baa baa baa

My friend Bonnie made too many sheep.

Probably not the sort of sentence one gets to write terribly often, so I think it's worth repeating. Bonnie made too many sheep.

As I understand it, in the process of building a nativity scene Bonnie went a little overboard on the sheep. She made entire flocks. Prior to slaying Goliath, David didn't tend this many sheep. There were lots and lots of sheep. More sheep than a chronic insomniac could hope to count. Okay, maybe I'm beginning to exaggerate slightly, but seriously, there were a lot of sheep.

Then, of course, after Christmas you have to figure out what to do with all the sheep. Bonnie's solution was to give them away. She took photos of all the sheep (imagine this as a sort of cross between passport photos and mugshots) and then passed the contact sheets around among various friends and invited everyone to choose one. Three or four contact sheets, sixteen or twenty photos per page, three or four animals per photo--LOTS of choices!

By the time I saw the photos, several of the little creatures had already been adopted. I must admit, I was more strongly inclined to choose a sheep of color. The white ones were fluffy and cute, but the black and grey and mud colored animals just seemed more interesting. Then I saw the goats. If the black sheep, with all of its cultural implications was tempting, the goat and its biblical import was an even greater lure. Oh, did I like the goats? I could choose a goat if I liked. Or an angel; there are angels, too. Everytime I decided that I really liked the texture of this one, I'd notice the horns on that one and change my mind. Then I'd see this one over here had a fabulous tilt to it's head, only to find that the one in the next photo had so much character! (When I reread this while editing I got a chuckle at the image of horned angels, but decided you'd appreciate the image also, so I left it.)

If you're having trouble understanding why it was so difficult to just pick a sheep and say, "Thank you, Bonnie" and get on with my life, you should know that Bonnie taught animation for several years. And although I met her through singing, I don't think there is any artistic expression she hasn't put her hand to at some point. Being presented with photographic vignettes, pictorial essays of ovine social structures, made it almost impossible to select a single example of her work. Choosing any one meant breaking up a scene. How do you decide which single one will continue to charm you without the interplay with the one next to it. Finally, I told Bonnie I couldn't choose for myself, but, yes, please, I'd love to have one. This is the truth. Had I been forced to choose from the photos, I can almost guarantee that I'd be disappointed with my own selection and wonder endlessly if I couldn't have made a better choice.

Last Friday Bonnie came by my office to borrow my Pantone book and brought with her a selection of five sheep from which I was to choose. She brought two white sheep, two brown sheep (one medium brown, one camel-colored), and one dark grey-black sheep. While I loved the caramel colors of the camel and the mix of colors in the medium brown, they didn't convey the personality of the others and were quickly eliminated. And while I very much admired the striking looks of the darkest of the sheep, I wasn't as enamored with him in person as I had expected to be from the photos. In contrast, the white sheep which I had written off at the outset were the most engaging. They had much more depth of color than the photos indicated and their expressions were charming. My co-workers were brought in to help me make the final choice. And although I was very much taken with a fat little sheep with floppy ears and a pleading expression, my co-workers felt that that sheep was too needy for me. I suspect they think I lack in the tender depth of feeling necessary to meet the emotional needs of four-inch-tall inanimate creature. (If I worry about this too much I'll end up injured by their judgment. Crap. Now I've put it in writing and I'm sure that's what they were implying!) Anyway, they felt the fifth of Bonnie's sheep was the one meant for me, the one best suited to my temperment.




I believe there was a certain level of determination, nay belligerence, conveyed in the tilt of this little sheep's head that my co-workers believed made it a perfect match for me. Not they would ever suggest I maintain these qualities. Merely that they thought the presence of this fuzzy guardian at the gate of my workspace might invite others to think twice before inviting my attention. Hmmm...

Now we need a name for my little baby. Post your suggestions in the comments. I won't guarantee that I'll choose from the submissions, but I will agree to consider them all.

PS Bonnie is now making MORE sheep (and goats, and giraffes, and who knows what else). There's been discussion of a gallery show. Really, my photo doesn't do justice to her work, but in groups they are truly outstanding.

monumental 2.0

I got some good feedback--thanks!--and I've incorporated much of it. Most of the feedback hit on the same points that I had privately noted for myself. That's good news for me in that other people try and convince me I'm hypercritical. Now I know I'm just right. :) Here's where it currently stands. It looks like it's working toward becoming a clumsy sonnet, but I'm not feeling bound by literary conventions at the moment.

