Butter for Beer

I'm laughing at the rambling nonsensicalness of Last Post. (Why did I think blogging was necessary after stuffing stockings till five in the morn?)

I confess that as sin, OK?

My moral inventories (AmZyg's purpose, afterall) have been pretty thin, so, lessee. What else...

...Oh. Arguing with April yesterday about boys & wasted college course tuition. T'ms Eve is not a time to joust
...judging my church leadership
...hating my family's Christmas sensitivities
...throwing away D2's thong (It got into my laundry and, well, that's just passive aggressive to chuck it w/o a second thot when I was tossing my load into the dryer)
...using DH's debit card when my Christmas cash ran out
...not having the umphf to turn around and hazard the crowd at Nordstrom Rack when I knew OS's wished for gift was in there
...not calling the guy in Vista whose wife died two years ago, ending our 23 year holiday get-together tradition
...not making the effort to befriend ladies on our street who choose to avoid the neighborhood ladies' -christmas brunch
...faking that I liked DH's earring gift when I didn't

...AAAnd, finally, trading a lb of butter for D2's last Heineken. I know I'm called by a Saviour who loves us to steer clear of alcohol, but my beloved O'Douls was gone and... no excuses. I am driven to drink when stressed and unhappy.  It will go bad for me if I keep sneaking everyone else's wine and brandy, beer and rum.  Why, this is MY home, and my rules should apply, but, in a fit of self serving "enabling," I've eased up on the alcohol ban.  Hic-up.

I will continue this later; still craving yet another long awaited winter's nap. Christmas fatigue? or depression? May the angels of our merciful God attend this home, these kids and their callings. May the nine books (seriously?) OS rec'd from all and sundry sibs and parentals actually percolate into his spirit, leaving him hungry to wade into those baptismal waters. Sooner than later (that poor soul, taking such a HIT by being the repository of every generational flaw and curse, both maternal and paternal).  And bless the girls whose passive aggressive mom still suffers from powerful immaturities: anger, resentment and feeling rejected by people who shouldn't matter...

And bless this week of new year prep when DH settles matters, makes plans for the next year, and begins praying seriously about career moves.

Merry Zygote Christ Mass

You're well over the half way mark, little Zygote. You're learning not to be afraid when in the company of critics, and you've proved you can defend your differences to the "party bosses" with out being too contrary and upset (we do have to work on that one, tho), esp when the topic is the ornery obscene - ness that is Christmas. That's progress.

You're little five month body is fully in order, a complete package: beating heart, brain waves that began long ago, limbs that dance and pray... On your way.

I wonder how the gene for argumentativeness develops?

Yesterday's brunch featured some flash of brash: I wanted to persuade A. that boys need to take time off from college to learn where their strengths and callings come from. It was a good Christmas Eve conversation, where I used my dear OS as my convincer. (<--- I was type-dreaming as Pandora sings gentle Christmas verses! nodding off and typing nonsense.)  After punching stocking stuffers into four felt Christmas stockings held together by 20 year old glue and a tad of stitching, I feel sick at how purposeless these trinkets are... necklaces, Stand True patches, bumper stickers, ornaments, gas cards, a watch, gum, socks, lint rollers, free employer trinkets... It's gotten more obscene each year, with overflow junk --more than ever!-- placed above each stocking, on the mantle.  I should start... ay soon (<--nodds off again... !)

a'Right. I'm tired. I'm GOing, and as I do, I'll hope my future gift choices will brim with intentionality, and serve some greater purpose than garnering admirers who think my taste is hip.

OMg. I am so sleepy i can't even read this to proof it.  Two brunches. Two parties. Errands. Collections. Donations. Housecleaning. More housecleaning. Rain Rain Rain and more beautiful rain. All accumulated to one end: impress others with gifts. And Jesus gets the Visa bill.

God Bless our family, our street, this city, our state and nation, and may the Church of Our LORD recover from Christmas extremes, pointless family get togethers and way too much gluttony.

Amen. Go baby Zyg.o, GO.

Just Say NO To Christmas

No one loves denial more than I do. But after 25 holiday seasons where a negative cost benefit analysis has been duly noted, not just in financial terms for our family, but in terms of spiritual growth and the particular dysfunctions of our family, it is time to Quit Thee Like Men. Christmas is a nuisance.

We've raised ye olde tannenbaum to idol status, our family centered observances to idol status, getting gifts to idol status, and selfish waste is the end product.

On a related note, in the spirit of these observations, I insisted the twenty-somethings-who-still-live-under-their-parents'-roof must show proof of sound financial stewardship before heading off to bring home a $50-$75 piece of living homage to pointless traditions, a practice they took up after their parents' sizable debt paying for their private CHRISTIAN college educations (idolized that too, I now see) convinced me to get a fake tree until all debt was paid off.  This child-centered home actually saw the children rise up in rebellion and bring the tree home themselves at this suggestion.

In keeping with this yearly coup, yet another one was staged Tuesday night, ignoring a father's stated contingencies. The showdown on the driveway ensued, to my great consternation, offense and spiritual detriment.

