Martha Martha!

Apparently I am still too busy to write. Apparently, I am going to continue to take a stab at it.  I’ve also finally begun knitting that second sock in my latest pair.  To egg myself on I just bought a skein of Jade sapphire 2-ply cashmere. I figure nothing is going to get that second sock done like a beckoning skein of luxury yarn.  Apparently I still have time to play these types of mind games with myself.

Last week Jack had a field trip, which I was informed about when I picked him up from school.

“Mom! We had a great field trip today!”

“You had a field trip today…?”

Apparently I signed the permission slip for this a month ago.  Jack has also apparently started collecting Pokemon cards. I have no idea what Pokemon is, or why these cards hold value, but it is the newest form of commerce on the playground after school.  Although I have never bought a single Pokemon card, Jack has now acquired ten of them, which he has carefully labeled in a binder.  Apparently you can get packs of them at Target for $4.00. I guess I won’t bother buying any since my seven-year-old seems perfectly adept at plying them from his play-ground pals for free. Apparently my four- year-old’s favorite Pokemon card is Picachu.

Besides trying to read, Joey’s latest trick is singing some awful top forty song which is apparently an old Brittany Spears hit. We’re not big Brittany fans. Come to think of it, I couldn’t sing a Brittany song if my life depended on it. According to Jack, Joey picked this up from CCM’s son. CCM is also not a Brittany fan. At least, not that I’m aware of.

Aside from working part-time at the church, I have taken a second part-time job as a professional grocery shopper. Apparently I am at some market or grocery store every single day. The benefits in this type of work are obvious. Firstly, I never have to make a shopping list. If I forget something, I don’t beat myself up about it, because I will apparently be at the store tomorrow. Secondly, I never have to think about what’s for dinner more than a day ahead, because I can just think about that tomorrow, when I’m at a different grocery store.

The down side to being a part-time grocery shopper has basically to do with mental navigation. For example, keeping track of what day it is can be a particular challenge—when you come out of the store and find that you can’t remember which parking lot you are in, or where you parked the car. And so you circle one section of the lot only to realize that you parked there last week. Then you try another section of parking lot to no avail, only to realize that you had apparently driven your husband’s car that day, and the mini-van is parked somewhere three days ago in that other lot at that other store across town. Apparently.

We have already had 4 weeks of Christmas choir rehearsals. As I type this I realize that I need to plan for rehearsal #5, which is now only 4 days away. Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away. Apparently we are having a few families over. For this, I do need a shopping list, because there is no way I’m going to the farmer’s market more than I have to. I guess I’ll think about that tomorrow.

My house continues to flirt with being a complete disaster area.  Apparently having a pit of a house is a magnet for visitors as we now have people dropping by all the time. If you really want friends, just stop cleaning.  This ploy has also been very effective in training my husband-house-boy, a.k.a. “Agadore.”

“Kath, doesn’t the kitchen look great?”

Sigh, “why yes, thank you Agadore.”

What is not apparent is how my life has become so full and blessed, or how my boys love me despite all the things that apparently slip through my radar these days.  Or how my hubby is even now, cleaning up the dinner dishes; from that pre-fab, Trader Joe’s,  frozen stir-fry meal that I spent all of ten minutes heating up.

Life, apparently is out of my control.  Apparently, this is good.

Joey was adamant about wearing flip-flops to church this morning.  I tried to deflect the whining argument by telling him it was too cold and that he couldn't walk very well in them.  After a lot of protest I finally had to lay down the law:

"Joey! We don't wear flip-flops to church!"

"Yeah but mommy, Jesus wears sandals."

It’s the last week of October and it’s finally autumn in Georgia. And while so many of my fellow bloggers are out there waxing eloquently about spices, colors and seasoned woody senses--I find the only thing I can note about the fall is the fact that I have stopped eating tomatoes. I should after all want to eat a tomato. Last week, I did in fact purchase several lovely heirloom tomatoes... which are now dying a slow, cold, mealy death in my refrigerator. I pawned one off on my husband last Sunday via a BLT.

“Mmmm, honey, you make the best BLT’s.”

“Great!...So do you want another one?”

The thought of a salad literally causes me to cringe. All I want these days is a cookie. And I’m not convinced it’s solely a cold weather thing. I’ve been working out intensely for 2 months now, and I think maybe I’ve hit some sort of critical fat-muscle breaking point, and my thighs have sent out the alarm--

“Tomato? Blech! Cookie? Yes, Thank you!”

I even took the boys to Publix last week, simply because they give the kids free cookies, and I knew Jack wouldn’t eat his. This newest crave-fest suits my four year old just fine.

“Mommy, what is that!? What are you eating mommy!?”

“ummmm….a cookie.”

