I'm ashamed to say that I'm new to the world of couponing. I've been married nearly twenty years and I have enough kids to justify the effort but I never thought it was worth the trouble if I just bought the generic brand at WalMart. Indeed when I would compare the prices, it never seemed worth the time it took to clip the ads.

However, the internet has changed everything since my early dismissive days.

Recently I found a website that does the work for you, locates the coupons for you, and links the coupons for you. There is a web site that actually tells you how to game the system by combining coupons with offers that give you cash-back coupons so you get whatever is on sale for ridiculously low prices or for free.

It's not illegal or immoral. It's just finding the best price by combining sales with coupons, and certain coupon policies which sometimes allow multiple coupons. Somebody gets paid in the end, I always figure, whether it's the store, the newspaper, the ad company, or the company that sells the stupid printer cartridges for my inkjet printer--somebody always gets paid.

Since discovering this method of saving money (and the best website to integrate savings, clipped coupons, digital coupons, and everything else), I have looked at couponing (as a friend of my suggested) as part-time job. I haven't yet figured out how much I've saved because stores like Publix and Bi-Lo over-price their stuff, and it's only the sales + coupon deals that get them below WalMart prices.

But unlike other people who have part-time jobs, I've discovered that "coupon-moms" can be as intense and as ruthless about their weekly deals as a mother grizzly bear. Within a day or two, certain printable coupons become "no longer available" online because the company allows only a certain number of thousands to be printed. If a person doesn't get the coupon on time, tough. Buy one get one free deals (B1G1) are particularly dangerous deals. The stores usually run out of a these items the day or maybe the day after it is advertised (especially if there's a coupon available).

In other words, if a certain person shows up with her well-organized stack of coupons, expecting to find certain Lysol products on the shelves because the brand is a B1G1 at the store, and there exist several coupons with a dollar or more off that product (rendering it 35 cents or so)--making a person want to buy as many products as she has coupons--the product simply won't be there. Moreover, that certain person will feel like fool for showing up at noon (instead of 5 AM) on the day the product went on sale.

Obviously this event has happened to me (on more than one occasion).

But I also had the satisfaction--no, satisfaction isn't the word I'm looking for--maybe the phrase, empoweringly helpful feeling--wait, no--satisfaction is definitely the word--of being the person who helped another novice learn that the world of couponing is, or can be, a pretty bloody business.

I once encountered a lady with two sweet, little toddlers who was looking for the Gogurt B1G1 on sale at Publix that week, just after I visited the Gogurt aisle. I had six coupons (mind you, coupons collected over a period of five weeks or so) that got me a dollar off two Gogurts (which we freeze and use as popcicles) and one coupon for a dollar off one. Naturally if there are only 13 boxes of Gogurts in the refrigerated section of the store, it's not unreasonable for me to take as many as I need. It's certainly not illegal or unfair. It's just couponing.

So the young mother pulled her cart up right after I loaded up my 13th (and last) box of Gogurt and I heard her say sweetly to her two year-old (who in my guilty memory might have been looking longingly and forelornly into the refrigerated area that usually holds the Gogurt) , "Sorry honey. It looks like they're all gone."

There was a part of me that wanted to chase after her as she pulled away and say, "HERE! Take two boxes!!" But I couldn't also help but wonder if she wasn't the person who had taken the last eight bottles of Lysol I was expecting to find the week before.

Probably she wasn't.

But, she soon could be.

Or, soon will be.

(I can't believe I'm sharing that link. It's like I'm my own worst enemy sometimes)

*UPDATE*
I just discoverd that Publix will issue a rain-check if they run out of something during a sale. I suppose this makes all of what I said above totally irrelevant.

When I was a child my parents would drive winding routes throughout the countryside of Ohio or other midwestern states in search of covered bridges to drive under.

Unknown to me at the time, my parents kissed each other every time. Apparently back in their day, teenagers used covered bridges as romantic meeting places. My parents' kissing was their corny way to comemorate this forgotten piece of history.

As a family we might be heading somewhere within 50 or so miles, but my parents would add another 20 miles to our trip in order to find that bridge.

This is an admirable thing if for no other reason than I know for a fact that my brother, sister, and I were some of the bickering-est kids alive.

A Parable

Those who don't believe in the afterlife resemble two twins talking in the womb:

-Soon we'll be born into a new life...

-Brother, that's nonsense; it spells our death. Just imagine, they will take our only source of food by cutting the umbilical. What shall we do? Then there is no new life. How do you know about it? Nobody has come back here yet...

-Soon we will see our Mother...

-Believing in Mother is beyond nonsense. I can't see her now, so she doesn't exist at all. If you're so smart, tell me, where is she?

