Why I Need A New Baby Jesus

Every year in anticipation of Christmas, we set out the nativity set. I have several, including my favorite, a very large plastic Fontanini version given to us as a wedding gift. The Bishop who married us sagely made sure it could weather the pounding kids give a large set of colorful figurines and barn yard animals. They have endured in part because of their oversized nature.

The smaller sets alas, have not fared as well. When we lost a sheep, I did feel the scriptural pull to search the whole house over but that lost lamb did not have as good a shepherd. I could endure the camel going AWOL and even stomached the angel flying away. After all, we could always substitute a star. Then Joseph went missing. The shepherd made a poor understudy. After a protracted search through the various toy bins, we discovered him amidst a sea of knights, action figures and assorted Thomas the Tank Engine friends.

Eventually, one set got whittled down to the bare essentials, Jesus, Mary and Joseph while another had two magi and a donkey as the extended entourage. I could live with these redacted versions for the most part. After all, these were reminders of the real event, and if my children knew the story, even these half measures were sufficient.

However, my daughter whose birthday falls dangerously close to December 25th also has a nativity set that has been added to every Christmas. It has long since expanded past the stable and its core members to include the neighboring town folk and fields. This year, within minutes of having set up her scene however, the baby Jesus went missing.

I was certain one of her toddler sisters had walked off with it so I made some inquiries. The two year old smiled, nodded and toddled off saying something that sounded like "Trash." I paused to consider whether I would take the word of a not yet potty trained child as to the whereabouts of the most important figure in the nativity story. Toddlers do not make good witnesses I told myself after spying the garbage can brimming over.

Theoretically, the figurine should be at the top. But I knew if I looked, I'd wind up digging through the entire smelly contents. I also knew if I didn't take a peek and didn't find it, I'd rue the fact that I hadn't at least opened the bag. It took a walk around the house looking to steel up my nerve to open the trash. I was "checking other obvious places first," I told myself.

Opening the trash bag yielded nothing. Nor did the subsequent smelly sticky digging. The debate in my mind as to when I would have sifted through enough to constitute a thorough search and satisfy my conscience and maternal guilt was as fierce as the smell.

Then the owner of the nativity set came into the kitchen. She looked at her crèche with a fierce pleased pride. "Good idea hiding the Baby Jesus Mom. He shouldn't be there until Christmas."

Mentally thanking her for the out and mildly amused that she didn't find the idea of her mother knee deep in debris the least bit odd, I vowed to get a replacement and wrap it in a box to be the first present opened Christmas day. Bagging up and abandoning the search, I washed my hands and decided to tackle the replacement another day; still hoping that the Baby Jesus might turn up when I least expected it.

So now, when I think of what I need for Christmas, the answer is what Christmas is supposed to be; I need the baby Jesus. And although I’ve ordered a new one, I still know it’s possible that He may show up when I’m not looking reminding me that the time before Christmas is about being watchful and waiting.

(Ran last year 12/10/09 This year, not one figurine has gone AWOL, but it's still early in the season).

This is a Personal Note

Normally, this blog is devoted to the silliness of parenting and the crazy attempt to impose structure, logic, reason and safety on the ever growing expanding minds of children, affectionately known as non-sentients in our home.

(Hint, any child at any age can be a non-sentient; all they have to do is something that to the adult brain makes no sense on any planet whatsoever).

However, recent events have made me feel awed.
Awed at the help that others have offered.
Awed at the prayers of people I will have to wait to meet in Heaven.
Awed by the generous response of my family and community, when there are countless things, big and small which demand their attention.

I have in my life been both excellent and absolutely awful at writing "Thank you notes." Once after a baptism, I dutifully copied down everyone's gift and address and had the stamps and envelopes ready to go...I lost the log and thus could only muster feeble "Thanks." And I know I forgot some people in that process who I only hope can forgive my foolish disorganization and mistakes. It seems nothing but sheepishly stupid to admit these sorts of things, but then that's what mistakes are, sheepish foolishly stupid actions that can't always be fixed, only amended after the fact with large dollops of contrition and forgiveness.

So thank you everyone. Thank you for visiting, for your prayers, for your kind words, for reading. Thank you for supporting my family with your words and well wishes. Your kindness is a balm in this very busy world that seems to forget that peace is what we should be seeking in our lives, in our hearts, and looking for in each other.

