Hey Loves,
though it pains me to tell you this I am moving blogs.
Hipster Christian Housewife
Cheeky, I know. But I couldn't resist :) Come one over!
xxoxoCameron
Cameron Dezen Hammon is a wife, mother, writer, singer and friend. She attempts these pursuits with varying degrees of success. All words (c)camerondezenhammon2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
About My Daughter
I am undertaking the careful, delicate task of transforming my living room/dining room from Sydney's playroom to a place where I can write. To a "writing room", a concept so deliciously indulgent I almost don't dare to attempt it. Space is a premium here, we'd be comfortable no other way, so by now we are adept at the quick transformations that can change the layout of our house. Dining room/ recording studio, Living room/child's playroom, writing room/ dining room. Depending on who is here and why, our house can have many identities.
This morning it's a writing room. I've collected all the tiny, plastic Polly Pocket dresses from the dining room table, floor and couch, sweeping them up into a re-purposed colander. Cleared away the magic markers and bits of half chewed Cheerios. Gathered up the myriad bunnies and puppies and attempted to make this space feel like mine, at least until I pick up Syd at 3 o'clock. My sense of joy is almost delirious this week. I wasn't sure what it would be like to have her at home two days a week with nothing but my own imagination to guide me in instructing and entertaining her. I haven't spent as much consistent alone time with her since she was an infant, newly arrived and utterly dependant on me. She is still, of course, dependant on me, and I relish this. I experience the full force of her independence, her desire to "do it by myself", and feel grateful that there are still many things she needs me for.
I was not someone who considered working, or working full time after I had Sydney, as some sort of medieval punishment. I all but ran back to work when she 3 months old, and started singing in worship again when she was about 6 weeks. I remember those early mornings sprinting to a far ladies room to nurse her then racing back to the sanctuary for a prayer time before the service. I would often say to Matt "I've never been this tired" and he would remind me that I said that almost every day.
The truth was, I was more than worn out from middle of the night feedings and the physical demands of being a new mother, which is, for everyone, exhausting. Something was going terribly awry in my system, my brain, my nerves, and I was edging into a full fledged bout of post partum depression. Of course, I didn't know this at the time. I simply thought I was a wimp and couldn't handle motherhood. A regular routine that involved being around other adults (i.e., work) eased some of it's early grip on me. I embraced work and continued to seek additional hours and responsibilities, trusting the nursery staff at the church to take care of my baby during those hours I attempted tasks I knew I could handle. In fact, I was sure that the nursery staff workers, all mother's themselves, were far more qualified than I was to take care of her, and it gave me some peace.
I wasn't completely nuts, not yet, but I was getting there. My coping mechanism was also meaningful work, and so it was no scandal that I was back at work, by my own choice, after having Sydney. I was raised by a working mother and I discovered that I believed in the early socialization that comes from a good, faith based child care environment. Sydney thrived, and her caretakers became like family to us. It all went swimmingly for quite some time. In the dark recesses of my heart, my middle of the night panic sessions, I feared that I was an inadequate mother. Nothing came 'naturally' to me. Often, the thought of spending a stretch of hours alone with my infant scared the business out of me. I was exhausted from not sleeping (even after she began sleeping longer stretches I would lie awake at night waiting for her to need me) and I felt that attempting motherhood was really an aggregious act of hubris on my part. Why did I think I would be able to do this?
As I recollect those painful early days I am shocked by the mother I've become. I'm confident. I'm careful. I think I'm even fun! I am a good mother, (twice this week people have told me that so it must be true) and I learned the hard way that I was neither lucid nor rational in the beginning. I was literally coming under a tidal wave of hormones, brain waves and physical exhaustion- the molotov cocktail of post partum depression.
The thoughts I had then were not rational thoughts, they were amplified projection of my own deep seeded fears. Like electronic pings, they honed in on my deepest insecurities and exaggerated them 1000%. The most devastating lies are the ones with a tiny grain of truth to them. The evilest evil is a distortion of the most beautiful good.
I have never more enjoyed Sydney than I have this week. I pick her up from school at 3 (though she is in a new school I can tell that she is still shocked that she is not the last one to be picked up). Twice a week it's just she and I for the whole day. We run errands, we practice numbers and letters, we cook. I adore her, which is no surprise, but I've learned this week that I adore spending unstructured time with her. That I can spend unstructured time with her. That I can be trusted with her. Though it's been 3 and a half years since the Post Partum (which after months of stubborn denial on my part was finally 'cured' with a small dose of an anti-depressant) I am only now seeing the deep wound it left in me. And I am only now embracing the joy of the victory I've won over it. A victory over more than just the emotions, but over the fairly binding choices it inspired. I don't need to work until I drop. In fact, it's better for Sydney and for me, if I pick her up at 3 o'clock.
Don't get me wrong, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this a luxury. A tremendous luxury. I still get to participate in meaningful work, but I don't have long office hours. Sydney get's to go to a terrific Christian school, and I can still pick her up at 3. This new arrangement, which I credit solely to the grace of God, is allowing us to try out something we've never done before. And simply put, I am enjoying it.
This morning it's a writing room. I've collected all the tiny, plastic Polly Pocket dresses from the dining room table, floor and couch, sweeping them up into a re-purposed colander. Cleared away the magic markers and bits of half chewed Cheerios. Gathered up the myriad bunnies and puppies and attempted to make this space feel like mine, at least until I pick up Syd at 3 o'clock. My sense of joy is almost delirious this week. I wasn't sure what it would be like to have her at home two days a week with nothing but my own imagination to guide me in instructing and entertaining her. I haven't spent as much consistent alone time with her since she was an infant, newly arrived and utterly dependant on me. She is still, of course, dependant on me, and I relish this. I experience the full force of her independence, her desire to "do it by myself", and feel grateful that there are still many things she needs me for.
I was not someone who considered working, or working full time after I had Sydney, as some sort of medieval punishment. I all but ran back to work when she 3 months old, and started singing in worship again when she was about 6 weeks. I remember those early mornings sprinting to a far ladies room to nurse her then racing back to the sanctuary for a prayer time before the service. I would often say to Matt "I've never been this tired" and he would remind me that I said that almost every day.
The truth was, I was more than worn out from middle of the night feedings and the physical demands of being a new mother, which is, for everyone, exhausting. Something was going terribly awry in my system, my brain, my nerves, and I was edging into a full fledged bout of post partum depression. Of course, I didn't know this at the time. I simply thought I was a wimp and couldn't handle motherhood. A regular routine that involved being around other adults (i.e., work) eased some of it's early grip on me. I embraced work and continued to seek additional hours and responsibilities, trusting the nursery staff at the church to take care of my baby during those hours I attempted tasks I knew I could handle. In fact, I was sure that the nursery staff workers, all mother's themselves, were far more qualified than I was to take care of her, and it gave me some peace.
I wasn't completely nuts, not yet, but I was getting there. My coping mechanism was also meaningful work, and so it was no scandal that I was back at work, by my own choice, after having Sydney. I was raised by a working mother and I discovered that I believed in the early socialization that comes from a good, faith based child care environment. Sydney thrived, and her caretakers became like family to us. It all went swimmingly for quite some time. In the dark recesses of my heart, my middle of the night panic sessions, I feared that I was an inadequate mother. Nothing came 'naturally' to me. Often, the thought of spending a stretch of hours alone with my infant scared the business out of me. I was exhausted from not sleeping (even after she began sleeping longer stretches I would lie awake at night waiting for her to need me) and I felt that attempting motherhood was really an aggregious act of hubris on my part. Why did I think I would be able to do this?
As I recollect those painful early days I am shocked by the mother I've become. I'm confident. I'm careful. I think I'm even fun! I am a good mother, (twice this week people have told me that so it must be true) and I learned the hard way that I was neither lucid nor rational in the beginning. I was literally coming under a tidal wave of hormones, brain waves and physical exhaustion- the molotov cocktail of post partum depression.
The thoughts I had then were not rational thoughts, they were amplified projection of my own deep seeded fears. Like electronic pings, they honed in on my deepest insecurities and exaggerated them 1000%. The most devastating lies are the ones with a tiny grain of truth to them. The evilest evil is a distortion of the most beautiful good.
I have never more enjoyed Sydney than I have this week. I pick her up from school at 3 (though she is in a new school I can tell that she is still shocked that she is not the last one to be picked up). Twice a week it's just she and I for the whole day. We run errands, we practice numbers and letters, we cook. I adore her, which is no surprise, but I've learned this week that I adore spending unstructured time with her. That I can spend unstructured time with her. That I can be trusted with her. Though it's been 3 and a half years since the Post Partum (which after months of stubborn denial on my part was finally 'cured' with a small dose of an anti-depressant) I am only now seeing the deep wound it left in me. And I am only now embracing the joy of the victory I've won over it. A victory over more than just the emotions, but over the fairly binding choices it inspired. I don't need to work until I drop. In fact, it's better for Sydney and for me, if I pick her up at 3 o'clock.
Don't get me wrong, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this a luxury. A tremendous luxury. I still get to participate in meaningful work, but I don't have long office hours. Sydney get's to go to a terrific Christian school, and I can still pick her up at 3. This new arrangement, which I credit solely to the grace of God, is allowing us to try out something we've never done before. And simply put, I am enjoying it.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Pictures from Budapest
Friends- we're back!
Thank You.
Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html
Love, Cameron
Thank You.
Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html
Love, Cameron
Pictures from Budapest
Friends- we're back!
Thank You.
Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html
Love, Cameron
Thank You.
Check out pics and tales from our adventure:
http://hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com/2010/08/pictures-from-budapest.html
Love, Cameron
Saturday, August 7, 2010
You Give and Take Away
Today we learned that our friend Kimberly Richter, who has battled brain cancer bravely for several years, went to be with the Lord yesterday.
It's so strange to learn of this from the other side of the world. We are happy to know that she is healed and whole, but of course we'd hoped for those prayers to be answered this side of eternity. We are heartbroken for the Richter family and for the Grace Presbyterian Church family. Our prayers for peace and comfort for all.
Just last week we learned that our little friend Kate McRae is healing from brain cancer. A true victory. We rejoice with her parents and friends. It makes me think of that lyric- 'you give and take away.' I will be singing that song in my head for some time I think.
Today, we spent the day with a couple who are here as missionaries from Ecclesia Clear Lake. How exciting to talk with people who have the same ideas we have for reaching people- for a focus on long term relationships and discipleship with Hungarians. We connected on so many points, it was an exciting hang.
We've come to a place of maybe beginning to understand a little bit of why God brings us back to Budapest. We always thought we were just avoiding the call to come and live here full time- but I think we've realized finally that is not what God has for us now. It's more important, we hope and pray, for God to use us to communicate with our friends in the States the needs over here- and hopefully inspire more people to come to do long or short term missions in Budapest.
Here's the deal: The next generation of European and World Leaders are coming through Budapest. Hungarians, Russians, Estonians, Ukranians, etc.. People who are going to make up the next wave of influence in the world are coming from Post Communist, Post Religious countries. For now, material gain, as promised by the EU is this culture's religion. Under communism personal material gain and wealth was forbidden, so now you see people all but crushing each other to have it.
The work here is not providing basic human needs like water and food, as we see in developing countries. Instead the need is to disciple Europeans to want to, in Jesus name, provide a clean cup of water to not only those in developing countries- but to the marginalized populations in their own back yards. These "hardened, post modern" Europeans can and by the grace of God- will be- the next generation to lead Europe. We want to see them leading from a place of faith in the Redeemer. This means practically- a developing distaste for injustice, for greed, for exploitation. A developing taste for love, justice, truth and compassion.
Yesterday at the outreach there were breakthroughs for sure- again we saw how God uses our music to draw people in- to begin to ask questions of who, what and mostly WHY? Why are you in Budapest? Why do you like it here? Why do you want to learn our language?
Even though we might be drifting from this idea of "street evangelism" we cannot deny that the power of the Holy Spirit falls when we are playing music. It opens doors. We are grateful God allows us to be a part of this. So for this week- we will suspend our doubts and just go with it.
Another thing happened today to remind us that our financial well being is utterly and totally dependent on Him. :) How grateful we are for his provision and how totally in need we are of his grace.
To support us with prayer and/or finances - learn how here: GIVE.
It's so strange to learn of this from the other side of the world. We are happy to know that she is healed and whole, but of course we'd hoped for those prayers to be answered this side of eternity. We are heartbroken for the Richter family and for the Grace Presbyterian Church family. Our prayers for peace and comfort for all.
