Church Music

I first saved this post in April, and I think about it periodically but haven't found the motivation to type it all out until today when two tracks converged. First Mrs Darwin mentioned on Facebook the abysmal songcraft of modern hymns which is made evident when the instrumental accompaniment is stripped away. Second, the resident 2yo is running a mystery fever. She is sick enough to catnap, but not sleep deeply enough for me to move away and do something else. So here I sit. I may as well tell you about the church music.

I mentioned a time or two a few years ago my general displeasure with the music selection at church, and my lingering guilt about not participating except from the pews. In the interim, the situation declined from there. Our regular cantor left the parish. All of our piano players left. No one from the congregation stepped up to fill the void. We were left with a capella hippie songs, one decent guitar player who alternated with one terrible guitar player, a choir who couldn't sing their way out of bucket, and an occasional beginner piano player who plunked out a bunch of fail. It was a very sad state of affairs. Notably, it was also all volunteer. Nobody was paid for anything.

Up until about a year ago, my parish priest was a believing elderly man who was a good confessor, but honestly did not give a second thought to the niceties of liturgy. He did his best and didn't worry about the rest of it. His best included singing loudly, off key and out of rhythm, into his mike. It was all part of his charm, bless him. The fact that the music program was in shambles didn't phase him much. He figured if the Lord wanted a nice choir, someone would eventually show up to make it happen. He had faith, if nothing else.

However a year ago that priest retired, and the new pastor appointed in his place had a very different life history. He had been married and had a kid and got divorced and annulled and pursued a late in life vocation. But primarily of interest to the audience here is that his prior education is in music and he spent twenty years teaching it.

When he arrived, I wasn't sure how he would address the music situation but felt sure he would do something. At first nothing changed at all. The weekly disaster unfolded without comment. But when the Sanctus was so thoroughly mangled during the Christmas Vigil Mass that Father decided to repeat it verbally to make sure it was said, I knew it wouldn't be long until he acted.

By the end of January, he made his move. He hired a singer/pianist who had previously been a member of the parish years ago, but left for greener musical pastures at the parish in the next town. The music situation immediately improved. The choir stopped falling apart. They finally had a leader who could teach them how to sing the melody, follow the piano prompts, actually play the piano. The change was so stark, it became hard to remember how poor the prior offering were within a handful of weeks. The choir is actually good.

Since this new pianst was hired, the number of people attending Mass exploded. It's hard to miss the correlation. At the beginning of the year, it was the same group it had always been, but by Ash Wednesday, there were hundreds of more people attending. The only thing that significantly changed in that stretch of weeks was the music. The Ash Wednesday Mass was one of the most incredible events I have ever witnessed. Hundreds and hundreds of people present, standing room only, even all the way back to the far side of the Narthex. There were so many people, I was worried about the Fire Marshal showing up. There were an amazing number of people. And this increased attendance continued through the summer and now into the fall. This is all an unalloyed good.

Because this is good, I feel like a heel for my following complaint.

Yall. It's all Jesus Is My Boyfriend music.

The person who was hired is a name in the Catholic music scene. He's published in OCP. He plays concerts with the current Catholic pop stars. He programs a variety of his own music along with the current hits. He is a very nice guy. He loves syncopation. We emote. A lot. So many feelz. The Agnus Dei is now permanently the Matt Maher call and response version.

I haven't been Gathered In in months, for which I am incredibly grateful, but I admit I am disappointed in the direction the music has taken. On a positive note, they have also added both the entrance and communion antiphons, which I have never, ever heard regularly in a Mass. The cantor sings them solo before launching into the scheduled song. I appreciate that effort.

Even though I am disappointed, I can't be upset about this musical direction. I wish we had more traditional music or even some chant, but I cannot compare some version of perfection in my head to our current reality. I have to compare what was and what is. What was was incredibly bad. What is is just not to my taste. There is a world of difference in that distinction. While I can argue about what "should" be, I first have to accept what's possible and who is available. It was very apparent nobody with my vision of church music was going to appear and implement such a program. It so happens within our parish boundary is a gifted musician with publishing credits, and he is willing to serve us every weekend. He is good at what he does. This is very good for our parish.

But sigh, P&W is not my thing.

The Church Budget

Once again, I will gingerly touch a third rail in Catholic life: money and the Church.

My 15 minute timer is running so I can't promise complete coherence, just a few things on my mind surrounding church budgets, what is prioritized, and what is not.

Back in the fall, I had a rumbling of a complaint, but never quite put it to words. The parish had just finished its annual Sunday School registrations--yall, I'm in the South and I'm gonna call it Sunday School. The fee associated with registration was $30 a child. I understand this is rather cheap as far as Catholic CCD classes go. With four kids eligible, our total was $120, which frankly I did not have on hand in August so I registered my children and sent them to class and paid my fee later in the fall when the checking account looked happier. And to be certain, no one gave me any guff about it. Nobody once asked why I hadn't paid any money yet and the kids' registration was not contingent on paying the money.

As I said, registration had just finished, and at about the same time, the Men's Club of the parish started a fundraiser. It was a reverse raffle. For $50 a ticket, you had the opportunity to win up to $3000? $5000?--I can't quite remember now. a chunk of money--and every fourth ticket won something. Prizes ranged from $10 on up.

We had to decide whether to buy a raffle ticket. Well, no. We still had $120 outstanding in Sunday School Fees. Something clicked, and rankled, in my mind. Parents are given the opportunity to give more money to the church and in return get to send their kids to class, which is somewhat required. Non-parents are given the opportunity to give more money to the church and in return get a chance to win a pile of cash. The discrepancy was glaring once I saw it. I am not saying the money for classes isn't worth it or that I resent paying for my kids to go to Sunday School or that they should fundraise anything like that. I am only noticing the difference in monetary expectations.

I live in a majority Protestant area. By majority Protestant, I mean the number of Catholics in this area has probably doubled in the last ten years and we now make up nearly 4% of the population. 4%!! Man, you run into Catholics everywhere now. Given this density, you get a pretty good idea how differently church budgets are treated in Catholic and Protestant churches.

So in most Protestant churches around here, Sunday School is free. It's just part of the church budget. Vacation Bible School is free. Retreats are free. The expenses are carried by the entire church instead of cordoned off to be borne by parents.

What brought this back to the forefront of the mind now is that Grace went on a large diocesan retreat this past weekend. While registering her for it, I discovered the diocese charges $60 a kid for this retreat. $60?! Really? And that didn't include an extra $15 for the retreat T-shirt. Our parish picked up half the cost so this retreat cost me $30 out of pocket, not including the T-shirt.** They did provide three fast-foody kind of meals, so $15 in food, $45 for retreat, maybe?

