4/14/2017: Good Friday

Posted on April 16, 2017 by

Good Friday is all about the Passion of Christ.

My friends make plans, and work out their day’s devotions.
The Orthodox friends fasted from animal products for most days in Lent; at Holy Week they eat no food at all for three days beforehand, drinking only water; and for Passion Friday they go without the water and just pray without ceasing, most of that in church. Afterwards they wax the sanctuary floors and fill the space with flowers and steam-iron the altar cloths and set up for tomorrow’s midnight candlelight procession.
The Catholic friends fast after 3:00, and attend Tenebrae and Tre Ore services and the Stations of the Cross and evening vigil. After that service they drape the altar in black and put out all the candles and go home in silence.

Like them, every year I set aside time and space to join the one group and the other for holiness and recollection. But along the way, things tend to go a little sideways instead.

For instance.
A couple of years ago there I was, on the way to church. Outside the family grocery store, sitting on the little curb with the shopping carts, there was an elderly man weeping in the darkness. He asked me to bring him any little something with protein in it. So I ran in to the deli for a package of sliced roast beef.
Back outside, a woman from the local church was handing him a rotisserie chicken.
Then she and I sat down with him for a good half hour to see whether he was sick or injured, waiting for him to calm down enough to tell us where he lived. He was homesick for his childhood in Nebraska, and terribly distraught that people in our city were so cold and uncaring.
“I can drive this man home,” she said quietly to me. “But I’d rather not go alone. Will you come too?”
Finally we drove him and his little plastic bag of meat back to his apartment. By then he was singing with happiness at being home with some roast beef and chicken to eat. He wanted us to just drop him off and leave him be. By then it was too late for church. So I set out for home, on past the family grocery. They were just closing up shop for the night. The manager was in the parking lot rounding up some shopping carts. He said “I hope that old gent doesn’t end up sick. Tonight people bought him roast beef, three rotisserie chickens, Italian hot sausage, and a side of ribs.”

Anyway. This year, to be ready for Easter weekend services, on Good Friday night at 10:00 I finished all the pre-Sabbath chores. I looked forward to keeping the feast-day by reading some akathist prayers before bedtime.

Then again, why not take out the compost first?
10:00 is late for taking out compost. Because at that hour, the raccoons are running around outside. They are smart enough to catch on any day now that Mary + punchbowl = Score!

But it did appeal to me, the thought of waking up to a really tidy kitchen on Easter weekend. So I loaded the stock vegetable trimmings in the big steel mixing bowl, and headed out.
It was windy and cold. There were stars, and a bright planet. Venus or something.
I looked around to check for raccoons. Then I stepped around the rat trap box, and into the little chain-link cage where they keep the garbage cans.

I was tipping boiled cabbage leaves into the compost bin. Then, the light shifted. I looked up. Right behind me, blocking the enclosure door, was the silhouette of a tall strong looking man watching me in silence.
“Why HELLO there!” I sang out in a hearty voice.
“They ought to have a light in here.” He sounded anxious. “A person could fall down, and get hurt.”
“You are so right. Look! It’s brighter out there.” I ushered him out to the main driveway.
“The light bulb burned out over our steps. It was dark there. I fell down, and got hurt. They put me in the hospital. Now tomorrow is moving day.”

Luckily, that clued me in. Now I knew exactly who this was. Our neighbor’s dear uncle had a bad fall on the dark steps, and was in the hospital. The family found him a nice assisted living apartment nearby, all on one floor. He has wonderful relatives who will see him every day. He’ll be fine.
“Why Uncle Adam. It’s a wonder that you are up and around again and doing so well. I’m going to walk you up to your door now.”
At his door he talked in a shy but determined way, letting me know all about the moving plans. He outlined in conscientious detail the type of nuts and bolts holding his bookshelf together; he removed the bolts and set them aside safely in one place, because you really can’t re-assemble a bookshelf unless you have all the bolts. He described all the different storage containers, their shapes and sizes, how he had organized each one and selected which items to fit in where.
“That’s spatial intelligence,” I said. “You can probably look at a car trunk and picture exactly how things will fit in. I can’t do that. I certainly can’t assemble a bookshelf with a lot of nuts and bolts.”
“I’ve moved many people over the years,” he explained. “Furniture, and all kinds of other belongings.”

But now tomorrow would be something new: he’d stand back and watch while other people moved his things instead.
Listening to him, at one point I wanted to say “Gosh, nice to meet you but it’s late and I’m freezing with this metal punch bowl in my arms.” But, I didn’t. Because it dawned on me that this was something important. It was witnessing a massive shift in a human history. It’s a shift that will happen to me one day, and sooner than I might expect: from living in one’s own house to a new and totally different chapter of life. It felt important to listen to Uncle Adam. He was setting a good example on how to make that transition in an organized, determined, dignified way.

Outside his door he shook hands with me. “I’m going to leave you here, and go bring you a present. I want you to have it. It’s brand new, never been opened. From the Angel of the Winds.”
In the light of the new electric bulb, he climbed the stairs with great care.
I stood out in the cold a while, wondering when to assume that Uncle Adam had many more pressing matters to tend to than some stranger he found at night in the garbage cage.
Finally he came back, with a white gift box. “It’s brand new, never been opened. I was a winner. I won. It’s a gift, from the Angel of the Winds.”

He went inside, for his last night in his home, and closed the door.
I walked back upstairs to my studio, washed the bowl, and put it away. Then I was too tired and cold to read any akathists. That meant that once again I really hadn’t kept the feast day as it should be honored. That felt a little discouraging. So did looking around my kitchen, and thinking about my neighbor and the changes that life brings.

But wait, what was the gift?
The box felt heavy. I opened the flaps and took out a seamed styrofoam block.
I eased the seams apart, then untaped a lot of bubble wrap. Then tissue paper.
It was a glass globe, a crystal ball but full of water and glittering confetti. The glittery bits splash up and sparkle when you tip it. Like a Christmas globe with Baby Jesus and family living inside. But this one was a replica of a very large building. The photo doesn’t show it well; it’s actually quite nice.
The plaque reads “Angel of the Winds: World’s Friendliest Casino.”

For the night, to honor Uncle Adam, I gave it a sparkly shakeup and set it down on the icon altar in the tidy kitchen, for the planet and stars to shine on.

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4/5/15 Easter Sunday: Behind the Door

Posted on April 5, 2015 by

Calvary daffodils

After church, everybody flocked to Father K.

Priests at our Priory didn’t vanish in the sacristy after serving Mass. Each one would stand at the main door and wait for every last person who wanted to come shake his hand and bend his ear.

It took a while. Sunday noon was always full; church seats 400. The custom was nice, but I always ducked out the garden door instead, to stay off the celebrant’s reception line. It puzzled me that people pick the busiest hour in a priest’s life, when he’s fasting on his feet all day. That’s when they want his message for their distant kin, or signature on this petition, or appearance at that charity lunch, or blessing on their picture of the Pope.

The priests stood at that door though, for as long as anyone was waiting. For Father K., that meant students and teens, people coming for marriage preparation, newlyweds, new parents with infants. The parish had posted him to youth ministry; over on campus he held daily Mass and study groups and socials. He booked evenings at a frat-row pizza parlor, handing out dinner and lively doctrinal discussions. Even off duty he’d stake out beaches and malls, bringing his guitar and hymns. Kids noticed his tall strapping tanned good looks and thatch of dark wavy hair and flash smile. They’d stop to hassle him, and then find themselves attending church.

Among the Legions of Father K., I never got a word in edgewise.
People said “What! Don’t you join the line after church on Sundays? Stay after; go up to him and say hello!” So, on three different Sundays I gave it a try. I picked moments when no one else was queueing up, when he wasn’t off full-tilt with vestments flying to assist at the next Mass, when he wasn’t managing some fund-raiser in the parish hall. Three times I offered him a handshake and hello. His hand might have given mine a shake, his smile might have burned an extra watt or two; but he didn’t see me. Like paramedics at ground zero or blue heelers on a station ranch, Father was always scanning the landscape for any special needs jockeying for his attention. So three times he looked past my shoulder and kept moving, off to give a cheering word or quip or touch or sketched cross or attention. (“Of course I’ll pray for her; what is her name please?”).

