Quest for the Cap

Well, Wikepedia says…. “It is also common for students of nursing to have their graduation portraits taken while wearing nurses' caps.”  I would like my Fran to print this out and take it to the head of her School of Nursing.  I will sign it.  In blood.

When Fran started nursing school I told her we would support her, financially etc., to best of our ability and all I wanted in return was her portrait in a nurses cap.  You can imagine my overreaction when she told me the school decided this year to abandon the caps in the portraits.  I decided I would buy a cap – which could actually preferable to the one shared cap the school had used in portraits for years.  I would buy a cap and take her picture in it.

The rationale for the hat abandonment was to elevate nurses above the old time perception of nurses as subservient handmaids to physicians.  (i.e., we’re “not the doctors’ bitches”  That is a direct quote.  Fran may speak at the pinning ceremony; she’s already working on rewording that.)  I agree that nurses deserve more respect.  I have been in enough medical situations to see that nurses are often more knowledgeable and more helpful to patients than doctors.  The knowledge, tacit wisdom, and patient interaction that nurses provide are the basis of health care in our society.  Nurses are so much more than servants trained to carry out doctors’ orders.

I can see how they may want to dispense with or alter the Florence Nightingale Pledge at their pinning ceremony, as it is in some ways outdated (“loyal to the physicians under whom you serve, as a good soldier is loyal to his officers”) and not in the same charmingly outdated way of physicians swearing to Apollo and various gods and goddesses when they take the Hippocratic Oath.

There has been enough backlash against the no-cap policy that students will now be allowed a cap portrait, provided that the photographer also snaps a capless picture that will go in the class composite on the school wall.  Fine.  That makes me happy.  And I was surprised when mentioned that Fran wanted her own cap! So I’ll be buying her a cap – just for her to keep in a clear hatbox on a shelf.

A little Christmas ornament encouragement!

We were talking about the caps today – and the scrubs that will be worn at the pinning ceremony.  (That will give the ceremony the vague look of a pajama party.)  And I put forth the idea that future generations may want to bring back the cap.  When nursing school directors are no longer acting in some sort of backlash against the old time perception of the nurse and start thinking in terms of pride in their profession, the cap may be considered as a mark of distinction.  I know the caps are not appropriate in all situations.  (And having some of my cousin’s old nurses caps in my dress up box, I remember how complicated and high maintenance they can be!)  There may just be times and places where a nurse wearing a cap would be not only be something done with pride – it might actually help. In the hospital situation, when everyone wears scrubs….from the janitorial staff to various techs and assistants, it would be nice if the nurses stood out.  As far as what male nurses would wear…that I haven’t quite figured out.  Some sort of modified white top hat?  Hmmmm??  They do deserve something, too. 

Candlemas - The Light Shines in the Darkness

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 The Light Shines in the Darkness

Before your neighbors say a single word or throw a little shade….let me tell you:  You don’t need to have those Christmas decorations down so soon.  Well, you have until February 2.  Just wish everyone “Happy Holidays and/or Holy Days”.  And, if they’re still listening, explain that the celebration of our Lord’s birth doesn’t end on December 26, no matter how persistent some people are in dragging their trees to the curb on the second day of Christmas.  (I’ve always wondered if these people spend Christmas night un-decorating their trees so that they can be out on the street when dawn breaks on the morning of the 26^th.  Such a sad sight.) 

The Church gives us the slow Advent build up to Christmas, in spite of the surrounding cultural pressure.  It also gives us a slow, steady time to taper off from all the trappings of the season, while never forgetting what we are celebrating.

As we know, there are twelve days of Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany.  (If you have included a house blessing on Epiphany, complete with chalk above your front door - e.g. 20+C+M+B+13 - perhaps your neighbors are curious about your decoration customs.  Or maybe they are afraid to ask.) And our time of celebration is legitimately prolonged until the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple also known as the Feast of the Purification, Candlemas, and, for those of us weather obsessed and winter-weary in the Northern Hemisphere, Groundhog Day.