And again, I'm not really complaining about paying for Grace's retreat, but I do notice what (and who) gets charged. Why does the diocese think it's okay to charge $60 a head for a retreat aimed at teenagers? It feels incongruent that a pro-life/pro-family religion sticks it to parents financially. I know that you can ask and get charitable waivers, but friends, it gets old continually having to tell people you don't have the money. Why isn't the expectation that you give what you can to the church and the church covers the expense for all the kids, whether the child's family is rich or poor. No awkward, 'hey, I'm actually poor' conversation required. I don't really understand why it's unreasonable to expect a diocese to look after its own people instead forever nickel and diming parents, who are expected to give charitably and then pay fees on top of that, without a whiff of a raffle drawing in return.


** When I registered Grace, I asked if she wanted a T-shirt. She said no. I breathed a sigh of relief because this has been a stupid expensive run of weeks and keeping an extra $15 in my pocket would not hurt my feelings at all. After the first night, she said everyone had T-shirts. I internally sighed and gamely asked if she wanted a T-shirt now that she saw everyone else had T-shirts. She said no, because $15 is too much money to spend on a shirt she knows she will only wear over this one weekend. Right? Yay! But it also grates the conversation even had to be had.

***

I totally blew through my 15 minutes, but I have a sleeping baby on my lap so I couldn't go anywhere anyway. This is more like 45 minutes. Eek.

The Math Book

See that I am posting two days in a row. I am as shocked as you are, but this is too weird, creepy, providential not to share.

Back in the spring, the plan I made for Sam's 2nd grade math curriculum was to complete the Saxon 1st grade book and then skip ahead to the Saxon 3rd grade book, since I had been assured the 2nd grade book was essentially a repeat of 1st grade material. I own the Saxon 3 teacher book, picked up at a used curriculum sale three years ago, and do not own the Saxon 2 book so this plan was very convenient for my finances.

All summer I had the nagging thought that I needed to locate the math book, but I wasn't terribly concerned about it. I knew I owned it. I also knew there were limited places it could be in the house. I have kept the homeschooling materials fairly contained. I thought the task of finding the book would be simple and quickly completed so I procrastinated.

On Friday, Sam and I completed Saxon 1 so the day for finding the book could not be put off any longer. We were scheduled to start Saxon 3 on Monday.

About midday on Saturday, I went upstairs to where I am almost 100% sure the book resides. The book is not there. Huh. Well, I must have put it in one of the great piles of books I created over the summer. It's not there either. Hmmm. Maybe it's just been buried under papers in the downstairs bookcase. No. Did I find it already, forget I had found it, and it's already sitting in the holding spot for this year's materials? No. Is it buried on the bench upstairs? No. Is it in my room in the corner of used school stuff? I don't have time today to dig it out and look. I'll have to try that spot tomorrow.

Where on earth did I put this book? All afternoon I would think of another place it might be, go check, and come up empty.

Finally as I was getting ready for bed, I had the flashing thought that maybe I had let someone borrow the book. I don't remember giving it to anyone. It was as close to a false memory as a memory can be, but what the heck. The thing is that the last time I definitively remember seeing this book was right before I got pregnant with Ella. I have lost a lot of memory cells since then.

There are a limited number of people I could have possibly lent the book so it wouldn't hurt to ask around. Because I wasn't sure if I was making it all up in my head out of desperation to explain how I lost a giant spiral-bound book, I was hesitant to reach out. I decided to swallow my pride, and approaching midnight, I sent out a text to five or six people asking if they had any idea about my math book. Then I turned off my phone.

This morning when I turned my phone back on, I had a cascade of negative answers waiting on me. No one knew anything about my math book. I didn't really think so since I didn't really remember handing it out. I'll have to dig out that corner in my room after all.

Here is where it gets weird.

We went to Mass. Afterwards H, the woman who manages the homeschool lending library at our parish and was one of the recipients of my desperation text, approaches me and says K, a woman from a different parish, had dropped off a few of hodgepodge books to donate to the lending library this week. Coincidentally, one of the books in the box is exactly the Saxon 3 teacher guide I am searching for. H says that since the homeschool library already has a copy of the book and these new donations have not yet been entered into the library database, she is just going to give me this book. If ever my book turns up, I can donate the extra copy then.

What is the likelihood the exact book I am looking for is donated the very weekend I need it? As I am contemplating this profound coincidence, H goes to get the book for me. I am blown away.

But Wait! There's more!

She arrives with the book. Again I am amazed this book should happen to surface at the moment I need it. I take the book and begin to flip through the book as one does.

And there, on the first page I open, is my own handwriting staring back at me. There is my hastily drawn, messy numbers in purple colored pencil. This is my MO.

What?! How?!

I take this book to my sister, who is unaware of the subdrama. "Does this look like my handwriting?" "Yes." "I THINK SO TOO!!"

I flip some more and find more evidence of my own handwriting.

Reader, this *IS* my book. The front cover is even creased in the same spot.

How did K get it? It's so improbable she borrowed it from me because she is a homeschooling veteran with many years of experience under her belt. She was homeschooling Saxon math before my kids were in school. Yet she had it and just so happened to decide to donate it the very week I needed it. And H just happened to be included in a text I almost didn't send and decide to give me the book.

I. I...don't really know what to say about this. I am astounded.





N.B. I should probably put my name in my books. Lesson learned.

Poverty Vows?

I should start this post with all the disclaimers.

First and mostly importantly, this is more an uninformed wondering than any opinion based on solidly researched facts. I don't have a dog in this fight.

What am I talking about, you ask? Catholic Schools. I should probably save this post for Catholic Schools Week, but I don't have the first clue when that might be nor do I care.

I live an hour away from the closest Catholic school and I am never going to travel two hours daily to bring my kids to school, even if it were free. It's just not worth it for us. But I do wonder why the schools cost what they do.

The other day, in a thread, someone made reference to an old controversy involving the Nashville Dominicans. I didn't care much about the old issue, but it did prompt me to think about something about the Sisters that bothers me. More disclaimers: I love the Sisters. They are great to visit and do great work and I am proud that my hometown is so closely associated with them. End disclaimer

I have always heard the major problem with the cost of Catholic schools is that the ideal of educating every Catholic child hangs on the assumption that the teachers have vowed poverty and don't really have to be paid. This sounds like a reasonable supposition. And yet. And yet...

So the closest Catholic school to me is a diocesan school--50 minutes in traffic free driving. Most of the teachers are lay people. There might be a few religious on the staff. (Or more than a few? I don't know.) I don't know how much the diocese or the attached parish contributes to the upkeep of the school but I can tell you the tuition is $6410 a year per child. I assume this doesn't include books or uniforms or various fees. I could send all my currently school-aged children (that's three of them) to this Catholic school for $16317 a year because of a multi-child discount. That's a crazy amount of money. Most families can't begin to swing that kind of outlay.

