So it occurred to me that this was one of those things that, if I couldn’t buy ready-made, I could make for myself.  And so, for Christmas, my girls will be getting “The Book of [Name] 2012″, and writing utensils.

But tucked in the back of each journal, there will be stickers, with journalling prompts.  Story ideas, joke, memory, imagination, and list prompts.  39 of them.  I asked my facebook friends to contribute ideas for prompts- and the resulting list was awesome and hilarious.  And some of the adults were commenting “I would love to get this journal”.

So- here’s the template I’m using for my 5yo, as an easily adaptable Word .doc.  I’m happy to share it.  I used Avery #08923 labels.  All it needs now is a blank book, some fun pens, an imagination, and some time set aside to fill in the The Book of You.

The argument (as I recall it) was that life here depends on occasional catastrophes to shake our development out of an evolutionary rut.  Too few major meteorite collisions, and we’d have stalled out before leaving the oceans.  Too many, and there’s no time for something new to establish itself before it is wiped out.  And it is Jupiter, our immense neighbour, that limits the frequency with which we are bombarded with space debris.  Jupiter’s HUGE gravitational pull causes her to draw that debris into herself, protecting us from more frequent collisions.

“I’ll sleep better tonight” I tweeted during the screening, “knowing that Jupiter’s got our back”.

And I find myself now wondering about this as a model for what I do here, in the Parish.  It could be argued that the collar,  and the institutional authority it represents, give me a larger gravitational pull.  So here I am, circling the many ministries of this place, drawing fire.

Attack us if you must- but attack me.  Because something precious and rare and unique and beloved of God is busy growing. And I’d rather it not be disturbed.

Sounds good to me!  I haven’t tried pumpkin Chai.  But long before I became that suburban Mom who chats with a friend and sips pumpkin spice latte at the mall, leaving the 3yo to amuse herself on the iPad*, “pumpkin spice” was the official flavour of world domination.  Or at least the official flavour of an ongoing attempt to raise two astoundingly awesome girls into confident women.

Pumpkin Spice has been our muffin of choice for years.  My Big Girl has gone from barely able to stand, scraping the spoon into the muffin cups– to reading the recipe and double-checking measurements while her sister stirs.  We do math; we count and measure and compare.**  And we do chemistry; we separate our wet and dry ingredients (and every time, we gleefully remember that sugar is TRICKY).  We do food chemistry; talking about how baking soda makes our muffins feel right, and cinnamon makes them yummy.  We do “nutrition education”; about how healthy it is to eat lots of different kinds of food.

Our muffins have a healthy dose of smartass in them, too.  For example, the recipe is for Pumpkin Loaf.  But we like muffins, so we make it in muffin tins.  And for special occasions (such as tonight’s All-the-November-Birthdays Dinner), we add cream cheese icing.  And suddenly, we have pumpkin spice CUPCAKES!

And so, I offer to you our Favourite Pumpkin Spice Loaf World Domination Cupcake Recipe:

1 cup Pumpkin
1/2 cup oil
1 cup white sugar
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs

1 tsp baking SODA
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp cloves

Combine dry ingredients. In a separate bowl, mix wet ingredients. Add dry to wet. Put in greased loaf
muffin tin. Bake for 1 hour 20*** minutes at 350°F

*Um. Last week. Good times.

**These will be useful skills when they are older and begin to knit (I’ve told them I’ll teach them at 10, if they want to learn any sooner they have to find a different teacher.)  I have never done so much math as I have since I picked up needles and tried to manipulate string into 3 dimensional objects.

***Or, slightly longer- since Mr. Judge/Jury/Executioner just threw a dozen muffins in the compost for being “too doughy”

Oh, there is just so much heart-ache in this morning’s Gospel reading.
The heartache of Peter’s great mistake; last week he said exactly the right thing: “you are the messiah, the son of the living God”. And now, he has followed it up by saying exactly the wrong thing- revealing that while he can use that word, “Messiah”, he has no understanding of what it means. No. Jesus? Didn’t you hear me, I said “you’re the Messiah”. You don’t die. You can’t die. We need you.

