...mit Frolocken...

It's snowing here this afternoon -- fat fluffy flakes; earlier in the day, they were smaller, and there was just enough of a breeze to toss them about in Brownian motion between our house and the house next door.  But now they're just enough heavier that they're falling almost straight down.  I'll have to shovel out tonight before I go to bed.  But it's all right -- it's not what the friends-who-are-nurses call "cardiac snow."

Shortly, however, I'm on my way to spend the evening with Delightful Grandbaby.  She is 10 months old today (less the five weeks she missed in utero).  She can sit herself up; she can crawl, she makes wonderful games out of clapping and waving and uttering funny noises.  Last Monday  we had a game with hiccups.  I patted her back; she hicc'ed.  When she hicc'ed -- I hicc'ed, just to demonstrate solidarity.  She looked at me dubiously -- she seemed to detect a certain lack of depth and authenticity about my performance.  But after half a dozen or so, she solemnly reached up and patted me on the chest.  "You pat me, Grandma, I'll pat you, we'll get the upper hand of these darn hiccups somehow."

Spent yesterday afternoon in a special kind of study on Romans 8, guided by the old Fifth Evangelist, there, at the head of the post...in the motet "Jesu meine Freude".  Singers comprising friends of my children and children of my friends -- or both.  Conductor: the Poppa of Delightful Grandbaby.   We are a very BACH family.

Does anybody else listen to Bach for the WORDS?  My gain yesterday was Frolocken.  I know that in standard orthography it's Frohlocken.  But without the "h" somehow -- it's more FROLICSOME.  And I love it.  Frolocken forever.  And more of the style of devotion, of thinking and feeling, that invites that rejoicing.

Bach does me good.  Thanks be to God and thanks be to the old Kapellmeister -- and to the young one, and to all his Musikant friends, too.

Blessed are the dumfounded...

Just home after a very happy day with the Grandbaby of my Heart (so far, the ONLY Grandbaby, though that is due to change soon), and her parents...naptimes and playtimes and feedings and bath and bedtime, and in with that delightful lunch and supper, and much good conversation.

Grandbaby is in the process of shifting her schedule of eating and sleeping.  She is being gently encouraged to move to TWO substantial naps per day, away from three or more catnaps.  Homoeostasis  being still in effect, there is resistance to this benevolent request for change.  So what with that, and with being not quite six months old, and the natural challenges of the time of day between 5 pm and 7 pm (aka "Hell Hour"), Grandbaby was becoming a bit of a small BEAR by the time supper was over. 

She didn't want to jump in the Jolly Jumper, she didn't want to sit in her high-chair, she didn't want to lie on her play-mat.  There was fussery.  There were aggrieved noises.  There were small squawks of existential ennui (I presume).

So her Papa took her over to the piano, held her in the crook of one arm, and began to play Bach, mostly with one hand; sometimes he could manage the second hand for a bar or two.

First thing was she hushed TOTALLY and stopped wiggling and struggling.  Total concentration and stillness.

And then I looked at her face.  And with small regular tilts of her head, she was looking first up at the music on the music rack, and then down at the keyboard.  Then back at the music, then back at the keyboard, at her Papa's hands and what they were doing.  Back and forth, over and over, regular as a metronome.

As I said, not six months old until mid-month (and born five weeks early at that).

I have come home feeling more than somewhat staggered.  What on earth have we here???

Second day...

Awake a little before five this morning. The People's FM Radio plays interesting music until six a.m., after which Teh Stoopid takes over. So I lay and listened; got up a bit after six a.m. when the news was over and made a bit of a list for the day. It looked reasonable...and some of it even got done -- two loads of laundry, a run to the bank, and the Post Office, and two grocery stores. After which, it being payday and all, I treated myself to a (not very good) lunch "out."

Home, and got the groceries put away -- and that's ALL she wrote. Made a good breakfast and a light supper, and I'm finished for the day. Will watch the rest of Monday Night Football, and crawl off to bed.

Much intrigued by the discussion on what our theology says or fails to say about the animal part of creation -- the nonhuman animals, that is -- led me to reflect on some of the background reading I did "back when", preparing lectures on Black Beauty. I knew, I knew, that there were theologians in the background of Anna Sewell's work, and I was please to be able to trace the thread back to Horace Bushnell, q.v. In the process read some interesting notes on Calvin's theological references to animals (not to the impoverished references of CALVINISTS, to animals).

Recalling, in conversation with other RevGals, the doctrinaire objections to the Blessing of Animals in church -- summarized as "Animals don't go to heaven, because they don't have souls." Two thoughts, well, two utterable thoughts, always rose up in response to that: first that it's the Resurrection of the BODY we say we believe in, NOT the immortality of the soul, fine pagan notion though that is. And second -- that if a discernible soul is the criterion, a whole bunch of folks I encounter day by day had better look to their qualifications (grump, grump).

More and more I think that the secret to pragmatic success in parish life is the willingness to condone, flatter, echo, and cheerlead people's envy, contempt, and spite toward other folks. I am so weary of it. Hence, in part, the "Monday face."

respite

We are getting another wee interval of sunshine and warmth today, after a severe frost last night -- ice on the windshield, ice on the grass and on the puddles at dawn this morning.

