How Long Did Jesus Have to Wait for Couscous?

Imagine the scene. Jesus has had a long day preaching the Word of God and curing the sick in the hot sun. The Lord is dusty, tired, and completely famished. Fortunately,  He's been invited for dinner at Martha's house, where he can rest and take nourishment. He's looking forward to it.

"Just a minute, Lord. I'm not happy with the consistency of the last batch of couscous. I've thrown out the pot and I'm starting over."

"No need, Martha. I'm sure it's fine." (Big eye roll. Besides being fully God, He was fully man.)

"Too late. Oh, and I need some parsley so I can plate it perfectly. There's some in the next valley. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Just hang in there. There's a few grapes on the table you can munch on if you're hungry."

Jesus might have been tempted to perform a lesser known miracle--the multiplication of the grapes and the changing of last night's bread crusts into a full meal.

Perfectionism is a burden, not just to those of us who labor under the delusion that we'll actually attain it but to the loved ones we subject to our unhealthy preoccupation. How often have we turned a simple task into a complex project worthy of NASA? How much more could we accomplish if we did a decent job and moved on to the next task?

Here's a perfect example. (No humor intended.) The hubby wanted a soft case for his iPhone so he could toss it in his backpack and not worry about scratches. After selecting a fabric, I decided bias tape would make the edges perfect. This is a product I haven't used since high school. I would hand-sew this baby, because hand-sewn looks nicer. And I'd use embroidery floss for extra strength.

The embroidery needle kept sticking in the fabric. It was difficult to catch both sides of the tape along the edges of the quilted fabric. Hubby kept asking, "Will it be done by Friday???"  I finally ditched the tape, pulled out my sewing machine, and whipped the case together. I couldn't have gotten good money for the results, but Hubby was delighted. It took 10 minutes to make two.

I'm not encouraging anyone to do a half-baked job, but there's a distinct difference between "I couldn't care less" and "Will I get a prize for the results?" The latter approach holds us back and annoys those nearest and dearest.

Here are some perfection-challenged situations I regularly run into:

* Late fees from bills because I want to get the perfect system in place for paying bills on time.  (Yes. I see the irony.)
* Last minute fast-food dinners because I couldn't come up with a new, exciting recipe using the ingredients on hand.
* Empty blog-free stretches because I have to A. Work out the perfect schedule B. Get it into a shiny new calendar, which I will lose because I have too many calendars C. Come up with a topic no one's ever conceived  let alone attempted to write about.

And you can see how my inaction carries over to loved ones. Late fees cost the entire family money. Hubby is subjected to those bad dinners. People who might enjoy the blogs get cricket chirps instead.

Do you have a problem with perfection? Is there something you've been meaning to do but you're afraid the results won't meet Martha Stewart standards?  Ask Jesus to help you let go of your expectations. Take a shot at just getting it done. How do you feel? Relief? Like you've won an all expense paid vacation to Normal Land?

And if you're still super worried about offering Jesus anything but perfection, consider this story. A man wanted to offer a king a gift, but all he had was a skimpy bunch of grapes. He gave them to the king's mother, and she arranged them on a beautiful gold plate and presented them to her son. The grapes looked good on the plate. They came to the king from the hand of the mother he loved. The skimpy grapes became an awfully nice gift.

We can offer our gifts to Jesus through the Immaculate Heart of Mary. She makes everything perfect. She can't help it. It's a side effect of being the new Arc of the Covenant.

So, what are you going to get off your to-do list today by simply getting it done?

Judge Not, Lest Karma Whack You Upside the Head

This post is all about judging, and we ALL do it. Just step into the supermarket and see if you don't make snarky comments (hopefully in your head) about the woman wearing pajama bottoms without underwear, the big guy throwing a bag of cookies in his cart, or the woman paying for Fritos with food stamps. Yes, I do it too.

The hubby was eating lunch in the work truck the other day. There was a large woman who looked like a hooker pacing the street corner outside of McDonalds. When a small, Hispanic woman passed by, she lunged at her and punched her in the nose. Then she slammed her against a brick wall and punched her again. While the assailant took off in a car with some guy, the one person who acted was a Hispanic man dressed in gang-banger fashion. He's probably the one I would cross the street to avoid, yet not only did he step in and stop the attack, he took off his shirt to wrap around the victim's bleeding head, called 911, and waited with her for the ambulance.


Then there's the cop in New York who, seeing a homeless man without shoes or socks, crossed the street to buy the items from a store and give them to the man.  The copy we'd probably dismiss an an unfeeling cad who walks around handing out tickets was the guy who stepped in to offer humanitarian aid.

