What's left of hurricane Katrina is working its way toward Pittsburgh as I type. We're braced for a wet and windy afternoon and evening, but certainly nothing like what the people of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama have already experienced. My prayers go out to all of them in the wake of the devastation.
I received a handful of email messages from my friend Sheryl, who now lives in Baton Rouge and who also posted her pre- and post-hurricane concerns on her blog. I haven't heard from her since early Monday morning, so am assuming that she is still without electricity. When you get a chance to read this, Sheryl, know that you've been in my thoughts and prayers. And drop a line to let me know how you're doing!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Musings on marriage
I am finding an intriguing pattern in my blog postings. Starting with this one and progressing all the way through to this one, isn't it interesting how themes of marriage, singleness, and divorce continue to weave their way through my thoughts and into my writing? I can conjecture as to why this is, but that's sort of beside the point right now. It just is.
I got a phone call last night from my friend Karen, announcing her engagement to a reportedly wonderful man named Scott. Although I've yet to meet him, I am so excited for them. It's been fun to hear about their "whirlwind" romance. When Karen was in Pittsburgh in February to attend the CCO's annual Jubilee conference, they had not yet met. They made their engagement official this past Saturday and are hoping to marry in October or November. How quickly our lives can change!
Today, as I was doing a Google search for a particular writer, Margie Haack, I stumbled upon the latest issue on the online catapult magazine, where one of her articles is published. In the sidebar of the catapult homepage, this introduction appears:
Barbara Zielinski writes a poignant piece entitled "The death of a marriage." It starts like this:
I got a phone call last night from my friend Karen, announcing her engagement to a reportedly wonderful man named Scott. Although I've yet to meet him, I am so excited for them. It's been fun to hear about their "whirlwind" romance. When Karen was in Pittsburgh in February to attend the CCO's annual Jubilee conference, they had not yet met. They made their engagement official this past Saturday and are hoping to marry in October or November. How quickly our lives can change!
Today, as I was doing a Google search for a particular writer, Margie Haack, I stumbled upon the latest issue on the online catapult magazine, where one of her articles is published. In the sidebar of the catapult homepage, this introduction appears:
Summer schedules usually include at least one wedding or anniversary party, hence issue of musings on marriage."Coming Down Now" is the title of Margie's offering, and the teaser in the table of contents reads: "Learning to live together in a house built on a foundation of public promises."
Barbara Zielinski writes a poignant piece entitled "The death of a marriage." It starts like this:
There was no ceremony for the death of my marriage. There was no casket in which to place the dreams and ideals I had held so close for so long. There were no mourners to shed tears with me as I said goodbye to the last of my hope. There was no ritual way of asking for forgiveness, for experiencing forgiveness, for being released from my vows. Nor was there much attention paid to the process of divorce—and all of the pain and anger and humiliation it added to the weight of my soul. There was no ceremony when my marriage was buried.As I continue to follow the thread of this theme, I commend to you these articles, and the others in this issue.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Throwing things
I attended my friend Deborah's wedding in June. As it became clear that bouquet-tossing time was fast approaching, I leaned over to my friend Brenda (married now for 20 years) and informed her that, as I had no intention of answering the call to join "all the single ladies on the dance floor" when the invitation was issued, to please not push me in that direction. She didn't. Not that she would have. But you never can tell.
I did catch a wedding bouquet once. Ten years ago tomorrow, actually, at Sarah and Jeff's wedding.
Note that I'm still single.
And I'm fine with that, even if I wasn't feeling that way then. Even so, the only reason I caught that bouquet was because word spread quickly through the "single lady" crowd that the bride didn't want anyone ducking out of the way. "If the bouquet comes to you, catch it," she had requested. Firmly. "I don't want to have to throw it more than once."
Interesting that this would be a concern.
