Four Maundy Thursday Scenes

Jonathan said that there was a sign up at the gym this morning advertising free hand and foot massages.

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The bread for communion tonight was made by those receiving first communion.  The loaves look like what you might expect loaves of bread made by fifth graders to look like.

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The woman's curious gaze followed Rayber up the stairs until he disappeared.  She observed as his feet passed the level of her head that he had on one brown sock and one grey.  His shoes were not run-down but he might have slept in his seer-sucker suit every night.  He was in bad need of a haircut and his eyes had a pecuilar look--like something human trapped in a switch box.  Has come here to have a nervous breakdown, she said to herself.  Then she turned her head.  Her eyes rested on the two boys, who had not moved.  Anad who wouldn't? she asked herself.

The afflicted child looked as if he must have dressed himself.  He had on a black cowboy hat and a pair of short khaki pants that were too tight even for his narrow hips and a yellow t-shirt that had not been washed an ytime lately.  Both his brown hightop shoes were untied.  The upper part of him looked like an old man and the lower part like a child.  The other, the mean-looking one, had picked up the desk cared again and was reading over what he had written on it.  He was so taken up with it that he did not see the little boy reaching out to touch  him.  The instant the child touched him, the country boy's shoulder's leapt.  He snatched his touched hand up and jammed it in his pocket.  "Leave off!" he said in a high voice.  "Git away and quit bothering me!"

"Mind how you talk to one of them there, you boy!" the woman hissed.

He looked at her as if it were the first time she had spoken to him.  "Them there what?" he murmured.

"That there kind," she said, looking at him fiercely as if he had profaned the holy.

He looked back at the afflicted child and the woman was startled by the expression on his face.  He seemed to see the little boy and nothing else, no air around him, no room, no nothing, as if his gaze had slipped and fallen into the center of the child's eyes and was still falling down and down and down.  The little boy turned after a second and skipped off toward the steps and the country boy followed, so directly that he might have been attached to him by a tow-lne.  The child began to scramble up the steps on his hands and knees, kicking his feet up on each one.  Then suddenly he flipped himself around and sat down squarely in the country boy's way and stuck his feet out in front of him, apparently wanting his shoes tied.  The country boy stopped still.  He hung over him like some one bewitched, his long arms bent uncertainly.

The woman watched fascinated.  He ain't going to tie them, she said, not him.

He leaned over and began to tie them.  Frowning furiously, he tied one and then the other and the child watched, completely absorbed in the operation.  when the boy finished tying them, he straightened himself and said in a querulous voice, "Now git on and quit bothering me with them laces," and the child flipped over on his hands and feet and scrambled up the stairs, making a great din.

Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away

(from O'Connor: Collected Works, Library of America, 1988, pages 426-427)

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After she woke up from her nap, Jo and I traced each other's hands and feet.

Catching Up I: Pudgie Pies, Birthday Cake, and S'mores

We've had a lovely few weeks here, with Grandpa visiting for his birthday and for spring break.  At last, the chance to catch our breath and look toward spring.

Grandpa had requested an adventure while he visited, so we took to thinking of what activities are conducive to two-year-olds, parents, and early March in the upper midwest.  The weather didn't cooperate fully, but we did manage to spend some time outside, flying a kite, striking up a campfire in a nearby state park (where the river's ice breaking up sounded like gunshots to punctuate the hour we were there), and s'mores both in the fireplace at home and in the campground.

Grandpa and Jonathan bought sandwich irons for cooking over the fire, so we ate the delicacy of my family, pudgie pies, in a living-room picnic with orange cream sodas, carrot sticks, and marshmallows (Jo doesn't really care for chocolate--strange child).

The Sunday that he was here, Jo tracked down Pastor Lori at church to remind her that it was Grandpa's birthday so that he could be properly sung to by the congregation.  And then she helped me make a cake in the afternoon.

I suppose I could blame Jo for the listing cake and lumpy frosting, but that comes from my own inadequate greasing of the cake pans.  When half the cake gets stuck in the bottom of the pan, it's hard to frost the layers evenly.  Jo did take charge of the sprinkles and the candles, however.  She picked out the fancy candles that spell Happy Birthday, see?  And can you figure out how old Grandpa is now?

Despite an uneven appearance, the cake was delicious.  The frosting, especially, I recommend for just about any application.

I hope there will be more catching up in the next few days, since the remaining spring break adventures should be reported before I get into the Holy Week reflections (Lenten suppers!  Parades in church!  Hosanna!).

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Pudgie Pies

2 slices white bread
thinly sliced or diced ham
grated cheddar or co-jack cheese
ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise

In the center of one slice of bread, place ham and cheese, spreading the other slice with mayo and including mustard and ketchup (this is important!) atop the ham and cheese.  Butter both sides of the outside of the bread thoroughly, place in sandwich iron, trim off crusts, and cook over an open flame (fireplace or woodstove is actually more typical in my family than campfire) until the sandwich is lightly grilled and heated through.  Eat cautiously, since the inside will be quite hot.  Then, make more.

