Lark of the Covenant

  

At Lark

Last Thursday, Steve and I had a delightful dinner with Patrick and Ashlyn at Lark, a super-elegant new restaurant in Bala Cynwyd. Lark’s owner/chef, Nick Elmi, is a Top Chef winner and James Beard Award finalist; his eatery is the real deal. We enjoyed an incredible spread that included (among other dishes) braised escargots, broiled octopus, mushroom and foie gras ravioli, and Basque cheesecake for dessert. 

 The best part? Dinner was free!

 

Well, not exactly, but we basically paid zero out of pocket. I’ve been writing essays for a food website this past year, and decided to write one based on a Patrick salad creation. I shared about Pat’s youth (a sports guy who rarely showed interest in cooking, he eventually became a fabulous chef in several restaurants.) Since the recipe was supplied by my son, it was only fair that he get half the fee for the article. In typical fashion, though, he wouldn’t accept the money. After a few back-and-forths, we decided to spend the check together on a special meal. 

 

The only thing not covered was the tip, and Patrick insisted on reimbursing me via Venmo. When I received the transfer, I noticed that he’d written as a note “Lark of the Covenant.” 

At last!!!! All those years of religious education paid off!!! Pat was making a clever reference to “Ark of the Covenant”, the chest housing the stone tablets with the Ten Commandments. As my Bible Study group is currently immersed in the Old Testament, I’ve had a refresher course on the Ark, from Moses through David and beyond. 

 

I was one proud mom, and texted him to that effect. As pride inevitably goeth before a fall, I soon discovered that my child’s familiarity was mostly based, not on church learning, but on Indiana Jones (Raiders of the Lost Ark)! Oops! 

 

It did get me thinking about knowledge acquisition in general, and Scripture smarts in particular. I have spent a lot of time over the years selecting the best children’s Bibles, and Sunday School and VBS curriculum, for the little ones at Christ’s Lutheran. Yet come Confirmation class (6th- 9th grades), they still tend to look blankly at me when asked even some basic info. How could it be that this stuff doesn’t stick?

 

I’ve learned to manage my expectations, and nowadays I focus on the core message of the Bible: we have a God who loves us beyond all telling, and who just asks that we love our neighbors as we love ourselves. Further details (what does “prodigal” mean? How long did the Israelites wander? Who betrayed Jesus?), though important, are really icing on the spiritual cake. And if the kiddos accidentally learn some Scripture through pop culture, does it really matter? 

 

So it’s down from the high horse for me. Patrick, and the rest of my brood, are wonderful, loving and giving people. They may never win at Bible Jeopardy, but honestly? I believe they’re just fine with the Lord.

Photo by Igor Rodriguez on Unsplash

Phantom Limb

 

Me and my family, 20 years ago!

Phantom Limb (def.): a vivid perception that a limb which has been removed or amputated is still present in the body and performing its normal functions. 

I realize I’m very lucky. I have never actually lost a body part, though the little ones that took up temporary residence in my uterus still cause intense feelings in me (including the two I lost to miscarriage). But I’ve been fascinated by the phenomenon of the phantom limb, a perception that can sometimes last for years after the appendage is gone. In these cases, while the person can obviously see that the arm or leg is no longer attached, the nerves and brain are sending a different message. It is as if an amputee can’t quite accept such a permanent loss, and so hallucinates that it didn’t occur.

 

But there are other kinds of phantom limbs, I’ve learned, and mine haunt me.

 

What are my phantom limbs these days? As I prepare to wrap up 20 years at my job at Christ’s Lutheran in May, I recognize many, right in my place of worship and work. After all, I believe we are, collectively, members of the body of Christ. So it only makes sense that losing other “parts” hurts. Many of these losses involve death, including a large number of beloved elders, but also younger friends whose passings were untimely (accidents, cancer, suicide). Often, I walk into certain rooms in the church building, or sit in the sanctuary, and feel their presence still. The sweet brigade of older ladies who expertly provided luncheons and soup suppers and coffee hours. The deceased members of the group of cheery retired handymen (“Monday Morning Men.”) The amazing Sunday School teachers who doted on my children, even when my offspring were rather less than adorably behaved. A pastor, gone too soon.