Three years earlier, at a cousin's intimate wedding reception, I was in the bathroom when I heard The Invitation over the PA system. This was not a premeditated escape on my part, but it certainly was a welcome one. Or so I thought. I had just made the decision to stay put until I was certain this part of the reception had passed, when, to my amazement and dismay, I actually heard my name over said PA system. The emcee was paging me. I was only one of four single women present at this affair, so there was no escaping it. This time. Even if I didn't catch it. (I wonder if we all let it drop to the floor? I don't recall.)
The reason I bring any of this up is to introduce two very entertaining articles I recently read, from both female and male perspectives, about the whole wedding bouquet-and-garter-tossing traditions. Start with "Toss This" by Camerin Courtney, and then move on to "Airborne Under-Things" by Todd Hertz.
It's comforting to discover that I'm not alone.
I did catch a wedding bouquet once. Ten years ago tomorrow, actually, at Sarah and Jeff's wedding.
Note that I'm still single.
And I'm fine with that, even if I wasn't feeling that way then. Even so, the only reason I caught that bouquet was because word spread quickly through the "single lady" crowd that the bride didn't want anyone ducking out of the way. "If the bouquet comes to you, catch it," she had requested. Firmly. "I don't want to have to throw it more than once."
Interesting that this would be a concern.
Three years earlier, at a cousin's intimate wedding reception, I was in the bathroom when I heard The Invitation over the PA system. This was not a premeditated escape on my part, but it certainly was a welcome one. Or so I thought. I had just made the decision to stay put until I was certain this part of the reception had passed, when, to my amazement and dismay, I actually heard my name over said PA system. The emcee was paging me. I was only one of four single women present at this affair, so there was no escaping it. This time. Even if I didn't catch it. (I wonder if we all let it drop to the floor? I don't recall.)
The reason I bring any of this up is to introduce two very entertaining articles I recently read, from both female and male perspectives, about the whole wedding bouquet-and-garter-tossing traditions. Start with "Toss This" by Camerin Courtney, and then move on to "Airborne Under-Things" by Todd Hertz.
It's comforting to discover that I'm not alone.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Being Known
I just returned from a week of visits with old friends. While I have thoughts and reflections to share about that, they haven't completely jelled yet. Add to that the need to catch up on work after the better part of a week out of the office and my guilt for not blogging for over two weeks, and I thought I'd dig into my article archive for something to post here. Even though I wrote this essay just over a year ago, it captures much of what I'm feeling today, in the wake of my most recent vacation. —alm
I just spent Memorial Day weekend with two old and dear friends, Hank and Myrna. I've known both of them now for close to half my life. Hank was a junior at Allegheny College when I was a freshman, and Myrna was one of my roommates during my senior year.
I feel compelled to pause here and point out that, with names like “Hank” and “Myrna,” one might assume that they're older friends than they actually are. Case in point: we met a 32-year-old fellow Allegheny grad this weekend who, when she first heard their names — before actually meeting them — assumed that they had to be from the class of '45, rather than the classes of '86 and '90, respectively. Of course, her name is Nancy, which isn't such a hip, 21st century name itself, but that's beside the point. Or maybe not.
But I digress.
Hank lives in northern New Jersey, an easy commute into Manhattan, and Myrna and I drove east to hang out with him for the weekend. We decided to go into the city for church on Sunday; we worshipped at Redeemer Presbyterian Church's Sunday evening East Side service at Hunter College. Rev. Timothy Keller's sermon was based on Psalm 139.
“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD.”
We were walking through Greenwich Village and Tribeca an hour later, searching for an open restaurant on a holiday weekend Sunday evening. Pondering the recent sermon, one of us commented on the intrinsic paradox between our desire to hide from God and others the ugliness of our lives and the deep need we all have to be fully known. Fully known and fully loved, in spite of the ugliness of our lives.
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”
I started my college journey 20 years ago this September, which means I've known Hank almost that long — which would be more than half my life. We joined CCO staff together 16 years ago, making us not only friends but colleagues.
As the three of us sat on Hank's front porch this weekend, we talked about everything from reality TV, environmentalism, and where we wanted to eat dinner that evening to our relationships with our own family members, the current state of the world, marriage, singleness, divorce and dating. It occurred to me that few people know me better than these two old, dear friends.