I had a cup of green tea last night at bedtime. Later I had some astonishing vivid although not unpleasant dreams. Temptation to assign cause and effect to that sequence, but I don't know.

As it was, got sufficient sleep, with one wakeful interval in which I sat up and read some more of the most recent TLS including a not-altogether-glowing review of Marilynne Robinson, Absence of Mind. "Pshaw," I say -- I like what she's saying and I enjoy the way she says it.

There is also a lengthy profile on Benedict XVI by Rupert Shortt, another writer I enjoy. I don't think it's altogether glowing either. But I'm saving if for later...thought I might doze off again midway through and I want to read it through at a sitting.

Interesting article on Jan Sibelius (review of a new biography) and the public status of the creative arts in Finland a hundred years ago.

What with one thing and another did not rise up with any exceptional alacrity this morning and getting out of the house became one of those "what can I safely omit doing" processes...finally decided that I must either eat my oatmeal a) in the bathtub (unwise) or b) in the car (doomed) or c) at my midmorning meeting. So I opted for c).

Then by way of the gas station and a fill-up, to the day's second meeting, good coffee and gingersnaps and good fraternization. Away again past the bank machine to check balances, to the discount bakery outlet, and home again in time to greet the piano tuner, who arrived shortly after the house-painter. They are friends but were not aware they were both engaged today in the upgrading of Tether's End. Joviality ensued.

Earlier in the week booked my brief trip to the Left Coast...trying to juggle family and friends and travel times...decided that I could take an awful lot of taxis for the cost of renting a car--so that's one less thing to worry about.

And the high energy moment of the week so far has been bundling registration material away to RevGalBlogPals Inc. for BE-4!!! Exhilarating!!!

Meantime there is earnest thumping and scraping outdoors, and earnest plinking and plunking indoors...happy sigh!

miduum of the triduum...

Taking a short break this afternoon for a nice grilled cheese sandwich with bread and butter pickles (internal to the sandwich, mmmm) ... a homemade latte ... a little desultory television...and then time to get changed and saddle up and go do a communion visit. Back to St. Curious in time for the Vigil tonight at 8...assisted by three other parishes, so the Rambler gets to ride the bench unless one of the visiting clergy sprains something vital.
It's been a good Holy Week at St. Curious -- Palm Sunday went beautifully including some slightly impromptu processing by children and choir, happy distribution of home-made palm branches (hooray for newsprint): then daily Eucharists Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday; a students' supper Maundy Thursday followed by a mighty footwashing (on a scale hitherto unknown in those parts); children doing a fine and happy activity on Good Friday during the Good Friday devotions -- with a very good turn-out, mightily cheering to one and all.
A lovely interlude on Friday evening -- local small chorus has established the tradition of a "sacred concert" on Good Friday in the Fancy Schmancy Downtown Concert Hall; and this year their choice was the Brahms Deutsches Requiem; 30 some select voices and piano accompaniment. There was a good crowd including a significant number of local clergy--it is such a treat late on Good Friday to participate in something beautiful and reverent without having to DRIVE it!
And this morning an innovation, an Easter Egg hunt on the church grounds for children of the community, and thanks be to God there was no snow to contend with...contrary to ALL expectations (head-shaking, tooth-sucking expectations), there were at least 20 children in attendance and a whooping good time was had by all.
Just to ensure that the laughter never stops... Fab Rector at St. Curious was up early this morning and let out her Faithful Dog, who went out like the valiant creature he is and promptly found a skunk. They did not part friends. So on her schedule today also is the de-stinking of her mephitic hound (also self, house, clothing, etc. etc.).

Nobody has as much fun as we do, nobody.

And there were swans this morning, flying over the river...
Happy Easter, alleluia.

Tuesday again

The Rambler spent a good part of yesterday and most of an SOS pad cleaning the rings'n'pans on the top of her stove. They tell me there are such things out there as smooth-top electric ranges, but we don't put no trust in setch notions in these parts.

And then, this morning, inspired by the wonderfulness of it all, got up early and commenced upon Sourdough Buttermilk Biscuits. Yes, I started a new 'starter' last week. Yeast had been in the fridge -- date on jar of yeast, "Jan 2008" but nonetheless it came up out of the flour and water just roaring and bubbling so ON WE GO. Out of buttermilk, but have the 'heel' of the last making of plain yogurt in the fridge, which substitutes just fine.

I can tell you it has been a long time since flour was the predominant note in the chaos that is the Rambler's kitchen.

First crisis -- WHERE is my pastry cutter??? Irony here is that kitchen clean-up since retirement disclosed that there were TWO pastry cutters floating about in the batterie de cuisine. Two. Now I ask you, expecting no answer, WHO in her right mind would have TWO pastry cutters? Disposed of one to Daughter Unit. And WHERE did I put the other one???

But it turned up after only minimal excavation and we moved right along to...

Second crisis -- the removal of about 25 pounds of mixed foodstuffs from the Sacred Place on the kitchen counter devoted to Rolling Stuff Out.