Now let's compare that to the elementary school run and staffed by the Nashville Dominicans. Again, I don't know how this school is supported aside from the tuition, which commands $13690 a year per child. Again I assume this doesn't include books or uniforms or various fees. I do know the properties on which the schools sit are old. They also offer a multi-child discount so I could send my children to the Dominican school for the bargain basement price of $37650 a year. This is utterly insane.

Why does it cost so much?

I do know that both schools offer financial assistance. They all say that if you want your child in the schools, they will work to make it happen. I have also heard through the grapevine that in order to qualify, you have to send every single disposable dollar to the school. Rice, beans, and Catholic school. I don't know if this is true or not, but it is the general impression I have gotten from people who have gone through the process.

Since we are on the topic of the grapevine, it is also the general impression that the Motherhouse demands a premium salary for sending teachers to a school. Once more I'll say I don't know the facts, but people say it is in the neighborhood of 60K per year per teacher. That's a might fine salary for one who has taken a vow of poverty.

So I don't know how the economics of Catholic schools can possibly work. The diocesan schools charge more than most families can afford while the lay teachers live in actual poverty. The Sisters, who have taken poverty vows, charge an eye-popping amount more for their services.  How is this sustainable?

Catholic Fail

Last Friday, I hauled myself and all the children downtown to an ordination at the Cathedral. One of the ordinands had been assigned as a temporary deacon at our parish last summer so I thought it would be a good experience for the children. I have zero pictures of this event.

After the (very long) Mass, I gathered my crew into the social hall for the reception with food. Trying to feed four children and myself, all by myself, in a crowded room with long lines for food after they have spent the better part of three hours at Mass was an adventure all unto itself. And lo, we all survived.

After not too long, the newly ordained priests emerged and two stations were set up for them to offer their first blessings. The lines got long very quickly. Seeing as I had never had a first blessing before, even though I have been to several ordinations, I decided to take my place in line, in spite of the fact that Marian was lapping the reception room.

At last I make it to the front of the line.

The new Father then asks me, "Who's your patron saint?"

Me, "Um?"

Father, "Well then who was your confirmation saint?"

Me, "So, when I was confirmed, they discouraged us from taking saint names sooooo."

Father, "So which saint do you have a particular devotion to?"

Me, blankly, "Weeeellll?"

Assistant Guy, gamely holding the blessing book watching this little debacle unfold, "How about St. Gerard, the patron of expectant mothers?"

Me, with my giant belly that regularly wins me inquiries about twins, "That sounds like a good idea because I am definitely there."

Father, "St Gerard, it is."

"May, through the imposition of my priestly hands...."

Then I kissed his hands. I've never done that before either.

The Gospel According to Lice

Today's Gospel was particularly apt for this week of dealing with lice.

Even all the hairs on your head are counted.
                                             Matthew 10:30

Yes, children, this is true. And I have seen every one of those hairs this week.

Sins of Omission

Indulge me a little in a little bit of vague blogging. It is not outside the realm of possibility that the people I reference might read this and, still, they have their own sides, and all I can tell you is how I see things. You all know all of this.

How do you forgive sins of omission? How do you forgive sins of omission when you are the one being omitted against, not out of malice but because your need is apparently invisible to them. And it isn't invisible because you haven't told or shown them, but because they do not hear or see.

What does it mean to forgive when the need is ongoing and every struggle with it is intertwined with the knowledge that people you thought would help you through it are choosing not to. Again not out of malice, but for some other unknown reason: busyness, scheduling, lack of urgency, misunderstanding.

Can you call it forgiveness when you can't tell the difference between sorrow at what should be and expectant rage at what isn't?

I have been given the wise advice that the first step in forgiveness is to stop asking, stop expecting, and accept I have to find another way. The need still exists. I just need to find a way to fulfill it that is different than I thought it would be. I need to let them off the hook.

This is much easier said than done. I can stop asking. I can find another way, I hope. I don't know if I can stop being shocked at my apparent invisibility. It's hard not to take it personally. The resentment is hard to swallow. Once I find another way, is it really forgiveness or just the thorn being removed from my side? Is it enough to say I loved you enough to stop asking? How do you stop being angry? And then what?

As a ponder these questions, another thought bubbles up to the surface. Is there an obvious need in my purview of responsibilities that I refuse to see? I hope not. Let me have eyes to see and ears to hear.

Fasting While Short

A few weeks ago, Bearing wrote a post about the glories of trying to lose weight when short of stature and already calorie restricted because of that fact. There are other special decisions to be made for people who must eat while short.

Ash Wednesday and Good Friday are days that are hard for short people to figure out. The official fasting guidelines from the USCCB say:

Fasting on these days means we can have only one full, meatless meal.  Some food can be taken at the other regular meal times if necessary, but combined they should be less than a full meal.  Liquids are allowed at any time, but no solid food should be consumed between meals.

That seems pretty straight forward, yet for me, it's not. I am all of five feet, one and three quarter inches tall. My regular eating meals look snacklike to most people. How do you turn a snack into a smaller snack? I'm not really sure.

My regular breakfast is a cup of yogurt with coffee. My fasting breakfast this morning was one egg with coffee. Is that a snack? I don't know how to eat less and still eat something.

My regular lunch these days has been eating stray pieces of lunch meat and cheese with stolen handfuls of goldfish, pretzels, and peanuts. My fasting lunch today was a quarter of a grilled cheese sandwich with water.

This meal is definitely snacklike compared with my regular lunches, but if you combine the grilled cheese with the egg, it is likely more food than the regular cup of yogurt I normally eat for breakfast. Does that break the fast since combined the snack is more than one meal? Who knows. I am hungrier today than usual. Is that a good metric?

I do know that it is difficult to make small meals even smaller and still consume food. I figure I can just put in a good faith effort and not sweat the details about guidelines that were likely written for different people in mind. You know, people who eat adult portions. 

Psalm 116 Redux

I resigned from my job today. You all know how long this has been in the works and the day has finally arrived. This morning, after arriving at work, I opened my Magnificat magazine to today's morning prayer and there, staring at me on the page, was Psalm 116. I am gobsmacked.

Connections

I am not one to see the hand of God in everything I do which probably says more about me than the actual hand of God. I try not to see signs everywhere. If there is one genre of prayer that bothers me, it is the "Then I prayed and it all worked out" variety. I struggle and fail a lot with no clear understanding whether it is working out or not, but sometimes even I get a series of small reminders that seem a little too coincidental to be written off as random.