Just today, typing this, it occurred to me: to talk to Father K. all I had to do was make an appointment for Confession. But that didn’t dawn on me then. Instead, I cooked up a big story to explain to myself why Father K. didn’t see me standing there. My story was that church was a place that celebrated people who were young or loved or had a vocation to religious orders or were going to be converts. The community life of the church had sacraments for all those people, but didn’t have a ceremony to celebrate the fact that women like me were over 50 and still single. So I went back to slipping out the garden door, and then faded out of church and didn’t show up much on Sundays any more.

It was months later, in November, before I ventured back again. At that particular noon service, the celebrant was Father Pastor. After Mass, Pastor announced that Father K. had decided not to seek any further rounds of medical treatment for his diagnosis, and that he wished to remain here at the Priory in the care of the priests.

Diagnosis?
One glance at the congregation showed that to them the news was sobering, but no surprise. Apparently they’d known something of the kind all along. On my way out the garden door, I felt sad and repentant for my way of withdrawing from people who looked happier than I felt. Here our handsome enthused Padre, as people called him, looked like a man in radiant fields of public acclaim, when all along he was a man in a private war.

At home that night, a bitter wind rocked the fir trees and my conscience.
Tossing and turning in my sleep, I realized “Here I thought he didn’t see me. But I’m the one who didn’t see him at all. How is he really doing?” In dreamtime mind I sat up, pulled back the covers, and stood on the bed. Passing through the frozen panes and up to the eaves, I stepped from the fir tops to the roof of the Priory and through its brick wall to the back cloister. There I picked a bedroom door and peered in.

Father K. was in white vestments, kneeling at an altar. It held a cruciform monstrance with a gold cross holding a glass disk, where the host of bread was placed for the adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Father was so caught up in his devotions that the intensity of his prayer began to melt the molding of the white plaster wall. The wall wore thin as the shell of an egg, letting a haze of light glow in to the room. The ceiling began to fade, giving way to a stainless blue morning sky with faint light clouds. Sunlight streamed in; cherry blossoms budded out and opened into bloom. I took a breath of fragrance and reached out to touch them. But, “This is not your spring,” a voice from somewhere admonished me, and I sat up startled in my own bed.

In January I dropped by at another noon Mass. Father Pastor was our celebrant again. After his thoughts on the Gospel he stayed in the pulpit. He told a hushed church that next door at the Priory, the priests and Hospice nurses took all measures to keep Father K. free from pain. Father K. was resting as comfortably as possible, and was expected to remain deeply asleep until —

Father Pastor looked up and stopped.
With all eyes on the pulpit, we hadn’t seen the side door open. The Priory always had visiting priests; I’d somehow left my distance glasses at home and didn’t recognize this new one. This Father had a very slight thin figure with fine white hair combed straight back, and a pale complexion. With courtesy he waited, leaning in the doorway, catching his breath, listening to the announcement. Then he straightened up and climbed the altar steps, where Father Pastor stepped out of the way and turned over the altar and the Mass.

An hour earlier, after days of deepening sleep, Father K. had sat up and astonished the Priory with the words “Time for Mass.” Now he stood at the altar supported by one of the younger priests and the choir director. In sips of breath, in a scorched whisper, he called upon God’s blessings for Benedict our Pope, for…

He paused.
His Pastor concelebrant, the men supporting his arms, the congregation — any of them could have shouted out the name of our current Bishop. But nobody stirred.
The microphone registered a painstaking inhale as he recalled the name, and calmly forged ahead.

At Communion there were several priests and several Eucharistic ministers distributing the consecrated hosts and wine on several lines. But most people saw and converged on only one.
To me it felt very wrong to cost even a moment’s breath and attention on the longest line of all. So I walked to a Eucharistic minister line and on out to the sleeping winter garden. Then, leaving the true congregation to spend this last meeting all together with their Padre, I walked away.

But not too far, and not for long.
A strange impulse stopped and turned me back. Those driving glasses! How did I manage to forget them? With glasses, I could have seen Father K. one last time, from a discreet distance well away from the press of his parishioners. With one glimpse I could have wished him well and left for home. What was the point of staying? I already knew what he looked like. We weren’t acquainted. The sooner the man was left in peace and safely taken back to bed, the better.

All these arguments agreed in mind while my steps set out for home, then circled the building, then stopped at the garden door closest to the Priory. The garden gave me an idea: I could stand just to the side of the path, in the shrubbery, and have a glimpse as the men walked him past. Like Zacchaeus in his legendary Fig-Sycomore, I picked an ornamental vantage point and waited. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five in the damp January chill. Mass had to be long over, but the building was silent; not a soul was leaving.

I tiptoed up the steps and through the side vestibule, peered in, and gasped.
Father K. was finally finished with Communion. Now he was just heading down the center aisle, back to his old post on the receiving line at the street door.

I ran down the cloister walk along the roseless garden to the front. The massive wood doors were propped all the way open. A flash of inspiration sent me diving behind one of the doors to be close by yet out of sight, with a perfect view out between the hinges.

The people who filled a church that seats 400 came out in silence. For one more hour they eddied around three men in white holding fast to one another at the top of the stone stairs.

Father K., with his singed whisper and labored breaths, had open hands for every one of them; infants suspended in outstretched arms, elders who pulled his head down to whisper in his ear, rosaries thrust at him for his blessing. Behind the door I fumed at all these hangers-on. I wished they’d go away with their pathos and their endless little needs, and let Father rest.

But then my squinting unglassed eyes shifted wavelengths and blinked at a different kind of vision. With that, people’s gestures and urgent words, the abject distraught touches and sounds and weeping, were luminous tendrils and silks stringing together. The parishioners were not weighing down their priest; instead they were weaving the final meaning of his life, a web of light to bear him up for the day that he left them behind and stepped out alone.

When the hour was over and everyone went sorrowing away, Father K. asked the priests to take him on a short drive, to enjoy a last little view of the city that he loved. Then he went back to sleep for the next ten days.

There were three memorial services in three other cities, at previous parishes who begged to see their Padre once again. But the main vigil was at our church. A full company of priests turned out in black and white. It was all candles and baskets of hand-woven rosaries and boxes of tissues in all the pews. When the service was over, the priests opened the Parish Hall and served coffee and food to a line of mourners so long that they had to keep the church open until the funeral next day.

I came to church very early and picked a corner to the side and out of sight, well out of the way of the family and closest friends. But the open coffin was carried to that corner and set down right in front of me. Gazing at Father K. was a gentle kind familiar experience, like seeing a perfect sepia photograph of his own cherished grandfather. Sitting right up close in the shadows with the banks of flickering tea-light candles was in its austere way a beautiful experience.

But meanwhile, on that last Sunday, at the top of the steps at the end of the line, one last petite elder wrapped up her long story of personal distress. Father bowed down to see her eye to eye. “Of course I will do that. And… apologies, but — remind me of your name?”
When she made her way down the stairs, Father’s supporters circled his back with their arms and turned him toward the Priory.

“Hard to believe this is the end,” he confided to them in pure open wonder. “But I guess it is.” He gave a worried look in toward the vestibule, and murmured a question.
“No no,” the men told him. “Church is empty. We’re just locking up.”
“But someone else…” he ventured.
“That’s everyone,” they assured him. “You’ve talked to everyone today. Let’s go back to the Priory. They’ve all gone home.”
“One more,” he said, anxious, dogged, scanning around. “One more, last of all.”

In murmurs and arm clasps, his care team gently guided him to come along.
But “Somebody’s out there,” he whispered. “Somebody. Somebody…”
Behind the door, I finally poked my head out of hiding.
The men blinked at me. “Would you like to come out of there,” one of them asked, “and say goodbye to Father?”

Father K. shook off the men supporting him, and turned to me. Each precarious step took all his concentration; each step rocked his frame. But in the grip of some enormous force he kept on walking, on his own, reaching out with both arms. His alabaster complexion and the fine silver of his hair set off his eyes: dark, enormous, pupils dilated from morphine into absolute black.

Our hands met and gripped together.
Father gazed and gazed, searching my face as if I were the last living being in the world. Laboring for his next breath he delivered a message, as if he’d saved it all this time, and all for me:

“I am sorry. But. I. Have. To. Go.”

