I've got a million silly things to say tonight. And I'm going to try my best to just blurt them out and let them go, into the blogosphere, without the normal hours of exhausting editing and pondering that I generally do before being satisfied that I have written exactly what I want to, in the way that I want you to hear it.

My husband is chortling out loud, as only he can do, while reading "My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One Night Stands" by Chelsea Handler. One might be curious as to why a forty-one year old man would be consuming this vomitous of promiscuity, meant for the most desperate of American females. Its okay, folks- I inherited the book this morning in a spree through my friend Missy's astounding collection of fiction, non-fiction, and, as evidenced by this literary work, pure vulgarity. He came home this evening, seeing me in tears, laughing so hard I was literally falling out of the chair. And I must say, in Tom's defense, that the book, which I read in the forty-five blissful minutes I had alone this evening, is completely hilarious, and more a comedic outlet than erotica. So if you need to give yourself a break from the drama of your life, you too may want to venture horizontally for a spell- be weary, however, if your bladder has a weakness in the continence department. Grab a Depends and read away. You won't have a straight face for hours. Guaranteed.

Today is Friday and in the Sombar household that can mean only one thing- CANDY. Nothing makes my children happier than sugar. We can call them in for dinner, in for a movie, in for a fight with silly string and shaving cream, and they'll ignore us and stay in the neighbors' yards playing feverishly until bedtime, when the obstacle of darkness and a lack of clear vision forces them back home. But this evening, when reminded in a loud roar from their father, that it was time to go to the grocery store for candy, the stampede of time took place, where only the most agile of children made it into our van without face planting in the yard. Our local Giant Eagle has a rather divine confectionery shop, with dozens of barrels of every candy imaginable, available for purchase, in bulk. Once home, the trading, bartering, begging, and hard-selling ensues, generally ending in bellowing and violence. Seth has now joined his siblings in the sugar-addicts club, though he is limited by my remaining common sense to the organic raw cane gummy treats, of which his un-chaperoned and less conscious father decided to purchase him an entire pound. I requested a few twizzlers and Hershey's Kisses and got neither (though there is a whole host of other delights on my kitchen counter, if you like root beer balls, blow-pops, dum-dums, and caramels, come on over. I'll pass).

Tom brought home The Shield, Season VII for our date-at-home-in-our-ghetto-bedroom tonight. I thought it rather hilarious and most mentionable that the cover boasted a DVD "Loaded With Extra Value- Adult Content." So....I guess we are to assume that Fox was trying to grasp the not-quite-porn-crowd with that nugget of info...I might find HGTV more titillating, frankly, though I do love Michael Chiklis and have devoured every episode of that series, over the past few years, with much fervor.

Well, everyone under five feet is nestled snugly on the love seat at the back of our kitchen, eating my famous stove-popped popcorn, watching....um....I'm not sure actually. Hopefully nothing loaded with some extra value adult content.

I took my three big kids to the pool this afternoon, while Sethy was napping and my husband was working from home. I can't say that I always feel motivated to get changed, remind everyone else A THOUSAND AND ONE TIMES to get changed, pack towels, snacks, water, membership cards, and pile in the car...actually I don't really ever feel motivated for that kind of suffering but I do it because it is summer, the sun is out, and I know it makes my children insanely happy.

So today, the four of us splashed into the water, carelessly making our way to the deeper end, and proceeded to play a variety of games, including an impromptu session of Simon Says. At one point, as we giggled together then huddled to keep the frostbite at bay (global warming has not hit the Pittsburgh area, apparently), I couldn't stop smiling thinking about how much I love these souls I'm raising, and how I am enjoying this summer with them so much.

On the way home we sang to the radio and hand-danced our way through the most ludicrous song I've ever heard ("Kiss me thru the phone.."), while eating candy we'd bought from the vending machines. Other than my gas tank resting snuggly on E, I was full to the brim with contentedness, something that escapes me most of the time, but about which I am trying to be more mindful.

Things are less than perfect- I could make a list a mile long of the areas in my life that need improvement...but I am coming to understand that being content is about accepting my life as it stands every moment that I live it, while working to carve out a path that feels kinder to the soles of my feet.

GLORY GLORY (HALLELUJAH) (SINCE I LAID MY BURDEN DOWN)
Traditional Negro Spiritual

REFRAIN:
Glory glory, hallelujah
Since I lay my burden down
Glory glory, hallelujah
Since I lay my burden down
Glory glory, hallelujah
Since I lay my burden down
Glory glory, hallelujah
Since I lay my burden down

All my sickness will be over
When I lay my burden down
All my sickness will be over
When I lay my burden down

All my troubles will be over
When I lay my burden down
All my troubles will be over
When I lay my burden down

Lord, I'm feeling so much better
Since I lay my burden down
Lord, I'm feeling so much better
Since I lay my burden down


It's a splendid day here in the Burgh (pardon the rather antiquated term of endearment, I just couldn't help it)and I've been having some rambling thoughts that I thought I'd share, regarding our current spiritual path:

We stumbled into The Open Door Church nearly three years ago after moving to Pittsburgh and getting settled (a process that took longer than it would seem from this sentence). Jen Lemen, in all of her "emergent church" wisdom, had helped me find three locations where Tom and I might want to worship (after years of being complacent in a rather hard-core evangelical castle, where christianity had been boiled down to a religion for pretty, happy, affluent, heterosexuals who befriended and voted solely for others who were the same.) I sent an email to BJ, the senior pastor, introducing myself, and proclaimed that I was a "stay-at-home attachment parent of three children, lover of blacks, gays, and feminism," to which he said "welcome." So we became off-and-on congregants, completely sold on their "we love kids, even if they are screaming during the service" and "come as you are" philosophies. Don't get me wrong, this is no "mamby-pamby-Jesus-is-all-smiles-and-rainbows" kind of community- it is a missional church, whose intention is to follow the words and works of Christ, with a heavy emphasis on serving others. It's hands-on style requires everyone to at least be paying attention for an hour and a half, if not participating with genuine enthusiasm. At times there are prayer stations for you to gather at, weep at, lay at, where even my children are welcome and encouraged to spend time