 

But beyond those departures, I ache at times for the people who are no longer in my life for other reasons. In most cases, we either drifted apart through geographical moves, or just the busy-ness of life. In a few, misunderstandings and hurtful actions (some, I readily acknowledge, caused by me) precipitated the rifts, and in many ways those separations are particularly painful because they seem so unnecessary now. 

 

There is no simple way to recover a lost limb, and often it’s impossible. We travel on through life’s journey diminished a little, always missing people who helped make us feel whole. Yes, every day offers opportunities for new relationships, new connections, and that’s a beautiful thing. But there’s really no replacing the ones who are gone. 

 

That is why, as I begin to pack up my books and transfer my files, in anticipation of my successor, I mourn. I also, truth be told, mourn the loss of 45 year old me, beginning a new career as spiritual formation director filled with energy and enthusiasm and hope. Where did she go? I hope that younger woman lives on in other people’s memories, occasionally causing a little pang, as if to say, “I’m still here, even though you don’t see me.” 

 

Just as I remember my lost ones, who live on in my heart.

 

With the 2005 Costa Rica Mission Team

Comedy Tonight

Saint Patrick's Church, Dingle (Ireland trip 2017)  

Last September I made my standup comedy debut at an event, playing an enthusiastic but totally mixed up woman giving a children’s sermon at church. It was very well received, and I breathed that sigh of relief one breathes when one knows one never has to do something again. Bucket list item checked off, for good and all!

But over the ensuing months, I’ve been writing a lot of humor pieces, and began to entertain the thought that MAYBE I’d do another standup routine. Someday. Maybe. At any rate, about a month ago Ya-Jhu started putting together an Irish-themed evening, a fundraiser for her church to be held March 19^th. She and Sher would play Celtic music, there would be Irish dancers, etc. I wondered, was Yaj hoping her mother-in-law, the not-so-marvelous Mrs. Maisel, would come up with a funny new performance for the occasion? At first I modestly said no, but then she actually asked me, and I said yes. Armed with only a decent Irish brogue and some whatever the Gaelic word for “chutzpah" is, I settled on an idea: I would play the part of Saint Patrick’s long-suffering mother.

 

As soon as the concept struck me, the writing was pretty simple. I have more than a passing familiarity with Patrick (heck, I named one of my sons after him!), I am Irish as the proverbial Paddy’s pig (get it?), and I was a longtime Catholic to boot. My vision of St. Pat’s ma’s presentation included her “settin’ the record straight” about the various legends surrounding the Patron of the Emerald Isle. Apparently he never drove the snakes out of Ireland at all (it’s an island, nobody can drive out of there, right?); the Holy Trinity shamrock story didn’t happen because of Paddy’s allergies (no fields of clover for him!); in fact, most of his amazing tale was  invented by Patrick’s "eejit" pal Seamus Kelly, who always had wanted to be friends with a saint. 

 

I had a blast, and was really pleased with the crowd’s response. Aiden and Peter were there, and when I later asked them what they thought, little Peter piped up, “Nana, it was so funny when you said, ‘Phooey!’” I rather think my five year old would have been delighted had my whole routine been nothing but saying “phooey” a hundred times. 

 

While I certainly don’t aspire to be the next Joan Rivers, at this point I’d do standup again (if asked). The discipline of writing, and then memorizing, what was essentially a 10 minute monologue will serve me well (or at least reassure me that I’m not – yet—experiencing significant memory loss). 

 

They say the happiest retirees are those who pursue new activities. Therefore, after May, I plan to pursue such new-to-me pastimes as regular flossing, more frequent dishwasher emptying (for some reason I have no issue loading it) and sewing my own clothes (not really). Idle hours watching TV commercials for AARP? Nope! It’s pure adventure (including stand up) from now on!

!

                                       Sheridan and Yaj in performance Saturday night!

                        

Life is Like...

Not sure why, but Nas says life is like this...

I once read an essay comparing life to a train journey. The gist is: we’re all definitely heading to a final destination, right? And we get on at different stops, and pass lots of scenery. And I think we have to show our tickets at some point, to a conductor (Jesus? That always seems to be the right answer). Now, as I write this, I guess I've forgotten some of the piece’s finer points.    

