remembered.  At which point, to his credit, he confessed everything to his teacher -- that he isn't allowed to take small toys out of the house, that he hid the skateboard in Zaire's gift bag, that he forgot -- but now, he concluded, now that he remembered, he wanted his skateboard keychain back.  His skateboard, not Zaire's.  Of course Zaire saw it completely differently -- and why wouldn't he, what with the skateboard being in his gift bag?  Micah's teacher actually called me mid-morning to see if I had any idea how to negotiate this, since both boys were pretty adamant that the skateboard was rightfully theirs, and pretty upset at the prospect of losing it.  I told her to keep the skateboard, and to tell them the grown-ups would figure out a solution.  That seemed to mollify them for the time being, but in the meantime, there had apparently been a lot of crying and angst.

That afternoon, I talked to Micah about it, and he agreed (pretty reluctantly) that Zaire could keep the skateboard keychain, because after all, he did find it in his gift bag, and how would you feel if someone tried to take back one of your gifts? ("Sad.")  And that I would try to find Micah another one if I could.   Then I mentioned that his teacher said he was pretty upset in class, and was crying.

"Yeah," he said, "but it's okay, because Masai and my friends took care of me."

"Oh yeah?  That's so nice," I said.  "How did Masai take care of you?"

"He patted my back."  

How sweet is that?  Pretty darn sweet, huh?

It was wild mayhem in Fernhill Park after school today as a puppy pack of boys and three little girls celebrated Micah's sixth birthday.  There were scooters and bikes and skateboards, and while the moms sat in the grass discussing "benign neglect" as a parenting philosophy, the boys removed their shirts in the heat of the afternoon, and then cajoled us into letting them ride without helmets ("it's so hot!"), and then managed to scrape their knees and elbows and even their bellies, but, thank goodness (because we sure couldn't take any credit), there were no concussions.  One of the girls scootered with the best of them (but kept her shirt on); the

other two picked flowers.  Micah got great stuff, the kids gorged on a skateboard cake I spent the day making (and only just got cleaned up from at 10:00 p.m.), and which, if I do say so myself, was pretty darn cool.  My camera is broken, but a friend has photos, which I'll try to add when I get them.

The day ended with a passel of neighborhood kids taking turns on Micah's new skateboard ramps (he's not good enough yet on the board, but the boy is pretty awesome on a razor scooter), until Micah got so tired and hungry that he just melted down. Some take-out lo mien noodles and a quiet hour of TV with Mama Julie seemed to top off a near-perfect day, and the boy is now sound asleep, blissfully surrounded by Bakugon whatever-they-are, legos, and of course, his menagerie of Webkinz reptiles.  

Photos courtesy of the insanely talented "Dee."