The Church Decorating Committee

After an overwhelming response to my pulpit cry for help on the Christmas decorating; I am more than pleased to announce that the committee now consists of.... well..... me. And Lisa. (thanks, Lisa. you're probably the only servant in that church. pfffft)


Determined not to let the constraints of time and lack of cloning technology to get the better of me and my lavish plans for decor, I figured that I'd go to my best and only true friend- Google.

Google never lets me down.
I found a few things that even the Sunday School children could get involved with.

And while I'm in the garage collecting craft supplies anyway; I may as well pick up a few odds and ends to make my own tree. Should save the church decor budget some.

Then again, it's always nice to get a few little things done at home- maybe involve the husband and kids? I don't mind sacrificing some glittery bits and ribbon for a truly remarkable cause. It's so nice to get credit for hard work done with a spirit of humility and a total lack of pretense. The best plan may be to simply be the decor. Cut out the middle man. Forget about hauling that heavy box of tree parts down a flight of stairs and through a narrow hallway and up a stage.

This is way more practical. And pretty too.

But there are those large windows to dress.....

I suppose the foyer won't miss several hundred plastic hangers?

The Sunday School department ought to have red string of some sort...

And there's always the thrift shop for some golden baubles.

You know, I'm starting to think this whole committee thing fell apart for good reason. If I'm going to say that I believe in recycling and reusing; well... then there's no excuse for not using what's right in front of my fully capable nose.

Thank you, Google.

You've been ever so helpful, once again.

Ugly Sweater Party 2009!!

I'd like to do a proper post, and promise on my acrylics that I will. However, it is pertinent that you all know that Saturday, November 14 is LADY'S NIGHT!!

Time to get working on your ensembles.
Remember, here's all you need: An ugly sweater. On your body. (which can; but is not required to be; ugly)
An appetizer to share.
A liquid treat to share.

It all began back in November, 2006. That first innocent Ugly Sweater Party when I thought I was being original. pshaw.

Then I was made aware of how old this idea was. But I moved forward in my itchy polyester, and planned the second annual. Oh, it went to my head all right. All that delicious media!
We even allowed the men to join us- couldn't very well hoard that paparazzi now, could we?

Year three found us back with our girlfriends- and wow! there was some ugly stuff going on.

Which brings us to... well... Year Four.
Only you know how this year is going to go down!

There are no excuses- if you were here in year one, or two, or three... well, I'm going to assume that you're coming again. And if you were not? Well, that's totally unacceptable. You'll have to come this year.

Just leave your men at home, will ya?
sheesh.
It's hard to really let loose and start trading sweaters with all those sweaty men around.

Things You Lose Along The Way

I used to teach Sunday School with my husband.
Sing in a worship team.
Belong to a small group.
Lead a small group.
I once went to a large small group conference in a huge Calgary church. Well, that's what they called it. It ought to have been entitled: Business Management Proposals For Growing Church Numbers.
I used to go to a mom's group.
Sing solo.

Now, I don't really fit church culture that well. And although I miss that, in a "family/community" type of way; I will never strive to fit that culture again. I won't try to iron out my theology so as not to offend or disappoint members. I won't jump on any bandwagons. I won't advocate for the survival of church programs that will further tire an exhausted group of well-intentioned parishioners. I probably won't stand when told to; unless of course my body wants to stand. I won't participate in church politics- trying to decide who is "right" and who is "wrong".

The point and the heart of what's been lost along the way is not a taste for rebellion or a desire for an anti-establishment attitude. It's a quiet thirst for the real thing.

So, when I sense that people in church feel sorry for me, it's sort of funny in a sad kind of way. I go to church because I want to be there. Because I believe in the flawed, troubling, bumbling concept of a group of people coming together and potlucking on their shared love for God. Because I believe that tolerance and patience with and for people begins there- even though it's one of the brutally hardest places not to judge or despise others. (I find my nasty little inner voice carrying on from time to time; but my forward thinking heart wants to practise tolerance).

I used to love church in a busy, bustley, belonging kind of a way. A blowing and blasting in with toddlers and babies kind of a way. A common ground for support in life's teary potholes.

Now I find that I am off the radar for being called to participate in groups and committees and teams and all that hustle bustle. Don't get me wrong- I'm not offended. I'd probably say "no" anyway, remembering how I don't prioritize bonified church-ified "ministries" to exercise my love for God.

But there is just this realization of the changes that have come down the pike for this little church lady. It's sort of a vulnerable feeling to know that I've trusted my spiritual health to a much "narrower" source- just the real thing. The real Spirit who can show up or not show up regardless of my church status. It's like moving forward in a walkathon without the safety of a group around me.

Now, for anyone who reads Blunderview with much regularity, I think it's clear that I'm not a great Christian by traditional standards. Few of my blog posts wrap up with a pertinent Bible passage. Few of my rambles conclude with a revelation of my true identity in Christ. Most of my posts look splashy, fiesty, morose, and multi-hued. A clear message of life-giving theology may never be pinned down here. Nor will the four spiritual laws.

But my heart is for God. For authenticity. For change, humility, and miracles. The miracles that come of hopelessly selfish and troubled humans reaching out to one another with the non-human strength of God.

I've lost some stuff along the way. But I'm sure that with that loss comes a greater capacity for actual transformation, less distraction by church culture, and more personal vulnerability.

I stand more alone in my stubborn faith than I ever have in my short life. But somehow in losing that comforting safety net around me, I know that living real is inevitable. And that's totally going to depend on the only source that isn't influenced by some person's opinion- the actual Spirit.