-I don't know how to explain it... But I feel her love in my heart and when everything quiets down at night, she gently strokes our world and softly sings. Everything is filled with her, and there is such a joy, as if we were abiding in her. Though I don't know much about life after birth, I believe it exists.

(I'm not sure where this "parable" originates, but I believe it is a translation of this song)

Blessed Are the Peacemakers

Margaret as Henry V

I promise Margaret isn't a favorite child. She's just been the star of my last three posts. And since I'm talking about her already, here's another one. The kids were watching Star Wars Return of the Jedi for the first time the other day. They were at the part where Luke was pleading with his father, Darth Vader, to abandon his evil ways. Darth Vader was struggling, "Luke, you don't know the power of the Dark Side..." Margaret said pitifully, "Can't he just give him a hug?"

These are things I need to remember.

So I'm watching the last part of Gone with the Wind with the girls. We're at the very last part of the movie: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." And Rhett Butler walks off into the mist. We're all teary and, like Scarlett, we (even though I've seen it fifty thousand times) can't believe he's really leaving. Scarlett says breathily, "There must be some way to bring him back..."

Margaret whispers, "Were cell phones invented back then?"

Christ is Risen!

Margaret discovered that Fr Mark had a list where people could sign up to read the Gospel on Pascha. She saw that there were people signed up for Russian, Ukranian, Serbian, Spanish, German, etc. Margaret was hoping she could sign up for something too, but she doesn't know another language.

So she offered, "Mom, can I sign up for 'British accent?'"

Alas, I had to say no.

Indeed He is Risen!!

...

So today is Palm Sunday and we begin the countdown to Holy Pascha.

This year it became obvious to me how my life and that of my children is punctuated by the events in the life of the Church. We often talk about things that have happened and we discuss them in terms of happening before Pascha, or after Pascha, before the Kursk Root icon came, or after the Bishop or the Metropolitan visited, or when so-and-so was baptised. We'll sometimes resolve disputes over when something happened by trying to recall whether we were fasting at the time, or eating fish, or having wine or something like that.

During the pre-sanctified liturgies this Lent, Little Mark has whispered to me during the prostrations: "Is this a long one?" and "Can I come in your cave?" and "Can I come in your castle?"

When I kneel with my forehead on the floor, I put my arm around him and he nestles his face next to mine. My head-covering creates a dark space around our heads as we listen to the "Let my prayer arise" psalm. It's quiet and cozy for both of us. Margaret even joined us after she realized what Little Mark was doing.

Over the years, it has been occasionally difficult with the children during these Lenten services. The child has to learn what is happening because it's quite a bit different from what he is used to--and prostrations can be perfect opportunities to get silly. I have been spanked, tackled, tickled, drummed upon, and rolled over in the first weeks of Lent more times than I can count. Until they're used to the service, there's something about the prostrations that inspires these otherwise pretty obedient, young children to think, "OK, Mom's on the floor--get her!!"

Usually when I stand with my kids in the church I hold their hands, toussle their hair, pinch their nose or earlobes, wrap my arms around them, or caress their cheeks. All their lives they've stood around me in church being kept in line this way. It reminds me of something C.S. Lewis said as he described a bitch or a cat nursing her brood, "endlessly moving, but somehow at rest."

But there's something about this Season's PS liturgies that has made me a little melancholy. For all intents and purposes, this is the last Lent that I'll have to worry about those behaviors which so discouraged me when the children were younger. Very soon Little Mark will be going into the altar to serve as an acolyte. His big brother has been there for nearly three years. I'll probably take up residence in the choir soon after that since the girls are independent.

I guess this will be another one of those punctuation marks.

An ellipsis perhaps...

This story shall a good man teach his son...

...now imagine this being done by an eight year-old girl. Video forthcoming.

Bless my enemies, O Lord.

Even I bless them and do not curse them.

They, rather than I, have confessed my sins before the world.
They have punished me, whenever I have hesitated to punish myself.
They have tormented me, whenever I have tried to flee torments.
They have scolded me, whenever I have flattered myself.
They have spat upon me, whenever I have filled myself with arrogance.

Bless my enemies, O Lord,
Even I bless them and do not curse them.

Whenever I have made myself wise, they have called me foolish.
Whenever I have made myself mighty, they have mocked me as though I were a dwarf.
Whenever I have wanted to lead people, they have shoved me into the background.
Whenever I have rushed to enrich myself, they have prevented me with an iron hand.
Whenever I thought that I would sleep peacefully, they have wakened me from sleep.
Whenever I have tried to build a home for a long and tranquil life, they have demolished it and driven me out.

Truly, enemies have cut me loose from the world and have stretched out my hands to the hem of Thy garment.

Bless my enemies, O Lord.
Even I bless them and do not curse them.