Just last week we learned that our little friend Kate McRae is healing from brain cancer. A true victory. We rejoice with her parents and friends. It makes me think of that lyric- 'you give and take away.' I will be singing that song in my head for some time I think.
Today, we spent the day with a couple who are here as missionaries from Ecclesia Clear Lake. How exciting to talk with people who have the same ideas we have for reaching people- for a focus on long term relationships and discipleship with Hungarians. We connected on so many points, it was an exciting hang.
We've come to a place of maybe beginning to understand a little bit of why God brings us back to Budapest. We always thought we were just avoiding the call to come and live here full time- but I think we've realized finally that is not what God has for us now. It's more important, we hope and pray, for God to use us to communicate with our friends in the States the needs over here- and hopefully inspire more people to come to do long or short term missions in Budapest.
Here's the deal: The next generation of European and World Leaders are coming through Budapest. Hungarians, Russians, Estonians, Ukranians, etc.. People who are going to make up the next wave of influence in the world are coming from Post Communist, Post Religious countries. For now, material gain, as promised by the EU is this culture's religion. Under communism personal material gain and wealth was forbidden, so now you see people all but crushing each other to have it.
The work here is not providing basic human needs like water and food, as we see in developing countries. Instead the need is to disciple Europeans to want to, in Jesus name, provide a clean cup of water to not only those in developing countries- but to the marginalized populations in their own back yards. These "hardened, post modern" Europeans can and by the grace of God- will be- the next generation to lead Europe. We want to see them leading from a place of faith in the Redeemer. This means practically- a developing distaste for injustice, for greed, for exploitation. A developing taste for love, justice, truth and compassion.
Yesterday at the outreach there were breakthroughs for sure- again we saw how God uses our music to draw people in- to begin to ask questions of who, what and mostly WHY? Why are you in Budapest? Why do you like it here? Why do you want to learn our language?
Even though we might be drifting from this idea of "street evangelism" we cannot deny that the power of the Holy Spirit falls when we are playing music. It opens doors. We are grateful God allows us to be a part of this. So for this week- we will suspend our doubts and just go with it.
Another thing happened today to remind us that our financial well being is utterly and totally dependent on Him. :) How grateful we are for his provision and how totally in need we are of his grace.
To support us with prayer and/or finances - learn how here: GIVE.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Divine Romance: Update
In his heart a man plans his course,
but the LORD determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9
Believe it or not we are almost half way to our fund raising goal of $2700. As it happened in 2008, I have learned more through this process of reaching out for support, than I have in almost any other adventure I've had with God so far.
Every part of each gift- who it's from, why you've given, etc., is a miracle to me. The faith that it represents in Him, in us, in this mission is stunning and humbling. THANK YOU.
My prayer is that we get out of the way enough for God to use us in the short time we will have in Budapest. I know that we will be changed and encouraged, as we always are in these situations. I pray that the people we encounter will be as encouraged as we are. I am thankful for the chance to participate in the miraculous things that God is doing in our beloved Budapest. I am so thankful already for being able to see what God is doing as he works through you who are praying and supporting us financially. Wow. Wow. Wow.
Again, here's the details. See ya over there. Don't forget: www.hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com
###
PRAYER SUPPORT
We covet your prayers. During our three months in Budapest in ’08, your prayers opened doors, sparked conversations, and overcame darkness in so many moments of ministry. Your prayers for provision were answered in astounding and humbling ways.
1. Please pray for safe travels for us (August 2 &3- August 13&15).
2. Please pray for peace and safety for Sydney who will be staying with my mom in
New York.
3. Please pray that God will use us to both boldly and humbly plant seeds of faith for those we encounter by His divine appointment.
4. Pray the Holy Spirit will use our music to reach people’s hearts where language is a barrier.
5. Pray for financial provision for our plane tickets, and for our meals and travel while there.
FINANCIAL SUPPORT
1. We are needing to raise about $2700 to cover our plane tickets.
2. Your contribution can be a tax deductible donation through Ecclesia Houston, who will be supporting us on this mission.
3. To give online: From the ecclesiahouston.org website, click ‘Online Giving’ from the menu on the left side.
4. Enter the amount of your donation in the Amount box below.
5. Make sure the ‘Recurring Donation’ checkbox is unselected.
6. Click the ‘Make Donation’ button.
7. You will be taken to a Paypal page.
8. If you have a Paypal account, you can login with your email and password. Enter Hammon's Budapest Trip in the memo line.
9. If you do not have a Paypal account, you can click the link at the bottom of the page to use your Credit Card. PLEASE EMAIL JANA@ECCLESIAHOUSTON.ORG and let her know the amount of your gift, your name and "Hammon's Budapest Trip" so we can be sure your gift is accounted for and tax deductible.
10. Our you can send a check or put a check in the offering plate at Ecclesia Houston on Sunday morning. Please make checks out to Ecclesia Houston and put Hammon’s Budapest Trip in the note line. Mail checks to Ecclesia Houston, 2115 Taft Street Houston, TX 77006.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Island of the Misfit Toys
This weekend I had the great pleasure of participating in a poetry slumber party with some friends I met at University of Houston's Boldface Writer's Conference. I began writing poetry in high school (um, who doesn't write poetry in high school) but got serious about it at Carnegie Mellon where I majored in creative writing. When I started writing songs just after I graduated I stopped writing poetry- at least the non musical kind- and hadn't picked it up until a trip to Laity Lodge this past Spring inspired me to start writing again. Inspired feels like too flimsy a word. It's a valve that I had sealed shut, as the season's of my life turned me away from poems and toward marriage, moving across the country, having a child and the like. That weekend in the Hill Country the valve blew and poems have been flowing, for better or worse, ever since.
Today at Ecclesia, Chris Seay talked about divine appointments. About how sitting next to someone on a plane or in a restaurant can be an invitation to sacred conversation. Lives, mine and yours, can be changed because of a seemingly chance meeting. This is how I feel about my poetry friends. It's funny; I went to Boldface with the intent to leave my church stuff at the door. I had just left the church where I worked for 5 years and I needed a moment, a pause, to be among people who love the other thing in my life- words. Being around people who love God is awesome, but we all know the church can be a bubble. And bubbles are suffocating.
Not an hour into the workshop and the Jesus issues came out. I don't say this lightly. There were about 8 of us in our group and I can almost say for certain that each poet wrestled with the things of God in at least on of their four workshop pieces. Mostly these poets had been hurt by some part of the church- a priest, a pastor, a friend, a parent, a grandparent. It had left a scar, a wound that was still working it's way to the surface years later.
Sarah (not her name) is one such person. Sarah is smart. Really, really smart. Really, really, really smart and sensitive. She was a committed part of a church until as a teenager she went on a mission trip to Russia. She said it felt bad- invasive- condescending to the people of that country- to go in the way they did. I can only imagine it involved brightly colored t-shirts. She also didn't like how everyone at her church acted all happy all the time. She said "Nobody is that happy all the time." Other things happened to Sarah in regard to her life at her church and she left. But in her work, God is there. Working His way to the surface.
After our slumber party I spent a few moments talking to Sarah and her mother about Ecclesia. Her mother told me that her youngest child, sensitive and artistic, is being bullied in the youth group at their suburban church- for being sensitive and artistic. I explained how everyone at Ecclesia- or at least it appears so- is sensitive and artistic. Alot of people seem to be drawn there to rebuild their sense of self in the context of faith. It's a place where your sensitivity, your creativity, your weirdness and eccentricities are not mocked or ridiculed. They're celebrated.
So being someone who likes words, I described Ecclesia to Sarah and her mom as something like the Island of the Misfit Toys. And as I said it I realized that we were having a moment, a sacred conversation right there on a sweltering neighborhood street in Montrose.
For those of you who are wondering what I am talking about- remember that particularly heart wrenching part of the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer Christmas special? (Which happens to be the longest running Christmas special in tv history, according to wikipedia at least.) King Moonracer is a flying Lion who searches the world each night for toys who are abandoned and unloved,bringing them back to his Island where they become a part of community. (Um, Aslan?) There is Charlie in a Box (misfit status= b/c he's not a "Jack in the box"), a polka dotted lion and a depressed rag doll- among other toys. Rudolph and his misfit friend (an elf who wants to be a dentist) find sanctuary among them while on a treacherous journey of identity. Even thought they're not toys, they fit in, and they can rest a while.
Ecclesia is a place that should have "All Misfit Toys are Welcome Here" above it's entryway. It's a place where you can let your freak flag fly and you will be welcomed. There will be no fake "Gap" greeting as you enter. Just a throng of other folks like you. Bankers, bus boys, doctors, artists and students. Prostitutes, pastors, carpenter's and millionaires. Come one and all.
Ecclesia is a church where my poet friends will come. They will sense something is different about this place. They will not stand out. They will not be asked to wear a nametag. They will fit in quite nicely. Heck, they may even catch a glimpse of a flying Lion, a spotted elephant, or a Charlie in a Box. It's Montrose, so you just never know who might show up.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Divine Romance
Dear Friends,
“What started as a crush, blossomed into a full fledged romance. At first we weren't sure if Budapest returned our feelings. Afterall, who doesn't fall in love with her at first sight?”
Almost exactly two years ago, as Matt and I were getting ready to say goodbye to Budapest after three months of ministry there, we shared these words on our mission blog. We thought for sure we would return to the city and the people we’d fallen in love with sooner rather than later.
In his heart a man plans his course,
but the LORD determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9
God is faithful and his timing is perfect. When we returned to the States in August of 2008 a lot happened that made it clear to Matt and I that the best place for our ministry, and our family, was right here in Houston, Texas.
Since then we have seen our relationships with close family members (my father, who is 83 and in poor health) restored and strengthened. We have shared our music and ministry with a half dozen Houston church families and have recorded and released an album of original worship songs as a part of Advent Conspiracy. Most recently we have been thrilled to accept an invitation to work alongside Robbie Seay as worship leaders at Ecclesia Houston. And of course, Sydney, who wasn’t yet two when we were in Budapest is now nearly 4 years old and starting pre-K in the Fall! What an amazing two years it’s been.
We are thrilled to share that God has called us back to Budapest this summer! We will spend 10 days reconnecting with friends and mission partners, offering support for the Kingdom work they are doing in that beloved city.
Our romance with Budapest and the Hungarian people has not waned in these last two years. We’ve talked, read, learned and dreamed about Budapest nearly non stop. Matt is practically an expert on Hungarian culture, history and politics! We are eager to return and refresh the passion for Hungary that God has given us.
The statistics are still heartbreaking. Hungary maintains among the highest suicide rate per capita of any nation in the world. Anxiety and depression affects a disproportionate number of Hungarians, as does alchoholism and drug abuse. After more than a thousand years of occupation by repressive ideologies (from the Ottoman Turks to Nazi’s and Communists), suicide and hopelessness are part of the national identity.
As Christians we know that Christ alone offers the only true hope in this broken world. We long to share that hope with a city and a nation of dreamers, poets, scientists and artists.
Would you consider supporting our mission with prayer?
We covet your prayers. During our three months in Budapest in ’08, your prayers opened doors, sparked conversations, and overcame darkness in so many moments of ministry. Your prayers for provision were answered in astounding and humbling ways.
1. Please pray for safe travels for us (August 2 &3- August 13&15).
2. Please pray for peace and safety for Sydney who will be staying with my mom in
New York.
3. Please pray that God will use us to both boldly and humbly plant seeds of faith for those we encounter by His divine appointment.
4. Pray the Holy Spirit will use our music to reach people’s hearts where language is a barrier.
5. Pray for financial provision for our plane tickets, and for our meals and travel while there.
Would you consider contributing financially to our mission?
1. We are needing to raise about $2700 to cover our plane tickets.
2. Your contribution can be a tax deductible donation through Ecclesia Houston, who will be supporting us on this mission.
3. To give online: From the ecclesiahouston.org website, click ‘Online Giving’ from the menu on the left side.
4. Enter the amount of your donation in the Amount box below.
5. Make sure the ‘Recurring Donation’ checkbox is unselected.
6. Click the ‘Make Donation’ button.
7. You will be taken to a Paypal page.
8. If you have a Paypal account, you can login with your email and password. If you do not have a Paypal account, you can click the link at the bottom of the page to use your Credit Card or Bank Account (in some cases the bank account option is unavailable). Follow Paypal’s instructions to complete the transaction.
