I came home to wilt. One sad basil plant, suffering on my all-too-sunny kitchen counter. It looked exhausted. And rather pathetic. I mentally added basil to my shopping list as I equally pathetically showered the shrivelled remains under the tap. I confess I did it with no hope at all.
Just because there are animals in a story doesn’t mean it’s a great story for kids. We tell some pretty horrific stories to children. I am not the first one to point out that most of the Bible stories we tell to children are not meant to be children’s stories. But mostly we do, I think, because of the animals. Kids like animals so we roll out the stories, two by two. (Althought, strangely, Elisha and the bears seldom makes it to Sunday School…)
We are still about a month and a half away from moving, but already the kitchen in beginning to feel different. We’re beginning to think in terms of using up rather than storing away. How are we going to get through that bag of lentils?
I put my parents on the plane this week. Which, I’m sure they will understand, was both very difficult and a relief. Blue helped at the airport by running around madly to distract me when needed, and waving enormously when it was time to say goodbye.
On Saturday, we went to Canterbury. Redy to wenden on pilgrimage and all that. But we went by train. The Spouse and I, Beangirl and Blue and my own aged parents.
“The Rat brought the boat alongside the bank, tied it up, helped awkward Mole safely ashore, and swung out the picnic basket. The Mole begged to be allowed to unpack it all by himself. He took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents, gasping ‘Oh my! Oh my!’ at each fresh surprise.”
Kenneth Grahame, the Wind in the Willows
Lucy Moore started what she called Messy Church near Portsmouth, England in 2004. It’s a great idea – gather a group of parents, kids and everyone else who wants to come along for some good old fashioned hands-on crafts, cooking, and worship.
We ate cake at church this Sunday. I think many churches did; it’s always nice to celebrate birthdays with cake, and this Sunday was Pentecost after all. But at my church, we also celebrated our saint’s day. So, as good Presbyterians, we baked and thought about history.
“Take a look around. The gender inequality that you see is in your mind. So are the cultural beliefs about gender.” Cordelia Fine
When Cordelia Fine’s book Delusions of Gender: The Real Science behind Sex Differences came out last fall, there was a lot of media flutter. And so there should have been. Fine’s is a necessary book.
I am sure that you have heard about the Toronto family that is keeping the sex of their 4-month baby a secret. It seems that the story is popping up everywhere. And people are taking sides.
I had a beautiful moment this past week. I was talking with a family about an upcoming funeral, through ideas for hymns, scripture readings and the rest. Their elderly mother had died, and the three adult offspring and I were working together to compile a service that reflected her faith. One of them mentioned that their mother used to recite scripture with them at bedtime, and together they started to remember it aloud.
Last week, I mentioned Stephen Cherry’s book Barefoot Disciple, and I want to share a bit more about it this week. The book itself came into my hands quite serendipitously. I had read a blurb about it while preparing my Lenten reading list, and at that stage, had entered in on my Goodreads account as a book I wanted to read. Then, of course, I forgot about it.
Twice recently I’ve flubbed the question. On two separate occasions, interested, intelligent and childless friends have asked me how I fill my time with a two year old. As if it might be difficult. Or, perhaps more to the point, boring.
As the Record’s London correspondent, I suppose it would be remiss to ignore the royal wedding. It would also be a little tricky, given the household were I spent my time.
I am writing this late on Saturday night, after a long day. It’s been a day of preparation, and lots of it. Up early to get some dough made, then kids to breakfast, and off grocery shopping early, hoping to avoid the crowds. Not too many bumps along the way, not too much extraneous chocolate in the shopping basket. All well.
Yesterday at church, we were celebrating together. The service started with palms, of course. The children gathered in the Session Room before the service, and I equipped them with the greenery.
I saw you on the Tube today with all those suitcases. You looked tired. I think you just got here – you had that look. I remember it from my own face, too. Maybe you didn’t sleep on the plane; maybe you are just overwhelmed by all the noise, all the faces. I smiled a bit when our eyes met, but I think I just made you feel awkward and a bit defensive, so I looked back to my book.
I didn’t go to work that one day last week so I wasn’t on the train that afternoon. I would have been there, sitting and waiting, but I had decided to work from home instead. But when I got to the station the next morning, I saw the signs.
My table has been messy with baking this afternoon. They say that Lenten Sundays are feast days, and so I obliged. Though it’s not just Lent that got me feasting. It’s really Purim.
It is proving to be a difficult Lent. The news is so full of upheaval and suffering. Devastation. Desolation. World events before which we fall silent.
We want to respond, despite our distance, but we don’t know what to do. We don’t even know how to grasp all this suffering. Our imaginations seem poor. But we want to respond.