The previous inhabitants of Tether's End, here, had a series of nannies/au pairs, one of whom set a hot saucepan down on the countertop and burnt a big hole in the Arborite. So they replaced the damaged section with a Corningware SLAB...not only is it heat proof, but being non-porous and perpetually cool it is like a pastry marble that doesn't have to be moved, put away, hauled about, etc.

The rolling pin was not as hard to find as the pastry cutter had been.

And there are not-quite-a-dozen nice biscuits cooling on a rack. There were a dozen. Soon after they came out of the oven, #1 Son Unit came wafting up the stairs from his bedroom...

I have heated milk in my Enormous Black cup, and spiked it with freshmade stove-top espresso, and am about ready to contemplate the day.

Celebrated at St. Curious last night with one young lady and one elderly lady and great happiness. Shared with them Prudentius' Hymnus ad Galli Cantum. And now I'll share it with you.

Awake! the shining day is born!
The herald cock proclaims the morn:
And Christ, the soul's Awakener, cries,
Bidding us back to life arise.

Away the sluggard's bed! away
The slumber of the soul's decay!
Ye chaste and just and temperate,
Watch! I am standing at the gate.

After the sun hath risen red
'Tis late for men to scorn their bed,
Unless a portion of the night
They seize for labours of the light.

Mark ye, what time the dawn draws nigh,
How 'neath the eaves the swallows cry?
Know that by true similitude
Their notes our Judge's voice prelude.

When hid by shades of dark malign
On beds of softness we recline,
They call us forth with music clear
Warning us that the day is near.

When breezes bright of orient morn
With rosy hues the heavens adorn,
They cheer with hope of gladdening light
The hearts that spend in toil their might.

Though sleep be but a passing guest
'Tis type of death's perpetual rest:
Our sins are as a ghastly night,
And seal with slumbers deep our sight.

But from the wide roof of the sky
Christ's voice peals forth with urgent cry,
Calling our sleep-bound hearts to rise
And greet the dawn with wakeful eyes.

He bids us fear lest sensual ease
Unto life's end the spirit seize
And in the tomb of shame us bind,
Till we are to the true light blind.

'Tis said that baleful spirits roam
Abroad beneath the dark's vast dome;
But, when the cock crows, take their flight
Sudden dispersed in sore affright.

For the foul votaries of the night
Abhor the coming of the light,
And shamed before salvation's grace
The hosts of darkness hide their face.

They know the cock doth prophesy
Of Hope's long-promised morning sky,
When comes the Majesty Divine
Upon awakened worlds to shine.

The Lord to Peter once foretold
What meaning that shrill strain should hold,
How he before cock-crow would lie
And thrice his Master dear deny.

For 'tis a law that sin is done
Before the herald of the sun
To humankind the dawn proclaims
And with his cry the sinner shames.

Then wept he bitter tears aghast
That from his lips the words had passed,
Though guileless he his soul possessed
And faith still reigned within his breast.

Nor ever reckless word he said
Thereafter, by his tongue betrayed,
But at the cock's familiar cry
Humbled he turned from vanity.

Therefore it is we hold to-day
That, as the world in stillness lay,
What hour the cock doth greet the skies,
Christ from deep Hades did arise.

Lo! then the bands of death were burst,
Shattered the sway of hell accurst:
Then did the Day's superior might
Swiftly dispel the hosts of Night.

Now let base deeds to silence fall,
Black thoughts be stilled beyond recall:
Now let sin's opiate spell retire
To that deep sleep it doth inspire.

For all the hours that still remain
Until the dark his goal attain,
Alert for duty's stern command
Let every soul a sentry stand.

With sober prayer on Jesus call;
Let tears with our strong crying fall;
Sleep cannot on the pure soul steal
That supplicates with fervent zeal.

Too long did dull oblivion cloud
Our motions and our senses shroud:
Lulled by her numbing touch, we stray
In dreamland's ineffectual way.

Bound by the dazzling world's soft chain
'Tis false and fleeting gauds we gain,
Like those who in deep slumbers lie:--
Let us awake! the truth is nigh.

Gold, honours, pleasure, wealth and ease,
And all the joys that mortals please,
Joys with a fatal glamour fraught--
When morning comes, lo! all are nought.

But thou, O Christ, put sleep to flight
And break the iron bands of night,
Free us from burden of past sin
And shed Thy morning rays within.

closing ceremonies

Watching -- entranced -- the Russian presentation, some of it in Vancouver and much of it in many other places, all brought into one experience for the audience by technical means I can't even guess at.

Despite my inherent and ineradicable non-sportiveness... I have loved watching these Olympics... I have enjoyed the "human interest" stories, the courage of the Canadian figure skater whose mother died suddenly the day before her daughter performed; the courage of the Slovenian cross-country skier who slid off the piste into a 10-foot ditch, broke four ribs, collapsed a lung, and still won bronze (as did the figure skater). I have revelled shamelessly in the Canadian victories. I want to holler and blow horns, make loud vulgar triumphant noises in celebration.

I have taken great joy in watching the Canadian athletes and artists with their gold medals, singing the National Anthem. Not well, perhaps, not loudly, but by the Lord Harry when the national anthem is played, WE SING.

I loved watching the Mounties tromping to and fro in their iconic uniforms -- I love the women officers' little regulation hair-dos...

