Unless he can’t cook. Then you’re in trouble. Maybe you should be a lesbian if that happens.”

Jason? Thoughts?

I’ve had a lot of problems with the Church at various times in my life.  Well, probably all of my life, but for different reasons depending on a variety of circumstances.  I find myself in a perpetual struggle of needing rules and structure, but also needing to rebel and perform acts of subversion when what’s being asked of me is contrary to what I feel to be True.  Consequently, the only job I’ve ever quit in fiery anger was when I was working for the United Church of Canada in their national offices.

I was asked to speak and sing in church today. The reading I was asked to speak about was the story of Mary anointing Jesus:

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” John 12:1-8

This was what I said:

—
I’ve always been really drawn to the story of Jesus’ Anointing. Part of this is because I’ve always coveted beautiful, thick, luxurious hair that is long enough to perform some sort of useful task. Ya know, like Rapunzel. Or, in this case Mary.

Another reason is because as a teenager, I went through a phase of being completely obsessed with Jesus Christ Superstar. In high school, it was pretty common to see me making my way through the halls assuring people that “everything’s alright, yes, everything’s fine!” in 5/4 time.

But mostly what draws me to the story is that in this very, very simple act of kindness, so many deep and profound things seem to come together with some sort of understanding.

It’s like a little spiritual light bulb goes off…

…and Mary gets it.

Mary gets the road ahead is dark. Dark and very dangerous. While the disciples and residents of Jerusalem are caught up in the palm leaves and the party, the established order of things is becoming increasingly threatened – increasingly hostile. And among His followers, only Mary seems to understand what Jesus’ subversion is going to cost.

If Leonard Cohen had written the book of John, the passage would go something like this:

She sees the future, brother. It is murder.

So instead of getting caught up in the celebrations, she actually anoints him for burial…

…because Mary gets it.

Mary gets what Judas (and in the synoptic gospels, the rest of the disciples) do not.

John describes Judas as a thief. But Judas’ motives aside, his reasoning – that this very expensive perfume costing the equivalent of a year’s wages should have been put to a more practical and useful purpose – seems fairly sound. It makes sense. By this point the disciples are all about action: feeding the poor, healing the sick and fighting the current power structure…all needed and all wonderful.

But Mary understands that more than looking after the poor and the sick and the disenfranchised, what is needed of her in that moment is nothing more than being authentically present and loving to her friend…as the hymn goes, to stay with Him through the night.

It’s similar to those moments when a parent, in their wisdom, knows when to close their mouths and open their arms and simply let their child weep. Without advice. Without “I told you so”s. Just letting them be.

So rather than challenge Jesus and beg her friend to change, to leave, to fight, to save himself, she meets Him as He is and gives Him what He needs.

Because Mary gets it.

Mary gets that what Judas says about the poor – it’s not the point. It doesn’t mean anything. Not if it’s done out of a sense of obligation. Or duty. Or because we’ve been told it’s what we should be doing.

Feeding the poor? It’s just vanity if it’s not done with love.

Healing the sick? It’s just a bunch of magic tricks if it’s not done with love.

We can put all the money we want into the collection plates on Sunday morning. But if we can’t look at our fellow travelers through this big, crazy, beautiful, messed up world and see them, accept them and meet them as they are in the darkness with compassion and love, then we’ve missed the point.

The whole point.

The point it took four gospels, a bunch of handwritten letters, a new covenant and a bloody execution to make.

The point that is universal across so many faiths.

But Mary…she gets it.

She got it even before Paul:

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13

What you need:

3 or 4 ripe bananas, schmushed. If you have a bit of extra time and access to a small child, ask them to schmush the bananas. They’ll taste better that way. You might want to add a bit of extra banana to compensate for fruit that will end up on the small child’s face, or in the small child’s belly or on your kitchen floor.

