Brothers

"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love."
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

I didn't grow up with brothers. One of my brothers died as a toddler and I hope intercedes for me before Our Heavenly Father. The other is quite a bit younger than me and has always lived in another town. I consider it a flaw in my character that I did not develop closer relationship with him. I have often envied the camaraderie of men who grew up together--brothers that I have seen in my extended family, books, and movies. Adult brothers often seem to interact within a constant running in joke, a funny, brave, and moving story about their lives together. Of course, sometimes that story is not funny and many brothers have tragic and conflicted relationships. Either way, the facets and flaws of masculinity seem to be amplified when brothers are together--stimulated by a lifetime of continuous reinforcement.

I was moved to reflect on this relationship when I saw this beautiful photograph of a groom with his two older brothers. The one on the right is friend of mine. Something about the groom's posture reminds of how I felt just before my own wedding. When I saw this photo, my first thought was about my own three sons. God willing, they will someday be gathered like this. They will posture, tease, horse around, recite old jokes and stories, allude to secrets kept between themselves. They will support each other, take council with each other and love each other. God willing they will be comrades in arms, teammates, shipmates, soul-mates. God willing, God willing, God willing. This is my prayer for them, that they will always be brothers.

DOWAMAPLCSHRF2009

Part of the problem with trying to keep a regular blog (if memory serves) is remembering interesting things to write. I hit on a new idea today. Typically, when something of note happens, I Tweet about it. So my Twitter/Facebook status list becomes a sort of outline for possible blogging.

Thursday, David and I set off for an adventure. We were to spend two days in Wichita at the Parish Life Conference and then two days in Salina at the Smoky Hill River Festival. The Parish Life Conference is the annual gathering of our diocese (Diocese of Wichita and Mid-America--DOWAMA) to conduct business and have fun. This is my third conference and David's first as an attendee (he was at part of one as a PLCCK--Parish Life Conference Chairman's Kid). The Smoky Hill River Festival is an annual festival of music, arts, crafts, and games and a Major Family Event for the Gilberts. David and I have done a bit of long-course traveling together and we always have fun, so I was really looking forward to this one.

Part of the appeal of the conference for me is seeing people that I hear and read on the Net or only know through email. I have previously met Fr. Joseph Huneycutt, but haven't gotten to speak with him much. This year I had a couple of conversations with him, which was weird. He produces the goofiest Orthodox Podcast on the Net--always trying to be funny. Part of the humor is his thick Dixie accent, which he plays up on the podcast. When listening to it, I picture him being highly animated and goofy at the mike. So it is incongruous to hear that same voice, with that same accent, while discussing the St. Phillip's Prayer Discipline, with someone who is, in fact, not animated at all, and who is wearing a long black cassock. I pestered him enough for information about the prayer discipline that he gave me a pile of materials and deputized me to recruit others. I look forward to getting a group started. Other notables connections included my old boss, Fr. Justin Matthews, my hopefully future Chancellor, Fr. Chad Hatfield, all the various officers and organizers of the conferences and it committees and, most important of all (though he would say least of all) our beloved Bishop BASIL. These are all our elder uncles and cousins in the family of the faith and it is nice to see them, if only briefly.

I think the highlight of the trip for David was the Motel 6, where we stayed because it is cheap. it is cheap because it is smaller than my bedroom and smells like feet. But he did not care. He had two beds to jump on and he wanted to skip the conference and spend the entire time in that room. But I insisted that he go with me and actually participate. He did all the kids stuff, which involved games, coloring, a magic show, a trip to the zoo, and lots of running around. As I predicted, he quickly made fast friends with a number of boys and girls. At various times during the event, we would see the youth being shuttled from one place to another. David was always in the middle chatting and gesticulating wildly with other kids. But whenever he saw me, he wanted to know when we could go back to the motel.

On both days, the kids stuff ended right before Vespers. In both cases, we had to sit next to a new friend of his. I realized at some point, that this was the most important aspect of the trip for me. I really wanted David to have a good time with other kids from the Diocese. Church is simply too often drudgery for a five-year-old-boy. It is important to me that he have many reasonably positive experiences without giving him the impression that Jesus is simply his playground buddy. Thursday night, when he suggested that we pray before going to bed, I nearly exploded with joy.