We had a minimum of truly annoying commentators on the Canadian Olympic broadcasts.

And we even saw some brilliant, amusing, touching, durable commercials...the Tim Horton's ad with the immigrant family arriving at the airport in winter; the Superstore ad about nourishing the athletes; the Chevrolet ads with the vehicles talking over their perspective on the games; the Royal Bank ads with the little bowler-hatted banker participating in all sorts of unlikely sports, in the great tradition of the deadpan clown.

Regrets? probably only that Canada 2 did not medal in the four-man bobsled. And perhaps that we have to be subjected to speeches in French by people who don't speak the language.

A very long day for the Rambler -- preached on the hen-and-chickens gospel at St. Curious at both services this morning, with Fab Bishop visiting and former Rector departing, potentially a very fraught occasion; then a reception, and then mid-afternoon a splendid 19th century Romantic piano concert, a parish fundraiser, in complete conflict with the men's hockey final...the turn-out was encouraging despite the external distractions... Some pretty swift updates via PDA at the Intermission, mind you!

I don't think bedtime will be long delayed tonight.

a happy Sunday

Preached this morning at St. Curious on the temptations of Christ and what they say about the nature of God and the nature of a human being, and managed to set it in context with both other readings AND the Psalm. Once again...I thought I "had it covered" and then the latterly verses of the Psalm detonated in my hearing AS I heard them read at the early morning service. I got rather carried away, I'm afraid...
A light lunch with the Daughter Unit and then home to prepare a sustaining early supper, catch about an hour's sleep, and away with #1 Son to see a local production of Annie, featuring #2 Son. He reported with humorous chagrin of the audition procedure, that he was asked to do a dance routine and then cast as FDR: "Right, I dance like a guy with polio, good to know that." (I am old enough BTW -- and INCORRECT enough -- to miss the presence in the cast of characters of "the Punjab" and "the Asp"--anybody else remember them???)
I do try not to dote, you know, and to be fair-minded and impartial in my assessment of what I see on stage when the offspring are participating. FAIL. The little so-and-so can speak so as to be understood...and when he sings he sings on pitch. Both of which in my astigmatic opinion set him distinctly apart from the rest of the cast. In short, Ma is proud tonight.
And so to bed.

Tuesday again

...and potentially the Productive Day of the Week.

Marathon Vestry meeting last night -- 3 hours and 45 minutes -- which is a brutal absurdity, but the good news is that nobody shouted or pounded on the table or got up and went home mad. Or wept, or insulted anybody else. Just a LOT of stuff to get through, including a conundrum about supplementary funding for our African family which seemed to become ever more convoluted as we went on.

Also the budget in draft form for 2010, which had to do, in part, with lines for stipends for Wonder Curate, and Theoretical Interim Person, and New Rector. When we got to the budget, therefore, Wonder Curate and I rose up and adjourned (or maybe prorogued) into my office, out of earshot. And drank sherry in an impeccably Anglican manner.

After while they called us back. And we ground on towards adjournment.

Slept soundly, after finally getting home; up this morning and to a meeting for WOP4CU ("Week of Prayer for Christian Unity")with barely a quorum of other ecumaniacs ("Let's ask the Society of Friends representative to lead us in silence"); then flew past the diocesan office and dropped off my Official "I'm so outa here" Letter. But did not escape before being accosted by Diocesan Treasurer with the glad cry, "It'll be all right." There are few things I would rather hear from the Diocesan Treasurer, than "It'll be all right" -- even if I have no idea what "it" is. The "it" in this case is a project to do a bit of ecumenical and international travel in January, and to listen to Notable Persons at the destination point. Very exciting: details anon.

Back to MH & U for a meeting with the newly selected editor of the Parish Clarion (newsletter) and to review his ideas for the initial issue under his leadership, NOT a Christmas issue but a New Year and New Beginnings issue. Sounds very exciting.

On the phone...with this one and that one.

We did Lessons and Carols on Sunday night with our High and Smoky friends from downtown. It was sumptuous, as was the potluck supper that ensued. Although for anybody with a phobia about meatballs, the supper would have been a bit of a shock. I think there were eight varieties of meatballs on the buffet. (Little Old Lady: "I think I'll just have one of each...").

It has cooled off here, temperature oscillating back and forth across the frost line which keeps the streets and sidewalks INTERESTING.

back to filling out baptismal information forms. I think we may have at least another half-dozen candidates on the 13th. Happiness is.

Instructed Eucharist on the 6th, so no sermon...

Endless paperwork...

catchings up

We have celebrated Thanksgiving in fine style here at MH & U, winding up on Monday night with another -- probably the last -- of the Rambler's holiday dinners. Each has begun with an announcement in church a few weeks beforehand: "Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter is coming, and ... I HAVE A TURKEY" (OK, it doesn't resonate like "I have a dream," but I work with what I have, okay?)

