Alaska

I'm leaving for Alaska today, and yesterday Leah came over to say goodbye. I couldn't believe that it was happening... we hadn't spoken to each other since April 16th. The last month and a half has seemed like a bad dream that never ends. Then yesterday I saw my girl again...

But she's not my girl. I can't lay any claim to her, but I love her so. Yesterday when I saw her, and talked to her, and spent time with her, that seemed like a dream too. My friend - my best friend. The one I love was here, I could see her, I could hear her. It didn't seem real. I was so happy.

I keep thinking though, what if things hadn't happened the way she described them to me? Would she still have wanted to see me to say goodbye? Would she have cared, or would her happiness have kept me relegated to a simple memory, a phase in her life that was over and done with? I don't know. I felt so abandoned when this all started, just cut off and thrown away and forgotten. I don't want to think like that though... the girl I love said goodbye to me, we spent time together and had fun, and it was almost like it used to be. I was so happy. I hope so much that we're friends again. It feels like we are... I think we are. I just hope I'm strong enough to be selfless about this and truly be her friend.

It hurts my heart to think that she might be feeling something similar to what I've been feeling. I wish her all the happiness in the world... and I still hold onto a fools hope, I guess, that I might be able to make her happy some day. For now, I'll be in Alaska until late September. We'll see what God has in store.

My Baptism

Saturday the 22nd. Mom called at about 7:00 and woke me up, telling me she was on her way and that she was bringing the chain for my baptismal cross. I couldn’t go back to sleep after that, so I finally got out of bed at 8:00, put on a t-shirt, shorts and sneakers, and headed out the door, intent on taking a long walk to work off some of the nervous anxiety I was feeling. I was supposed to be at the church at 9:45, so I had about an hour and a half.

Mom arrived at my place at 9:15. The walk hadn’t helped at all; I was still a ball of frazzled nerves. Imagine a rubber band pulled almost to the breaking point and then ‘thrummed’ constantly, causing little strips of stressed rubber to pop away and curl up. Imagine these pieces of curly popped rubber band pieces getting tangled up with other little pieces that have popped and curled; finally forming a tangled ball of frayed rubber band ends which are constantly being stretched even more as new frayed ends are added to the tangle. What you’re left with finally is a frazzled ball of split rubber band ends, constantly snapping and reforming under the tension as the tangles get denser and denser. That’s how I felt.

Ok, now that we’ve established the mood, mom and I drove over to my sisters place to pick her up. As we pulled up to her house, I remembered the chain for my cross... mom hadn’t shown it to me yet, and I was anxious to see it. “Okay honey, hold on...” Mom dug around in her purse and produced a small box, which she presented to me with an expectant smile. I opened it and withdrew a very pretty silver chain. Almost too pretty... wait a minute. What are those teeny tiny little sparkly things? What is this? A diamond dust chain? I winced inwardly. It seemed kind of feminine to me... but mom was waiting for my reaction. “I love it mom!”

Knocking on my sister’s front door and being immediately confronted with two huge dogs, both of them scrambling to be the first to bestow it’s slobbery, dirty pawed, scratchy clawed, crotch sniffing, wet nose rubbing, nerve wrangling affection upon us did nothing to help my nervous state, especially after having discovered that the chain for my baptismal cross would look just about right on Arwen Evenstar. I greeted the dogs. “GIT!” It came out loud, gruff, and no-nonsense. After a brief greeting, my sister quickly ushered the two dogs into the back yard. Chey and mom then disappeared into the bedroom where Chey was getting ready.

As I kind of just milled around there in the entry foyer, waiting for the women folk to finish whatever it is they do to get ready, I fairly shouted into the bedroom, “Mom, show my chain to Chey and see what she thinks!” Chey and mom ceased their talking about mother-daughter things and I listened as mom showed the chain to my sister. She didn’t hesitate with her verdict: “It’s too feminie, mom!” I knew it... it’s too feminine, my baptism will be ruined! Mom, why didn’t you get a guy chain for me? I don’t want to bear my baptismal cross on a little girly chain! I hurried to the bedroom and implored Chey to find me some kind of chain, any kind of silver chain she might have around the house. Every chain my sister showed me was either too long, too gold, too weird, or too tangled. My frustration grew and started to spill over into my mom and my sister.

I had just about decided to drive back to the house and grab my old crucifix chain - which used to belong to my grandmother - and use that for my baptismal cross. I asked mom what time it was as I was poised at the front door, keys in hand and ready to go. “9:35 honey. You still have time!” I stopped right there with the screen door half open. No, I didn’t still have time... and then it hit me. I was letting the enemy have his way with me again! AGAIN! He was ruining my baptismal morning! My stupid pride was messing everything up and making everybody tense and me miserable. Stupid pride. I took some deep breaths, calmed down, and asked to see the chain my mom had gotten me again. She gave it to me, and upon closer inspection, it really was just a normal silver chain. There wasn’t anything sparkly on it at all... it just had very fine simulated rope threads running up and down it’s length which, upon a mere cursory glance, gave the illusion of sparkling. It was actually quite nice, and there wasn’t anything feminine about it when viewed closely. And who really gives a flying horses patoot if it’s feminine, anyway? I laughed and let out some of my anxiety. Things were going to be ok. It was just a chain, and it was a nice chain. My mom loves me, and I had probably hurt her feelings by dissing her chain. I told her that the chain was fine, it was perfect in fact, and that I loved it, which is the truth. So, by this time it was getting late, and we had to GIT to the CHURCH!