And the heartache of Jesus’ great disappointment- to have his dear friend Peter come so close to the mark, and yet miss by so very much. How much pain is behind those terrible words “get behind me, Satan”?

And the heartache of Jesus’ teaching- that he is on his way to Jerusalem, to die. The heartache of the cross itself.

Can you blame Peter, really?

“You? Die? God forbid it!”
Here was this man, this charismatic teacher who didn’t just talk about hope and life and compassion and love- he LIVED it. He embodied it. He incarnated it.
How could he die?
Can you blame Peter? Really?

For wanting this incredible presence- this Emmanuel, God with us, to last forever. To keep teaching and healing and laughing and walking and breaking bread… to just keep being and doing-
until they would go to Jerusalem together, at the head of an army of followers, who would oust the occupiers and return Israel to her glory, and the greatest and least would sit down together, and break bread together, and they would all live happily ever after.

Can you blame Peter for preferring that fantasy to the cross?

But, Jesus tells him.
Get behind me.
Get in line.
And follow.

Because there is no getting around the very central, fundamental, well… crucial… place that the death of Jesus plays in our understanding of who we might be, we who would follow him.

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me”.

And so here we are: Following.

In each generation, and each life, and each week, and each moment, figuring out anew what it means for us to take up a cross. Figuring out what it means to be disciples of this Jesus.

We often want to read passages like this on an individual level. What it says to me, and my experience. And it is a glorious thing that each of us can read this text, and because it is a living word, we can find in it something that speaks to us, to our individual experiences and our lives. But this one is, I think, a particularly important lesson to consider as a community, a family, a Parish, a Church.

One of the most revelatory things I ever learned about how to be the Church, how to grow the Church, how to assure a future for the Church, was rooted in this Gospel passage:

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.
For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.

And I struggle for words to tell you how honoured I am to be a part of this community, this Parish that heard those words, and gave up so much in order to get to this place. Who let go of buildings; so that you could focus your energy, together, on people. Who let go of traditions; so that you could discover new ways of being together in community. Who let go of the Church you had been; to embrace the Church you could become.

Wow. Just. Wow.

Faith. Hope. Courage. Creativity. Tradition. A spirit of Unity and Co-operation.
This combined Parish is filled with so much of what the Church needs. So much of what the worlds needs.

But, I don’t have to tell you that. You knew that.

And I wonder, sometimes, about where everybody else is. Everybody else who wants more faith, more hope, more courage, more creativity, more beauty, more dignity, more music, more peace… everybody who wants more in their life of what we have here… where are they? Don’t they know what they’re missing?

Starting this week, there are some materials at the back of the Church about “back to Church” Sunday. It began as a single week at the end of September, when Churches would make a particular effort to invite their members “back” to Church. It is easy to identify the folks to whom we might extend that invitation to return- that vast list of people who used to take an active part of the life of the Church, but who… don’t… any more. They got hurt. They got angry. They got busy. they got older. They got out of the habit. Whatever the reason we hadn’t seen them for a while, we would invite them back.

It was supposed to be a great tool to grow the Church.

Which makes me nervous.
Let me tell you why.

“Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

I’m nervous about any endeavor, any initiative, any program or project or idea, whose purpose is to “grow” the Church. Even though we have this sense that if we don’t grow the Church, then the church will fade and die. Perhaps especially because we have this sense that if we don’t grow the Church, then the church will fade and die.

God Forbid!

But. Our purpose is not to grow the Church.
(There is your selection committee, all thinking “Oh, dear God, what have we DONE?!”)
Our purpose is not even to maintain the Church.

Our purpose is to be the Church. To follow. To know that following matters more than the possibility of dying. To know that the God we follow is, in fact, a God of abundant life. That in the hands of this God, even death isn’t what we think it is.