9. Our you can send a check or put a check in the offering plate at Ecclesia Houston on Sunday morning. Please make checks out to Ecclesia Houston and put Hammon’s Mission Trip in the note line. Mail checks to Ecclesia Houston, 2115 Taft Street Houston, TX 77006.
We love you guys so much and are so glad that we are on this journey with you. Until we arrive in Budapest we will be blogging at www.hammonsinhouston.blogspot.com.
When we arrive on August 4th you can follow along with us at www.hammonsinhungary.blogspot.com.
Love,
Matt and Cameron
Matt- matthammon@mac.com
Cameron- cameron@ecclesiahouston.org
Saturday, July 17, 2010
How to Help Dan Cho's Family
Friends- there are two easy ways to support Dan's family. I am including widgets here. I think. Hopefully it will work.
Dan was a Christian, an artist, a father, husband, brother, son and friend. He was an amazing person who was an integral part of my own faith journey. Please consider supporting his widow and baby girl financially during this awful time.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Dan
Psychologists insist that anger is a legitimate stage of grieving, and so I admit. I feel like cussing. I am angry. I've been thinking all day about how much I want to sit shiva for Dan, my friend who died on Tuesday. I want to spend seven days sitting around with friends, laughing about the good times, eating, crying and remembering. I suppose this is what I feel like cussing about. Dan was not Jewish, and I guess I'm not either. But that particular discipline is a really important one. Grieving is something I feel like I know too much about. And what I've learned is that not allowing it to take it's course; not meeting, talking, crying and eating, is the worst thing you can do.
I am also angry that this is the second person I've loved that I've eulogized in as many weeks. As horrible and shocking as it was to lose Barbara one could not deny that she lived an incredible, full life. Six children, many grandchildren, friends, family. And Barbara's beloved had left this earth four years ago- she must have longed to be with him again. She told me often that she was pissed at him for leaving her so early.
But Dan. Dan, Dan, Dan. He had half the years Barbie did, but he squeezed every last drop of life out of the time he had. He travelled the world with amazing musicians, including Regina Spektor, played SNL (!), Ellen DeGeneres, played for Coldplay. Pretty much the 'bucket list' for any musician. He had a beautiful wife, a gifted artist in her own right, and a gorgeous baby girl. His family was just beginning. He should have had 20, 30, 40, 50 more years with them.
So I met Dan at the Manhattan Vineyard Church. I was not yet a Christian, I was investigating. I'd gone once with Matt, but he was on tour and so I went alone. I cried during the worship time. The music pierced me. It was so powerful, moving and minor. Not what I expected. I don't remember the line up, except for Dan. He was the cellist. I approached him with some bizarro boldness I didn't have and simply asked "I'm a singer songwriter. Would you play with me?" He said "Ok." And kinda smiled and shook his head.
Dan was a Christian. He answered alot of questions for me, but he never evangelized. He'd smile and kinda shake his head when I'd say or do something that indicated I was 'getting' it. He was proud of me. He was sort of, protective. When I said or did something that indicated that I wasn't 'getting' it, he shook his head again, but this time differently. I cared tremendously what he thought of my life, and my choices. When I was baptized in the middle of a lighting storm on the beach at Coney Island, he and Julia were there. With a camera. Because of them I have a record of this major milestone in my life. Julia made a collage for me with pictures from the baptism and scriptures and framed it, presenting it to me as a gift a few weeks later. I was blown away. I knew I had become a part of a real family. And they were a part of it.
Dan was a man of few words. But the ones he did speak, meant the world. He was so mellow about everything, I sometimes wondered if he liked playing with me. He seemed content, and interested, but I am a chick who needs a lot of reassurance. When I would ask him what he thought of a new song, or a new arrangement- he was honest, and encouraging. Musically, he provided a depth and resonance that those early songs probably didn't deserve. I remember recording his part of "Gulf of Mexico"- on "Mary's Daughter" the song I wrote about Jeff Buckley's drowning. I see the irony in this only now. He played a cello part that made the song. It was far more emotional, and powerful than any guitar solo could've been. And since there were no guitars on my record, by choice, Dan was it. He was my lead player. He colored everything he played with honey, resin, and love. I don't know how else to say it.
When I saw him in Houston, he was on tour with Regina Spektor. I was proud that Dan had graduated to such heights. He was protective of her too. Apologizing in advance for her if she didn't say hi to us, explaining her voice is strained, she's been sick. He loved playing with her, and she obviously loved playing with him. Her songs deserved him. It was a perfect fit. He was luminous at that show; the honey tone warming and washing Regina's songs. He got us the most rock star seats in the whole place, and I kept shouting "Dan!" when ever I thought it wouldn't embaress him too much. We drank green tea, we swapped baby pictures. Being away from Julia and Audrey was really wearing on him, Matt and I could both see that. I had the sense that he planned to get off the road in the somewhat near future, but he didn't say anything specific.
Dan was loyal. I kept expecting him to flake out on my in those early days and he never did. I wouldn't have blamed him. He certainly wasn't playing with me for the money. But he would always be there. I remember our first rehearsal, at a divey rehearsal room off of Times Square- just him and I. He was excited and prepared. I couldn't have hoped for more. This is not all I will say about Dan, but this is all for now. I hope this paints a bit of a picture of the person who he was, at least to me.
Posted by Cameron Dezen Hammon a
I am also angry that this is the second person I've loved that I've eulogized in as many weeks. As horrible and shocking as it was to lose Barbara one could not deny that she lived an incredible, full life. Six children, many grandchildren, friends, family. And Barbara's beloved had left this earth four years ago- she must have longed to be with him again. She told me often that she was pissed at him for leaving her so early.
But Dan. Dan, Dan, Dan. He had half the years Barbie did, but he squeezed every last drop of life out of the time he had. He travelled the world with amazing musicians, including Regina Spektor, played SNL (!), Ellen DeGeneres, played for Coldplay. Pretty much the 'bucket list' for any musician. He had a beautiful wife, a gifted artist in her own right, and a gorgeous baby girl. His family was just beginning. He should have had 20, 30, 40, 50 more years with them.
So I met Dan at the Manhattan Vineyard Church. I was not yet a Christian, I was investigating. I'd gone once with Matt, but he was on tour and so I went alone. I cried during the worship time. The music pierced me. It was so powerful, moving and minor. Not what I expected. I don't remember the line up, except for Dan. He was the cellist. I approached him with some bizarro boldness I didn't have and simply asked "I'm a singer songwriter. Would you play with me?" He said "Ok." And kinda smiled and shook his head.
Dan was a Christian. He answered alot of questions for me, but he never evangelized. He'd smile and kinda shake his head when I'd say or do something that indicated I was 'getting' it. He was proud of me. He was sort of, protective. When I said or did something that indicated that I wasn't 'getting' it, he shook his head again, but this time differently. I cared tremendously what he thought of my life, and my choices. When I was baptized in the middle of a lighting storm on the beach at Coney Island, he and Julia were there. With a camera. Because of them I have a record of this major milestone in my life. Julia made a collage for me with pictures from the baptism and scriptures and framed it, presenting it to me as a gift a few weeks later. I was blown away. I knew I had become a part of a real family. And they were a part of it.
Dan was a man of few words. But the ones he did speak, meant the world. He was so mellow about everything, I sometimes wondered if he liked playing with me. He seemed content, and interested, but I am a chick who needs a lot of reassurance. When I would ask him what he thought of a new song, or a new arrangement- he was honest, and encouraging. Musically, he provided a depth and resonance that those early songs probably didn't deserve. I remember recording his part of "Gulf of Mexico"- on "Mary's Daughter" the song I wrote about Jeff Buckley's drowning. I see the irony in this only now. He played a cello part that made the song. It was far more emotional, and powerful than any guitar solo could've been. And since there were no guitars on my record, by choice, Dan was it. He was my lead player. He colored everything he played with honey, resin, and love. I don't know how else to say it.
When I saw him in Houston, he was on tour with Regina Spektor. I was proud that Dan had graduated to such heights. He was protective of her too. Apologizing in advance for her if she didn't say hi to us, explaining her voice is strained, she's been sick. He loved playing with her, and she obviously loved playing with him. Her songs deserved him. It was a perfect fit. He was luminous at that show; the honey tone warming and washing Regina's songs. He got us the most rock star seats in the whole place, and I kept shouting "Dan!" when ever I thought it wouldn't embaress him too much. We drank green tea, we swapped baby pictures. Being away from Julia and Audrey was really wearing on him, Matt and I could both see that. I had the sense that he planned to get off the road in the somewhat near future, but he didn't say anything specific.
Dan was loyal. I kept expecting him to flake out on my in those early days and he never did. I wouldn't have blamed him. He certainly wasn't playing with me for the money. But he would always be there. I remember our first rehearsal, at a divey rehearsal room off of Times Square- just him and I. He was excited and prepared. I couldn't have hoped for more. This is not all I will say about Dan, but this is all for now. I hope this paints a bit of a picture of the person who he was, at least to me.
Posted by Cameron Dezen Hammon a
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
pain.is.everywhere.
I'm sitting in the coffeeshop where last week I met a woman, who is now a friend. She told me the story of having, and losing her first child, a son. He was born with a fatal heart condition, and lived only 56 hours. I need to write this, I'm not sure why, to do what I do- to mark these events as having happened. I have no conclusions, except that pain is everywhere. Its sitting next to you in the coffeeshop sipping a cup of french press, looking at a map. It's behind the wheel in the car on your tail. It's there,radiating like a muscle spasm.
What are we going to do? All I can think of is to talk to eachother, to ask eachother about pain- how is it going? how are you feeling? what are you remembering of your beloved mother, husband, friend today?
Death is foreign. It's not supposed to be this way. It's shocking because it's not a part of the original plan. We wait anxiously for the day when all is shalom, when all is restored. And we are playing music, cracking jokes, and cuddling with our loved ones again.
Rest in Christ; Daniel, Barbara, Dan, and Mike.
What are we going to do? All I can think of is to talk to eachother, to ask eachother about pain- how is it going? how are you feeling? what are you remembering of your beloved mother, husband, friend today?
Death is foreign. It's not supposed to be this way. It's shocking because it's not a part of the original plan. We wait anxiously for the day when all is shalom, when all is restored. And we are playing music, cracking jokes, and cuddling with our loved ones again.
Rest in Christ; Daniel, Barbara, Dan, and Mike.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Barbara
You have a special place in your heart for the people who love your children. Aunt Barbie loved our children, Grace Presbyterian Church. She gave them candy when we weren't looking (or when we were) she kept their pictures at her desk, and always wanted the most recent one. She hugged them, held them and let them push the button on that Christmas reindeer as many times as they wanted to, making it sing an ear splittting chipmunks version of some carol. She loved it. She loved our kids and they loved her. Barbara Marsden Cattanach you are loved and missed and will always be Aunt Barbie to me and Sydney. Enjoy Jesus. Tell him we said hi.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
short leash
I will admit this: I'm on a short leash. And honestly, I'm grateful. I remember tearing out of bed one morning, choking down coffee and throwing on jeans and a tee-shirt (while Matt did the same) to make it to the Houston Vineyard on time for worship. Not just to participate in worship, but to lead worship as a part of the band. We lived three blocks away and slept until about 15 minutes before soundcheck. Now, this is the Vineyard. Jeans and tee-shirt- just fine. Bedhead-- no problem. It isn't a Vineyard church if at least one Pastor isn't wearing flip flops.
So, tearing out of bed to get to soundcheck on time I realized something. We probably would have slept through both services if we weren't playing on the worship team. This is awful, right? Only making it to church on time if I'm singing, or serving, or needed in some way? Shouldn't church leaders be the ones who are there every time they open the doors, early and eager?
Maybe yes maybe no. At the time, our marriage had just suffered a pretty significant blow. We'd been married two years and the issues that had been there before we got married- well, they'd just gotten worse. Heated to boiling. Someway, somehow- just on the other side of this crisis point, our friend Shae Cottar asked us to join the worship team at the Houston Vineyard. Matt had been making his living, though with considerable difficulty, as a touring drummer. He was, and is, and incredible musician. The offer came with a promise of hot coffee and community but no paycheck. Though I was not a professional musician at the time, and had no problem volunteering, I knew it would be hard for Matt. A caveat- he'd learned to play drums as a teenager in this very same church. Then left Houston, and the church (well, all church) for about 10 years.
I'd been going to the Houston Vineyard on and off by myself for most of the first two years of our marriage. People would often ask me if I was single. It was painful.