Back in the winter, I pulled St. Margaret Mary Alacoque as my patron for the year. She was the promoter of the Sacred Heart of Jesus devotion. In addition to promoting the Sacred Heart, she is also the patron of dying parents which is a little unnerving. I didn't know much about her or the devotion. My exploration of it hasn't been thorough. My time to read printed books is extremely limited. I read a few blogposts and thought about the concept of having a heart of flesh. I did look forward to celebrating the solemnity this year by paying special attention to the Offices of the day, but, as luck would have it, my Magnificat magazine was lost under a couch cushion for that entire week and I missed it all together. I figure I will try again next year. Thus far, the only thing I have really done is keep the idea of the Sacred Heart towards the forefront of my thoughts and notice when I see something related to it. I also added St. Margaret to my own small litany, but I call her St. Margaret of the Sacred Heart because I figure we all know who I am talking about and I don't know how to say Alacoque.

On the day my grandmother died, I sat down at work and opened my Magnificat magazine to the 18th and prayed morning prayer. In the intercessions, there was a prayer offered for the aging. Whenever any of those types of prayers come up, I always add a special intention for my grandmother. On her last morning on earth, I was prompted to offer a special intention for her. I didn't realize it until days later when I opened the magazine again to turn the pages to the appropriate day and remembered that I had in fact prayed specifically for her that morning.

In my work email, I subscribe to a daily update which offers a line or two of scripture and a related thought, usually but not always from a saint, in order to get the day off on the right foot. On the morning of the 18th, the thought for the day was:

The heart of Jesus is an abyss of love to meet our every need. -St. Margaret Mary Alacoque

I immediately thought to myself, "Hey, that's my saint for the year!" and didn't give it much more notice. There was work to do. Later in the day, I got the bad news.

After my grandmother's funeral, we went to her Baptist church for lunch. When I walked into the fellowship hall, my eyes were immediately drawn to a small freestanding cross at the side of the room. As I approached it, I incredulously saw that it had the Sacred Heart on it. There are two things that I can promise you about this cross in this location. First, the people there have no idea what the Sacred Heart is. It is possible that they have heard the words together as a phrase, but the likelihood of them being able to identify the image is quite small. Second, if they did know what it was, it absolutely would not be at that church. But there it was, waiting on me.

I brought several of my (Catholic) family members to it without prompting, and they all immediately identified it as the Sacred Heart so it wasn't just me stretching my imagination. We all had a good giggle over it.

I didn't put any of this together as possibly being connected until I was back at work this week. All of a sudden I realized that on the morning my grandmother died, I was prompted to pray for her and read a seemingly random thought from the patron of dying parents. Then in the most unlikely spot I could have imagined, there was another reminder from this same patron in the form of a stylized cross. And the nearest Catholic church to my grandmother's house? Sacred Heart.

Maybe God is watching out for me after all.

Scene from a Baptist Church

My grandmother died last week at age 91. It was surprising but not shocking. She had an aneurysm in her chest for years (a decade? more?) that she chose not to have treated. She knew that one day it would break and that day was last Thursday.

She was a strong, Southern Baptist lady so I have attended many more Baptist services than your standard-issue cradle Catholic. In fact every time we went to visit Grandma, I had to go to Sunday School with her and then afterwards sit in the long pew with the entire family where we were introduced over and over and over. Since I always went to church with Grandma when visiting, it never really occurred to me to expect Catholic things at her Baptist church. It was just different and that was the way it was. The only thing that really confused me is that I was expected to sit and behave without amusement at Mass and people would always hand me paper and pen to draw with at the Baptist church. "Am I supposed to color? Will I get in trouble for coloring at church? I thought I was supposed to pay attention?"

After my grandmother's funeral, her church hosted a dinner for us. We ate copious amounts of food containing corn in the fellowship hall. The children were getting antsy so I decided to walk them through the old hallways and show them the sanctuary. We walked into the old familiar place and the children started quietly exploring. 

After being brought up to the exciting balcony, they walked through the pews and a child asked, "Do they just stand up and sit down?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do they just stand up and sit down? Where do they kneel?"

"They don't kneel."

"There isn't a kneeler here."

"That's because they don't kneel."

"There isn't room to kneel on the floor."

"I know. They don't kneel."

"If they want to kneel, they have to come out into the aisle."

"They don't kneel in the aisles. They don't kneel at all. Look across. Do you see that spot underneath the cross above the choir area? That is the baptismal font. That is where they baptize people."

"How do they get up there?"

"There are stairs in the back that you can't see."

"How do they dip their fingers in the holy water when they come in?"

"They don't."

Blinking stares of incomprehension.

Passwords and Desires

My password expired the day I gave birth.

For as long as I had worked for my institution, they had never had a policy that required us to change our passwords. I developed a very strong password and had been using it for over six years. Maybe it was time for it to be changed? I had no intentions. In the spring of 2013, my employer decided to implement an annual requirement to change our passwords and began assigning password expiration dates. I was randomly given June 4th as a deadline. If I did not change my password on or before that date, all of my accounts would be locked and I would have to approach IT shamefaced and jump through all their hoops.

The announcement of the password change requirement came during those hazy and unambitious days of the third trimester. While I kept meaning to change it, I never quite got around to it. Nothing I imagined measured up to my awesome current password and I had a hard time focusing on developing a new one. Then I went on maternity leave. Surely I would manage to change it before it expired. I woke up on the morning of June 4th with labor imminently upon me. I could change my password later in the afternoon after the baby was born. I didn't.

The day after I gave birth, I waddled up the stairs and logged into the IT system hoping I wouldn't have to make a phone call and explain why I had not yet changed my password. As I created my new password, I muttered a prayer that I might never have to change my password again. I petitioned that I might quit work before it expired the next year. Thankfully, the system accepted my update and I had no phone call of shame to make, but I had a point on the calendar which would mark the passage of time.

***

My password expires again tomorrow. This Friday will be the second time it has expired since I prayed to be spared from changing it again. Since Lent I have slowly, (slowly) been reading through the Introduction to the Devout Life. In it is a chapter on Desires. Bearing wrote about this chapter a few years ago.

There are two quotes that stand out to me as being relevant in my life.

Do not desire what is far away or cannot happen for a long time, as many do, who merely tire and distract their hearts to no purpose and lay up a store of trouble. (4.37)

and

This does not mean that you should relinquish any of your good desires, but merely that you should put them into practice in due order, locking them away in some corner of your heart while you give your attention to those which can be made to bear fruit in the present moment. This applies both to spiritual things and to worldly things. To act otherwise is to live in a constant state of restlessness and anxiety. (4.37)

I feel like my life of the past three or four years has been lived in tension between these two ideas: Desiring what felt close, but was actually far, and locking away a corner of my heart while waiting for that due order to come.

I am very aware of my state of restlessness and anxiety. When opportunities arise that make leaving my job seem imminent, I grasp at that hope, desiring what turns out to be far away and laying up trouble for myself. When everything is in its normal routine, that corner of my heart is locked away because there is nothing to be done at the moment. The struggle is to attempt to bear fruit in the interim instead of throwing up my hands while I wait for my real life to begin.