One of the highlights of the conference, if you like this kind of thing, is the "Bible Bowl." It basically "Hi-Q" for bible geeks. This year was on the Gospel of John. I forgot to study except for the day of the bowl. There are adult teams and teen teams. Out of a dozen adult teams, our team came in forth--six points behind the winning team. I personally cost us three points on questions that I had reviewed in the one study session--questions that I would have known if I had studied. Me and my teammate even had a conversation about the 153 fish caught in chapter 21, but I could not remember the quantity at the crucial moment. Still, with very little studying on our parts, we came in forth. I see no reason why we cannot dominate next year in Oklahoma City.

Another highlight--Western Rite Matins. This is matins chanted according to the Western Rite (looks and feels like Roman Catholic or Anglican rites) using English Plainchant that Anglicans would be familiar with. I love this. Byzantine Chant is lovely, but will always sound foreign to me--especially in English. Plainsong, on the other hand, is the English Language at its most perfect. It is the way God intended English to be heard. I hope that as Orthodox Christianity takes root in American and England, that the chant will be allowed to naturally drift in that direction--some sort of Plainchant with Byzantine tonal references perhaps, I don't know. I know what you are thinking--"why not just become a Western Rite Orthodox?" Well, too many issues there.

The Business Meeting is hardly worth mentioning, thank God. These are very informal. Substantial business is truly conducted, but it is done quickly, with humor, without rancor, easily. I've been in staff meetings at work that are more onerous (and longer).

Then, David and I headed back to Topeka, met up with Simon, Skylar, Brooke, and Isabelle, dropped of the car for Jaime, and took Grandpa's van to Salina for the River Festival. I think we took all of the pillows that we collectively own.

It seems that the music was particularly good this year. Of course I am going through a blue/folk/country/roots phase right now, so that could have something to do with really enjoying all of the acts I saw. At first the kids seemed to get into the music as well, but that didn't last long and I am not sure why. So they did crafts, got their faces painted (well, Simon and Izzy did), won free* fish, and begged for expensive fried food.

Dad lives just a few blocks from the festival, so we walk back and forth between the park and his house quite a bit. One time, Brooke noted that a lot of people in Salina use blankets as window coverings. I suggested that we open a "Blankets for your Windows" store and tap into this market.

The Big Event Saturday night was the Fabulous Thunderbirds--or the one original member who still has rights to the name, and his back-up band. I missed most of it putting the kids to bed, but I arrived in the middle of the World's Longest Harmonica Solo. That guy kills on the harmonica. He is better than me.

By fortunate coincidence, Sunday was the Feast of All Saints, which is always the Sunday after Pentacost, and the Orthodox Church in Salina is All Saints Orthodox Church. Furthermore, the founding pastor of this parish was in town because of the conference down in Wichita, so he served the Liturgy for their feast day.

Sunday afternoon, the kids spent most of there time at the play ground. At one point David and Izzy started playing in the sand pit and so did Simon. Eventually, he got tired of sand in his sandals so he sat on the curb that demarcates the pit, and took them off. This was very close to the main stage and a great band began playing, so I sat on the bench next to the sand pit and watched while keeping one eye on the kids. Long after David and Izzy had run off with other kids, Simon remind sitting on the curb. He made little piles of sand and knocked them down. He piled sand on one his shoes and then pulled the shoe out. He made piles on the curb, and swept them off. For the full 45 minutes of the performance, he sat quietly with the sand. He only then stopped because I stopped him so we could potty.

Brooke likes to eat a lot. The boy is always hungry. During this trip, he was always hungry for Sirloin Stockade and the running joke was that he constantly asked to go there. "Sure" I said as we left Salina, "we can eat there." What I meant was, "I would never set foot in a Sirloin Stockade." I'm pretty sure he understood my meaning. I was interested in taking hwy 24 from Manhattan to Topeka because it is a more pleasant drive than I-70. But I missed the Manhattan exit. I was fine giving up on the idea but Skylar convinced me to just take the next exit--Deep Creek Road. Half way down the exit ramp, the road turned to gravel. Then we drove for miles on this winding gravel road with no idea where it might lead. Finally it lead back to Manhattan so we headed for hwy 24. By this point we were all very hungry, so we decided to stop and eat. What would you guess is at the junction of hwy 24 and Whatever-road-we-were-on? Sirloin Stockade. What a weird place. Pay $9 and just eat as much warm beige food as you can fit inside of your self. I had meatloaf, salad, coleslaw, beets, bread pudding, ice cream, cookies, part of a cupcake, a piece of brownie, root beer, and probably other stuff that I am forgetting. It was bizarre. Deliciously bizarre. Brooke was hungry as soon as we got back in the car.