I'm not even really sure how Shae knew we were even Christians. But he invited us in, and so really, he invited us into what would become the call on our lives. To lead worship, to play music together. TOGETHER. That's what God had for us. And it took a volunteer opportunity in our local church, (a church we were rarely on time for, but who loved us just the same) to show us that. Seven years later Matt and I are worship pastors and songwriter's. He is an accomplished record producer. He uses his gifts to help artists and musicians shape their songs and lives.
If God hadn't opened up that opportunity to serve--we would likely have not even gone to church, let alone shaped our lives around serving the church. It all just sparkles with God-personality. Humor. Patience.
I give you all this back story to say simply, that I've been tugging at the leash for the last three weeks. Having left my job at Grace, I've had some 'time off'. For the first time in 5 years I haven't spent all day every day at a church. I've spent a week with intellectuals, writer's!, at a workshop at U of H. Dipping a toe or two in the fountain of academia, flirting with graduate school; a interesting idea I am still flirting with. But suddenly, I was a fish out of water, and I allowed myself to doubt, for the first time in a very long time. Spending time with poets made me realize that I had been on auto-pilot as a Christian. Quipping slogans and trying to believe them. Could I go back?
Full of humor and patience, God sent me there. To the writer's workshop. A chance encounter, led to a narrowly missed discovery matched with impeccable timing and there I was. Only God could organize something so flawless and unlikely. He knew what I needed, and how I would best receive it- he released me to wander (though only a few miles east)- and process. Jesus stuff was everywhere. At the workshop I mean. And not in a religious manifestation - like seeing the Virgin Mary in a water stain on the ceiling- but in everyone's work. Tortured, wrestling, hurting, searching, grappling, hiding- all of it - with "Jesus stuff." I felt like the most well adjusted person there. I felt so grateful that I knew what I knew. And I believed. I needed to wander to be reminded. I smiled to myself all week about that.
It's like this- I will let my daughter grow up and be her own person, make her own choices. I will do this, though every fiber in my being wants to protect her, keep her safe, limit her choices and therefore limit the potential for pain. But I know, because I love her, she will have to figure it out for herself. And if I let her wander just a few more steps, she'll come running back to me by her own choice. Eager to show me what she'd seen and learned.
So at the end of this week, I will return to work for the church. It's a different church, it's ecclesia. It's the place I've gone to worship on Sunday evening, often by myself, for the better part of eight years when I wasn't serving somewhere else. It's a place I'd gladly volunteer. It's a place I'd take out the trash if it was full. It's a place that makes getting out of bed at 6:15 on Sunday morning sound like a great idea.
So, tearing out of bed to get to soundcheck on time I realized something. We probably would have slept through both services if we weren't playing on the worship team. This is awful, right? Only making it to church on time if I'm singing, or serving, or needed in some way? Shouldn't church leaders be the ones who are there every time they open the doors, early and eager?
Maybe yes maybe no. At the time, our marriage had just suffered a pretty significant blow. We'd been married two years and the issues that had been there before we got married- well, they'd just gotten worse. Heated to boiling. Someway, somehow- just on the other side of this crisis point, our friend Shae Cottar asked us to join the worship team at the Houston Vineyard. Matt had been making his living, though with considerable difficulty, as a touring drummer. He was, and is, and incredible musician. The offer came with a promise of hot coffee and community but no paycheck. Though I was not a professional musician at the time, and had no problem volunteering, I knew it would be hard for Matt. A caveat- he'd learned to play drums as a teenager in this very same church. Then left Houston, and the church (well, all church) for about 10 years.
I'd been going to the Houston Vineyard on and off by myself for most of the first two years of our marriage. People would often ask me if I was single. It was painful.
I'm not even really sure how Shae knew we were even Christians. But he invited us in, and so really, he invited us into what would become the call on our lives. To lead worship, to play music together. TOGETHER. That's what God had for us. And it took a volunteer opportunity in our local church, (a church we were rarely on time for, but who loved us just the same) to show us that. Seven years later Matt and I are worship pastors and songwriter's. He is an accomplished record producer. He uses his gifts to help artists and musicians shape their songs and lives.
If God hadn't opened up that opportunity to serve--we would likely have not even gone to church, let alone shaped our lives around serving the church. It all just sparkles with God-personality. Humor. Patience.
I give you all this back story to say simply, that I've been tugging at the leash for the last three weeks. Having left my job at Grace, I've had some 'time off'. For the first time in 5 years I haven't spent all day every day at a church. I've spent a week with intellectuals, writer's!, at a workshop at U of H. Dipping a toe or two in the fountain of academia, flirting with graduate school; a interesting idea I am still flirting with. But suddenly, I was a fish out of water, and I allowed myself to doubt, for the first time in a very long time. Spending time with poets made me realize that I had been on auto-pilot as a Christian. Quipping slogans and trying to believe them. Could I go back?
Full of humor and patience, God sent me there. To the writer's workshop. A chance encounter, led to a narrowly missed discovery matched with impeccable timing and there I was. Only God could organize something so flawless and unlikely. He knew what I needed, and how I would best receive it- he released me to wander (though only a few miles east)- and process. Jesus stuff was everywhere. At the workshop I mean. And not in a religious manifestation - like seeing the Virgin Mary in a water stain on the ceiling- but in everyone's work. Tortured, wrestling, hurting, searching, grappling, hiding- all of it - with "Jesus stuff." I felt like the most well adjusted person there. I felt so grateful that I knew what I knew. And I believed. I needed to wander to be reminded. I smiled to myself all week about that.
It's like this- I will let my daughter grow up and be her own person, make her own choices. I will do this, though every fiber in my being wants to protect her, keep her safe, limit her choices and therefore limit the potential for pain. But I know, because I love her, she will have to figure it out for herself. And if I let her wander just a few more steps, she'll come running back to me by her own choice. Eager to show me what she'd seen and learned.
So at the end of this week, I will return to work for the church. It's a different church, it's ecclesia. It's the place I've gone to worship on Sunday evening, often by myself, for the better part of eight years when I wasn't serving somewhere else. It's a place I'd gladly volunteer. It's a place I'd take out the trash if it was full. It's a place that makes getting out of bed at 6:15 on Sunday morning sound like a great idea.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Moving Day
I am feeling, in no small way, like a bride packing up her childhood bedroom. Wondering what stays, what goes and what goes to good will. If I slide into unbridleld sentimentality, forgive me, but bear with me.
Grace Presbyterian Church has been the childhood home of my ministry. Of our ministry. It's the place I wrote all my songs, save one. It's the place I led worship in front of hundreds of people, none of whom knew me from Adam when we arrived in the summer of 2005. I remember being awed by the sanctuary. Walking in and being overwhelmed by the stained glass, the royal red carpet, the beautiful chancel, the communion table- whose message implored "Do this in rememberence of me."
I learned alot here. Like what "Call to Worship," and "Words of institution" means. How to plan a worship service. How to be a part of a team. How to be a mother. How to drive fearlessly on I10.
I learned to love the history and the liturgy of Grace. I remember thinking, "these people must be really holy" as I stood in the shadow of the giant cross, suspended as if in mid air above the platform. What I learned, and this is no small thing, is that all people- regardless of denomination, liturgy or history- are working out their salvation with fear and trembling. Liturgy does not holy make. But I dare to say, Love does. And they've got it in spades.
As I sit here surrounded by moving boxes, stacks of books, layers of effort, hope and intention, I am reaching for the meaning of it all. And what I'm finding is simply the last page of the first chapter. One I hope to revisit with fondness. But one that's finished none the less.
Thank you Grace. For trusting, loving and letting me go. You will be missed.
Grace Presbyterian Church has been the childhood home of my ministry. Of our ministry. It's the place I wrote all my songs, save one. It's the place I led worship in front of hundreds of people, none of whom knew me from Adam when we arrived in the summer of 2005. I remember being awed by the sanctuary. Walking in and being overwhelmed by the stained glass, the royal red carpet, the beautiful chancel, the communion table- whose message implored "Do this in rememberence of me."
I learned alot here. Like what "Call to Worship," and "Words of institution" means. How to plan a worship service. How to be a part of a team. How to be a mother. How to drive fearlessly on I10.
I learned to love the history and the liturgy of Grace. I remember thinking, "these people must be really holy" as I stood in the shadow of the giant cross, suspended as if in mid air above the platform. What I learned, and this is no small thing, is that all people- regardless of denomination, liturgy or history- are working out their salvation with fear and trembling. Liturgy does not holy make. But I dare to say, Love does. And they've got it in spades.
As I sit here surrounded by moving boxes, stacks of books, layers of effort, hope and intention, I am reaching for the meaning of it all. And what I'm finding is simply the last page of the first chapter. One I hope to revisit with fondness. But one that's finished none the less.
Thank you Grace. For trusting, loving and letting me go. You will be missed.
Friday, May 21, 2010
You cannot love both me and Ezra Pound
I knew it would never work. Deep down, I knew. Because of Pound. I made it my business to know who all the Anti-Semites were in art, music, literature and the like. I was like a one woman Red Scare, except I was hunting people who don't like Jews, not Communists. As a child I wanted to be Ann Frank. Or rather, I wanted to play Ann Frank, in an original production, written by me of course, that would include "Somewhere" from West Side Story. Yes, Ann Frank the musical. My fourth grade English teacher politely advised against it.
Walt Disney
Ezra Pound
Charles Lindbergh
Martin Luther
Henry Ford
The list goes on, at least according to google. But back then, there was no google, and this information was hard to come by. It was passed with the salt and gefilte fish. Dropped like alka seltzer into conversations of adults that I eavesdropped on. Pop, pop. Fizz, fizz.
So when a man I liked in college, (I was in college, he was in Baltimore) who was courting me through letters and poems, declared his love for Ezra Pound, I should have run in the other direction. He loved ampersands (and apparently still does),played in a well known rock band and was considerably older than me.
He was very concerned that he couldn't take me to his neighborhood bar. And being a "writer" who loved "Pound" his neighborhood bar was critical to the formation and maintenence of his delicate psyche. I was 20. "I have an id", I whispered over the phone as snow piled up outside my window. "Oh, God" he said dramatically,"a fake id?"
I went to Baltimore nonetheless. Against my better judgement (where was my mother?) I got on an Amtrak train over Christmas break, from New York City to D.C., to spend a few days with ampersand guy.
When we got to his house and I dropped my stuff on the futon in the loft outside his bedroom he raised an eyebrow. Then I raised an eyebrow. I expected him to offer to sleep on the futon. He was expecting some other arrangement.
What ensued was a quasi-comedic unraveling of this poetry based relationship, starting with Ethiopian food, ending with me hiding out at a girlfriends parents' house in suburban Maryland.
What could be less poetic than eating Ethiopian food on a first date. When you're 20. At thirty five I will happily eat Ethiopian food in front of anyone. I am married to a beautiful man whom I love and I am comfortable in my skin. Back then I wanted all boys to think I wore no makeup ("oh that? My lips are naturally berry-crush"), looked perfect first thing in the morning, and never went to the bathroom.
In this day and age you cannot escape anyone. If you have the slightest curiosity about a person who was a part of your life in some capacity you can find them on the internet. And their spouses. And children. Whether it's ampersand guy or your high school English teacher.
I feel as though this is both good and bad. Good in a way, for compulsive memoirists like myself. But also bad for us. There is less liberty we can take with these stories. Though I can't imagine the ampersand guy would particularly care if I re-wrote a few details of our short, strange story.
I was a bit of a groupie I will admit. I loved that he was in a band. And even though this visit was going badly, not just awkwardly but badly, I stayed long enough to accompany him to a show at a DC club. We walked the ten or so blocks from the train in silence. When we got our names checked off the guest list he went straight for the 21 and over VIP section and began drinking scotch. I drank diet coke with a girlfriend and shot irritated glances at him as often as I could make eye contact.
By the time the show was over he was hammered. My girlfriend drove us back to his house in her VW Rabbit, and he spent the entire ride hitting on her. When we pulled up to his place, he climbed into the front seat and kissed her cheek, half falling onto the icy sidewalk.
I went home with my friend that night, wondering what could have gone so wrong. I was usually a pretty good judge of character. "Serves me right," I thought. "Pound." There are signs, there is writing on the wall.