“Can I have one too!?”

Thus ends the argument.

My eldest son Jack loves all the baking I’ve been doing lately. He likes measuring and mixing various ingredients. For Jack, cooking is his science and outlet for inventing. He’s named our kitchen “Rose’s” and our dinner hour is often transformed into a restaurant experience.

“Well Mom, what’s on the menu tonight at Rose’s? I think I want to make my special salad.”

“Rose’s” Salad

1 apple, hacked into a pulp with a butter knife

1 can of another type of processed fruit

3 “grams” of sugar

Method:Combine ingredients in an extra large mixing bowl, and whisk vigorously into a foamy lather. Cover tightly with saran wrap for at least 20 minutes, and serve to Daddy. Daddy must then eat his salad directly out of the large mixing bowl. Bon Appétit!

My friend sent me a link to kids cooking classes. I think I may look into it for Jack this winter.

Not only is Jack into cooking, but he’s also into bar-tending. We had a church pot-luck last week, and as usual, Jack appointed himself drink server at the 2-litre table. He has done this at every church function for the past year. I love seeing the hospitality gift growing in him; watching him hand out drinks with intense joy made me wonder if God didn’t make Jack to feed the masses some day. I pray he never loses his infectious love to serve.

What else is in the oven these days? Christmas choir. We have the biggest and best group ever. Now that we have started rehearsing on Wednesday nights, the whole weekly cycle seems to be turning in cut-time. Which brings me back to cookies. I need to bring snacks for our next rehearsal, and this is the week I pull out my deadly chocolate-chip-pumpkin bread recipe. My doom may be sure-- but I do love the fall.

Thank you to all my lovely friends who gave me really gracious encouragements to keep cooking! I was very overwhelmed by your comments. It's hard to think of closing down after that chorus of praise. Smooches gracias!

The scarf was awarded to a friend of Megan's that I met on the playground a few weeks ago. She told me her incredible account of surviving what should have been a fatal reaction to prescription drugs. Her story is really one that needs writing--not only is it inspiring, but an incredible testament to God's blessing and desire to answer prayer. Megan I hope you or Kate will write it someday soon.

To everyone else, I have not stopped knitting--so there may be hope for all of you to get a sock or two for Christmas. I'm sorry, I just can't stop knitting. What else am I going to do at Jack's soccer games while he's chatting up the refs and skipping hither and thither anyway? Don't get me wrong, I'm cheering on my son in theory--but sometimes it's just easier to knit.  Besides which, one of my good friends asked if she could take over my "stash."

Now, back to work in the kitchen...

When faced with the insurmountable task of cooking a really big meal, I’ve found the best way to overcome inertia is to first off, get the pots and pans out of the cupboard. And so I’ve opened this WORD document and the little cursor sits there flashing at me. “What’s for dinner?"  it meekly undulates. If only my boys could be so polite. They start their whining dinner inquisition the moment they walk in the door from school.  As it is, I have enough material for a Thanksgiving feast.  But that’s a huge meal.  At the least, it’s a full day’s labor in the kitchen. Am I up to the task? Is anyone really that hungry?

For starters, I need to wrestle the turkey out of the fridge. What is this part-time job that has me so paralyzed? It’s turning out to be a big fat web of guts and fat, and I’m enjoying every moment. I’m doing ad hoc administrative stuff for my church. Right now the job is a bunch of random tasks. Putting together an HR manual, researching and reporting on post-reformation church architecture, preparing and planning choral music for a Renaissance Christmas festival, and most importantly, organizing files …and more files. Every week is different, as I’m finding a real joy imposing order to chaos. Nothing gets me going like a string of mismatched projects.  I really like getting out of the house every day. I love my comrades. I love how easy it is to stop at Whole Foods every morning for coffee and a little something for lunch.

No doubt the honeymoon phase will eventually fade, and sooner or later I’ll be begging for a break.  But right now, I’m enjoying the “adventure”. I drive by a scooter dealer-ship every day, and I’ve decided that I really want a Vespa. Doesn’t every middle–aged-mini-van-driving-mom want a Vespa? Truth or dare.

My days go like this--after getting the boys off to school I run to the Y. My fitness level is getting better. My “trainer” has upped my regimens. I’m finding out that I do indeed have “abs.” Who knew? I then shower, pack up my lap-top, and head into church.

Since our church is in the middle of mid town, and in constant construction mode, every day feels like a bit of a bustle. On any given morning that I walk into the downstairs kitchen, caterers are in full swing preparing the days meals, or contractors are puttering about somewhere. Our offices are not yet competed, and so our staff is like some ubiquitous glob of transient squatters, grabbing whatever table or chair or piece of floor that’s available to work on.