And it isn’t that inviting people to Church is a bad thing. I love inviting people to Church. It’s just…
It’s just, that invitation can’t be rooted in fear.

Peter speaks out of fear, “you can’t die”. Judas betrays him out of fear. The Pharisees kill him out of fear. Peter denies him out of fear. In these stories that we turn to, to discover who we are as God’s people, very little good ever comes from acting out of fear.

And confronted by Peter’s fear-filled words, Jesus says, “get behind me”. Follow me. And if we are to follow, then Jesus’ path is a path of peace. Of hope. Of truth. Of joy. And fear has no place on it.

I heard a speaker last year, the Rev. Rob Voyles.
He said that there’s this biological, neurochemical thing that happens when we look too long at our problems; when we are afraid.

We, the collective, human, we… we lose our capacity for creative thought, for lateral thinking, for synthesis. In short- the more afraid we are of our problems, the less capacity we have to solve them.

“Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

So how do we let go of fear?
It’s funny. But you know we can’t? The human mind- it doesn’t deal well with negatives.
We cannot conceive of less something. We can only imagine more. Of something else.

So. Let me ask you. If there is no fear. Then what is there?
No. Really. If not fear, then what?

[Trust, they said. Peace. Confidence. Hope. Love. Faith.]

Okay. So.
How can we have more Trust? More peace, confidence, hope, love, faith.
What choices, what decisions, what actions lead to more trust? more peace? confidence, hope, love, faith?
Do you know anybody else, in the rest of your life away from here, who wants more Trust in their life, more peace, more confidence, more hope, more love, more faith?
And do you think you might invite them to be part of a trust- peace- confidence- hope- love- faith-seeking community, such as this one.

Because that community- that community that strives to find more trust, more peace, more confidence, more hope, more love, more faith, more joy, more calm, more beauty…

That community that knows that, even if the path leads through death, we are following a God of abundant life. That in the hands of this God, even death isn’t the ending we think it is.

That community that doesn’t just talk about hope and life and compassion and love- but that LIVES it; embodies it; incarnates it.

That community has nothing to fear.
Thanks be to God.

Click here for the .pdf file

I’m not pleased with how ours is curling in on itself. If I could be bothered doing it over, I’d probably choose something like Berroco Vintage- Mushroom or Oatmeal, maybe? And I’d have done 4 or 6 stitches of ribbing at the outside edge. I added those suggestions in the .pdf I’d love to hear from someone about how they worked out.

This picture wasn’t even taken today. Just some random day we wore matching Star Wars shirts. I’m exceedingly fortunate to have geeky friends who have boys just a few years older than my girls.

Oops- this has, (clearly) sat for a long time as a draft. Time to release it out into the world, I suppose…. but I’ll worry much much less about spoilers.

Last week I had the unusual pleasure of seeing not one, but TWO new release films in theatre! Black Swan on Tuesday and the King’s Speech on Thursday. Both were amazing- but I’m no reliable judge of amazing, having not been to see a film in theatre since I don’t even know when.

It was extra fun to see Black Swan with a former dancer with an interest in film-making, who could help make sense not only of the world of dance, but of the use of certain camera techniques (soooo much hand-held!). Turns out, there’s reasons in both worlds to put your protagonist in just one leg warmer.

But what I bring to a film is primarily an interest in story. And it seemed to me like both of these films were telling related stories- about power; and the claiming of it. Both Nina and Bertie find themselves in new positions- and despite having spent a lifetime in preparation for them, neither are comfortable claiming the power of their new roles. And fair enough! Both are roles that no one can rehearse or practice- the only way to become King, the only way to become the Prima Ballerina, is to step into the role as one is, and hope that one can grow enough to fill it with some grace.

Lots of things in life are like that, I think.