What monument to thee, my God, could convey thy grandeur,
What lofty height of man’s design impart thy grace,
What sparkling glass reflect thy splendor,
Or carvéd rock reveal thy face?
Such follies do men build for thee,
And treasure stores amass,
To mimic thy heavenly beauties
Which all earthly work surpass.
No, no monument to thee will I offer
Nor semblance of thy state will I effect,
But thy image marked on me to all I proffer
In hope thy vessel thou wilt perfect.

I was in bed with the lights off trying to put myself into a happy dreaming attitude and had to get up out of bed to work on this some more. Grumble, grumble, grumble...Great. Now the phone's ringing! Aaargh!!

monumental

What monument to thee, my God, could convey thy grandeur,
What lofty height of man’s design impart thy grace,
What sparkling glass reflect thy splendor,
Or carvéd rock reveal thy face?

No monument to thee will I then offer
Nor semblance of thy state will I effect,
But thy image marked on me to the world I proffer
With hope thy image in me thou wilt perfect.

I wrote this yesterday while sitting at the Navy Memorial. We've been subject recently to some poor writing at work in which WNC was referred to as a "monument". Needless to say, that kicked off a round of argument from our departmental point of view. I think, the juxtaposition of that internal document and my having a few free minutes at the Navy Memorial is what brought this on. I feel like it needs a transitional second stanza, but know that I also have a tendency to overwrite. Thoughts?

overload

So, I’ve been having stress dreams. It’s not so surprising, really. I’ve been working ‘round the clock for the last few weeks, lots of late nights and not much down time. In addition, all the extra time spent working (a special convention project that I was asked to contract for) has completely derailed me from all the good habits I’ve been cultivating since Lent. Don’t get me wrong, I can get back on the good-living train, but it has seriously pissed me off that I was thrown off the tracks. With all the extra stressors it’s no great surprise that I’m having stress dreams.

Now, I don’t know about you, but my stress dreams usually come in two varieties: the ones that are just extensions of the things causing all the stress to begin with, and the “classic” stress dreams. The former freak me out because I wake up at two a.m. worried that this hasn’t been done or that that was done wrong, but I find them to be totally normal and fairly easy to deal with. Go to work and see where things stand, then it’s dealt with. Of the “classic” stress dreams, I’ve long been prone to dreaming that all of my teeth fall out. I’ve had several versions of this dream over the years and it’s always super creepy and takes me a couple of days to come down off of. I have a very clear, dream-based sense memory of each tooth coming loose in my mouth, usually followed by the very specific feeling of spitting them out. Gross, right? Sometimes they all fall out all at once and sometimes it’s one at a time, one after another. Trust me, there is no better version of this dream. However, over the years I’ve grown – somewhat – accustomed to the dreams and can usually realize that they are dreams as I’m having them.

Recently, just before Pentecost, I, for the first time, had the classic “undressed in public” dream. I’ve heard about this all my life, but I haven’t ever had it before. I dreamed that I was in the south transept of the Cathedral during a major service at which I’m supposed to be a chalicer. In the dream, I’m so tired and spaced out that I suddenly realize communion is almost finished and I haven’t ever moved from my seat. Not only have I screwed up, but I’ve created a situation where other people are having to scramble to cover for me. I get up and begin walking toward mid-nave to apologize to the vergers and see if there’s anything I can do to help fix the problem I’ve caused. About halfway to my intended destination I suddenly realize I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS ON and make a quick about face and head for one of the side chapels. As I’m going up the steps into the chapel (ass toward the congregation), I pass one of my co-workers and hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me I don’t have any pants on?!” To which she responds, “We thought you knew.”

It’s okay, you can laugh at my pain. It’s only dream pain and I laughed when I told the same co-worker about the dream the following day. At which point she tells me, “Yeah, that probably would be my response.” Great. If I ever do lose it and start showing up for church only half-dressed it’s unlikely anyone will tell me because they’ll just assume I’ve made a daring fashion choice. This realization does nothing to alleviate the stress, let me tell you.