Weeks later I called him, snowed in and bored. "What happened?" I asked, thinking of all the lyrical poems, letters and ampersands. "Truth be told, Cameron," he said, "I really don't give a damn." Maybe it was less Rhett Butler. I can't remember now. But what I do remember was the "truth be told." It was so colloquial. So average. So unlike the dramatic vocabulary of his written self. But really, what did I know? I was only 20 after all.
Walt Disney
Ezra Pound
Charles Lindbergh
Martin Luther
Henry Ford
The list goes on, at least according to google. But back then, there was no google, and this information was hard to come by. It was passed with the salt and gefilte fish. Dropped like alka seltzer into conversations of adults that I eavesdropped on. Pop, pop. Fizz, fizz.
So when a man I liked in college, (I was in college, he was in Baltimore) who was courting me through letters and poems, declared his love for Ezra Pound, I should have run in the other direction. He loved ampersands (and apparently still does),played in a well known rock band and was considerably older than me.
He was very concerned that he couldn't take me to his neighborhood bar. And being a "writer" who loved "Pound" his neighborhood bar was critical to the formation and maintenence of his delicate psyche. I was 20. "I have an id", I whispered over the phone as snow piled up outside my window. "Oh, God" he said dramatically,"a fake id?"
I went to Baltimore nonetheless. Against my better judgement (where was my mother?) I got on an Amtrak train over Christmas break, from New York City to D.C., to spend a few days with ampersand guy.
When we got to his house and I dropped my stuff on the futon in the loft outside his bedroom he raised an eyebrow. Then I raised an eyebrow. I expected him to offer to sleep on the futon. He was expecting some other arrangement.
What ensued was a quasi-comedic unraveling of this poetry based relationship, starting with Ethiopian food, ending with me hiding out at a girlfriends parents' house in suburban Maryland.
What could be less poetic than eating Ethiopian food on a first date. When you're 20. At thirty five I will happily eat Ethiopian food in front of anyone. I am married to a beautiful man whom I love and I am comfortable in my skin. Back then I wanted all boys to think I wore no makeup ("oh that? My lips are naturally berry-crush"), looked perfect first thing in the morning, and never went to the bathroom.
In this day and age you cannot escape anyone. If you have the slightest curiosity about a person who was a part of your life in some capacity you can find them on the internet. And their spouses. And children. Whether it's ampersand guy or your high school English teacher.
I feel as though this is both good and bad. Good in a way, for compulsive memoirists like myself. But also bad for us. There is less liberty we can take with these stories. Though I can't imagine the ampersand guy would particularly care if I re-wrote a few details of our short, strange story.
I was a bit of a groupie I will admit. I loved that he was in a band. And even though this visit was going badly, not just awkwardly but badly, I stayed long enough to accompany him to a show at a DC club. We walked the ten or so blocks from the train in silence. When we got our names checked off the guest list he went straight for the 21 and over VIP section and began drinking scotch. I drank diet coke with a girlfriend and shot irritated glances at him as often as I could make eye contact.
By the time the show was over he was hammered. My girlfriend drove us back to his house in her VW Rabbit, and he spent the entire ride hitting on her. When we pulled up to his place, he climbed into the front seat and kissed her cheek, half falling onto the icy sidewalk.
I went home with my friend that night, wondering what could have gone so wrong. I was usually a pretty good judge of character. "Serves me right," I thought. "Pound." There are signs, there is writing on the wall.
Weeks later I called him, snowed in and bored. "What happened?" I asked, thinking of all the lyrical poems, letters and ampersands. "Truth be told, Cameron," he said, "I really don't give a damn." Maybe it was less Rhett Butler. I can't remember now. But what I do remember was the "truth be told." It was so colloquial. So average. So unlike the dramatic vocabulary of his written self. But really, what did I know? I was only 20 after all.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Jamaican Gold
When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with gold cross necklaces. I was about 8, and Jewish, so naturally this caused a bit of a stir in our house. We had a nanny who lived with us back then, she was from Jamaica and wore a light blue nurse's uniform. Her skin smelled like gardenias and cocoa butter and she did bible studies in her room at night, when I was supposed to be in bed. Sneaking glimpses of her bible and notebooks, I zeroed in on the crosses emblazoned on them. Bingo, I thought. This is my chance.
While Soul Train played on her small TV with the sound turned down, Mary would read bible stories to me, eventually giving me colorful, illustrated versions from her churches Sunday school archives.
If I'm honest, I will admit that my motivation for participating in these secretive studies was the glittery cross that teased me from the throat of my classmate, Allison Scully. Allison was also allowed to wear ripped jeans, had blonde hair and a tan-all-year-round complexion. She was not Jewish. And I wanted to be like her.
Our studies were secretive because Mary knew, much better than I did, that my Jewish father would likely object to his only daughter being evangelized under his roof. In retrospect, he might not have cared much. It was my lapsed Catholic mother that eventually put the kabosh on the late night Soul Train sessions.
Mary told me that she would get me a gold cross necklace if I finished all my lessons with her. She told me that the gold that came from her country is more beautiful than from anywhere else. She proudly showed me her own cross, tucked discreetly behind her powder blue collar. Good for her. She knew that visions of jewelry danced in my head and wanted to be sure I knew the meaning of that pendant I so desperately wanted.
When the day came that I'd correctly filled in all the blank, underlined spaces in my notebooks (and believe me, I labored over them) I casually approached my mother in the kitchen after she'd gotten home from work.
Poor Mom. Working her tail off. Sitting in traffic on the George Washington bridge. Likely worrying about my nutjob younger brother and how he was compulsively punching his Kindergarden classmates. The last thing she was expecting was a religious grenade, lobbed from her daughter's 4th grade hand.
Ironically, this is still how I approach my mother, 20, er, ahem, plus years later, with my biggest news. "Want something from Starbucks? By the way, I'm getting married and moving to Texas." That sort of thing.
Before the words had even fully left my mouth, she was hushing me and pulling me to the dark of the front stairwell. "Whatever you do," she said, "don't tell your father." That was it. End of story. The saga of the gold cross necklace had come to an end, at least temporarily.
Looking back, I am profoundly moved by this act of love from my mother toward my father. Maybe there was some genuine fear there, but my mother is not one to scare easily. Though my father has always, and still does at 82, cut an intimidating figure. Their marriage was a shell, propped up on holidays (Jewish ones) for us kids, and their friends. There was literally no love between them, though I didn't really know that yet. Though her own needs, and even dignity were often disregarded by my father, my mother took great care in protecting his Jewish-ness. Something that he himself cared little about.
Recently on the telephone he told me, "You know, when you were a kid, you begged me to send you to Hebrew school." I waited breathless for some additional revelation of my childhood self. "Why didn't you?" I asked. "I don't know" he said. Silence.
"Well," I retorted, tongue planted firmly in cheek, "blame yourself I'm not a Jew."
I kept prodding. "Well, your mother was not interested and..." "Dad," I said, "she was more interested in Judaism than you ever were."
A note of tenderness entered his gravelly voice, "I never knew that", he said " I never knew that."
Friday, April 9, 2010
Iowa?
This is how it appeared on my pop-up calendar, as I opened my phone my first morning here.
Iowa?
Somehow it seemed a fitting title for a few observations of the place:
The esteemed Writer's Workshop at the University of Iowa, arguably the most esteemed graduate program for writer's in the US, is where I find myself. Iowa City, Iowa that is.
1) You need alot of change in Iowa; for parking meters and soda machines. The implication is that you can still buy things with change in Iowa.
2) They have nice sinks. Kohler actually. As if when planning the new addition to the Dey House, home base for the workshop on the U.I campus someone thought; the writer's should have nice sinks. If they want to live in squalor, off campus, that's their business. Here, the student's will have nice sinks.
3) In town, you are sure you will run into your college boyfriend (or girlfriend). Headphones, backpack, awkward hello's and how have you been's. But you won't, because this is Iowa. And that person is probably in Austin, New York City, Chicago or wherever. You fill in the blank.
4) Iowans are nice. My brother's nice friend Ryan seemed particularly keen on this observation, as he is a native Iowan; polite, smart, nice. Sidenote: Ryan is a writer at the workshop, loves turbulence on airplanes, and spent the better part of 3 years in Iraq as a correspondent for AP.
5) The streets are literally paved with phrases from famous writer's, most of them graduates of the program. And famous writers haunt the bars and classrooms here: Kurt Vonnegut, John Cheever, Phillip Roth, Marilyn Robinson, Flannery O'Connor,Raymond Carver and my new friend Chris Offutt (A collection of short stories called- Kentucky Straight, The Good Brother, Episodes 7 & 10 of Season 1, true blood, ahem.)
That's all for now. Signing off for W-IOWA!
Iowa?
Somehow it seemed a fitting title for a few observations of the place:
The esteemed Writer's Workshop at the University of Iowa, arguably the most esteemed graduate program for writer's in the US, is where I find myself. Iowa City, Iowa that is.
1) You need alot of change in Iowa; for parking meters and soda machines. The implication is that you can still buy things with change in Iowa.
2) They have nice sinks. Kohler actually. As if when planning the new addition to the Dey House, home base for the workshop on the U.I campus someone thought; the writer's should have nice sinks. If they want to live in squalor, off campus, that's their business. Here, the student's will have nice sinks.
3) In town, you are sure you will run into your college boyfriend (or girlfriend). Headphones, backpack, awkward hello's and how have you been's. But you won't, because this is Iowa. And that person is probably in Austin, New York City, Chicago or wherever. You fill in the blank.
4) Iowans are nice. My brother's nice friend Ryan seemed particularly keen on this observation, as he is a native Iowan; polite, smart, nice. Sidenote: Ryan is a writer at the workshop, loves turbulence on airplanes, and spent the better part of 3 years in Iraq as a correspondent for AP.
5) The streets are literally paved with phrases from famous writer's, most of them graduates of the program. And famous writers haunt the bars and classrooms here: Kurt Vonnegut, John Cheever, Phillip Roth, Marilyn Robinson, Flannery O'Connor,Raymond Carver and my new friend Chris Offutt (A collection of short stories called- Kentucky Straight, The Good Brother, Episodes 7 & 10 of Season 1, true blood, ahem.)
That's all for now. Signing off for W-IOWA!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Russian sweet bread
Russian Sweetbread
A sweetbread that is a Pascha (Easter) tradition.
Makes three large or six small loaves; 24 servings
Ingredients
5 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 pkgs. dry yeast
1 tsp. salt
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1/3 cup butter
2 eggs at room temp.
1/2 cup citron
3/4 cup chopped, toasted almonds
###
The bucolic journey, which started as a rare time of togetherness for me and my Texan husband, turned tension filled and stressed out when we took a wrong term at Kerrville.
"Did you read the directions?" I asked
"I know exactly where it is," he offered, "don't worry."
Attending this retreat, for free, was a minor miracle in itself. We'd gotten a babysitter for the weekend and were actually going to spend 3 uninterrupted days with artists and poets and musicians. And eachother. Amazing.
When we pulled over at a friendly looking restaurant so I could ask for directions (note: I was asking, not my husband), we were nearly to Bandera. The very wrong way on the road that didn't turn into 71 like we'd thought it would. It was getting dark.
The GPS on the iPhone found a windy little road through the hills that felt like mountains- with hair pin turns that demanded we slow to 10mph. What should've taken an hour from the interstate was taking more than two.
I was frustrated and tired and hungry, and noting all this, I thought to myself in a rare moment of maturity "maybe there's a reason we're lost and late. Maybe it's a God thing."
When we finally made our way to the river road that leads to the lodge I began to see the reason. We opened the sunroof and the sky was a silver dome with pin pricks of black between the stars. We opened the windows and the air was clean and cool and clear.
When we arrived, we immediately met Edwina (pronounced Ed- winna, not Ed-weena). Well into her 80s yet exuding joy and vitality,Edwina welcomed us with hugs (we'd never met her before this moment) and asked if we were hungry. Our grumbling stomachs gave us away. "Well I'm just so glad you kids made it, I was so worried". Kids? I thought. I exhaled. We'd called her at the front desk at least 4 times when we still had phone service, trying not to sound like neurotic city folk, and Edwina had patiently tried to talk us through the directions.
We followed her into the lodge's kitchen where she gently nudged us toward the table she had laid. Hot, fresh, bread, and cold iced tea beckoned. The site of it nearly made me cry. I was tired, hungry and raw from a long journey, and frankly, from too many years of ministry without a break. And I didn't grow up with this sort of thing, this sort of hospitality. My grandmother passed away when I was 6 and my mother worked, alot. So I work, alot. It's what I know how to do.