Bless them and multiply them; multiply them and make them even more bitterly against me:

so that my fleeing to You may have no return;
so that all hope in men may be scattered like cobwebs;
so that absolute serenity may begin to reign in my soul;
so that my heart may become the grave of my two evil twins, arrogance and anger;
so that I might amass all my treasure in heaven;
ah, so that I may for once be freed from self-deception, which has entangled me in the dreadful web of illusory life.

Enemies have taught me to know what hardly anyone knows, that a person has no enemies in the world except himself.

One hates his enemies only when he fails to realize that they are not enemies, but cruel friends.

It is truly difficult for me to say who has done me more good and who has done me more evil in the world: friends or enemies.

Therefore bless, O Lord, both my friends and enemies. A slave curses enemies, for he does not understand. But a son blesses them, for he understands.

For a son knows that his enemies cannot touch his life. Therefore he freely steps among them and prays to God for them.

St Nikolai Velimirovic

Lick & Learn

It's not always a struggle to get my kids to do the scheduled and rotating jobs every day: Ella & Meg alternate cleaning the room and emptying the dishwasher. Max and LMark alternate (on good weeks) cleaning their room and picking up the classroom.

Sometimes the work is accepted as inalienable and eternal. Other times is treated as if the concept is my way of torturing them or denying their rights as free-born citizens of the United States. Usually the latter attitude is caused by a breakup of our week by an all-day activity, be it related to church, school, or fun.

Monday and Tuesday this week were taken up by Theophany services. No parent can expect a child to clean his room after he has been in church for four hours on Monday and two hours on Tuesday. So I let them all goof around instead of setting them to work or school.

Every American Orthodox (and especially Old Calendar) home schooler knows that the days surrounding Thanksgiving, St Nicholas Day, Western Christmas, Western New Year, Orthodox Christmas Eve & Christmas, and Orthodox Theophany Eve & Theophany are hectic and disruptive to say the least. If Lent arrives early, as it does this year, we have to work at breakneck speed to finish what we need to do.

After all this, we treated Wednesday as the beginning of a new week.

But my laundry was behind, my floors were dirty and my bathrooms needed cleaning. I assigned a few jobs around to Rose and the boys, hoping we could get on top of the laundry at the very least.

Despite the labor required, the little girls accepted the bathroom assignment with gusto. They pulled out all of the chemicals, the brushes, the wipes and the paper towels. They scrubbed and wiped and made the bathroom quite nice while singing and laughing all the time.

I then told them they also needed to wipe the floor, which they weren't thrilled about. After a
few "I-can't-figure-out-how-to-do-it's" and "It's-too-hard's", we worked it out and it was all done.

After only 45 minutes they presented their clean bathroom to me.

Sometimes, if they zip through their cleaning jobs in the bathroom, I might point out their shoddy work by saying, "You know...this bathroom should be so clean that you would be willing to LICK the counter, because you are confident it is clean."

They never wanted to do it. And it inspired them to do those finishing touches to make it "lickable"--although I never required the licking. I only mentioned it.

Wednesday, Ella felt the confidence, when I asked if -- you know -- it was clean enough, to do the unthinkable:

>LICK!<

It took a few seconds of my and Margaret's gaping at her with something between admiration and horror for her to gulp,

"UGH! Yack!"

and grope for the faucet for a drink of water.

While I really wanted to hug Ella and say I never really meant to have her lick the counter, instead I felt it necessary to be the mom and say soberly, "Let's wipe it a little better now."

And I trotted away with that lingering wonder at why God ever let me be a mom.

Newton and Noodles

Every homeschooler knows that teaching one's child affords innumerable opportunities for varying degrees of joy, suffering, anger and irritation, or humor.

Thankfully the most memorable for me are the funny moments. The agonizing moments we usually blame on the curriculum (Saxon for instance).

Today Rose and I were discussing Newton's third law of physics. We have spent a long time on the first two laws working through the accompanying equations and how to think about them in real-life terms. If, for instance, we want to push a big rock at a constant rate of speed, we need to consider the forces that are acting against us (not the least of which are our math skills) in order to figure out how much pressure we must exert upon the rock.

So the book assured us that the third law was the easiest to think about because we see it more obviously in our lives: like in jumping on a trampoline or hitting a tennis ball.

However, when I began to walk Rose through the meaning of "every action has an equal and opposite reaction," she decided to get silly and smack me across the head. Knowing what she was doing, I returned the smack.

"See?" I said, "every action has an equal and opposite reaction! You hit me so I hit you."

"No," she said coyly, "The opposite of hitting is not hitting. If it was an opposite reaction, you wouldn't have hit me back!"

We've been snickering about this all day.