Both are being expected to embody something both more than, and less than human. Seduction. Allure. Restraint. Freedom. Resistance. Strength. Clearly- Bertie grows into his role more successfully than Nina does. And one has to wonder… why? What is different for him than for her? And of course, the difference in their pronouns is a part of it. Of course, when the story is about claiming power, we are far more familiar with stories of men’s power than of women’s. But that sort of analysis, while necessary, Isn’t what I want to do- it makes me sad and angry- and there are, I think, other interesting differences between the two.

And the difference that captures my interest is the nature of the communities and relationships in which Nina and Bertie both participate. Nina’s relationships are all fractured and fragmented. Whatever the hell is going on between her and her mother, a company of dancers all waiting for her to fail so they can vie for her role, a director that wants a principal who both oozes self-confidence, and yet responds with body and soul to his own whims. We see her toss out her stuffed animals and secure her bedroom door in an attempt to claim some vestige of adulthood. We see her sent (!) home to touch herself to claim some of her own sexual power. We see her being told to find herself by letting go… all in a context where in order to do any of these things, in order to claim any part of her own power as either a woman or a dancer, she is forced to violate the ground rules of one of the twisted relationships in her life. Even as Lily tries to bridge that chasm between “soloist” and “principal”, the underlying paranoia of the ballet world means that no matter what Lily intends, Nina is incapable of accepting any gesture as anything but plotting. Like Beth before her, she can only imagine that Lily wants her part. And Thomas’ answer, “every girl wants your part” only emphasizes the poisonous nature of life in the company– and returns us to the opening chatter, as the soloists attack Beth for having stayed around too long. It is, as Nina points out, sad. And it isn’t about to change just because the name on the programme does.

In Stark contrast, every time Bertie speaks we are shown a montage of his family and his subjects, holding their collective breath and desperately hoping for him to succeed. His Royal Highness is up there embodying something indefinable about the whole nation, and they all want him to do it well. His wife (as an aside: if that was an even remotely accurate portrayal of Elizabeth the Queen Consort, I have a whole new perspective on my grandmother’s Royalist attitudes. What an exquisite picture of charm and decorum, and etiquette placed, as it is intended, at the service of making others around her comfortable.) creates opportunities for him to ask for help in ways that he cannot do himself– but she forces nothing. He is, at every turn, the one who chooses to continue with speech therapy, or not. And of course, for Bertie, there is the central relationship in his story; the friend who relates not to the Prince or to the King… but to the Man. Lionel knows nothing of Kingship, but enough about fear, and something, too, about power.

Both Bertie and Nina are isolated by their new roles. She moves, in a heartbeat, from confidante to bitch. He is greeted by his own daughter with a solemn command to her sister that they should courtesy. For Bertie, that isolation is bridged by both Elizabeth and Lionel. Nina is left alone.

And both end their stories with a flawless performance. Even for someone like myself, who came to the theatre woefully ignorant of the history being placed on display, it was inevitable that Bertie would find his voice; would find a way to grow into his role as King. Nina, too, was flawless- but is destroyed in the process.

I wonder, then, what these stories say about the role of community, as members of it try on new roles, and attempt to grow into them. I wonder about whether the Church is, as it should be, a safe place to grow into something new, surrounded by those who care more about the person than the role. I wonder how to support not only young people, growing into adulthood- but also adults who are ready to grow in new directions- in trying new things where it is safe to fail. And safe, also, to succeed.

My Big Girl, who is now old enough to have a firm opinion about such things, wanted to be Obi Wan Kenobi. Which is a challenge, when drawing from a wardrobe that is heavy on the pinks and flowers. We put her in some black yoga pants, a green tunic (a very-too-small green dress, but we’ll call it a tunic, because Obi Wan doesn’t wear dresses) and a grey vest of mine. She was fairly happy with the combined effect, but it got me thinking about how we could do better. And how useful a quick-and-easy jedi costume would be for the Tickle Trunk.

