Happy Canada Day
Showing posts with label Holy Days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holy Days. Show all posts
Days Go By
As one would rather expect, there is not a Father's Day card for the men in dead baby land. I know - I asked. Oh, don't look at me like that, I asked nicely. I asked if there was a Father's Day card for men who had recently lost their children. Underneath the banner that proclaimed Father's Day was June 21, waving dismissively at the rack of cards, I persisted. A card for someone who will not have the greatest Father's Day, for when things are not good? For a Father's Day that will be hard? Surely, Hallmark, that makes Father's Day cards from the dog, could make a card that acknowledged the painful reality that Father's Day is not always a new tie, an ugly pencil holder and an apron proclaiming "world's greatest dad".But, no. Let me tell you a secret - there are only 2 Father's Day cards out there. There is the "can I borrow $20 bucks type - clearly identified by it's reference to cars, beer, and bbq's" and the "You're my inspiration - with the attendant river-at-sunset scene" and I think we can all be clear that a living child is a clear pre-requisite for the purchase of both of those cards.
Oh, I can put together a gift, BBQ stuff, M and M's, an F1 car magazine, things to celebrate Mr. Spit's particular interests. I can put together presents, but I wanted the card, to make it legitimate. So that I was not the only person saying that Mr. Spit is a father. In our shared remembrances, in my memory - when I see him cradle our Gabriel. My hair, his father's hands. A mix. With a mother, and a father. Two parents to grieve and celebrate.
The clerk at the Hallmark store suggested a sympathy card, and I realized the problems were larger than card selection. There is a time and a place for sympathy, for tender care and concern, for abiding. But equally, there is a time that recognizes what is. Mr. Spit is a father whose son is not here, not close enough to touch, and not able to make an ugly pencil holder. And frankly, when your son is not here, no one remembers you on this day. You don't count. But, this does not mean we cannot, should not celebrate. Gabriel was here. And in those 30 minutes of here-ness, Mr. Spit became, forever, irrevocably, a father.
Today I wanted to mark this. To mark that if the father of a dead child can do well by his son, can be a good father, then Mr. Spit, he does those things. He remembers faithfully. He grieves. He loves, still, always.
I do not want to be the only one, insisting that Mr. Spit is some one's dad. That he is a father, that he deserves to stand up and be recognized. I wanted a card for him. I didn't want to be the only person insisting that Mr. Spit too, could celebrate Father's Day.
I am tired of the way we are ignored, expected to be over this, to be all better. And, for one day, just one day, I wanted Mr. Spit to be celebrated - feted - held up with all the other fathers, and not shoved off to the side. I wanted to stand up and argue, I wanted Mr. Spit to hear that he is a father. That he is important. That Gabriel is important.
And, I couldn't find a card.
Happy Father's Day darling.
Lattes and Lent
"And Simon Peter answered and said, 'You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.' Jesus answered and said to him, 'Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah, for flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but My father who is in heaven. And I also say to you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it." - Matt. 16:16-18.
I gave up lattes for lent. I didn't think this was going to be hard, until the barista at my favourite place looked at me, shall we say, sceptically. I did make it through, although it was rough. The point of giving up something for lent is two-fold - to remind ourselves of the sacrifice of Christ for us, and to remind ourselves that we are only human. When I give up latte's, I remember how easy it is to become dependent on things, how easy it is to need things, to much. Want to know what it really is to be human? Fast for 24 hours. The hunger pains remind us how small and weak we really are. Lent is a period of humbling, and dare I say it, re-ordering our world.
It's good to remember the sacrifice, the pain and the betrayal that set us all free. After Gabriel's death, the Resurrection is much more real to me. But, that's not my problem. My problem tends to be the control I want over my life. I want my life, my way, and that's not a particularly Christian way to live.
I was sitting in Church on Sunday, thinking about Peter. I was particularly thinking about his denial of Christ, twice before the rooster crowed. On Easter morning, as we celebrate the glorious Resurrection, it's particularly easy to wonder at Peter - not so much the denial, but his fear. I have always assumed, somewhat sensibly, that Peter denied Christ out of fear. After all, as he was denying Christ, the Romans, the Sanhedrin, the Pharisee's, they were getting ready to kill him. I can see him thinking that it was not a safe time to stand up for your convictions. Standing up for his convictions was going to get him killed as well.
But, I wonder if it was something more than that. It occurs to me, things changed pretty dramatically for Peter on the first night of the Passover. I would imagine, in spite of all Christ's teachings to the contrary, his suggestions that his time was short, his inconvenient statements about his death, that Peter had perhaps come to believe that this vagabond life with Christ would go on, if not forever, well, for a much longer time. It was, probably not exactly comfortable, but known. Peter knew what the shape of his days would be, or at least he thought he did.