I remember very clearly everything that happened before we arrived at the church. However, once we arrived, my memory starts to get a little sketchy, and it gets worse as this account of my baptism progresses. Hopefully I'm remembering everything in basically the right order, as when I'm flustered, nervous or anxious, it's hard to remember things clearly, and I was definitely flustered, nervous and anxious. When we got to the church I introduced my mom around to Dax and Nancy and Louise. Then I laid my cross on a little table with all of the other baptismal crosses, and just kind of wandered around for a while and talked to a few people. Then I saw Leah standing across the room and my heart leaped into my throat. Ok, there’s Leah... I had written her, telling her that I wanted her to come and that it was ok for her to come. It just wouldn’t have been the same without her there, but I was surprised that it was so painful seeing her there, with neither of us giving any indication that we'd noticed each other. As if we were strangers. I stood there for a little while longer with my mom and my sister, kind of thrown into a spin, and then I walked over to Leah and gave her a hug and said “Thanks for coming.” I think that was the first thing I’d said to her in over a month. She smiled and returned my hug and I went back over to my mom and sister and stood some more, waiting for things to start.

Next all of the catechumens and our sponsors went out into the hall, where we went through the 'Reception into the Catechumenate’ ceremony. We had already done this once several weeks ago, but it made sense to do it again to refresh our memories and strengthen our resolve. Fr. Justin performed exorcisms and we all renounced the enemy. Then we all turned to the west and spit on him. I wasn’t able to really get a good nasty spit for the enemy like I wanted to, or else I would have slobbered all over the books in the bookstore. I satisfied myself with just making it really loud.

Now my memory of things gets a little vague, becoming more of a disconnected jumble of images, sounds and sensations. I remember standing over by the bay windows with hardly any room to move around at all. I balanced on one foot for a while, then the other, and finally settled for resting one knee on the bench-like part of the bay window, with one hand leaning against the wall. It wasn't a comfy position, and I couldn’t see very well. Plus, I had a burning candle to deal with, and it was a challenge not to light something on fire... like Fr. Justin’s robes, which came pretty close several times to my candle flame. Hot wax dripped onto my hand a few times, adding more stress to a stressful situation. I inwardly screamed like a woman when this happened.

Fr Justin baptized the babies first, and then one by one we all climbed into the fount, and Fr. Justin dunked each of us three times: “In the name of the Father,” ... DUNK ... “and the Son,” ... DUNK... “and the Holy Spirit.” ... DUNK ... “Amen.” When I got in the water, my pants and shirt immediately inflated like balloons. Oh boy... nice. I didn’t see anybody else inflate like a balloon when they climbed into the fount. I was worried that I would be too buoyant with my clothes puffed up with air, and that I wouldn’t be able to get all the way under water. It wasn’t a problem though, and I crossed my arms in front of me, held my nose, and went under three times. It's difficult to describe how it felt... almost like a brief, sharp panic every time my head went under. I was actually afraid that I might drown when I was under water. When it was finished, I kind of remember just being on autopilot, as my brain wasn't really processing what had just happened. I think it's still processing it.

I was the second to the last to get dunked so I didn’t have to stand around soaking wet, waiting respectfully as everybody else got dunked... I only had to wait for one more person. So when all of the baptisms were finished, I went into a back room and changed into dry clothes. Then when we came back out, Fr. Justin bestowed our baptismal crosses upon us. I haven’t taken mine off yet, although it tangles with my hair when I’m sleeping. That’s ok though, I can deal with that. This cross ain’t coming off, come hell or high water.

Once again, this day is kind of a blur, so the next thing I remember after getting dressed and coming back into the church is the ‘smocking of the gown’. At least, that’s how I think of it, as when we don the baptismal gowns it’s not so much you putting the gown on yourself, as it is getting smocked by Dax and Fr. Justin. So I raised my arms and this gown was pulled down over me and around me and onto me, kind of like how I would imagine it if it were being done on an assembly line. Very efficient. By the way, I think the process should be called 'dunked, smocked, and greased’, instead of just 'dunked and greased’.

So now we are all standing a little closer to the altar, where the chrismation is performed, or what some people call ‘getting greased’. All of the catechumens were anointed with oil on our eyes (that’s the eyelids, not the eyeballs, as having oil poured into our eyes would probably suck), ears, lips, forehead, chest, back, hands, and feet. The oil kind of burned my lips a little, and I imagined myself having a rare allergic reaction and dropping dead right there in the middle of my baptism. I guess if I were going to drop dead, right then would have been the time to do it, as they say that everybody is a saint for a short while immediately after they are baptized. Then I entertained the morbid thought of someone speaking at my funeral: “He led a saintly few dozen microseconds, St. Elias the Newest.” Already canonized and everything. These are the kinds of random thoughts, or logismoi, that plague me when I’m in church. Oh, and St. Elias the New is my patron saint, by the way.