Was it foolish to utter such a prayer in my hormonal state? Probably. Was I testing God? Maybe. Is there some irrational portion of my heart that still holds these dates in significance? Yes.

As we inch ever closer to the goal, I still cannot clearly see the finish line. I am still grasping at desires that are far away. Even if my time left can be measured in weeks and months instead of month and years, I know they are far away because they cannot be realized today. My duty is to accept my life as it is offered today, do my best, wait, and rest patiently, knowing that the balance is not up to me. I must be pruned in order to bear fruit now instead of one fine day when my desires are made into reality.

Suffer the Little Children

There is always some low-level controversy simmering about the presence of young children at church. Some people think the children should be left at home until they are old enough to properly behave. Others let their kids run the aisles. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle.

Our policy has always been to bring the kids to church. If I'm there, they are there unless there is an illness. We expect them to behave appropriately for their age, and if one who is too young to understand starts bothering the people around us or being too loud, out into the lobby we go.

Since Marian is getting a bit older--she is about 23m old--I haven't had to spend as much time out of church as I have in the past. Part of the reason is because she is quieter than she used to be. Part of it is because I probably let her get by with a little bit more because I know she is likely to settle back down. Even though she is young, she is learning the rhythms of church.

This past Sunday, Grace and I were both astonished when, at the Confiteor, Marian began, "I confess..." and at the appropriate moment, struck her breast saying, "my fault, my fault, my fault." Grace and I looked at each other and marveled at her awareness. Marian grinned.

Now I am not under the delusion that Marian is having a deep religious experience where she understands what she is doing. No. She listens and watches and mimics as toddlers do. She says and does these things because she sees others doing them. And yet I cannot help but feel that she is also marinating in the rich environment that Mass offers. She hears the words and sees the actions and learns, incrementally, the faith. She does get something out of Mass. It isn't pointless for her to attend.

We still have a ways to go before all the children can reliably behave in church and truly understand what we participate in, but it is nice to get a little sign that maybe we are on the right path.

And just so you don't think I have a preternaturally, well-behaved child who is all holy and pious, her religious mood passed and she decided poking at the eight year old boy in front of us was great fun. The boy was less than amused. By the middle of the homily, I scooped Marian up and retreated to our regular spot where she promptly knocked over all the architectural drawings for the new building which are set out on easels for examination. Knocking over giant pictures is also great fun.
  

Eager to Begin

This morning as I was driving into work, praying my morning offering, letting my thoughts wander as they often do because of the length of the drive and the demands of paying attention to the road, I had a thought coalesce in my mind.  For months I have told myself that I am being impatient while working these last few months, however many there may be. I have said I need to be more patient as I wait for the process to slowly turn its gears and I can finally walk away, but this morning I decided I am not being impatient, I am only eager to begin.

If I were being impatient I would have thrown my hands up long ago. I would have declared it impossible and allowed myself to sink into despair. Maybe I haven't been as impatient as I thought. I have patiently held this vision of how our lives could be for years. This patience has not always been cheerful or pain free, but it existed. The pinprick of hope that allowed me to see through disappointments and set backs and hold onto the vision in my mind. Is that a form of patience? I think it might be.

Ever since the real estate became a viable option, I have been filled with a peace that reassures me this is really happening. There have been some set backs and disappointments, but I have rarely peaked over the edge into that dark pit of despair where I used to teeter. I need to stop looking ahead with anxiety trying to figure out the timetable and just be pleased when the moment arrives. I wanted to be home in June because it is my favorite time of the year and that is not likely to happen, but in the long run, it is okay. There will, hopefully, be other Junes.

It is not wrong to anticipate or to be excited about life's possibilities. In a lot of ways I feel like I am getting a second chance that not everyone gets. I will soon get a chance to figure out how real life measures against the image in my mind. I will struggle and fail and succeed in an environment where I can do the most good and make the biggest difference and not just be a cog in the wheel, easily replace by another cog. Soon. I need to stop telling myself that this excitement is impatience.

And now, I am eager to begin. 

Music I Actually Like

Since I have been cranky about the church music, I thought I would make amends and tell you what I actually like to hear at church. Again this list will be pieces I really hear in my current parish. I am totally running down the index, so it will be in alphabetical order.

1. All Creatures of Our God and King
2. Alleluia! Sing to Jesus
3. Be Thou My Vision.
4. Crown Him with Many Crowns.
5. Faith of Our Fathers.
6. For All the Saints.
7. Go Make of All Disciples.
8. Hail, Holy Queen.
8. Holy, Holy, Holy. (the hymn not the Mass part)
9. On Jordan’s Bank.
10. Panis Angelicus.  <--- I can count how few times, but it did happen.
11. Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow.
12. The Church’s One Foundation.
13. The King of Love My Shepherd Is.
14. ’Tis Good, Lord, to Be Here.
15. What Wondrous Love Is This.
16.  We Walk by Faith.  <-- See, I am not totally immune.
17.  Ye Sons and Daughters.

There is one more that literally has two verses that you just sing over and over, but it is eluding me at the moment. I like that one too. If you have a guess, tell me.

But my very favorite of all time is Alleluia Chant Mode vi. I can't describe how happy it makes me to sing it. 

What are your favorites?

Songs That Make Me Weep...

...because I never want to hear them again. With apologies to those of you who like these songs. We can still be friends.  :)

In my agitation over the musical situation at my parish, I ran across this piece which offers the sage advice that if you can't sing the music you want to hear at your parish, you are not yet part of the solution. The first step is to teach yourself first. That's advice I can actually use and fit into my current life's schedule.

So in the meantime, here are church pieces that if I never hear them again, it might be too soon. I am only including songs heard at my current parish. There are more from my childhood parish, but I'd rather not be reminded.

1. On Eagle's Wings.  The melody starts on the tritone, the devil's own interval, for crying out loud.
2. Hosea.  Fresh from Mass this weekend
3. Gather Us In.  What is this song about?
4. City of God.  I can't help but think of Starship every time.
5. Lord of the Dance. This one horrifies me.
6. Here I Am, Lord.  The changing viewpoints where we totally put words in God's mouth.
7. Be Not Afraid.  I just don't like it.
8. All Are Welcome. Again, what is this song about?
9. Eye Has Not Seen.  Flashbacks from childhood.
10. Hail Mary, Gentle Woman.  It just goes on and on.
11. Let There Be Peace On Earth.  What are we, a bunch of hippies?
12. Sing A New Song Unto the Lord.  I just don't like it.
13. They Will Know We Are Christians.  Because we are the greatest ever.
14. One Bread, One Body.  Not because it is so terrible, but because it is so overused.
15. Mass of Creation. Also so, so overused.