This spring, our family made a committment to have this church be a consistent part of our family life and have devoted nearly every Sunday since to being present there.
Here are some further tid-bits about our morning of praise and prayerful contemplation (actually I was the "designated parent" on duty with Seth at the back of the room so my contemplating was usurped by constant utterings of "shhhhhhhh" and "yes- there's a firetruck, sweety. yes- you love firetrucks. yes- there's a dog on the truck...".):

*Today was our monthly "community dinner". This has long been our favorite of Sunday traditions with The Open Door. Since the service has switched to mornings for the summertime, Tom prepared a lucious French Toast Casserole for us to bring- the smell alone would have driven even the staunchest of aetheists into the Lord's presence. Is there anything more delightful than bread with cinnamon and sugar baked into it? No....I daresay there is not. My children, who are infamous for their marathon eating sprees, look forward to the buffet of delectible dishes with as much fervor as going to Kennywood (okay- I exaggerate only slightly) and ran into the sanctuary, nearly landing on top of the various crocks planted on a side table. Truly you would think they'd just gotten off a boat from some land of famine. And unlike the more mature members of the congregation, The Sombar kids prefer to continue feeding themselves for the duration of worship, long after other folks, with a little more cooth, have taken seats and moved on with the prayer and praise. At one point, this morning, I spied Benjamin bringing a plate of three boiled eggs to his father to peel, about ten minutes before the benediction.

*As we were exiting the parking lot to head into the Union Project for church, Lily declared "Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmy- you are wearing my shoes!!" Yes, friends, the time has now come where my daughter and I can swap footwear, and I can honestly say this is a good thing (she may not agree). And with our dualing ADD, one of us is bound to know where a pair of flip-flops are located, even when the other has no clue. This same big girl daughter of mine laid in my lap on the floor at the back of the sanctuary, causing my heart to swell- I just held her and tried to stop time, knowing that one day she will rather die than cuddle with her mother in public. The same is often true for Liam and Benjamin who generally, at some point, snuggle close before going off to play with other children or hear Bible stories in another room (today they were too busy eating).

*Seth resisted the urge to pummel other small beings, though he stared down an eighteen month-old pretty hard during the sermon. Even Jesus faced temptation, right?

*John Creasy, the assistant pastor and sometimes rockin' band leader, lead everyone in a rousing rendition of "Lay My Burdens Down" ("Glory Glory, Hallelujah, I'm Gonna Lay My Burdens Down..."), with a small herd of little people twirling near the pulpit. You couldn't help but smile, then clap and sing louder than normal- getting us all out of our typical "pathetic white people church droan."

I will never claim to be disciple-like in my following of Christ. My imperfection in this area is the same as my life in general, my best intentions being renewed with the dawn of each day, my heart firmly planted in the passionate pursuit of soulfulness, with sometimes disappointing results. I don't believe, anymore, that Western Christianity fulfills much of the purposes of Jesus, what with our mega-churches and cut-throat superiority complexes. But I do believe that there can be a happy medium between joining the throngs of hypocrites and rejecting spirituality altogether, and for me, it lies somewhere in the hood in Pittsburgh, where you sweat it out in the summer, on slanted floors with acoustics which make everyone nearly inaudible. It lies in the reality of everyone who steps through these doors-bringing forth their hodge-podge lives, their insignificance, their issues, their delight and despair, whose glow, despite it all, is infectious and with whom you know you will always have shelter and the love of God.

I'm feeling rather grumpy today, mostly due to a cumulative lack of sleep (wake up at 1:30 and Seth is between Tom and I in bed. Wake up at 3:30 and Benjamin is next to me, next to Seth, who is between Tom and I in bed). But also because I've just read Jen Lemen's latest post and I wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life (I think she may have this effect on a lot of people). About once a month, or so, I have this routine- where I sit back and feel like my life is completely insignificant and that I've now wasted almost thirty-nine years barely scratching the surface of my own potential, my destiny. Jen Lemen, whom I wiled away hundreds of hours with several years ago, is in Rwanda rescuing tribes of refugees or something and I'm just trying to get through the end of my days with clean teeth (showers have now become optional). People, like my friend Judy Albenzi, say- "You are doing what you are SUPPOSED to be doing right now- mothering the children you brought into the world." Then there's my twenty-four year-old guitar teacher, Pat, with the most remarkable yet simple words, imploring me to get a grip- "what could be more important than raising your four children- REALLY, JUDY, WHAT?" and I have nothing to say in response, except, "I don't know." And I don't know- I know that I've dreamed this dream for a lifetime and it is my struggle with contentedness that keeps me from realizing that I'm here- that I've made it. I know, deep down, that my life, as it stands, today, is all that I ever wanted and so much more. And I think about Mother Theresa's most famous quote "Do no great things, only small things with great love." But I've never dreamed small- I've never looked up to the heavens and wished for small- like the winter carnival at my elementary school when they raffled off the six foot tall stocking full of presents- I wanted that thing so bad I was doing ten Hail Mary's in the caferia, eyeballs praying while boring holes through the thick red felt which curved itself into a toe big enough to fit over the foot of a T-Rex. And just like with the stocking, which I did not win, I reach for the stars and always land, flat on my back, in the meadows of my reality, which are painstakingly normal and lackluster. This recurring nightmare, that I'll wake up at fifty and have nothing to show for my efforts, is here, in my leather chair in the living room, keeping me company, and I feel stuck.