Personal History

Yesterday Grandma Madeira turned 90. Today we had a party. I was the only one of her direct progeny who was able to be there, far-flung family that I have, but her brother and most of his daughters, and her sister's kids, and another brother's granddaughter, and my Grandma Grosser and Auntie Jane from the other side of the family were all there. Also The Swedes, a couple of family friends who just love my grandmother and who more than deserved to be there.

We reserved a room in the retirement community where she lives, and we sat around a white-tableclothed table and ate cake and drank coffee and told her a little of what she meant to us and some of our favourite memories of her. There are certain family stories that get told over and over so many times that even though I may not have been born until 50 years after the event, I could probably tell you the story and make you think I had been there. Some of those got re-aired today. But there were also stories or things I hadn't known before. Or at least, I don't remember knowing them.

I didn't know that Grandma Madeira had been proposed to by two different men at pretty much the same time, and had to pick one. I didn't know that her Swedish immigrant parents had moved back to Sweden after emigrating to the States for a while, and that she was conceived there and her mother was carrying her in the womb when they returned to America on behalf of their children. I didn't know how much she and Grandpa Madeira had meant to their nieces and nephews.

I also don't think I knew that her father came to the US in the first place at age 16 because he didn't want to be drafted, because he didn't believe in fighting. You can tell me my great grandfather was a draft-dodger, but the thing is, I don't take that as an insult, and I'm proud he was a pacifist. It was subsequently pointed out that Grandpa Madeira's father was also a pacifist and conscientious objector, as a "plain person" from Lancaster County, PA. I guess I'm about 99% pacifist, and I guess I've mostly come to that perspective myself, but do you think there are pacifist genes? Because maybe I come by this naturally.

Partying It Up

This morning I woke up and it was a sunny day off and it was Good Friday, and I felt that kind of gratitude that you can't drum up yourself--the kind that comes when you realise disaster has been averted and you could in no way have averted it any more than, um . . . an egg could descramble itself. That's a kind of silly simile, but I think it gets the point across.

So I went downstairs and thought, "I am going to make myself a Really Nice Breakfast, to celebrate Good Friday with Jesus." I was about halfway through deciding on the menu for this Really Nice Breakfast before it dawned on me that this is not normally how Christendom, or even this particular Christian, observes Good Friday. I have fasted on Good Friday before. I have been sombre and silent and spent the entire day not talking to anyone unless I went to church at some point during the day, and even then not a whole lot of talking went on. I have seen The Passion of the Christ and (to me the more moving experience of) the Life of Christ at Wintershall in England. I have cried my eyes out during the former and, with an unexpressible mix of emotions almost wiped the blood from Jesus' face in the latter.

This kind of thing is good for me, I think. I would be a pretty calloused individual if I couldn't mourn the part that I myself have played in torturing and denying and betraying and killing God.

But today? I made the Really Nice Breakfast. Because, as is the way with most things Jesus-related, Good Friday is both simple and complex, both a horror and a Good--a paradox. And today I'm celebrating. I'll celebrate the Resurrection on the day I'm "supposed" to, but the fact that God would come down here and sacrifice Himself because I couldn't relate to Him otherwise and He wanted it that much, and the fact that He has called me into the same adventure of sacrifice and forgiveness and joy is such a big deal . . .

Today my dad read me the following over the phone. It says what I mean better than I'm saying it I think:

This table is different. This table of the Lord isn't where sinners find Christ but where sinners celebrate being found …

Maybe some morning, instead of solemnly passing these trays, we should dance for joy. Maybe we should sing every born-again song we know. Maybe we should tell our "homecoming" stories and laugh like people who no longer fear death. Maybe we should ask if anyone wants seconds and hold our little cups high to toast lost sisters found and dead brothers alive.

Lee Eclov, "The Sinner's Feast," PreachingToday.

I propose a toast to that very thing. I don't have to punish myself anymore because my sins killed God--He's the Judge. And He took the punishment. Now I can celebrate that He did. So today I'm toasting Him--and you and me and Life (which would be Him again--did you notice?). You in? Cheers!

Vignettes

Yesterday, I bought a mattress set. The one that it is replacing, I think I got when I was 14 or something. Yes, I still have a twin bed. It is true that I have spent large swathes of time since acquiring said bed, not using it (having lived in many other places). However, this does not take away from the fact that it is over 20 years old, and I have been sleeping on it regularly for the last five years. It also does not take away from the fact that I have been unable to sleep comfortably on it for some time.

