Reflecting 2011

As I've done the last two years, I've dumped the text of the blog into a word frequency analyzer (Wordle) and made a word cloud. I'm struck by the consistency of my writing. Total words on the blog this year? 64840 Last year? 65299! 172 posts. God appears 297 times, prayer and its variants at 257. Last year's numbers are eerily similar, 311 and 258, respectively. I'm on message.

As one that longs to see God in all things, I'm amused that see is embedded in God. And I'm enjoying the accidental co-location of God's and Crash, which I can read several ways. Crash surely is God's (as I've written here, a column I was thinking about today when Crash again bore the cross into Church on a Marian feast). But in this season, where God crashed into time, I prefer to read it as a metaphor for the Incarnation.

And on what other blog might you find the words synchrotron and refulgence both in play?

Happy New Year!

Column: Lost and Found in Translation

The new translation of the Roman Missal launches with the First Sunday in Advent this year — less than two months from now. There will be things I will not miss in the old translation (some of the institutionally prosaic opening prayers, for one) and others I suspect I will miss deeply ("one in being"). Fr. Jeremy St. Martin (in the video) works with the deaf apostolate in the Archdiocese of Boston. I learned some ASL when I was on leave at Livermore National Labs (a colleague was deaf), and kept it up (useful for communicating with children in public places). As a result, most of the neighborhood kids learned "stop" and "bother" (as in "stop bothering your brother!")

For another, more poetic (and yes, there is poetry in ASL), interpretation of a setting of the Lord's Prayer, see the video at the end! Play it with the sound turned off...

This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times on 29 September 2011.

We are Parthians, Medes, and Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the districts of Libya near Cyrene, as well as travelers from Rome, both Jews and converts to Judaism, Cretans and Arabs, yet we hear them speaking in our own tongues of the mighty acts of God. Acts 2:9-11

I hadn’t seen Israel for a couple of years when I ran into him while visiting my dad in California, but I was still greeted with a cheery “¿Como estas?” when he saw me on the path. We talked about the work we were doing and as I struggled to find the words to explain — in Spanish — the little book I was finishing, he good-humoredly noted, “Your Spanish has gotten a lot worse!” “Es verdad,” I sighed. It’s the truth, and I mourn the gradual decline of my second tongue. It hinders not only my conversation with Israel, but my conversation with God.

“To sing is to pray twice,” St. Augustine purportedly said. I feel similarly about having multiple languages to pray in — they lend a depth and a life to my prayer, much as a cathedral choir’s rich harmonies shimmer and dance above the assembly’s firm unison.

With more or less prompting, I can still manage to get from “Our Father…” to “Amen” in five languages. Each time I pray the Our Father, no matter what the language, the other four weave their harmonies over and under the melody line. Pater noster. Father, first and foremost. The assurance that sounds in the strong beat of santificada sea tu nombre. The unadorned ordinariness of unser Brot - our bread. The hand that moves from forehead heavenward in the sign language version, an embodied reminder of where I look for help.

I relish the murmurs of multiple English translations, too. Three years ago, when I went on retreat for 30 days, the instructions said to bring only two books along: a copy of the Bible and a copy of St. Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises. In my first meeting with the Jesuit would direct me in the Exercises, I sheepishly admitted that while I’d obediently left novels and science journals home, I’d brought not one, not two but three different translations of the Psalms along with me. The rich chorus of voices rang clearly amidst the silence of those weeks.

In mathematics, to translate something is to pick it up and move it to another place. In a few weeks time, we will move to use a new translation of the Mass. We will be reminded of our status as pilgrims — not curators of a static tradition, but followers of the living Word.

A part of me is braced for this journey into the wilderness, to a place where the words have yet to wear a smooth path through mind and soul. I will miss hearing aloud the words of the Eucharistic prayer that consoles me so deeply in my struggle to negotiate the demands of being wife, mother and teacher with the desire to “stone-still at God’s feet, listening to Him alone”: He stretched out his arms between heaven and earth. My tongue is sure to trip on the threshold of “consubstantial” — still hunting for “one in being.”

Yet I’m also looking forward to hearing new notes sounded in my prayer, to another layer woven into the glorious tapestry that is the Church’s public voice. No matter what language or what translation we use, how simple the melody or intricate the harmonies the words are set to, we are called to sound as a single voice. For we are a single Word, made flesh. The Body of Christ.

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If you are the body and members of Christ, then it is your sacrament that is placed on the table of the Lord; it is your sacrament that you receive. To that which you are you respond "Amen” and by responding to it you assent to it. For you hear the words, "the Body of Christ" and respond "Amen." Be then a member of the Body of Christ that your Amen may be true. — St. Augustine

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Another setting of the Our Father. Play with the sound off to better "get" the poetry of the ASL.

