Hand in Hand

Right now I'm working on the two central icons for our iconostasis. From the waist, they are both about the height and width of an average person.

A year ago, as I was working on the Platytera for the altar, people would ask me how large the icon was going to be. I would stretch out my arms with the elbows a little away from my waist (her same pose) and that was how I would describe the width of the image. This is because I would occasionally lay my hands on hers when I would paint. I don't know why, but even when I was working with an incomplete image, it was a powerful feeling.

Last night as I was painting on the icon of Christ, I rested my hand on His hand as I leaned forward to paint something on His shoulder. As I pulled away I looked at my hand. I had curious feeling, similar to what I had with the Platytera, but something more: like being involved in painting an icon that is already made, but just waiting for me to finish.

Another little something...

This is a 5"x7" copy I made of a late 13th Century icon of the Nativity of our Lord. The original is from the Monastery of St Catherine, Sinai, Egypt and measures 12"x17", but also includes an icon of the Crucifixion that takes up 2/5 of the board. So even though I thought my icon was comparatively small, it is really not even half the size of the original.

**Update: I enlarged this picture after posting it and remembered something from a few years ago. Fr Damian (of blessed memory) told us he had been given a beautiful jeweled cross. He showed it to us, and we all remarked how absolutely beautiful the cross was. I don't know how to describe jeweled things well, so I won't try. However, I will say that the stones weren't big, bright, or gaudy, but rather tasteful, small and artistically placed.

But there was one obvious flaw. There was, in the center of the cross, a framed circle of gold that held a tiny 1/2" circle of glass. In that circle of glass was, and I hesitate to say it only because it seems odd to say, an ugly image of Christ's face. It was unarguably Catholic and exceedingly expressive in its agony.

When Fr Damian showed me his cross, he asked me, "Can you make something to improve it?" I gladly complied. The cross was too beautiful to be left as it was.

So I painted a very tiny icon of Christ's head in a halo to fit in the gold and glass frame of this cross. One of the monks asked me to email him the image so he could see it.

And this is the crux of the story. As he later told me, when he saw what I had painted (as an emailed image) he and the brotherhood were appalled at it's messy look. However, when the actual piece of paper arrived in the mail they changed their opinion. It was only because it was so tiny that the lines seemed sloppy. When they saw it in its original size they recognized its beauty.

So that's my story. This icon, if you click it, is much larger on the screen than it is in real life. So certain parts seem sloppy. However it's difficult to get smaller than a 0/10 brush in a local art supply store.

And that's all really.

What I've been doing since the last post...

St John Chrysostom

St Basil the Great

The Metropolian's Visit

Metropolitan Hilarion visited our church from July 16-18. He arrived Thursday in Charleston where Fr Mark picked him up from the airport and drove to Summerville to eat lunch with Fr Anastassy at his restaurant. After that they drove up here, and arrived around 4:00. I was terribly nervous all day, which I was only able to relieve by cleaning the house and hollering at the children.

For me, in situations where there is a long period of preparation (in this case several weeks of real preparation), there comes a point where I feel like I'm on the edge of a precipice until the moment of truth arrives. Then I give up all hope of improving anything and relax entirely, ready to accept a fall into the abyss of success or failure.

We have had two bishops (Bp Gabriel & Bp Kallistos Ware) and now one metropolitan in our home, and I have to say the Metropolitan was the most enjoyable. Undoubtedly it's because I am a bit older, and perhaps better practiced in receiving people in my home now, than I was when the other two bishops visited. But the Metropolitan was very kind and friendly--not that the others weren't--and seemed to enjoy his visit--not that the others didn't. There was just something about the visit that felt more comfortable.

When he arrived, Rose, LMark & Ella ran downstairs to get a blessing. The way Orthodox Christians usually greet a priest or a bishop is to hold out their two hands, over which the priest or bishop makes the sign of the cross. Then his hand is kissed, as one would kiss the hand of Christ. I noticed that Margaret was missing, but because our foyer can get crowded, I did not notice that Max had not yet greeted the Metropolitan. Margaret was feeling shy, but she showed up a few minutes later.

We took the Metropolitan and his cell attendant (Denis) into the den to relax. I got them some water and conversed a little while Fr Mark hurried back and forth doing something probably related to their bags and whatnot. We talked about the icons I had painted at our church, which he said he liked. We discussed the Russian and Greek methods of icon-painting (the latter method is that with which I am more familiar).

Then Max came into the room. It appears that, at the arrival of the Metropolitan, he had run into his room to change from his t-shirt and shorts, into his "church clothes." I did not ask or tell any of the children to change clothes, because I knew they were going to their grandparents' house. But Max took it upon himself to put on church clothes.