1/3 cup melted butter (I’ve given up on the margarine vs. butter debate…butter tastes better, so we’ll go with that)

1 egg, beaten

1 cup of brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 teaspoon baking soda

an itty bitty bit of salt

1 1/2 cups of flour – the all-purpose kind

4×8 inch loaf pan.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Ask the small child for the schmushed bananas. Announce you now need to wipe their face and hands. Ignore protests and as quickly and efficiently as possible take a dish cloth and remove excess banana from the child. In order to prevent crying, the entire removal process should take no more than 3.2 seconds. Thank the child for their good work. Find a large mixing bowl. If you can’t find your large mixing bowl, the small child might be using it as a hat, or possibly even a drum. After retrieving the bowl, mix the schmushed bananas with the melted butter. Add the egg, sugar and vanilla. Mix. Add the flour. Mix again. The small child might want to help. Tell them that one day, if they eat all their vegetables, they will be strong enough to mix the batter, but for right now you need their help to add the salt and baking soda. Pour the mixture into the loaf pan. Bake for one hour. Even though you would like to lick the spoon yourself, give it to the small child. Trust me. Remove loaf from pan and let cool to a reasonable temperature. Discourage small child from defacing the loaf with their poking fingers. Slice. Serve. Enjoy. Tell the small child it’s their turn to do the dishes.

So there, enough about that. I think you should go see it.

My evening turned interesting even before the house lights went down. As it was opening night, there was a selection of “who’s who” from within the Toronto arts community.  I was sitting in my seat (daydreaming) when Jason gave me a light jab and pointed out that John Ralston Saul was walking into the theatre. I sat straight up and anxiously began scanning the rest of the seats…

Jason and I were on the same page. “I wonder if that means your nemesis is coming as well,” he mused.

No.

She couldn’t be.

After all this time?

After all these years?

Take a trip with me. It’s 10 years ago. I’m in high school. I’m a bit of a smarty-pants and have managed to convince the local Rotary Club that I’m a good candidate for an all expenses paid trip to Sunny & Exotic Ottawa for a conference called Adventures in Citizenship. One student from every Rotary Club in the country is selected to attend the conference. This is a conference with over 100 similarly socially awkward smarty-pantses.   Ok, maybe not all the other participants were socially awkward, but I did find myself among some kindred spirits.  It was a really fun week.

Oh, and educational. Very educational. (Thank you, Rotary Club).

One of the events was a trip to Rideau Hall where we were treated to a speech, Q&A and white glove reception (I wasn’t quite sure that that meant, as the only white gloves I’d ever seen were made of latex and used by my doctor) courtesy of the recently appointed Governor General, Adrienne Clarkson.  For me, this was going to be the highlight of the trip. I enjoyed watching Adrienne Clarkson Presents when I was in school.  I was pretty sure Adrienne Clarkson was one of the coolest people around.  She interviewed Wade Hemsworth for goodness sake!  You have to be a special kind of awesome to interview Wade Hemsworth!

After Ms. Clarkson gave her speech about how great it was that we were there taking an interest in citizenship, about how we were the stars of tomorrow, blah, blah, blah, I was the first person up to the microphone.  I was about to talk to the Governor General! That’s almost like talking to the Queen!  I was a teenager.  Humour me.

“Your Excellency, I was wondering, since you’re the Queen’s representative in Canada, do you retain your Canadian citizenship while in office?  For example, can you vote during elections?”

She stared at me like she was trying to look over a pair of invisible glasses.  I’d been around enough librarians to know that look.  It wasn’t good.  There were going to be casualties.

“Now, I’m a journalist, so I have to say this…what was going through your mind when you asked that question?! It’s none of your business who I vote for.”

Ok.  Whew.  An easy misunderstanding, I thought.  I can totally clear this up.

“No, I think you misunderstood me.  I don’t want to know who you vote for, but if you’re able to vote at all.”

“No, I understood you.  It’s none of your business.  Next.”