In the meantime, here I am working lots of extra hours on the Big Project. Allow me to interject at this point that while, yes, I am complaining about having a lot of work, it is in no way lost on me that a lack of work is a major crisis point for lots and lots o people at the moment. Most of my stress dreams have been the easier to deal with work-related sort. The panic about them is straightforward. Sometimes I just boot up my computer in the middle of the night, or the early morning hours, and check my e-mail to look for answers. Other times, I call my vendors at eight in the morning or send a text message late in the evening to check where things stand. As a last resort, I go in to work earlier than usual, or on the weekends, just to make sure everything is as it should be. But, I’m stressed out and not sleeping well, nor eating as well as I should, and hardly getting out to play much at all. Can someone reassure me that the sun still exists?

In fact, I was so tired that I made it casual Tuesday this week. Exhausted and unable to come up with any sort of rational reason why I needed to wear office clothes to work, I decided to go into the office in jeans and sandals. I didn’t have any meetings Tuesday, why really did I need to wear grown up clothes? It was, of course, then inevitable that Tuesday was the day I ended up having an interview with the FBI. Yes, the freakin’ Federal Bureau of Investigation. Completely wacked out from sleep deprivation and dressed in baggy jeans and a blouse that I hadn’t bothered to iron, I got ushered in to speak with an agent because I was the only one who would admit to having worked with Mitch Feinberg, who has applied for a position with the State Department. (The better part of this story is that his name is NOT Mitch Feinberg, but, although Mitch has been sucking up to the bosses with tremendous enthusiasm, the executive who came looking for anyone who could speak with the Fibbies regarding Mitch repeatedly got his name wrong—and he reports directly to her.) So, there I am being presented with the agent’s credentials just the way the do on TV, but I think in my exhausted haze I stared at them a little too long. Then I handed the little leather wallet with the plastic window back to him and said, “I feel like I should give you something now.” I proceeded to answer his questions as best I could, dancing diplomatically around the tricky ones. I have no first hand knowledge of Mitch’s penchant for dancing topless in gay bars, his pattern of dating foreign nationals, or what the hell he does on his trips to South America. And, yes, while I am aware that in the wake of the last round of Cathedral layoffs he purchased a new BMW, I have no idea whether or not he lives within his means. I am not aware of any history of drug use or mental illness, but I do know that he sings. The FBI agent asked me if I’d ever actually heard him sing? Absolutely honest response, “Yes.” Is he any good? Now, I have no idea why the quality of Mitch’s singing would have any impact on his background check for an overseas post with the federal government, but I wasn’t going to attempt to roadblock the FBI. Yes, he is good. As is his brother, they both sing in the opera chorus. Their mother sings also, they do a little annual recital in Virginia. Yeah, I got real chatty with the FBI about Mitch’s singing. I’m helpful that way. And freakin’ exhausted.

So, it caught me a little off guard Tuesday night to have a stress dream unlike any of my previous ones. In this dream I came face to face with a former beau whom I haven’t seen in ages, one I haven’t even thought about in quite a while. If it had involved the FBI I could have made sense of it, but an old boyfriend? Really?! I woke up depressed and tired and angry with someone I haven’t seen in forever BEACAUSE OF WHAT HE DID IN A DREAM. I totally get that this is irrational, but it continues to bother me. Even days later, I’m still upset with him and trying to figure out if the elements of the dream that so upset me actually upset me, or if it’s all just a big pool of stressed out emotional garbage that doesn’t mean anything more than I need to get some sleep.

So Wednesday I turned the corner on the Big Project, and Thursday I was able to go home at a normal hour for the first time in weeks. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to buy fresh fruit because I had completely run out. I spent twenty minutes in the store and came back out to find my battery had died. Yeah. Just what I needed. Seriously, it could have been so much worse than it was. It was daylight, and I was three blocks from home, and a freaking shuttle bus would take me free of charge from the grocery store directly to the front door of my building if I needed it to. Had this happened two days earlier at ten p.m. in a sketchy part of town it would have been so much more difficult. So, after a few attempts to see if one of my local pals could help me out, I prevailed upon the kindness of a total stranger to get a jump. She was a very sweet Georgetown student, but we eventually figured out that the battery of her macho SUV wasn’t putting out enough juice to jump my little Honda’s battery. Mall security had by that point come along to help and brought around a sedan and jumped it very quickly. Despite all the horror stories, strangers can sometimes be good people. Sure enough, my battery was dead again by morning, but I anticipated that and planned to take it in to the garage Saturday morning.