Home was a welcome sight, as was my wife, who had to miss the whole trip for various reasons. If this weekend is to set the tone for the rest of the summer, then I am going to have a lot to blog about.

Yesterday, part 2, wall-to-wall prayer

It began with a baptism. The child belonged to a couple from the "Old country"--actually two old countries, Palestine and Romania. In many times and places baptisms are strictly a family affair rather than a church community affair. I showed up in case Father Joseph needed any logistical assistance. I assumed wrongly that someone from the choir would do likewise. So it turned out to be my first solo choir gig. And it was recorded on video for posterity.

It is simple and beautiful service and I left feeling elated with the hymn "As Many As Are Baptized" on my lips. I sang this on the way over to Skylar's to tend the garden when we were stopped at a green light by a funeral procession. In a singing mood, I switch from the baptism hymn to "May His Memory Be Eternal" and reflected on the appropriateness of the encountering two services in a single morning. At one, a person died and was raised from the dead having put on the garment of immortality. At another, a person is being put to rest until the ultimate fulfillment of Baptismal Promise.

Saturday evening, the prayers continued as we commenced with the celebration of our patronal feast with Great Vespers, joined by or shepherd in Christ, Bishop BASIL. Towards the end of this service, I was summonsed to the center of the church with a new cassock over my arm. Bowing three times, I then went and knelt before His Grace and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually he laid his hand on my head and read a prayer over me making me a Reader in the Church. He then tonsured me, clipping four small snips of hair from my head. I stood and he ordered me to put on my cassock. As I began, I could here Simon say "daddy shirt?" on the other side of the church. As I struggled with the buttons, His Grace reached around and grabbed the cincture attached to the back, pulled around to the front, and tied it.

He then took the brass-bound book containing the books of Acts and the Epistles of the New Testament, kissed it and said a prayer. He held it in front of him, spine facing up, found a random spot with his fingers, opened the book, and told me to take it to the center of the room and and read. He opened it to a passage from Paul's Epistle to the Romans, chapter 15. In it, Paul speaks about his ministering the Gospel of God--which I pray will someday be my vocation and profession. I am easily moved to tears and had done ok remaining calm to this point, but I think my voice trembled as I resisted being so moved that I would not be able to see the page. I returned the book to His Grace and he admonished me to read the Gospels daily and conduct myself in a worthy manner. He directed me to stand next to him.

A few moments later he whispered "begin Glory to God," meaning he wanted me to lead the Trisagion Prayers. We say this series of prayers at the beginning of every prayer service in the church or in our homes, so I have it memorized, but I don't trust myself enough to have ever said them in church without reading them off the page. Knowing that the fear would be a sure way to forget them, I had to concentrate on relaxing, opening my mouth, and simply letting the prayers come.

By the end of this service, I was on a cloud.

The cloud remained beneath my feet the next day. Now a Reader, I stood with the choir in my new cassock reading the occasional non-singing parts. Towards the end of Orthros (Matins (Morning Prayers)), the Bishop, in full regalia, and the priests exited the Altar and stood in the middle of the church. Because Father Joseph was going to be elevated to the rank of Archpriest, two other priests were also serving with us: Archimandrite Daniel, who is the Dean of our diocese, and Fr. Elias from our daughter parish in Overland park. In due time, I was summonsed again to bow before the altar, then kneel before His Grace, and wait. This was different than the evening before. His Grace stood in front of me and three priests stood to my left and right facing me--a well of red and gold brocade, satin, and embroidery. While the choir sang the praises, His Grace was reading a different set of prayers aloud and the priests were responding. These prayers were indistinct, but their tone and rhythm moving back and forth over my head was like the call and response of the angels. Over the top of this was the heavenly sound of our choir and even the background noise of the congregation with all its children. Mentally, if not spiritually, I felt lifted up and embraced.

