Pews Blues

This arm belongs to a man named Marty.

This summer, I'm finding myself taking an unexpected journey. Not a road trip, not a flight to an unknown city, no cross-country trek to the tune of "This Land is Your Land." No, my journey will take place within four walls (give or take), and I think I'm more nervous about it than I would be if I were to hit the open road without a road map.

You see, I'm losing my pew. And I have to find a new one.

When I say I'm losing my pew, I don't mean that I'm losing it to a new family in church. Sure, that happens sometimes, and I greet them sweetly during that awful, awkward hand-shaking time, and then settle myself in to scowl behind them for the rest of the service. (And I ditch Sunday School five minutes early for a few weeks to make sure it doesn't happen again.)
And, it's not like we're going into a time when, like, all the youth have to sit in a designated spot--my spot--for a special series on Christian dating.

No, my spot, my pew, my SECTION is disappearing for a time of construction. What will remain afterwards remains to be seen. Nobody has been forthcoming, which means I can only assume the worst. And by the worst, I mean, of course, the balcony.
Now, I know there are bigger problems in this world. I sit around people who deal with bigger problems that this. (at leas, I used to...). For goodness' sake, I have bigger problems that this, but it's rattling nonetheless.
You see, we've marked this pew. That spot? Next to my Thompson NIV Chain Reference Bible? That's from the Sunday when our youngest son showed up withe the home-made Silly Putty he'd created in Sunday School. It leeched into the fabric, and I spent every Sunday for more than a month trying to pick it out of the fibers. Eleven Years Ago. I should have kept it and sent it to NASA.

That "help" message? Scratched into the pew in front? My boys swear none of them are responsible. I suppose it could be the work of some first-service hooligan, or a desperate Academy kid in chapel, but there have been several occasions when I have rested my head right next to that word, and "Lord, help me..." was the closest I could come to an articulated prayer.

I'm not merely a creature of habit. My spot was carefully chosen to take into account my attention span, angle of pulpit in respect to note-taking and screen-reading, and ration of people in front of me to those behind me which has a direct effect on how boldly I will attempt to sing the alto part of my favorite hymns. And, most importantly, there are zero kids. Since my own have grown, my tolerance has diminished exponentially.

I suppose, sometimes, God has to nudge us out of our rut, and as far as rut-nudgings go, this is pretty tame. So, look out Brothers and Sisters, I'm moving to your side of the church. If you're a gum-smacker, spit it out; if you're a candy-wrapper-rattler, put it away. And if you're a Soprano, well, my apologies in advance.

Why the Downton Season 3 Finale was Terrible

(the following is nothing more than my humble opinion...)

Let me say first of all, that Mikey and I watch Downton Abbey like it's an episode of Mystery Science Theater, with our own self-indulgent and frankly PG-13 witty commentary. I knew going in to the episode that Matthew was going to --wait for it-- be "written out." And I understand. On any given serial, you have to cut the dead weight every now and then, and no weight was deader than sincere, floppy-haired Matthew. We spent the whole episode anticipating his demise. Train wreck? Highland Fling Fatality? Suffocation as Mary sucks all living joy out of a room? Any of those would have worked, because you can't--you just CAN'T bring a lorry out of nowhere careening around a corner intercut with shots of people talking about how unpredictable life is.

I mean, you can, but it's a stupid way to do things. A sloppy, shabby shortcut. To very loosely paraphrase the brilliant Steven James (because it's late and I don't want to go looking for my notes...) you have to lay out a few crumbs for the story to follow. You have to do something that ups the ante, and Matthew Crawley laid out by the side of the road does none of that. Here's why, and my humble offering as to what should have happened instead.

WHY IT WAS STUPID: We already have the tragic story of a parent dead in the wee hours of a their child's birth. (Anybody remember Sybil?) So--it's a lazy way to create "drama." The circumstances work well with Tom Branson, though, because he now faces an added conflict of wondering where his place is in the household, as all of his status came from being the son-in-law of the Earl.  Mary's thrust into single parenthood accomplishes nothing along those lines. I mean, yeah, she'll be in mourning and she loves Matthew and all, but there's no interesting added dimension to that. Plus, she's so hateful, it's kind of hard to feel sorry for her, especially after cuddling her baby and giving him his first nickname: "Duty."