At the time of Jesus’ birth, the custom was for the mother of a male child to present him at the temple forty days after his birth, along with a lamb and a pigeon as a sacrifice.  Luke’s Gospel tells us that Mary and Joseph were poor and could not afford a lamb, so Jesus was presented in the temple with two turtledoves for sacrifice. (Remember those two turtledoves that kept popping up in Muzak back in  November?)  It was at his presentation that the prophet Simeon held the infant Jesus in his arms.  At this moment he knew that the savior he had been waiting for had arrived and prayed his glorious Nunc dimittis.

On this last of the holy days that celebrate the arrival of the Light of the World, we celebrate Candlemas, the day when the candles for the coming year are blessed, often including the recitation of the Nunc dimittis (which I still remember singing as the post-communion hymn from my Lutheran childhood and can only recite in its King James version: “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel”  -  Luke 2:29) In the blessing of the candles on Candlemas we emphasize once more Jesus as the Light of the World.   

The candles used in church must be at least 51% beeswax.  This is not just an aesthetic directive – though anyone who has had a chance to work with beeswax candles knows their exquisite tactile nature, their beautiful fragrance, and all around superior performance.  The wax from bees is very symbolic, but practicality allows us to use candles that are a minimum of 51% beeswax.  (If you have spent any time paging through church supply catalogues and balancing budgetary concerns, it is immediately apparent why most parishes would need to go without pure beeswax candles, as marvelous as they may be)  But there must be the minimum 51% percentage of beeswax.  The pure wax extracted by bees from flowers) symbolizes the pure flesh of Christ received from His Virgin Mother, the wick signifies the soul of Christ, and the flame represents His divinity. Everything involved with our sacred liturgy has a meaning and all these things point to Christ.

I found an interesting reference online about some Candlemas superstitions that developed over time, including a belief that if Christmas decorations are not removed by Candlemas, traces of holly etc. may lead to the death of the foot dragger who can’t get things removed in time.  Perhaps this translates in our time to the ‘social-death’ that accompanies the notoriety of being the last person on your block to have decorations left up; or worse, receives sanctions from an indignant homeowners association.

Many cultures have also had weather lore that sprang up in relation to Candlemas.  There is an old English rhyme:

If Candlemas Day be fair and bright
Winter will have another fight.
If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain,
Winter won't come again.

And the German equivalent:

" The badger peeps out of his hole on Candlemas Day,
and, if he finds snow, walks abroad;

but if he sees the sun shining he draws back into his hole.”

Naturally, one name comes to mind when we hear rhymes such as this… Punxsutawney Phil.  The American development of the old custom, brought to Pennsylvania by German immigrants, lives on to this day, as the media of the United States descend upon a town in Pennsylvania to see if the groundhog sees his shadow.  Other zoos throughout the nation have their own groundhogs, but no groundhog “holds a candle”  (is that a day-appropriate phrase or what?) to Punxsutawney Phil.

Who knew a pop culture star like Punxsutawney Phil (whichever actual lucky groundhog happens to hold the title at the time) owes his fame to Catholic custom?  Or that we are totally correct in keeping our decorations up until the beginning of February?  We are not slackers.  We are keeping the message out there.  Jesus is “a light to lighten the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel.”   “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5)  Jesus is the light of the world.  

Like Warts from a Studebaker

So much for my healthy New Year’s resolutions. Yes, I wanted to work on my immunity, energy etc.  And I was doing OK.  Until yesterday – I think I caught something at the theatre when I went to see Les Mis.  Maybe.  Or maybe it just was a crack in the door to let the melancholy in.  Plus a low grade temp* and body aches.  Chalk this sick day up in the same category with the childhood friend who claimed to have contracted warts from a Studebaker.  (We weren’t a Studebaker family, so what evidence did I have against it – right?)

I wanted to be one of the last people out of the auditorium so no one would see that I wasn’t crying.  Sorry – there were a few moments when I was touched.  But cry?  No.  I’m not the lachrymose type.  Even in the depths of despair…there are very few tears.

About the movie?  The profound messages to be found in the story were virtually drowned in deluge of recitative that just didn’t work for me.  I have a vague recollection of reading the story in junior high French class; my recollection being vague because I barely slid through the class.  I remembered Jean Valjean and the stolen silver and the Bishop who gave him the candlesticks he “forgot” when the police dragged him back for his theft.  That lesson stuck with me.  And it’s basically the most profound lesson of the whole movie.  A profound lesson that I hope was not lost on those for whom this movie was their first introduction to the story. 