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1/17: Chute-ing Star

Posted on January 13, 2015 by

First, take stock.

Grab an expired SALE price tag and a golf pencil. Jot down whatever’s running low: cranberries, pomegranates, bananas, green beans, satsumas. Get the handcart. Wrench open the door on the walk-in cooler. In through the clear heavy plastic insulating sheet, slit into clacking slices that slap you in the face and drag themselves over your clothes. Pull the string for the 40 watt light bulb. Step from wood slat to wood slat in the shadows, reading the waxy cartons: Golden Girl, Tru-Blu, VitaBee. If new cartons of stock got stacked on the older squashed cartons of the same item, you move the new shipment to one side, load the old shipment on to the handcart, move the new stock back to the floor, shove your shoulder into the door, duck through the clacky slats, and hang on to the handcart while it eases down the ramp. Watch you don’t tip the whole caboodle at the corner where the linoleum wore off the floor. Customers and their kids will stand right in front of the cart and won’t see you, no matter how much you say “Scuse me!” But if you sing it makes them nervous and they’ll move. “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” works fine. Put the handcart back for Jasper in Bulk.

Rake those green beans to one side and pour the new cold beans on to that green astroturf base, then pile the older beans on top. In the snow pea bin, pick out the green beans that strayed over, and put them back where they belong. Same drill with the other stock. When the cartons are empty, flatten them out for the loading dock.

Stack up the satsumas in a pyramid. Of course, when you’ve got the pyramid mounded all nice, that is when everybody wants to buy a satsuma. Then you’ll have to pile up more because everybody wants fruit from the freshly made pyramid, not the same exact fruit from a bin running low. If you’re too busy to pile the pyramid again, stand with your back to everyone and wave your hands over the bin. Same thing happens; customers will come right over to whatever bin you just paid attention to.

But that’s too much like fooling people. So just go get more satsumas.

Okay. Stocked up.
Now take the water bottle and spritz the leafy greens. Get some crushed ice from Mac the Knife in Butcher, and sprinkle it around the medium-fragile things like broccoli and peppers. Make sure the plastic bag dispensers have enough bags. Empty the garbage. Take out your box cutter and trim those brussels sprouts when you have a minute. Check the tubers and roots, because they get limp when they dry out. Tote them to the back room and drop them in the soak sinks until they perk up and you can put them out again.

Then, start all over. Take stock. Get the cart again from Jasper in Bulk.

At closing time, dunk the burlap cloths in the soak sink and load them in the bins and take them out front; tuck the burlap in all over the roots so they stay fresh until tomorrow. Then haul the delicate leaves and whatnot into the bins and stack them in the walk-in cooler. On the aisle, sweep off the rubber mats. Roll the mats out of the way. Push-broom the floor. Unroll the mats. Empty the drainage pans into the utility sink and scrub the slime out of them. Put the pans back under. Scatter some more crushed ice. Drag out and unroll the plastic drop cloths to cover the display bins, and you’re done.

General tip: Loose clothes in layers, because you’ll get too overheated and also too cold. Rubber gloves slow you down and get full of water anyway, but galoshes are good over shoes what with all the water from the soak sinks. These surplus khaki drawstring pants and khaki turtleneck are from Kenmore Army Navy, they’re $5. Calcutta Quality Wear has these long black tunic dresses full of pockets for box cutter, price cards, and pencils. The pushcart guy at the farmers’ market has these big thin white cotton shawls; I keep this one wrapped around my head and neck like Lawrence of Arabia so when you take cartons to the dumpster you can bite the edge and keep your teeth out of the wind chill.

Most of all, pay attention to the people. There’s all kinds, and they have stories going on in their lives and heads, and often all they want is a little attention.

Especially on a holiday like this. So thank you for lending a hand in Produce.

_____________________________________

That was how I planned to talk to my assistant, in case I ever got one. I pictured somebody right alongside, helping out. Like the angels who helped St. Isidore with plowing, only instead of fields in Spain we had our basement with low ceiling and blinky fluorescents and a long staircase with the sparkly tarpaper treads coming loose and a street door going ka-slammo every ninety seconds.

This was a big night, full of shoppers. They weren’t your brisk serious cooks who showed up at opening time with shopping lists; those all came and went the week or two before. Tonight it was students and young couples and kids, and people of all ages who like me enjoyed having a place to go on a holiday. Shoppers were drifting around discussing what to eat, standing in separate aisles calling and waving merchandise (“Howzis?”), giving each other rides in shopping carts, helping themselves to seedless grapes. Sometimes couples joked to me about his terrible taste in food, or her using up every pot and pan in the house. These little foraging and nesting displays were fun to watch; but I did feel the contrast between them and my status of having nobody to forage with myself. That’s why I was working Christmas Eve, hoping to cheer up by serving each person who came my way.

At the next counter, sturdy Mack the Knife from Butcher with his long hair and sleek black bandana was coaching Peter from Dairy, our gentle bespectacled lacto-vegetarian.

Mack the Kn: Now to carve this here beef hunk…. Anything I need to know about you, Boy, before I hand you my sharpest cleaver?

Peter: Mm… you do kind of remind me of my stepdad.

Mack: I remind you of him? (Thoughtful pause) You’re getting this dull spoon instead. Now WHAT is that racket?

A customer seemed to be shouting for help.
I dropped the Brussels sprouts, closed the box cutter, dropped it in my pocket, and ran to the front. At the top of the stairs, our only passageway in or out of the store, there was a petite elderly lady in an old fur-trimmed coat and knitted leggings. “Is GRECH NAUGHT?” she called to us, gripping the bannister in the freezing wind. “GRRRECH NAAAUGHT.”

Mack got there first, wiping his hands on his apron. “The hell she say?! ‘Grape Nuts’?”
I stared at her, chafing my hands to get some feeling back. My brain ticked helpfully like a gambling machine in an old cartoon with fruit pictures spinning in the windows, until a row of linguistic lemons spelled a jackpot. “Greek,” I realized. “It’s Anglicized Russian. Grecheskie orekhi?” I hollered back at her. In Russian it means Greek Nuts. That’s “walnuts” to us.

“Grecheskie, grecheskie,” she sang out joyfully, waving her little knitted handbag as if her cruise ship were coming in to port. I ran up the stairs and stood a step beneath, letting her lean on my shoulder. It was a long painful walk down for her, step by gasping step on the loose sparkly stair treads. But she nestled into the circle of my arm, pouring out in Russian her relief and happiness at finding herself understood and in friendly company. I walked her across the store, steering around the missing linoleum, way over to Bulk. Jasper was on cigarette break (at least his combat boots were, pacing outside the cellar window), so I got her a plastic bag and a bin sticker for the cashier. She asked me to pour out exactly one single handful of walnuts and close the bag with a twisty-tie and price.

I wish now that I’d bagged the nuts and beelined to the cashier to buy them for her as a Christmas gift. But it didn’t occur to me; my wallet and knapsack were locked in the Manager’s office, the Manager with her office keys was on a ladder changing the blinkiest of the fluorescents, the line at all cash registers was 20 shoppers deep, and I was AWOL from my Brussels sprouts and frantic to get back to my post. So I handed her the nuts and wished her a good evening.

But wait: My Russian visitor could not quite see the bin label. How much were these nuts per pound? I read her the price.

“SKOL’KO? HOW much?” she cried. “For a handful of GREEKS? Why, Gristedes Neighbormart sells Greeks for 11 cents a pound LESS! You made me walk down all these stairs! You lured me in to trick me with outrageous prices. I could have broken my neck! And on a holiday!” In tears of vexation she slapped my hand from her elbow, threw the walnut packet on the counter, and charged up the stairs.

I beat a retreat to my peaceful cooler to sop and dredge the burlap.
By then, like the tubers and roots in need of soaking, my spirits and energy were starting to flag. A spontaneous single person’s prayer came to mind:

“Dear God,
this Christmas,
could You please let me not be
the loneliest person in this whole store.
Thank you Amen.”

Then with the burlap bins I got back to the floor.
Couples still frolicked with wagons of food and flowers and wine.
Our Manager screwed in the new light bulb, climbed down some shaky portable aluminum steps, and walked away with the ladder on her shoulder. Peter and Mack were still at their male bonding banter. Jasper and his combats boots flashed down the stairs and loped back to the bulk bins. Tinsel still glittered and waved on the acoustic ceiling tiles. Children scampered by gripping headless marshmallow Santas in red tin foil. The store DJ, Krista in Whole Body, changed the music CD to a hit from The Pogues.