WASTED OPPORTUNITY: For the first time (how convenient) we hear about the hi-light of Lord Grantham's year--the trip to Scotland to hang out with Shrimpy and Susan. Here we learn of a miserable marriage, barely clinging to civility, with a post in India the next best thing to a scandalous divorce. I kept thinking...hmm...why do we care about these people? Why are we wasting our time with this when the Dowager could be zinging us with snappy dialogue about kilts and bagpipes? And then--oh. Rose. Because that's what every soap opera does when it starts losing momentum...it brings on the teenagers. (Any All My Children fans remember Greg and Jenny? ) This plot development only proves that Julian Fellowes knows his Brady Bunch and is dressing Cousin Oliver up like a flapper and teaching him the Charleston.

WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN DONE: If Fellowes knew that actor Dan Stevens wanted out of the Abbey, he should have given Matthew and Mary a long, miserable year of marriage. Goodness knows it would be believable, given that Mary has all the humor and compassion of a Hot-Pocket. Yes, there could be a pregnancy and an heir, but then Matthew could have looked into the eyes of his little chap and said, "Well done, old girl. I'm off to Australia to learn more about the profit of sheep." or "Good on you, Mary my dear. I'm off to America. Send the boy over when he's 12." That way, we'd have a character in a dicey position. Mary, not-quite-divorced, dealing with the rising above the scandal, and fighting off suitors. She could name the boy Telemachus and take up weaving. Plus, that could explain why he was so gung-ho about bringing Branson in as the estate manager. Not because he's a nice guy always wanting to do the prudent thing, but because he didn't want to leave his son's inheritance in the hands of a bumbling Ponzi-enthusiast and a status-obsessed ice queen.

Believe it or not, I really do love this show for many, many reasons, and I'm just as eager to see what Season 4 offers. And, if Julian Fellowes ever reads this...give me a call. Because it would be really, really cool to spend part of it playing Gaslight with Anna and Bates!

Love is Messy...

(Re-sharing from last year...)

Every year for Valentine's day, my Mikey finds some quirky way to present me with my box of chocolates. Years ago, I opened my eyes to find myself staring right at it as it nestled on his pillow. I went straight from dream-land to treat-land, popping two or three before I even crawled out of bed. What a yummy, decadent way to start the day, even though it would soon dissolve into the normal chaos of trying to get two grown-ups and three little boys ready for a day of school and work. That's how I lost track of my chocolates, leaving the open box sitting right on the foot of the bed, which wouldn't have been that big of a deal if it weren't for ... the dog.

This was long before Stella, when we had a faithful old man named Neumann to fill our canine needs. Neumann was perfect--in any other situation, you could leave him in front of an open bag of chicken nuggets and he'd sit patiently by, the thought never entering his mind to do anything but sit and wait for an opportunity to obey. But, for some reason, on this day, I came home to find a mysterious trail of little brown papers, leading to the empty heart-shaped box. The only pieces left were two half-eaten coconuts. Not even my dog liked coconut.

Now, animal lovers everywhere, take a collective breath. Yes, I know chocolate is bad for dogs, and a phone call to my vet said to just sit and wait and watch...which, we did. We watched my Valentine's chocolates reappear all over our house. In the hallway, in the kitchen, the living room, the entry way, the bathroom. From both ends and possibley places in-between, my gived was oozed and splurted and plopped. And there was my Mikey, with a scrub brush and carpet cleaner, paper towels and Febreeze, taking care of every bit of mess.

I call this my favorite Valentine, because I love the lesson here. (And when I was a teacher, I told it to my students every year...). Love is a messy, messy thing. It's not enough to wallow in the romance of a pretty box of chocolate--you've got to be able to laugh and forgive and work together when it's in danger of going to the dog!

Happy Valentine's Day, Everyone!!