Godparents and Godchildren

Many of us are given the honorary title of godparent. My goddaughters are two of the most gorgeous creatures (inside and out) to inhabit this earth.

People define being a godparent in different ways. Here are mine:

Legal: This is technically a guardian. You have been named to raise a minor child or children in the event of the death of the parents.

Religious: You are expected to assist in the religious training of the children. You are to be a steward. (I sat in a priest's office and made my case to be godmother, although I am not Catholic.)

Moral: You've made an oath to be there. Love them. Scold them. Hold them. Have a vested interest in their lives.

For the two girls above, I've tried to do all three. Okay, they've seen me drink and smoke. They've heard my potty mouth. They've also known that my love for them does not fail. They were put in my arms shortly after birth and my arms have a pretty long reach. They're now semi-grown. We've reached a new phase of life -- they don't need me; I need them.

Yes, I've missed games and dances. But I've been there for every milestone from the first tooth to the first boyfriend. Sometimes I've just been there by talking to their mother.

The baby has some godparents. Neither of them has seen him in years. It's probably for the best -- he has enough parents. But I do get annoyed that this honor was taken so lightly. He's grown now and they've missed out on a lot.

There's a reason "God" is part of the title.

The Power of Prayer

I believe in prayers. I pray every day -- usually multiple times.

I also believe that sometimes the answer is "No, I have a different plan."

If we participate in a prayer chain, are we inundating God with prayers to make things go our way? I often do this. I pray hard, loud and often. Then I have to remind myself that my way may not be His way.

Door to Door Religion

I'm a little suspicious when the doorbell rings in the middle of the day. Unless I've scheduled an appointment, anyone who has legitimate business here probably has a key.

When the Belle was healthy, she loved to answer the door. Yeah! Someone to share my stories with! She was a charming hostess, whether you were invited or not. I tend to answer the door with a snarly face -- unless you're delivering flowers.

Yesterday I was in the zone. Phone calls returned and a little writing time was needed. I have a deadline looming. So, I dedicated a couple of hours to work on my project. Then the doorbell rang.

I skulk around. Yes, I actually crawl so I can look out various windows to see if I need to answer the door. Plus, I already have an attitude about the interruption.

My uninvited guests were peddling their religion. You can guess which one. Bibles and pamphlets in hand. I grabbed a book of my own and opened the door.

They asked, "May we share the word of our Saviour with you?"

I asked, "How can you read the Bible if you can't read a sign?"

(Our neighborhood has a sign that says: Residents and Guests only.)

One woman was holding the Bible. I was holding the neighborhood directory. And I asked, "Whose guest are you? I would be happy to give them a call." I guess they're not used to cranky writers so they turned and left.

This approach must work for them on some level because they've been doing it for decades. I remember some similar version of this during my childhood. But honestly, does anyone invite them in, smack themselves on the head and say, "Oh my Gosh, I was looking for a new religious affiliation!"

Confession

The Washington Post recently reported that 44 percent of Americans have switched or dropped their religious affiliations.

Methodist is my background but I am equally comfortable in the Catholic church, an Episcopalian church or a Lutheran church. The Baptists freak me out a bit but I understand we're all worshiping the same God.

I need to correct an earlier post. The Belle got annoyed with the Catholic church and joined an Episcopalian church. (I said Presbyterian; I was wrong.)

In high school, I ran around with kids from the neighborhood. Some were Catholic and sometimes I went to church with them. In college, most of my friends were Catholic. So, I used to go to confession and mass on Saturday night. (That way your soul was pure and you could still go to the party.) The priest understood that I was not a member but he still took my confessions and gave me the instructions to do better.

Eventually I married a FARC. (Fallen Away Roman Catholic.) My friend and mother of my goddaughters converted to Catholicism and I do my best to attend any service for them.

There is something about unloading your guilt and sins that is purifying and provides a deep breath of relief. I try to do this with Big Daddy but he refuses to put a screen between us and tell me how to handle it. I don't understand why he won't just play along.

The Belle and I used to discuss this. Her father was a Baptist minister and she converted to Catholicism to marry her love. Her boys went through parochial schools and once they were grown, she made a change. She became Episcopalian.

I will be a Methodist for the rest of my life but I do miss confession.

Living Out Loud

Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite writers, had a column with the New York Times. Not just a little column... she won the Pulitzer Prize for writing about her life and her opinions.