He was wearing khaki pants, his church-shoes (no socks), and a white cotton shirt. He was wrinkly, but presented himself as seriously as a precious, little soldier.

The only problem was he had put on a girl's blouse (alas, Rose had put the clothes away again).

This wasn't something that we could have pretended was a boy's shirt. It was white with a baby-doll collar and huge, puffy half-sleeves. If I could have stopped myself, I would have, but I tried not to laugh--at least out loud--when I told him, "Max, you've got to change. ["Why?"] You're wearing a girl's shirt."

He had a look on his face--mortification so purely innocent and sweet--that I hope I never (OK--maybe just a few more times in his life) to see again. While siblings might not have the practice as adults of smothering their laughter, thankfully metropolitans do. Max quickly removed himself from the room.

Rose told me later that she saw Max in his room furiously tearing at the buttons of the shirt. She said, ignorant of the event downstairs, "Hey, Max, can I help you? I think that's a girl's shirt..." Max growled: "I KNOW!!"

So he returned with a baby-blue polo shirt and again presented himself to me, obviously nervous, but as strong as a little soldier. I told him to get a blessing, and as he did, the Metropolitan said quietly, "Max, I like your shirt."

I hope to post a few more (not so funny) but memorable events from our visit. I also hope to be able to post to my blog more often. I have discovered I find much more enjoyment painting than I do reading, watching TV, or writing this blog. But, for my own sake at least, I hope to keep up with what's going on in my life. I have a terrible memory, and unless I write them down, the tales of my and my children's foibles will be otherwise lost.

I used a tiller borrowed from our deacon yesterday to dig up a new area for our pool and another area to plant seven 3-gallon loropetalums I bought from Lowes for $2 each (regularly priced $19.99 each). When I was negotiating the price with the manager, the shrubs were crunchy and nearly dead. But over the past several weeks I have revived them almost entirely. I hope to plant them this weekend. I know it's not a good time since we're going into the hot-season, but I promise to keep them watered and not let them die. They're too pretty to lose.

Anyway this is something I wrote last July when I began tilling up another area for the pool my parents and siblings gave me for my birthday. Our backyard is not at all flat, so I have to do some serious digging and leveling to get this area flat. I can't believe I did it last year without a tiller. I amaze myself sometimes.

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Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of last week I spent about 25 hours leveling, digging, digging, leveling, re-digging, re-leveling, re-digging and constructing an above ground pool for the children. The days I worked would have been beautiful days to swim: not a cloud in the sky, no wind, and 100 degree days from 8 AM to 3 PM. Wednesday the wind decided to blow around noon. To an asthmatic, sweaty, sandy mom it came as an angel of mercy...inspiring me to work three more hours.

The children pranced and danced around my work area, occasionally adding entertainment to the grueling work, but most often causing confusion and messing up my stakes, strings and line-level. I exhorted myself to be patient and to use these times as "learning moments." It wasn't meant to be. Almost every time I would begin to discuss the way X, Y, and Z are supposed to work (and why they weren't working right now), I would look up to find the child walking toward, smiling or waving at me from the air-conditioned house.

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Yesterday morning when I was working, Max proudly emerged from the house with two cups of iced tea for us. I still think it's going to take a few days to get the ground completely level. Last year's attempt left us about four inches off, but we didn't find it out till we had about four feet of water in the pool, and at that point it wasn't worth dumping it and starting over. I don't want the same mistake to happen twice.

All the same, I just love to dig.

WhenExtremesMeet

Seriously, within 24 hours of each other:

The husband, watching the sleekly-designed, hands-free, battery powered can-opener, says, "What the heck is that?"

The 7 year-old, holding up the hand-powered, standard can-opener, says, "What the heck is this?"

The Lord of the Dance

I like Atlas Shrugged, but I don't know anything about this blog or the blogger. I appreciate the logic of the argument very, very much. This is the reason why, for right now, though maybe not for all time, presenting the Real-Life-position will help our side in the abortion-war. I don't think our faction will win the argument over Roe vs. Wade (alas, American and all of society is in a downward looped-y-loop), but the salvation of a single life is and should be counted as a Win in the end.

And it is.

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the opposite of lying

If you're like most people, then you probably think the opposite of lying is truthfulness.

If I say "yes" when I know the truth is "no," then I am lying. But if a liar says "yes" when the answer is "yes," it doesn't mean he is not a liar. Lying, you see, is not about being untruthful -- it is about controlling the information a person receives, distorting reality, so that they act on flawed facts. It is about making another person your own means to an end. This is the reason fraud ranks right up there with force as an enemy of reason. And it is why we should expect a liar to say "yes" when it's the answer that suits him best. He's not concerned with being untruthful; he's concerned with controlling your actions by altering the information you use to make decisions.

