Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

I normally shop for groceries on either Friday night or early Saturday morning, making every effort to avoid crowds. I hate crowds! The absolute worst time for grocery shopping, I tell myself, is early Sunday afternoon, when all the "old dears" have exited the noon mass and are slowly trundling up and down the aisle, pushing their carts at barely perceptible speed. "Old dears, is it?" says Reality Chick, who lives in my head and is wont to speak up at the least opportune times. " Old dears? Now, that's just a shame. I clearly heard you grunting when you had to stoop down for the shredded wheat. And both your knees popped when you stood back up." OK, so ... my knees are a little wonky. Only when the weather is wet and warmish ....Not most  of the time ... "And have you looked in the mirror lately?" she continues. "The top of your head near the part is starting to go gray. And those jowls? You didn't have those at thirty. Or fo

OMG, I understand we are expecting a "monster snowstorm" in the next day or two. For the DC area, it may well be a storm of historic proportions -- not so much for us here in New Jersey. Is it time to panic? Should I join the crowd of other little old ladies beating a path to the Superfresh in search of the always-important bread and milk? Maybe not. I have bread in the freezer, and plenty of milk. I only use milk in coffee anyway. And how long are we ever snowed in, in our part of the country? A day or two, no more. If I had to, I could trundle on foot to the grocery store. But I wouldn't. I'd eat microwave popcorn and watch movies until the snow melts or J. got us shoveled out. But this is a human response to a threat, right? We're circling the wagons, sandbagging the riverbank, preparing to evacuate .... No. Not for this. When Three Mile Island had its meltdown in 1979, J. and I had an escape plan. THAT was a threat! This hardly rises to that level.

Well, I hope this graphic is large and colorful enough to make the message clear: despite being disciplined by the less enlightened portions of the Anglican Communion, we Episcopalians stand fast on the belief that all are entitled to marry. Man-woman, man-man, woman-woman -- it's all good. Any two people with good intentions and a pulse may marry in the Episcopal Church. A lot of deliberation went into the recent change in our canons. And while it's true that you can't please all the people all the time, most of the people I know seem pleased that same-sex marriage is now approved. As for the Anglican Communion, which a friend of mine today referred to as the last, tattered remnants of the British Empire, well, maybe it's time to move forward without them. At any rate, I plan to add the "disciplining" of the Episcopal Church to the long (very, very long) list of things that don't keep me awake at night. Meanwhile, join us in church. You're ALL

It's been a rough week, hasn't it? I first learned of the Paris atrocities in an unlikely place: the grocery store. Like many shy people, I excel at eavesdropping, in putting together a story from mere scraps of conversation. The story I put together was a horrible one. I don't have to tell you how awful it was in Paris last weekend. You've read the newspaper and seen the news. As I continued to listen patiently, it was not hard to discern the opinions of the other grocery-buyers. The man two orders ahead of mine was particularly adamant: "Let's nuke 'em back to the Stone Age," he muttered, apparently unaware that an action like that would probably return all of us to the Stone Age. "It's those Arabs!" his wife exclaimed, lumping in many fine nationalities with a few terrorists. "They should stay in "Eye-rack!" "But they don't," her husband commented, both to her and to the family ahead of me in line

Last weekend, my husband and I made a family visit to New York State, where he grew up. When we're up there, we always make a visit to the Colgate University cemetery, to check on the graves of his mom and dad. Elwyn taught French language and literature at Colgate for something like 45 years. He passed in 2006; my mother-in-law, Grace, followed him in 2011.  They were the best in-laws you could ever want, and I miss them a lot. We have started following the custom of leaving a rock on top of the headstone to signify that we came to visit. So we did that, and headed back to the car; rain was threatening. But I had one more stop to make. For thisis the real moment of sadness. I love Elwyn  and Grace, and I'm sorry they passed away, but i k ow they had happy, productive lives. What really moves me -- what brings tears every time I'm   there --  is the grave of a toddler named Ian, who is buried on the hillside just below them. I've done some research, so I know Ian died