Stella and I have a standing Saturday morning brunch date and this week we were going to meet up and window shop all the new luxury stores that have opened up in the district between her home and mine. This was my suggestion last week and I was really looking forward to it. I called the garage Friday evening to make sure I wouldn’t have any problem bringing in my car on Saturday morning. It would take less than an hour to install the new battery and then I would go home and walk over to meet Stella at ten. I took the car in (after getting one of the maintenance guys in my building to jump it) and it died just as I pulled into the driveway of the shop at eight-thirty a.m. I went next door to the drug store to kill time until my car was ready. Can anyone explain why CVS has a Kama-Sutra Weekender Kit on clearance 50%off? When the mechanic hadn’t called by nine-fifteen I got a little nervous about our plans and Stella and I came up with a contingency arrangement. She came and got me, and then we headed north and found a place to have breakfast. Just as I ordered an egg-white omelet, the mechanic called. The $150 charge I had expected for the battery and an oil change was going to be sooooo much more. New alternator, new belts, new brake pads, soooooo much more. We talked about what needed to be done immediately and what I could put off a couple of months. He held firm about what really needed to be done now and came down to a price that was (barely) within my range.

Stella and I had a yummy breakfast (and got the hard-sell to “come back soon” (what can I say, we’re cute and we smile a lot)), then we went to the mall to kill time. I’m not much of a mall-person, but it was raining buckets and I needed distraction. We wandered through the stores with an arresting fixation on shopping for accessories. Not that I was spending any money, mind you, I had just agreed to give all my liquid assets to the guy fixing my car. But I did a mighty fine job of encouraging Stella to spend and every dime was a balm upon my stressed-out, beleaguered soul. The best sales staffs in the stores we went into were at Bloomingdale’s and the Coach boutique. Correct me if I’m wrong, Stella. She now has some fab new pieces to accessorize her life. I’m jealous. She makes mall shopping tons of fun. She’s also a great friend because when she took me to pick up my car, she stuck around until I’d made sure that everything was going to work out – that the car would start and the plastic would clear. She even checked in on me an hour later as the panic of having released all of my cash to a grease monkey, while not knowing when I would get paid for the Big Project, began to sink in. She then berated me for not having gotten a written contract for the Big Project. Like I said, she’s a great friend.

After checking my accounts online and assuring myself that everything really would clear, I placed a pre-emptive Father’s Day call. We had a nice chat and I told him what I was up to and proceeded to get almost hysterical on the phone with him about my finances. Like I said, the charge is going to clear my account. The car is running much better now (I hadn’t realized how rough it had gotten). And I anticipate a sizeable bit coming in from the Big Project. However, I got increasingly panicky as I talked with him on the phone. I think all the stress I’d been carrying just hit the breaking point. I could hear myself talking faster and faster and hear the pitch of my voice getting higher and higher and I finally just caved and asked if I could borrow some money for a couple of months. It could be that I get paid very quickly once the work on the Big Project is all complete, but we’ve still got some proofing to do, and there’s one day they are going to attempt “paperless” (but I’m anticipating being prevailed upon to put in some hours on it). The length of time between my bank account being emptied and the new influx of cash refilling it suddenly seemed to be a black unknown stretching into eternity. I felt pathetic and ridiculous succumbing to the cliché of borrowing from my parents, but I also knew in that moment I wasn’t going to sleep at all until I had things under control again. I’ve been so relaxed and happy the last few months—clear of debt, able to pay all my bills without worrying about juggling the checkbook, finally able to begin saving again—and in one moment I had gone from stable and secure to on the brink of a complete disaster. I leave it to you to figure out if I’m talking emotionally or financially, because I don’t know that I can see a difference anymore.

He agreed, by the way. He’ll front me some money and I’ll pay him back as soon as I can. I don’t like debt. It drives me crazy. It’s the constant stressor that follows me everywhere. I keep reading about how this is exactly the kind of situation that spins people out of control. First the car breaks down, then they get sick (oh my god, what if all my teeth fall out?!), then they lose their jobs (because the car is unreliable and they can’t get to work on time and the illness leeches away all their energy). Once they lose their jobs, the debt grows exponentially and then they lose their homes. Next thing you know I’m walking around church naked. God, I really shouldn’t have watched ten minutes of Oprah talking about people living in tent cities! I mean, I’d already read about tent cities, but I should know by now that ten minutes of Oprah can completely skew one’s world view.