So, when it says in Matthew 5 that an offender is to go and reconcile with the offended party, WHERE, I must ask, does it describe said reconciliation to be a mere, happy, jaunty, glib little "hey, Mom. About the other night, uh, sorry."

Whoever said that "saying sorry is the be-all, end-all, definitive answer" to the world's problem with unforgiveness... was an ass.

The only way to fix an offense, really, is to ask the one offended, "Can we talk? I'm interested in hearing how you're feeling about what happened. I'm truly sorry, and want to hear your heart on the matter."

Listening to, dialoguing, and hearing another person's state of mind is the only THE ONLY way to repair emotional harm.

Where Thanksgiving Went

Advent outside, candle poised,
wrecked  by beer and scandalous boys. I was so angry.

As far as Moral Inventories go, when I feel misunderstood, the pegs of sanity wobble, and my whole world comes crashing down.  For years I've confessed my tirades, made my amends, prayed to become this New Creation the Bible talks about, but God, either because He likes my angry self, or because He hasn't chosen/saved me yet - not sure which - has not seen fit to answer my prayer to become a composed, gracious, genteel, positive, "sweet" Christian.

And so I remain: floating inside a soundproof bubble whenever "hardship is not as I would have it" ( thank you, CelebrateRecovery, for this new vocabulary). For safety's sake, I determine to stay isolated from people as much as possible, lest I do or say some unfathomably wrong thing that can never be amended away, especially now that I recognize that pastor abuse has taken place in my church: a staff who measure people by what they can do rather than by who they are in Christ... or, who they might someday become by the grace of God, Amen, PthhPthh (<-- that Jewish thing Barbara Streisand does in Yentl).

It's a dangerously shunning place for those of us who struggle, yet DH has deemed that we must stay, enduring their dysfunction until we somehow, finally "arrive".  

I pass the struggle down,

so, the poor kids have learned to ignore me; and neighbors know --when they see my offspring getting hammered in public (like last night on the driveway, mouths taut & checked out while I chop'd the air and pointed my finger) that it's gonna be good, and so - I imagine - their windows fly open, ears craned.  

The kids were headed to the "Xmas" TreeLot without having first met DH's budget requirements.  (Childish idealism collides with adult realities once a-gain.)

But, this isn't about that.  

What about Advent? What about That Thanksgiving Gaffe?  It had all been piling up in my overheated little psyche. . .


Those TURKEYS!
I thought it was understood by my weird family that Thanksgiving was sacrosanct.  Holy. The most important holiday of the year. Well, next to the fourth of July.  This has and ever will be one of my most cherished convictions, & every year I put a flourish on it when I wish out loud for Christmas to just GO AWAY.

We've included some beautiful hymns to our celebrations down thru the years that take the spotlight off the food for just a minute, and shines it where it belongs: on the LORD of the Feast, the Giver of life, the Comforter of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. JUST for a MIN-UTE block of time, we'd pause.

Add to this sentiment, the fact that my kids can sing. Oh! How they sing.  Their blended voices produce this 'harmonic' that, like David singing to Saul of old, can soothe me out of any ill temper and restore order and sanity to my disordered heart.

So, will they, I asked, offer our most recent Family Gathering of thirty aunts, uncles, cousins and an ailing grandmother, some tiny gesture of harmonic resplendence?

No.

Something about "no one asked them."  I don't count, you see, because I am the mom.

It's not that they're shy, or unused to performing.  They're just infected with the myopic perceptions common to all those raised in dysfunction:  it was false humility. An immaturity.

Poor blokes. So disabled. 

On this count, so abundantly bereft of grace, I must take blame. The acorn falls not far from the tree.

And poor gathered TurkeyDay diners, deprived of a few brief moments of reverie and Spirit filled re-ordering of priorities... a prayer, at best, or a mouthful-plus-two chews of needed entertainment, at worst.  My TV-less children must not know that diners crave entertainment. They do not perceive that people gathered once a year in a Grandmother's three-car-garage at rented tables with space heaters and lit candles, NEED a diversion from stale, predictable, shallow conversation.  ANYTHING BUT the droning hum of space heaters is welcomed. 

WE ARE AN ENTERTAINMENT CULTURE. PEOPLE DEPRIVED OF THEIR TV'S FOR FIVE HOURS ARE HUNGRY FOR ANYTHING, be it a juggling act or a circus clown.  Or three offspring with a Thanksgiving hymn to offer up in the Spirit of the Day.

The disappointment has yet to wear off, tho it's been two weeks.  And to make matters worse, on our second Advent observance, i actually heard the man in charge say these words when I complained that I didn't get the import of his reading: "What do you want? We sang the hymn, we read the passage and we prayed the prayer. What more do you want???"

O h  d e a r  G o d.
Just take me away.

No. Doctors, in general, are a pretty blind sort

Re: the last line of that last entry...

I often practice the speech I'll give the doc someday when some life threatening this or that first comes to light.  "Are you kidding? I have more to fear from a medical profession that looks the other way every g.d. day while thousands of unborn children are torn limb from limb, than I do from this disease. Excuse me while I go prepare to die."  Kind of a Get Thee Behind Me Satan speech, if yu kno what I mean.  No?

Oh, forget it.