Brown Butter Frosting (modified from BH&G 14th edition)

 

1/2 C. butter (1 stick), melted gently, milk solids skimmed off, and cooked until browned (the color of caramel; do not burn)

Mix together

4 C. powdered sugar

2 Tb. milk

2 tsp. vanilla

Add brown butter.  Beat until combined, ading additional milk as necessary to reach appropriate consistency.

The Daddy

Like the Boy, the Daddy story Jo requests doesn't go by this name in the Baby Bible.  In fact, the designation is "The Little Girl."  For symmetry, I would expect Jo to ask for "The Boy" and "The Girl" each night, but she's intent on "The Daddy."

And I can hardly blame her.  In this narrative, the desperate father comes to Jesus, asking for his help to heal his dying daughter.  Jairus is a good man.  In a world that devalued women in general and girls in particular, he seeks out the Rabbi's help for his little girl.

It's a short narrative in the Baby Bible, and Jo seems not to mind when I rush through to the end (after four rounds of Curious George, Noah, and the Boy, I'm usually losing steam by this point).  But on the last page, we always have to stop to note the figures represented.  The daddy, the little girl, and the mommy--and on the facing page, the neighbors who had gathered to mourn, now carrying trays and pitchers, and dancing.

One night a few months back when we were repeating our evening ritual of naming the characters, Jo pointed to these and I said, "The neighbors, having a party."  Jo turned to me and said, "They're celebrating."

At barely two years old, we didn't know she knew the word (or that she could say it).  Indeed.  They're celebrating.  Having a party.  Singing, dancing, bringing out the snacks and the wine.  "Jesus had made them happy again," concludes the story. 

But happy doesn't begin to show what the picture shows.  The daddy, the mommy, and the little girl, with a backup chorus of their community, bringing in the fried food and baked goods.  Breaking out the party food.

But why "The Daddy" as Jo's title?  Perhaps because he sets the story in motion.  He asks.  He reaches out of cultural expectation to draw attention to a little girl.  He humbles himself before the Rabbi and then challenges the leader to hurry.  He's insistent.  Pushy.

And on the last page of the story--at least the one I read every night--he shamelessly dances with his wife, his little girl, and three female neighbors bringing in the feast.  Outrageous.  And a happy man, indeed.

The Boy

Each night, we read.  For about the past two months, it has been at least the three Curious George books that we own (now supplemented with one checked out from the library) and an array of Bible stories.  Of late, the favorite Bible stories have been "Noah," "Boy," and "Daddy."  These, by the way, are not the names assigned the stories in the Baby Bible.  These are Jo's labels, identifying those whom she sees as the most important characters.  (At least Noah isn't "Shark," though the sharks are her favorite of the illustrations.)

"The Boy" is the Baby Bible's version of the feeding of the multitudes.  It begins with a girl and her mother remarking that they're hungry.  (Should I pause to note my skepticism that any mother would go out for a day with her children without snacks readily at hand?  Perhaps I've not been in as much of a hurry to go listen to Jesus as she was that I've been without at least a few graham cracker crumbs to sustain us through the duration.  Though I will note that the Sermon on the Mount would have been particularly long and even the graham crackers might have run out.)  But it's not the girl and her mother whom Jo has attended to.  This is the story of "The Boy."  The Boy, of course, is the one who offers to Jesus his five loaves and two fish.  His lunch that numerous preachers have pointed out was not as substantial as our perception.  We're talking small pieces of flatbread (crackers, really) and herring here, not Sara Lee loaves and Steelhead.

By a miracle, there was food for everyone. 

"Enjoy the food," said Jesus.  And they did.

So ends the story in the Baby Bible (yes, I have it memorized, thankyouverymuch).  There's precious little role for the boy in the story, but Jo has recognized him as the story's central figure--even over Jesus, who responds to the people, instructs his disciples, accepts the food, blesses it, and pronounces the benediction.

I've pondered this:  what does the boy do that has so captivated my daughter?

He's a child, like her, so I suppose that's part of her association.  But more than that, he's apparently aware enough of the situation to realize others' hunger, even though he himself is not hungering.  Jesus does not make an appeal for donations to the food bank; no one advertises the need.  The boy is paying attention to the people around him, and he knows they're hungry.

The boy also knows Jesus.  That is, he doesn't pass his bread and fish to the people sitting next to him; he brings them to Jesus.  I'm not sure how this miracle works (and I know there are a number of theories about it), but had the boy passed only to those nearest him, the community of those fed might have remained pretty small, but in Jesus' hands, the community is vast--a multitude.  And the food is plenty:  "All ate and were filled," says Mark the Evangelist (6.42). 

Because a child paid attention, all were fed.  Because a child recognized his own hunger, others' hunger was satisfied.

May I learn this faith of a child:  to know my own hunger and the hunger of others, and to recognize the capacity of my sharing that extends far beyond my own reach.

Next up, the Daddy story.