After all, Christ's first words after resurrecting were "Peace Be with you."

(Actually, they were "Ta Dah!" but that's been removed from the record).

P.S. For those interested, the Catholic Standard did a follow up piece that includes a picture.

Cut and paste the link to see Paul. I still haven't manged to master putting in certain types of links. Thanks for visiting.

http://www.cathstan.org/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=1919&SectionID=2&SubSectionID=&S=1

Hurricane Ike Destroys Bolivar

The Bolivar Peninsula is no more. A family friend flew over the land and saw that virtually none of what was, even remains in piles. Most people never heard of it, so they won’t miss it. But for me, Caplen, Gillcrist, Crystal Beach and Galveston, they represent not just whole summers but three to four generations of memories that have just now literally been washed out to sea.

 The whole peninsula had a way about it that differed from the flashier Galveston that always got everyone's attention. No one traveled to the Bolivar Peninsula that did not already know of its hidden charms. It was drive thru land, as the lure of the ferry and the Strand and Guido's and the bungee jump, bumper cars and rent-a bikes along the seawall kept people from stopping along the way except perhaps for gas or a loaf of bread to feed the seagulls.

 People who lived at the beach year round were easy to spot. They wore clothing that had been line dried to the point of fading and most of them smoked. Most of them had tattoos that were politically incorrect, and had them long before they were trendy. The women wore nail polish but no makeup. They had leathery tan skin that if you touched felt unspeakably soft. Men wore jeans and t-shirts 99.9% of the time and baseball caps. They were lean but not thin, strong but not muscular and frequently unshaven. These were people who lived by their hands, via carpentry, painting, sewing, baking, fishing and selling all they made. They cleaned whatever they caught and ate it. They invoked Jesus’ name and cursed with equal ease and didn’t think much of people who came to the beach but didn’t want to get sandy or know how to handle tar (baby oil works great), or who wanted to know where the nearest “Wi-fi” connection might be found. (Try Houston).

 Their homes were often pink and grey and they would own at least one boat, one dog, one trailer and a pickup truck. They could fix air conditioners but most didn’t bother to own one, as fans worked best year round. Phones came to the peninsula grudgingly, (1984) and few bothered with TV or cable, much less computers. All that salt air and moisture made electronics beyond a good stereo a real waste of time.

That none of the businesses or homes still exist, even as piles of debris require that I remember them as they were. There was the obligatory shell shop for souvenirs, Milt’s Fish Market for bait and fresh caught goodness, and Claud’s, a store which sold everything one could possibly need at the beach except food. These stores had been here since my Grandmother was young. There were even hand written notes mentioning them as places to go for goods posted in the beach house that served as a summer place to survive with 9 kids before air conditioning for my family’s family since the 1920’s.

It's hard to imagine the Bolivar penisula without these places where a man with Harvard law degree and a man who didn't finish high school would be indiscernible from one another as they swapped fishing tips and discussed lures and baitwells and the best "spec" they ever caught. Looking at the pictures, there is mud and devestation, and I remember the “newcomers” like Mama Theresa’s Flying Pizza, which quickly became mine and my brothers and eventually our children’s favorite spot on Fridays. There wasn't a chain on the entire path, in fact it was a big deal when in the late 90's, a McDonald's opened in Winnie (15 miles away), and a grocery store (The Gulf Mart) opened so that going to the beach no longer meant packing food for a week or driving to Winnie, Houston or Beaumont for more.

These places always seemed new because I could remember a time when they weren't there. I searched for the waterslide, surely it remained. That contraption was something of a controversy to my elders. "Why should we pay to go on a waterslide when you have the entire ocean here?" It was not an easy arguement to combat. Still, eventually, a trip to the slide became part of the beach regimen, just as surely as crabbing with turkey necks, smores and a night of competitive poker, hearts and speed solitare. A second waterslide tried to muscle in on the territory (2004), but beach goers of the Bolivar Peninsula were terribly loyal and annoyed whenever anyone tried to one up anyone else, so the second place struggled along until the first place announced that it was okay and that they were actually friends.

 Dannae’s Donut Shoppe kept fighting to survive, selling Kolaches which the few in the know people swooped in on Sunday after mass at Our Mother of Mercy to purchase. It went out of business at least three times a summer. Maybe the guy was out fishing, but at least three trips out of five, the shop was closed during hours it was supposed to be open. The beach was like that.