Breathe.

Really. Everything is fine. I’ve got a job. I’ve got more money coming in. I’ve got a short-term family loan to help me sleep at night. My car is repaired and I’m not extended beyond my ability to repay. I’m just a little overloaded.

jealousy

What follows is what was, perhaps, the most thrilling part of my Monday. Mind you, not all of my Mondays are this fast-paced and exciting. But this was, I thought, worth sharing.

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:18 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Well?

Okay.
Doug won’t let me stay in DC with the children*. This could be a deal breaker.
I think maybe I made him my backup and now he’s calling me on it. But we have a few years to work on this.

I ate Korean food last night. Here’s a picture.

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 12:27:06 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

I’m jealous.

I’m jealous that you have a backup.
I’m jealous that you have a few years to work out the details.
I’m jealous that you ate Korean food.
I’m even jealous that you took a picture.
I’m just a seething, writhing mass of jealousy.

Toodles!

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:35 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Re: Well?

1. You haven’t met Doug. You would not be jealous.
2. The Korean food had hidden spiciness that turned evil. You should not be jealous.
3. The picture is remarkably poor quality. You could not be jealous.
4. Don’t seethe. It’s bad for your skin.

Toodles?

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 12:48:07 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

1. You know a man who talks with you about marriage and child-rearing. Doesn’t matter if it’s a joking fantasy or a ring and a bassinet. I’m jealous.
2. The genius of Korean food is the hidden spiciness. I am jealous.
3. The photo shows chopsticks and four billion little dishes someone else prepared and someone else will wash. I’m jealous.
4. My skin is looking pretty damn good these days. Be jealous.

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:53 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Re: Well?

1. Marriage has not been mentioned. “Ocala Christian Academy” has. (Shudder.)
2. The spiciness HURT. I was NOT enjoying it. I didn’t taste food for like 15 minutes. Just the epic burn of “spiciness.”
3. The little dishes of not immediately identifiable food were nice, I’ll say that.
4. Your skin has been looking wonderful lately. I AM jealous.
5. I have roots already. A WEEK, it lasted. A WEEK.

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 1:48:27 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

1. The Ocala Christian Academy will not admit the bastard children of people who defy the will of God by living in sin. If he mentioned the school, marriage was definitely implied.

2. I think what you refer to as “epic burn” is what the Buddha meant by “attaining enlightenment” and what the Hindus refer to as “nirvana”.

3. Well, I think we’ve pretty much exhausted that.

4. I appreciate your covetousness and only wish I had your legs.

5. Look at it this way: even when you die, your hair keeps growing. You’d have roots even if you were dead. You are not dead and will be able to do the upkeep to maintain your current bombshell appearance. Life means growth; death means growth. Any way you slice it you still end up singing Hakuna Matata.

6. NO ONE is paying the kind of microscopic attention to your cellular hair growth that you are. Get over yourself.

Now that I look back over this, I retract my earlier statement. My Mondays are pretty typically this earth-shattering. Be jealous.

*NB: The children are hypothetical. Doug is not. At least, I don't think Doug is hypothetical. Wow. If Stella has a hypothetical guy trying to strong arm her into sending their hypothetical children to Evangelical boys' schools, I really am jealous and I may need to plan an intervention.

coddling

I’m enjoying a lovely Christmas and I hope you can say the same. If Christmas isn’t your thing, I hope at the very least you’re finding a moment’s respite during these cold winter months. With the exception of a couple of bitter days, we’ve had a very mild winter thus far in this little corner of the world. Given that I’m not a winter enthusiast, this comes as a great relief to me. I may not be getting all the sun I’d like beating down upon me, but thank goodness I’ve been able to keep snug and warm.

The time from Thanksgiving to Christmas was, well, nuts. At work we had the pleasure of a particularly ugly round of staff cuts (as per previous post) and, for me, an increased workload. I’ll do a little bit of work over the next week, but for the most part my office is shut down until January 5. Happy Birthday, Jesus! I need the break; on January 5 I expect all hell to break loose again. But in the meantime, I’m taking care of me.