Author Kristen Lamb has a great blog post on the additional guilt she felt after someone who doesn't even know her criticized her as being unfeeling--an unjustified comment that this bugger felt necessary to pass on. Judgement is ugly.

So how do we avoid judging people?  Well, some judgement is necessary. If a seedy-looking guy came up and wanted to sell you white powder, you should use your judgement to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But the snarky, unnecessary judgement comes about because it's part of our fallen nature. If we acknowledge it as soon as we recognize it, say a little prayer, and push it away, we can start a new habit that is healthy for us and attractive to others.

Animal Lovers Sickened by Slaughter of Puppy

I'm happy to report that no puppy was sacrificed in the writing of this blog, but I'd like you to hold on to that sick feeling you got when you thought it was true.

That's the feeling devout Catholics and other devout Christians, Jews, Muslims, etc. feel when they think about the slaughter of an unborn child.

The leader of the free world enthusiastically embraces such slaughter.
He went to teenage girls and tried to corrupt their young minds into imagining such slaughter was their right.
He presents this slaughter as the solution to the inconvenient results of casual sex.
He smiled when he said he would slaughter his own grandchild to keep his daughter from being inconvenienced by her sexual activity.
And he intends to force those who oppose such slaughter to either take part in the orgy or suffer the consequences.

Too long, Christians have thought of persecution as something that happened long ago to other people. Just a historical reference. When Caesar ordered Christians to either bear the mark of worship to him as God or suffer the loss of their livelihood, we thought that was pretty darn ugly. Those who held out couldn't trade. They couldn't buy food. They couldn't survive. Barack Obama is doing exactly the same thing, except he doesn't stop at worship. He wants blood sacrifice.

To say Barack simply has a different opinion about the slaughter of children is to say that Hitler just had a different opinion about the human dignity of Jews. And Catholics. And the handicapped. And gays. And gypsies.

That's right. When you determine a person's value to society by external factors, you can take it anywhere you like, as long as you can convince others you're right.

Jesus is as Close as a Smile

As I was returning from my morning walk, the handicapped bus was in the driveway to pick up a passenger from our complex. The driver is there every weekday morning, and her job can't be easy.

She has to get out, help load an occupied wheelchair onto the lift, and maneuver her charge into a safe spot. There are around eight children in her care, so she has to repeat that routine eight times.

What I notice most about this woman is not her gender. It's not her race. It's not her height, her weight, or her uniform. It's her smile.

She radiates pure joy.

Faced with a difficult job and a lot of responsibility, this woman chooses to respond with one of the brightest, broadest smiles I've ever seen. While she cares for some of God's more fragile children, she doesn't fret, grumble, or even worse, dismiss the job as an inconvenient way to make a living.

She smiles.

How many times have I faced tiny inconveniences with a frown and a whine? How many times have I, when faced with a challenge, responded gracelessly?

This woman, whether or not it's her intention, is spreading Jesus' message of Love to everyone she meets.

And it's as simple as a smile.

Waste Not, Want Not. Even Sorrel.

I'm betting that Martha didn't waste anything. Whether preparing dinner for Lazerus or for a room filled with guests, she probably knew how to add just the right spice or use the perfect cooking method to make old figs taste yummy.

Using everything we're given is good stewardship, and that includes the surprise veggie I received in my Abundant Harvest Organics delivery this weekend.

Sorrel. Isn't that something horses eat?  The enclosed newsletter advised to use it sooner than later. Having thrown away an embarrassing amount of rotted fruits and vegetables in my time, I decided to get off my butt and figure out a way to cook these pretty leaves before they went bad.

The warnings almost scared me off, especially the comparison of heated sorrel to cowpies. (The color changes during the cooking process, and not in a good way.)  Hubby has his limits, so I decided soup might make the most appetizing presentation.

I played with an online recipe and here is what I came up with. Though the soup looks dark green, it has a surprisingly light, lemony flavor.

3 cups of chicken broth
1 large bunch of sorrel, tough stems removed (And wash carefully! There were chunks of dirt hidden in the leaves!)
1 Potato, diced
1 handful of rice
Salt and Pepper to taste
1 cup of milk

First, I brought the chicken broth, sorrel and potato to a boil and let it simmer until the potato was cooked.
Next, using an immersion blender, I ground everything up.
I added a handful of rice and simmered until cooked. You must stir occasionally.
I added milk, salt and pepper and heated through.

I served it with crushed tortilla chips sprinkled over the top, and it was yum!

Now I have to figure out what to do with the surplus of nectarines! Any ideas?

Yes, Virginia. God DOES Speak Through Mystery Authors!