Maybe we should have known that the peninsula’s days were numbered, that everything at the beach gets worn down and eventually destroyed but there was a permanent feeling to that thin stretch of Texas Coast. Whenever someone sold their beach house to someone not family, there was a feeling of shock and concern…that the next people would not be beach people. Most people who came to the beach, became beach people or sold. One could spot the early sellers. They'd try to give their beach houses fancy names and "modernize." It became quickly apparent they didn’t like the fact that there were only three radio stations one could get in clearly, one Christian rock, one talk and one country.

 Cell phones were essentially useless and they'd be shocked to discover people didn’t have answering machines. As far as I knew, there were only three atms along the entire strip and most places didn't take credit cards. When people opened new businesses, everyone would look on with amazement to see if they could stick. Some did, like the Sand Piper (on the bay side, great fish), and some didn’t, like the Pier, which when Hurricane Rita hit in 2006, left the large stumps of the pier itself, standing in the surf.

What I will miss though, are those experiences that were uniquely East Texas Coast Beach. I’ll miss hearing the old church lady imitating Kate Smith at the end of mass on 4th of July, singing God Bless America and beach combing while remembering which house was the one where we saw an alligator that had swum down into the gulf, sunning itself. I’ll miss the neighbors that would walk up to introduce themselves because your bonfire looked fun and the beer was cold. I know I could go riding in the back of a pickup truck along the shore to gather driftwood for a bonfire almost anywhere, but there was something to it here. I'll even miss the crazy beach lady on her tractor mower who would get grouchy if your flipflop touched her property line when walking back to the house.

But mostly, I’ll miss the memories of bringing new people to the beach house and watching them discover that despite the seaweed and jellyfish in the brown warm surf, the tar on the beach, the stickaburrs in the grass and the fire ants and mosquitoes, that standing out on the wooden deck, staring at the ocean, sipping a freshly made drink of something, they would breathe in the salt air and marvel at how much they loved this place.

 Now I know places can be rebuilt but here, we just don’t know if there is anything to build on yet, or even how to begin. It’s too soon to know if any of what we knew could be restored. By all accounts, there's just nothing there of those 85 years of memories but memories. For now, I just miss that place that described my childhood summers and almost every birthday until I was 24 and hope that in Heaven, I get to drive down highway 87 and turn onto Martha's Vineyard and find a strong southeast wind and a grey house up on 18 foot piers with family inside it sitting at my grandfather's butcher table, chopping up the ingredients for Gumbo.

 Arial View before Ike... http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=Green+beach+house,+TX&ie=UTF8&ll=29.495683,-94.531804&spn=0.001735,0.003259&t=h&z=19 For more information/pictures of what was and what is... www.bolivarchamber.org/Portals/0/CaplenShores.jpg www.nytimes.com/2008/09/16/us/16bolivar.html?hp

Political Saints, A Venerable Vetting Process

When President Clinton first came to office back in 1992, Newsweek had a front cover with him depicted as Saint George, fighting the dragon. The caption read, "Can He Save Washington?"

It is interesting to note that the general populace is not terribly comfortable with Presidential candidates believing too much in Jesus, because they apparently want the candidate to Be Jesus, or at least in God's Top Ten.

As I considered the field, the process of picking a President is not unlike that of naming a Saint.

Saints go through a vetting process whereby their biography is studied and analyzed for consistency, reverent nature of their faith, miracles, revelations to the world and devotion to Christ. Likewise, voters examine and chose candidates for their policies, past political successes, adherence to the orthodoxy of their political party, ability to raise money and garner followers, and ability to convey to the masses, the depth of their devotion.

Saints progress through stages of candidacy, venerable, blessed, Saint. In politics, you have the candidate, nominee, President.

The two major differences seem to be that in politics, we only crucify the losers, and Saints don't get to be elected Saints until after they've died. Perhaps this second option is something the American Electoral College should consider.

Dead presidents aren't likely to be swayed by fancy dinners or powerful lobbyists. They aren't going to be lying under oath, well, maybe laying down on the job, as they will not merely be a lame duck but a dead one on day one of taking the oath of office. Vice Presidential candidates should be near death, not merely a heartbeat away, but a heart attack from achieving the most powerful office in America. Dick Cheney --not close enough, think Gerald Ford before he died type level of political dead. We need to edge as close to Lazarus as possible in our second choice. Like Michael Dukakis.