I do not like spending money on myself, particularly in amounts over three digits. This purchase would have been over four digits if it hadn't been for the kindness of the salesman and the powers that be in the bedding universe. As it was, I can now say I have officially spent my allotment of the money the government sent us this spring. The bed is now twice as tall as it used to be. It comes just below my waist, and looks something like a loaf of bread, or a muffin. I think I will no longer be able to loll over the side and pick books up off the floor without some danger of falling on my head. But it's sooo nice and soft . . .

*****

My parents have returned to Ireland. Actually, they're probably boarding their plane right now. Some time after they get back, they are going to attend a birthday party for a friend of theirs. It is a Medieval party, and requires "fancy dress" (which means "costumes," for our American readers). My mother tells me that some of the children who will be attending this party intend to dress as rats . . . because of the bubonic plague. I think it's wonderful. Not the plague, of course, but the inventiveness.

*****

In the next town stands a gas station called "Global Village Fuel." It sounds simultaneously ominous, obvious and light-heartedly realistic, and I chuckle every time I drive past it. I don't believe I have ever fueled up there, however.

*****

Yesterday, I tried silkworm pupae. Eating them, I mean. They had been marinated in soy sauce, which is, therefore, pretty much what they tasted like. The texture was brittle and slightly internally fuzzy, in a preserved-with-soy-sauce kind of way. I don't know that I'd go out of my way to buy the things, but if I'm ever in similar positions to the ones I was in the three times I had to eat chicken livers, I know I can at least get them down.

St. George's Day

Hat tip to my father for reminding me of this.

Apparently today is St. George's Day. I knew that once--back when I lived in England. You would think that, having lived in England, I would maybe remember this better, since I'm all about little-known reasons to celebrate. (I forgot No-Ruz this year, too, and I never forget that.) I rarely have trouble remembering St. David's Day (1 March) for Wales, or St. Patrick's Day (17 March) for Ireland--although I nearly forgot that one this year, too--what is it with this year?--or even St. Andrew's Day (30 November) for Scotland (although with that one, sometimes I only remember the month). But St. George?

Poor St. George.

Probably why I usually forget him completely is no one likes to celebrate the oppressor. To these other places, that's what England was, at least at one time. (I suppose some might say still is, but I'm not convinced they really have a case.) Apparently even the English had kind of forgotten to celebrate him--or were too embarrassed to. Now, however, it seems, the holiday is reviving. I'm not certain that St. George really embodies all of the things that people would like to pin on him, but maybe some of them. So sure--let's celebrate him.

Happy St. George's Day, everybody! What's left of it, I mean.

Paradigm Shift

A couple of weeks ago I went to a party where I know the hosts pretty well, and had only met some of the guests once, at another party earlier this year. One of the guys who had come alone last time was now there with a partner--a young man from out of state.

The partner and I were probably the two guests who knew the fewest people, so we had a pleasant chat together about travel in Europe, and then when we ran out of things to say about that, we noticed that all the rest of the assembled guests had, indeed, assembled--around his boyfriend.

The boyfriend was recounting how his younger sister is now engaged, and how everyone in his family has been acting happy for her, but how he just can't because he doesn't think it's right for her. Apparently she started going to Bible studies with this guy, and now she shares his faith and they are talking about going on the mission field. They also, evidently, are not living together, because they believe in waiting to have sex until marriage.

This revelation was met with gasps and snickers somewhere in between horror and scorn, and that was when it hit me: virginity is the new homosexuality. To the majority, it's scandalous. What person in his or her right mind would wait around and just hope all aspects of a relationship were going to be okay without checking it out first? Not to mention that the drive for sex is natural and surely depriving oneself of it is unhealthy on a whole lot of levels.

The entire scenario suddenly seemed utterly familiar--and yet utterly surreal. It was like going to a party full of evangelicals, where one of them, with deep sorrow and genuine concern, related that their younger sibling had come out of the closet and was now living with a partner of the same sex. The reactions from the listeners were identical. The story was almost identical. It was only the roles that were reversed. No one was trying to be unkind. They were sympathising with their friend, who clearly was both distraught over and resigned to what he saw as his sister's poor decisions. Some allusion was made to a parent's unwise decisions, too. I imagine most of the people thought how fortunate it was that at least one of the kids had turned out okay.

The Event

I spent most of my three-day visit to New York tromping around in a pair of boots that I really only needed for two hours on Tuesday night. Trouble was, most of the tromping was also done with a backpack on my back, and those boots wouldn't have fit in there with the clothes, toiletries, and books I had brought along. So I dispensed with the comfort of sneakers for those two hours of scuffed fashion. One more day of that would probably have made the tendons and muscles of my calves pop like too-tight guitar strings. Fortunately, there was not "one more day of that."