Anyway, the burning went away, and then Fr. Justin led us around the church with all of us grabbing onto his robe. Then we were led around a second time, this time through the deacons door on the right, and we entered the altar. I’d never been behind the iconostasis or inside the altar before, and I don’t remember much about it because I was so petrified by actually being back there. Fr. Justin told me to bow and venerate something, but I was so nervous that I got down and performed a full prostration and didn’t even know what I was venerating. Then I felt like a retard and got up and did the bow, and then we were led back out through the other deacons door and then we were back in front of the iconostasis again.

I’m sure I skipped a lot of stuff because this entire experience was more like a dream than something that happened to me in real life, and as such, like a dream it’s hard to remember. So this was the end of the ceremony... I was officially an Orthodox Christian, as were the other catechumens. We all stood there as the parishioners one by one greeted us and kissed us and hugged us and wished us well and many years. I endured this with a modicum of grace, I think, up until Leah approached me and gave me the Orthodox cheek kiss and hug, after which she smiled and walked away without a word. She left pretty immediately after that I guess, because I didn’t see her again.

This definitely isn’t the way I imagined my baptism happening... I always pictured it as being a lot more joyful, and that I’d be sharing it with my best friend. I’m still in a daze, kind of in shock even, because what passes for reality these days seems more like a bad dream that I should be waking up from now, any minute. It’s the dreams, not real life, that are supposed to defy logic... correct? I thought that was the way it was supposed to be, but something definitely seemed 'not quite' to me about all of this, as if one essential ingredient were missing. So I stood there, greeting the rest of the parishioners, with what felt like a God-sized hole where my heart is supposed to be. Ironic, the size and shape of that hole... I guess I should start working on getting that thing filled in.

Walking and reading again

I was walking around the neighborhood and reading, again, and I stopped off at the Howdy Doody for what-nots and hoo-jiggers. The book I'm reading is "Way of the Ascetics", which Dax gave me as a baptism gift. I skipped right to the chapter about 'Inner Warfare', which is what I'm dealing with right now. I was struck in particular by this passage:

We are saved by hope (Romans 8:24)...
...But hope that is seen is not hope.

Wha? Huh? I didn't get that at all at first, but then I read on, and it was explained that once you see hope, it isn't hope, but hope realized; that which you were hoping for.

So what is hope anyway then? I'm still a little confused about that.

So anyway, I walked into the Howdy Doody and put the book down on the counter. The girl behind the counter looked at the book and tried to pronounce the word 'ascetics'. She asked me what the word meant, and I said that it meant... ummm... an ascetic is somebody who hangs out in the desert. And... you know, like a monk or something. A desert monk. Hmmm... but more like, somebody who is religious. A religious person. But more than that, kind of... I don't know really. I guess to my knowledge an ascetic is someone who devotes themselves fully to God.

She brightened at the last part of my tumbledown explanation, and as I was leaving, she said "God Bless!"

My Icon Corner

This is my icon corner. It started with just the blessing cross, which I bought about a year ago when I first began to suspect that there might be something to this Orthodox Christianity thing, beyond the fact that my then girlfriend was an Orthodox Christian. That particular cross had been hanging on the wall in the St. Maximus the Confessor Orthodox Mission bookstore with a price tag of a hundred dollars, and after about three months of talking myself into ponying up the money for it, I finally decided one night that I would buy that cross as a symbol of what I suspected and hoped was to be a continually growing interest in, and eventual commitment to, Orthodox Christianity.

Thus began my icon corner.

Here is a close-up of the actual icons. The Christ Pantocrator and the Creation of the Universe icons on the left were given to me as gifts. The Transfiguration icon was a freebie at St. Maximus, as was the Nativity icon. I bought the two small icons at the St. Maximus book store; one is of the Guardian Angel, and I don't know what the other one is. I don't remember who I thought it was when I bought it, and I keep forgetting to take it to church to show Fr. Justin so he can tell me. The other tiny one balancing on the Nativity icon is a personal Theotokos icon given to me by Nancy.



I have placed various items in my icon corner which symbolize people in my life whom I want to remember in my prayers. Before I describe each item individually, here is a picture of all of them together:



To kick things off, we have an item which serves a double purpose, but I only realized that just now. It's a cobalt blue bottle shaped like a violin or something, maybe a standup bass. I keep holy water in it, and I also keep two bracelets which belonged to my grandmother draped over it. The bottle was given to me by Erica Helpenstiel back in 1993 as a going away gift. I don't remember if I was going away, or if it was her... you see, she was getting married and I was moving to Austin... so it's kind of fuzzy. Anyway, I kind of see this bottle as grandmothers corner of the icon corner. Grandmother was Catholic by the way, and she died last March. March of 2009, not LAST March.



Next item up for bid is a beautiful Star Trek Communicator Pin. This belonged to a friend who I never actually met. He was the owner of a website that was all about classic video game console emulation. I knew him online for about 10 years, and he became a dear friend. He died last April... 2009, not 2010... of an awful brain disease that he had kept secret. His name is Jason Melton, but a lot of us knew him as Ice. His mom sent me some of his stuff, including this pin. RIP Ice. You are remembered. I pray for you.



Here is a bottle of oil from the vigil lamp at the reliquary of Holy Hierarch St. John, Wonderworker of Shanghai and San Francisco. My friend Nancy gave me this oil on a day when I was feeling really rotten. I've heard of Holy Oil from the St. Catherine Monastery on Mt. Sinai that can heal cancer, so I anoint myself on my chest with this oil, right above my heart. I don't know if I'm doing it right, or even if holy oil can be used to help mend a broken heart, but I try anyway. Thank you Nancy.