I was stunned.  I was speechless.  I was, well, confused.  Did that really just happen?  Was I really just scolded by #2 in the Canadian order of precedence? Should I go to sit down, or is a great big man (who would be scary if only he weren’t wearing a red coat and big furry hat) going to come up and escort me out of Rideau Hall?  I knew I was socially awkward, but was I really such a dunce that within 30 seconds of opening my mouth I was able to offend the viceregal representative of our monarch?

I glanced around.  No scary man in red.  The coast was clear.  I sat back down.

Another girl walked up to the microphone, but with slight hesitation.

“Your Excellency, if I want to be Governor General when I grow up, what kinds of things could I do now to prepare…” Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Her Excellency paused. She did that thing with her invisible glasses again.  I prepared myself for impact…

“Ok.  I don’t want to question motives here, but it seems you kids think that being the Governor General is about fame and rockstardom.  Well, it’s not.  It’s about service.  It’s about sacrifice for your country.  If you want to be famous, then take your clothes off and pose for Playboy, because that’s how you get famous these days.”

*insert chirping crickets here*

I can’t remember any of the other questions.  To be honest, I’m not really sure it there were any other questions.  We were more than 100 smarty-pants kids from all across the country who had just been given career counseling by the Queen’s representative, a 60 year old woman, that included the removal of our under-roos.

I thought, “Oh please…let there be some sort of reporter here…somebody who can write about this and let the masses know what just happened…”

And then I realized there was somebody.  Me.  I wrote for my local town paper.  I suddenly felt a heavy responsibility thrust upon my shoulders…or maybe that was just righteous indignation amplified by being 17 years old.  Regardless, I knew I had to let the country know.  By country, I mean the 30,000 person circulation of the paper.  In hindsight, I’m sure only 12 people actually read my column (and I’m from a family of six), but I had to do something.  So, as soon as I returned home, I submitted a 500 word article about my visit to Rideau Hall.

I felt so much better after venting, and doing it publicly made it all the more sweet.  But I was pretty sure that was the end of it.  Life would go on.  I couldn’t use the trauma as an excuse to get out of writing my exams.  Everything was going to go back to normal.

But a few nifty things happened before everything went back to normal.  The first was that I received a visit at school by Mr. Lloyd Dennis, an Orillia resident and Officer of the Order of Canada because of his influential work on the future of education in Ontario (Hall-Dennis Report, 1968).  He’s also a pretty swell guy.  He didn’t think it was very cool for Ms. Clarkson to suggest we get into the porn business, so he wrote her a letter.  I’m pretty sure she responded, but am not exactly sure what she had to say.

The other interesting thing was a call from the editor at The Orillia Packet & Times, letting me know me I had received a letter.  This wasn’t the first time I had received a letter at the paper, but it was the first time I was called at school and told to come into the paper as soon as possible to read it.  The letter was  from Stewart Wheeler, Adrienne Clarkson’s Press Secretary, suggesting I shouldn’t write unflattering things about the Governor General.

After reading the letter I wondered:

1. How on earth did he ever get to read my column in the first place?  It would have needed to be sent to him.  This was long before anything from the Packet & Times was available online.  And even if it was online…
2. Why would anybody in Rideau Hall really care about what some socially awkward smarty-pants kid in Orillia had to say about anything?
3. How was it that it took about 1000 words to say something that could easily have been expressed in one sentence?  I wrote an open letter to Stewart as a follow up, expressing anticipation of a career change to politics.

But that was it.  For the past 10 years the experience has really been nothing more than a great story to bring up at dinner parties (yes, people still have dinner parties and yes, I sometimes get invited to them) and other social gatherings.  I reminisce about our meeting with Adrienne Clarkson with friends I’ve kept in touch with since the conference.  But really, it’s just an amusing moment from my adolescence that I insist upon bringing up any time Adrienne Clarkson’s name is mentioned in conversation.

However, some nights when it was late and I found myself unable to sleep, I would stay up wondering what I would do if Adrienne Clarkson and I ever crossed paths again…

Welcome back to present day.  I’m sitting in a theatre with my boyfriend, about to watch the opening of a wonderful Canadian play…

…and Adrienne Clarkson walks into the theatre.

