Human Sacrifice, or Living Sacrifice?

Flying home yesterday, I met a young man for whom I will be praying for a very long time. Nineteen years old, from a small city on a bayou in Southern Louisiana, he’d never been on an airplane before. He was extremely anxious, and I assured him that we were banking normally as the plane took altitude. He’d never been north where it was cold either, and didn’t own a coat. I asked where he was headed, and whether he was visiting family. “No, ma’am. I’m on my way to St. Louis, for Basic Training.” In nine weeks, he will go on to field artillery training. After that, he did not need to say. He confided that he didn’t know what he’d been thinking when he enlisted. His mom didn’t take it very well. The Army was going to give him $40,000. When is the last time you had a chance to sell yourself for $40,000, in a town where 30% of the population lives under the poverty line? I suggested that even if it was tough to set aside any of his income to qualify for education benefits, he should do it, and go to college. He looked stunned. “I don’t want to go to school.” “You might want to later. Give yourself that option.”

He gave me his name. I will not forget his beautiful, clear, terrified eyes. I will not forget that he cried when I called him by his first name and gently noted that he would be known only by his last name from here on out. I assured him that he would do well, and with a sense that he needed to hear it, that God would be with him every step of the way. I told him I hoped we would do right by him. From now on, my face on the troops in Iraq is a young Cajun named Tommy. I pray that we help him find a future, not a nightmare. I pray that we will not sacrifice him in our name.

I met another young man during this trip, when we offered ourselves to help with New Orleans cleanup and relief. For the last eight months, Sam has been leading crews of volunteers organized through the Episcopal church as they gut houses flooded following Hurricane Katrina. From Michigan, Sam graduated last year from college, and declined a teaching job to come do this work. Sensitively, wisely, gently, he shepherds people of all ages and circumstances to work together and find meaning in some very unpleasant but necessary work, quietly and discreetly doing the worst of it himself. He coached us how to approach what we would do, and gave us context and closure when we were done. He was mentoring a young woman to lead, and I’m sure he has trained many others. He provides first aid to volunteers who get hurt – ask me how I know, and interfaces with disposal contractors who clear away the mountains of debris. After a long day of labor and leadership, he reaches out to neighbors to find more families the program might serve.

At one point, someone who arrived after we were underway asked Sam, “Are you the leader?” He answered, “No. I’m a follower.”

That about sums it up.

Another World

I’m in New Orleans, at a conference on stewardship. Or rather, I was in New Orleans – I’m now at a rural retreat center in Southern Louisiana. This is layering on different experiences, and I can’t keep up.

Yesterday, I worked on a crew to gut one of the small houses in New Orleans’ 9th ward. The Episcopal church in New Orleans is one of several groups bringing in volunteers to work. In some cases, volunteers are stripping houses down to the studs so that the reconstruction process can begin. In many cases, volunteers are stripping houses to find that there’s not enough structure to save, but it helps the family come to closure about the past and what decisions now lie before them. It is foul, difficult, sacred work.

We try very hard to honor the family whose home we gut, as well as the neighbors. This is incarnational ministry, and it changes those of us who come to it. In many cases, the houses have been undisturbed since the flood – the owners have simply been unable to face them. In our case, the homeowner had died in the months after Katrina, and we were working on behalf of her sons. As we entered the house, it was clear that she although she did not die in the flood, what remained broke her heart.

We tore out a little piece of hell yesterday. We took out a jumbled, mildewed mess that had been a home. It included photographs, letters, clothing, beds, furniture, crumbled walls, ruined appliances, ceiling tile that had simply dissolved all over everything. The sky was visible through the roof, and the spongy floor gave glimpses of the ground below. I’m sure this house was no place I’d have wanted to live before the storm, but it was a home to a family for several generations, and after Hurricane Katrina, it has kept them from living and moving forward.

I made a mistake, which actually brought me into this a little closer. We had stacked the rubble carefully so that nails were not exposed. Late in the day we were joined by a FEMA-sponsored contractor to remove the mountains of trash and rubble, and a large board got flipped. I was backing a wheelbarrow of rubble along what had been a clear path, and felt a huge nail slide right through the bottom of my shoe and into my foot. Oh, this was not good. It slid right back out. I was so disgusted with myself – I’d been so careful all day!

I’ve now had a tetanus shot, and I’m on turbo-antibiotics, and a doctor has tortured me in survivable ways. My friend Marty came by to witness the fun and keep me company. Now I’m in the company of a bunch of really great priests and lay leaders and my friend Julie, and I’m looking forward to what today will bring. But I will be watching where I walk.