This is a bracelet that my sister Cheyenne gave me for Christmas. It's actually a Catholic bracelet; not Orthodox, but that doesn't matter to me. I wear it to services, and when I'm not at church, I put it here in my icon corner.



Zoe, Fr. Justin's... 4 four year old daughter, gave me this 'grocery list' one day when I was painting the closet of Fr. Justin's rent house. As I sat there painting, Zoe kept constant vigil right outside the door with an endless stream of conversation. At one point, between her favorite color and Harry Potter, she solemnly handed me this grocery list. She didn't indicate what I should do with it; it was more like she had bequeathed it to me. I keep it here in my icon corner because it is a symbol of purity and innocence, and happiness. It also reminds me that love exists and life exists, and that my own little problems do not even come close to defining reality. God bless Zoe and all Orthodox families and clergy.



These are various pendants and prayer ropes/beads which I keep on my wall. The rosary belonged to my grandmother, as did the crucifix pendant. Above that is my first Orthodox cross pendant, and above that is a cross I found on the floor at 7-Eleven. The prayer rope was a Christmas gift from Nick. I keep Nicks rope there to remind me of forgiveness and reconciliation.



Here is a photograph of Leah, some of her hair that I keep woven through several rings which belong to her but which she returned to me, the Prayer of St. Ephrem which she wrote down for me to keep during Lent, and a glass bead that I found on the road while out walking, which is identical to some beads that I gave her for her birthday in 2008. Also, I keep the blue prayer rope that she gave me draped around the blue candle holder when I'm not wearing it (you can see it in the above picture of the table items). All of these things remind me to pray for Leah, and also to remind me of forgiveness and reconciliation.



I was out walking one day, immersed in despair and self pity, when I glanced down and found this rusty old pin which reads, with a bit of difficulty, "I'm Injury Free!" I imagine this pin being some kind of incentive prize for a 'safety in the workplace' campaign at some factory. What it does is to remind me that if I can read through the rust, that is... if I can clear my spiritual sight, then I too will be injury free. I will be healed. I am, in fact, already healed, if I can only allow myself to see it and make it real.



So that's my icon corner.

The End.

Guardian Angel

Just one note before bed. I forgot who told me this, but I've heard that when deep in prayer, it is sometimes possible to sense your Guardian Angel behind and slightly above your right shoulder. I have personally had the bejeezubs scared out of me on several occasions by a 'presence' which I've consistently felt in just that location. Sometimes it is a wispy something barely caught with my peripheral vision. Sometimes it is a muffled, indistinct sound. Sometimes it isn't anything I can detect with any of my senses; it's just a feeling... but every time it's behind me and a little to the right. Mostly it will happen when I'm standing up facing my icon corner and saying my nightly prayers, and once it happened while I was prostrating for several minutes.

It is definitely a spooky feeling, and on more than one occasion I've physically jumped, shuddered, shook, or dropped my prayer book. I've been experiencing some similar phenomena leading up to my baptism (I won't go into descriptive detail of these phenomena now, as I'm pretty tired and am about to hit the sack), which I believe are signs from God. I'm just sorry that it took such a perilous personal situation, this crisis which occurred about four weeks ago, to spur me into actually praying with some intent.

So, it isn't hard for me to accept the possibility that these feelings which continually occur above and behind my right shoulder are instances in which I can sense my Guardian Angel watching over me while I say my prayers before I lie down to sleep.

Today

Today I am going to be baptized. I had a horrible day yesterday. The enemy prepared a final onslaught and really let me have it. I succumbed to despair, fear, anger, and brief feelings of hate. I'll have to confess this soon.

Spiritual warfare is a real bitch. It's funny... how true this all is, that there really is an enemy who is hell bent, literally, on removing us from God and damning our souls. Back before I had any faith at all, the enemy had me in his grip, almost totally. The one spark that remained which was mine was what allowed me to build up my relationship with God through the Orthodox Church for the past year and a half. For the first year, before I was a catechumen, I still didn't really notice any spiritual warfare going on. It was only after I was made a catechumen that I began to suffer serious attacks.

Yesterday, like I said, was the heaviest, most brutal offensive of the enemy yet. And I gave in to his influence. However, he isn't going to stop me from being baptized. He has damaged my faith and my heart as a worthy vessel for the Holy Spirit. Today had the potential to be so much better, more joyous, and more pure than it is going to be. The enemy damaged me. However, he did not destroy me. My baptism is still going to occur. Things will be harder, and the road to my salvation will take longer, and I will probably suffer more setbacks because of this, but with God's Grace, and by His Will, I will persevere.

Ok, here goes.

My life confession

Yesterday I had my life confession. It lasted for two hours. It didn't seem that long, but yeah. Two hours. I don't know if that's extra long, or normal or what... anyway. I stood there in front of the iconostasis with a thing on my head, what is that thing... kind of a long scarf thing. It was a lot more like being inside something private than I thought it would be. So I had a sheaf of papers, about 16 pages, filled with junk from my life that I was going to confess.