I would want something washable, and not too warm since she’d be wearing it over play clothes. And without too many pieces. I googled a bit and found a jedi costume tutorial. But I didn’t want authentic- I wanted easy, and just needed to create a vague impression of jedi-ness.

I managed this out of a single ball of Lion Brand Homespun in Rococo. And if I NEVER work with this yarn again that would be okay with me. Still, I’m happy enough with the end result- except that the edges curl something fierce. Perhaps the outer edges should have been ribbed? She still needs a leather belt and boots to complete the costume- and a brown robe. (I have the Homespun to knit a cloak, I just can’t bring myself to do it.) I’m working on writing up the recipe, since there wasn’t anything similar available on Ravelry. But for now, here’s adorable pictures of my little Youngling.

And two boxes of cake mix. Name brand cake mix, even. And 6 egg whites. So much potential.
The batter was delicious. Yes. I eat raw egg whites. And I let my kids lick the spoons, too.
We live on the edge.

And one of the things I consistently Don’t learn from all of this is patience. Mixing up one box of cake at a time would have meant not overcrowding the oven. And this could have been avoided.

But of course, we forge on ahead. 3 8″ cakes, glued together with lemon spread, and topped with… well that layer was excised, and I’m hoping to find a smallish bundt pan this afternoon. And more cake mix. And more lemon spread. And possibly order a back-up slab cake while I’m out.

Her first birthday cake: (and by cake, I mean “cakes”. One I made for the day of, which we took to Daddy’s office*. One supplied by my parents when we had a dinner at their place. One slab cake for the party. We have never again had a party on the scale of her first.)

Her third Birthday was celebrated with a pool party, and 10 of her friends, which is to say, 10 of my friends’ kids.

So, true to pattern (although I am happily employed this February), I’m attempting a 5th birthday cake.
THIS PICTURE IS SO NOT MY CAKE.

My cake is a great big disastrous mess, sitting in my fridge. There will be pictures later. Maybe.

I find myself wishing I attempted these more often, so that every attempt, I would remember more about how to NOT SCREW IT UP.

Still.
There’s a great deal of error that can (one hopes) be covered up with buttercream frosting.

And if all else fails, there’s still a sugary mess with OMG! A BARBIE! in the middle.

Except that it isn’t a Barbie. It’s a Disney Princess Fashion doll, specifically Belle. Because I somehow that irks me (ever-so-slightly) less than presenting blonde and blue-eyed Barbie as the only possible princess ideal. Whatever.

I’m off to attempt frosting.

*of the cakes I’ve attempted, this one remains my favourite. The concept was pure geek and the execution was sufficient.

There’s a big Plexiglas booth that made me feel like a game show contestant being kept in isolation. I got to sit in there and breathe into a plastic bag. Party.

One thing I learned is that I do not, normally, bother fully exhaling. I suppose not many of us do- breathing just with that top fraction of our lungs that doesn’t involve thinking about it. I used to have better breath control– when I sang for demanding choirmasters who expected me to make it to the end of that phrase, dammit! And while I still retain the habit of breathing with the diaphragm (rather than those skimpy little intercostals) (Hey, lookit that, the Wiki entry on intercostal muscles differentiates between passive and forced expiration… the things you learn….) I clearly don’t breathe as deeply as I think I do. But, while the tests can’t show an absence of asthma, neither did they show it clearly present– after not having taken any of my drugs for several days. So I take this as a hopeful sign that perhaps my breath is returning.

I also re-enrolled in yoga classes recently. So the whole idea of connecting body & mind, spirit & breath has been on my mind recently. I feel listless this time of year, always. I was looking at job ads and seriously considered applying for one as a sales rep for a funeral home. Because I’m good with grieving people- I have that skill set. Whatever. And I cannot help but wonder if there is a connection, somewhere, between my annual January spiritual malaise, and my annual post-Christmas capitulation to colds and flu.

Back when I was keeping a training journal on livejournal, one of my “current mood” options was “exanimate“. Yup. That’s January.