Why Do I Find This So Amusing?

Matthew 10:26-27

credit:Rebecca Wood.

Losing My Religion

I am certain that my father loves me. I am equally as certain that he spends many of his waking hours disappointed in my decision to leave his church, his one true religion. The Catholic Faith. Oh Lord. He prays for me. it is not just my departure that disheartens him. He wishes I was a zealot. He prays and prays that I would become a weirdly devout Catholic. He wishes I was enthralled with his Church. He wishes I was having home masses and really digging the faith. He prays every night that I would at least go to Sunday Mass. I can't do it. It grosses me out.

I know that I am probably going to upset a lot of people (my throng of followers) with this blog. I want to emphatically state that I know a lot of good Catholics. I know a ton of them. I am alarmed by their decision to actively remain in such a glaringly hypocritical and money hungry institution, to continue to feed that monster. They all seem so smart otherwise.

The Catholic Church knowingly moved pedophiles to new parishes with brand new little boy victims. It has been documented. The Archdiocese of Boston's own Cardinal Bernard Law participated in cover up after cover up. It wasn't even a case of after the fact. His resolution to this pesky nuisance of grown men raping little boys was to re-assign the offenders. His actions made sure that different little boys -little boys my son's ages- little boys with trusting and pure hearts would soon be victims too.

That greedy Cardinal knew exactly what he was doing. He was protecting the reputation of the Catholic Church. God forbid a man of the cloth be taken to task-to atone for his sins. The Catholic Church might lose parishioners if this ever got out. Holy Cash Cow! That would mean loss of revenue. Would Cardinal Law's Watch Hill, RI mansion or the huge Commonwealth Ave residence in Boston be at risk? That could not be! Let the little boys suffer. Move along, Fr. Porter. How about a new town, Fr. Shanley? Try to be good. Try to control yourselves. Pray. If you find it all too compelling, for the love of God, be discreet. This is a business after all.

All that money that my parents put into those baskets over the years- that my father continues to empty his pockets into- has gone to pay off the church's multitude of sins. The sins of the fathers being visited upon the altar boys. After years of priest protection the abuse finally came to light-to public outcry. All these wrecked lives -for what? Some strange unholy encounters that robbed small boys of their innocence? It is horrific enough that this abuse happened at all but for men in power to be alerted to it and to ignore it is nothing short of obscene. It sickens me. It truly sickens me. How could I support such an institution? How can my father?

Obviously my father is not supporting the abuse- he is clinging to his faith. He is holding on to the only church he has ever known. The Catholic Church is broken as far as I am concerned and I cannot return. I believe in God. I believe in freedom of religion. I believe that anyone can believe anything they want-but don't make me!
Don't damn me to hell and for pity's sake please don't pray for my salvation.

Because I don't belong to a church does not for one minute make me a non-believer. I believe that God must have some damn good reason for giving man free will. He never should have done that. I can't wait to hear what he has to say about that. I am going to bring that up at our first meeting and then I am going to launch right into his distribution policy. I believe someday that it will all make sense which I guess means that I have faith, right?

I feel so lucky in this life. I don't feel blessed. If I was blessed that would mean that God likes me more. What about those unlucky chumps? Poor unblessed heathens,I don't care how they got there, born into a slum, no chance of an education...God must hate those folks. No! Isn't everyone blessed in some small way? Not really. Why did I get so lucky and this lady got handed the cataclysmic stick?









I met her on the streets of Dehradun in India. I would guess that she is about 10 years younger than me. She is poor and probably homeless. She has been reduced to begging on the streets because her 3 kids are starving. Where is God in this instance? She was so hungry and so were her children. I am never hungry unless I am on a diet or something.That is just embarrassing. These people live with hunger daily. I gave her 600 rupees(all that I had on me and at 48R to the dollar-not much).
You would have thought that I gave her the moon. How can something that means so little to me, petty cash really, make or break someone else?


She probably fed her kids for days with that. Owen, Enzo and I watched them walk right over to a fruit stand. She bought her two oldest children 2 apples each which they greedily received. She bought one for herself.They sat down under a tree. We left them alone after maybe staring too hard. She didn't look at me. She must have been mortified. Imagine.

