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.

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.

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."

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!

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

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.

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.