I was having a low period. I call them "funks". It's when everything presses in and the world begins to look dark and gloomy. You've probably been there. It's the land of extremes, filled with NEVER, ALWAYS, EVERY and NONE.

My eyeballs were firmly fixed on my problems without a glance to spare for God. Not a good place to be.

Fortunately, I was still able to muster up the interest to read, and I picked up my copy of Marilyn Meredith's BEARS WITH US to delve into the lives of happier people embroiled in murder. Deputy Tempe Crabtree solves the crimes; her husband, Hutch, a minister, provides the moral support.

I wasn't even suspicious when Hutch spoke about preparing his sermon. I need to pray first to find out what message the Lord would like me to bring to the congregation. Why would I imagine that this fictional pastor's congregation would include me, the reader?

And then when Hutch got excited and said I know exactly what I'll be preaching about tomorrow. It's amazing how the Lord guides me to what he wants me to bring to the congregation I still didn't see it coming. But then I got to THE PAGE.

The line jumped out at me. Hutch's sermon was titled Letting God Handle Your Problems.

Remember when your brother-sister-best friend would rap on your forehead to get your attention? God rapped on mine with gentle, loving knuckles.

"Hello-o-o-o. Did you get My point? Do you want Me to repeat it?"

I must have, because I read the line again, and the gloomy mist lifted.

When we try to handle our own problems, to retain control, that's when we take a trip to downer-land. It's that human habit of trying to claim credit, of trying to lay out a strategy that doesn't include God.

He's so much bigger than us. He's omnipotent. He can do anything. It's pretty arrogant not to let Him guide us, like when your four-year-old insists on making breakfast and concocts an inedible mess. And we're just as proud of our results as that child, though they lead us farther from Him. It's not until we get food poisoning from the under-cooked eggs that we finally turn to Him and say, "Help!"

So, yes, Virginia, God does speak through mystery authors. He speaks through everything, if only we would listen.

Do Catholics Really Believe THAT???

I was reading an excerpt of an upcoming novel from an author I’ve enjoyed in the past. The author will remain unnamed. In the excerpt, a secondary character, who I assume is on the wild side, dipped her fingers in holy water and stated that few people knew she was a strict Catholic. She’s described as a woman who dabbles in Voo-doo and has flings.

Possibly, this was meant as a joke. It is certainly a concern how many Catholics like to set their own definitions and codes of conduct.

I was surprised by the main character’s comments. She wondered if the “church elders” would approve of her friend’s lifestyle and added that anyone who “got their undies in a bunch” over her friend’s behavior could just throw on a holy medal, grab some ashes, and, well, get over it.

At first I was confused. Wasn’t it Protestants who have church elders? And who keeps a handy pile of ashes around the house? I do know people who wouldn’t dream of leaving home without their holy medal, just as I know people who won’t leave the house without their favorite signed team jersey. And if anyone tried to remove my late Grandma Ann’s ring from the chain around my neck, I’d bite them. It’s comforting. It makes me feel closer to Grandma. It reminds me of her great qualities, qualities I hope to emulate. Kind of like a medal.

This author delivered her touché moment with confidence, so I naturally wondered if perhaps my entire life--from my First Holy Communion to my current status as a devout (I hope) Catholic--had been a lie! I had to discover the truth, no matter how painful.

The top item on my list was the omnipotence of medals. My understanding has always been that Sacramentals, such as medals, have no abilities in themselves. They can be occasions of God’s miracles, such as Elisha’s bones in 2 Kings 13:20-21. But maybe there was more to it.

The best Catholic I knew (based on length-of-membership) was Grandma D. I immediately set out to get some answers, and I knew I’d have to be clever about it. After all, this is the same woman who never told me that Muggles really could be witches, a childhood fantasy that was denied me until I learned the facts from J.K. Rowling. I decided to boldly confront Gram with my new-found knowledge and rock her into spilling the beans.

Me: (oh so casually) Grandma, which holy medal would you wear to ward off bad behavior in, say, your children and grandchildren?

Grandma: What’s a holy medal got to do with it? I’d smack them upside the head.

Me: (pulling out the big guns) But this particular medal has been blessed. By a priest. Surely that would ward off sinners or make them change their evil ways. (Certain that priests have superpowers, I knew I had her.)

Grandma: (snatching back the oatmeal cookie she just gave me) Get your head out of your rear end. Holy medals aren’t magic, you dunce. All power comes from God.  Are you still hung up on the whole Harry Potter thing? And speaking of sinners, get you’re confused butt to Confession.