And in an instant, a blink, the dipping of a piece of bread, it all changed. Satan entered Judas, Judas betrayed Christ, and the chain of events that led to not just the crucifixion, but the Resurrection began in earnest.
And so I sat in the pew, thinking about Peter. Thinking about my own tendencies, my own human nature. Wondering if some of Peter's denial simply came from a need to try and get back to where he was, to what was stable.
I wondered, then and now, if Peter's denial was as much a denial of his association with Christ, as it was a denial of the circumstances he found himself in. If the denial was a way of closing his eyes tightly, and opening them again, to see if things had gone back to the way they were. A way of saying I refuse to accept this reality, I want things back to the way they were. When we look at this, it seems perhaps silly, Christ, the only man to defeat death, the man who tore the veil between God and man in two, the fulfillment of the Old Testament promises, the source of power, and Peter was worried about what would happen next.
We have the benefit of hindsight now, we can see what the crucifixion accomplished. Peter had no such benefit. It's easy to look back and think that Peter was a bit wimpy, but on Sunday, as I thought about transitions, I wouldn't say I was thinking of Peter as a wimp.
And what does all of this have to do with Latte's and lent? Not much really, just a reminder that I really have no control over my life. And that it's easy enough to miss out on the Resurrection, if you are stuck in the same old place.
I gave up lattes for lent. I didn't think this was going to be hard, until the barista at my favourite place looked at me, shall we say, sceptically. I did make it through, although it was rough. The point of giving up something for lent is two-fold - to remind ourselves of the sacrifice of Christ for us, and to remind ourselves that we are only human. When I give up latte's, I remember how easy it is to become dependent on things, how easy it is to need things, to much. Want to know what it really is to be human? Fast for 24 hours. The hunger pains remind us how small and weak we really are. Lent is a period of humbling, and dare I say it, re-ordering our world.
It's good to remember the sacrifice, the pain and the betrayal that set us all free. After Gabriel's death, the Resurrection is much more real to me. But, that's not my problem. My problem tends to be the control I want over my life. I want my life, my way, and that's not a particularly Christian way to live.
I was sitting in Church on Sunday, thinking about Peter. I was particularly thinking about his denial of Christ, twice before the rooster crowed. On Easter morning, as we celebrate the glorious Resurrection, it's particularly easy to wonder at Peter - not so much the denial, but his fear. I have always assumed, somewhat sensibly, that Peter denied Christ out of fear. After all, as he was denying Christ, the Romans, the Sanhedrin, the Pharisee's, they were getting ready to kill him. I can see him thinking that it was not a safe time to stand up for your convictions. Standing up for his convictions was going to get him killed as well.
But, I wonder if it was something more than that. It occurs to me, things changed pretty dramatically for Peter on the first night of the Passover. I would imagine, in spite of all Christ's teachings to the contrary, his suggestions that his time was short, his inconvenient statements about his death, that Peter had perhaps come to believe that this vagabond life with Christ would go on, if not forever, well, for a much longer time. It was, probably not exactly comfortable, but known. Peter knew what the shape of his days would be, or at least he thought he did.
And in an instant, a blink, the dipping of a piece of bread, it all changed. Satan entered Judas, Judas betrayed Christ, and the chain of events that led to not just the crucifixion, but the Resurrection began in earnest.
And so I sat in the pew, thinking about Peter. Thinking about my own tendencies, my own human nature. Wondering if some of Peter's denial simply came from a need to try and get back to where he was, to what was stable.
I wondered, then and now, if Peter's denial was as much a denial of his association with Christ, as it was a denial of the circumstances he found himself in. If the denial was a way of closing his eyes tightly, and opening them again, to see if things had gone back to the way they were. A way of saying I refuse to accept this reality, I want things back to the way they were. When we look at this, it seems perhaps silly, Christ, the only man to defeat death, the man who tore the veil between God and man in two, the fulfillment of the Old Testament promises, the source of power, and Peter was worried about what would happen next.
We have the benefit of hindsight now, we can see what the crucifixion accomplished. Peter had no such benefit. It's easy to look back and think that Peter was a bit wimpy, but on Sunday, as I thought about transitions, I wouldn't say I was thinking of Peter as a wimp.
And what does all of this have to do with Latte's and lent? Not much really, just a reminder that I really have no control over my life. And that it's easy enough to miss out on the Resurrection, if you are stuck in the same old place.
Merry Christmas to the People In My Blog
So, there are often conversations here at Chez Spit, usually around about 6 pm, when Mr. Spit and I sit on the couch to talk about our days, before starting dinner.
Anyway, I can usually be heard to comment on something that one of you has been up to. I might talk about a good thing, or I might comment that someone had a rough day, or the lunacy of something (Jenn being maced, and Martha (God bless her sanity) painting her house scant days before Christmas).