The evening before the church service in New York City, we stayed up late talking about our current life circumstances and reminiscing about the “old days.” At some point, we realized that 15 years ago this weekend, Hank and I were participating in our end-of-first-year-on-staff Spring Institute wilderness trip. That trip had something to do with “community, identity and spirituality,” and its purpose, as I understood it then, was to reflect on and debrief the first year of ministry, to get us to step out of our comfort zones, to experience group process, to bond…all in the context of hiking, backpacking, caving, rappelling, rock-climbing, and camping.
For reasons that have become clearer to me over the years, I spent a lot of that week in tears. One colleague belatedly nicknamed me the “weeping wilderness woman.” Hank remembers — he was there. Myrna remembers — I debriefed the experience with her ad nauseum.
“It's so bizarre,” I wrote in my journal during that week in May 1989. “I have always considered myself to be uncomplicated, open, easy to get to know, willing to be vulnerable.” Ha! “But I'm realizing how high on my face my mask is around these people. Except for the interns, perhaps, and especially Hank.
"I am prideful. I don't like to admit my weaknesses and I hate to cry in front of large groups of people. ...I guess my prayer for myself and for all of us is to find out exactly why we feel we need the masks and what exactly those masks are covering. I'm becoming increasingly aware that there is a lot going on inside of me that I don't even know about, and I guess it kind of scares me to realize that others may recognize it before I do.”
My 22-year-old self was able to articulate what my 37-year-old self is still struggling to be and to do. As we were walking up Broadway, trying to find our car after our night hanging out in the Village, I made the connection between what we had talked about the night before and what we had heard in church a few hours earlier.
And as Myrna and I drove back to Pittsburgh on Memorial Day, we thanked God for the blessing of old and dear friends, and the comfort we can occasionally find when we are truly known — the good, the bad and the ugly — and still loved.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
This article was originally published in June 2004. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2004.
I just spent Memorial Day weekend with two old and dear friends, Hank and Myrna. I've known both of them now for close to half my life. Hank was a junior at Allegheny College when I was a freshman, and Myrna was one of my roommates during my senior year.
I feel compelled to pause here and point out that, with names like “Hank” and “Myrna,” one might assume that they're older friends than they actually are. Case in point: we met a 32-year-old fellow Allegheny grad this weekend who, when she first heard their names — before actually meeting them — assumed that they had to be from the class of '45, rather than the classes of '86 and '90, respectively. Of course, her name is Nancy, which isn't such a hip, 21st century name itself, but that's beside the point. Or maybe not.
But I digress.
Hank lives in northern New Jersey, an easy commute into Manhattan, and Myrna and I drove east to hang out with him for the weekend. We decided to go into the city for church on Sunday; we worshipped at Redeemer Presbyterian Church's Sunday evening East Side service at Hunter College. Rev. Timothy Keller's sermon was based on Psalm 139.
“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD.”
We were walking through Greenwich Village and Tribeca an hour later, searching for an open restaurant on a holiday weekend Sunday evening. Pondering the recent sermon, one of us commented on the intrinsic paradox between our desire to hide from God and others the ugliness of our lives and the deep need we all have to be fully known. Fully known and fully loved, in spite of the ugliness of our lives.
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”
I started my college journey 20 years ago this September, which means I've known Hank almost that long — which would be more than half my life. We joined CCO staff together 16 years ago, making us not only friends but colleagues.
As the three of us sat on Hank's front porch this weekend, we talked about everything from reality TV, environmentalism, and where we wanted to eat dinner that evening to our relationships with our own family members, the current state of the world, marriage, singleness, divorce and dating. It occurred to me that few people know me better than these two old, dear friends.
The evening before the church service in New York City, we stayed up late talking about our current life circumstances and reminiscing about the “old days.” At some point, we realized that 15 years ago this weekend, Hank and I were participating in our end-of-first-year-on-staff Spring Institute wilderness trip. That trip had something to do with “community, identity and spirituality,” and its purpose, as I understood it then, was to reflect on and debrief the first year of ministry, to get us to step out of our comfort zones, to experience group process, to bond…all in the context of hiking, backpacking, caving, rappelling, rock-climbing, and camping.