I wasn't Pollyanna over in India. I didn't normally give out that many rupees at a pop, there was something about this woman's plight that moved me. I could not believe her lot in life. She will probably always suffer. She doesn't have a chance. Does she have faith? This sort of thing is the very stuff that tests mine.

The world balance is so lopsided. I work in a very posh, upscale Assisted Living Facility for the elderly in America. The dichotomy is nuts and not lost on me who has seen it all from both sides now. The three room suites are $8,900/month. Included in the price is an escort to and from the dining room. Three meals a day are served to these lucky rich elders by a waitstaff wearing uniform black vests, crisp white shirts, black dress pants and bow ties. Hardcover menus are handed out. Soup to nuts.

Along with the escort service we also provide laundry pick up and delivery. We turn down beds and make a few chatty visits throughout the shift. Babies die in the hot sun. Distribution, dear my lord, keeps honor bright.

The world balance is on it's ear leaving me little time to worship in a church. I want to think my own thoughts and form my own opinions.If I am sitting in a church reciting the same litanies week after week, letting the sheer repetition of it shape my ideology how on earth will I cultivate my one true religion? No, this is something I have to do on my own.

Just to strenghten my resolve I cannot think of a more boring way to pass a Sunday morning. Mass is boring! I get it-He has spoken through the prophets- how many times do I have to hear this? What about Christmas morning? Do you think that any child who has to wake up, get dressed in their itchy best clothes and walk by the fully appointed Christmas tree will enjoy sitting through mass? THIS is how you instill love of God into a child? Ha!

I am teaching my children to be good. I want them to be honest and kind. I want them to be confident and inquisitive. The Catholic Church-any church- squashes the idea of free thinking. When you "join" a church you agree to believe in a set of tenets.There is no room for debate. Take it or leave it. I just can't sit in a pew and repeatedly listen to something that I do not fundamentally agree with. That is free will. I have a lot of questions and no church is giving me any well thought out answers. They are regurgitating the party line. They will never go out on a limb-they can't, because it is written.

That is precisely my crisis of faith. I do not believe everything that I read. Honestly, I absorb it, and I think about it but I prefer to draw my own conclusions. I don't believe that is going to land me in hell. I don't believe in hell. No loving God could create such a place.

Okay, I am almost finished. I just want to add- and this is a small thing really- as I type I am suffering. I don't have cancer and I am not starving but I am needlessly suffering. Last Wednesday my left underarm started to itch. It developed into an irritating rash. The next day it started to blister and pools of fluid started weeping from my arm. I had 20 or so angry welts under there. They were small and they hurt like the dickens. When the other arm began to break-out I decided to seek medical relief-because I could.

I am now treating my condition with a 10 day course of antibiotics and an expensive cream. Thank God-yes. God allows ME health insurance,great coverage ,in fact. I just wish that he would be this cool with everyone. If I was one of the millions and millions of uninsured Americans (or: the 'Unchosen'& for whatever reason,the 'Unblessed') that tube of cream would have been $185.00! We only had to pay $30.00. What a deal. The antibiotics cost $20.00, the office visit, another $10.00.Horrible discomfort and $60.00. Why? Why? Why? Was this necessary? Is this some kind of sick prank by a loving God? Is this to keep me on track? What if this same thing happened to that lady in India? How on earth would she deal with it?




What about these kids all alone out there? Help me in my exhaustive disbelief. Shock and Awe to follow.

Nits End.

Another word about Block Island. Bring supplies. I forgot to bring a hair tie and could not bring myself to pay $5.49 for a little package of them when I knew I had some at home. Even if I didn't have them at home I could get the same item in Providence for under $2. It was the principle. I spent the day looking more and more like Slash from Guns 'N Roses.

Fabio sweetly asked our waitress if she had an extra hair tie and she gave me one. I took it and I thanked her but I couldn't use it. In 1988- when I was living in Athens, Georgia I got head lice six times in a row. There was an epidemic in the school system. OMG. Just the thought of this makes me itch. I was a live-in nanny and I babysat for 3 other families. All of the kids had it. I kept getting re-infested. I had hair that hung a little above my waist. It was long, thick and really curly. The perfect breeding ground. Those little critters found a nice nest in me. I offered warmth, security and endless expansion. That is,until I cut it all off.