Actually, a lot of people are taking care of me these days and I’ve got to admit I like it. There’s something a just a bit fabulous about having people go the extra mile for you. Case in point: my Christmas presents this year. My first gift arrived on my cell phone a week ago. A message was left on my cell by a beloved friend who’d seen me making a spectacle of myself in an online video and called to say how happy he was to see my smiling face. This would have been gift enough, but he then managed to give me a spot on critique of the video, and commentary on my boss, which had me in stitches. I’ve shared the message with a select few friends, who all ask which of my boyfriends it is (I wish!), but I never tell. As hard as I laughed when I got the voicemail, it is nothing compared to watching other people first smile at the sweet tone, then double over with laughter at the caustic commentary. It’s a gift that keeps on giving.

My second Christmas present also came via phone. I arrived home on the 23rd to find this message on my answering machine (yes, I still have both a landline and answering machine—call me old-fashioned, but at least I gave up the party line and rotary dial):

Hiya, yeah, this is Brandon from the Global Data Center with a message from Aircraft 123XX from Captain Lucky to Goo. “Tuesday about 4:30, passing by high and east on our way to West Palm Beach. Merry Christmas!” End of message.

I played the message. Then I played it again. And again. If it isn’t obvious, Capt. Lucky is a pilot. I don’t know if you’ve ever had someone call to let you know they’re flying past and wish you a merry Christmas, but it was a first for me and made me feel incredibly special. If he made this same call to a half dozen other people, including his mother, sister, and fiancée, I have no idea; but it worked on me. Better than roses on Valentine’s or diamonds and champagne, Brandon’s voice on my answering machine was one of the high points of my holiday. To top it off, Capt. Lucky called again in person the next night; unfortunately, he caught me just as we were opening the doors for the first Christmas Eve service and I couldn’t really chat. Don’t worry, we caught up on Christmas Day as I recovered after the last of four major services in 18 hours and he cooled his heels doing a jigsaw puzzle in West Palm Beach. Poor boy!

I did manage a late night Christmas Eve phone call with Lit while I opened my presents over the phone. Luckily, Santa had already stopped by my place and she got to share my holiday glee. I’m not quite sure what Santa was thinking this year—not that I didn’t get great gifts—I did! I did!—but there was some sort of theme going on that caught me by surprise. I received a packet of my favorite cookies, a little case (similar to a pencil box) containing two pair of chopsticks (one big, one little, one smooth, of textured—kind of like the Japanese equivalent of dinner pair and luncheon pair), a jar of chicken-tomato bouillon, a packet of instant soup, and a used VHS copy of Mr. Holland’s Opus. Okay, maybe “glee” was overstating it a little, but Christmas in our house has never been about the expected. From Lit I received a set of six tiny Bohemian glasses, which at this point we assume are for liqueur, a British dessert cookbook published in 1980, a single, brand-new hot pad (which she claims had been left in the gift box recycled from two years ago when I got the box and an ornament at a choir party, so technically it was given to me by someone else and she just shipped it along), a pudding mould she’d picked up at an estate sale, and a boxed pair of Royal Worcester egg coddlers in the “Birds” pattern (regular, not king size). I’m willing to bet I’m the only person you know who got egg coddlers for Christmas. It’s definitely the coolest gift I’ve gotten in years. Of course, I’m now obligated to come up with a menu that involves coddled eggs, liqueurs, and steamed pudding, but Lit knows I like a challenge. And, if this seems like a weird, random list of stuff to make up a Christmas gift, well, maybe you’re right. There’s certainly not a bit of I would have thought to ask for, but it does clearly exhibit that she’s always thinking about me. Everywhere she goes, every sale she hits all year long she’s looking to see what she might find that I don’t even know I want and she’s usually right.

Then I got a gift via e-mail. This one I asked for, but didn’t really think I’d get—kind of like when you ask your parents for a pony. (Actually, I don’t think I ever asked my parents for a pony, that’s something kids in books and movies do, not kids who grow up in major urban areas. If your response is that YOU asked for a pony (and got one), good on you, but this is my Christmas tale I’m telling, so go blog on your own dime.) But this year, I mustered up my courage and asked a friend for what I really wanted and miracle of miracles if it didn’t show up in my inbox on Christmas Day! And, even though I asked for it, it caught me totally by surprise and it was even better than I hoped.