When the praises were over, His Grace read the prayer for the ordaining (small "o") of a Subdeacon. I stood and was given a sticharion, which I slipped on over the cassock. His Grace then gave a white orarion to Archimandrite Daniel on my left. Fr. Daniel laid it on my shoulder, which was not what His Grace wanted and he said so, telling him to put it around my waist. With Subdeadon John's assistance, the wrapped the 15-foot sash around my waist, up over my shoulders, and down the front in an "X." Subdeacon John then gave me a small pitcher of water, a bowl and a linen napkin. Praying, His Grace held his hands over the bowl while I poured water over them three times. He used the napkin to dry them and then laid it over my neck. The ritual complete, I was told to go into the Altar and begin serving as a Subdeacon.

The only time Subdeacons do anything particularly special is a during Heirarchical Divine Liturgy. Our primary role during this is to accompany the bishop with a couple of special candlesticks called the Dikirion and Trikirion (or "trixie" and "dixie" as I have heard them called out of earshot of the bishop), hold his staff and miter, and do whatever else he may bid. At one point, this duty means walking through the Holy Doors, a priviledge normally reserved for clergy.

I also got to hold the Dikirion and stand on His Grace's left while he elevated Fr. Joseph to Archpriest. This time it was Father's turn to bow before the altar, kneel before His Grace, and wait. Then, putting his hand on Father Joseph's head, His Grace read the prayers of elevation in which we are reminded that as part of the proper ordering of creation, God gave us the priesthood. He then placed a heavy, ornate cross around Father Joseph's neck. This has been an honor a long time coming. We first discussed this elevation about 18 months ago when I suggested it be done while the Parish Life Conference was in Topeka. His Grace suggested that was not an appropriate time and wanted to wait until he would be here this year. It is a great honor for our Father Joseph, and one he is worthy of. It is also an honor for our parish. At some point during this service, dixie dripped hot beeswax on my fingers, which was also an honor.

I floated through the rest of liturgy. At one point I ritually washed His Grace's hands a second time, processed with the Dichirion, and received Holy Mysteries first. All the while I was constantly tugging and adjusting my orarion, which refused to remain crossed in front of me.

"Precisely"

Another ego post (as if there is any other kind). Once again, GetReligion covered a story I sent. This time, as part of a larger discussion of the media coverage of Obama's closed-doors, off-the-record meet with prominant religious leaders. Somewhere in the middle of the post, Mr. Mattingly refers you to NPR's coverage and quotes a at length from a "private email" from a GetReligion reader. He affirms the quote with one word: "Precisely."

Terry Mattingly is a syndicated religion columnist, an Eastern Orthodox Christian and a very good writer--precise, insightful, intelligent, and clear. "Journalist" is in my top five list of things I might want to be when I grow up and Mr. Mattingly is my hero in the profession. To be quoted by him and told that I nailed the issue is the best internet affirmation I have received since the Patriarch of Moscow sent me a Hallmark "E-card" for my name day.

Thinking about sports.

With luck, the line of cowardice stops here.

Touching read.

Last weekend, David was whacking balls off his tee when he decided that he wanted to dispense with the crutch and swing at pitches. He recently watched a tee-ball game of Issy's where an adult pitches a dozen or so times and if the hitter just can't do it then they bring out a tee that practically has the word "SHAME" spray painted in big red letters down the side. So I removed the tee. David assumed the position and then reached out with end if his bat and tapped the plate a couple of times. I pitched. Pretty much any pitch that I could manage to get within a yard of him he whacked, including couple line-drives that gave me flash-backs to helping my own dad warm up by tossing him softballs from the mound and taking the hit with my thigh. I think David is ready to graduate from the hollow plastic bat to something with slightly more substance. However, buying sports equipment is not in my job description. Hint hint.