In the meantime, the tromping was sort of fun. On Monday I went with Marianne to the Museum of Natural History, because when I was providing the links to this post, I discovered they were having an exhibit about Mythic Creatures. It cost a little extra to get in, but it was pretty fun to read about creatures with which I feel familiar, and others I had never heard of before. It was more interesting to see mythic synchronicity across cultures. I love that stuff.

On Tuesday, I went with Seren to the Cloisters. Here we saw things like the Chamber of Smirking Marys and the Painting of the Blood-Gushing Jesus. ("Gushing" may not be the right word, exactly, because, according to the painting, the icon of Jesus managed to aim the blood right out of his ribcage into the waiting chalice of the priest who was worshiping there.) Medieval art is Really Weird a lot of the time. Small American museums instituted by millionaires are often a bit weird as well. But I kind of like those things, too.

After tea at the end of our Cloisters loitering, I got into the outfit that the boots were truly meant for and returned to Manhattan. The Yale Club is directly outside of Grand Central Station, and I got there just in time. The Lloyd Alexander memorial evening turned out to be another moment of mild weirdness, because I didn't know a single person there. I didn't even know who anyone was. It is kind of awkward, I realised, when the only person you know who is relevant to the event you are attending is dead.


This was how I rediscovered that I am a completely inept at conversing or networking with strangers unless there's a counter and a cup of coffee between us. I have no idea how to start a conversation with people I've never met. Apparently I don't know how to keep one going either, because at least three times that night, people introduced themselves to me, began to talk about Lloyd, and then, when I began to talk about my own (albeit minimal) experience as his friend, found someone else they urgently needed to talk to.

On the other hand, Sharyn November, editor of the Firebird imprint of the Penguin group, made a valiant effort to meet everyone in the room, and everyone did include me. Also, Jim Jacobs of Brigham Young University was cordial and friendly and even seemed genuinely interested in my experience of writing to Lloyd. Blouke and Marianne Carus of Cricket Magazine (etc.), who had spearheaded this event, were lovely. And I met one of Lloyd's granddaughters--the one who had taken greatest care of him at the end. Lloyd had one more book about to be published when he died, and all of us at the event got a free copy of it--as well as of his first published book, and some of the Carus magazines. This was generous and unexpected and delightful.

Besides, it was great to hear other people's stories. Some who had been particularly close to Lloyd were given the opportunity to speak to all of us, and it was fascinating to hear what other people had known of him more close at hand. I didn't feel the need to cry anymore. But I did still wish he had been there, to really talk to.

Photos by jennw2ns: Museum Unicorn 2007; The Cloisters 2007; Photo of Photo of Lloyd 2007.

Photo by J.S. Jacobs: Jennw2ns w2 Books and Illustration.

The Grieving Process

There are quite a number of people whose departure from this life to the next has saddened me in some way this year. I guess, just as you can't predict when someone is going to go, you can't really predict when it's going to hit you. Or hit you again.

Last night I dreamed that I was invited to see Lloyd's house. I'm pretty sure he didn't live in a British terraced house (known as a row-house to us Yanks) relocated to Pennsylvania, but if he had, it might have looked like the one in my dream. In my dream I walked up the steps, through the front door, and straight to the back of the house where his study was. Somehow I knew that was where his study was. The door, which had one of those textured-glass windows in it, was ajar, and the light was on.

I entered slowly, reverently, almost expecting Lloyd to be sitting in there, working on a book. Someone was in there--one of the publishers or somebody who had been involved in getting me there--and everything seemed to be exactly as Lloyd had left it and exactly as I had expected it . . . but Lloyd himself wasn't there at all. I thought how ironic it was that I had actually been invited to his house but had never gotten to meet him in person. And I started to sob.

Clearly this dream was triggered by something I got in the mail yesterday, which I didn't read until I got home from work at 11.30pm. It was an invitation from a publisher to "light refreshments" at an establishment in New York City, in honour of Lloyd. I had half-imagined that someone might have found out about me while going through Lloyd's paraphernalia, but I didn't really expect anyone to do anything about it. I was kind of stunned and overwhelmed and flattered.

A publisher is going to be there. And some literary agents. I went to bed wondering if it would be totally tacky to go network at an event in memory of someone who had fairly recently died. But I guess my reasons for going wouldn't be entirely mercenary. I think the dream proved it.

Pancake Day

LL Barkat of Seedlings in Stone (and various other places) wrote an excellent post about bidding adieu to our all-you-can-eat buffets (metaphorically speaking, as well as literally). I liked it. I agree with her. I think she's absolutely right that we get lost in our abundance of options, and that there's so much to choose from that we can't even differentiate ourselves as people anymore. (Well, I don't know that that's all she was saying, but that was one of the things I got out of it.)