But it did get me thinking about life, and all the ways it has been described. Bowl of cherries. Box of chocolates. Camera (“develop from the negatives”—this one has lost some relevance as my iPhone pix do not require development). Roller Coaster (ups and downs and screaming, I suppose). The Scriptures weigh in (“For what is your life? A vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away”--James 4:14). And of course, the song Life is Like a Dice Game by Nas, the lyrics of which fail to explain the simile, but it has clever rhymes like Haile Selassie and Asti Spumante, so you’ve got to give it that.   

Since there are so many “life is like” quotes out there, I figured I’d add a few more to the mix, based on personal experience. Here we go:  

Life is like flat ironing your hair and then you get caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella and suddenly your hair is all frizzy again: you may think you look pretty, but soon it turns out you’re really all wet.  

Life is like paying a fortune to your children’s dentist, and then you let the kids keep eating bowls of sugar frosted lucky charm cocoa puffs: it’s filled with lessons you never seem to learn.  

Life is like a dripping faucet in the bathroom in the middle of the night: it can be really annoying, but not annoying enough to get out of bed and do something about.   

Life is like a ceiling fan: it can be very cool.   

Life is like a pot of boiling polenta: it can also burn the heck out of you.   

Life is like that bar of decorative soap you got one Christmas: it’s too fancy to use, so you just leave it under the sink for the next 10 years. Not sure how that one applies, but it’s definitely something I’ve experienced!  

Life is like a tsunami: it looks so calm that you walk out into the water and then whammo.  

Life is like an aerosol can with a clogged nozzle: you shake it, you know there’s still stuff in there, but you can’t get it out.  

Life is like a skateboard: for God’s sake, be careful!  

Life is like a DVD collection: now that you have them, it’s hard to find a player anymore.   

Life is like a peony: a beautiful flower filled with ants.   

You should try coming up with your own “life is like” comparisons, friends! It’s a fun way to waste precious moments of…your life!

Peonies: how like life!

I Warned You!

Thank you for your service, Mr. Canary

From the late 1800s to 1986, before the development of electronic detectors, coal miners habitually carried canaries down into the mines with them. The idea was that these small birds would react much more quickly to carbon monoxide, and when they keeled over, the humans would know to skedaddle. I’m no animal lover (I’m more an animal tolerator), but this used to really bother me. I completely understood the need for some kind of warning system, but all those poor dead canaries! 

It was with great relief that I learned about the resuscitator cage. Developed in the 1920s, this was a special cage for those little feathered prognosticators. When a bird started looking droopy, the circular door would close and oxygen would be injected by a valve from a tank on top of the cage. The result was a revived canary—and duly warned miners. It seems that the miners were very fond of their chirping companions, and determined to rescue them if they got into trouble. 

 

Early warning systems of one kind or another have always been with us (read your Bible and try to count the number of warnings issued by prophets—OFTEN disregarded). As technology has improved, these systems have gotten more sophisticated, but the concept is the same: getting out in front of a disaster and hopefully averting it, or at least mitigating the damage. Sometimes the systems fail (I’ll never forget the terrifying false alarm my sister received in Hawaii a few years ago about a possible attack by North Korea), but far better to have a system in place than not. Btw my favorite title for one of these is the California earthquake warning system called Shake Alert, which sounds rather lighthearted, something an ice cream parlor might use as an ad (“Shake Alert! Try our yummy triple chocolate milkshake!!”).

 

In addition to natural catastrophe warnings, there is the EWS Network for Student Success, which identifies risk factors that impact school performance. There are various warning systems developed by the World Health Organization to predict future pandemics and other infectious diseases. I am already dreading the age when I will be asked to take a cognitive ability test to screen for dementia, because I can absolutely see myself freezing up and saying that the current president is Rutherford B. Hayes. 

 

As a parent, I was quite the seer, telling my children that if they kept tipping that chair back they would fall, that if they didn’t REALLY brush they would have cavities, and if they didn’t stop poking their sister they would get a timeout. They rarely heeded me. But I was always 100% correct! So there!