Togenuki Jizu

I am functionally illiterate. The only kanji I can recognize reliably are the numbers, and those are generally given in their Arabic form - so a rather useless piece of knowledge at the moment. Once we were out of the airport, roma-ji and English essentially vanished. It's frustrating, to say the least. I'm reduced to pointing at things on the menu and saying, that looks good.

My room is a traditional Japanese space. A futon on the floor, tatami mats, shoji screens. And slippers at the door. And slippers for the postage stamp sized bathroom. In many ways it is reminiscent of the rooms I've stayed in in various retreat houses. Small, simple, but offering a welcome. The thermos of hot water set on the low table, with a pot and cup to make tea, and a small snack (though since I'm functionally illiterate at the moment, I have absolutely no idea what is in the little orange and brown paper packet).

We went to Togenuki-Jizu last night, a temple in Tokyo that draws people seeking healing. The story goes that a maid, working on repairing children's clothes, accidentally swallowed the needle. They took her to the temple, where the priest wadded up a piece of paper with an image of Jizu on it for the maid to swallow. She swallowed, then vomited back up the paper, with the needle through the image. You still get slips of paper at the temple to swallow, as you might bathe in water from Lourdes. You can see our packet of them in the photo. Shades of St. Blaise.

The temple is in a neighborhood, with lots of little shops that appeal to women of certain age (it's sometimes called the grandmother zone). You cross into the percents, to find a Chouzuya, a place to wash. The stone basin here was sheltered under a small pagoda, with elegantly simple brass ladles. You scoop up some water with the ladle and wash your right hand, then your left, then pour a bit of water in your right hand, rinse your mouth and spit (discretely) onto the ground. The sheer abundance of the water is beautiful. It is reminiscent of the holy water fonts in Catholic churches (though most of those seem parsimonious compared to this flowing water, so rich visually and aurally), and of the places to wash your feet before entering a mosque.

There are several large urns in which to burn incense, you can buy a bundle and drop it in. People would walk up and waft the smoke over themselves, breathing it in, swirling it around their heads.

Merry Christmas!

The ornament was made by my mother, for her first Christmas tree, when she and my dad were grad students. She cut out bells and hearts and start from foil, then sewed them in threes, opening them into three dimensional shapes and twisting the thread to hold them onto the tree. She stored them in the pages of an old Good Housekeeping from 1957. Browsing the magazine each year became as much a tradition for me as did the ornaments.

Merry Christmas!

Column: Holy Waters

I loved that line in the sermon about God pouring water into the seas and rivers and thinking about those same hands pouring water into a small basin. Two beautiful reflections on this same moment are Francis X. Clooney SJ's on washing without hierarchies and Gary Smith SJ's -- who would carry that basin to the world. (H/T to People for Others for the last).


This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times 1 April 2010.

He got up from table, removed his outer garment and, taking a towel, wrapped it around his waist; he then poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel he was wearing. — Jn. 13:4-5


A few years ago I came home to find an 8-year-old Chris sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room watching television, his feet soaking in my biggest soup pot. Puzzled, I asked, “Are you all right?”

“I just had a stressful day, and I need to relax,” he told me. Ah. “Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked.

I listened to what was troubling him, retrieved the pot to use for dinner and dried his feet — still small enough then to enfold in my hands — with a towel. Now when I hear this Gospel passage proclaimed, I remember kneeling at my son’s feet, tenderly wiping off the last drops of water, surrounding him with my love, protecting him from the world battering at his heart.

“Mandatum novum do vobis…a new commandment I give you, love one another as I have loved you.” The traditional antiphon sung at the washing of the feet on Holy Thursday underscores the principal meaning the Church has attached to this practice for centuries — charity. The Church tells us this is a teaching moment, a demonstration of how we should treat our brothers and sisters in Christ.

Here, too, we see an image of Christ’s self-emptying, taking on what only slaves would have done, for never would the host stoop to wash the feet of guests. I remain struck by the vision of such humility that one early homilist conjured for his community, “He who pours the water into the rivers and the pools tipped some water into a basin.” It is a strong call to humility in service, but I sometimes wonder if the strength of that image drowns out other, subtler lessons.

St. Ambrose, in his treatise on the sacraments, challenges us to see the washing of the feet as more than an act of hospitality and humility, or even charity. “See the humility, see the grace, see the sanctification.” Learn, he says, how it is a sacrament, a mystery, a sacred sign of God at work in our lives.

In Ambrose’s fourth-century Milan, the washing of the feet was celebrated along with the rite of baptism. The bishop and priests washed the feet of the newly baptized, not primarily out of humility, though that was certainly a desirable effect, but to offer a bit of extra sacramental protection for the new Christians, to keep them from being “tripped up” by Satan.