The ending was touching.  But all the sung dialogue in between weighed it all down. Way down.  We should have been warned by the digital sign above the auditorium; limited space….MISERABLES.

Maybe I caught a bug at the theatre.  Like warts from a Studebaker.

*Found out that Fran’s temporal temperature scanner works better if you take the cap off.  Like a camera. D’oh.  I may have reached the point of wearing glasses on a chain around my neck.  Can’t work a foolproof thermometer.  Haven’t figured out how the toaster oven works.  At least the new toaster oven has put a hold on the ongoing toaster debate.  Our pater familias would like a toaster just like the one up on the farm in the UP, which is exactly like the one Mrs. Hughes brought to Downton Abbey last week.   First world problems…

I am Johnny Foreigner

I am Johnny Foreigner
I must admit that the prospect of the gloomy days of January was lightened by knowing that Downton Abbey would be returning on January 6.  Too posh to really call a guilty pleasure.  And this is enjoyed by much of the family, not just one of my PBS 'lady's shows' like the rebooted Upstairs/Downstairs or Call the Midwife.  So, naturally, it has given us something to talk about.  This week it was not just Mrs. Hughes' new toaster, though it did reopen the debate over whether or not we need to get exactly that type of toaster.  There's one up at the UP farm and my husband has never given up on his intention of smuggling it home or finding one just like it on eBay.  Like Mr. Carson, I think it has disaster written all over it.

I knew that some chafing with the spectre of Roman Catholicism would be on the horizon.  Not just sensing it because of Sybil's marriage.  I admit I've found a few spoilers from which I could not avert my eyes.  This week I had a bit of a chuckle when the Crawleys were entertaining the Archbishop of York and Lord Grantham remarked that there "seems to be something of the Johnny Foreigner" about the Catholics.  That's not kind, as restrained as his banter was, but it was true.

Catholics -  Big C Catholics - the Church, catholic, universal is always going to have something of the Johnny Foreigner about them.  Because they are not British; they are universal.  They are catholic.  And the foreign will always be something of a threat.  But that's also the homey part of being among the universal Church - you may often be a foreigner, but you will also be able to find family just about wherever you may go.

The Johnny Foreigner remark brought back a funny memory from the birth of our third daughter.  I spoke on the phone to my husband's grandmother (our version of the Dowager Countess) not long after the birth.  When I told her that the baby's name was Bridget, the rather icy reply was "That's so......Irish."*  We were not yet Catholic - though that seed had long been in my heart - but I could hear the underlying anti-Catholic bias in the calmly enunciated words.  She may as well have said there seemed to be something of the Johnny Foreigner about that name; and would have been presciently correct.  Bridget is Johnny Foreigner.
So's her dad.  And her three sisters and two brothers.  And her mom.

I am Johnny Foreigner. There are over 1.2 billion of us.  We are legion.  We are family.  That makes us not so foreign at all.

* Irish, as in my great-grandmother, Bridget Pentony.  Irish-born Catholic American.

Ecce sacerdos magnus....

Not easy getting a pic with my phone

The Big Day arrived.  So much work put into Cardinal George visiting our Parish.  It all went well - and last week was all about playing catch up.  I didn't even have time to look at my phone pics and see how disappointing they were.  (Maybe trying to be discreet and not look like a teen One Direction stalker kept me from getting optimal shots)  Given the Cardinal's health problems and compromised immunity, I wasn't expecting any type of meet and greet.  But when he was walking toward me after the church had cleared out and extended his hand, what could I do but shake it.  And go rather speechless, sort of like teen-me would have been had I met one of the Beatles.  But that's a good thing.  Better that than making some smart crack about waiting 11 years to be 'employee of the month'.

I Miss the Altar Rail

This is not the raving of some little old lady reminiscing about the good ol’ pre-Vatican II days.  I miss the altar rail from my youth: my not-that-many decades ago Lutheran youth.  It was something of a shock to come to the Church twenty some years ago prepared to receive the Body of the Lord, trans- rather than con- substantiated, and to find that it would be received with less, rather than more, reverence than the Lutherans show in their communion rite.  Reading yesterday’s piece on Deacon Greg Kandra’s The Deacon's Bench blog, reminded me of why. He speaks of our need for the external reminders of the transcendent experience of receiving Holy Communion and the need for the “act of utter and unabashed humility” that kneeling to receive Communion constitutes.  Not only has the Blessed Sacrament come to resemble a commodity that is doled out to a meandering crowd, but Kandra spells out in specific terms drawn from his experience as an EMHC and deacon why the current Communion practices are lacking in respect for the sacrament and doing little to bring a sense of the sacred to those who are in the presence of the angels around the altar of the Lord.  He articulates many of my same thoughts - only more beautifully and with more authority.

