From the mouth of a child...

ME:  I'm gonna take a nap right hear and rest.

*Ethan jumps on my stomach*

EMELINE: Not with us around!

it was true - all true.  so instead, I jotted down a few things that came out of their mouths....here's a sampling:

I'm so hungry I could pop my head off and my whole body would go like phsssswww!

Daddy's not here.

Yes he is.

I'm just kidding.

Hey-la-ti-da-ti-da.

My couch - my property.  You can get your own couch.

*Ethan runs off*

Ah, just let him go - he's a grumpus today.  But don't call him that.  He'll go waaayahaahaaayaaaa!  (she flails her arm around every which-a-way).

Alan, I can play a song on the guitar.

Really?

Yeah.  It's called Emeline's Guitar.  

(she bangs on the strings of the guitar without any noticeable harmony...)

....and that was my morning.  a fine morning it was.

Some thoughts on weeping...

According to a couple of psychologists named Myers and Briggs who will forever go down in history for realizing that there are really only 16 variations of people in the whole world, I'm an ENFP.  For the record, that means I share the personality of Machiavelli and Dr. Seuss.  "An ENFP who has 'gone bad' can become manipulative - and is quite good at it."  I'm excited.

Anyways, that's not the point here.  The point is that I'm an "Feeler" and not a "Thinker", which basically means I never make rational decisions and really just rely on what I feel like is a good idea.  No, that's actually not true either.  It really means I have more of a reliance on my emotions than non-feeler types.  Not that big of a deal, but it does, in some sense, help justify why I'm about to try and ameliorate those who weep.  If your not the weeping type, no need to fear - it's not for everyone, I'm told.  My point here is that it is, in fact, for some.

We went to church yesterday (it was a British church, so I probably should cut them some slack), where we heard a most interesting Easter sermon.  I won't get into the pastor's comments about how "When we are resurrected, we will all be 33.  You know how I know this? - because Jesus was resurrected in a 33 year old body."  Somehow I must have missed this detail the last time I read the Synoptics... And I'll only mention his saying that we all brought our angels with us when we came to church this morning.  The main thing I had a problem with was his contention that Mary Magdalen's weeping was both improper and wrong.

Here's the passage:

'But Mary stood weeping, outside the tomb, and as she wept she stopped to look into the tomb.  And she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and one at the feet.  They said to her, 'Woman, why are you weeping?' She said to them, 'They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.' ...

Of course, the story goes on, and she recognizes the risen Lord when he calls her name, and it is a lovely, glorious story of hope in the midst of a broken world that God himself has redeemed.  

But that's not what we talked about this Easter Sunday.  Instead we focused on how Mary's weeping kept her from seeing the truth and how He chastises her for letting tears get in the way of hope.  hmph.

Now don't get me wrong - it is all very true that we can lose sight of hope sometimes because we become overly emotional about something or think all is lost when really things just didn't happen the way we thought and wanted them to.  But Mary's weeping here was not something she should have been chastised for - and she wasn't - not by Christ at least.  When He and the angels ask her 'Why are you weeping?' they are not condemning her - they are showing their genuine concern.  If she went to the grave and saw an empty tomb and thought, 'hrmmm...well, I guess he's gone for good, let's get on with life and trust that something will make all this work out in the end,' we'd think her an emotionless, heartless woman who never really cared about Christ outside of his ability to help her personally.  Mary's weeping was both natural and proper.

The more important question here is 'Whom are you seeking,' which Jesus answers for her shortly by revealing his true identity to her by saying her name - showing her he cares for her personally and filling her with all hope and joy and peace.  The tears allow her to appreciate this moment all the more.  It's no wonder Jeremiah tells us in Lamentations to "Cry out into the night watches / Pour out your hearts like water in the presence of the Lord."  It's no wonder the Psalms are saturated with weeping, questioning tears.  And it's no wonder we are told when Job tears his clothes and falls to the ground in sorrow but still worships the Lord that "in all this Job did not sin."

See, the point here is not to never weep.  The point is to not lose sight of hope in your weeping.  This is why the ending of the Lord of the Rings is so wondrous when Gandalf assures the hobbits: "I will not say: Do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."  The Fellowship is coming to an end, but hope is not.  

Weep for the end of something gold that didn't stay, but weep in hope and assurance of the swift sunrise that will permeate eternity.

Why? because He is risen.

Swimming in the Serpentine...

Almost every morning, our neighbor Roger leaves his flat at 5:30 and walks to Hyde Park (about a 30 minute stroll), where he and a group of "Serpentine Swimmers" jump in the frigid waters of the River and stroke a few laps.  Among this group are Olympic swimmers, people who have swum the English Channel, owners of fruit stands, and members of the House of Commons.  Roger, himself, apparently was a tourist attraction some twenty years back, when he would dress in his "swimming costume" and head down the streets of London barefoot, jump in the Serpentine, and walk back to his flat dripping wet.

But today, a few of us got to join in the fun.  We didn't leave at 5:30, though, not today - for this day was a Serpentine race, which happens twice a year, as far as I can tell, and some 30 people show up hoping to win a trophy.  Roger was not swimming this time and we just went along to see what was happening.  It was grand - British people everywhere yelling out insults at the swimmers - "come on, Anna, you could walk faster than that!"  "Walter's given up already."  One of the onlookers explained to us that this was the 'slow group,' and amidst all the gleeful madness, one guy stood submerged in the freezing water with a cup of tea.  "Jim, what are you doing?" "I'm injured!" he kept explaining.  "Jim's acting like he's injured so he doesn't have to race," noted another.

Anyways, all said and done, three of us ended up in the water whether we planned to or not, and a pool of spectators laughed along with us while they continued to mispronounce "Alabamee."  hahahaaa....goodness.  