I was just talking recently about how I don't have much desire to get David involved in team sports. I question how much good they really do in character-building, the schedule seems enslaving, and it seems that a lot of games happen on Sunday mornings, when we are busy. Coincidentally the the Topeka Capital Journal ran a story on that topic that is unenlightening. Basically, there are others with my Sunday concerns. How do they resolve this crisis of Faith and Sports? They skip the Sunday games. And does this heroic stand for their faith make them outcasts in society or get their kids benched by heathen secularist coaches? No, they have full support from the coach. There is apparently no social or competitive issues involved. If true, that is good. I'm happy to have the information. But they dedicated the feature area of the religion page to a plotless "story" that could have been a one-inch public-service announcement: "Want your kids to play team sports but have conflicts with church schedules? That's ok! Sign up and leagues will accommodate your needs."

Nevertheless, martial arts is more appealing to me as an activity for the kids. I haven't fully investigated it but it seems more flexible, less tied to teams and seasons, etc and there is more focus on character and discipline built-in. Brooke and Jason (the boys' godfather) both teach/have taught karate to kids, which might help.

The boys themselves may have something to say about this, eventually.

UPDATE: Of course, if the paper runs a religion story about which I have a thought, I submit it to GetReligion.org. They ran with it, and I made further comments. Go and read.

The Skeptical Inquirer

The Skeptical Inquirer:

“If this religion boasted that it had a clear sight of God and plain and manifest evidence of his existence, it would be an effective objection to say that there is nothing to be seen in the world which proves him. . . . But . . . on the contrary it says that men are in darkness. . .”
------
"What reason do I have to subordinate the possibility of God’s existence to the powers of my senses?"
------
"Ask any sensible person if it is possible that God exists, does not present himself to us by way of material evidence, and yet seeks our acknowledgment on some other basis, one in which we are more deeply invested. Could there be a God who does not want to be known the way the facts of nature are known or sums are known? The rational person will say, 'Yes, it is possible.'"
------
"There are only two kinds of people one can call reasonable: those who serve God with all their heart because they know him and those who seek him with all their heart because they do not know him."
------
"His rational power of imagining has atrophied from selective use in the service of his pleasure."

These are excerpts from a great article. It is not clear writing but it is worth untangling.

Of the two kinds of people that one can call reasonable, I would (humbly or not) put myself in the second category--seeking, but not knowing. It may seem strange to those who would know me to be (humbly or not) a devout believer. Fact is, I have searched my mind and my heart for that organ which "feels" belief like my fingers feel the keyboard or even like my mind feels a memory. It isn't there. And no one I know with a firm belief in a God they "know" can describe that sensation to me either. No one can point to the organ I need to tickle in order to stimulate belief. I even tried for a time to simply be an unbeliever but it didn't work. My body doesn't cooperate. My mind may thrash and doubt, but my body dresses me and takes me to church where my lips kiss, my hand genuflects, my waist and neck bend my forehead to the floor, and my mouth confesses. So I stopped struggling against this other part of me that believes. I threw my lot in with the believing side against the side that does not believe. Bishop BASIL tells me that the fight will get easier with time. Father Joseph tells me that I'll simply get used to the struggle.

Articles like this one help me. They are no foundation--the only foundation is prayer--but well-put-together intellectual arguments deal a heavy blow to the strongest doubter inside of me--my intellect (humble or not). Actually, it is not even my own intellect, when I think about it. It is someone else's intellect--some imaginary person who is smarter than I am and who is demanding and smart defense of faith from me. Once, in the line for recess in the third grade, someone asserted that I am not smart. I insisted that I am and he quizzed me "what is 9 x9?" I couldn't pull up the answer on the spot and he took that as demonstrable proof of my stupidity. I have been doing imaginary battles with some form of that kid my whole life (even though I have not adequately memorized my multiplication tables). It is the problem with priding yourself on your intellect--constant fear that perhaps you aren't so smart after all. A fear fueled by the fact that, in the real world, your IQ and a $0.81 won't even get you a cup of coffee. So, these articles at least give me this: I'm not smart enough to articulate an intellectual foundation for belief, but someone else is and you'll just have to read that until I get smarter.

Enjoy

A scandle hits Kansas

If you are interested in writing and religion, than you can't do much better than to keep up with GetReligion.org. Today they posted a story about my home state.