Before I arrived at the church, I went down to the Copy Pro to print it. I wasn't looking forward to that. I'd tried to print it here at home, but the printer is completely out of ink. So, I saved it all on a flash drive and drove down to have it printed. When I got there, I plugged my flash drive into the computer, loaded it up, and hit 'print'. I looked around to see if it was printing anywhere near me, and I heard a printer warming up behind the counter. Shoot... I was hoping it would be where I could get to it quickly. So, I looked behind the counter and saw a printer spewing out page after page. After it stopped, the proprietor gathered them up and approached the counter, where he started thumbing through it. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I grabbed for it and tried to pull it away from him. He held on. I pulled harder. He held on harder. I said, "That's private." He said, "Do you know how many pages there are?" Abashed, I released my grip on the sheaf of papers and he continued to thumb through the most private and shameful parts of my life, counting pages. He finally got them all counted and mumbled, "Sheesh, I don't even have my glasses on..." and charged me a dollar ninety. I handed him a five, he gave me change, and I hurried out of there. It was exactly as bad as the worst thing I'd imagined happening.

So then I drove to the church. Of course I was pretty much scared shitless when I arrived there. I walked into the... sanctuary? Narthex? Alter? Whatever the church part is called where the congregation stands. I still don't know exactly what to call it. The church. That's where I was. Anyway, I went in there and Fr. Justin was there, and he said "Hi Ash" and I said "Hi Father" and he left through the library nook door. So, I just had a seat there. I waited for about five minutes (I had arrived at 3:30 on the dot, that's when I was scheduled) and then I started to get fidgety. I got up to see if Fr. Justin was waiting for me in the coffee room. Nope... I went back into the... church. And sat down again. I waited for another five minutes and was about to get up and go have a smoke when Fr. Justin appeared. He asked me if I needed a little time, and I said "No thanks, I'm ready." I guess that's what the 10 minutes was for... that was very considerate.

So, back to the confession. I venerated the icon and cross and Fr. Justin said some prayers, the Trisagion being one of them, and I was surprised to find myself saying it along with him. I don't have it memorized, but with someone saying it, it all comes to me. So then Fr. Justin put the... anyway, there I was standing there as I described before. I dove into my confession.

I was ok all through it until I got to the parts where I've hurt Leah, and I choked up and had to stop. The list was so long. I didn't remember writing all of that... I continued to read, time after time, again and again, how I had hurt her, and it was like having it handed to me by somebody else, telling me "You did all of this to her. You did it. You. You're guilty." And I had to stop again. It was powerful emotional. I finally got through it and continued on.

At the end, after two hours, I was tired. Fr. Justin was tired. I stretched, popped some joints, bent over, popped my back, stretched... wow, did that just happen? Then Fr. Justin and I went outside and I burned all 16 pages in this soot stained pot. I stood there, feeding page after page into that pot, watching them burn. I guess I should have felt some kind of relief after all of that, but in truth, I only felt really tired. Dead tired, grievously tired. Drained and empty. I went home and cooked some eggs, drank a beer, and fell asleep on the couch.

New house guests

Earlier tonight, I was a little concerned about Gray Kitty because I hadn't seen her since I got back from East Texas this afternoon. Matt said that she'd been gone all day, and that he was starting to wonder about her, too. Apparently what happened was that she caught a big dose of fleas from some other neighborhood cat, so Matt put some kind of flea treatment on her that she didn't like one iota. She ran off as a result and hasn't been around for most of the day. Gray Kitty doesn't normally stay gone for most of the day like this, but I guess getting dosed with flea spray is a pretty good reason for making herself scarce.

Anyway, around 11:00 I opened the front door to call for Gray Kitty, and what did I see? Not Gray Kitty, but a completely different kitty altogether:



? Thought I. I knelt down and called to the new kitty, and to my surprise, she ran up to me and started rubbing my hand! Well, this endears me pretty quickly to kitties when they are friendly, so I petted the new kitty for a good long while, letting her (I think it's a she) rub against my ankles and legs. I wanted to pick her up, so I finally decided to risk getting scratched and hefted her up to my chest. She didn't fuss at all... she actually liked it, which is kind of rare in my experience with kitties. Even Gray Kitty doesn't like to be held unless she's the one who decides that I'm going to hold her, and usually that means she's going to allow me to let her curl up on my lap.



After that, guess who got jealous and ran up? Gray Kitty! Now, Gray Kitty probably is used to me chasing off all of the neighborhood cats when they come prowling around, so I'm guessing that when I didn't immediately chase off this new kitty, Gray Kitty might have been a little confused or even miffed. Apparently she'd just been biding her time, watching this new kitty and seeing what was going to happen. When I finally picked up the new kitty, I don't think Gray Kitty was too thrilled, which is why she chose that moment to reveal herself. So, I picked up the Gray Kitty and gave her some love too. Now, this whole cat jealousy thing might just be all in my head, but it's fun to imagine.



After I put Gray Kitty down, the other kitty was immediately interested. I didn't want to see a cat fight, so I got ready to chase the other one off. However, nothing really happened. The new kitty followed Gray Kitty around the yard for a little bit, and Gray Kitty tolerated her as long as she didn't get too close. Gray Kitty hissed once at the new kitty, but that was it.



For some reason, Gray Kitty attracts every single neighborhood cat within several blocks. However, Gray Kitty has never gone into heat, and I know what a cat in heat looks and acts like, thanks to a kitty who I used to hang out with not too long ago. During her 'time of the month', this particular feline seemed to be of the opinion that I was her boyfriend. Aggravating, let me tell you.