Started this several years back when I DID have a big old turkey in the bottom of the freezer, going wobble wobble to and fro the way they do...and I thought perhaps I might draw, oh, a half-dozen waifs'n'strays to help eat it if I fetched it to the church on the holiday Monday and cooked it. The first thing that happened was that a senior member caught me at the door and whispered, "buy another one, you're going to have 45 people, trust me"...and every time we have had in fact about 40 guests. So it is two turkeys and a ham; the turkeys in the ovens downstairs (big old Garland gas range with 10 burners atop, JOY UNCONFINED); the ham in the oven of the house-sized electric range in the upstairs kitchen. And the Rambler trots to and fro, basting, until parishioners and friends and, indeed, waifs'n'strays, totter in, late afternoon, and bring potatoes and turnips and yams and salad and cornbread and PIE, Lord have mercy!

In the midst of the preparation on Monday evening, I took time to "just set" with the chief of the parish's Old Guys That Fix Stuff. The piano tuner had been in the week before, exclaiming again over the "niceness" of the Big Black Yamaha grand in the nave...the gift of Chief Fiser and his wife. So I thought perhaps I should pass along this good word, as Chief Fixer was looking rather worn. He has asbestosis, and it doesn't improve, and of late he's been on his portable oxygen continuously.

So I reported the piano tuner's compliment.
"Well, I think it's where it IS that makes it so nice."
And I couldn't resist...because this man is one of those who isn't just wild
enthusiastic about the sanctuary lamp...so I said, "Do you mean, the lovely rosy glow cast over it by the sanctuary lamp?" to which HE says, "OH Don't you start up with me, about the sanctuary lamp!!!"

and then, after a pause -- "Mind you... it looks just fine. We were at the cathedral the other night for the ordination, eh, and I looked at theirs. And I though 'HUH -- ours is lots nicer!'"

And then we laughed. Some moments are just heaven.

And the turkeys were good and Knitting Lady's retired surgeon husband carved them to a fare-thee-well, and the ham was a thing of beauty too.

the status quo

At this point in the Rambler's world...

...the new Sanctuary Lamp has battled through new-candle colic and is burning brightly and cleanly and redly above the altar. Happiness all around.

...visiting music student is moving into her fifth consecutive hour of intensive piano practice just next door in the nave. I don't recognize most of what she's working on, but I think Scarlatti went by a little while ago.

...survived a gathering of the ordained earlier this week without getting myself arrested. Thank goodness for knitting. And for a perception that not all the worst of the nonsense was going by altogether unchallenged -- huzza!

,,,weather has been unseasonably warm for the last week and we are still in sandals sans panty-hose, oh double huzza!!!

...next week will wrap up double-ended short course on the theology of +++Rowan -- we've looked at his theology of peace, of childhood and adulthood, his engagement with Russian Orthodox theologians and Dostoevsky, and next Tuesday/Wednesday -- "The Issue" (ominous chords, offstage). The +++ABC website has been a treasure. And, having heedlessly given away my copy of Charles Hefling's anthology Ourselves, Our Souls and Bodies, I was luckily able to find a website with a good printable text of the essay "The Body's Grace." This course is a shared project with a young ordained woman serving as chaplain at Colourful U -- and holding the fort in a badly disheveled but gallant parish on the edge of campus. We are having a good time with our project -- we do an evening session at Most Holy and Undivided, and repeat the session the next morning at St. Theophrastus.

...reflecting with friends that the civic myth of the self-evident truth, political or philosophical, may not be the very best foundation ever for theological debate... just sayin'.

...and our friend Lucy is out of ICU and about to begin very extensive rehab...thank you for all your kind prayers.

...went to an academic oversight group meeting this morning -- well, for all morning and the beginning of the afternoon. Despite years of conscientious therapy and Personal Work, the Rambler continues to exhibit a degree of Personal Rigidity and this group -- it meets quarterly -- is not a happy habitat for that...The kind of group characterized by Implacable Tolerance and Inclusivity, you know? So there is some tooth-grinding and interior mutters of "Here I am stuck on the floating island of Laputa, and where o where is Jonathan Swift when I really need him???"
But happily there were identifiable persons present who weren't thrilled with the Amiable Fluff either. One of whom, a new acquaintance, fetched his tuna-fish sandwich and couscous salad over to the Rambler's corner of the table at lunch time. And we found a comforting number of shared opinions.

...the problem of automotive drabness seems to be abating, or maybe I'm noticing more. But there seem to be a lot more genuine blue vehicles about -- and even a fair range of greens -- not all "Look-Mom-when-I-hold-my-breath-I'm-a-Jaguar" green. Anything to push back "il grigio."

...and the Daughter Unit, against whom no amount of "il grigio" has ever prevailed, has a birthday next week...she and her spouse are -- both!!! -- Michaelmas babies. Big-time festivity this weekend.

and that is all.

remedially speaking

Well I have been working on a number of remedies for the Advanced Mully-grubs which have been afflicting me for the last week or ten days.

The sight of dapper, blue-blazered elderly gentlemen (with rows of gongs halfway to their elbows), coping with the ravages of arthritis and the like...helps. Especially when recollecting that they were very much present, though in less festal garb, on Juno Beach on the 6th of June, 1944. (Juno Beach is the one John Wayne DIDN'T liberate, in case you wondered.) The South Prairie Province Regiment Veterans were in our midst on Sunday morning, as part of their reunion weekend. They unveiled a plaque. They laid a wreath. They beamed at the preacher. It all helped.