Word for the Day:
"writer's teeth"
I am not alone. I'm not making this up.  Jeanne Darst said it first. And I read it with the clearest understanding.

Fiction has not, thus far, ruined my family.*  So that's a good thing.  But there is the little Kleenex-wrapped crown in my desk drawer.  It's no miniature diadem.

*Non-fiction (i.e., reality) hasn't always been the greatest, but no ruin. Deo gratias, no ruin!

Martha on the Cake Wrecks patrol.

Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!

Broken branches and rotten fruit.  Those words kept bouncing around in my mind after Mass on Sunday.  The priest was preaching on the Holy Family and the tangled family dynamics into which our God chose to be born.  Being born of a mother free from sin and raised by a foster father beyond reproach, our Lord, when he became fully human, was not spared the fully human family experience. 

There are no perfect families.  Anyone who says his family is perfect is lying.  Or has at least excised those on the family tree who would tarnish the image and excluded those whose presence at gatherings might crack the façade of perfection.  To hear the limitations of what is found in all families is not only an interesting take on how we regard the Holy Family, but also a wonderful antidote to be delivered at the time of year when we are often deluged with the unavoidable Christmas Family Newsletters.  (I can’t be the only person who enjoys listening to David Sedaris read from his book Holidays on Ice while wrapping gifts.  Hearing “Season's Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!” is a special comfort before facing the mail) 

Why begrudge people their accomplishments and happiness?  I don’t.  I really, really don’t.  But…there is that temptation to compare ourselves to the perfection presented by the mass produced letters.  And that leads to the temptation to self-pity.   Plus, there are things better left unshared.  I didn’t include a note to my friends the years when we have encountered bankruptcy, fleas, prolonged neurologist visits, and a variety of other soul searing events.  Oh, and how about when I found out that my late grandfather once served time in prison?  That could make for a newsletter that would stand out.

We have had a happy Christmas.  There are many wonderful things that I could ‘brag’ about.   It is the things that I would leave out that are still weighing on my mind.  2012 has not been the easiest of years. (and here I succumb to the temptation to look back on other bumpy years with a wistful sigh and see those years as ‘good old days’.)  The economy has been bumpy and having 5 out of 6 of our children living at home has made for a unique drama that is a combination of Downton Abbey meets the Rabbitte family from Roddy Doyle’s novels.  Tight quarters make life interesting.  Let’s just call it interesting.

There were misunderstandings.  Disappointments.  I, who rarely cry, was brought to tears by the disappointment Bridget felt after working hard to find the perfect, hard-to-find gift for my mother-in-law, only to visit her two days before Christmas and see that one of her cousins had brought the same brilliantly conceived gift on his way out of town.  (Feel free to contact me if you are interested in purchasing a 1932 Bing and Grondahl Christmas plate)  Christmas brought warm, happy moments plus enough minor irritations that I found myself eager to return to work on December 26^th.  The work that had been leaving me with frayed nerves, a bad case of bruxism - including a lost crown - started to look like a refuge.

But I know we’re blessed.  Blessed, but not perfect.  In one of my quiet, sulking moments, I watched “The Family Stone”.  It’s grown on me as a Christmas movie.  One that makes me feel not so alone in my imperfection.  (That and “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation”*)  The best line in the movie is when a son’s new girlfriend asks, “What's so great about you guys?” and the mother replies, “Oh, nothing! It's just that we're all that we've got.”

There is comfort in being reminded that Christ himself was not spared the realities of less than perfect lineage.  That there were broken branches and rotten fruit in his family tree.  Why should I expect better for myself.

*And who started that rumor that Eddie was named after Cousin Eddie in the National Lampoon Vacation movies?  OK, I did.  Just to deflect from the clowns who said he was named after the dog on Frasier.