Between the Awesome and the Ordinary

Tuesday, December 22, our church was honored by a visit of the 13th Century Kursk Root icon of the Mother of God.

She (as Fr Serge refers to the icon) arrived in Summerville Monday night with her delegation including Fr Serge, Rdr. Peter, and Rdr. Gregory. Fr Mark received a text from Peter upon their landing at the Charleston airport, "The Mother of God is in the South!"

Fr Mark and Rose drove to the services at Sts Cyril & Methodius in Summerville Monday afternoon while I scrambled around the house cleaning and cleaning and preparing for our honored guests. When the time they were supposed to arrive drew near, I was called and told they were going to be (of course) early. I exhorted my husband to drive the speed limit so I could finish working. I suppose this wasn't a very nice thing to do to the tired clergy following him, but alas, I still had to mop.

The icon arrived and Fr Serge removed the covering from it in the driveway so that I could venerate it as it entered our home. We spent a few moments discussing the placement of the icon and modifying the analogia so the it wouldn't slip off. We put the icon on an analogia Fr Mark had brought home from the church and had placed in our prayer corner. Then we spent the rest of the evening chatting as I sat on the floor two feet from this famous, 700 year-old icon, serving beer, hot tea, cookies, chips, and boiled peanuts to our guests.


This is an icon that has healed and has been venerated by countless faithful, and has stood in the company Tsars, royalty, martyrs, and saints. In September it returned to Russia for the first time in 90 years to a reception of thousands. The Russians made a special bullet-proof case for it, and the government gave assurances of its safety and that of the delegation. When the icon returned to Kursk, its hometown, the entire population of 500,000 came out to greet the icon, some standing in line for eight to twelve hours, to spend two seconds kissing the holy icon.




I am still in awe of the honor I felt when I was told that the icon would stay in my bedroom overnight. When the time came, Fr Mark decided it wasn't necessary to move the analogia upstairs, so he placed it on top of a blue analogia-cover draped over the front of my dresser. He lit an oil lamp and we went to bed.


Because the guests were sleeping in my children's rooms, my younger four spent the night with my parents, and Rose slept on our bedroom floor: directly in front of the icon.

The three of us were transfixed by the icon and by the honor we were receiving. We looked at the icon, then at each other, then back at the icon.

Amazing.

But, unlike Fr Mark, Rose and I fell asleep.

He got out of bed around 5 AM and started getting ready to leave for church. I woke up and resumed staring at the icon. I took a few pictures in the dark and a few of Rose sleeping at the foot of my dresser, beneath the icon. I realized that this might come across as my being silly or disrespectful, so I told my husband that it just seemed natural to document the moment. He affirmed my thoughts and said, "It's the most natural thing in the world that a child should sleep peacefully at the foot of her Mother."

And so we got ready to leave. Fr Mark left early. Rose left about 15 minutes before us with the two young men. Then Fr Serge and I were told to delay our leaving with the icon for 15 minutes because Fr Mark & Fr Columba had been stuck in traffic. We left for the church at 7:45.

She had already honored not only my family, my home, and my own bedroom, but now my car and soon my church.

I was struck, in the same way I felt about Rose sleeping at the foot of my dresser, how ordinary it all seemed, and yet how awesome it truly was.

When the icon finally entered the church I was so overwhelmed that I physically shook as I tried to hold my arms and my tears lest I should start making noise as I cried. It was like a relief and also like a prize. It was like perfect joy, but recalled every pain in my heart. It was so beautiful that the liturgy and the moleben was over before I was ready.

So, having witnessed a full year of previously difficult-to-imagine visits to our storefront church (a piece of the Holy Cross, Bishop George and Metropolitan Hilarion, and now the Kursk Root Mother of God), Fr Mark & I said that we couldn't imagine a greater honor than what we have already received. To a certain extent saying so was a relief, as one would describe finally seeing the bounteous fruits of his labor. But we also felt this satisfaction as a couple, as a family, as friends, and as part of a community.

To another extent we said it with a sigh: "how can we top this year?" After all, we still don't have a free-standing building for our church; we still are in our storefront, which many (perhaps understandably) look at with derision, despite what has taken place within its walls.

The ladies and I sometimes talk about how sad it will be to leave the storefront when the time comes, having had so many of our children and our own people baptised here. In my mind I liken it to how I feel about my ten year-old mattress: four children were born on it in my home, so the idea of getting rid of it for something of better quality or more practical makes me feel, of course, a little melacholy and stupidly sentimental.

But until the time comes, we'll plod along and glorify God with the extraordinary people and the beautiful place we have.

And by the way, I hear the relics of St Elizabeth the New Martyr herself might be coming here this summer.

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 I was involved in painting an icon that was already made, but was waiting for me to finish.

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.

----

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.

----

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?"