By the end, I had so many dead white nits in my hair it had really begun to affect my personality. I was so unhappy. I just could not believe the mess I was in. Even though they were finally all dead, I could not get them out of my hair. They clung to me. I had SIX batches in there. It was hell. The loads of laundry, the endless treatments, it wasn't cheap.

I actually had to move out of my house.I had only lived there for a couple of months. I had just moved out on my own. I was so excited about it. I had gone from my parents house to a dorm to being a live in nanny. This was my first foray into independence. I lived in a really big house, all alone. My roommate had just moved out.I wonder why. There was wall to wall carpeting and I think my dog might have had fleas too. I felt really bad about leaving such a legacy. The whole place was spotless, but I think that I left some live wires. I felt even worse when I found out that my house had become a half way house. Those poor people, trying to screw their heads on straight without the added pressure of head lice.



I remember sitting on a bench in downtown Athens. I was sitting between an ice cream store and a record store. I had put my riddled hair in braids. I was reading Frankenstein for English Lit. That is kind of ironically funny now that I think about it. My friend Bill Chappell came over and sat down. He said, "Oh man Lucy, you have really got to do something about your situation." It was bad. I was in a bad situation.

I asked Bill to "go ahead and see" (that's how they talk in the South.) if Mr. Brown (the record store owner) had a pair of scissors that he could borrow. Bill came back out carrying the shears. I told him to cut the braids off and then some. It was traumatic, I loved my hair.

I will never forget the two little boys sitting in the window of Gorin's Ice Cream. They stared in astonishment as Bill clipped off my braids, one at a time. It was awful.

When Fabio scored me that hair tie from a stranger it brought back a flood of horrible memories. One interesting memory of that trying time stands out. I was a Sophomore at UGA. I had been at the Student Center just hours before my first bout with head lice. I had to get a student id made.

My sister Moy had given me this absolutely beautiful hand painted barrette. I loved it. It was gorgeous. I always received compliments when I wore it. Right before my picture was taken I took the barrette out and fluffed up my hair. I somehow forgot the barrette. I realized that it was missing after I had already walked 20 minutes across campus. I turned around immediately. When I went back it was gone. I asked the lady who took my picture if she had seen it. She said no. I didn't believe her. I bet my little friends were breeding in her top desk drawer. Serves her right.

I am paranoid about head lice. When we go to the movies or travel by plane or train I always wear my hair in a tight bun high atop my head. We all have our quirks, and they all have to do with our histories. People can be weird for good reasons.

Journey to Block Island

We went to Block Island, Rhode Island two days ago. We have lived in Providence since April of 2002. From 1967 until 1986 I lived in Fall River, Massachusetts. How is it that I have never been to Block Island? Why wasn't I one of those high school kids who would spend their Summers working at The National Hotel? They got room and board and a salary plus tips! What was I thinking? There were plenty of jobs. I always saw them advertised at the beginning of Summer in the Providence Journal.















I saw them advertised THIS Summer. Can you imagine? If you are single with no dependants- what an idyllic way to spend a Summer. Housekeeping at The National Hotel. I love making beds. I am sure the linen is crisp. It is a fancy hotel.

Block Island is now my favorite place on earth. I love Block Island. I love saying "Block Island". I loved the whole day. We missed the 10:30 ferry by five minutes because Fabio mistakenly headed toward Fort Adams in Newport where the ferry leaves once a day instead of to Point Judith where the ferry leaves every hour and a half.

I realized his error as soon as he took the wrong exit, by then we were on the Newport Bridge. He had to turn around and we were just too late. They run a tight ship. I have never gotten to use that cliche so accurately in my life. Fabio is never late for anything. I mean never. He has "drop dead departure times" that are strickly adhered to. This guy is never late. He was so bugged.

Hanging out in Point Judith for an hour and 25 minutes was great except for having to endure Fabio's repeated apologies.
























It was fine. We got the boys ice cream.

















There was a buzz in the air. I was really really excited. I had been wanting to go to Block Island for my entire life. It is only $17.50 RT and a short 55 minute ferry ride from Point Judith!I have no idea what I had been waiting for. It is hardly inaccessible. It is the nicest place I have ever been to.
















When we stepped off the ferry we were on new land. We had no idea what to expect. We took a right and walked down the street. We walked past charming houses and little shops. The boys,of course, were famished, as if they had spent days on The Mayflower. We stopped for lunch and then headed to the beach.