Of Daffodils and Staples (Clive Staples, that is)....

Today we visited that homely town where Tolkien and Lewis walked about and John Wesley carved his name in stone.  Oxford, they call it - and yes, it does live up to all its namesake.  

Roger, our trusty neighbor, took us around Christ Church, Trinity College, St. John's,  New College, Lincoln, and his own - Magdalen College.  We walked on dirt paths next to streams with daffodils bloomin like an Outback appetizer, over the place where Ridley and Latimer lit their flame across all of England, and into a candy store that did NOT have the famed Millionaire bar that I've spent the greater part of my life looking for.

It was a lovely day, but now I am worn like the gums of a pig who been chawin a hambone.  So here's one story for you.

Roger told us that the old president of Lincoln college was so proud of a certain painting of Henry VIII that he showed it to one of Henry's descendants.  It was quite a remarkable gem-o-the-trade, as the entire picture was made up of little hand-written passages from the the chapters of Psalms that you could only see if you looked closely.  When he saw it, the descendant (who happened to be some sort of king/ruler figure) said "I want it."

"You can have it," said the President. "Under one condition."

"What is that?" asked the man.

"That you will give to us whatever we ask of you." 

"Very well. What do you ask of me?" replied the King/ruler/person.

"That you give it back."

And to this day, it remains at Lincoln College.

Another Pie in the Face...

Note: this post is full of sarcasm...I'm not this evil in real person...at least, I like to believe this is the case...

"Success is counted sweetest," wrote Emily Dickinson, "by those who ne'er succeed."  So after my last failed attempt to pie Denisovich in the face (it was a tragic story, let me tell you) tonight's go at it resulted in pure, unhindered elation.  A loose interpretation of 'messy glory', the mess was all over KatyO's face and the glory was all to be mine.

So here's the story...about a month ago, I was telling some good Londonfolk about how much grander life would be if more people got pied in the face on a daily basis.  Katie begged to differ, offering one of those moralistically tomfoolerish comments about how things would go horrifically wrong if the wrong person had whipped cream applied to their freshly combed hair without a moment's notice..."but you could pie me - I wouldn't mind....it's just some people."  This was all the permission I needed.   

Today, then - whilst bakin a Koala cake for Kayla's b'day, I got Nathan to stew up a bucket of whipped cream for me, fresh from one or three of those powder packets.  And anytime you can get Nathan involved in a pie-ing, you should already count it as a clear victory.  Problematically, though, I was missing a proper pie tin.  All we had was metal or glass, and the paper plates had left the building through various trash-baskets months ago.  So tonight, as a group was going to the store, I sent Kathryn to pick up a pie tin for me.  Apparently, unbeknownst to me, KatyO was in the grocery group and helped pick out a metal pie tin, as nothing else was available.  'Tis fortunate I didn't actually use her weapon of choice...

By now it was 10 of the clock and we were just getting back from Kayla's party shindig with her grandparents, and my options were wearing thin.  Plenty of cream, a bit o time, but still no proper serving method.  Fortunately, I was in my Robin Hood outfit, which comes in handy quite a bit, I've found (you never can tell when a robbery from the rich and a donation to the poor is needed).  So I took off my hat, grabbed my favorite spoon, and filled the green feather-pinned headgear with the white goodness.  Everyone was there, pretty much, and everyone saw me walk out with a cap full of cream.  But KatyO walked and talked on unawares... mmmmmmm!  The pie came in from the side and the hat formed perfectly around her face.  It was a moment of pure joy.  For me at least.  Pure joy and justice in a world where it seeks so often to evade us.  

And this time, the collected works of Mark Twain didn't have to take one for the team.

There are no words...

Back to the Minotaur...

f.  Right...so I seem to have neglected the Minotaur after all this time...hmph.

When I left you, we had just met up with some elderly canadian types who were having a jolly time walkin around in the dark.

So we about-faced again back the way we headed after they told us there was not one but Two trattorias in the vicinity, and they implied that we had given up far too easily.  Needless to say, by the time we got back to our Trattoria, it was still very much closed, and even the Canadians had to agree that the lights up the hill belonged to some pedestrian of sorts.  Not taken off guard by the revelation, the two told us to keep going, so we took five more steps around a bend in the road and lo! another Trattoria shone out in the heavy darkness.

So we wandered our way inside and they went of to one corner and we went straight for the middle, all while a rotund Italian man said something incoherent to us in one of those romantic languages (I think it was Italian).  So we sat down and tried to figure out the menu with an italian dictionary we stole from the Canadians (with their consent) - this approach apparently didn't work to well, since Shannon thought she ordered seafood pasta and ended up getting a bowl of spaghetti noodles floatin in some broth with a few tablespoons of fish-food dumped on top.  She decided the guy must have gone to a pet store and thought the picture of a fish on a can meant fish seasoning.  Anyways, halfway through the meal, one of the ladies walked over to our table and said: "Excuse me [in a voice much louder than necessary], what is the creature called that is half man and half horse?"

Trying to recover from the initial shock of the question, I mumbled something about a centaur, at which point the lady at the other side of the room yelled, "Ask them what a Minotaur is!"  

"No, it's not a minotaur, it's a centaur," we tried to reason.

"No, it show up in Harry Potter all the time."  I cringed at the mention of the name.  For crying out loud, I can't even go to Italy without hearin about that harry loon.

"It's a centaur."

She turned around.  And then back again - "What's a minotaur?"  

After we convinced her that it was, in fact, a centaur, she walked back to the other table and said, quite audibly, "It's called a cinotaur."  

She did point out at some point in the conversation that a picture of the backside of the horse/man creature was on the wall, which served as the instigator of such strange conversation.  That made me feel a little better about the situation, but I still don't think I will ever properly recover.