I considered asking Edwina to adopt me. Though I am an adult and I'd known her for five minutes, it seemed like a great idea at the time, and still does. I could learn a lot from her. She chatted to us, making us feel comfortable and less guilty for keeping her awake until 10:00pm. "Oh, I don't go up to bed until after 11!" she assured me, and though I thought she was just being polite, I knew she was telling the truth. Staying up late, and caring for road weary strangers, heating up food and making small talk, seemed like the exact thing she had been looking forward to all day. She served us dinner, and hovered, making sure we had everything we needed. Matt and I looked at eachother dumbfounded when she left the room for a moment. "Is she real?" I asked, thinking that it was altogether possible that Edwina was an angel.
Before leaving us with a tupperware full of deserts, Edwina asked if we'd like to try the Russian sweet bread. “Is that what it's called" she asked looking directly at me, "Russian sweet bread?" Edwina doesn't know this, but I am Russian, or at least half Russian. And there would be no way that I would hear "Russian sweet bread" coming from a tiny, elderly woman, in a remote canyon in the Texas Hill Country, and not look over my shoulder to see if some long lost relative was about to jump out the pantry and shout "Candid Camera!" She said "Russian sweet bread" and I heard "This is for you. Not the other 40 people at the lodge this weekend, not even Matt, but just for you. This kindness, this love, this food, is just for you." I knew it was a God thing. I'd been lost, literally, and now was found. And full. Yum.
Cameron Dezen Hammon © 2010
*recipe courtesy of Russian Life
A sweetbread that is a Pascha (Easter) tradition.
Makes three large or six small loaves; 24 servings
Ingredients
5 cups flour
1/2 cup sugar
2 pkgs. dry yeast
1 tsp. salt
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1/3 cup butter
2 eggs at room temp.
1/2 cup citron
3/4 cup chopped, toasted almonds
###
The bucolic journey, which started as a rare time of togetherness for me and my Texan husband, turned tension filled and stressed out when we took a wrong term at Kerrville.
"Did you read the directions?" I asked
"I know exactly where it is," he offered, "don't worry."
Attending this retreat, for free, was a minor miracle in itself. We'd gotten a babysitter for the weekend and were actually going to spend 3 uninterrupted days with artists and poets and musicians. And eachother. Amazing.
When we pulled over at a friendly looking restaurant so I could ask for directions (note: I was asking, not my husband), we were nearly to Bandera. The very wrong way on the road that didn't turn into 71 like we'd thought it would. It was getting dark.
The GPS on the iPhone found a windy little road through the hills that felt like mountains- with hair pin turns that demanded we slow to 10mph. What should've taken an hour from the interstate was taking more than two.
I was frustrated and tired and hungry, and noting all this, I thought to myself in a rare moment of maturity "maybe there's a reason we're lost and late. Maybe it's a God thing."
When we finally made our way to the river road that leads to the lodge I began to see the reason. We opened the sunroof and the sky was a silver dome with pin pricks of black between the stars. We opened the windows and the air was clean and cool and clear.
When we arrived, we immediately met Edwina (pronounced Ed- winna, not Ed-weena). Well into her 80s yet exuding joy and vitality,Edwina welcomed us with hugs (we'd never met her before this moment) and asked if we were hungry. Our grumbling stomachs gave us away. "Well I'm just so glad you kids made it, I was so worried". Kids? I thought. I exhaled. We'd called her at the front desk at least 4 times when we still had phone service, trying not to sound like neurotic city folk, and Edwina had patiently tried to talk us through the directions.
We followed her into the lodge's kitchen where she gently nudged us toward the table she had laid. Hot, fresh, bread, and cold iced tea beckoned. The site of it nearly made me cry. I was tired, hungry and raw from a long journey, and frankly, from too many years of ministry without a break. And I didn't grow up with this sort of thing, this sort of hospitality. My grandmother passed away when I was 6 and my mother worked, alot. So I work, alot. It's what I know how to do.
I considered asking Edwina to adopt me. Though I am an adult and I'd known her for five minutes, it seemed like a great idea at the time, and still does. I could learn a lot from her. She chatted to us, making us feel comfortable and less guilty for keeping her awake until 10:00pm. "Oh, I don't go up to bed until after 11!" she assured me, and though I thought she was just being polite, I knew she was telling the truth. Staying up late, and caring for road weary strangers, heating up food and making small talk, seemed like the exact thing she had been looking forward to all day. She served us dinner, and hovered, making sure we had everything we needed. Matt and I looked at eachother dumbfounded when she left the room for a moment. "Is she real?" I asked, thinking that it was altogether possible that Edwina was an angel.
Before leaving us with a tupperware full of deserts, Edwina asked if we'd like to try the Russian sweet bread. “Is that what it's called" she asked looking directly at me, "Russian sweet bread?" Edwina doesn't know this, but I am Russian, or at least half Russian. And there would be no way that I would hear "Russian sweet bread" coming from a tiny, elderly woman, in a remote canyon in the Texas Hill Country, and not look over my shoulder to see if some long lost relative was about to jump out the pantry and shout "Candid Camera!" She said "Russian sweet bread" and I heard "This is for you. Not the other 40 people at the lodge this weekend, not even Matt, but just for you. This kindness, this love, this food, is just for you." I knew it was a God thing. I'd been lost, literally, and now was found. And full. Yum.
Cameron Dezen Hammon © 2010
*recipe courtesy of Russian Life
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Holy Magic
First, I checked their twitter feed, and their facebook page. Even though I knew I was going to go to the Easter Vigil service, regardless of their social media sites. But St. Andrew's Episcopal's twitter and facebook pages suggested I would be in the right place. Twitter followers- 11. Facebook fans- 53. Oh wait, that was before I joined. 52 then. No bells, no whistles, no Starbucks in the fellowship hall. Just right.
I've tried an Episcopal service once before. It was a bit of a comedy of errors. Well I was a comedy of errors, the service was lovely. It was me, Matt and my brother Alex in Austin on Christmas eve. We found an 11pm service in a close in suburb and filed in moments before it began. The sanctuary was empty, so we found a seat in the middle of a pew close to the front. Since it was empty I hadn't thought to get an "aisle seat" in the case I needed to slip out to the restroom. I was 6 weeks pregnant and little trips to the restroom were a frequent occurence. Seconds before 11pm hundreds of people made their way into the sanctuary, closing us into the front pew on either side.
Long story short I got up, thus getting the whole pew up 3 times before realizing that it probably wasn't going to work out between me and the Episcopal church. At least not that night. Not to mention the shared chalice communion thing. I was a bit of a germ-o-phobe, being pregnant and all.
My brother had felt compelled to announce at a hushed moment in the liturgy, that I was pregnant. Perhaps he felt he should explain why I kept running out of the service. The liturgy itself was confusing to me. I hadn't yet connected the read thread running between my history as a half Catholic half Jew and my present as an evangelical Christian. I hadn't yet seen the beauty of the ritual, as I seem to be starting to do now.
I have always, always wanted to go to midnight mass. All my life. Every Christmas eve my mother would promise to wake me up to take me to midnight mass. Her descriptions of the candlelight, and the singing, and the glamour of the late hour, especially for a kid; it all seemed magical. It never happened and I can't really blame her. Being a mother myself, I cannot imagine waking a child sleeping soundly on any night, let alone Christmas Eve. As an adult, and as a Christian, I have occasionally given thought again to midnight mass, but I have yet to go.
Last night I caught a glimpse of that magic. To steal a phrase from poet Luci Shaw, "holy magic." A time and a place where the veil between heaven and earth is particularly gossamer, and it if you pay attention you might catch a glimpse of an Archangel or two.
The Easter vigil service at St. Andrew's Episcopal started, for me, with a brisk walk through the musty back entrance adjoining the parking lot. I passed a tiny room with a beautiful stained glass window that appeared to be a children's Sunday school room. I encountered a cheerful woman in a pink pantsuit who loaded me up with a bell, a candle and a 20 page bulletin to take into the service. I followed a mother and her two middle schoolers along a short outdoor path to the front of the church where another sweet lady in a pantsuit welcomed us and held open the heavy, red wood doors. I nearly fell into a gaggle of white clad priests preparing in the foyer (foyer? probably not the right word) for the service.
I tried to blend. Looked straight ahead and followed the mom to a pew a few rows from the back. I immediately wished I had looked more closely at the priests.
The church was dark except for a few chandeliers on dimmers. The altar was completely dark. There was a bit of light coming into the stained glass windows from outside as dusk settled in. The church, meant to simulate Jesus' tomb, wasn't exactly tomb-like, but it was dark and it was somber. Just what I came for.
Just then the lead priest came to the front of the church and gave us a brief rundown on what to expect. She welcomed us to "this most holy of nights" and sang a little something, cantor-like, before gliding to the back of the church.
Behind me the white robed priests were gathered around a low fire, smoldering in some sort of bowl. They were adding what looked like sticks of incense to kindle a fire that would light the candles for the processional.
The number of celebrants, or priests and singers, about matched the number of congregants. But instead of feeling sad that there weren't more people there, I felt grateful that I was getting this gorgeous service in this gorgeous little church, almost all to myself.
Seeing them leaning around the flame, lighting candles, I was struck by how druid it all seemed. The bunch of them, men and women, young and old, looked otherworldly in the darkened church. I knew I was in the right place. I almost wanted to text my husband "this is awesome" but I refrained. It felt as though my phone must have not been invented yet, as I'd traveled back in time to an underground church in some distant country, in a long ago era. The magic and mystery of what we're keeping watch for, the resurrection of the One whose "pronouns we capitalize" in the words of Lauren Winner, is powerfully evident in this place.
In Mark 16 we read the account of Mary Magdelene, Salome (rhymes with Shalom) and Mary, Mother of James bringing spices and herbs to anoint the body of Jesus on Sunday morning, once the Sabbath had ended. "Who's gonna roll this stone away?" they asked one another. You can imagine the exhaustion and frustration. I love when bible characters really sound like the Jewish people they were. Like in Exodus when Moses is trying to lead the Israelites into the wilderness. "Are there no graves in Egypt?" they ask rhetorically, "that we have to die in the wilderness?" A hint of chutzpah and some sarcasm to balance the grief- a time honored tradition. In the case of the three women at the tomb, it's no different. Another rhetorical question. There wasn't anyone to roll away the stone.
When they arrived, the stone had been moved, seemingly by magic. When they dared to scuttle into the cave to prepare the body of their Lord for the grave, they found, you know the story, just the grave clothes and no Jesus. But they also found a man in a "dazzling white robe". An angel whose power and beauty and presence took their breath away. In my imagination the angels robe looked sort of like the billboards for Westheimer Lakes, a suburban home site boasting waterfront properties. Westheimer Lakes is luring Houstonians out to the 'burbs with promises of tranquil water views. This claim alone would be enough to draw the attention of landlocked Texans, but hundreds of tiny reflective disks decorated the sign, simulating, I guess sunlight on a lake. As they caught the sunlight just so, the whole billboard shimmered wildly. And it was almost blinding, but I couldn't look away.Cheesy? Maybe. But magical nonetheless. The extra effort to make those billboards shimmer got my attention. God being the Creator of the Universe is the original designer of 'shimmer' and He has it in spades. He chose to dazzle the bedraggled women, he didn't have to, but He did, giving them a taste of the dazzle that was yet to come. The dreamy angel simply told them "He is Risen!"
Today, Christians around the world will answer that revolutionary proclamation with "He is Risen indeed!" Some will really believe it, having experienced the extravagant dazzling of God in a sickness healed, a relationship mended, or a crime pardoned.
"Holy magic!" said Luci Shaw to a room full of attentive Christian artists. "Is that theologically correct?" she asked, half joking. Nothing could be more theologically correct, I think.
Happy Easter.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Kate
I wanted to simply share our about our brief visit with the McRae's last night. It's a strange tightrope I must admit. The feeling I have is a strange cross between fierce protectiveness and a desperation to communicate. I want you to know all about it because I want you to pray and to tell others to pray for Kate, and for all those battling brain cancer. But then I want to protect her from the eyes of the world. I want her to be safe like I want Sydney to be safe. Kate McRae is simply a precious six year old girl, with two great parents. She and her parents are like so many of our friends. Chatting with them on the sidewalk outside their temporary home was as easy as it is with the Mann's or Kuykendall's. Couples our age, working in the church, having kids, doing life. My relief at this easy feeling was peppered with the sadness that we aren't meeting under better circumstances because I know that if we did, we'd be friends.