In other news...

Last night at 9:30 pm, my husband and I emerged from a movie theater into a surging crowd of agitated teenagers. I immediately had flashbacks to gang fights that took place in front of our home in Virginia twelve years ago, and knew we didn't want to be there. As I was holding my husband back from walking to the parking lot, a young man tapped me on the arm and said someone had shot a .22, and someone else had pulled a knife. Just then, we heard tiny little whistling shots. It wasn't a .22, but it was at least an Airsoft pistol or a BB gun. We had just come out of a war movie, and I turned and ran back into the theater. It was surreal. The interior of the movie theater was completely normal, with everyone oblivious to what was happening outside. I asked the manager whether the situation outside was being managed, and he said the cops were on their way. About ten minutes later, everything was under control and we were able to walk out to our car.

I live such a protected, quiet suburban life, with kids who basically avoid trouble, in a low-crime area. As teen violence goes, this was not life-threatening, but it sure jarred me.

For those of you who are following the OldestSon saga -- he will be returning to school. It's been an intense week of him working out what he needs to succeed, identifying how he sabotaged himself, putting together a plan, and communicating commitment. We as parents have had a lot of work and processing to do around this, too. I think we're all feeling good about this decision but it took a while to get here. This isn't going to be easy, but it will make an adult out of him. One way or another.

SecondSon has a pack of teenage boys in the den. We tend to have at least three 16-year-old overnight guests each weekend. They were supposed to go snowboarding today, but the girl whose dad was driving backed out. Some had rented gear, and now have to return it unused. They were upset last night, but have recovered.

Fearless and Searching WIP Inventory

In the interest of lighter content, here's some fiber reportage.

First, some confession. As I clean up the post-vacation, post-temporary job house wreckage, I am finding all my knitting works in progress. I'm not saying I'm finding and finishing them, but I'm finding them. Finishing them will be another step in maturity we can all look forward to. I usually excuse myself from these transgressions by saying I'm a process rather than product knitter, but this is ridiculous.



There's the bamboo yarn preemie wrap sweater for Isaac, knit on size 0 needles, which has reemerged from laundry time travel. It was sized for a child born weighing three pounds. He's now three times that size, and looks great in a silk dress. This will make a good souvenir, or coaster.



There's the adorable white merino baby sweater for Matthew, which only needs its buttons, ends woven in, and blocking. At this point, I will need to put it on a stuffed animal when I give it to Matthew. Matthew is not a baby anymore.



Then there's the similarly adorable teal merino baby sweater for Andrew. Andrew is a big boy now. All it needs is one button, and ends woven in. There's a little disatisfaction with the underarms on that one, which is why I sort of lost steam when I finished knitting it.



Then there's the heavily cabled Noro cashmere blend baby cardigan I was making for William, Andrew's older brother, who is now five. That one's still on needles. I came into that one backwards, thinking I only had enough yarn for a baby sweater. Then I decided only a fool would give a cashmere baby sweater. Either way, I still owe William big-time.



There's the big Mountain Color Bearfoot sweater I started for John. John was big. That takes a long time. Now, John is losing weight and is not so big. I need to rethink this. In the meantime, John has not received a handmade sweater from me since 1983, before we were married. He thought it was storebought, said "Thanks", and put it aside to open the next gift. I've hidden behind that incident long enough, since John basically funds my yarn habit. There better be a sweater for John in the near future. Maybe handspun on the spinning wheel he just bought me. I love this man -- I just can't finish a damn sweater.

Oh, there's Rogue, which was to be for Claire, whom I missed terribly when she moved away. In the effort to modify it into a zip hoodie, I overengineered it, and ended up ripping out weeks of work in frustration. I also had huge doubt that this wonderful teenage girl would condescend to wear a handmade sweater, with or without Celtic cables. I wanted her to be cool and popular in her new school -- would wearing something homemade hold her back socially?

Which is also what I did to Jonathan's preppy cabled v-neck pullover, which I restarted twice. I was working out a huge amount of grief on that one. It's hard to figure out what size to make a pullover for your baby boy when he lives across the country and you no longer get to watch him grow. I gave up. Hopefully I will be able to come back to another project for Jonathan and actually give it to him.