But I really do like Pancake Day (aka, more seriously, Shrove Tuesday). And I forgot about it until I read Mariam's blog. Pancake Day is kind of about all-you-can-eat. Purportedly, the tradition of eating pancakes on Shrove Tuesday was instituted (at least in Britain--maybe in other parts of Europe, too) in order to get rid of butter and fat before the fast of Lent. Now my British friends buy more of the stuff on that day so they can have parties where they make loads of crepe-like pancakes with a multitude of topping options. Last year I actually remembered Pancake Day ahead of time and had a party like that here. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, in spite of their all appearing somewhat bemused. I love it.

I don't think I'd love it if it happened all the time. I might think I needed it, but I wouldn't be happy and celebratory and grateful for pancakes if I feasted on them every night. I don't think gluttony is worth it. But it is nice to have a party on occasion.

This is one of the things I like about God as He is depicted in the Bible. He seems, in spite of moments of jealousy and wrath, to really like parties a lot. When He was giving the Israelites all those rules, He also told them to celebrate. I like His kind of parties, too, because they all mean something. It looks like usually they mean God is with His people and it's a joyous thing.

Celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles to remember how God was with you when you lived in tents in the desert.

Celebrate the building of the Temple because it symbolises God's presence with you as a people.

Then He comes down here in person and there He is--at a party--when He does His first miracle. It's a wedding, actually, which is, as far as I can tell, the celebration of the relationship which becomes the holiest image we have for God's relationship with His people. (Celebrate weddings to remember how much God loves you and how close He wants to be to you.) He proceeds to use that image of a party (most often specifically a wedding) in a lot of His parables.

I like Lent, too, this imminent season of austerity. I need to remember to pare down--to remember Who I am dependent on. But I'm really glad that Jesus told His cousin's disciples that while He was around, His followers did not need to fast. I'm glad that there's room in the Kingdom of God for self-discipline, self-denial, and also abundance.

This Girl Sure Knows What to Talk About at Parties

Here is a rough transcription of a conversation (complete with my accompanying thoughts, in brackets) that took place at Holly-and-Matt's last Friday night.

This Kid Tim: Hi, Jenn? I'm Tim. Nice to meet you. What do you do?

Me: I work at Starbucks, actually.

TKT: Oh, really? I heard that's a great company to work for. So, are you a student, too, or something?

Me: [No one can believe that a) I am in my mid-thirties--which is probably why this 23-year-old is talking to me, or b) that I would actually make Starbucks my life's work, as it were.]

We make a little more small-talk about how great a company he's heard Starbucks is and how I'm not a student, and somehow, though I can't quite remember how, it comes out that I once lived in London, and then came back, ostensibly to get a Master's degree in counseling, which I started, and then quit.

TKT: Why?

Me: [This is going to be tricky to explain without bringing in all the "I think God . . ." reasons, which are hard enough to explain to people who think more or less the way I do.] I just felt like it wasn't for me. I mean, the people I actually wanted to help are people who wouldn't be able to afford counseling anyway. And besides, I realised that what I like most, and am better at, is just being friends with people--you know, hanging out and talking with them over coffee and stuff. So I got a job where I can hang out and talk to people over coffee all day.

TKT (for whom this concept is clearly computing even less well than it does for most people): So . . . what do you talk about, then?

Me: Um . . .

There is a long pause while I try to figure out how overt I can or want to be about this. Then I bite the bullet.

Me: Okay, so actually, when I lived in London, I was a missionary, and I realised that I really just like talking to people about God and faith and stuff, and so . . . that's the kind of stuff I talk to them about here, too.

TKT (after a split second of a pick-and-mix of facial expressions): So, you just hand them their coffee and say, "Hey, do you want to talk about religion?"

Me (laughing): No! I talk about that stuff more to the people I work with, really, when they bring it up.

TKT: They just bring it up?

Me: Yeah.

TKT: You just have random conversations about religion.

Me: Yeah.

TKT: How does that happen?

Me: [Kind of like this, actually.]

He then proceeded to ask me about faith "versus" science, and Christianity "versus" other religions, and Jesus, and whether you can know if you're "right" or not. This all took place before dinner. Well, before our dinner. Everybody else was milling and eating and trying to ignore and not interrupt our clearly not-polite-conversation in the corner by the time This Kid Tim took a breath and turned around to notice. He took this moment of observation to extract himself from the conversation I had been trying to avoid and which he himself had embroiled himself in.

The weirdest thing about this is that I have this kind of conversation a lot. I almost never look for them. I just sort of collide with them by accident. But do I ever love it.