“The boys of the NYPD choir /
Still singing ‘Galway Bay…'”

I scooped up the tubers and roots, bedded them on crushed ice, and wrapped them in wet burlap. I straightened my tunic, hitched up my belt, stretched out my spine, and blew on my hands and clamped them up under my arms to get some feeling back.

“Fashion accessory?” said a soft pleasant voice behind me. It was a tall fair handsome cleancut young man with bright eyes and a shy friendly smile. He was eyeing my belt; my brown wooden rosary had slipped out of my pocket and was hanging looped by its cross on the belt. “Punk rock style,” he explained.

“Not this rosary,” I laughed. “Strictly functional.”

“I’m glad,” he smiled. “So is mine.”

And so we talked, one of us with an armful of plastic bags of nuts and berries, and the other in galoshes dripping on the floor. We reminisced about Catholic things that made us happy as children: his first time as an altar boy serving at consecration, my happiness on each third week of Advent when the priest and the sanctuary are decked in pink, his Sodality of Mary boys’ club in Jesuit boarding school, my rare chance when the church was under renovation to come peek into the sacristy where girls don’t get to go.

Then in all quiet earnest he confided something. “Our Blessed Mother appeared to me.”

“She did?” I had a lifetime of practice being a courteous listener for perfect strangers who walked up and told me their life stories. I was also raised to see any and all attention from a man as a compliment. Besides, traditional Catholics will take at least a second look at even primitive naive reports of saintly apparitions. This man’s approach was unusual, but his story seemed quaint and nostalgic, and his behavior seemed friendly and polite.

“She appeared to me last night,” he assured me. “In a dream. She said she was sending me a godly modest wife this very day, for the feast of her Son. She said ‘You’ll recognize my handmaid because –‘”

“Mary in Produce. Come in, Mary in Produce,” Mack yelled over the loudspeaker. “Git yer crushed ice now afore I lock this joint up. Over & out.”

“Mack in Butcher — right away!” I hollered.

“Wait — your name is Mary?” asked my visitor.

“Yes, nice to meet you. Gosh, got to run and close up my aisle.”

“You take your time,” he said. “No rush. I’ll be waiting up front.”

At the utility sink I was scraping slime from the drainage pans when our Manager walked in after putting away the ladder. She was a willowy poised young woman with a radiant smile. She ran the coop with assurance and ease; like all good leaders she circulated among us, zeroing in on our problems and lending the right hand at the right time.

Standing at the utility sink, I told her half in humor and half in shyness about the Catholic shopper and his dream. Back then, I’d never heard of a man walking up to a strange woman and saying “Divine intervention has chosen you as my mate.” (Gavin de Becker writes books about overtures like this, and the safety precautions women can take in response.) I was sure that the Manager would laugh as part of our shop-closing banter.

But she dropped her smile and stood very still. “You say you’ve never seen this man before. But he’s waiting out there now, saying that you are his ideal spouse? Because of a dream?”

“About the Virgin Mary, yes. He’s at the front stairs. Tall, denim coat.”

She took a glance out the round porthole windows on the swinging doors. “Stay here. Right where you are.” She arrowed out and came back with Dairy Peter and Butcher Mack. “Mary and Peter. Out the dock. On the double.” She threw her van keys at Peter’s chest, and tossed me my knapsack and sweatshirt. “Take her straight home; see her in the door of her house. I’ll close up Produce tonight. Mack, you’re coming up front with me.”

Peter hustled me out of the cooler and back to the dock. Behind us, up front at our only customer door, there was a murmured voice of reason interrupted by a primal howl of panic. “My wife! Bring ME MY WIFE! She’s taking me home to her room tonight!”

“I’m doing what?” I whispered to Peter.
Peter was busy unlocking the loading dock. In one upsy-daisy he swung me on to the dark empty ramp. On the steep incline, with its rows of loose wheels set on edge like belly-dancer cymbals, I gripped the edges and hoisted myself along. With admirable strength and agility Peter flung himself up over the side of the chute, and shoved my ample frame up and away toward the planet surface. I emerged on my elbows, on to frozen pavement and cheeseburger wrappers and previously owned bubble gum. Peter stayed behind to padlock the dock after me, sprinted out the front and around the block with the van, saw me home and in my front door, and rushed back to Dairy.

At home, my sweet contemplative accountant roommate was back from visiting his fiancee and her family. Lying comfortably next to the radiator chewing spruce gum, he glanced up from his book, took a look at me, adjusted his glasses, took a second look, and said “Wha hoppened? Wash up; dry clothes. This is a job for COCOA.”

He bundled me in his car with two thermoses of hot chocolate, popcorn, and blankets. Scraping the windshield and turning on the heater he hit the road, singing Cindy Kallet’s “Marblehead Neck” at the top of his fine tenor voice. At a sheltered lakeside cove he parked the car. In our blankets we tapped ice bubbles with our shoes and listened to hissing phragmites and migrating voices crossing the midnight sky. He skipped flat rocks on the ice to chime and chime and chime in migratory voices of their own.

At first all I felt, other than cold, was that Christmas creche-to-crash letdown, the sense that one has Missed Out on the holiday that everybody else is celebrating. But at least my spontaneous prayer had been answered: clearly, I was not the loneliest person in the store that night. Besides, I had a boss and two trusty macho sidekicks on my side, plus a roommate who gave up a warm radiator and “Prairie Home Companion” to forge out in the cold and give me a nice drive. That was a lot to appreciate while munching the soft squeak of popcorn on molars snf hopping up and down in a blankie.

In rosary terms. Christmas is called a Joyful mystery, but not called a Happy one. Mary and Cousin Elizabeth expect miraculous babies, and Mary sings a Magnificat over it. They don’t know their babies will be arrested and put to death. They don’t know about Herod and the Slaughter of the Holy Innocents, the flight into Egypt, or Simeon’s prophecy about the sword in Mary’s heart. There’s her bridegroom who wants to “put her away privately” (where??), the unhappy people wandering around for taxes and censuses, the innkeeper overrun with customers, the tired donkey. It’s a disaster.

So in all that context of away in a manger, this up a down chute was a pretty traditional holiday after all. Maybe the Christmas story is all about people thrown together with their dreams and flaws, wandering to implausible places of strange appearances and stranger gifts. One soul journeys down to Hades, evades Greek-bearing giftors, and rises in triumph from Gristedes Neighbormart with nut bargain in hand. One awakens from his dreams to find his Virgin’s virgin. One sings along a beachfront (“… Marblehead Neck, by the ocean we’d go…”), chiming skip-rocks to ring on ice. One with visions of companionship strives with sackcloth and roots, and disappears out the cat door.

Night for marvels. Divinity in a child; bells in a thrown lake stone.

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11/27: The Thief of Charms

Posted on November 22, 2014 by

_______
Part 1.

Food Bank’s open at the church, first Saturday each month.
Bring all of your net bags. Get out the folding shopping cart. Bundle up: the parking lot gets icy, and it’s windy out there.
Doors open at 9:00, but we should show up more like 7:30. It hasn’t happened yet, but you never know: if we get there right at 9:00 and the line is long, maybe all the food will be gone and we won’t get any.

Now here’s the church ladies pulling up in their cars. Won’t be long now.
Okay, they’re opening for business. Now we can go in and get warm. Watch your step on that doormat.

There are the ladies all smiles. That’s their priest waving from the kitchen with his apron on, boiling water for coffee and tea. Look at all the long tables! Yes, it’s all for us. You don’t need any English, either. Just point and nod, and they’ll bag it up. That table there is canned tuna and hash. That one’s for green beans and little onions in jars. That table is for cereal and pasta and rice and sticky buns. On and on. And on!

Then we can walk it all back across the street here to Senior Home. Up the elevator and in the door we go, don’t let the cat out. On the pantry shelf behind the ironing board, those packages and cans with Roman letters are a cheerful display. You can sit and look at them mornings when you have your tea. You can look out the window at the church parking lot, point it out to your guests, and say “There is our ‘bank’ for foods; this kind of bank never runs out.”