And sometimes, if it is not a name that Mr. Spit hears often, or if I use your real name, and not your screen name, then Mr. Spit will look at me, with this look of apprehension bordering on fear.
There is a person, and clearly I know them really quite well, well enough to be concerned or sad or overjoyed for them, and Mr. Spit has No. Idea. Of. Whom. I. Am. Talking. About.
It's the nightmare of every husband, I suspect. Especially Mr. Spit who is probably better at relating to others than I am. So, after I have rattled on for a bit, I will catch the confused look, and I will tell him. There are 104 of you in my blog reader. It might be hard for him to keep you all straight.
I might call you one of the people in my blog. Alternatively, you might be abbreviated as "blog lady". You might be categorized, you might be "Hannah's Mum, or Devin's Mum or Callum's Mum". You might be named by where you live - she's the one in Wisconsin or on the East Coast, Alicia in Calgary, Glo here in Edmonton and Loribeth in Toronto. You might be Susan, who wants to marry me, or Excavator and Julia, who always make me think. You might be JuliaS, who is not the other Julia, and apparently has men get "touchy" in the choir!
You might be Jen or Trish, with the wee babe, or Antigone, whose Persus is taking his sweet time. You might be one of my engineering women, who work with things like Mango's and send me cool articles. You might be Jane in the UK, who works with the brownies. You might be Brown Owl, named for her mum, that went home to heaven this spring, and is busy with Gabe and her own wee Grandchild. For Sam and Martha, you are forever known as the people who send us Chocolate. Two Hands is the midwife. Some of you are now known as Toby's. We presently think Geohede is crazy for moving on Saturday, with Twins. You might be You might be JamieD, Carbon or someone else whose cycle I track as closely as my own, saying my prayers for you each month, and shaking my fist at God when you post about CD1.
You get the point. You are mentioned and loved and cared for and followed. It is my great good fortune to be a part of your lives, my tremendous privilege and honour to share in your world.
Christmas is many things to all of us, to some it is a time of wonder and merriment, for others, it is a time of sad and sober reflection, wishing the new year would bring them something different. Some will be glad to kick the old year to the curb.
To all of you, and yours, whatever your location or label,
Merry Christmas.
Mr. & Mrs. Spit
Delta, Maggie, Toby and Koda (and Gabriel in heaven)
Anyway, I can usually be heard to comment on something that one of you has been up to. I might talk about a good thing, or I might comment that someone had a rough day, or the lunacy of something (Jenn being maced, and Martha (God bless her sanity) painting her house scant days before Christmas).
And sometimes, if it is not a name that Mr. Spit hears often, or if I use your real name, and not your screen name, then Mr. Spit will look at me, with this look of apprehension bordering on fear.
There is a person, and clearly I know them really quite well, well enough to be concerned or sad or overjoyed for them, and Mr. Spit has No. Idea. Of. Whom. I. Am. Talking. About.
It's the nightmare of every husband, I suspect. Especially Mr. Spit who is probably better at relating to others than I am. So, after I have rattled on for a bit, I will catch the confused look, and I will tell him. There are 104 of you in my blog reader. It might be hard for him to keep you all straight.
I might call you one of the people in my blog. Alternatively, you might be abbreviated as "blog lady". You might be categorized, you might be "Hannah's Mum, or Devin's Mum or Callum's Mum". You might be named by where you live - she's the one in Wisconsin or on the East Coast, Alicia in Calgary, Glo here in Edmonton and Loribeth in Toronto. You might be Susan, who wants to marry me, or Excavator and Julia, who always make me think. You might be JuliaS, who is not the other Julia, and apparently has men get "touchy" in the choir!
You might be Jen or Trish, with the wee babe, or Antigone, whose Persus is taking his sweet time. You might be one of my engineering women, who work with things like Mango's and send me cool articles. You might be Jane in the UK, who works with the brownies. You might be Brown Owl, named for her mum, that went home to heaven this spring, and is busy with Gabe and her own wee Grandchild. For Sam and Martha, you are forever known as the people who send us Chocolate. Two Hands is the midwife. Some of you are now known as Toby's. We presently think Geohede is crazy for moving on Saturday, with Twins. You might be You might be JamieD, Carbon or someone else whose cycle I track as closely as my own, saying my prayers for you each month, and shaking my fist at God when you post about CD1.
You get the point. You are mentioned and loved and cared for and followed. It is my great good fortune to be a part of your lives, my tremendous privilege and honour to share in your world.
Christmas is many things to all of us, to some it is a time of wonder and merriment, for others, it is a time of sad and sober reflection, wishing the new year would bring them something different. Some will be glad to kick the old year to the curb.
To all of you, and yours, whatever your location or label,
Merry Christmas.
Mr. & Mrs. Spit
Delta, Maggie, Toby and Koda (and Gabriel in heaven)