(I hope I don't lose much more time as a human stewing around in my own hurt feelings and petty grievances, and keep stretching towards a higher plain. As big a fan I am of the Holy Spirit, and as much as I do believe in miracles; I know that I am standing in my way a lot of the time. I don't much care what people think of my beliefs and unbeliefs. It would be nice if we could all get along, and stop spending so much time arguing about our own rightness. It's just a big, stupid, useless distraction. Just try to spend one hour practising the greatest commandment: Love the Lord your God with your heart, soul, and mind, and love your neighbour as yourself. You'll quickly discover that you don't have time to figure out if the other guy is right or wrong or otherwise. That whole loving thing is pretty much going to eat up all your time. That's the direction I'd like to be transformed along.)

whine whine whine

You people don't know how much I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed you.
You are my only connection to the outside world.

Aside from pumpkin pie and tapioca pudding (my latest favourite comfort foods), I have no friends. No one to serve me that pudding on a tray. Or rub my feet. Or my shoulders.

I am, of course, lying. It only feels like I have never been outside of this house. (the swimming pool for kids lessons doesn't count. Neither does Superstore or McGavins Bread Basket. Or the Steinbach Arts Council, waiting for children's lessons to conclude.)

I'm sure that there are moments where I am not fighting the ever losing battle of taking everyone's crap off my counter and finding places for all their crap. I'm sure there have been days when the deck doesn't hold three bags of garbage and one bag of recycling because I fear leaving the house long enough to put them into the bins at the side of the house. (and no. I'm not afraid of leaving the house per se. I'm afraid of what myriad toddlers will do while I leave for 19 seconds.) I'm sure that eventually I will find time to put away the summer furniture that's outside rusting on that garbage- strewn deck. Did I mention that the deck is rotting? I'm sure that someday we'll make another gargantuan loan and build another deck.

Then again.
If I went out, there would likely be mirrors. I'd notice that my clothes are pathetic. My latest haircut a disaster. (and I had such high hopes...) My colour a beastly grey. (I recently bought some make-up at Shoppers. Turns out that it only works if you apply it.) I'd notice my saddle bags, love handles, and the way I walk- like a lumberjack in heels.

I'll have to limit myself to outings that include beverages.
Maybe I'll live large right now, and pour myself a water while I dash out to the garbage cans in the rain.

hmmmph. This lady needs a party.

More on that later; for now-- Keep Saturday, November 14 open.
No excuse is a good excuse.

Just Remember- It's Not You- It's Your Fibroid

It doesn't matter how many times you've given birth. It doesn't matter how many times your dilation has been measured. It doesn't matter how many GP's, gynecologists, interns (pardon the pun), nurses, custodians, and their assorted spouses and household pets have donned the ubiquitous latex glove and had their way with your precious life giving internal organs.

You still never quite get used to your annual physical.

So, when you actually do force yourself to go get it done, just for the greater good of keeping the lubricant manufacturers in work; it's never good news to hear that you're gonna have a couple of additional tests.

Not on your finger or toe, either.

Enter... the internal ultrasound. *******Do Not. I repeat. Do Not click that hyperlink if you are:

1. not female;
2. if you prefer not to know what those machines are for;
3. if you are squeamish in any way;
4. or if you are under the age of 41.

I myself had always thought of the ultrasound as a warm gooey wand that got massaged around one's belly and produced the image of a wee cherubic ghoulish looking baby that you would soon become the proud mother of.

Never. Ever. As something that required a latex condom. Never in a million years as something that might tempt you to sigh deeply and light up a cigarette.

I never imagined a test in the diagnostic imaging department that would find me suppressing inappropriate jokes (does that come in ribbed?) and pretending that this was an ordinary Wednesday evening occurrence- just me and a technician in a dimly lit room. And that latex condom thingie.

I decided that my Dr was incredibly thorough. I thought it was kind of quaint that he would send me for a special test because he thought I had "a big uterus". (I've got big thighs too. Nobody ever tests me on that stuff. I also have four big kids. Big kids= big uterus.)

I sort of felt like blushing as I passed through the waiting room on my way out. None of those poor people had any idea of what had just transpired.

I phoned Brian right away. These sorts of things ought not to be kept secret- too corrosive. We decided to put the whole sordid affair behind us and launch optimistically into our future.

The next day, I returned to my Doctor. Like some sort of seedy magazine full of images of the latest celebrity caught on the beach with a cellulite dimple; he already had the report. Hard to be in denial with this sort of expediency.

I never expected that test to produce anything. Just like I never expected that test. I never expected my uterus to grow another thing ever.

But then again, I never expected to get a muffin top, dimpled arms, rolls around my kneecaps, or a tummy riddled with dimples deep enough to hide your toothbrush in.

I suppose I should be glad that the twenty pound weight gain of getting old and dimpley isn't me.

It's my fibroid.

I remember back in the day when I used to have time to write.....

Dinner. With a Side of Death.

(*the not-so-pretty reality of a mother who does eventually reach her breaking point*)

Pie. That's what.

One of them is filled with chicken and carrots in a white sauce, and the other is filled with apples, sugar, and cinnamon. If you complain about the first pie, I will break your femurs. If you are good little boys and girls and eat up your nutritious, delicious chicken pot pie, you will be rewarded with another pie.

If anybody says anything at all containing the words "wow" (in a sarcastic tone) or "whatever" (in a teen tone), there will be a rolling pin thrust through one of these windows.

And, no. There are no side dishes of chicken fingers, or smiley face french fries, or salad, or roasted cauliflower, or spinach with strawberries and toasted almonds.

This crust began its preparation at 6:30 this bloody morning. There really wasn't time for any of that other stuff, and besides, going without those lovely side dishes will not kill us, whereas other certain, particular actions just might.

Tonight, we eat PIE.