Bank food is for special times.
When something’s happening at Senior Home — a birthday, a memorial anniversary, bad news from the doctor, a new green card — people all up and down the hall drop by. Then it’s time to open up the tiny headless fish in cans with twisty keys, olives with bright pimiento eyes, plump canned peaches with syrup and no pits, Jujubes and candy corn. That goes double when family stops by. That’s because, as everybody knows, Food Bank is really for the grandchildren.

When the grandkids come over after school to wait for doctor Mom or computer Dad to get home, they’ll turn on English language television and then between shows help themselves to their favorite American treats. The best way to tell them how precious they are, how much you want them in your life, how much you wish you could speak their language, how much you want them back, is to make sure the kitchen shelf has all the same snacks that they see on TV.

And if that’s what they want and what we can give them, then waiting in a parking lot is no trouble at all.

_______
Part 2.

My instructions were to meet Lilia at the front church door. She discreetly looked both ways with a whispered hello, and whisked me inside. In the basement, the volunteer team called “Mary! So glad you could make it!”

Everyone was busy. Linda was talking about her certified-kitchen foodhandlers course, and was rearranging the cabinets. Debbie fixed the doormat so the guests could drag their little carts in easily. Nancy brought warm socks and mittens for everybody’s shopping bags. They lined up those long heavy tables, and piled up the food in nice displays. Father in the kitchen, with an apron on over his long black cassock and cross, heated cocoa and rolls for the team as they joked with him over the open serving counter. Everyone thanked me over and over for accepting their invitation to come be the new Food Bank interpreter. Now with me around, the volunteers could converse with the guests in their own language! “You will love our babushki, our grandmas,” they assured me. “Dearest little sweethearts. So happy, so grateful. And today they’ll have a wonderful surprise: someone to greet them in Russian! We can not wait to see their faces.”

Show Time!
Linda threw open the doors. The eager clients practically fell in, peering around with hopeful and appraising looks, shopping carts gripped in one hand and shopping bags clutched to their hearts. They bustled across the room to my half of the first table, Cereal Central.

I was ready. In that hour of preparation I’d rummaged through the floor cartons to choose and arrange the most traditionally prized Russian foods at the front and center. I’d also rehearsed my welcoming speech. Drawing on two college summers in the USSR, marched around on endless Sputnik Guide tours, I aimed for a creditable imitation of an official visitors’ welcome speech. “Uvazhaemye Gosti! Respected Guests! Today our Breakfast Food department presents rolled oats, rye porridge, brown rice –”

At the sound of my voice, our babushki froze in shock. But not for long.

“Who let THAT one in?” one woman gasped. “What is she doing in our bank?”
“Is SHE giving orders here now?” another said.
“‘Cereal’ indeed! So SHE says.”
“The GOOD cereal!” one demanded, rapping her cane on the floor. “What did you do with it?”

Their reaction bewildered me. Good cereal??
“But it’s all here,” I reasoned. “Look! Here is mannaia kasha,” (a favorite similar to Cream o’ Wheat). “Here are whole oat groats. And look — Ladies! We have buckwheat!” I waved a packet of buckwheat for all to see. In my study abroad days, buckwheat was the gold standard, prized as the very Tsarina of grain products. When the church storeroom turned up a dozen packages, I knew we’d hit the consumer appeal jackpot.

“Buckwheat?” another guest objected. “You think you can deceive us just because we are refugees and senior citizens. For shame. It’s discrimination! It’s elder abuse! You’re giving us food that Americans don’t want.”

I gaped at the women as they converged on my table, shouting to each other.
“She cheated us with this village fodder, and hid the healthy cereal.”
“She knows nothing about raising children. Probably doesn’t have any.”
“Oh no — you bet she has children. She’s feeding our cereal to them.”
“I think she takes it home and sells it.”
“Of course she sells it; that’s why she volunteered.”
“‘Buckwheat’ she says, and right to our faces. Ha, I’ll show you buckwheat!” One woman shook her fist. “Our little ones deserve nutritious food just like your children do.”
“Nutritious?” I looked from one woman to another. “But what cereal are you looking for?”

Finally one of the women clued me in.
“We want the good kind from other weeks,” she insisted. “Last week there was REAL cereal here. They mix in all different vitamins; there are pink heart vitamins, yellow moons, orange stars, and green leaf candies.”
“That old-style hot cereal doesn’t work,” another sang out. “If we put that old stuff on the table, our grandchildren WILL NEVER VISIT US AGAIN.”

With that battle cry of anguish, our frail-looking neighbors charged the barricades. We volunteers threw ourselves on the tables to keep bottles and jars from cascading to the floor as the women rushed to grab whatever they could. One ducked right under the plastic tablecloths to snatch up random packages from the storage bins — candied birthday cake florets, tartar sauce packages, colored sprinkles, cupcake papers, Chiclets. Another darted behind a table and pounced on a large pocketbook; she pulled out a baguette and a bottle of sparkling cider before the owner she was intercepted by a volunteer , and setting off a cry of “Wait, wait! Please, I need that!” She was about to leave for a christening, but our visitors opened her large purse and made off with the gifts — a lemon Bundt cake and a bottle of sparkling cider.

Volunteers rushed me out the door to the parking lot, handing me my knapsack and coat. They thanked me for coming, and rushed back to restore order and calm to their panicked clients.

The heavy parish hall doors fell closed and locked.
I stood blinking a moment, thinking what a successful ad campaign General Mills could have made from an incident like this one: “Lucky Charms — worth fighting for.” But meanwhile I picked my way over the ice, up the drive, across the street, past Senior Home, along the adjoining alleyway and upstairs to my little studio. Out the windows across the street, there was the church. Against the leaden sky under dim winter light stood its cross, its main onion dome, and just beneath that the little upper windows, shaped like high risen loaves of bread. It all looked so peaceful; not a sign of the little human drama right downstairs.

At the window I curled up with my blankie in my rocking chair for a little cry.
Here at church the volunteers invited me for weeks and weeks, assuring me I’d be a big welcome help. Here I finally ventured over, got out of the house to use all that Russian study to welcome some frail hungry people and make some friends. And came to find they didn’t want me around.

Then, as if Father were right here talking to me, I remembered one of his lessons.
One day when Father was not serving Liturgy or slaving over a hot stove in the parish hall, he spent a free hour polishing beeswax off the candle stands while telling me a story. Apparently one of the early Church Fathers Macarius the Great of Egypt had an overly sensitive disciple. Abba Macarius ordered his student to go to the cemetery and curse the deceased all night. Then he ordered the disciple to return to the cemetery for a second night, and this time praise the deceased to the skies. Then Elder Macarius asked his bewildered and sleep-deprived disciple something like this: “What effect did your curses have on the deceased? Did it make them more deceased than they were before? And, what good did your praises do for them? Did it raise anyone from the dead? You found no difference at all? Good.” Father too encouraged me to get over my shyness, and to “Go forth likewise! Be free and unmoved by both the curses of men, and their honors.”

Meanwhile I cooked up some millet with rice milk, sweet butter, and raisins. (Millet was a proud staple of the Red Army; as a Moscow friend once explained, “Served each day in a cold cube in two flavors: lard, and sand.”) Eating my porridge I rocked some more, and thought about the lives led by those Russian and Ukrainian women. Back at home they would put up a crop in the barn or queue up for hours for a liter of milk. Then, some bureaucrat, some black marketeer, some foreign invader, some partisan, some hooligan gang would muscle in and make off with everything. And now here in America they saw some stranger pop up in the middle of their food bank and talk like any state cashier, the kind who used to snap at them for wanting to buy more than one stick of butter per family.

Years of Russian study was all well and good. But unless I’d lived through the collectivization of the family farm, or a blockade or a genocide or a famine or a prison term, unless I’d ever made soup out of wallpaper glue and shoe soles, we were not speaking the same language.

_______
Part 3.

Weeks later, on a cold snow-paved New Year’s Eve, the telephone rang.
One of the church volunteers was on the line, with exciting Food Bank news.
A local grocer had just dropped off a whole crate of expensive whitefish salad in little tubs. The whitefish was still perfectly good, but the sell-by date was January 1. That would be days before the next Food Bank. Someone needed to deal with all these whitefish salads, by walking them over to Senior Home and handing them out to the residents. The church ladies were all busy for the night with their holiday dinners and guests. Besides, they needed someone with language skills to explain to each resident exactly what this food was, and that it had to be eaten right away.