The Rambler had said grace at the regimental dinner on Saturday night. This helped too.

What else...large unexpected donations from persons who are happy with the way their mom's memorial service was conducted. They help.

And it's no bad thing to have Baroque Trumpet as going-to-work music on the CD player in the morning, either.

Topped off with some very demanding teaching, well received, and a healthy chunk of chocolate cake at lunch time today.

Health is on the horizon.

in which the Rambler experiences disproportionate elation...

Things that produce euphoria (this week, anyhow):

1. Cathedral staff who address the parochial clergy (on first acquaintance), as
"Hon" -- "Hi, Hon, are you here to do the noon Eucharist?"
2. Bright sun after hard rain...
3. Parish knitters chowing down on year-end lunch -- roast beef, baked ham, and all the farm style go-withs -- prepared by "Fabric Committee" aka Old Guys That Fix Stuff...
4. Long walks with fellow clergy and amiable canines.
5. Beautiful new T-shirt logo'ed "MH & U Knit Wits"...
6. Second-hand compliments
7. Second-hand compliments to other family members: "Hey, I didn't know he was your brother!!! What an awesome teacher!!!"
8. Breakfast with old friends.
9. Flags and fireworks...
10. Beethoven piano sonatas as drive-to-work music -- just me and Alfred Brendel, woot woot.

and upon reflection...

Well, it was quite a Sunday. I'm not sure we've ever revved ourselves up to quite the same pitch of excitement in the time I have been here.

Sunday of course was preceded by Saturday -- and even Friday -- Friday was the wedding rehearsal, and Saturday the wedding...half an hour before "Dearly beloved" a wedding guest accosted me, "Excuse me, I don't know if you know, but the ladies' washroom is flooding..."

This would be the ladies' washroom renovated with infinite pains in the preceding weeks...and it had flooded in such good earnest as to flood the OTHER ladies' washroom on the floor just below, gravity being what it is, still.

And also considerable acreage of floor space on both levels.

Turn off little twiddly valve, and yell for help.

Parishioners rushed in from the garden, snatched off their shoes, rolled up their trousers like bit-players in "The Good Earth," and mopped, and mopped, and mopped, and LAUGHED...it was just aitch-too-oh, not sewage, thanks be to God. And nobody the wiser, come Sunday.

Sunday was epic. Vehicles parked where their owners had been told they mustn't. Told in written form, yet, on letterhead...and great was the grief and hand-wringing thereat, until a large military person observed the reaction and murmured, "We have five tow trucks on hand, Ma'am, this will not be a problem" and whisk! it was not a problem.

Arrivals of caterers, bearing smoked salmon in great quantity. Arrival of military band, with preliminary whompings of bass drum. Arrival of florist to deposit Princess's nosegay in a Safe Place ("I looked it up, she loves white roses, I've given her white roses and blue iris"). Arrival of volunteers, with ropes and stanchions and clipboards and lists and charts. Arrival of large solemn watchful gentlemen with curly wires in their ears, very imposing.

Assembling of choir (and friends). Deploying of volunteers to control access to building.

Military parade in the block in front of the church, causing murmurings: "she marched them up to the top of the hill and she marched them down again..."

And then it was 10:30, "Welcome, Your Royal Highness" and away. we. go.... "Holy, Holy, Holy," Children's focus time on the symbolism of the pronghorn on the regimental flag, three readings including "Nicodemus" which is substantial, the Venite, the Te Deum, the Jubilate and the Psalm, all to proper Anglican chants my dears, sung minor litany, sung collects (thank you, precenting SIL), "Bright the Vision that Delighted," Sermon, prayer for the Royal Family, General Thanksgiving, Prayer of St. Chrysostom, "God Save the Queen" and "How Shall I Sing that Majesty" (little editorializing there), and Walton's "Crown Imperial" for a postlude, and signing of the guest book and out the door to talk to our Sunday School children and have pictures taken, INSIDE THE HOUR...
And then downstairs to consume the sumptuous lunch and "process" everything we had seen and heard and thought and done...

oh the difference...

Yesterday was intense.

Fifteen hours from arrival at MH & U in the morning to pulling out of the parking lot en route home in the evening...

Saturday was spent MOSTLY at the church as well, on the periphery of madly energetic cleaning-up going on indoors and outdoors. Most of it pretty good work, but some of it pretty mindless. "Let's clean up the chancel, and let's start by unplugging everything and leaving it that way." "Let's clean up the narthex, and let's start by gathering up all the little church-front portable easel signs, and HIDING THEM SOMEWHERE." Somewhere remote from the front door, which of course is where they're deployed.

I didn't sleep very well Saturday night, and arriving at church to find these...anomalies...produced something close to a clerical meltdown, I am embarrassed to say. Running about of churchwardens, "It's OK, Rambler. It'll be all right. We'll just ask the congregation at announcement time, where the signs went. Just be calm. You're OK."

The assistant preached in exemplary fashion... it is such a blessing to have the stimulus of another preacher on the premises...especially when his work evokes the "yes-indeed-but-on-the-other-hand" Anglican response. Leading me to reflect on the difference between statements of fact and statements of truth. (not wanting to think about statements of cornmeal mush, which constitute most of the preaching one hears.)