That's my top 15. I am sure I have forgotten some. Tell me where I am wrong or add to it, if you like.

Music Ministry

A few weeks ago, I was part of a conversation where we discussed the "hymns" on which we would like to drop the ban hammer at church. Since I have been gathered in one too many times recently, I am struggling with what my status should be in regards to the music at Mass.

I grew up in a parish where I was absolutely appalled by the music. It was so bad and performed so poorly. I fell into the awful habit of snickering and smirking throughout Mass as we listened to warmed over hippy music on guitar sung by people who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. My mother and I had many arguments over the music. My mother would object to my ill-concealed disgust. As I once again rolled my eyes at the assault on my ears, she would remind me that we didn't come to Mass for the music. This is true enough as far as it goes. She was right that, in my youth and immaturity, I was letting a superficiality trump true worship at Mass. In fact that superficiality obliterated most of my connection to the Church for years. I was wrong.

But I was not wrong about the music. It was bad. And I was not wrong that it was an affront for it to be sung so poorly. In my ignorance, I had no idea while growing up that the Church had a long history of chant which had been suppressed. I also had no idea the liturgy has been so recently and drastically altered. The only information I knew was that Mass used to be in Latin and now it wasn't. I assumed that was the only thing that changed. The art music settings of the Mass confused me. How could we say our parts with all that music playing? Total cultural disconnect. Here is what I did know: 1) Traditional hymns existed. 2) We did not sing them at church.

My current parish does not have the same degree of musical problems as my childhood parish. There is a mix of traditional hymns along with the newer dreck. The regular cantor at our early Mass is a gifted singer even if she might sometimes get carried away with a blues/gospel bent. The piano player is also quite good even though his first Communion meditation was Eric Clapton's Tears In Heaven. Seriously. I wish I were kidding. But that was a one-off event. I am sure someone spoke to him about it. The rest of the choir does a decent job harmonizing--something that was completely absent in my childhood--and following the lead of the cantor.

These things are well and good. The problem with the music in my parish is the depth of involvement by the parishioners at large. Our parish claims over six hundred families, but if you add up all the people involved with the music across the four Sunday Masses offered, you probably have around ten people. Definitely fewer than twenty. I am aggravated by the apathy.

When the above mentioned cantor and piano player are absent, the choir struggles mightily. There is no back-up piano player. The back-up cantor, bless his heart, tries hard, but his voice is terribly unpleasant. I am not sure he actually reads music. I don't know it for certain, but it is my educated guess from watching him through the years. I admire his attempts, but it makes me wonder why someone who so obviously cannot sing volunteers to do it week after week. When he is cantoring, the selected hymns are sure to be dreck. I guess he likes it or is more comfortable with it. I don't know.

The choir regularly asks and sometimes begs for additional members to volunteer, but no one ever seems to step forward. Not even me.

Even though I am a trained musician, I am not a singer. I can carry a tune and read notes and rhythms well enough, but my voice is thin and does not carry. My range is limited where fourth line D is the highest note I would ever feel comfortable performing in public even after thoroughly warming up. I am not at all a piano player. I would be comfortable singing in the choir, but I have no desire to cantor. More than that though, I have no desire to sing dreck. I struggle enough to refrain from rolling my eyes when the hymn board announces numbers from a certain range in the hymnal. There are a couple of frequent choices where the forefront thought in my head is, "What, exactly, is this song about?" I exchange knowing glances with Dave.

I sometimes feel guilty about my lack of involvement. There are probably not that many people with music degrees sitting in congregation. Me. My sister. My husband. None of us are in the choir. But then I think of the practical realities of my involvement and just don't think it is my time right now. The choir area is right up front next to the altar. There is no discreet way slip away when necessary. You can't just stop the action to say, "Excuse me, Father, don't mind me, the baby needs to nurse." Or worse to have to run for the bathroom to throw up while pregnant. No, this is not reasonable. I would have to take long hiatuses. Not to mention the time requirement of the rehearsal schedule. It is not strenuous, just one night a week, but I already feel overwhelmed and stretched most of the time. I don't see adding another weekly item to my plate.

I suppose an on-again, off-again membership in the choir would have been more helpful, but the truth is that I am not interested in joining unless I can move the music itself in a positive direction. To steer the selections away from the awfulness and towards more traditional pieces, and maybe some, gasp, chant. But I know this isn't possible without a long term commitment, especially given my age in relation to those currently in the choir.

So then I get irritated with my fellow parishioners. Why does no one step up? Is it because it's bad and nobody wants to sing bad music? Is it because nobody really cares? How can that be? I bristle at feeling like it shouldn't be my responsibility. At some level, though, it is my responsibility.

For now, my general contribution is to sing louder when I hear the backup cantor struggling with a rhythm he obviously can't read off the sheet music in order to give the people around me some guidance. Selective cantoring from the pew, perhaps? I do think it helps a little bit. But true confession: I never sing the dreck.

So what do you think? Should I buck up and join the choir? And which songs would you ban if it were up to you?

The Difference a Year Makes

Since we are around the halfway point of Lent, I thought I would share some thoughts from my reading on Introduction to the Devout Life. Let me amend. Less about the actual content and more about me reading it.

From a practical point of view, all that free time I envisioned by forsaking the bedtime Facebook has only materialized in drips and drops. First, the children's bedtime keeps getting pushed back a few minutes later than it should be and then a few minutes more. Now why might that be happening? Ahem.

Then there is the long shower problem. I don't know how to take a short shower. I try and fail. I don't try and fail worse. I think the base of the problem is that I move slowly when cold and I'm cold when I'm wet. July is the only solution. Also: long curly hair.

Lastly there is Marian. I have heard tell of women who hold or nurse their babies and read. I've never had a baby that allowed such a thing. Anything I hold in my hands becomes the subject of a wrestling match. If she is put in her crib while I read, she objects. If I hold her, there is no reading.

So when all goes right and the bedtime doesn't get pushed back too far and I don't spend all night in the bathroom and Marian falls asleep while rocking with Dave, then I get a few minutes to read.

***

Since I started to read Introduction last year, the parts I have covered are not new to me, but the difference between me this year and me last year are striking. Last year, I was reading along and came to this bit:

Spend an hour every day, some time before the midday meal, in meditation, and the earlier the better, because your mind will then be less distracted, and fresh after a night's sleep; but do not spend more than an hour unless your spiritual director expressly tells you to do so. If possible, it is best to make your meditation in church, because neither your family nor anyone else is likely to prevent you from staying there for an hour, whereas if you are dependent on others you might not be able to promise yourself an uninterrupted hour at home. (2.1)

The despair I felt at this piece of advice can't really be described. An hour everyday? So, so impossible. "(B)ecause neither your family nor anyone else is likely to prevent you from staying there for an hour." You wanna bet? I cried behind my closed office door, trapped in my dark office which prevented me from doing an hour of anything much less go pray in a church.