We can’t live our lives paralyzed with fear, for sure, and there are risks worth taking. But when there’s a lot on the line, for ourselves and others, I think we’d all do well to take notice of warnings, most of which are issued to protect us. 

 

And in our dangerous world, that’s not a bad thing.

Shake alert! You've been warned!

Meeting the Moment

May God hold Ukraine--and us--in the palm of God's hand
(photo by Elena Mozhvilo for Unsplash)

In the Book of Esther, the Jewish queen is told that perhaps she was made for “such a time as this.” And Esther does indeed rise to the occasion, and saves her people from Haman’s wicked plot. It is a powerful story of personal destiny and responsibility that has always stayed with me. In a cynical world, those who selflessly sacrifice for others (even total strangers) in service of a greater good, seem rare indeed. Even foolish.   

Yet this is what seems to be what is happening right now, in Ukraine. The brutal invasion by Vladimir Putin’s troops has shown the world that the Ukrainians are people of great courage, unfaltering love of country, and willingness to sacrifice, and even die, for the ideals of freedom. Were these people, like Esther, made for this moment in time?  

I’ve noticed that Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky and my Steve share several things in common. they are actors. They are comedians. They are both a bit height-challenged. And they are, in my opinion, both people of character and integrity. Now, whether my hubby would have the courage to meet this terrifying moment as Zelensky has, I guess we wouldn’t know unless he found himself in a situation like that, but I like to think he would. In any event, Ukraine’s leader has moved me to tears several times with his videos, in which he rallies his country and vows to stay with them, no matter what. This from a guy whose entire prior political experience was playing the part of a president on a Ukrainian TV show called “Servant of the People.” Who would ever have guessed?   

But “such a time as this” includes a pantheon of other dreadful situations, globally and at home. Two weeks from now, we will mark two full years since the lockdown at the start of the pandemic in the US. Our climate is raging out of control, and many experts are warning that we are approaching the point of no return if we want to change course. And then there’s the poisonous discourse and division that have re-written “love your neighbor” as “love only those neighbors who fully embrace OUR mindset.”   

Like it or not, THIS is my time—and yours too. There’s been plenty of finger-pointing over what started us on this downward slide, but it almost doesn’t matter. Here we are, all of us. And the future, while unpredictable in some respects, isn’t looking very rosy right now.  

But what if, like Esther and Zelensky, we recognize that we were born for this time, and no other, and meet the moment with bravery and resolve? We may succeed or fail, but don’t we owe it to the next generations to try? It’s at least possible that one or more of us has the key to saving our planet and humanity—and if we seem like unlikely heroes, who’s to say that disqualifies us?   

Ask the TV president turned real one, leading the fight for Ukraine.

president of my heart

What If You DID Need a License to Have Kids?

 

How often have you heard, “You need a license to drive a car, but not to have children”? 

Well, here in Babyland we’ve finally decided to set some standards, to make sure our cherubs are placed in the very best hands! 

First the written test. If you pass this, you get your learner’s permit; you can then parent during daylight hours, accompanied by a licensed parent. 

1. Complete this sentence: When beginning to parent, first check your  a) rearview mirror b) seat belt c) superior attitude about the way you were raised. _________________
2. What is the speed limit (if any) for leaving a grocery store after your child has knocked over that huge “Souper Bowl” display of cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle and ripped open five family-size bags of cool ranch Doritos? ______________________________
3. How far away must you park your stroller from a fire hydrant?____________________
4. Too close! How did your baby figure out how to open a fire hydrant anyway?________________________
5. When four parents approach an intersection with the sixth grade teacher at the same time, which one gets to attack her first?__________________________ 
6. When approaching a slow-moving 15 year old 20 minutes after the alarm has gone off, is it legal to turn on the flashers (bedroom lights) and sound your horn (scream)?_________________

Congratulations, perfect score! Now on to the road test! 

Make sure you are getting into the driver’s seat, and staying there for the next 18 years.

Turn on the coffeepot (“ignition”) and pull carefully into the day.

Watch out! You nearly hit your toddler! Calm down! One more incident like that and we’ll just go right back to the DMV!