Got through the second service. (Signs were duly produced at announcement time, expressions of injured innocence all 'round.)

Lined up to get invitation/ticket from Ticket Maven. Accosted in line-up by Exemplary Laywoman reminding me that the "youth" were awaiting me for their confirmation class. Came "this close" to biting said laywoman right in the goozle for asking me to be in two places at once...she retreated, prudently.

Got ticket, had confirmation class, worked through prayer of consecration with little children while big children looked on. We have NINE, count'em, NINE confirmands for the service in October, and at least a couple of baptizands, it's all delightful.

Co-ordinated perceptions with Ticket Maven Lady and sent her off to phone Chronic Stayers-Away lest they show up the Sunday AFTER the royal hoo-hah, and then the screaming begins, again.

Worked on paperwork all afternoon barring quick dash out for a lunch/supper pizza.

Back to computer at 6:35 and wrote sermon for Evensong (Choral) which happened at 7 pm, attended by members of Prairie Metropolis and Hinterland Council of Churches, and a few parishioners, and, God bless and reward them, a solid phalanx of choir.

There was chanting, Anglican chanting, big time.

Preached on Jeremiah 31:1-13, Ephesians 5, and ecumenism with reflections from John 17 (from the morning services).

Sang lovely Anglican evening hymns too..."O Gracious Light, Lord Jesus Christ" (Tallis), "Light of the World, in Grace and Beauty" (Rendez a Dieu), and "Day is Done, But Love Unfailing" (Ar Hyd Y Nos). MOST satisfying to one and all.

Then convened and chaired AGM of Council of Churches, which went well despite no-shows and no-replies (and no minutes -- my fault)...and wrapped up evening with "whining and cheesiness" supplied by the Very Forgiving Laywoman who had narrowly escaped being Rambler-bitten earlier in the day.

And so, as they say, to bed.

All in all, a good day.

And, I'm happy to say, a good night's sleep, which made all the difference today!

Easter Monday

Well. It was the best Triduum ever... and it got better and better as it went along. Good attendance at the Holy Week Eucharists. Good turn-out for the Agape supper and Pedilavium and stripping of the altar on Maundy Thursday; our new Honorary Assistant preached well and energetically and washed feet with comparable energy.

Small but focussed group for the Children's Way of the Cross on Friday morning.

To my very great joy, a couple of young parents from the congregation agreed to take responsibility for the walk next Good Friday. More about that, anon.

Then the Solemn Devotions at noon -- again, a good-sized congregation, the Reproaches were most beautifully sung. There. I've said it. That I am the mother of the soloist has nothing to do with it, I swear.

Peacefulness Friday night at home; then Saturday morning a "Benedictine Day" or half-day actually, of church cleaning with prayers on the hour, with the Sanctuary Guild. And a lovely potluck lunch to conclude.

Peacefulness Saturday afternoon, and the Vigil at 8. Brand new Paschal candle of impressive length. Honorary and I managed not to immolate ourselves in the Sacred Fire, although given the wind -- and it's always windy, at the Vigil -- it was rather too close for comfort at some moments.

Some have pointed out it's hard to light a taper, let alone the big candle, from a fire in a fire-box. What is needed is a "spill" -- a nice long sliver of wood, such as cedar, to do the lighting with.

Another year it would be good, perhaps, to hold off on the lighting-up part until after the Hebrew Scriptures are read...so that it really IS in the dark.

But it went well...and at the Gloria there was a mighty and glorious bell-ringing: the tower-bell, handbells, dinner bells, cowbells, bicycle bells, Tibetan singing bowls...most glorious. As an innovation this Vigil, the Psalms and Canticles after each reading were canted, with lovely tuneful refrains, easy for the congregation to join in on. Honorary A preached again, an absolute barn-burner. What a joy...not to have to re-write one's own Easter sermon to avoid the appearance of plagiarism -- NOR to have to get up and say, "ON THE OTHER HAND"...

And then Easter morning, with a choir of 28 or 29 at both services, the Gospel Acclamation was the Hallelujah Chorus, we had guest trumpeters to put the lovely edge on the Handel (and on the hymns)...and it was church as church should be, I really felt...everybody was there, from genuine card-carrying opera stars beefing up the bass section of the choir, to schizophrenic outpatients in the front pews...and it was ALL. JUST. FINE.

The children put daffodils on the "old rugged" cross...and nobody much minded that this year's daffodils were a pretty scruffy display. Such is life.

And everybody appeared gratified to receive an Easter egg at the door!

So home to scrape together some dinner for the family. I set my timer for 15 minute bursts of work and 5 minute "sits," all afternoon, and that way, got through it and got the meal on the table all more or less as planned. Number One Son cleaned like a madman...so the abode looked less like a landfill than usual.

And finally to bed, wondering why I felt a bit weird and my rings were tight, and ears ringing...and then remembered I hadn't taken the BP meds at breakfast time. NOT GOOD.

Okay now, though.

spring fever

Getting NOTHING done, here, folks... it is +15 in Canadian outside, which is (grind, whir, clank) basically your 60 degrees Fahrenheit.