I figure there are two possibilities... either Gray Kitty is spayed, or she is in kitty menopause. This means that either she is still pretty hot for an old lady, or that she's just super cool and all the other cats want to hang out with her all the time. Maybe she's a celebrity kitty; she is a pretty fearsome huntress, and I wouldn't be surprised if she has some fans.

About those fleas... unfortunately, Gray Kitty does have a pretty bad case of them. Just now I found one crawling on my arm, so I either got that one when I picked up Gray Kitty, or they're actually in the house on the furniture. Yeesh. I wonder if a bug bomb will kill a house full of fleas? And Gray Kitty probably caught them from the new kitty, and I had that one all cuddled up next to my hair...

Oh well. I'l get some flea dip for Gray Kitty tomorrow, and see about bug bombing the house. Sorry Gray Kitty, but you can't sleep in my bed until the fleas are gone. :\

East Texas tour of memories

I took a trip out to Omaha today to look at the site where the old house burned. Well, it's gone for sure. Burned all right, burned slap up and down to the ground. There's nothing left... no trace of anything except part of the brick foundation, some crumbled concrete, a few bits of porcelain, and some broken glass.



Turns out it's been burned for about a year, although when Leah and I drove down here last spring to visit and do some sight seeing, the house was still standing. I forgot what month that was... probably about this time last year. So, the house was still standing last May, and it probably burned down some time very soon after that. All I could find in the ashes that I recognized was a charred doorknob. And that's really all that remains of the house, so I took it.



About a quarter mile down the road is my grandma's old house, which I decided to check out next. My mom and brother and sister moved to Leesburg when my mom got married in the middle of my 8th grade year, and I didn't want to leave in the middle of the school year so I lived with grandma and grandpa in that house until the summer of '85. Then I moved to Leesburg that fall and had to start high school as a new kid. It really sucked, having to leave all of my friends who I had grown up with, and being super shy made it even worse. I wound up making some good friends there, though, and the Pittsburg High School Band was really good; we actually made it to the state marching contests three times while I was in high school. What made that particularly awesome for me was that I was the 'highlight' of the marching drill at the state marching competition. I got to stand on the sidelines while playing a really complicated, cool euphonium solo with all of the cute majorettes posing in front of me, on either side, and behind me, forming this sparkly halo of sequined bodies, rays of silver batons thrust outward in all directions to accentuate the star attraction, ME! That kind of treatment worked wonders for a 16 year old ego, let me tell ya. Anyway, I really digressed there for a minute... where was I? Oh yeah. Here are some pictures of grandmas house.


Here's the living room, where I took my piano lessons. The piano is still there, as well as grandma's organ, but I lifted the key cover to play something and was disappointed to see that it's all stuffed with what looks like some kind of animal nest.



Here's the kitchen. The microwave and toaster ovens are still there, which kind of surprised me. Somebody had stolen the air conditioners a few years ago.



Grandma's front room. This was my bedroom when I lived here.



So that's a tour of the family land in East Texas. Lots of memories there, but I think it's over now. I wonder what will happen next?

No trip to East Texas is complete without visiting the old Methodist church. This is the church I attended when I was a little boy, and my dad was the choir director there until about 1980, I think, and my grandma played the organ for years. My brother and I were the 'candle boys' or something, I forgot the official title. We lit the candles at the beginning of the service and put them out after. I have good memories of that church, which I think is the reason why I never completely gave up on the idea of God. My idea of church was always pews, stained glass, a choir, an organ, and candles in a real, bona fide church, not some civic center or warehouse with a stage and a rock band and folding chairs for the congregation. I didn't like those 'new wave' churches with rock bands and stomping and clapping. Something about the lack of order didn't seem right to me. I always knew that if I ever had a church again, then my kind of church would have to be conservative. This church, the Methodist church in Omaha, is the type of church I always pictured myself attending if I ever 'got right with God'. Taking that into consideration, it makes perfect sense that the Orthodox church appealed to me so much, almost instantly. So anyway, yup. Here's the Methodist church.



Now we have some pictures of the drive from Omaha to Pittsburg, going the 'Cason-way'. That's the scenic route. Observe the sign that says 'Cason'. See? I'm giving an authentic tour.



More scenery between Cason and Pittsburg.



And finally, right turn on Highway 11 towards Pittsburg.



After I got into Pittsburg, I hit an oil road and took this picture. I used to like driving on oil roads just for the hell of it in the spring. It's always prettiest in the spring. I feel painful nostalgia for East Texas when I'm there at this time of year.



So, moving on. Next on the tour is a railroad crossing where I was almost killed late one night when I was about 22. What happened was this: I was heartbroken over some girl (a recurring phenomenon for me throughout my life, you'd think I would learn, right?) and I was driving very slowly out in the country with Pearl Jam's 'Black' playing at full volume (that's the perfect song for indulging in self pity that comes with a freshly broken heart). I was so absorbed in my weeping and drinking (I had a quart of Busch beer between my legs) that I didn't hear the train at all, or even notice that one was coming. So, about - lets say, half a second, to be safe - after I crossed those tracks, a train blew past right behind me. There was probably about a foot of clearance between the rear end of my car and the train as it whizzed by, and let me tell you, that jolted me right out of that little episode of 'poor me' I had been indulging in. I can imagine the article in the newspaper describing how I bought the farm:

"Local man ends own life over unrequitted love by driving in front of a train."