We sat and we swam and we buried the boys in the sand.























The weather was perfect. I could have sat there all day.


































After a day at the beach we packed up and headed back to the center of town. We had a couple of hours before the last ferry left so we decided to explore a little. We walked up this cute little street with old homes and seaviews. We walked past the fabulous Hotel Manisses 1661 Inn. It is enormous and grand. People were sitting on the big old porch reading in rockers. Red wine was being served.


As we walked further up the street we came upon a curious farm.


















Enzo spotted a yak. Owen read the handpainted sign aloud, "Please don't feed the camel."
























At that moment a young family came strolling down the path . They told us to go up even further and we would see a Zedonk. A Zedonk is (you may have guessed) a cross between a zebra and a donkey.







That is a llama beside him.





Did I mention the emu?

















This is a very old fainting goat, apparently.



















Have you any idea what this is? Enzo is pretty sure that it is a Scottish cow.

















Block Island is a magical place. I cannot believe that I had never been there. I almost feel duty bound to pack up the family and just go ahead and move there to make up for lost time.

The day kept getting better and better, apart from the fact that it was going to end.


















We boarded the 7:30 pm ferry back to Point Judith. On the ferry we saw the most beautiful sky. We had the smell of salt water on our skin and some color in our cheeks. All of us were dressed perfectly for the dip in temperature and the sky was all that we could see.





















I don't think I have ever had a better day in my life. It was effortless enjoyment. I would like to do it again and again and again. It is a hidden gem. The pace of Block Island is perfect. It is so uncrowded and relaxed.

I am going on and on because I feel I must! I cannot say enough about Block Island. The charm is intoxicating. It really was one thing after another. When we came home I googled Block Island. We haven't even scratched the surface. I am going back for more.

A Little Hang Up of Mine.

This picture was taken in 1996. It was Christmas morning. I was talking to my parents. I make very few phone calls. Since this picture was taken I have probably made less than 100 phone calls. That is not a lot when you do the math.

I find the phone annoying. I am extremely bothered by it. When it rings, I get a physical reaction. My stomach sinks. I feel it. Every single time. I get nervous. I don't like it.

I will be happily reading, or writing or cooking or you know, anything-making my bed. Out of nowhere I will hear a loud ringing in my ear. It assaults me. Next I am supposed to pick up the offending object and merrily say, "Hello!"

Back in the day that may have been novel but we have email and facebook and text messaging now. I am not anti-social at all, I can be down right animated and engaging face to face, but get me on a phone? I am hopeless. I need facial reactions. Dead silence is not nearly as intimidating when you can see the person. You have a million common distractions to restore the flow. You can get up, use hand gestures, even pull props out of your bag.

When there is a lull in conversation when you are on the phone you are forced to fill it with some inane thought that has leapt into your mind at that very moment. My thoughts tend to "I am so tired." Tired of talking on the phone.

When I lived in Athens, Georgia I didn't have a phone. I didn't even realize it. I just went over to people's houses unannounced or biked downtown. I never made plans and I always had fun. I never really had a phone until I moved in with Fabio. (I had one growing up too, of course).

On my 34th birthday, I decided to answer the phone. I thought it might be a family member calling to wish me well. We didn't have caller id (my favorite thing ever)yet. It was the sister of a friend of a friends. I am not kidding. I had met her a few weeks earlier at a party and somehow birthdays were brought up. I said that mine was in a few weeks. She asked me the date.

She is a perfectly lovely gal but please. That weird phone call was exhausting and unnecessary. That is when I really started hating the phone. I spoke to her-a woman I barely knew- for 20 minutes about NOTHING and it was my birthday!!

Ugh! There it goes. As I type, that blasted thing is ringing. Fabio is out with the boys. It is up to me. My stomach hurts. Oh good. It is Providence City. I don't have to answer it. It is the School Department calling to tell parents about a Summer program for the kids.
Can't they send an email?

That is what I like to do. I always return phone calls with emails. I write long ones too. I try to think them through. Email allows you to refer back to your notes. No one is sitting by you while you yak on the phone taking minutes of all the highlights and key points.

Email is so much more relaxing. You can get the kids to bed, make a nice cup of tea, take a deep breath and think. You can be assured that whoever it is that you are trying to convey a message to is reading your words with their full attention, at their convenience. At least that is the case for me.