We met outside because Kate is still immune compromised from the stem cell transplant and Sydney- being in preschool- is probably a bit of a petri dish as far as germs go. But the two of them had a great little visit. It's so funny how kids hunt out other kids. It's like some kind of "play" instinct. We'd kept Syd in her carseat as we got the goodies and dinner out the car and she was going bonkers because she wanted to meet "Little Kate" as she calls her. Kate wanted to get a look at Syd and before long they were digging through her gift basket (an incredible blessing from the Home Improvement Sunday School class at Grace Pres and the amazing Amy French.)
Barbies, dress up clothes, movies, games and a big 'ol pink cowgirl hat. Kate wanted to try it on so Syd gave it over to Holly. As Kate reached for her own knit hat to remove it, she paused and looked at her mom. "Is she going to laugh at me?" she asked. The world stopped in that moment and the reality of this disease hit us like a freight train. My heart broke. "No, she's not going to laugh at you" we both said, and then Holly proceeded to gently explain to Sydney that Kate doesn't have any hair because of her medicine. And that when it grows back it will be blonde, like Sydney's but lighter. Kate's question to her mother was simple, practical. Obviously she is speaking from experience.
As she took off her hat I watched my sweet 3 yr old's face go from giggles to shock then right back to giggles. She didn't miss a beat. She didn't stare, she didn't laugh, she acted like it was the most normal thing in the world to not have hair. They went right back to playing, balancing on one foot, trapsing up and down the sidewalk in their hats.
Two observations: No child, no person should have to go through this. It is very hard to reconcile a just, loving God in the face of a child's suffering. Yet somehow, the mercy and the suffering of God himself, is so real and palpable here. Our only comfort I guess is that God himself is nearer than we know. And he doesn't waste our suffering.
My little child is being changed just by her proximity to Kate and her understanding- though limited- of her illness. She is becoming compassionate. The compassion of one child for another is beautiful. It is stunningly beautiful. God is making something beautiful out of this pain.
Pray like your life depended on it. For Kate.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thoughts on parenting and post partum
As the title suggests, what you will find here are some observations on parenting. I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a parenting expert. I have one child, with whom I have 3 years and change in this game. So stick with me. The second bit I am sure I am an expert. Or at least a survivor. So it’s from that perspective I will offer some thoughts.
Disclaimer:
These are shark -infested water. And the sharks may turn out to be dear friends or even family members. Say what you think about parenting, and if what you think is outside the accepted theories of the sub-culture (read: James Dobson, the Super Nanny, your pastor any given Sunday, etc.,) you risk the alienating hush of your friends at lunch. You’ll hear “Bless your heart!” A polite Southern way of saying ‘Wow, you’ve really gone off the deep end’ or ‘You’ve become so liberal’/ (the very worst of all possible fates) and the like.
So here are my radical, not- so- radical reflections on parenting.
Kid's are not stereo's, and there are no instruction manuals:
Do you remember in the hospital with your first child when the nurse (doctor, midwife, whatever) said "They all come out with their own little personalities”. Maybe you were too euphoric, depressed or exhausted to pay attention, but the comment stuck with you. This may have been their way of explaining why your baby was fussy, sleepy, goofy, or whatever he or she was upon initial descent to earth. But it was true. Your baby did things other babies didn't. Her knowing eyes, her projectile, er…, well you know- whatever it was, you recognized that it was true. She was unique.
Then the moment they released you from the hospital and the care of professionals, you set about looking for just the right instruction manual to make her exactly like your best friend’s baby. You know the baby; the one who slept through the night at two weeks old, took naturally to breast feeding and never had colic. The one whose "behavior" - a word which should never be used when talking about a child under 1, possibly 2 years old- was just perfect for her parents schedules, egos and needs. They could beam with pride when their child napped without a fight, ate all her strained peas or didn't puke at the dinner table, because this of course was "proof" that they were doing something right.
Ok, back to you and me. Let's retrace our steps. First we got into the attachment parenting thing, because it just seemed nicer. Digging through the stack of baby books at 1 in the morning, the picture on the cover of the “attachment” book seemed to sooth our fried nerves. “No cry method” sounded great to us who’d been up for three days and couldn’t quit crying ourselves.
Or maybe we tried the cry-it-out method first. Babywise. Because that's what our Christian friends swore by (wait aren't we not supposed to swear?) and their kid slept like 10 hours straight the first night home from the hospital. And besides, the book warned, if we didn’t follow their method our kids would grow up to be self-centered social deviants. All because we caved and gave them a bottle at 3am.
Whichever way we gravitated, we read and re-read the "instructions." We surfed baby blogs late into the night. But our little guy wasn't following the “instructions,” was he?
Mine didn’t. Not only did none of the many, many books help, but they were the cherry on top of my self pity Sundae. "See, I am not cut out for this." "Why can't I do this right?" "Why isn't my baby like all the other babies in this book?" I was determined that I would get it right, and my Christian baby books and prayer groups, Mom's groups and websites would be enough to guide me through. And granted, if my self -pity had been just the baby blues, the standard two to four weeks of weepiness, they may have.
But it wasn't, it didn't, and here we are. And the only reason I can imagine that God let me go through what I did, is simply so I can share it with you.
Here’s how it came down.
My brother’s band was in town to play at a huge arena when my daughter was about 5 months old. I had planned the outing for weeks. Though my nerves were fried from five months of anxiety and sleeplessness, I was determined to go to the gig, even get up on stage and sing backing vocals on a handful of songs. My adrenaline was in overdrive. I did my best to recapture some of my pre-pregnancy confidence. After a great night I returned home to Matt and Sydney asleep on the couch. She wasn't in her crib, it was midnight. The slight deviation from our schedule sent me into an anxious downward spiral of guilt and panic. I barely slept a wink. Maybe 30-40 minutes. The whole house was snoring and I was staring at the ceiling, punishing myself for having had a night out. Trouble is I had no idea that my sadness- about my body, my perceived daily failures at home, my fizzling career and creativity- was due - at least in some significant part to the hormones that were still raging through me. It had a name, and my brother named it. “You have post partum depression,” he said, a little frazzled by my sudden explosion of tears as he readied himself to leave town the next morning. “There’s medication for it. It’s not a big deal. Just talk to someone.” What I had feared, what I refused to utter, what seemed to be lurking just around each corner had finally come into the light.
That declaration by my brother in the kitchen of our rented house started me on the road back to wellness. In that moment, I had clarity. I had a to-do list. Talk to somebody. Get help. Put one foot in front of the other. I could handle that. Wandering around the desert of woe had just about done me in.
I’m a little bit disappointed that it took my rock star brother, who is not exactly an expert on women’s issues, to tell me to get help. I had prayer partners. Sisters in Christ. Family members who knew what I was going through but couldn’t, or wouldn’t name it. Maybe they were as terrified of this unknown monster as I was. Maybe the name alone, “post partum depression” conjured horrifying images of deranged women and defenseless babies. Maybe they did tell me to get help but I wouldn’t listen.
I was so certain that God's healing for me would come through prayer, bible study and white knuckle discipline. For some reason I perceived my depression and anxiety as my own fault. Something I could "kick" if I just worked harder at it.
But this is not how God works. He wants us to trust deeper, not work harder. He taught me something huge about himself through all this. First, that He and He alone determines how healing will come. He knows me. And He loves me. And wouldn't you know, His way of healing me was utterly simple. It could have come months earlier if during one of my many pleading prayer times I had stopped to listen. I would have had more crazy-free time to enjoy my baby girl if I'd had my antenna up a bit higher.
These days I am the post partum police. Whenever a good friend has a baby I give her a week or two before sitting her down, making eye contact (this is nearly impossible to do with the mother of a two week old) and ask how she’s doing. Not how the baby is doing, not how her mother-in-law, husband, best friend, boss or sister is doing. How she is doing. And I try to get a straight answer. Most of the time, my friends are doing fine. Even better than fine. Which reminds me of the statistics that insist that almost all women get about two weeks of blues, but very few get the full blown crazies like I did. And even fewer will experience the kind that lands their story on the evening news. Devastating as those stories are they are very, very rare.
But once in a while, when talking to my friend, I will hear the nervous quiver in her voice. The obsession with feeding schedules, sleep schedules or bowel movements. I will hear hopelessness in her voice. And that’s my cue.
If I know you well, I’ll just tell you flat out- there is a medication and counseling that can re-teach you how to be you. You shouldn’t suffer like this. It’s easily treatable. I will remind you, as my husband so kindly reminded me, that all healing comes from the hand of God. If I don’t know you well, I will try to get to know you better. But I will try, if you let me, to help.
Monday, March 29, 2010
the worst Jew ever
In an attempt to shake off the above title, not so kindly bestowed on me by my brother via Twitter when I mis-spelled mohel, I will say a few words about Passover.
As a child I had two sets of friends. My Jewish friends and my Catholic friends. My Jewish friends were closer friends, having nothing to do with their religion, but simply for the reason one chooses friends at 6 or 7; cool toys, nice Mom, and later, at maybe 11 or 12, cute older brother.
Having a regular Friday night sleepover at Rachel R.'s house guaranteed me a trip to Shul- Synagogue on Saturday morning. "Bring a dress", Rachel's Swedish convert mother would tell me, "something nice, but not too fancy." When we arrived at the Temple the kids would run to the coat closet where we would find lace doilies and bobby pins for the girls, and mini prayer shawls for the boys. The lace always seemed so elegant and precious in my hands. We would hastily pin the doily to our braids or ponytails and file into the sanctuary.
I, of course, was not Jewish. Though my father is Jewish and in some, more liberal circles I might be accepted, in this Conservative temple I was about as Jewish as pork tenderloin. I tried to blend in with Rachel's family. We whispered a hushed plan to tell the Rabbi I was a cousin visiting from a nearby town. Because I knew, somehow, that if I was outed I wouldn't be able to participate in the rituals I was growing to love and look forward to.
One of the best parts of the service is when the Rabbi, surrounded by a handful of lucky kids, processes into the Sanctuary carrying the Torah scrolls, high above his head. Because the Torah is sacred, I was told, it can never touch the ground. So the job of helping to carry the giant, sacred book, was an important one. Even if our part was merely symbolic, it was an honor to be called on for this job.
Christians also love to process. In some circles at least. It's dramatic and powerful. I remember being particularly moved by seeing a handful of Episcopal priests file past me on a Sunday night as I sat daydreaming in a garden beside St. Martin's Church. Robed and focused, one cheerful looking teenaged girl- arms outstretched balancing a Medieval looking banner- smiled at me as our eyes met.
Back to being Jewish.
One Saturday, I suppose my regular attendance and the "cousin" story had worked because I found myself at the top of the aisle behind a curtain, nervously standing beside the Rabbi as we were about to make our way to the front of the Synagogue with the Torah. I avoided eye contact with him. I repeated the story in my head, "I'm the cousin from Ft. Lee," I thought, hoping my lie would go undetected if I was called upon to identify myself before taking part in this holy errand.
Though this is not my favorite Jewish memory, for some reason it's the first that comes to mind. It wasn't Passover, it wasn't a high holiday of any sort. It was just a regular old Sabbath day, but yet, it was important. The work of God's people was as important on this morning as it was on any night of Hannukah, or Purim, or Passover for that matter. At least it was to me. And it was important for the children to be involved, to have ownership in this glorious, everyday activity.
It certainly was important to the Rabbi. My goy hands never touched the Torah. I watched teary eyed from behind the curtain, exposed, sort of, as the non Jew I was. But I get it. I understand now. I had no idea, except for the crumbs of Hebrew, culture and tradition that I gobbled up at every opportunity; I had no idea what it all really meant.
Passover memories are better. More inclusive, more encouraging. A myriad of seder dinners were attended by our family, one resulting in my little brother getting a cauldron of matzoh ball soup accidentally dumped on his head, but generally they were undramatic, regular sorts of events.
My friend Leah, another one whose family occasionally let me tag along to Shul, had a grandfather who was in the Jewish mafia in Pennsylvania. I learned of this years later when her parents got divorced and all the family secrets came spilling out, as they tend to do. But my memories of spending Passover at her mafia don grandfather's house are some of the happiest of my childhood.