I look at Adrienne Clarkson.  I look at Jason.  I look at Adrienne Clarkson again.  I ought to be looking at the stage (the play has started), but I can’t help it.  We’re in the same room.  Together again.  I stare at the back of her head for the entire first act, wondering if I should go talk to her during the intermission.  If I do go up and speak with her, what do I say?  Thank her for the career advice?  Tell her I never looked at the Office of the Governor General the same way ever again?   Ask how Stewart is doing and whether he switched jobs as I suggested?

After the house lights come up for intermission I (along with every other woman in the theatre) make haste towards the ladies’ room.  As I return to the lounge I find myself walking straight towards her.  She’s with other people.  That’s okay.  I compose myself.

This is it.

The moment of truth.

I’ve been building up to this moment for 10 years…

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

That was it.  That’s all I had to say.  I continued on into the lounge.

I went back to Jason and told him I had just bumped into Ms. Clarkson.  He glanced around to make sure everybody in the room was okay.  He looked back at me.  “Yes,” I said, “it was all rather anti-climactic…”

I watched Adrienne Clarkson through the corner on my eye as I was being introduced to others in the room.  My first thought was, “Wow, she’s really tiny when she’s not standing on a soap box.”  My second was, “How can I have any resentment towards somebody who has the good sense to wear leg warmers with a skirt on a cold night in January?”  Mostly I was thinking, “She looks like a really nice lady.”

I think we started over last night.

I don’t think she has any idea we started over, or has any recollection that we had started in the first place, badly or otherwise.

I’m also pretty sure I don’t come up in any of her dinner party conversations.  Maybe something will happen 10 years from now to change that.

I will lie awake and ponder…

Thank you very much to Steve Fruitman at Back to the Sugar Camp on CIUT for making Stars are Falling (& I’m Hungry) the 2010 Porcupine Song of the Year!

What’s the criteria for the Porcupine Song of the Year? This is what Steve has to say:

Sometimes we put too much stock in entire albums of work while a certain song can worm through our spheres of consciousness because it’s just so good. Just one song that answers to no-one, that takes on a life of it’s own, that is singable, hum-able, and easy to play.

Thank you, Steve & CIUT!

Be sure to check out the other 2010 winners by clicking here.

*or even just enjoy Hockey Night in Canada

I always know where I’m going…I just don’t always know where I am.

This was a Plinky prompt.  It’s not meant to be deep. I just have a terrible sense of direction.

Ooohhh…my. I’ve had some terrible teachers. Some really terrible teachers.

(I’ve also had some great teachers, but that’s not the question of the day, now is it?)

First, there was my Grade 5 teacher, Mrs. B. Mrs. B should have stayed in the nursery school where she came from because children who were starting to be able to reason and think were way too much for her. Certainly she would have been better with kids who didn’t have the capacity to talk back. Poor Mrs. B. She finally lost her mind in the middle of an English class, hurling her purse across the room at my friend D. He was sort of our resident class clown, loud mouth and, looking back on it as an adult, scapegoat for everything that went wrong. Fortunately for D, Mrs. B had terrible aim and missed him by a foot. UNfortunately for E, another student in my class, she was the one sitting about a foot away from him.

After throwing her purse and screaming, “DAMN YOU ROTTEN KIDS!!” she ran out of the classroom sobbing, leaving 25 ten year old children unsupervised in their portable. “What should we do?” None of us knew. We were all too shocked to wreck any more havoc. A lost opportunity, really.

Eventually our principal showed up, avec Mrs. B, and announced that she had something to say. We received a very quiet, very forced apology. Then she left. We never saw her again.

Years later, I found out she was fired from another elementary school for smoking in the closet. I don’t mean this an a euphemism. She was literally smoking in the classroom closet. This woman was a superstar.