I knew very well I didn't have an hour available to me since I had just completed a time study which showed me in black and white that I spent no more than fifteen minutes doing anything during the work week. I had solid evidence that my regular schedule was as constrained as I thought and my time off was as singlemindedly focused on beating back the chaos as I felt, failing to accomplish half of my intended goals.

Even as I continued on in the book that paragraph nagged at me. "Stop pretending," it whispered. "This book is for people who have a modicum over control their lives. It isn't intended for wage slaves like you."

It was also around this time that I first read Anne Kennedy's blog. The very first post I ever read was linked by Kyra on FB and promised to be about the travails of homeschooling. I clicked over because I am a sucker for that kind of thing. I happily read along, laughing at the humor, until I got to take seven:

seven 

Pray. Pray all the time. But don't pray scared. Don't not ask for patience because you think God will make your life more frustrating to "teach" you patience. Don't not ask for humility because you think God is waiting to humiliate you. You are already in frustration and humiliation for screaming and yelling and having a filthy house and not meeting your own expectations, let alone the state's or anyone else's. When you are a homeschooler and you pray, God gives you grace. People say this all the time but they never spell it out, which I find extremely frustrating. When you ask God for something, like, say, the ability not to yell at a particular child for a particular offense, and you throw yourself down on your face and beg him to have mercy, he will, when you're sitting in front of that child consider whether or not to yell, remove the desire from you, miraculously. Or, when you can't get the children to spell anything, not even their own names, and you throw yourself on his mercy, he will improve their spelling, or give you some insight into how to make it click. It's not just that he died and rose again, it's not just that his "grace is sufficient for you", is not just that you have to "lean on him". No. He will answer specific prayers for particular problems when you ask him. Because he loves you. He's not going to make it worse by "teaching" you into more suffering. Just ask, and he gives. That, I think, though sometimes I'm not sure, is what Grace means. That when you throw yourself down, God hears you and loves you, even for your children, even when you fail.

Sucker punch. I had to catch my breath and close the office door while I sobbed and railed in prayer. "It must be nice," I silently yelled, "to be a homeschooling mother and have that pipeline to God's ear. To be able to depend on answered prayers. Because I surely know whose prayers He doesn't answer!" I ranted and raged on. "I guess if you start out right, you have a fighting chance of being heard, but if you make a mistake and take the wrong road, there is no going back. Oh sure you can repent and realize your mistake and try to make it right, but to be made whole is entirely too much to ask. I guess that's a privilege reserved for homeschooling mothers. I just get to drag my millstone around forever." It poured a whole container of salt into an open and bleeding wound.

We were in the midst of the long parade of no from perspective employers.

Her follow-up post convinced me I wasn't insane for feeling the way I did:

But the Christian knows that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces strength and strength produces love or something, and we know that God brings suffering so that we will grow strong and lean on him. And sometimes, woe is me, when the Christian prays for humility or patience, God answers that prayer with a nice big dose of suffering so that the prayer is really truly answered. You end up humble and patient. And grateful for Jesus. But also not wanting any more of either of those things.

She won me over with that post and that's how I came to read Anne Kennedy.

A year ago, I was in a pretty dark place and when St. Francis suggested a general confession, I spun my wheels and then spun out. I didn't need much prompting to be sorry for everything I had ever done, but the light at the end of the tunnel of repentance looked mostly like an oncoming train. I was pretty sure I was being ignored at best and punished at worse.

As the year progressed, we never got that clear cut answer we were looking for. Every reasonable opportunity for standard employment evaporated one after another. We were forced to make different plans. Plans that played to Dave's strengths instead of relying on an employer to overlook an incomplete resume. We have been forced to assertively make happen what we want to happen instead of passively waiting. To demand the crumbs from the Master's table.

With these plans comes the enthusiasm of hope. Not just the intellectual acknowledgement that hope exists, but the *feeling* of hope. Hope which makes enduring the present possible with a sweet patience instead of soul-crushingly bitter.

These new plans also offer benefits which were not possible with a standard job. Dave gets to work in an area in which he has always had enthusiasm and gets to channel that enthusiasm into supporting our family. It is an everchanging type of career which helps satisfy the itch of his restlessness at sameness and desire to start new projects. He has the opportunity to continue working and managing the local farmers' market, which seemed like a lost dream if he had a regular job. The prospect of having enough income to be able to someday purchase land is real instead of the withered expectation from my dead-end career. He will be around the house, in and out, instead of gone miles away for eleven hours a day so my fear at being overwhelmed with all the duties of home is nearly gone, although I still need to learn how to use a kitchen knife. It seems that this new, scary, unforeseen plan might work better for our family than any job that had been possible.

We only have to wait for the structure to be strongly built before we can remove the safety net of my job. It takes time and patience. It isn't a hopeless wait, but a time of eager expectation, a time to make my own plans and dream about the future.

And as I wait, here at work I notice that it seems likely that my exit will closely coincide with the mothballing of the system I have worked in for over eight years. In my own fantasy, I would one day announce that they could take this job and shove it. I would gleefully leave them in the lurch and then they would see and understand how much of their work depends on me doing my work well. They would know that I mattered. Yet it doesn't look like it will work out that way. I will one day quietly slip away, the old server retired, and the person who is doing now what I will be doing then will resume his work from me and they will hardly notice my absence. They will not be left high and dry. And I am okay with that.

As this year has unfolded, it seems that maybe I wasn't being ignored or punished. Perhaps the wait had more to do with the circumstances of other people. Maybe Dave had to get to a place where he would walk the path we needed instead of accepting a stopgap measure in service to my desperation. Maybe my bosses didn't need the added stress of my quick and unexpected absence. Maybe this hasn't been about me at all. Hard to believe, I know.

So I come back around to Introduction to the Devout Life again and instead of finding condemnation in my lack of time, I find this sentiment instead:

True devotion never causes harm, but rather perfects everything we do; a devotion which conflicts with anyone's state of life is undoubtedly false. (1.4)

This wisdom was in the book last year, but I couldn't see it. And now as I read again that it is recommended that I pray for an hour in a church every morning, I quietly acknowledge this piece of advice does not apply to my state in life right now and I move on.

Mortification of the Flesh

On Monday, our area was hit with a significant ice storm and everyone was basically frozen in place until the roads thawed enough for travel. Some people still can't leave their homes. I spent the first three days of this week working from home. This is a perk that I have long craved and being able to do it for a few days has been a welcome reprieve. 