Oh sure, there's that tiny problem of determining what the dead leader of the free world would want to enact as policy. W.W.T.D.P.D? What would the Dead President do?

That's when we get to consult the prior Dead Presidents. How? Well, according to the Movies, there's that magnificent book of the Presidents, which knows all. Maybe we should just consult it and then go to the Lincoln memorial and ask Abe. I'm sure he'll come to life if our situation is dire enough, or at least, point at the secret door behind which, all of America's troubles can be explained and made to go away.

After all, all we want from our leaders is a person without political sin, able to heal all past wounds of the nation, create a robust economy with a budget surplus, pristine successful academic schools. We also would like chickens or tofu substitutes for those vegans out there, in every pot, free good universal health care, guaranteed retirement income, Gaia like conditions, fair and free trade that ensures human rights and labor practices are sustainable across the world, and an end to hunger, violence, evil, greed, destruction, death, pain, suffering, war and drugs, crime and obesity. Good roads, cheap cable, fast internet, fair and balanced news coverage, clean streets, inoffensive art, benign courts that met out justice, empty prisons, safe homes and neighborhoods, peace, love, a cure for aids, cancer, low taxes, a prohibition on stupid Hollywood sequels, a return of the family hour on television, guaranteed decent end of the year bonuses and golden parachutes for everyone, a housing market boom, lower gas prices, pomp, circumstance, nobility, memorable sound bites and a transparent administration that has zero corruption, a winning personality and good TV looks would finish off a perfect political platform that All of America could get behind.

It's not like we're asking these folks to walk on water.

How Not to Bring Your Children to Mass

Bringing small children to mass is always an adventure. Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said “Suffer the little children to come to me.” Some days, even the bribe of donuts after church fails to secure a toddler’s cooperation. As a veteran of these faith trials, I offer the following suggestions to make the weekly obligation more child friendly and faith filled.

Don’t Pretend You aren’t going to mass. This means the kids shouldn’t be loaded up with such items as ipods, gameboys, multiple cars, blocks and barbies. Books can be a lifesaver, but even reading should be somewhat selective. Any child that can read, should follow along in the misselette. Any child that can’t read, might be diverted by a picture bible or Catholic oriented story, or by a quiet reading of the gospel to them privately. Toddlers may need a toy or two to keep them busy, such toys should be hard to lose, noiseless and ultimately, so toddler oriented that older children won’t be watching them play with envy in their hearts.

Feed them at home. Some parents walk into mass with a plan of throwing food at their children to keep them quiet. Armed with bags from the local fast food establishment containing anything from lollipops to pancakes, they figure as long as the kids are quiet, it doesn’t matter if they’re eating. Bringing food for health reasons is one thing, but Mass is a communal experience and every sane child that sees another child chowing down on food in the cry room is thinking the same thing. “I want some.”

Don't pretend they’re not kids. Expecting children to sit quietly, eyes front, silent and well behaved for an entire sixty minutes is not recognizing children are children. They will have moments of great reverence and in the next two seconds, have an elbow fight with their sibling over pew space. One will sing loudly to emphasize the fact that the other is not singing. Breaking the mass down into parts helps a child to cope with the length of the liturgy better. Opening song to Gospel is one part, homily to Offertory hymn is a second part, Offertory to Our Father, Kiss of Peace to Go in Peace.

Having a reward system for making it through each of these four sections of the mass helps a child to settle into the liturgy and anticipate what comes. Earning a star for each section of the mass warrants a trip to the park, a donut, or at the very least, public praise.

Don't pretend they’re not your kids. This technique doesn’t work well if you attend mass regularly at the parish. Besides, even at a strange parish, siblings will out you if you pretend you know nothing about the toddler that is screaming on the floor and that gets awkward.

Be present yourself. Being present to your children at mass will help them be present to others at mass. After all, as the parents, we’re the first example. Dress nicely. Be on time. Sing the songs. Read along with emerging reader. Explain what is happening at the Liturgy of the Word and in the Eucharistic Prayer. Encourage the older children to join the choir, altar serve or act as readers. Invest them in being part of the mass just as assertively as one would basketball or academics, to instill in them the idea that this is sacred. This is who we are. This is what we believe.

Finally, when mass is ended, and we say “Thanks be to God,” mean it not because you’ve survived another week of going to mass with a two year old, but because you welcome the week ahead, having received food for the journey.