Palm Sunday was all that one could hope for...a two-hymn procession, waving palm crosses and passing them out amongst the faithful, excellent readers for the Passion Narrative, which we do in parts -- everybody "read out" in a big voice -- four snappin' good hymns, and for a communion anthem, the Allegri "Miserere." We had three guest soloists to form, with Music Director SIL, the necessary quartet. It was just SUMPTUOUS. People wept, most gratifying.

After service I had a 90 minute interview with a sprightly young woman needing the Deep Background on things Anglican for her term paper in Comparative Religion at Colourful U. Ten minutes into our chat, she looked at me narrowly and said, "You know, I think I took Latin from your son last term...!!!" We had a delightful talk and wound up doing a quick evaluation on all the clergymen we could think of in English classical literature. We agreed that Henry Tilney rocks, and that St. John Rivers is a monster, but a sacred monster.

Then today we had 6 persons present, including the Rambler and Trusty Assistant, for the noonhour Eucharist! After which Rambler and TA adjourned to a nearby eatery and ingested lunch and "reformed the constitution."

And TA showed me his birthday present -- the Gospels and Acts volume of the St. John's Bible. "We wants it, my preciousssss...."

Pausing...

...to contemplate the 13 services between right now and bedtime on Easter Sunday.

Listening, pretty much enraptured, to the rehearsings of the musicians in the nave just next door.

Palm Sunday Sermon is written.

I do deeply wish that total strangers would NOT call me on Saturday afternoon and demand over-the-phone impromptu exorcism. Especially not on the Saturday afternoon before Holy Week.

Working on expanding pastoral responses to a less dramatic set of challenges...posed by Estranged Family at funerals, or around funerals, or lurking offstage during funerals...

I'm part of a Spiritual Direction Peer Support Group for a friend who is training in spiritual direction...and on Wednesday I had nothing to present on, to this small group, fresher or of more interest than the just-concluded phone call from The Daughter Who Had Been Entirely Shut Out Of The Planning For Mom's Funeral.

"Mom" being in fact a total stranger to me, and The Other Daughter seeking our help only because she lives next door to one of our more forceful Mothers in Zion, who said, "You'd better talk to our minister."

This is not the first time in the past year that I've been confronted with the protests of an "off stage" family member. This time, at least, it was faintly comical...I asked what the complainant would have liked included in the service.

Complainant; "Well, I'd just like to think that the 23rd Psalm would be read at some point."
Rambler: "Done, and done. We're singing it as the first hymn."
Complainant, in tones reeking of disappointment: "Oh. I see."
Rambler: "and what else?"
Complainant: "Well, I'd like to be sure there was some mention of the Resurrection."
Rambler (thinks -- "oh sweet suffering saviour"): "Excuse me? Can you tell me, have you attended an Anglican funeral any time recently? Because the first words uttered are 'I am the Resurrection and the Life...'"
Complainant: "Oh."

So eventually I recommended that she lay hands on the Book of Common Prayer, page 591 and following, and read it over to herself at the time of the funeral (which, of course, she was Not Attending...)

But I was led to think that there must be something else I could be saying/doing for people in this particular kind of pickle, other than "mmm hmmmm" in a neutral encouraging tone, and "I'm so sorry" ad infinitum. It just seemed a little lacking in prophetic authority, somehow.

With the prayerful encouragement of the Spiritual Direction folks... I challenged the daughter who WAS present, after the service (over the coffee and Timbits), and laid it on her about making peace with her sister, no matter how long it took or how futile it seemed.

She didn't reject the idea out of hand.

We shall see. Or not.

in which the Rambler takes in a concert

Herself

On Sunday night #1 Son Unit and I were guests of generous parishioners who had 2 extra tickets to hear Joan Baez in Prairie Metropolis's super state-of-the-acoustic-art concert hall.

We snatched an early light supper at a nearby pub and met them in the lobby -- in the process, greeting about half the membership of Most Holy & Undivided...

And it was lovely. We should all have such pipes at her age, or at any age. And she sang the Good Old Stuff. And Good New Stuff (hello there, Steve Earle!). And bantered with her band. And read excellent poetry about old women in the "Low-Low Impact Aerobics Class." And impersonated Bob Dylan. And told jokes intelligible only to "people in the prime of life" -- e.g., about standing next to the big black and white dog, singing into the morning-glory horn...

Question of the evening: why is it that I can feel so much more left-wing-militant in the dark, in a crowd, with musical accompaniment, than I can by daylight, solo, "a cappella"? I asked myself, on the third chorus of "Joe Hill..."

It was exhilarating.

Give a listen to Steve Earle's "God is God," 'kay? Four stars.

RIGHT TURNS ONLY

(Not actually Most Holy And Undivided)


And yesterday we processed...through the Great Litany and Supplication in Morning Prayer according to the BCP...all around and about the church, indoors -- and if your processions go the other way around, well, that's the Coriolis effect for you.

Would anyone care to explain the mentality of crucifers, that when there is a very long hymn or chant to cover their displacement from point A to point B (or back to point A, as the case may be), they gallop like Seabiscuit? And when there are a bare four short-meter verses to get them over the distance, they go all languour and slo-mo?

Just askin'.