Readers can submit news articles about religion that they would like analyzed on the site. The reader who submitted this story and who poses the "great question" at the top of the forth paragraph is none other than Yours Truly. I think Mollie did a pretty good job answering a question that I did a lousy job asking.

My question stemmed from my squeamishness with the issue of communion and excommunication being discussed by the press. While I reject the idea of religious faith being purely private, receipt of the Sacraments is a nuanced issue that depends on one's position on the Ladder of Divine Assent, one's relationship with the priest, understanding of morality vs. public service and on and on. Should one's spiritual correction be a publicly-discussed matter? Can a reporter do justice to the mix if personal, private, moral, and theological issues that go into the agonizing decision to refuse the sacraments to someone? Mollie says yes in this case and gives a good explanation from a Roman Catholic point-of-view. I wonder if the Orthodox POV would be the same and will try to find out.

symbols

Sonoma Country Day School:

Praise to the rituals that celebrate change,
old robes worn for new beginnings,
solemn protocol where the mutable soul,
surrounded by ancient experience, grows
young in the imagination's white dress.

Because it is not the rituals we honor
but our trust in what they signify, these rites
that honor us as witnesses — whether to watch
lovers swear loyalty in a careless world
or a newborn washed with water and oil.

via Crunch Con

Nun offers mercy, but robber gets jail -- baltimoresun.com

One hand on my mouse, the other holds a kleenex.

She reached out to hand him the card. She then extended her arm again. And although the sheriff's deputies assigned to the county's courtrooms usually prevent anyone other than defense attorneys from touching a defendant, no one interfered as the snowy-haired nun in the navy suit and white blouse shook the hand of the tattooed man in a dirty white T-shirt who had robbed her three years earlier.

Via getreligion.org

Comment on Krista Tippett

A comment I wrote yesterday to Krista Tippett, host of Speaking of Faith.

I first discovered your program when I found your episode "Restoring the Senses, Life Gardening, and Orthodox Easter." I was impressed, and being a father of two, decided to listen to your episode on the Spirituality of Parenting.

I am disappointed. I think that you omitted one of the primary spiritual issues that the vast majority of faithful believers actually have.

Rabbi Sasso offers many good insights. Her understanding of both the need to maintain an open stance with your children's spirituality and her suggestion that we teach our children out of the spiritual tradition in which we were raised, are balanced on the surface. But there is an undertone that seems to lean towards the idea that "spirituality" is exclusively personal, is pretty distant from religion, that all paths are equal, and we should allow our children to find their own way. This view is explicit in the recorded questions from parents that were interspersed through the program. Most, if not all of the questions or comments were "I have found a path for me, how do I make sure my children find their own path for themselves."

I don't think this resonates with the vast majority of religious adherents worldwide. Most faithful believers think that their spiritual and religious tradition is a rich and glorious gift they can give to their children. They also believe that there are spiritual dangers and they have to teach their children about them just as we have to teach them about other dangers. It deeply hurts my son's feelings when I insist he not step of the curb into the street and I try to be loving about the discipline, but I know there is a danger and wrong paths. But I also want to teach him to see danger for himself, understand risk, and govern himself. Likewise, there are spiritual directions that my Faith tradition assures me can lead down dangerous paths.

I think a more common question that most faithful have is "I want my children to see the beauty of our Faith that I see and I want them to maintain our faith and make it their own personally. I know that forcing it down their throat is not the correct way, but I also don't want to give them the impression that their spiritual path is an exclusively personal choice and that all choices are equal. How to maintain that balance?"

I have seen families negotiate this question well, who produced children who love God and have maintained the Faith they were raised with and I have seen families that botch this terribly and whose deeply resentful children bolt as soon as possible. This is most religious parent's single biggest fear.

I think that you failed to really discuss that.

I wouldn't bother to say anything if I didn't feel like both you and Rabbi Sasso are capable of intelligently addressing this question. I respect the quality of your work and the content of this program so far as it went, but this seems like a big hole in the discussion.

Thank you for listening.

CJOnline - Festival gives taste of cuisine, religion

Go read CJOnline - Festival gives taste of cuisine, religion in which, apropo of nothing, I reveal to the world the ancient secrets of our mystery cult.