By then, the Great Breakfast Cereal Donnybrook was only a bruised memory. But I had my heart set on an early church service across the street, and an early bedtime. I was not eager to try my hand again at facing our senior neighbors. If my presence at Food Bank frightened and upset them, how would they feel about my tracking them down at home?

With reluctance and a heavy heart I traipsed next door to Senior Home, armed with several dozen salads and a of Russian-speaking client apartment numbers. I knocked on doors and hollered fishmonger tidings, holding the tubs up to the security peepholes. That way the inhabitants could hear the Russian for ”Food Bank sent me,” and see the goods before opening the door.

And open they did.
At every door there were wary faces, lined with a lifetime of cold and privation and labor. Some stared at the whitefish with trembling lips. Some gripped their heads or covered their eyes. Some overflowed with silent tears. Some threw their hands skyward or around my neck. They stroked my hair, kissed my face, kissed my hands. Perhaps this time, I didn’t look like the bureaucrat controlling the rations. Perhaps now I was seen in a familiar cherished social role: the best friend or relative who stands in a queue for hours to snap up the precious oranges or mascara or typewriter ribbon, then distributes the wealth to all her friends. And fresh whitefish! Something nice to impress the kids!

Every one of them tugged me, their new Little Daughter, their Sweetness, their Angel, their Bear-Paw, their Goldilocks, their Dovey-Dove, inside (don’t let the cat out!) for glasses of tea.
First I had to finish my rounds, to promise everyone I’d come back after the fish was delivered and safely in refrigeration. But once my box was empty, the evening was a blur of animated conversation, with whitefish-wielding neighbors calling joyful tidings up and down the halls. It was room after room of photograph albums from doily-covered TVs, interested parakeets looking on, and treats of authentic Food Bank bagel crisps, licorice, and gold fishie crackers.

I got home just before midnight.
Outside, a rising wind lashed the bare trees and phone wires. Gray and lowering snow clouds sped past the church, like the varied cast of characters that show up at the church doors, all of us with different stories and hopes and reasons for making our way there. Tonight its gold cross and main cupola and were lit from the inside. In the wild winter sky it looked like both a beacon and a ship, beckoning the traveler and carrying them home.

The little bread-loaf light gleamed softly, shining in the New Year.

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11/1: Ark Church at the Movies

Posted on October 12, 2014 by

The Ark Church film company, “Кинокомпания Ковчег,” is introduced here in the post before this one.

A You Tube browse of the Arketeers shows them performing in a long mix of short films and songs. But for these ready-for-eternal-time players, the main feature is the 2+ hour movie Не убиваете меня, пожалуйста! (Don’t Kill Me, Please!), acted in Russian Sign with Russian voiceover and no subtitles.

What’s to like about this film?

1. For someone interested in faith-based beliefs, ethics portrayed in popular media, Deaf culture, and all things Russian, this offbeat discovery is an absorbing and surprisingly enjoyable little film.

2. It passes the Bechdel Test with flying colors (women are everywhere, talking constantly — and not about men, but about their own reproductive options and choices, and how they expect the men to support them).

3. It takes place in an exclusively Deaf community with no hearing people around to make waves. Being Deaf is never portrayed as a problem. In fact, it’s not even an issue!

4. Nobody needs a cell phone or computer to get through their lives. When they have a question or problem or just want some company, they just knock on the nearest door and start Signing away.

5. When people pray in this film, they really seem to be praying; prayer appears to be something that they actually do in real life. As with Dinah in Adam Bede, prayer inspires them to say sensible things in a perceptive way that comes across as believable and productive.

6. The personable enthusiastic congregation members and their graceful performance Sign make the film heartfelt, sweet, and linguistically interesting. But first…

Little Disclaimer:
As always, I’ll give away the ending.

Big Disclaimer:
This is a teaching platform of dialogues to warn young people away from participation in abortion, and to turn them toward Church fellowship. The anti-abortion message (perhaps brought to Russia by the American founders of this congregation?) is drummed across with maximum emphasis, repetition, and drama.

Bigger Warning:
The film is abruptly followed by street interviews with random accosted passersby, eliciting their views on abortion as if this would settle the issue once and for all. Then at 2:10:00, with no viewer warning (not even a heads-up for child viewers!), there is a slide show of aborted fetuses. Not only that, but a youtube search for this title in Russian will also call up in the sidebars another Russian film with a similar title and the same message, with even more graphic imagery. This could be so disturbing to any number of people that I did not include the film link here. The viewing audience will be Russian-speaking and Russian-signing internet users, and they probably know how to track down anything anywhere.

DKMP is a view of one apartment building with three young Russian couples (one married, one newlywed, one engaged) over a period of nine months as their decisions on abortion determine the shape and quality of their lives. All three couples are faced with the issue of unexpected pregnancy at the most inauspicious time in their young relationships. The plot is almost all dialogue, with everybody talking all the time. The women tell their stories, air their opinions, and share their deepest hopes and dreams with and among their partners, their families, their neighbors, their local congregation, and self-assured women doctors at the local obstetrics clinic.

The film opens with Couple 1 heading out to church, Couple 2 returning from their wedding for the home reception, and Couple 3 leaving the building for a date. Couple 1 offer Couple 2 a Bible as a wedding gift. But Bridegroom 2 pushes it away with a sneer, saying that he and his bride don’t intend to enter a monastery, boasting that God will play no part in their plans. Couple 2 walk off to their wedding feast. (Here some expressive back & forth film cuts contrast Couple 1 with their sweet congregation signing and singing hymns, while the rowdy wedding party members sing rowdy songs before passing out unconscious face down in their salad.)

At church, the remarkably downcast pastor announces that he was prepared to preach about joy, but that God has alerted him to preach on sorrow instead. He announces that someone in today’s congregation will suffer affliction that very week, and asks everyone to open to the book of Job. Couple 1 return home to pray together and reassure each other and their little girl, that no matter who in their circle has been singled out for affliction, they will keep their faith in God’s help.

Couple 2 begin their married life as the new husband playfully tosses new wife onto their big double bed. Literary foreboding alert: The two of them accidentally overlook and crush the little baby doll decorating the middle of the bed.

Film cut to Couple 1, carefully tucking their very living baby doll into her bed and then retiring to their own bedroom (which appears to have two single beds pushed to opposite walls) to share their sorrow that Husband 2 so brusquely pushed away their prayers and gift.

Next day, Couple 1 wife and little girl are happily waiting for Dad to come home. When the doorbell lights flash, they fling open the door without looking or asking to find out who is there. (This represents a dramatic departure from a whole tradition of Russian cinema, where “Who can that be at the door?” casts a dramatic shadow over the whole plot.) Fortunately, it’s Papa, who for some reason rings the bell before entering his own home. Mom and daughter have big news for him: God is sending the family another baby! The doorbell flashes again; the wife’s parents are here to visit, but Grandma doesn’t take the news very well. She launches into a fine speech of alarm, giving Grandpa no chance to express his own feelings, demanding (in front of the kid) that the couple go for an abortion. She dares them to test their God and find out just how well He is going to take care of them.

And say, how are those newlyweds?
They’re popping open champagne and having a candlelight dinner. Wife 2 asks whether Husband will still love her when she is old. He insists that she, among all women, will remain the most beautiful and will never grow old.
Then Wife 2 asks why he pushed away the gift Bible.
Husband demands that she stop associating with Couple 1. “I want my freedom!” he concludes, and distracts her with a wedding gift: tickets for a one-month cruise, to start tomorrow.

Next day, before departure for the honeymoon trip, Wife 2 explains to Wife 1 that they are going to postpone having children and spend some time living for themselves. As the travelers flit away, Child 1 asks “So does that mean when I came along, I was a burden to you and Papa? And what does it mean to live for yourself?”
Wife 1 explains that no, all children are a gift from God. And people who live for themselves simply have not learned the happiness of living for Christ. Off they go to fix dinner.

Girlfriend 3 is heading home in the park.
Three men attack her.
Husband 1 comes along, sees the situation, and intervenes. Girlfriend 3 escapes, but the men stab Husband 1 in the back.