It also gave me a window into myself that wasn't quite so cheery. I have made a realization: I have terrible work habits. I will indulge in a little rationalization and say many of these habits are defense mechanisms. There are only so many tasks to complete in a month and once they are done, they are done. Working diligently straight-through might leave me with two solid weeks with nothing to do. While that might be fun every once in awhile, it is pretty harsh month in and month out. I have long recognized my behavior and why I do it. What I didn't expect was how hard is was to break out of that long established habit. I was surprised how a different work environment didn't really change how I approach my work.

I had extended time at home where the commute involved walking up the stairs. Oh, the things I would get done! Except I didn't. I continually fell back into the habit of working for a minute, clicking away, thinking about a problem while I scrolled through feeds, having conversations, working another few minutes, clicking away, et cetera, et cetera. All the time I should have had to accomplish housework evaporated as I acted as if I were sitting at my office computer with a butt-in-chair requirement.

I was frustrated with the kids making noise and Marian wanting attention because they were interrupting my workflow. This is accurate but not exactly true. They *were* interrupting my workflow but I was frustrated because of all the time I had wasted doing my normal routine. They spent plenty of time being quiet and letting me work and I used that time to amuse myself. When I would finally buckle down to accomplish a task, they would sometimes interrupt which made me cross, but it was my own stupid fault. I wasted the quiet and fumed at the noise. I wanted to adapt, to adjust to working at home, but I failed over and over.

Bearing is blogging with St. Francis de Sales over Lent. I find him so practical. I don't know if I will ever be holy, but I can take concrete steps in that direction and he is all about laying out baby steps.

In a reflection on mortification where St Francis says work can subdue the flesh as well as fasting, Bearing observes that many overthink fasting and become scrupulous about it. I can count myself among these. I am always worried about following the rules, being caught short, rationalizing why this particular infraction is okay, having a ready excuse for why I failed again. I can be very scrupulous about rules in general. I try to follow the very exact letter of the law and usually have an excuse for why I didn't.  Part of this is from my nature as a perfectionist. Part is from my upbringing. Overthinking and trying to earn every last bit is a thing with me. Almost nothing I do ever lives up to the expectation that has been created in my mind.

So while I obsessed a bit on whether or not a graham cracker broke the fast and whether or not nursing a 20 month old qualified for a fast exemption, I also wasted abundant time which could have been used diligently working instead of half-working, half-surfing. I lost the opportunity to serve my household for the glory of God and continued in my lazy office ways and yelled at my children in service to my frustration.

I have chafed at my working situation for awhile, wondering why exactly I am still here. Bearing says, "Laborers in other occupations may find it harder to see the channel by which their labor may be made useful to God's glory, but ... there is some good to be harnessed in even the smallest and most menial tasks, if we can only put our hearts in the right place." I think I can use these (hopefully) last few months of working to harness my will into working more diligently instead of haphazardly. To put my heart in the right place instead of worrying how work done now will affect my schedule next week. To choose to work straight through instead of stretching. I can't say I'll disappear from the Internet during the first half of every month because I won't. Instead I will make a more conscious effort to choose the work over the play when I feel the urge to waste time.  Of course succeeding at this task will mean unbridled Internet time at the end of the month. Talk to me then, won't you? Help make it worth my while.

This week that began with such high hopes of accomplishment does not have to be lost in vanities. While the laundry is still unfolded and unput away and there is still Vaseline on the girls' wall, toys everywhere, and paperwork to be sorted--all of which would have been grand to fix--I did gain an insight into the habits my working conditions have laid down in me.  Have exacerbated in me. I will mortify my flesh through my daily work in these last months and hopefully lay up good treasure for the months that come after.

Lenten Activities

It's that time of year again where we wrack our brains trying to decide what our Lenten sacrifices will be.

This year the fasting requirement applies to me again. Two years ago, I was pregnant so it was a no go. Last year on Ash Wednesday I attempted it, but Marian was still nursing vigorously and I nearly collapsed in the try. I ended up shoving whatever food I could find into my face about mid afternoon and took a pass on Good Friday altogether. This year, Marian is still nursing but I think it has lessened enough to fast. We shall see.

In recent times a popular sacrifice has been to give up Facebook or blogging or all forms of electronic entertainment/communication. I do not ever intend to totally give up any of these. My life would take on the proportions of a hermit were I to give up online communication.

In previous years, I have given up political blogs which did me a world of good. It served to disenthrall me from the political vortex which can suck you in and not let go. It's all a passin' away anyway. I still enjoy a good political argument, but it doesn't have the same sway it did in the past.

This year my Lenten discipline will be to get in bed earlier than I have been. I have really let this fall by the wayside. I have developed the habit of getting up early enough and Marian is sleeping better at night so I am able to gut through not quite getting as much sleep as I should. If I put a little more effort into it, I could be getting to work exactly when I desire and leaving work earlier and it would all around be better.

What keeps me from this? The deadly last check of Facebook. I love to take one last gander at the world before bedtime. It only takes 10 minutes, right? 10 or 15. Maybe 20. If there is a good conversation in the works, sometimes 30. You see how this snowballs. It is especially hard to walk away when everyone comes out to play after getting their own kids in bed. So the first hard stop of Lent will be: No computer after the kids are in bed.

About eighteen months ago, quite by accident, I developed a weekly Starbucks habit. Starbucks is not the best coffee there is by a long shot, but I received a gift card and decided to use it during our weekly shopping trip at the store inside the grocery. I decided I liked this little ritual and kept it up. I ask for gift cards at holiday times to subsidize it. Last year, I gave up my grocery coffee and thought it a fitting sacrifice. Weekly I had to pass this store and remember. The only hangup is that we grocery shop on Sunday mornings. Is it theologically appropriate to fast on Sunday? I suppose the real question is whether it is theologically appropriate to grocery shop on Sunday. It is the best use of our time, but I am ambivalent about it. Be that as it may. The second hard stop of Lent will be: I will give up the Sunday Starbucks habit. I suppose as a penance for the shopping, we should pick up items for the local pantry more often than we do. This inspiration arrived as I typed all this so perhaps the third hard stop of Lent will be: Buy food for the food pantry weekly. What should we buy? Something good and useful and not dreadful.

The last project I would like to attempt is to work through St Francis de Sales Introduction to the Devout Life again. I started this last Lent and did fine with it until I got to the General Confession. First I had to figure out what a General Confession was. Oh....And then I spun my wheels trying to decide what to do about it until the end of Lent. I want to try again this year. I do not intend to make a general confession mostly because I do not see what there is to be gained by it if I am not also in regular spiritual direction which I am not. Since I have a game plan for the confession, I see things going much smoother this year. And guess where the best time for me to read might be? That's right, the time gained from the foresaken bedtime Facebook.

So there it is, the Lenten project for the year. Honestly it looks almost exactly the same as last year's, but I don't think I am ready to move on yet.