79 out of 79.14159

Dr. Boli’s Celebrated Magazine is my favorite new read. Thanks to "Touchstone's" Mere Comments for the 411.

As many as have been Baptized into Christ

"Many Years" to the Newly Illumined Servant of God, Joachim! And to his Godfather, Jason Huck!

It was a good baptism and churching. I have posted a couple of photos at the photoblog. If you were present and took pictures, please send me copies, thank you.

I was very pleased with the number of relatives that attended. Jaime and I are the only Orthodox Christians in either of our families but they came out in full force. The place was packed with people who didn't know where to stand. Thanks to all of them.

Our strategic feeding scheme didn't work out, so David was crying and hungry during much of the ceremony, but not terrible. There were a couple of times that it was clear he didn't understand that his Godfather is only good for spiritual food. Just before the immersion, while Fr. Michael was blessing the waters, we had to strip him and change his diaper so that he would have a clean one to be pulled off at the last minute. It took three of us--one changed a diaper, one pulled off his clothes, and one held a bottle in his mouth to try to calm him.

The actual immersing was great. Three times under and then a sort of startled silence like he was double-checking "did you just do what I think you did?!?!" and then a cry that I haven't heard before--loudly indignant. It was the very same tone he will use five years from now when he sobs to the bully on the playground "wait'll I tell my mommy!"

You will see in the churching photos the beautiful baptismal gown that he is wearing. Grandma Suzie made that, finishing it just a couple hours before this photo. By the end of the night he had christened the gown itself with just about every fluid a baby can produce. He has this new trick of pushing raw umber poo out the top of the back of his diaper. Nasty.

Because of extenuating circumstances, it was a slightly more stressful day than it needed to be but it ended well--an exhausted David and two exhausted parents resting in bed together content to let the Big World turn for awhile. A very good day. Thank God.

Joy and sorrow

Sometimes it may seem like it is all bad but I assure you that it is not. Even when it is bad, we are grateful for he struggle.

Jaime describes sleeping David as being like heroin. She knows that she is supposed to be asleep too, but just staring at him is addictive.

We have gone out in public a couple of times and if one more person tells me how beautiful he is, my head will not be able to fit through the neck of the t-shirt that I sleep in and I will catch pneumonia and die . . . but we were talking about David.

A couple of times a day he is awake and not in discomfort from the gas and we sit and stare at each other--or he just looks around. He is gaining more control over his face and neck everyday so he has more expressions and each new one is worth a press release.

He grabs my fingers and we do little presses. When I am dressing him, I will put my finger through the sleeve, he will grab it and I will thread his hand through that way.

He rarely complains about my singing, so I sing to him a lot. Our favorites are "Blackbird," "Scarlet Ribbons," and "Awed by the Beauty."

Jaime also says he is a virus, and not in the good way ("cute as a bug" or "infectiously adorable"). She means that one day we find something that works to make him stop crying, but he mutates so that thing doesn't work the next day. He keeps us on our toes.

This week is Great and Holy Week--the week leading up to Pascha (Easter). One of the more beautiful hymns sung at the services goes "Behold, the bridegroom comes at midnight, and blessed is the servant whom He shall find watching." Jaime pointed out that the Bridegroom could come at pretty much any point and we would probably be awake for Him.

Which is true. At times the frustration has brought us both to tears. But we know that we can be joyous even for those tears. This is the "sweet sorrow" that our priest warned us about when we got engaged--the purifying struggle, the cross that leads us to victory over death. David is reforging us--hammering our hearts into a shape that better resembles Love. Not to be grateful for that would be saying "I am fine just as I am, nothing more needs to be done in this heart."

We also take joy in the fact that even when he is at his worse, he is not the worst. I read somewhere that newborns cry an average of three or four hours a day so David is by no means unusual, fussy, or "high needs." This doesn't help when we are an hour into one of his cries and we have done all of the tricks and the best that we can do is keep him to a dull moan rather than a screaming rage. But even then I am very aware that it could be worse. I have seen sick babies. I have seen premies that could fit on my hand. I have friends who have learned that their child has a permanent, lifelong, mental disability. I know people who are struggling with a grandchild born with cocaine in his system. By comparison David is easy. He is just the amount of struggle that we need, no more no less; thank God.