Yeesh! And it wouldn't have even been true! But that's how I would have gone down in history, as some schmuck who parked his car in front of a speeding train because some chick didn't have the same googley eyes for him as he did for her.

By the way, the reason why it's all half upside-down and weirdly is because I took two photos, one from each direction, and didn't know what to do with them, so I just connected them there in the middle.



So, anyway... lastly I stopped by the prayer tower in Pittsburg. The prayer tower was built in the early 90's by Bo Pilgrim, the chicken guy. You know, Pilgrim's Pride chicken. Anyway, it's his prayer tower, and I always felt a certain amount of contempt for it through the years because Bo built it, and if you were young and non-comformist in East Texas in the early 90's, you were obligated to hate Bo Pilgrim because he represented 'the man'. So, anyway... yeah, kind of an idiotic reason to hate a prayer tower.



There's a statue outside and I'm assuming it's of Jesus washing somebody's feet. I don't know my New Testament well enough to know who's feet are getting washed, but maybe somebody reading this knows and can comment about it. Here's the statue.



I went inside and somebody was prostrated on the floor, praying. He was a Catholic Mexican, and of course I disturbed him when I entered. He jumped up and smiled, waving goodbye to me as if we were long lost friends who would never see each other again after this brief reunion, saying "See you later," over and over with a stilted accent, almost apologetic. I guess maybe I embarrassed him when I walked in on him obviously in deep prayer about something. Anyway, here's the inside.



I approached the altar and opened the bible to my favorite passage, Psalm 102...



...and was surprised to see that Psalm 103 is the one we sing every Sunday at the beginning of Liturgy. I'm still a noob at church I guess. I know I've finally found where I belong, and there has always been somebody by my side since I started down this new and wonderful path, sharing it with me. I just assumed it would always be that way... I never thought I'd have to go it alone.

God's Mercy

Today I was driving to East Texas. As I started out, I was still feeling residual guilt for the horrible things I've said and felt recently, directed towards one whom I love. Saying it was residual is a little generous... full blown guilt is more like it. I've felt horrible ever since that episode, and I can only hope that I will receive her forgiveness. I'm not going to beg for it anymore though, I'll just let God handle it.

So, I'm driving along and breaking down into tears periodically, but at the same time I'm saying the Jesus Prayer. Over and over I say it, interspersed with other personal prayers of forgiveness, enlightenment, prayers of thanks, prayers to make me worthy of God's love. This went on for about an hour... crying, praying, feeling numb, crying, praying, until finally I let it all out in one manic weeping episode. Once that was done, a sense of calm fell upon me, and I continued with my prayers. I put an icon of the Theotokos that Nancy had given me on the dashboard and prayed for the Holy Mother of God to offer me comfort and to pray to her son Jesus Christ for me. I prayed to my saint, Saint Elias, whom I have finally decided upon, to pray to God on my behalf.

Slowly, I began to notice things around me. Trees, clouds, people in other cars, people in their yards playing, dogs, even dead animals on the road. They were all beautiful to me. I began to smile just a little... and I redoubled my prayer efforts. I began to feel joy. Happiness. I prayed more and more fervently, until I began to feel that beginning of a pain in my heart. It grew, faded, grew again, subsided into a dull ache, grew again... this went on for a while, as I wept tears of joy that God had seen fit to bestow me with mercy again.

This joy persisted for a short while, and I found myself sinking back into a state of calm lethargy... it wasn't despair or pain, but it wasn't joy anymore. I thought that I had achieved all I would achieve today through prayer, that God had a limit to His mercy, and I had reached it. I picked up a novel I'm reading, 'Moving Mars', and started to read it while I was driving... kind of giving up on prayer for the moment. As soon as I picked up that book and started reading, PAIN in my heart, sharp PAIN. Pain and joy again, doubled, tripled from before. I put that book back down. I prayed for God's forgiveness at giving up so soon. God had once again bestowed His mercy upon me, an unworthy sinner, when I was about to give up.

I continue to be amazed at the mercy I receive from God, so undeserving a sinner as I am.

What a story...

Oh boy, what a conversion story I'm going to have when this is all over with... I can't wait to write it. I'll bet I could even turn it into a short story, or maybe a novella. Or possibly even a comic book. A graphic novel? Hey, a screenplay. For a CGI movie! A science fiction Orthodox conversion story, rife with the latest CGI special effects, set in the future and with the fate of a futuristic Denton... no, the entire Earth... at stake. Ash gets baptized, saves the Earth from the invading demons from the 11th dimension, and gets the girl in the end!

Man, this is gonna be good...

Taking it easy

I wonder if anybody ever reads this blog? I read it. I read these blogs that I post over and over, and I edit them relentlessly. Am I the only one? Who reads them, I mean. I know that I'm the only one who edits them.

Nobody ever comments. I have five followers; three strangers who I have no idea about, and then two people from church... Pam and Leah. I think Leah used to check in now and then. Maybe she still does but I doubt it. Pam probably forgot all about it centuries ago. So, I've started talking to myself a lot on this here blog, which is actually the way I prefer it anyway. I mean, I post a lot of stupid shit here. Do I really want everybody reading my innermost retardation? I don't think so.