The last Christmas present I’ll tell you about involves my friend B who came over for Christmas dinner and by coming gave me a terrific Christmas present. I got to clean my house (kind of), and shop for groceries, cook a delicious meal, lay out my best china, and sit at the dinner table like a civilized human being. She also brought Mississippi Mud-pie brownies. Delish! Now in order to understand how fabulous a present this was, I have to back track and tell you have awful my Thanksgiving was. It really, really sucked. I was exhausted and angry from work (what with all the layoffs and other assorted changes) and spent the day alone. No phone calls, no e-mails, no dinner companions: alone. Several people said to me going into the holiday things like “you should go out with/get together with some friends”; they said these things until I wanted to scream out to them that telling me what I “should” do was a wonderful way of pointing out that I wasn’t included in their plans and I had best make plans to be with other people. No one ever explained who those other people were. If I haven’t made it clear, I was miserably depressed. I did try and make plans with local friends, but everyone was leaving town, or having family in, or generally booked and their plans didn’t include me. I spent the day wound up and pacing, too busy chasing myself around in my head to watch parades or movies, or read, as I nibbled on leftover Chinese food. Capt. Lucky did call late in the evening and chided me for not having gone out, but he can’t really conceive of my reluctance to force myself on other people. He’s known me so long now that he has no memory of my ever having been shy or cautious with him. So, having endured such a crappy Thanksgiving I looked ahead to Christmas and got pro-active and invited B over for dinner and I’m so glad I did, because without her it would have been, if not awful, at the very least lonely. By coming over to my house and letting me coddle her little bit, she helped me make Christmas out of what would have otherwise just been exhaustion. And it was lovely.

cheerio

As we all know, times is hard. People are being laid off in every sector and in my little corner of the world we’ve spent the last few weeks imaging and re-imagining every possible disaster scenario in an attempt to ward off what we’ve come to see as inevitable. We went through a vicious round of lay-offs in late spring, and we were told that this terrible thing was happening to regain sound financial footing. Furthermore, we were told that there would be no second round of cuts. As God is my witness, there will be no second round of cuts. Thank you, Scarlett.

Of course, if you know the story, once she is past the worst of her crises Scarlett doesn’t ever go hungry again but she pays an awful price for satiety. She will kill and cheat, lie and steal to avoid going hungry; nor does she ever admit that the luxury she enjoyed in her youth itself carried a heavy price. And so does life continue to imitate art, or if not art then, at least, best-selling fiction. We are now waiting our second round of staff cuts and budget slashing.

I keep being assured that my position is secure, but I only become more uneasy with every reassurance. Even if I can keep my job, will my pay be cut? Even if I keep my pay, is cost of living about to go through the roof as everyone—and I do mean everyone—struggles to survive? Even if everything in my life remains stable, people I know and work with, people I love and care for, and even people I don’t particularly like but upon whom I depend are going to loose their jobs. Some of them already have. So every time some has the desire to comfort me with repeated claims that I shouldn’t worry, I’ll be just fine, I want to scream, “Maybe, but what about everyone else?!”

In the midst of all of this we’ve been working to figure out how to make my final product as inexpensive as possible, and lest the point of the exercise be lost, to clearly exhibit a reduction in expenditure. There were about ten days here where it seemed that the appearance of having cut costs was in fact more important than actually cutting costs. I still have moments where I question the purposes of those making decisions in this enterprise. My days have been filled with drafting and redrafting cost projections and production schedules and version after version of finished product to the point of exhaustion. Yeah, it’s been fun for all of us.

The problem with redesigning my portion of our entire product is that everything is of a piece. In changing the dimensions within which I work, which up until now have been relatively flexible, we are forced to re-examine every other choice we’ve made to see if it is compatible with a new rigid format. Last year was, for me, a hard fought battle to make these kinds of choices early and in a scheduled fashion so that we didn’t spend hours and days drafting and redrafting at the last minute. We finally achieved a point where we are consistently, manageably behind; we can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but can’t ever quite make it out. Having upper management suddenly decide to throw a massive wrench into the works is not helping my stress level.