Back at the 1 House, wife and daughter are waiting dinner for Papa, who is never late and always keeps his promises. Then the doorbell flashes again. Wife 1 flings open the door.
But it’s Girlfriend 3, bloody and hysterical. Instead of calling the police, she reports (right in front of the kid) that she has been raped and that Husband 1 is still lying “in the park.” Since St. Petersburg is full of miles of park, there is no time to lose. Instead of calling the police to help or to start an investigation, Wife 1 runs out to start searching in the dark shrubbery, a place which we already know is not an optimal setting for young women alone. She finds Husband 1 just in time to receive his final blessing.

For the next 10+ minutes, Daughter 1’s wailing will obscure the dialogue while the glum pastor tells Mom to bear up. Then he and everyone else in the church walks off and leaves her and the child standing alone at the grave.

At home, Grandma makes the abortion speech again (in front of the kid), telling the expectant mother to pack two bedsheets and a robe and come with her to the clinic — because, after all, why rely on God? Where was God when Husband was killed in the park?

Wife 1 chooses instead to go for an ultrasound to rejoice at her future baby. In another room at the same clinic, Girlfriend 3 receives an abortion referral with the level of kindness and counseling one expects from a toll booth operator giving change on the Jersey Turnpike.

At Grandma’s house, Wife 1 is talking to Girlfriend 3, asking her to keep the child and give it to her, Wife 1, to raise herself since Husband 1 gave his life for the sake of this child. Grandma walks in with a sweeping speech about money, and how she and Grandpa can’t afford to buy even a baby carriage, even though the hardwood detailing and glass-front cabinets in their kitchen must have cost a packet.

Couple 2 comes home from their trip. Wife 2 has something serious to tell Husband 1. He makes sweeping extravagant promises to listen and give her anything she asks, even the moon. She announces that their “life for themselves” is about to be joined by a new little one. He demands that she get an abortion. Wife 2 pleads with him to let her keep the child, dreaming of a baby and its little smile and happy face. He insists that the child and its noise, unattractive personal habits, and expenses will “destroy our youth” and “send our plans to the devil,” while ruining her attractive figure.

Warning: This is where the movie gets intense, and is likely to be quite disturbing to children and to women affected by abortion.

With a heartbeat soundtrack, Wife 2 has a dream of a little girl saying “Don’t kill me, please!” Husband 2 gets her a sedative and promises to take her to a top-notch clinic, perhaps one which provides bedsheets.

Girlfriend 3 discusses her new plan, to keep the baby.
Boyfriend 3 is upset that Wife 1’s request has come before his own feelings and objections, and departs in great upset.

Meanwhile, a church member is reading in her Bible the phrase “Bear one another’s burdens.” God inspires her to visit Wife 1 to give away her baby carriage and baby clothes. In a nice scene at Grandma’s house, the women embrace in a mutual shower of blessings. The generous visitor leaves, and Wife 1 settles down embracing the new baby clothes for a tender cry.

Wife 2, holding a birthing magazine, is still having dreams about an unborn daughter promising to be a good girl and to love and obey her in everything. By the light of an artificial fish tank full of fake fish, Husband 2 demands that Wife choose between him and the baby, and rips up the birthing magazine. Next day, he takes Wife 2 for the abortion. Afterward, the two walk home through a playground. She is surrounded by happy playing children, and dissolves in tears. Back at home, Husband 2 praises himself for solving her problem. The two argue in front of a backdrop of artificial flowers painted on the wall, to contrast with the nice flowers grown by everybody else.

Wife 1 brings Girlfriend 3 to a surprise church baby shower.
All the women spend their evening treating each other to tea and goodies, gifts, affection, games and excited stories about their pregnancies. They even enact what might be quite an old custom: the women play a spontaneous trick on their imminent guest; they all grab balloons and place them under their shirts so that their expecting mom will see that pregnancy has made the rounds of the whole group. The delighted guest strokes and pets the balloon tummies of her friends, and all adjourn for prayers and tea in a room full of natural light and lavish potted African Violets. In this atmosphere, Girlfriend 3 is welcomed with her pregnancy and feels for the first time that sharing motherhood with these women strikes a responsive chord in her as well. This makes her want to attend their church.

At church a friendly Deacon offers the 2 women handmade baby beds. Two parents bring their infant to be blessed, and their downcast pastor explains the importance of children to Christ, who stressed that theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

At home alone with the fake fish and plastic flowers, Wife 2 is drinking heavily from a bottle with a black label, seeing apparitions of her would-be daughter all the time, and gripping a pregnancy-sized cushion under her shirt for consolation. Husband 2 in apologetic mood comes home with a nice bouquet for her and finds that she has hanged herself in the bathroom, still holding the surrogate baby cushion, with a note “Left to be with my daughter.” (To his credit, the church member in this role does a plausible acting job here. Most movie characters happening upon a disaster will put their knuckles in their mouths and scream. He takes a minute to stand there dumbfounded trying to wrap his mind around what he is seeing, just like a real person would.)

The suicide angle is the concerning aspect of the film. It does not seem to represent or serve the genuine spiritual and emotional needs of women who have had abortions. Nor does it recognize the Soviet women who had abortions and went right on fighting to survive famine and war, struggling to nurse their relatives at home, and carrying the country with their labor and endurance. The approach called to mind the “Scared Straight” program in the States, which took at-risk youth and placed them for several hours in a prison with selected convicts, who would berate the visitors about the realities of prison life. The program was supposed to make prison look so unappealing that youth would simply resolve never to commit a crime. Naturally, the program recruited at-risk teens, those most likely to be raised without role models of self-control, at an age when the decision-making of their brain’s frontal cortex is not even fully developed, in a milieu where they can not even escape their circumstances or companions. Research showed that terrifying these teenagers may in fact have undermined their worldview enough to make them even more vulnerable to risky behaviors. In the same way, the message “After her abortion, this woman succumbed to marital breakdown, addiction, madness, and fatal despair” seems an unlikely way to inspire and galvanize a young girl to take heart and seek other options.

The film wraps up with Wife 1 walking her infant in the new baby carriage to church with Girlfriend 3. Boyfriend 3 joins them with a peacemaking bouquet. He expresses his commitment to marry Girlfriend 3 and raise the child together. Back at Grandma’s, Baby 1 is being a basic all-round bundle of joy. Grandma tells her daughter “Thank goodness you did not listen to my advice.” Grandpa finally gets his first word in edgewise: “Children are a great happiness.” Granddaughter 1, who’s been a radiant expressive little trouper through this whole production, chimes in with the last word: “Yes, we are a gift from God.”

It might have made for nice texture if the film could have shown a bit more that it takes only one to keep a baby, but two to make one to begin with. Where is the outreach for men who carry a sense of guilt for their role in these pregnancies? Maybe the story could have shown Husband 2 coming round and joining the church too. What about accountability and redemption for those three hooligans in the park?

But all in all, this could be a springboard for some interesting discussions. And even at fifth viewing the film left me in tears. It makes me look forward to my morning bus commute tomorrow, when the toddlers will hoist themselves on to adjoining bus seats and promptly park their boots in the lap of my dress.

If God willing I make it back to St. Petersburg, I’ll go check out Ark Church for a visit and say hello.

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10/5: Ark Film Company (Кинокомпания Ковчег)

Posted on September 27, 2014 by

The Ark Film Company of St. Petersburg is known for creating short edifying films and songs for young people. The troupe is sponsored by the congregation at the affiliated Ark Church, which one Sunday years ago found themselves with Deaf visitors attending a service. The Church arranged for a dedicated volunteer to interpret the services. But unlike other venues offering Sign interpreting, The Ark didn’t stop there; they added an outreach for the Deaf community, and the hearing members began learning Sign too. They even cast their Deaf members to star in movies that Deaf and hearing family members can enjoy together.

Here is the letter “A” in their Dictionary of Christian Sign Terms.)

Here’s a sweet upbeat video in collaboration with the rock group Глас Вопиющего, meaning “Voice [of One] Crying Out” (as, “in the wilderness,” describing John the Baptist), performed by Aleksei Chernovolov. In English translation, the equally sweet upbeat lyrics run along like this:

“This song is for you, my friend;
this song is for me and for everyone around.
This song is about Him and about your dreams.
I know that you hear it….
This new song is about His love.
This new song — I know that you hear it.”