Tonight I took a long walk. I was on a mission. I had a letter that I had to deliver. Rain, sleet, snow, hurricane, tornado, typhoon, earthquake, ice age, asteroid impact, supernova, black hole, gamma ray burster, big bang... nothing was going to stop me from delivering this message. I was a one man postal service. I can put that on my resume now... I have letter delivering experience.

And I delivered it too, so that's always a plus when applying for a job. I also think I'm on record if I'm not mistaken, because I was questioned by the authorities. I was very smooth. I said, 'The mail must get through,' and those authorities said, 'Yes sir, sorry to interrupt you sir,' and I've never seen authorities scuttle away so quickly with their tails between their legs. Yes sir, they saw a man on a mission, and they knew not to ask questions. I'm dead serious here.

So anyway, after blazing a few new trails for the public good and then backtracking and doing some ranger things, I found my way home. What, you say? Blazing and backtracking? Yes, I say. I am badder ass than Aragorn. So anyway, my sense of direction is pretty much flawless so I got back to my cave with no trouble at all.

So here I am now, at home in my dry cave, protected from the elements, safe and sound and with the sound of my own wheels putting me to sleep. They definitely don't drive me crazy.

Sorry

Ugh. I feel like I'm a stranger in my own body. I've been just so hateful and angry lately, and I am not like that... it's not who I am. My God, what have I done.

I don't think I would have reacted this intensely and vehemently if my soul weren't at stake. Spiritual warfare is hard, and there are a lot of casualties. I never thought I could be so hateful. I think back to the past couple of days and it feels like I am in somebody else's head and experiencing their memories, not mine.

So, this is what it feels like to finally let it all out. It's not a relief like I thought it would be. It's just a permeating sadness accompanied by the realization that I've hurt someone I love and added even more pain to this situation, all for the sake of my selfish pride. I will not allow this to happen again. I probably wouldn't have learned this any other way though... but what kind of damage have I done for the sake of a lesson in humility, love and forgiveness?

I promise to make up for it somehow.

Goodbye to my childhood

The old house where I used to live in East Texas has burned down. Nobody knew about it until my cousin Melissa called my dad from Omaha while she and her husband were down there. We don't know when it burned or how it happened, only that it's gone and nobody said anything to us about it. My dad's grandparents built that house in 1950. My brother and sister and I all lived there when we were little, with my mom and dad when they were still married... from December of '76 until the spring of 1984. I have good memories and bad memories of living there, it was in that house where I spent my childhood. In 1990 my grandma and I spent the summer renovating it, fixing it up, painting it, laying new ceiling tile, making it livable again so it could be rented out. That was it's last breath of life. It's gone now, and nobody will ever make any new memories in that house ever again.

I don't know exactly how to feel about this. I remember joking once about how I'd like to just burn the place to the ground. Now some stranger, infinitely removed from our connections to the place, connections forged by family and feelings, both good and bad, have robbed us... I'm not sure what was taken, but something beyond wood, glass, brick and concrete is definitely missing. I can feel it.

I'll be in East Texas this week. I'll go take a look at it. I'll probably grieve a little. I wonder what that will be like.

The date of the picture, July 24th 2005, was one of the last times anyone attempted to take care of that land. That's me mowing the lawn. Goodbye old house.

Logismoi - the thoughts that evolve to sin through the stages of desire, action and passion.

God forgive me for succumbing to the enemy and falling into despair. Help me, strengthen me, make me an instrument of thy will. May I be forgiven for my weakness in letting the enemy corrupt my love. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner.

It's the logismoi that make this so horrible, that trigger the collapse of my composure. They say that logismoi are attacks by the enemy to keep people off balance, to weaken them so that it is harder for God's love to be accepted. Well, that's the damn truth for sure. The dreams are even worse than the waking thoughts, because I can't just stop what I'm dreaming or will the dream to go away. Sometimes when I'm dreaming I will actually believe it's real life, and then I'll wake up so relieved. Maybe all of this is really a dream, and I'll wake up soon. Just a bad dream. A nightmare. I haven't woken up yet though, so either I'm in a coma and I'm having the mother of all dreams, or all of this really is happening. I really am going through this... but it just seems impossible. I still have a hard time believing it sometimes.

I've forgotten what it's like not to hurt constantly, to not have to fight anger that is constantly threatening to surface, to feel like goodness, acceptance and forgiveness are all the characteristics of a natural state of mind. How easily we forget, right? I feel like all of the substance which makes me a good person - all of the qualities which I had learned to trust without question as being integral to my spirit and immune to corruption - I feel like they have all been violently ripped away from me and splashed to the four winds, leaving a festering wound infected with feelings of anger, betrayal, and injustice. I feel all of this, but I know that the enemy is responsible for causing these feelings to surface. I need the cure for this infection... please God, heal this hurt in me. Help me to remember the hope You gave me.

I'm going to East Texas tomorrow to house sit for my mom while she's across country at my cousin's graduation. I'm looking forward to being all by myself, alone, away from familiar things that remind me of the past year and a half. Maybe I can use this time to heal this hurt, to just pray constantly and come to terms somehow with what has been happening, to be able to believe that my love isn't worthless.