Because of this, I am not satisfied calling mere truthfulness the opposite of lying. The opposite of lying, to me, is being informative.

Yesterday I saw this: States passing bills requiring ultrasounds prior to abortions. This is actually brilliant, not because of how it will influence women's decisions, but because of how it tests the liberal position on abortion.

A fetus, women are told, is just tissue. If you believe that is a lie, you might think the remedy is to deny it. This law is different -- it says: "See for yourself." And liberalism has a problem with this, not because it refutes their "tissue" argument, but because it truly allows a woman to make an informed choice. And here you thought they were protecting a woman's right to choose. Are you so sure?

Similarly, abortion activists are suing states over specialty license plates with slogans like "Choose Life." Tell me, if you wanted to make abortion "safe, legal and rare," do you think choosing life more would make abortion rarer? I do.

The truth is that we've been told that one side is about life, while the other side is about choice. When I see the life side clobbering the choice side by espousing choice, it puts the choice side in a very uncomfortable position of having to face what it is they really seek. And that's a lot like looking into a baby's face and calling it tissue.

So what does liberalism really seek, with regard to abortion? Well, it seeks what it always wants: a way to escape the consequences of irresponsible action by shifting some cost (in this case a very brutal and violent one) -- onto an innocent, but politically unrepresented, minority. And it relies on misrepresentations like "it's just tissue," to garner support from people who simply don't know better. Liberalism relies on lying.

Consider the source.

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and the babies.

A Reason to Hope

Hmm.

This was predicted a few years ago.

Throwing Off the Liberal Burqa

"LIBERAL TALIBAN ISSUES FATWA AGAINST MISS CALIFORNIA"
May 13, 2009
ANN COULTER

Not even Dick Cheney can incite the blood-curdling rage of liberals at the sight of a sexy Evangelical Christian. Paula Jones, Katherine Harris, Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin and, most recently, Miss California, Carrie Prejean, have all come under a frenzy of attacks from liberals.

Christians are supposed to be fat, balding sweaty little men with bad complexions. It's liberals who are supposed to be the sexy ones. (I know that from watching "The West Wing" and all movies starring Julia Roberts.)

But sadly for liberals, in real life, the fat, balding sweaty little guy with the bad complexion is Perez Hilton and the smoking-hot babe is Carrie Prejean.

This apparent contradiction incites violent anger in liberals, triggering their famous "fight or flight" response. So liberal masturbators are, once again, launching furious attacks on a beautiful Christian in a fit of pique similar to the one directed at Joan of Arc.

First, the Miss USA contest held a press conference to announce that Prejean had breast implants. Take a Christian position in public and Satan's handmaidens will turn all your secrets into front-page news.

Next, a photographer released a single cheesecake photo of Prejean. This prompted liberal reporters who have never met a Christian to proclaim that Christians were outraged by the photo. Liberals believe abortion is a sacrament, but smoking, wearing short skirts and modeling lingerie are mortal sins. (And if wearing women's underwear is a basis for being disqualified from the pageant, that's the end of Perez Hilton's judging career.)

Then on Monday some genuine "semi-nude" photos were released. These were not what we'd call appropriate for a Christian. In a curiously similar attack, the left's final attempt to destroy Paula Jones was to lure her into appearing naked in Penthouse magazine. Oh well.

Christians aren't people who believe they are without sin; they're people who know they're sinners and are awestruck by God's grace in sending his only Son to take the punishment they deserve.

This is in contradistinction to liberals, all of whom believe they're on a fast track to heaven on the basis of being "basically good" people -- and also believe that anyone who disagrees with that theological view is evil.

Finally (so far, anyway), reporters gleefully released the divorce records of Prejean's parents. Because when you want the truth, what is more reliable than angry accusations traded in the middle of an acrimonious divorce?

Liberals used the divorce papers to argue that Prejean had some deep-seated psychological disturbance causing her to oppose gay marriage. Symptoms of this debilitating illness include a belief in some sort of "god" and a reverence for the Bible.

It's not as if Prejean's special talent in the Miss USA contest was to perform an opposite-sex marriage. (Or, as the president and I call it, "marriage.") She didn't even volunteer her "controversial" views on marriage. Rather, she was asked for her opinion on gay marriage and gave it -- in an answer wrapped in so many layers of sugar it took 10 minutes to get to the point.