Both Christ’s careful attention to this undignified task in the midst of a companionable meal, where He goes so far as to fill the basin himself, and the early bishop’s desire follow the triumph of baptism and offer to their sisters and brothers a more ordinary touch of grace, speak to me of a God whose love tends to all the small and messy details even in the midst of momentous occasions, a love that can change a basin of water and a towel into sacred signs.

As the Triduum unfolds these next days, we will celebrate the mysteries of our redemption with great solemnity and grandeur. Yet I find myself drawn to the contemplation of this small scene, the Creator of the oceans stepping aside to fill a basin with water, enfolding His followers’ feet with His hands, surrounding them with His love like a shield in the face of a world about to batter body, mind and their very souls. A sacred mystery indeed.

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Lord, in your mercy give us living water, always springing up as a fountain of salvation: free us, body and soul, from every danger, and admit us to your presence in purity of heart. Grant this through Christ our Lord. Amen. — From the Rite of Blessing of Holy Water

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

Crash and Barnacle Boy were discussing the finer points of being an altar server at dinner the other night, based on Crash's vast experience (six weeks and counting). Turns out being behind the scenes you find out more than you might want to know.

"Did you know that the water for the blessings just comes right from the tap? It's just regular water that the guy [ed: that's a direct quote, can you tell we're Roman Catholic?] blesses!" Crash declared incredulously. The Boy doesn't quite believe him. "It's true," I threw in. "The water for the baptismal font, too. The only difference for the font is that if we are baptizing a baby, we use warm tap water." "You mean I was baptized with tap water?" "Uh-huh!" I'm certain he was scandalized. I'm not quite sure what he was expecting us to use, and now I wished I'd asked. Water from the Jordan, imported in bottles? Vatican blend? A spring in the sacristy?

If I put on my sacramental theologian and catechist hats, this raises a couple of interesting questions. Should we warm the water, what sacramental message are we sending? What do my kids understand about blessings and sacramentals?

Friday Five: It's my party

RevGals' Mother Laura is having a birthday soon. Cathy already had one this year. Mine is going to be a big one. So, Math Man, take note....

1. When is your birthday? Does anyone else (famous and/or in your own life) share it?

My birthday is April 12. My brother, Geek Guru, was born two years and two days later, so we don't quite share, but there's was definite "birthday" feel to mid-April when I was growing up. This year is a "decade" year in my family. Someone will turn 10, 20, 40, 50, 60, 80 and 90. I would be the median age in the list!

2. Do you prefer a big party or an intimate celebration for the chosen few?

A nice dinner with a few friends.

3. Describe your most memorable birthday(s)--good, bad, or both.

My 2nd birthday is my first vivid memory that I can date. I can see all the people walking up the steps of the house we lived in in Naperville, some carrying gifts. My birthday had been a few days before, and I thought I was getting another party. Actually, what I was getting was a new baby brother. I'm sure I'd been told that, but since in those days kids didn't even see their sibs through nursery windows, I suspect I didn't have a great grasp on the concept. I was seriously dissappointed. Probably grounds for years of therapy!

A gorilla bearing champagne appeared in my office on my 30th birthday. I wouldn't come out into the hall, where colleagues and students were gathered, so the gorilla picked me up and carried me out. I was blushing!

My 40th birthday was also Easter Sunday - a first in my lifetime. (Three times when I was a kid, my birthday fell on Good Friday - a day of fast. If you do the math in 1., you realize that my brother's birthday in those years fell on Easter - jealous, me?? Nah!) I was totally distracted from the turning 40 bit by a horrific case of pink-eye I had (courtesy of my students, it was epidemic on local campuses that spring).

4. What is your favorite cake and ice cream? (Bonus points if you share the cake recipe). Or would you rather have a different treat altogether?

Oh...Rainbow Cake. Make an angel food cake (or use a mix!). Take 1/2 the batter, divide into several small bowls and using food coloring, tint the batter various shades. Spoon the untinted batter and the tinted batter into a tube pan, making random patterns. When cut, the cake will have a festive splatter of shades. Here's a link to a more elaborate version (I like the little packages on top, though!).

5. Surprise parties: love 'em or hate 'em?

I've never had one - so I'll withhold judgement! But I definitely enjoy little surprises..the year I turned 38, I was expecting Barnacle Boy and had gestational diabetes - no cake for me. A friend appeared in my class, bearing a colorful plate of Jello-Jigglers -all sugar free, so I could celebrate!

Bonus: Describe your ideal birthday--the sky's the limit.

A beautiful spring day with a walk. Rainbow cake. A really rare steak.

The Feast of Unleavened Bread

Having made a joyful noise unto the Lord last night at the vigil Mass, the celebration of the Nativity of the Lord at my house unfolded gently this morning, and for the first time in years I did not celebrate morning prayer alone as the dawn broke.