Parallel parenting time! Navigate placing yourself precisely between two parked moms at this crowded playground. Be careful of the one giving a play-by-play of her son’s recent victory on the T ball field. Oops, now watch that you’re not too close to the one drinking from a thermos of margaritas while her kids push your child off the slide. 

Doing fine!  Think you can handle the expressway? You have no other choice! On the entrance ramp, now…merge expectations with your teen’s (do they get an after-school job at Chipotle, or a ridiculously generous allowance from you, apparently for breathing? ) OK good, now keep watching every second as you rapidly speed up. Braces. Wait—braces off already? Why are her teeth still crooked? Acne? Your investment in clear skin just bought the dermatologist a beach house! SATs! Just 1550? Hmmm, he better take them again or kiss Harvard goodbye. Prom? She is NOT leaving the house dressed like that! Senior Week? He is NOT going to Cancun with his friends from detention! Hold on, going WAY too fast! Take the next exit!! 

Whew. Great! You passed. We think you’re ready to be a parent! Congratu---

Wait, where are you going? Come back! We thought you WANTED this job!

Maybe we better go back to no standards. We’ll never unload all the babies this way.

The Seyfried children had unlicensed parents!

The Secret of My Success

 

I won a Super Bowl pool! Find out how...

You’ve been dying to learn this, haven’t you?

In the loving and sharing spirit of Saint Valentine himself, then, here it is, the secret of my every success: I just stop thinking about attaining it. By which I mean, nearly all of my “wins” have come AFTER I’ve put whatever I was competing for completely out of my mind. Case in point: at our mentor meeting at church Sunday afternoon, one of the dads came up with a Super Bowl pool. The teams of mentors and Confirmation students filled out the form before kickoff, to determine who would later be victorious (the prize was ingenious--$100, which would then be donated to the charity of the winners’ choice). I let my teenage partner fill in our names, and that was the last thought I gave to the whole endeavor. Once home, I did my usual Super Bowl thing, which was not watch a second of it. This year, for good measure, I even eschewed the commercials and halftime show, knowing any mild curiosity I had could be easily satisfied by subsequent viewing online.

So, of course, my duo won the pool. Now, had I cared one whit, I promise you there would have been a different outcome. But, by playing mentally “hard to get,” I clearly attracted good fortune. 

In my writing life, I mostly achieve acceptances of my pieces to magazines and the like by submitting to them, then promptly forgetting I did so. This works best when I send out a flurry of essays and articles to a large number of publications. It is a delightful surprise to hear from, for example, a humor magazine I’d sent a little "something something" weeks prior. In contrast, I have been single-mindedly focused on cracking a very tough comedy nut, sending them way too many submissions, and then refreshing my inbox multiple times per day for a response. Needless to say, I have been rejected 100% of the time so far. Of course I have! I’ve been way too needy! I should be ignoring them altogether, so that eventually they will unearth one of my pieces and contact me frantically, begging me to allow them to feature it. 

Now, my formula (I call it, The Power of Not Thinking About It at All) may not work for you. You may, for all I know, swear by laser-focusing on your goals, bringing all of your brainpower to bear on envisioning your desired outcome. If that is your preferred method, great! But for those who have tried and failed to manifest success, I encourage you to give my technique a whirl. It has the advantage of freeing up your gray matter for what is truly important, such as wondering if you actually ate that crème filled donut for breakfast, or if you just dreamed you did (alas, I gain the same amount of weight ingesting pastry virtually and literally). 

Secret of my Success, my friends? As my Brooklyn buddies would say, “Fuggedaboudit!”

How many calories in a dream donut?

Need to Know Basis

Confession: I am an information junkie. If there’s something I want to know, I NEED to know it, and I need to know it now!! Now, mind you, this ravenous appetite for enlightenment doesn’t extend to astrophysics, say, or sports. Those fall into the “don’t know, and don’t care” category for me. 

I recently installed something called Mailtracker on one of my email accounts. Through the magic of technology, Mailtracker can tell when my “sent” emails are opened, and how many times they are read. I get a daily summary of these missives every evening. While I’d be very curious about any emails I send to YOU, don’t worry—I’m not interested in tracking my personal emails. I just wanted Mailtracker for my writing life, so I could tell when editors opened and read my queries, pitches and submissions. Before this, I would send an essay, say, to The New Yorker, and then wait. And wait. And wait for a reply. I’d agonize over when to send a follow-up email (too soon? Pushy! Too late? They’ll have forgotten all about it!) Whereas, with my dandy little tool, I can tell exactly when Mr. or Ms. Big Shot Editor opens my message! Yay! Now we’re in business, right?