Abashed, I took a more delicate approach to the subject of ashes. The distribution of ashes occurs on Ash Wednesday. They are made from burned, blessed palms from Palm Sunday. Catholics are anointed with them to mark the beginning of Lent as a reminder that we are mortal and as a call to repentance. The author suggested I “grab some”, which means I should have easy access all year round. I’ve never had ashes lying about. Was I deprived?

Me: Mom, where do you keep your secret stash of ashes?

Mom: Ashes? In the fireplace, I guess.

Me: (winking) You know. The ashes. The ones you grab whenever you run into sinners. The ones you...grab. (I really wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do with the ashes once we grabbed them. The author hadn’t been clear.)

Mom: (looking concerned) Is there something you want to tell me? Well, don’t. Save it for the priest and go to Confession.

I drove to my Church, disappointed yet refusing to give up on my quest. At the very least, those church elders the author referred to should be able to answer my questions. In the courtyard, I spied a group of men and women in their sixties and seventies who are always volunteering. You can find them decorating, baking, and generally being nice.  I always thought we only had one church elder--the Pope. And I wouldn’t call him an elder to his face. But what if the author was right? Was this group of apparently helpless, aged individuals in reality members of a powerful secret gang like the Masons or the Red Hat Society? I boldly stepped forward and called them out.

Me: You! Church Elders! I want to talk to you!

Elder Woman: Did she just call me old?

Elder Man: I told you that shade of purple made your skin look pale.

Elder Woman #2: Don’t you listen to him, Eunice. Lilac looks lovely on you.

Elder Woman #3: How rude. I think someone (looking at me) needs to learn a lesson in manners.

I got a footprint on my butt and, yes, it was implied that I should head over to Confession. So I went. I figured the priest could help me where other Catholics had failed me.

Me: Father, I’m so confused. I keep looking for a holy medal that will convert sinners, and I would really like to be able to grab some ashes, you know, as a back up.

Father: (pause) Sooooo, do you have any sins to confess? 

Me: (on a roll)  But maybe I’ve missed something. Do you think if I worship that lovely statue of St. Bernadette she might smite down people who have flings?

Father: I assume by “flings” you mean using others as objects for your own sexual gratification.

Me. Flings sounds more fun.

Father: (pulling out his handy autographed copy of Dealing with Heretics) How long have you been worshipping statues?

Me: (oblivious) And Voo-doo doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe saints do get cranky and wreak havoc. Maybe they’re awarded their own superpowers in heaven, separate from God. He probably needs help dealing out punishments and retribution. I know I would.

I got another footprint on my butt. Turns out there is no heretic-burning manual, but Father did hand me a brochure about RCIA. You’ll have to look that one up on your own.

A few things I know for certain. God gave us free will. That means we can practice Voo-doo and Fling about to our hearts content, but it won’t be God’s will, and the repercussions of not doing God’s will are a bummer. If God won’t force someone to behave, how can we? (Even if we do have holy medals and ashes at our disposal.)

God has a history of working through people--think apostles--and objects, such as the case of the woman with the hemorrhage. She merely touched Jesus’s tassel and was cured because of her faith. (Mt 9:20-22) Did the tassel cure her? No, and neither will a medal, but God could just as well work through blessed medals and ashes if He chose to. After all, He is God. But the power and the glory are strictly His.

I don’t know the reasoning behind the author’s comments. Maybe she’s an ex-Catholic who was frustrated and felt the need to lash out. If I was erroneously forced to hunt for piles of ashes to grab, I’d be cranky too.  Maybe she’s jumping on the Catholic-bashing bandwagon as a ploy to please her readers. Bashing any Christian denomination seems to earn one points these days. (The question should be--points from whom?)

                                                                                                           

I did wonder why the author felt the need to comment on religion at all. It seemed so unnecessary. It leapt from the page as one of those “author intrusion” moments, where the story pauses to let the author get something off her chest. This woman writes cozies. Not really a place for theological commentary.

The most obvious and perhaps saddest option is she probably didn't give it much thought at all. It’s too easy these days to make derogatory comments and slap labels on people. Lazy is in; logic and reasoning are out. Bishop Fulton Sheen once said, “There are not more than 100 people who hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they perceive to be the Catholic Church.”

I’d like to recommend a book to the author and anyone else who might be interested. “What Catholics Really Believe” by Karl Keating puts to rest some of the myths floating out there.

Bottom line is, I’d never dream of saying that Jews who don’t agree with my character’s morality should just grab some kosher beef, perform a bris, and get over it unless I was saying something about the character making the comment. It wouldn’t be respectful. It wouldn’t be loving. It wouldn’t be Christian.

And I’d have to go to Confession.