We also rent out space to a small start-up charismatic church. Several times a week they hold practices and worship services in our chapel area. It’s an interesting clash of worship cultures as they crank up their rock-n-roll praise songs at 10am in the middle of the week.

To give you a flavor of my typical work day, let me relate the little “bag of giblets" that was waiting for me one-morning last week. I was evidently the first of our staff to arrive, and when I walked into the kitchen, the caterers and cooks were arguing with a homeless woman who had somehow gotten into the building. This is another element of having a city church--we can expect homeless neighbors at any time. Our homeless ministry is a work in progress to say the least.

The caterers evidently didn’t want to deal with this woman, so when I walked in the door, they all pointed at me and said—“you’re with the church! Here, you need to deal with this woman, we’re too busy, she’s delusional!”

The caterers scattered, and I was left standing in front of this woman who spoke half English, half Spanish-pig-latin. Let me also say that I’m a rookie at dealing with the homeless. I’m a lot more comfortable than I was a few years ago, but I often flounder for the best approach to take. This particular person was going to be a challenge to say the least.

She was an elderly woman, and she was dressed head to foot in purple. She had a purple table cloth draped over her head, a purple corduroy dress, and a purple blanket tied around her waist. Her eyes were cloudy and darted erratically back and forth. She was very difficult to understand, and she was hysterical.

The best I could decipher was that she wanted food. I had to start yelling at her to get her to calm down.

“M’am! M’am! Listen to me!”

“I wanna coffee!”

I was in fact holding a cup of coffee that I had just “won” at Whole Foods. I had been standing in a stalled check-out line when the checker winked and waived me through. I thought it a nice, unexpected blessing that morning as I walked out of the store with my free cup of coffee. I hadn’t even taken a sip of it yet, as God evidently had other plans.

“Here! You want my coffee? I haven’t had any. Here! Take it!”

She quickly grabbed it out of my hands.

“Now, you go outside and wait for me, I’m going to get you a bus token and something to eat! You go outside!” I was still yelling, it seemed to keep her calm.

She went out the kitchen door. I walked upstairs looking for something to give her. We were out of tokens, and there was no food in the office. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed back outside.

The caterers had resumed their work as I walked on through. I found her waiting for me by the garbage dumpster. She had gulped down the coffee quickly. I handed her the water. It was all I could offer at the moment. The coffee had evidently calmed her down and cured her speech problem. She stood silently eying me up and down.

“Now, I don’t have any tokens today, but if you come back Sunday, we’ll have some and you can look in the clothes closet.”

“Are you a Hebrew?”

“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly.

“Are you a Jew woman? You a Hebrew Jew woman?”

“No I’m not. Now you can come back--.”

“Yes you are! You’re a Jew woman. You’re a Hebrew!”

“No-I’m not.”

“You have a bambino, there?” She was pointing to my stomach.

“No I’m not having a baby.”

“I have bambino!” She was now pointing to her own stomach. “-- no food stamps, nobody help me.”

I wasn’t going to argue the point.

“Well, you come back Sunday if you need clothes or a token.”

She then pointed to the open door at the top of the fire escape at the back of our building. The charismatic church had been holding one of their services in the chapel just inside, and they had the door propped open for ventilation. This must have been how she had gotten in the building. I told her to come back on Sunday and I walked up to the top of the stairs. A young woman was standing in the door.

“Did you let that woman in the building?”

“Yes I don’t know where she came from.”

“Well, please keep this door closed. We can’t have people wandering in during the week.” She looked at me indifferently.

I walked into the chapel. It was dark. At the front of the room was a small group of musicians playing grunge music. They were having some sort of service, as 20 some young people were laid out, face down all over the floor. They were either sleeping or praying, I couldn’t tell which. Stepping over them like they were corpses, I tried to quietly find my way through the darkness to the sanctuary. I got to the hall to find a guy sprawled accross the doorway. I wanted to shout, “make way for the Hebrew Jew woman” but just muttered “excuse me brother.” He moaned and rolled over to the side. It was just another morning in our little big city church.

One of my projects involves organizing staff files. Last week as I was rifling through stacks of old papers, I stumbled onto a group of Meyers-Briggs personality tests. I remembered taking a personality test ions ago, but couldn’t remember which type I was. I knew it was an odd one, so I went on-line and re-checked it. If any of my fellow office mates are wondering what on earth they are dealing with, I’m an INFJ. This explains a lot, and a little at the same time. Seeing as INFJ’s make up only 1% of the population, we are not only difficult to understand, but apparently don’t even understand our own intuitive powers. My husband was amused at the fact that INFJ’s “are always right, and know it.” Apparently Ghandi and I are in good company.