But what do I do when I know they’ve they read it, but they still don’t respond? That’s a whole other issue. Some publications are very prompt and get right back to me (often with, “thanks, but we’re passing on this piece!” but still, it’s an answer!) Others take weeks, even months. Some assume that you know their silence IS their (negative) response. So Mailtracker has not, in fact, solved my problem. In fact, my “need to know” may have led me to know a little too much for my own good!

I wonder—if there was a Mailtracker for the prayers we send to God, would we feel better? Or worse? If we got a report that, indeed, the Almighty HAD received our prayers at 3:15 PM, but our inbox remained empty for days, even years? Would we conclude that God’s silence was always a negative answer, or would we give the Big Guy the benefit of the doubt, and realize that our prayers would have a response, in God’s time if not in ours? Do we really need to know precisely how prayer works, to believe that it does?

There’s an awful lot I wish I knew that I don’t know, may never know. But maybe some of that I DON’T need to know. There are things I can, and should, just take on faith, faith that we are all in the very capable hands of a loving God.

I probably won’t uninstall Mailtracker just yet (who knows, The New Yorker may finally read my fabulous essay this afternoon!) But I hope I can make my peace with the gaps in my comprehension of life, figure out what I can, and then, rest assured that all will be well in the end.

The Ben Franklin Effect

 

Hey, bud, can you spot me a Benjamin?

Ever since first grade at Epiphany Catholic School in New York City, I have been extremely interested in The Art of Making Friends. I’d observe the popular kids in the lunchroom and at recess, and try desperately to emulate them. Was it their enviable hair (long, blond, poker straight) and freckle-free skin, so unlike mine? The casually elegant way they wore their navy-blue uniforms (skirt always hiked up to be precisely short enough to look cool, yet not short enough to rate a reprimand from Sister Bernadette?) Apart from their looks, what did they say and do that attracted classmates like honeybees to clover?

For decades, the answers eluded me, and even now, at age 65, I still look at the people on EVERYONE’s dinner party invitation list and wonder what I’m missing. Now mind you, I now have a cherished circle of true friends that I value beyond measure (though I’m a bit puzzled by their interest in being MY buddies). But I still yearn for more, an “overflowing cathedral at my funeral” amount of amigos. In particular, I am determined to win over the people who dislike me (or are totally indifferent). But how?

Of course, I turned to the oracle of oracles, Benjamin Franklin himself, for a tutorial. That peripatetic author, inventor, statesman and sage was also immensely popular. What was Ben’s secret? Was it his jaunty powdered wig? The casually elegant way he wore his waistcoat and breeches? Lucky for me, Mr. Franklin spilled the beans, writing about a clever stratagem that has come to be known as The Ben Franklin Effect. 

The BFE (as I like to call it) involves turning an enemy into a friend by—get this—allowing THEM to do a favor for YOU. Counterintuitive, right? But apparently it works. Seems back in ye olden days, Franklin figured out how to ingratiate himself with a non-admirer: he asked the man if he could borrow a book from him. And when the loan took place, there was a shift in Ben’s adversary. Suddenly he became quite agreeable, and in the end they were great chums. It all has to do with something called cognitive dissonance. We mentally order our universe so that there is harmony—no things that don’t make sense. Therefore, when the man loaned the book to Ben, he justified the action to himself by saying “I wouldn’t do that nice thing for Franklin if I didn’t like him, therefore I must like him.” Voila! Ben had made a friend by letting him do a favor!

I am eager to try out the BFE myself, and see if I can increase the ranks of my friends. I plan to ask enemies, acquaintances and even total strangers if I can borrow stuff: a cup of sugar, $100 until payday, that sort of thing. And when I rake in my bounty, I’ll have the bonus of raking in new admirers too.

Does anyone have a copy of Poor Richard’s Almanac they could loan me?