Way back in the annals of time, there's a front panel for a patterned blue merino sweater for Jonathan's daddy. It's still around. I don't know where the rest of the yarn is. It's complicated to knit for a guy you love like a brother, but who is another friend's husband. Feels too intimate. I would walk through fire for this guy, but I can't make him a sweater. (Nonetheless, it was an impressive start.)

There's a single merino sock in Koigu. I have the yarn for the other. I can't even remember who this was intended for.



There's the very ornately cabled acrylic burgundy torso, waiting for sleeves and a collar. I think that's about five years old. I'm not sure. I don't like the feel of the yarn on my hands, but I obviously spent a lot of time with it, because it's VERY cabled. This was obviously before I became a yarn snob.

I ripped out the Aran cabled torso I did during coverage of 9/11. It fulfilled its purpose, and there was so much tension and horror knit into that one I could never have given it to anyone. Besides, there was a cable that crossed the wrong way way down on one column, and I got kind of paralyzed about that flaw. I know there were ways to fix it, but I didn't want to. Besides, it was just Wool-Ease.



The current "active" project is a sweater from thick Karabella Aurora bulky yarn I've had for a couple of years. It's fat yarn, and knits up quick, and I'd been at a loss for what to make with it. I came across a pattern for a close-fitting jacket with a cabled border that should do it justice, and hopefully I have just enough yarn.



Also still alive is a ChicKnits Ribby Shell in tencel/cotton. This yarn feels wonderful, but it's shedding. This is definitely a hand candy project. I think anytime I wear this with black pants, it will look like a teal lint bomb went off. I'm not talking myself out of it. I'm not, I'm not.

The turquoise Canby cabled socks, knit simultaneously on a circular, have been dormant a while. I'm not loving the way they look...

In addition to all the works "on needles", I have the world's largest collection of fine fibery closet insulation. Maybe not. I figure, I could actually buy clothing to put in my closet, but that would cost more. Anyone who sees me knows that apparel is not my vice. Yarn is. Color, texture, potential, creativity, love for other people, intention, engineering, fellowship with other fiber folks -- there's so much there. I love this stuff.

And there's also weaving and spinning content yet to come.

I'm sure this all reveals my character flaws to the world. Oh, well. Shed a little light on them and I'm more likely to improve. Maybe I'm showing off and only pretending to confess.

The Difference between Joy and Happiness

I've been thinking about joy, lately. I have a joy-filled life. Joy changes the significance of events, unhappy or happy, just as powerfully as depression does. It's not a blanket of happiness that blunts pain. It's more like a deep trust that frees you to find meaning and beauty in what is happening. Sadness is not incompatible with joy -- it just doesn't own the real estate. Joy is a challenge to discuss with others, because we all become very invested in our suffering, and feel betrayed by anyone who does not surrender to our distress. Joy is the peace which passes all understanding.

Believe me, I've had my share of occasions for pain lately. I just lost a friend to cancer, and two more are imminent. My son is working through what he needs to change if he is to continue in college. My daughters' learning disabilities are creating increasing disparities between them and their classmates. My nation is led by a subpar president who is taking us deeper into an unwinnable war. We are apparently choosing to ignore the damage we are wreaking on Creation. I have 36 hours worth of things to accomplish during any given 24 hour day.

All of those are issues that call for a constructive response on my part. Joy makes me capable of that constructive response. Life is a gift. People are gifts, even the ones who make you want to scream. The infinitely varied expression of human life and culture is a gift. Death is a painful but necessary gift. We fail to see the gift, all the time. It's always there.

Here's to the gift.

Going a little differently than I expected

Apparently the gorilla isn't finished dancing yet.

OldestSon is working through deep denial that he has failed his first semester at college. It's so hard. He loves this school, and loves this program. It is tearing us apart to tell him he can't go back right now. It would be different if he were in a less expensive school. He tends to pretend that nothing bad is happening rather than address a problem before it escalates. He also does not reach out for help when he's struggling -- he checks out. We've had 36 hours now since he disclosed his grades, which he has been hiding for about a week, and he's beginning to figure out alternatives. Not fast enough for his father, who wants to drive his decision process. Dad's feeling powerless, so he seeks dominance, and then he's surprised when OldestSon fights him rather than the problem. Last night, I hung out with OldestSon until 1 a.m. I just asked him questions. It was a good conversation. Today OldestSon will have lunch with an adult mentor he's known for years. Thank God for all the people in our life.

I know my son's a solid guy, and that this crisis is completely normal, and that this is going to turn out well. It just won't be painless.