"Well, I think it's great that Americans are able to choose one way or the other. We live in a land where you can choose same-sex marriage or opposite marriage. You know what, in my country, in my family, I do believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman, no offense to anybody out there. But that's how I was raised, and I believe that it should be between a man and a woman."

What a vicious hate-monger! Any second there I was expecting her to bust out a "by golly!" or an "oh my gosh!" Angry gay-marriage supporters should be happy they didn't get my version of that answer. It contains some terms you won't find in your Bible.

Liberals wouldn't attack James Dobson with the amount of bile they've directed at a 21-year-old beauty contestant. It's not just Christianity -- it's women liberals hate.

From Jean-Paul Sartre, Pablo Picasso and Bertrand Russell, who treated women -- mostly their mistresses -- like dogs, to Teddy Kennedy and Bill Clinton in our own day, liberals are ferocious misogynists. They share Muslims' opinion of women, differing only to the extent that liberals also support a women's right to have an abortion and to perform lap dances.

You'd be better off in a real burqa than under the authority of a liberal American male.

I'm not sure we needed a psychological profile of Prejean to figure out why she holds the same position on gay marriage as: the president, the vice president, the secretary of state, Bill Clinton, John Kerry, John Edwards and his mistress, and the vast majority of the American people.

But what is crying out for an explanation is why every bubble-head TV news anchorette from a nice, churchgoing red state ends up adopting the political views of Karl Marx.

From Katie Couric on CBS to Norah O'Donnell on MSNBC, the whole stable of TV anchorettes weirdly have the exact same politics as their liberal masters. It's the ideological burqa women are required to wear to work in the mainstream media. As with a conventional burqa, it enforces conformity and severely restricts the vision.

The only way to protect yourself is to do the liberal male's bidding, as the bubble-head anchorettes do, or stand on the rock of Christianity.

Now, another beautiful Christian has thrown off the liberal burqa, thereby inciting mass hysteria throughout the liberal establishment. Prejean doesn't care. She is blazing across the sky, as impotent nose-pickers jockey for a piece of her reflected light by hurling insults at her.

Slow, Steady and One Hour Late

We just returned from visiting Fr Mark's folks in their new retirement community. They keep trying to get me to tell my parents about it, but I refuse. In fact, they say to tell my folks to visit and I say thanks, but I'm not gonna. The lack of lawn maintenance alone would make my dad want to move there. And the cards! Lord have mercy, if my mom only knew she'd be gone in a shake.

So I'm not going to mention a word of the lovely new amenity center with two pools, and the sweet ponds and fountains all over the place. I need to keep my parents near me.

And yes, I am selfish.

This is a re-post from about a year & a half ago:

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Mark & I returned this evening after checking out the new retirement community Mark’s dad & step-mother are moving to in June. It is near Griffin Georgia, which is south of Atlanta. They were looking at the same type of community in Charlotte, which is closer to us, but decided on the same house in a different location because it’s much less expensive. As a result, Marilyn can retire a year earlier, and they’ll be in the same financial circumstances as they would if they had waited another year and moved to Charlotte.

The leaves were changing and the drive was magnificent. We had an hour of extra time to enjoy it because Lou suggested that we take highway 16 (which was a “shorter” route) vs. the Interstate (which would have taken us “out of our way”). While Mark knew all along that he should have taken the Interstate, he decided to do what is father suggested, and to take the highway.

As I said, the drive was beautiful, and we had an extra hour to enjoy it. Not only did the road wind over creeks and rivers, through quaint little towns, past farms and beautiful old southern homes, we also got behind a “wide load” for about 45 minutes. It was very wide and tall, and accompanied by two pick-ups and two state troopers. It was, therefore, impossible to pass.

It was a boat. No, actually, I think it would be technically called--a ship. A ship. It was a mid-sized coast guard craft that had a crane on the back of it.

At first we laughed at it. Ha ha: a Coast Guard ship—boy won’t that be a good excuse for Mark’s dad (already waiting for us at Denny’s)? So we took pictures with the camera phone. As the hours—I mean minutes—wore on, the flashing lights became irritating, and the big black hull of the ship was not a complementary centerpiece to the majestic autumn colors framing it.

Fortunately, as we were driving through one of the little towns, the ship ran aground—or “a-curb” as the case may be. As the captains were negotiating their way out of it, we tore through back streets and around corners to find the highway again. There was no getting back to the Interstate now. Just as we were beginning to feel the freedom of the open road, a mile ahead of us there turned a pickup truck hauling a busted-up car. Its front wheels were propped up and chained inside its bed of the truck and it was going about –hmm—10? 15 miles per hour?

Decorum suggests that I bleep out what happened here.

But we arrived safely and returned home safely, thank God.