They had a huge, gorgeous house surrounded by manicured gardens and 12 foot high hedges sculpted into a labrinyth. I remember the cool, pre-Spring evenings we would run around the backyard, waiting for the ritual to begin. As the sun began to set we would all take our places at the giant dining room table. Each place was set with a pocket sized prayer book, the prayers in both Hebrew and English. "Now this is something I can do," I thought. When it was my turn to read a prayer someone kindly suggested I read in English, acknowledging that I knew no Hebrew. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I proudly and carefully read aloud the designated prayer, to smiles and nods of encouragement from Leah's family. To them, at least in that moment, I was Jewish enough.
Later we would all hunt for the Afikomen, slip sliding on the polished mahogany floors in our socks. We would be given mesh bags of chocolate money, whether or not we were lucky enough to find the hidden matzoh.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
St. Leonard
Seth: You have such vivid Christian imagery in many of your songs, and much of it is contrasted with the selfishness of the "modern" individual. I was wondering what's your take on the state of Christianity today?
Leonard Cohen: Dear Seth, I don't really have a 'take on the state of Christianity.' But when I read your question, this answer came to mind: As I understand it, into the heart of every Christian, Christ comes, and Christ goes. When, by his Grace, the landscape of the heart becomes vast and deep and limitless, then Christ makes His abode in that graceful heart, and His Will prevails. The experience is recognized as Peace. In the absence of this experience much activity arises, divisions of ever sort. Outside of the organizational enterprise, which some applaud and some mistrust, stands the figure of Jesus, nailed to a human predicament, summoning the heart to comprehend its own suffering by dissolving itself in a radical confession of hospitality.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Laity Lodge No. 3
Stand in the field
Arms wide open
Don’t curl up, anesthetized.
Filling the cracked and broken heart
with lipgloss,
movies,
and religion.
Stand at the water’s edge
and trust-fall into the icy emerald pool.
“Put your hand into my wounds”
And know who I am.
The Valley of Achon, of Trouble, becomes the Door of Hope.
Risen from the water,
the wounds remain.
But we are no longer alone with them.
Arms wide open
Don’t curl up, anesthetized.
Filling the cracked and broken heart
with lipgloss,
movies,
and religion.
Stand at the water’s edge
and trust-fall into the icy emerald pool.
“Put your hand into my wounds”
And know who I am.
The Valley of Achon, of Trouble, becomes the Door of Hope.
Risen from the water,
the wounds remain.
But we are no longer alone with them.
Laity Lodge No. 2
I have experienced disturbing kindness.
The kind that penetrates,
keeps your dinner warm,
and reduces you to sobs and shudders.
I have seen a blind woman paint.
Cheshire smile spreading
as her tiny, delicate hand applies crimson to the canvas.
I have been adopted
by a gentle woman made of love and Russian sweet bread.
I am not an orphan anymore.
I have been heard and named: beloved.
The locomotive wind arrives,
racing through the trees like a subway car.
Rattling my bones and promising deliverance.
In the shadow of the bald Cypress,
along the craggy driftwood and gravel path,
beside little Mary’s fountain.
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see.
The kind that penetrates,
keeps your dinner warm,
and reduces you to sobs and shudders.
I have seen a blind woman paint.
Cheshire smile spreading
as her tiny, delicate hand applies crimson to the canvas.
I have been adopted
by a gentle woman made of love and Russian sweet bread.
I am not an orphan anymore.
I have been heard and named: beloved.
The locomotive wind arrives,
racing through the trees like a subway car.
Rattling my bones and promising deliverance.
In the shadow of the bald Cypress,
along the craggy driftwood and gravel path,
beside little Mary’s fountain.
I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see.
security words haiku
Security Check
This field is required
Enter both words below, separated by a space. Can't read the words below?
Try different words or an audio captcha.
that flaming invented stuff
amazing hubris
soul vacation
constant Emperor invent epiphanies
relevant wisdom
common good
Friday, March 12, 2010
my nine lives and the ministry of lemon pudding
Naming
I was named for the stage. When my parents stopped fighting long enough to conceive me, the only name my father, a frustrated singer ala Dean Martin, would allow- was Cameron. Alexandra, my middle name, I am led to believe was a nod to his Russian Empiric heritage. My mother, herself a professed relative of Grace Kelly and a studied actress, must've hoped what she carried in her belly would live the dream she'd sidelined for love.
I named Sydney, Sydney Shalom for similar reasons. Shalom- a nod to my father's Judaic heritage as well as a proclamation of my own Jesus centered aspirations. Sydney Shalom- in itself arresting and poetic, is a perfect "stage name" should she so choose. Her name embodies the Hope that the eschatalogical future will include the reconciliation of all broken things- broken relationships with my father and the broken ecosystem included- back to the Creator.
I intend to write much of this entry on mentors. The importance of them and the way I have come about them in my nine lives. I have had a remarkable life so far. I've supped with movie stars and hobos. I've walked the far east and the lower east side. I've sketched alongside world famous artists and gazed upon the live and in person face of the great Audrey Hepburn, which was at more than 80, the embodiment of stunning kindness.
A colleague once exclaimed over tex Mex- "How old are you?" When I amen'd and smiled at some obscure cultural reference from the 60s. I've had an incredible journey so far and I'm not even 35.
Writing this and naming these different 'lives' has confirmed for me how blessed I really am, and that everything is indeed a season. The mountaintop and the valley of the shadow of death. Both, seasons. Perhaps God in his wisdom and his mercy knows we can't take much of anything for very long. And that waiting -shapes us.
Now, to clarify the stage I am referring to is not the American Idol or Star Search stage. It's the stage of the golden voiced Sarah Berhardt, the Grand 'Ol Opry (even though I've never been there), the in the round or blackbox theater where real art happens and dreams come to life.
This is the stage I named my daughter for, and I imagine, the stage I was named for.
Mentor
Sadly for my mother I never showed much gift for the stage at a young age. I was desperately self conscious. Adolescence was not kind (it rarely is) and I was immobilized by trying to hide myself form the eyes of the world. My skin, my profile, my hair, was never right. Too pale, to pointy, to red. At the tale end of adolescence I encountered my first real mentor. His name is Michael Horowitz and he is a writer, editor and the primary archivist of Timothy Leary. He is also the father of actress Winona Ryder.
Though I was too self conscience to act myself, I was an avid fan. And the blondes of the 80s had made way for the broody depth of my dark haired hero, Winona. I saw her in Lucas. Scrawny, boyish and beautiful, a misfit. Walking poetry. Later called "the thinking man's movie star" she embodied all I loved and wanted to be.
Instead of cultivating my headshot and monologue (which as a teenager at the High School for the Performing Arts, living a half block from Lincoln Center, was quite radical) I wrote poetry. I discovered Alan Ginsberg (who I stalked all over the West Village). I discovered Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind (the actual Coney Island is where I would be baptized some 11 yrs later.) I discovered Jack Kerouac, and later Rainer Maria Rilke and Adrienne Rich. I identified myself as the maker not the muse.
And then I found Mike Horowitz. I was a fatherless, teenage poet and who better to mentor me than the father of my hero?
Reading an interview with Winona in Elle Magazine in my bedroom on the 21st floor, I came across a description of her father's business, a rare book mail order house specializing in rare books from the 60s. "Could I be so lucky?" I thought. I was writing a paper on the Beat Generation at the time for my AP English class and convinced myself that I had a legitimate reason to write to him. What could I lose?
What began as an inquiry for a book, turned into a bonifide pen pal and phone call mentorship. I cannot imagine what inspired this kind man to talk to me, encourage me and listen. I sent him my poems. He loved them. Or so he said "Keep going," he would say. "I am so proud of you."
My mother and I would later travel to Northern California, she on business, me on a pilgrimage to spend the day with Michael in North Beach, unearthing treasures of the beat writers in their original habitat. Later we would drive to Petaluma and have dinner at the family's kitchen table. Their kindness was shocking. They never questioned why this 16 year old stranger was hanging out with their Dad. We had dinner and conversation. I got to know Sunyata and Uri (2 of Winona's siblings who were living at home). I was enfolded and accepted.
Our correspondence continued for years. A self described LSD expert and Atheist, Michael Horowitz was the most fatherly man I had ever met. Though his values were not the best, he did care about me. And he encouraged my adventurous spirit, and most importantly my writing.
I was named for the stage. When my parents stopped fighting long enough to conceive me, the only name my father, a frustrated singer ala Dean Martin, would allow- was Cameron. Alexandra, my middle name, I am led to believe was a nod to his Russian Empiric heritage. My mother, herself a professed relative of Grace Kelly and a studied actress, must've hoped what she carried in her belly would live the dream she'd sidelined for love.
I named Sydney, Sydney Shalom for similar reasons. Shalom- a nod to my father's Judaic heritage as well as a proclamation of my own Jesus centered aspirations. Sydney Shalom- in itself arresting and poetic, is a perfect "stage name" should she so choose. Her name embodies the Hope that the eschatalogical future will include the reconciliation of all broken things- broken relationships with my father and the broken ecosystem included- back to the Creator.
I intend to write much of this entry on mentors. The importance of them and the way I have come about them in my nine lives. I have had a remarkable life so far. I've supped with movie stars and hobos. I've walked the far east and the lower east side. I've sketched alongside world famous artists and gazed upon the live and in person face of the great Audrey Hepburn, which was at more than 80, the embodiment of stunning kindness.
A colleague once exclaimed over tex Mex- "How old are you?" When I amen'd and smiled at some obscure cultural reference from the 60s. I've had an incredible journey so far and I'm not even 35.
Writing this and naming these different 'lives' has confirmed for me how blessed I really am, and that everything is indeed a season. The mountaintop and the valley of the shadow of death. Both, seasons. Perhaps God in his wisdom and his mercy knows we can't take much of anything for very long. And that waiting -shapes us.
Now, to clarify the stage I am referring to is not the American Idol or Star Search stage. It's the stage of the golden voiced Sarah Berhardt, the Grand 'Ol Opry (even though I've never been there), the in the round or blackbox theater where real art happens and dreams come to life.
This is the stage I named my daughter for, and I imagine, the stage I was named for.
Mentor
Sadly for my mother I never showed much gift for the stage at a young age. I was desperately self conscious. Adolescence was not kind (it rarely is) and I was immobilized by trying to hide myself form the eyes of the world. My skin, my profile, my hair, was never right. Too pale, to pointy, to red. At the tale end of adolescence I encountered my first real mentor. His name is Michael Horowitz and he is a writer, editor and the primary archivist of Timothy Leary. He is also the father of actress Winona Ryder.
Though I was too self conscience to act myself, I was an avid fan. And the blondes of the 80s had made way for the broody depth of my dark haired hero, Winona. I saw her in Lucas. Scrawny, boyish and beautiful, a misfit. Walking poetry. Later called "the thinking man's movie star" she embodied all I loved and wanted to be.
Instead of cultivating my headshot and monologue (which as a teenager at the High School for the Performing Arts, living a half block from Lincoln Center, was quite radical) I wrote poetry. I discovered Alan Ginsberg (who I stalked all over the West Village). I discovered Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind (the actual Coney Island is where I would be baptized some 11 yrs later.) I discovered Jack Kerouac, and later Rainer Maria Rilke and Adrienne Rich. I identified myself as the maker not the muse.
And then I found Mike Horowitz. I was a fatherless, teenage poet and who better to mentor me than the father of my hero?
Reading an interview with Winona in Elle Magazine in my bedroom on the 21st floor, I came across a description of her father's business, a rare book mail order house specializing in rare books from the 60s. "Could I be so lucky?" I thought. I was writing a paper on the Beat Generation at the time for my AP English class and convinced myself that I had a legitimate reason to write to him. What could I lose?
What began as an inquiry for a book, turned into a bonifide pen pal and phone call mentorship. I cannot imagine what inspired this kind man to talk to me, encourage me and listen. I sent him my poems. He loved them. Or so he said "Keep going," he would say. "I am so proud of you."
My mother and I would later travel to Northern California, she on business, me on a pilgrimage to spend the day with Michael in North Beach, unearthing treasures of the beat writers in their original habitat. Later we would drive to Petaluma and have dinner at the family's kitchen table. Their kindness was shocking. They never questioned why this 16 year old stranger was hanging out with their Dad. We had dinner and conversation. I got to know Sunyata and Uri (2 of Winona's siblings who were living at home). I was enfolded and accepted.
Our correspondence continued for years. A self described LSD expert and Atheist, Michael Horowitz was the most fatherly man I had ever met. Though his values were not the best, he did care about me. And he encouraged my adventurous spirit, and most importantly my writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)