Every day I’m reminding people of the trade-offs we’re making in choosing this path: we’re losing hospitality, we’re losing an educational tool, and we’re losing a promotional tool. We are making gains with this choice: better fiscal responsibility, better use of natural resources, and a cleaner, more contemporary look. This isn’t the first time this suggestion for change has come up; in the past when someone looking to save money, usually my boss’s boss, would say, “Why don’t we do things the way ____ does?”, I have always responded that the reason we don’t do things that way is because that way isn’t suited to the way we do things. I’m right, but it seems that is no longer argument enough. Therefore, one of the trade-offs we’re making is to stop doing things the way we do things and do them instead in a way which will fit a proscribed format; in making this choice, I believe we’re losing integrity.

But, perhaps, I’m too quick to judge. I was chatting with a colleague this week about all of these things, a colleague whose work is on the absolute periphery of mine, and we got to talking about the box of Cheerios. You see, every week at our largest Sunday morning service a plate collection is received and presented to God at the altar. Along with the cash offering—pardon my vulgarity, but let’s call a spade a spade—one of the most annoying ushers I’ve ever met solicits the most telegenic children of the day to carry forward a basket of foodstuffs as an offering to God. The contents of the basket have not changed during the time I’ve been here (except at Easter when, to my horror, the annoying usher included two cheap, pastel stuffed bunnies in the basket). I am irritated that the same institutional size box of name brand breakfast cereal is given to God week after week. I am also irritated that we pander to sentimentality by seeking out unwitting children who will present the most attractive picture. I am further irritated that we make no statement explaining this practice of ours; it is assumed that because the priest asked that we make an offering and has reminded us that all things come from God, we will draw the appropriate conclusion when we see some adorable tots taking an enormous box of America’s most beloved cold cereal to the Table of the Lord. Then, my colleague says to me, “You know the box is empty, right?” Just when you think it can’t get worse.

I may not always agree with the liturgical choices that are made for our worship, but for better or worse they have always had the integrity of being our choices. Would I do things differently? Yes. Would you? Yes to that, too. Admit it, there is always that hymn you don’t particularly like, that prayer that seemed awkward, that passage of scripture that doesn’t make any sense (or which makes explicit sense and with which you simply disagree). So, I will declare again that while I may not always agree with the choices that are made for our worship, they are deliberate, intentional choices made in the belief that they will best serve our needs. So, when I write that in changing the parameters of my work, we will be forced to re-examine every other choice we have made for the coming year, I’m not exaggerating; I’m stating fact. When we limit our worship of the Lord to what will fit within fixed parameters, we will inevitably make trade-offs: hospitality, accessibility, evangelism, formation, creativity, innovation, and, yes, integrity. Every day, and some days every hour, I am asking again, “What are you willing to sacrifice?” If you get this, you must sacrifice that. If you want that also, you must give up something else. And then they start in with the questions, all of which are variations on “Can’t we just expand the parameters?” No. These limits were set by those above me and those above you, and you agreed that we could work within those limits. Now we must live into it.

God bless me, I’m tired of this conversation. All I can see ahead of me are weeks and weeks of tumultuous change, and just as the change begins to take root we will once again be in the heart of the Nativity storm. I can hardly bear to think of what Christmas will bring. This year we’re adding a “new” item to our holiday line-up, and letting the axe fall on an old favorite. “New” in that we’ve given an old friend a flash name, Carols by Candlelight, and moved it forward on the calendar. Amongst the staff we’ve taken to calling this service “Uncle Sammy’s Spectacular Christmas Jamboree: The Greatest Liturgy on Earth!” In reality, it is Christmas Lessons and Carols on the afternoon of Advent IV with the addition of a “candle lighting ceremony”. It’s all a bit theatrical for me, but I gave up on that score after our Christmas Day service won an Emmy last year. I ain’t kidding. Who could make this stuff up? But the coup de grace is what is happening to the L & C we record for broadcast on PRI. Think of it as a greatest hits liturgy. The plan is to cobble together a “new” version from the recordings of the last few years: carols, hymns, readers; all we have to do is record a new sermon and paste the whole thing together. No choir or congregation needed. It is the full-scale liturgical equivalent of an empty box of Cheerios.

Perhaps we’re really not giving up so very much. Perhaps I am the only one really bothered by any of this. Perhaps by February things will have reached calmer waters, but for now the seas are rough. Perhaps.