This calls to mind an interesting question. “Where is the Orthodox Church in all this? Do they have Signed services too?” They might, but compare the above song with a typical line from an Orthodox Sunday service: “Let us who mystically represent the Cherubim, and who sing the thrice-holy hymn to the life-creating Trinity, now lay aside all earthly cares.” Lyrical language like this during a two-hour Liturgy would make interpreting a formidable task. Besides, Russian Orthodox services even in America are not necessarily in Russian; they’re often in Slavonic, which was never a spoken language. Are there even Signs for that?

Advance disclaimer for the usual readers of this blog:
Ark films are Evangelical Christian morality plays of temptation versus virtue. The overall lesson is that young people who pursue immediate gratification instead of wise counsel meet disaster, while those who invite Jesus into their hearts and join a Christian fellowship (say, The Ark Church), recover and thrive and find terrific supportive friends. The moral dilemmas and character portrayals are stylized and emphatic. Still, the quirkily appealing homespun low-low-budget featurettes serve as a unique sociological view of the post-Soviet Evangelical Christian movement, and of linguistic and cultural conventions among the Deaf characters.

Here meanwhile are four Arkettes (one up front, three behind the scenes in flannel mittens) in a Signed puppet fable. The lyrics are lovely; I’ll probably translate them here at some point. That sweet silver voice is singer Tatiana Shilova:
“The Ballad of Three Sons” (Баллада о трёх сыновьях).

The main Ark opus, a two-hour film created in Sign and later dubbed in Russian,
is reviewed in this next post here.

Back soon! M

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9/1: Larkspur, part 4 of 4

Posted on September 1, 2014 by

Here’s part 1
Here’s part 2
Here’s part 3

For the next ten days I called people in my address book and reserved time to come to their houses just for company while they went about their business and I tinkered in the kitchen or garden. To get there I walked for hours from one suburb to the next to save on subway fare, and that in itself was helpful. Sometimes I passed churches, and even went inside so long as they were empty. Back at my building, who knows how the tenants and reptile made out, getting home at night? I wasn’t there to let them in; at night I slept on various sofas, then in the morning walked back to town.

One high-level executive in another city, one who would not be pleased if his private charity were named in a public forum, heard about this. He called his boss at midnight, describing the situation as “…a family medical emergency. I don’t know when I’ll be back. You’ll have to take over the 7:00 meeting.” He got on Amtrak and checked in to a bed and breakfast up the street from me. Then he spent three days taking me out walking in the local sanctuaries and parks from early morning until night. I don’t remember a word of what we talked about; it seems we didn’t talk much at all. But the day after he left, I found a personal check from him for a sum large enough for a year of therapy, with a little note to not give up on getting help. Every evening during his stay I would pack up the kitchen knives, the scissors, the nail file, and the razor blades in a big yogurt bucket, and he would take the items back to his b & b room for the night. I’d watch him walk away, a dignified man clutching a little paper bag of sharps. For the first and only time his confident athletic type-A posture looked burdened and bowed. “He looks worried!” I thought, in amazement.

My therapist was ablaze with dismay. “Why didn’t you TELL me when you called??” he exclaimed, waving his hands. He spent that 50 minute session teaching me phrases to use on the phone: here is when you use the word “crisis,” this is what “urgent” means, these are all the symptoms that constitute an emergency. He listed the signs and phrases over, making me repeat them back. Next time he left town, he told his office partner “If she calls when I’m away just to say hi and see whether any appointments are open in the next couple of weeks, get her in here.”
“He sounds worried,” I thought, amazed again.

At home, at 6:01 one morning our easy-going jolly building engineer pounded and hollered at the door of my neighbor’s unit across the courtyard. As he told it, he let himself in, unplugged the radio, pointed in my neighbor’s face, and said “Nyet! Police!” After that the broadcasts toned right down to a side murmur of white noise. That evening I heard knocking and looked up from my book. A young woman was visiting our neighbor. She waved for my attention, pointed to the radio and her ears, and covered her eyes in a pantomime of shame. I waved at her with a double thumbs’ up.

Les & Sybele knocked on my door to say goodbye. “You were the only White tenant that was friendly to us,” they said. “We’ve had enough of this city, and we’re going back home to Detroit. We’re going to Management now to give notice. Would you like our apartment? Come have a look.” Their apartment had a lovely curved bay window area with an east view of trees and sky. It was smaller with only one closet, and so the rent was lower. I moved right in, and then heard of a better job working with Russian. The cool fall weather started, and soon I was chasing garbage trucks at dawn again, snatching geraniums and hanging them in the windows. A 12 Step friend gave me a cockatiel to hop from plant to plant and follow me from room to room. I still wasn’t ready to try talking to more any Catholic priests, but did want to start worshipping again. There was an active Metropolitan Community Church downtown with an excellent pastor, and right away I made a new best friend who lived right up the street. That was a good year.

But first, there were those ten days.
When they were up, I finally felt ready to spend a night at home and go back to housekeeping. Early one day at sunrise I ventured alone out of my room down the empty streets to the Reservoir. There at the water I took out my Irish whistle and began to play.

I have no explanation for what happened next.
A man of average height, about 30 years of age, appeared out of nowhere. He was not just cutting across the grass in a straight line toward the subway station, like a commuter. He was not jogging. He wore loose light-colored pants and a white tunic top; perhaps he’d been practicing some form of martial arts. And he came bounding, literally leaping with his arms open, over the grass to me.

“I heard beautiful music,” he exclaimed. “May I have your blessing?”

I looked at him, all attention.
He had close-cropped hair and a beard. He was wearing a black velvet kipa, or yarmulkah. And unlike many Jewish men who cover their heads in religious observance, he reached over and gave me a hearty handshake. His hands were strong, square, and as calloused as if he laid bricks all day. He stepped close, hands at his sides, and bowed his head waiting.

Not knowing what to do, I rested tentative fingertips on the black velvet and said “Blessings of…” Now what? I looked around. It was a strikingly lovely morning. The peak of summer was just tipping toward the richer sweetness of autumn. The still Reservoir reflected masses of waving fuchsia flowers that might have been loosestrife, and masses of bright gold button blossoms that might have been tansy. “It’s the… purple and the gold in the flowers,” I told him. “And these two Canada geese walking by, that aren’t afraid of us at all. It’s blue in the sky to water, and green underfoot.” At those words the glass wall between me and the world faded away. The pieces of the world as I named them came accessible again, real and close enough to touch. “It’s all blessing,” I trailed off. “Just being here.”

He nodded, placed his hands on my hair, and began to pray.
I stood there with my head bowed, feeling apprehensive about him and self-conscious about what this must look like to anyone passing by. But no one was, and to my relief I at least recognized the opening words: “Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam…” He had a fine deep cantor’s voice, ringing out in the quiet morning. Even the heat and weight of his hands seemed to gather something in my mind back into place.

He stepped back, looking radiant.
“Well now,” I said. “Hello. I’m Mary.”
“Right. Like my mom,” he beamed. “And it’s Miriam.”

I blinked at him, still puzzled. But his brown eyes were crystal clear and alight with discernment and joy. What flashed to mind was that magazine again, all the accounts of baffled relatives and friends describing criminal A__ or B__ or C__, the guy they thought they knew. And all the accounts had one thing in common: they never said “He used to bound through dewy fields at 6:00 a.m. in a kipa, praying in Hebrew and blessing everyone in sight.”

He reached out and took my Irish whistle.
He first blew one low long note. Then he blew a waterfall of notes, all at once, with their sharps and flats, as if he’d broken open a kaleidoscope and flung the colored facets in the air. Then he reversed the whistle and blew in the wrong end, a hollow toneless rush of empty air.

“God,” he said, giving the whistle back to me, “IS Who IS: One in perfect solitude and perfectly alone. And God is all notes and all voices at once, all consciousness in union. And God is no-thing, the vacuum of space, the dark and the emptiness inside you. When you thought you had nothing left.”

Then he bounded away, back over the grass where he’d come from, somewhere toward the athletic fields and the University. “Amen!” he called over his shoulder, saluting with his right hand high.

I watched him go, and walked home to start my life again.

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