If I am caught off guard by the telephone, and forced to think on my feet immediately I just don't make any sense. I love sitting down at the end of a long day and reading a good letter as opposed to trying to banter cheerfully while boiling pasta for dinner.

The telephone is distracting and intrusive. It always rings and demands your attention when it is least convenient for you. Gawd, and then you have to be NICE.
I would like to be placed on the Do Not Call List. If it is an emergency-fine.I am not unreasonable.

Aunt Flo Is Not My Friend. Period.

I had promised my father that he could come to work with me. I work in an Assisted Living Facility. When I work upstairs with all the able bodied, sounded minded people in their apartments I can't bring him. I have been working up there a lot lately. When I work downstairs in the locked Alzheimer's Unit with the common room I can bring him. I finally got sent downstairs so I asked him if he wanted to come with me. He had been before and is a big hit with the ladies.

I usually leave for work an hour and 15 minutes before I have to get there. The facility is on these amazing grounds and I like to walk around before I start my shift. I am never late for work. Today, I knew that I wasn't going to be walking so I planned to leave a little later. I had forgotten how hard it was to get my father out of the house.

Thirty minutes before we were to leave, I said just that. He said he was ready. As I got myself together I called down a fifteen minute warning. I was downstairs with three minutes to spare. I said, "Ready?" . My father stood up. Now where was his cane? I found it on the downstairs bathroom window ledge.

He stopped to read a bit of Yankee Magazine as I am shaking my keys. I said, "Dad, are you ready?"
"Yes I am ready!" he replied sounding a little annoyed as he continued to leaf through the magazine. He was standing up, which was something, I guess. I said, "We are going out the back door."
"Oh". He walked toward the kitchen. As he passed the table he stopped and started pushing a sponge across it. I was by the door. "Dad, we really have to go."
His indignant, "I am coming!" made me laugh. I finally got him out the door. I was going to be late for sure.

As I was securing both our seat belts I felt this dull pain in my back that was beginning to intensify. Great. My period had started at that very moment. I had to go back inside.By the time I got back outside enough time had elapsed for my father to wonder what the matter was. He was walking back to the house looking for me. I got us both back in the car, and started for work.

I know, gross. I mentioned my period. TMI,fellows? Well, Hear Ye! Hear Ye! This is a very real and annoying "condition" that effects every non pregnant woman of a certain age for about a week each and every month. It is a bloody nuisance is what it is.

I can stay silent and stoic on the situation no longer. My back aches and I get horrible cramps and I bleed like a stuck pig. It is 5 to 6 days of hell. Obviously, I get through them but I am not all that pleasant. My immediate reaction to my period is to become annoyed. I usually pick a fight with whoever is nearest or I silently stew.

I was silently stewing on my disastrous drive to work with my father. CarTalk was on NPR. I had saved a to-go cup from LaSalle Bakery where I had taken Owen the day before. I rinsed it out and filled it up with black coffee. Take a guess what happened. I did not put the lid on properly and I spilled hot coffee all over myself while I was driving.

At the very moment I was burning myself instead of enjoying a little sip of joe, my phone rang. I had just changed my ringtone to "ABC" by The Jackson Five. I have a new cell phone and I didn't like my ring. ABC was one of the choices, I thought it would be funny. I had it up really loud. I had just taken a long walk that morning. I was listening to This American Life on my Ipod so I wanted to be able to hear the phone if it rang. I had forgotten to turn it down.

It was all very startling. I had to pull over and re-adjust. My father was totally bewildered by all this chaos. CarTalk prated on. I dried off with an old shirt of my husband's that we keep under the driver's seat.I fixed the lid, I still had over half the coffee left. I let the phone pick up. It was Fabio. I would explain everything to him later. Believe me, I was the LAST person that he wanted to speak to at that moment, he just didn't know it.

I started down the street again. Within five blocks, as I was wincing in pain from a sudden sharp cramp in my stomach and having the sensation of hot searing daggers in my lower back, my right contact fell out of my eye. Come on. I pulled into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot to retrieve the lens.

My father had a million questions. He thought I was getting more coffee to replace the stuff my uniform drank. I explained to him that my contact had fallen out. He asked, "Where did you last see it?"
No he didn't. Oh, yes he did!