And then there was Grade 6 and Mr. McM. Aside from giving us lessons that might have been required reading for admission to NASA, Mr. McM was clueless about most things of any importance to 11 year olds. He had no concept that our bodies were changing, we were discovering that members of the opposite gender didn’t have cooties, girls were getting their periods, hormones were raging and we were all, as least a little bit, self-conscious about the whole thing.  We were also all age appropriately crazy.

Every year in my small country school, we had a gymnastics unit. Because Mr. McM was clueless and thought the only reason we weren’t Olympic athletes at this point in our lives was because we were slackers, decided it was a good idea to ask me to demonstrate how to hoist myself high up on a bar and then swing back and forth, let go, flip 360 degrees in the air, and then land on my feet.

It was a really dumb thing to ask.

Why? Because next to my friend S, I was the single klutziest kid in the entire class. Oh, and I had zero gymnastics training. I could barely pull off a cartwheel.

“Mr. McM, I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. T will spot you.”

Great. The klutziest kid in the class being spotted by the smallest kid in the class. Brilliant. I could see about 213 ways for this to end poorly.

In the end it was #124. I landed straight on my head (but without injuring T…I was thankful for that) and into a heap. I was also pretty sure I had a concussion, but that would have been too much paper work.

I’ve just done a search for Mr. McM online and have no idea where he is now. I’m not sure if that’s because he hasn’t done much with himself, or because I’m so old that almost all of my elementary school days predate the interwebs.

Then high school:

Mr. W told the boys in my class I had a “nice ass” and that they should “try and get a piece of it.” Classy.

Mr. X could never have a conversation with a girl while looking her straight in the eye. He didn’t understand how a girl in my brother’s class could be suffering from depression when she “you know…has a body like THIS!” And, in his capacity as a staff advisor, thought it was completely appropriate to allow lingerie to be modeled at the annual fashion show. Where is he now? Not teaching at my high school. Rumour (and I stress it is a rumour) has it he was fired for sleeping with one of his students. One of my younger brothers has informed me Mr. X is (or was as of last year) dating one of his friends in her early 20s after leaving his wife and children. Oh yeah, and he never had any of us do any sort of work in his class, but with everything else in this list, it doesn’t really seem to matter.

Mr. XX told me I was a “black spot on the school community” after writing an article discussing why you can’t fix something you don’t acknowledge is broken. The thing that was broken was our sense of safety. There had been guns in our school.  Drug trafficking had increased significantly during the time I had been in attendance. The issue was that the people in charge wouldn’t admit we had a problem. It would have caused too much bad publicity for our school. So I wrote an article for the city paper. It made Mr. XX really, really angry. Angry enough to call me a “black spot”. Angry enough to infer I might not get any awards or scholarships when I graduated.

All this being said, it was actually a little bit tricky to write this piece. I really did have so many amazing teachers while I was in school and their contributions to my development far outshine these few negative examples.

As S (yes, my klutzy friend from Grade 6) wrote on Facebook as I was asking for help with this post:

Thank goodness it’s the teachers that influenced you the most that you remember.

Yes, S. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

But that might just be because I was dropped on my head.

A. is four years old.  He takes notions.  It’s in his job description.

While his mother was trying to make dinner last night, I suggested to A. that we play a game.  No go.  I suggested we read a story. Stories are for suckers.  I asked him if he’d like to watch a video on my computer.

“On your compooter? Can I press the buttons?”

*sigh*

We had exhausted all of the Veggie Tales and They Might Be Giants clips.  I was trying to think about what else I could show him.  I don’t have kids myself, so I don’t have a ready made list in my head as Abbie does.

So, this was the first thing that came into my head:

Showing Saturday Night Live to my friend’s four year old. Perhaps an indication of my unfitness (hunh?) as a mother? We have now watched this clip a total of 10 times.

Thank you SNL, Andy Sandberg, Dog, Donkey, Chicken and Goat for allowing us the time to fix dinner. It was delicious.

And say ‘hi’ to your mother for me, okay?