The boys got up and helped me get the breakfast ready: orange juice, tea, and homemade cinnamon buns. Gifts were opened and enjoyed (my favorites - Math Man 's gift of an e-book by one of my favorite authors; Crash's Nerf dart gun - along with lessons in how to shoot it; and the Boy's kit to construct a robot from coins - the first time he's ever shopped solo for me with his own money).

Crash wanted loaves of "Wernersville Bread" (actually Brother's Bread from Secrets of Jesuit Bread Baking - a gift from my father years before I ever visited the old novitiate); Barnacle Boy lusted after his own favorite, the yeast rolls from Fannie Farmer. I manged to get a batch of each made this afternoon, juggled around the rest of the cooking. Twenty minutes before dinner was due to be ready, as I opened the oven to slide the rolls in, I knocked the pan with the two loaves off the stove top where they had been rising. The pan flipped and both loaves hit the floor. I could hear the oof as they deflated - right along with my pride in my ability to juggle multiple cooking projects.

Crash and I picked the now seriously unleavened bread off the floor. By some miracle both loaves were on the dish towel I'd covered the pan with, so we reformed them and left then to rise a third time. (There's a parable here I'm sure...) The third time was perhaps not quite the charm, the loaves are a bit flatter than usual, but Crash professed his delight with the outcome nonetheless.

Pecan Shorts

1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
1 1/2 tbsp cold water
1 cup flour

Cream butter and sugar. Add vanilla and water. Gradually blend in flour. Chill. Roll 1/4" thick. Cut into rectangles. Bake at 325^oF for 20 minutes or until lightly browned on the bottom. While still warm, shake in powdered sugar. For a festive look, add a couple of tablespoons of colored sugar (I like green or red at Christmas) to the confectioner's sugar. Alternatively, sift the confectioner's sugar over the warm cookies while stick on the cooling rack. I get less cookie breakage with the second method.

These are my all time favorite Christmas cookies. The recipe comes from my Great Aunt Vi, who grew up on the bayou in Lousiana, then worked as a nurse in New Orleans. The year before my mom died, she was bemoaning the fact that my dad was not planning on making Shorts for Christmas. Too much trouble, he said. They are fragile cookies and do require a bit more oversight than most. As a surprise, I baked a batch, carefully wrapped each cookie in waxed paper, then packed them in layers in bubble wrap. Off the package went to my sister's in California for hand delivery to my Mom: express mail to be there in time. The next evening, my sister called to report. Urgle. Her dog had eaten the package. A real trooper, The Pretty One asked for the recipe (she's not a cook), baked a batch and brought them over to my mom.

Ah...yes, there are no pecans in the recipe as it's come down to me. I'm allergic to nuts, so this is fine with me. But if you like pecans, you'll have to figure out how much and how to add them in!

What earth has given and human hands have made

One loaf of Brothers' Bread (much beloved by the tween/teen set in this household), kneaded and shaped by She of The Book. By now it's been eaten (though one loaf remains for sandwiches tomorrow). Barnacle Boy's biscuits (yeast rolls actually) went straight from the oven to the table without a stop on the cooling racks, never to return.


She of the Book made the fruit fillings (apple and berries), The Boy helped roll and shape the crusts. Yes, that is a bird's head poking out...

These haven't been touched, we went to a friend's house for wonderful desserts (homemade bittersweet chocolate pudding!), but I imagine they won't last through the day tomorrow


And Crash Kid did the table design, including arranging the flowers...

Surprise, I'm Catholic

Eucharistic theology created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Catholic You are a Catholic. You believe that the bread and wine are transformed by the priest and become the Body and Blood of Christ. Though the accidents, or appearance, of bread and wine remain, the substance has been changed. The Eucharist remains the Body and Blood of Christ after the celebration, and is reserved in the Tabernacle; Eucharistic devotions are proper. As the whole Christ is present under either species, you partake fully of the Eucharist even if you receive only one. Catholic 81% Orthodox 75% Luther 75% Calvin 38% Unitarian 0% Zwingli 0%

The Queen is in Residence

My dad's farm is marked by two flagpoles, generally sporting the US flag and the California state flag. Years ago he bought flags for each of the states where kids, spouses and grandkids were born. My boys love to "read" the flags as we approach, to see which cousins might already have arrived, or if their flag is flying. Everyone is here or will be, here this week, for my dad's wedding, but it's my Lousiana flag that's aloft. When my brother, The Reverend, asked why, I offered, "It indicates that her Majesty, the Queen, is in residence." I am still surprised he didn't dump me in the pool for that one!

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The flag wars have begun. My brother put up the Texas flag this morning!