Instead of resting on her laurels, she went on to write several fabulous (and haunting) novels. She also seems to be a pretty impressive mother of three children, politically active, supportive spouse of a busy man, etc. It's a good thing I'm a fan because it exhausts me to think about her life.

Her New York Times column, Life in the 30s, was "out there" for the time. It was raw and honest. It covered everything from her desire to have another baby to her feelings about religion to the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. That takes guts.

So I sit here in my little office, spouting memories and opinions to the world. I annoy people and they let me know. Some think I'm sugar-coating everything. Others think I'm harsh. I wish Anna Quindlen was my friend so I could call her and ask, "What about this?"

I'm guessing but here's what I think she would say: Write. Write with integrity and let the chips fall where they may.

Walk the Walk

My mother and her sisters had two sets of parents. The first were their birth parents (Wild Bill and my Wacky Grandmother.) The second were their aunt and uncle (Bobbie and Pa.) Have I told you that Pa and Wild Bill were brothers AND Wacky Grandmother and Bobbie were sisters? Is this something that just happens in the hills? Having no siblings, I have escaped this fate.

It's the holiday season and I am flooded with memories of my grandparents. This is mostly about my mother's side of the family but I actually spend a teensy bit of time thinking about my dad's father and his wife. Then I get the willies and move on. (That's probably not fair. I do have some fond memories but they are overshadowed by the way my father and his sisters were treated.)

So, this is about Bobbie. Technically, my great-aunt but really and truly my grandmother. (The sane and stable one.)

In my childhood, holidays meant we went to Bobbie and Pa's... Christmas, Easter, etc. Farm living instilled in her that there had to be five kinds of meat and at least twelve side dishes.

As she aged, we were more likely to find something forgotten in the oven.

Forgetfulness also came in other visits. One year she gave my father and both of my uncles beautifully wrapped nightgowns. Some years she couldn't remember where she stashed the presents so we got them later.

Pa was in charge of the tree. As he grew older (and more creative) he could find the most interesting way to erect his version of a tree. My personal favorite is the year he found a gnarled tree limb, painted it and hung various ornaments on it. We have an absurd amount of ornaments and Christmas decorations in this house -- nothing will replace my memory of the gnarled, painted tree.

Bobbie and Pa lived in a house that was originally purchased by her father. As time went by, urban issues (like theft and murder) came to visit and my mother was often concerned about her safety, especially after Pa died. She was not fazed.

She was not only my grandmother -- she was the neighborhood mother and grandmother. She didn't just read the bible every day. She lived the lessons every day.

When my mother tried to explain that she shouldn't open the door for unknown people or let the errant neighbors in, she was adamant:

"It might be Jesus at the door."

At my house, it's more likely to be Elvis at the door but I still remember the lessons she instilled and modeled for me.

Mysterious Ways

Whenever there is no explanation for a particular situation, someone is bound to say, "God works in mysterious ways."

Ok, true enough. Although, I hope I get to take my notebooks to the afterlife because I have a lot of questions.

How Much Do You Weigh?

There are certain questions that are not polite to ask. At least, that's what I was taught. Politics and religion are tricky topics. "How old are you?" used to be taboo but that seems to have changed. I'll give you my opinion on current political situations. I'm anxious to hear what others think. I'll tell you my religious affiliation and I love a respectful debate. For years I was coy about my age but I'm over that now. If you ask, I tell the truth.

I won't tell my weight.

When my "sister" was 2-years old, she told anyone and everyone within shouting distance that she weighed 28 lbs. The baby used to tell everyone his weight. I guess we pay so much attention to height and weight charts when they're children, it's natural for them to be fascinated with these numbers.

There's a scale in my bathroom. The husband gets on it every day. Occasionally, he tells me the number. I rarely step on it. I know where I am by how my clothes fit. Sometimes I put my luggage on it to make sure I won't be charged for a bag that weighs more than 50 lbs. I've put the dog on it. Other than that, it's just one more thing I trip over as I stumble to the shower.

Sometimes the workout girls discuss weight. It's usually vague comments, "I feel fat," etc. (There is not a fat person in the room.) Rarely are numbers thrown around. I'm in safe territory because if someone asks me, I can honestly say I don't know.

I went to the doctor yesterday for myself and the oldies. The first thing they do is put you on that huge, ominous scale. Then, THEY WRITE IT DOWN! Another quirk, but this is not fun for me. Thankfully, my doctor is an honorable guy and a great friend. I'm fascinated with numbers but this number will remain our secret.