For reasons that have become clearer to me over the years, I spent a lot of that week in tears. One colleague belatedly nicknamed me the “weeping wilderness woman.” Hank remembers — he was there. Myrna remembers — I debriefed the experience with her ad nauseum.
“It's so bizarre,” I wrote in my journal during that week in May 1989. “I have always considered myself to be uncomplicated, open, easy to get to know, willing to be vulnerable.” Ha! “But I'm realizing how high on my face my mask is around these people. Except for the interns, perhaps, and especially Hank.
"I am prideful. I don't like to admit my weaknesses and I hate to cry in front of large groups of people. ...I guess my prayer for myself and for all of us is to find out exactly why we feel we need the masks and what exactly those masks are covering. I'm becoming increasingly aware that there is a lot going on inside of me that I don't even know about, and I guess it kind of scares me to realize that others may recognize it before I do.”
My 22-year-old self was able to articulate what my 37-year-old self is still struggling to be and to do. As we were walking up Broadway, trying to find our car after our night hanging out in the Village, I made the connection between what we had talked about the night before and what we had heard in church a few hours earlier.
And as Myrna and I drove back to Pittsburgh on Memorial Day, we thanked God for the blessing of old and dear friends, and the comfort we can occasionally find when we are truly known — the good, the bad and the ugly — and still loved.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”
This article was originally published in June 2004. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2004.
Tuesday, August 2, 2005
Anniversaries
Nineteen years ago today, I was a bridesmaid for the first time. I was 19 years old, and my cousin Lauren (pictured to my left in the photo) married her husband David on a hot Indiana Saturday in 1986. My dad, whose younger sister is Lauren's mother, was unable to attend the wedding because of a labor dispute at the steel mill where he worked at the time. We took extra photos so that he could feel a part of things.
Lauren is two years older than me, and we've known each other pretty much all our lives. But it was during the summer of 1978 that we really connected for the first time, at the family reunion that also signified my first-ever airplane trip. I was just shy of 12 years old, and Lauren was 14, and after we said our goodbyes that summer, we became pen pals. Somewhere, I'm sure I still have a shoebox full of letters with her distinctive handwriting.
Lauren went off to college a couple years before I did, and I remember looking through a scrapbook of photographs from her freshman year. Right then, I was inspired to buy a 35mm camera to take with me when I started college, which I made very good use of. (My college friends can attest—grudgingly, I'm sure—to how ever-present that camera was throughout those four years!)
I vividly remember reading the letter that Lauren sent to me at the end of my freshman year in college, telling me about her engagement and asking if I might be available on August 2, 1986, and how I felt about "dusty rose" tea-length gowns. I felt pretty great about them, actually! I was so excited that, at age 19, I was finally going to be a bridesmaid! (Who knew then that I would collect seven silk/satin/taffeta bridesmaid dresses over the next decade or so?)
Today, Lauren and David have three beautiful daughters, and in spite of the distance we live from one another, I've been privileged to get to know Lindsay, Katie and Michaela, to varying degrees. Lauren and I are still pen pals—just more high-tech these days as we resort to e-mail. Three summers ago, Lauren was the first member of our generation to volunteer to host a family reunion. How fitting that she should draft me to the committee of three (along with her younger sister Beth), since a family reunion is what drew us into friendship in the first place.
And how wonderful and amazing that, besides being related by blood, we have also been drawn together by our common faith; we are sisters in Christ.
I got to see Lauren and the rest of my extended family a couple of weeks ago at yet another family reunion. Lauren's daughter Lindsay is around the age we were when we first really got to know each other, and I'm older now (if barely) than my parents were back in 1978. Still, somehow these events make us all feel 12 again! We couldn't have known then what our lives would look like in 2005. And who knows what the future holds? I pray that, whatever transpires from this day forward, that God would see fit to continue to strengthen our friendship.
Happy anniversary, Lauren and David!
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