And now for some gravy. The other night I decided to go to church early. I was organizing a women’s prayer group that night, and Chad had taken the boys to soccer practice. It’s kind of nice having a church key on my key ring. Ironically my church key and house key look exactly the same, as our building is starting to feel more and more like my real home.

Our pastor has rightly warned us on many occasions not to idolize our building-- the stained glass and arched ceilings. What is sacred is not the building, but the body of believers. The building is a temporary dwelling for us. It is a gift for us to use for God’s kingdom work. I believe that deeply. But somehow there’s a catholic remnant in me that craves a sense of the sacred in a house of worship. That night I couldn’t wait to get there. I had no reason to go over early, but I knew it would be empty, and I felt this yearning to be alone in the sanctuary—praying and setting my heart on worship. It was dark, and quiet. In the office tower, I could hear the muffled sawing and hammering as the carpenters were finishing up the day’s work. The gothic-revival stained glass was delicately back-lit from the street lights outside. Psalm 84 was pumping through my veins—

How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord Almighty! My soul yearns, even faints for the courts of the Lord; My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. Even the sparrow has found a home, and a swallow a nest for herself…a place near your altar O Lord Almighty, my King, and my God. Blessed are those who dwell in your house, they are ever praising you…Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the house of the wicked. For the Lord God is a sun and shield; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless. O Lord Almighty, blessed is the man who trusts in you.

As I sat in the dark I felt an overwhelming thankfulness. Thankful that my work was in a place that somehow felt like a home, and that this home was a place of worship. I lay down across the chairs in the isle, thanking and praising God. My eyes panned up the stained glass, following the lines of the arches to the wainscoting of the barrel vaulted ceilings. Slowly my eyes panned up higher and higher until at last they rested straight above, where I found staring down at me that huge, glittering, silver disco ball, left there from the previous owners of the building. I started laughing in the dark. "Martha, Martha."

I used to hate that horrible "Dance Fever" eye soar. Now I really hope we never take it down.

There’s of course much more to this Thanksgiving feast to come, but I’m afraid patience is going to have to be my main ingredient. Christmas choir rehearsals start this week. Fa-la-la-la-la!

My brother called me the other day.

"So, what’s been going on with you? I see you’ve stopped writing on your blog thing..."

I had a sick feeling in my stomach? I hadn’t even thought about Martha’s table for over a week.  Could this be the beginning of the end?  Is my career as a not-ready-for prime-time writer officially over?  What’s the current run of the average, "friends and family" blog anyway?  I’m now into my third year, and although material with the boys is a never ending feast; I seem to lack either the gumption or time to cook anything up.  Heck, I barely get dinner on my own table, lately.

I’ve been witness to many a friend’s blog die sudden or slow, withering deaths.  And when things start seeming trite or redundant, most people revert to tricks like "recipe of the week", or "mommy tip-o-the-day", or craft du jour.  Life is reduced to sound bytes or kid's quippy quotes which could easily be found in any reader’s digest.  I’ve done it.

What shall Martha’s plight be?

My problem is that I’ve started working "part-time."  Anyone who knows me, knows that "part-time" isn’t in my vocabulary.  You can’t just give me a project and expect me to trot around the race track with it.  I’m like a task-race horse, and I literally won’t sleep at night until I can see the final stretch before me.  It’s a dilemma.  My house is a wreck.  The dust wads and window webs seemed to have joined forces.  I will say that I do have a few standards, and keep my one bathroom semi-sanitary. Was I once wishing I had a bigger house? Silly me. God knows better.

The other morning  as I was grabbing a cup of coffee in the kitchen before I ran out of the house to go into  "work;" (did I just say that? pinch-pinch) Chad was in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes from the night before. (domestic gasp.)

"Sorry I’m not the perfect house wife honey."

My hubby pounced on his advantage,

"That’s OK. You’re far too beautiful and talented a woman to be wasting yourself on dirty dishes."

I thought that was a pretty good line, as I was running out.  I am NOT "dissing"  the women who possess the discipline and tenacity to keep their houses clean! I was merely amused at my husband's not so subtle pick-up tactics.  Life has taken a turn.

And since I can’t keep up, something’s got to give. Will it be Martha Martha? Is the kitchen finally closing? Or will it be....knitting? Hmmmm.

I solicit the good opinion of my "readers."  So here’s the deal.  I shall offer up my latest and final knitting project of the fall to the person who can offer their most sincere encouragement. It's the most blatent blog-boost-gimmick I can think of.  Free stuff.  I'll mail it to you.

This beauty is made from super soft, brushed alpaca/wool, and the colors are fabulously "October." It’s also about 15 feet long-- in the event that you’re caught in a burning building, you could probably lower yourself out of the second storey window with it. My boys thought it looked like I was wearing an octopus.

Any takers? Butter me up.